by A W Hartoin
The cab jerked to a halt. It didn’t make the driver any happier that he was wrong about my grandparents’ address. He tossed my suitcase onto the sidewalk and his tip evaporated. When he realized it, he gave me a look like he knew I was a jerk all along. Not staying in a hotel. What kind of tourist was I anyway? He squealed his tires down the short street and ran up on a sidewalk, narrowly missing a couple of obviously drunken businessmen who were probably looking for Bourbon Street. They were going the wrong way and would end up at St. Louis Cemetery No.1.
I righted my suitcase and dug out the keys. There were two. One for the wrought iron gate, between two pink buildings butted right up to the sidewalk, and one for the door. I wrestled the old gate open and carried my suitcase into the narrow alley. It was unpainted brick with tiny ferns growing on the walls out of the mortar. Ferns don’t need dirt, I guess. I locked the gate and walked back to the courtyard. My grandparents’ place had been in the family forever and had an old-style courtyard between the main building and what used to be the servants’ quarters out back. The fountain was bubbling away, surrounded by potted palms and ferns, because you can never have enough ferns. The far wall had a little stream of water that spurted out of a plump cupid’s mouth into a pool in the raised flower bed below filled with twisting red bougainvillea. Nothing changed at Nana’s house. Mom said it was the same when she came to visit her grandparents when she was a kid.
I turned to the main house and unlocked the rather rickety door in the wall of windows that overlooked the courtyard. Nana and Pop Pop never closed the shades, even though their property was no longer private. When Pop Pop retired, my grandparents decided the place was too big for them alone and they started a vacation rental business. The servants’ quarters now had four vacation rentals in them and they did a brisk business. So the shades remained open to make them accessible.
That back room was Pop Pop’s TV room and it was filled with over-stuffed leather furniture, local artwork, and an enormous brick fireplace next to the equally enormous TV that usually had some sport on it. I carried my suitcase into Pop Pop’s room and stopped at the sofa to look at the framed family tree that hung behind it. There was something about seeing my name there among all those other names and generations that made me feel small and sort of precious