Nick acted as though nothing were out of the ordinary. ‘Been a tough day, huh?’
‘Nothing I can’t deal with.’ She reached for a can of Coke that Rosie had left, but knocked it on to its side and the dregs spilled over the table.
‘Shit,’ she snapped, dabbing at the tablecloth, and now Nick gripped her hand.
‘You’re all stressed out, just take it easy.’
Lorraine bowed her head, holding on to Nick’s hand.
‘I want a drink so bad sometimes, Nick, it drives me nuts. It comes over me and I just can’t think straight, or maybe I’m thinking too much . . .’
He moved a strand of her hair gently away from her cheek and leaned close to her.
‘Just hang on in there, Rosie’s bringing some more Coke an’ I’ll get you some more of your cigarettes.’
‘Thanks.’ She liked the strength of his hand, didn’t want to let it go, but she glanced up and saw Rosie on her way back with another bag of Cokes and potato chips. She banged it down and yelled, ‘Ah, look what you’ve done to my book, I was reading that and you’ve got beer and Coke all over it! Honestly!’
Lorraine leaned across the table and picked up the blue paper booklet, shaking Coke off it. As she did so, she noticed the picture of Marie Laveau on the front.
‘What’s this?’ she asked Rosie.
‘She’s Marie Laveau, the most famous voodoo queen ever.’
‘Why is this so familiar?’ Lorraine said, almost to herself.
Rosie took the booklet. ‘Well, I felt the same thing, like I’d seen it before, her face.’
‘The turban, the robes . . . gimme it back, Rosie.’ Lorraine was up on her feet, walking up and down. ‘Shit! I don’t believe this, it’s staring us right in the face, Rosie.’
‘What you talking about?’
Lorraine slapped the photograph down. ‘This is Elizabeth Caley, she’s got this painting in her drawing room, it’s from a film.’
‘No, it isn’t. That’s from a painting of Marie Laveau, I got it from the Voodoo Museum, but you’re right, she’s the spittin’ image of her.’
‘Swamp,’ Lorraine said, clapping her hands, congratulating herself. ‘The film was called The Swamp, it was the first movie Elizabeth Seal made, wasn’t it, Rosie?’
‘Maybe it’s on video,’ Rosie suggested.
‘Good idea, let’s see if we can get it. She’s a big number round here, so you never know. Attagirl, Rosie, this is really good.’
‘Thanks.’ Rosie smiled.
‘I mean it, you’re doing good – make an investigator of you yet!’ Lorraine stood up and gave Rosie a hug, beginning to feel better herself.
‘If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take myself off for a zizz, I’m exhausted, maybe take a shower.’ Rosie put the paper pamphlet away in her purse as Lorraine touched Nick lightly on the shoulder.
‘I’m okay, Nick,’ she murmured. ‘Don’t keep looking at me. I just need a couple hours’ rest.’
Nick shrugged his shoulders as she walked away.
‘What was that about?’ Rosie asked.
‘Nothing,’ Nick replied.
‘Oh yeah? She looked pretty strung out to me, you think I should go up and sit with her?’
‘Nope, maybe get on to tracking that video. I’ll hang around here, wait for Bill.’
Rosie gathered her things together and looked at him sidelong. ‘Maybe you’d like to babysit her ladyship? She looked like she needed a friendly shoulder.’
‘Well, I’ll be right here. And leave the Cokes, huh?’
Left alone, Nick sat toying with the chilled can of Coke, wishing he could go up to Lorraine’s room and lie next to her – and not just as a comforting friend.
The Crawfish Bar sat on a dingy corner of the wharf district, a peeling clapboard building with windows covered in rusting wire mesh. It had been an old grocery store and you had to buzz the door to get inside: it was clear they didn’t want any casual trade. The place was almost deserted and Rooney and Harper sat on two stools at a counter against the back wall under the television, the commentary of the basketball game masking the sounds of their conversation.
‘I’m not sure if I’m gonna like these,’ Rooney said, looking at his plate of boiled crawfish and the ugly black plastic dish, virtually the size of a trash-can lid, which had been slapped down to take the heads and shells.
‘Sure you will, these little critters are known as “mud bugs” because they live in the freshwater streams, and this place, lemme tell you, pal, serves the freshest in the whole of New Orleans,’ Harper said as he tucked a napkin under his chin. Rooney stared disbelievingly at what looked like toy lobsters to him.
‘Right, now, you follow me. First you grasp the head between thumb and forefinger of one hand like so . . .’ Harper demonstrated, dangling it in the air, and Rooney dutifully followed suit. Harper was more interested in his lunch than talking, saying they should eat and down their beers before they got to business. So it was at least half an hour before he volunteered any information, and not before his 500 bucks were stuffed inside his wallet.
‘So what you need to know, Bill?’
‘What you came up with on the disappearance of Anna Louise Caley.’
Harper shrugged his fat shoulders. ‘Sweet fuck-all!’
‘That all I get for five hundred fucking bucks?’ Rooney snapped.
Harper gave a furtive look around. ‘Depends on what else you want to know . . .’
‘Any dirt on Robert Caley?’
‘No, sir. Well-respected man, got his real estate licence, hadda wait a while even though he is married to Elizabeth Seal, but he didn’t give any bribes, just applied as a resident of New Orleans through the right channels.’
‘But he’s not exactly a resident, is he?’
‘You kiddin’ me? They got palatial residences, three, maybe even four. Rch as Croesus. Mind you, rumour was while back now, more’n twenty-five years, that she, Elizabeth Seal, and a big tycoon by the name of Lloyd Dulay were an item, and he kind of added to the lady’s fortune.’
‘He’s one of the partners in Caley’s casino development, isn’t he?’ Rooney asked.
‘Yep, a couple of heavy hitters on his side. I’d say it’ll go through eventually. Just a question of time.’
‘You ever hear any rumour ’bout Elizabeth Caley having a drug problem?’
‘What, you kiddin’ me? No fucking way.’
Rooney sighed. ‘So, can you give me more details on how your investigation was set up? There was a big reward out and quite a few claimants, right?’
‘True, but by the time we sifted through their so-called eye-witness reports it was all bullshit, and a number of ’em had been set up by a few officers trying to get their hands on the reward . . .’
‘What do you think happened to her?’
Harper wiped the sweat from his face. ‘The girl picked up some drifter, they got into an argument and he killed her. There was only one arrest, old jazz player by the name of Fryer Jones, somebody said they’d seen him talking to her out in the Quarter.’
Rooney frowned. ‘You had an arrest? But that’s not in any report back in LA.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? LA is LA, this is New Orleans, and things happen a little bit different down here. You might not even find a report on Fryer Jones in our department either.’
‘Why?’
‘Because nobody likes to get on the wrong side of that old buzzard. He’s very influential and we got people here with heavy superstitious minds. Fryer’s real clever at twisting minds to suit himself.’
‘I don’t follow, how strong was the case against him?’
Harper shrugged. ‘Just someone thought they had seen Anna Louise Caley talkin’ to him. Like he’s not far from the hotel, not in the same kind of district, mind, but his place is no more than a ten-, fifteen-minute walk away. We got nobody else to verify the eye witness’s report and he was found floatin’ in the river ’bout five months bac
k, so like I said—’
‘You think he was murdered because of his report against this Fryer?’
‘Quite possibly, but there again he was a junkie so he could’a easily tripped and fallen into the river.’
‘So no charges were brought?’
‘Nope. Fryer denied seeing Anna Louise Caley and he had ’bout twenty witnesses that said he never left his bar that night, so we let him go.’ Harper checked his wristwatch. ‘I’m on duty.’
‘You think he’d talk to me?’
Harper hitched his pants over his belly. ‘Up to you, but I wouldn’t go near his bar alone or at night, it’s kinda off limits. We don’t bother him and he don’t bother us, and like I said, he’s a man I keep my distance from because believe it or not, that voodoo crap really fucks with your head, know what I mean?’
Lorraine felt better after she had taken a shower and two aspirin, and not until she was wrapped in her bathrobe did she check the messages that had come in for her. There were four messages to contact Robert Caley and one to call Lloyd Dulay. She stared at Caley’s name, wanting to call him but afraid even to hear his voice, so she called Lloyd Dulay, who was not at home. She was just about to lie down on the bed when there was a rap at her door.
‘It’s me and Bill,’ Nick called.
She sighed, not wanting to see them.
‘I was just going to take a shower,’ she lied as she opened the door.
‘Go ahead, I’ll join you,’ Nick grinned.
Rooney was not amused. He was hot and sweaty, his feet felt like swollen balloons, and he sat on a straight-backed chair as Nick slumped down on the single bed.
‘Well, you can both hang on until we’ve talked a few things through,’ Rooney said with a touch of irritation. ‘Right, this cop had some very interesting information.’
‘I hope so, you coughed up five hundred dollars for it,’ Nick yawned, his face twisting as he rubbed at his leg. ‘Christ, I hate this city, my leg is driving me nuts, it’s the damp.’
Rooney flicked out his notes. ‘Can we get down to business?’
The phone rang. Lorraine looked at Nick. ‘Can you get it? If it’s Robert Caley, say I’m not here, and if it’s reception, will you tell them to hold all calls?’
‘Sure.’ Nick reached over and picked up the bedside phone, pleased by the fact that she didn’t want to see Caley. ‘Mrs Page’s room.’
‘I interviewed this cop, right?’ Rooney went on, ‘And he told me that the bastards down here had made an arrest.’
Nick gestured to Lorraine. ‘She’s right here.’ He covered the phone.
‘Who is it?’ she whispered.
‘Something to do with Tilda Brown, it’s the cops.’
She pulled a face and took the phone, inching on to the bed beside Nick.
‘Lorraine Page speaking.’ She listened, then her body straightened. ‘Yes, I did, today, yes. I’m sorry?’
Rooney and Nick were all ears; just by her body language they knew something was up.
‘Yes, of course, I’ll come straight away. Oh, then I’ll wait outside the hotel.’
Lorraine replaced the receiver. ‘Tilda Brown hanged herself sometime this afternoon. They want to interview me, they found my card in the pocket of her robe, they know I was there this morning . . .’
‘Shit,’ Nick said softly.
Lorraine was really shaken, pressing her hand to her forehead. ‘They’re sending a squad car . . . Oh, shit, goddamn it! The stupid, stupid girl.’
Nick reached for her hand. ‘Come now, get yourself together. If you want I’ll come with you.’
She eased away from him. ‘No, no, stay here, talk over everything we’ve come up with. Oh, God! Why did she go and fucking do this, why?’
‘Come on, you can’t blame yourself, Lorraine,’ Rooney interjected.
Lorraine headed for the bathroom and then turned. ‘No? I really grilled her, I even showed her that fucking picture of Anna Louise and . . . I didn’t have anything to do with it? Who you kidding?’ She slammed the bathroom’s inadequate louvred door.
Nick looked at Rooney. ‘Maybe go to my room, leave her alone for a while.’
Rooney sighed. ‘Okay, but I need a beer or something, this heat is wearing me to shreds.’
‘I’ll be right with you.’ Nick waited for the door to close before he got up and walked to the bathroom; he didn’t knock, but walked straight in. Lorraine was standing shaking, gripping the wash-hand basin with both hands, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t even have the energy to tell him to leave, and he prised her hands loose, then drew her close, holding her tightly as she rested her head on his shoulder.
‘Sshhh, don’t fight me, you just let it all out. It’ll make you feel a whole lot better, believe me, I know.’
She clung to him, and he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He laid her down on the bed, and as he had so wanted earlier, lay beside her, holding her in his arms, and even kissing her gently as she wept. She needed him, though she didn’t want him as badly as he wanted her, but even being close to her gave him hope, still more when she leaned on her elbow and looked into his face.
‘You’re one of a kind, you know that, Bartello?’
‘Yeah, it’s been said before.’
She smiled, and he wiped her cheek with his finger. ‘That’s my girl. Now, do you want me with you?’
‘No, I’ve got to straighten myself out, I’ve made enough mistakes already, Nick.’
She took him by surprise when she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips, sweetly and platonically, but he was thrown into turmoil none the less. He was wise enough – and had enough self-control – not to push things any further, but the kiss had given him more hope than ever before.
‘You got me, Mrs Page, you know that, don’t you?’
She drew away from him, already disciplining herself to get moving and face the police.
‘Did you hear what I just said?’
She turned and looked at him in the way he adored, her head on one side and her hair falling across to hide her scar. ‘Maybe, Nick, I ain’t worth having!’
He laughed as he sauntered to the door, and walked out without looking back. ‘I’ll be the judge of that!’
By the time Lorraine was dressed, two little white message envelopes had been posted beneath her door: Lloyd Dulay returning her call, and Robert Caley, saying that he needed to see her urgently and that Elizabeth Caley was arriving in New Orleans that evening. She picked them up as she left for the waiting patrol car.
‘I was here this morning with a group,’ Rosie said to the young man who had taken over the later shift at the Voodoo Museum: he seemed graceless in comparison to the smiling young woman who had been at the desk earlier.
‘If it’s lost property we ain’t found nothing today,’ he said, without even looking up from his newspaper.
‘It isn’t. I want to make enquiries about a video,’ Rosie persisted, passing over the Page Investigations Agency card.
‘This isn’t a video store, ma’am.’ He didn’t even glance at the card.
‘I know that, but it’s a particular video, an old film called The Swamp, starring Elizabeth Seal as Marie Laveau, and none of the video stores have it. I know the film was made, I’ve seen the portrait of Miss Seal as—’
The paper snapped shut. ‘I think you must be mistaken, Elizabeth Seal is white, Marie Laveau was coloured. If you want another guided tour . . .’
His eyes bore into Rosie, frightening her, but she didn’t back off. ‘They use make-up, you know, and . . .’
‘And you didn’t hear me right, ma’am, you got the wrong information. And if you don’t want a tour then you should leave.’
‘Thank you, I’ll have another tour.’
He sullenly took her money for another tour ticket and ignored her as she moved past him and said she would wait for a guide inside. She stood in the dim, scented room for some minutes, but no one joined her. Sh
e waited on, her heart beating. Then came the soft drum-beat, and she wondered if the young man had turned on a tape.
Rosie stepped into the hallway and looked at the portraits of the queens, but it was Marie Laveau’s image she saw constantly in her mind’s eye, the glowing face, the eerie, pitch-dark eyes. She physically jumped when she heard someone behind her, not the young guide but a tall, austere-looking black man with iron-grey hair. He wore a smart grey suit and a white shirt with a stiff collar and tie. He held Lorraine’s card in one large, finely made hand.
‘Are you Mrs Lorraine Page?’ His voice was quiet and deep.
‘No, I am her assistant, well, partner, my name is—’
‘Please come through,’ he said, gesturing to the room at the back.
Rosie was so scared she was hyperventilating. She was sure it was much darker than it had been, and the drumbeat was becoming unnerving.
‘What precisely are you investigating?’
Rosie shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘Well, that is really a private matter, but we have been hired by Mr and Mrs Robert Caley.’
‘What for, precisely?’ the man enquired, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.
‘Er, they had a daughter, her name was Anna Louise Caley and she disappeared eleven months ago from here. Well, not exactly here here, but from her hotel in New Orleans.’
‘Mmm, yes, I recall reading about it,’ his deep voice rumbled. ‘So what has this film to do with . . . Caley, you said?’
‘Yes, it’s just that Mrs Caley used to be Elizabeth Seal.’
‘Ah, yes, so she was, the film star, a very beautiful woman.’
Rosie felt more confident and stepped closer. ‘Her first film was called The Swamp and there is a painting in her home, almost identical to the portrait of—’
‘Queen Marie Laveau.’
‘Yes. And we, that is Mrs Page and I, and Captain Rooney who is also part of the agency, well, we would like to see the film.’
‘Why?’
Rosie licked her lips. ‘Er, I don’t know, to be honest, it’s just that we are trying to piece together backgrounds, that sort of thing, and it was such a coincidence, me being here and seeing the painting, that’s all really.’
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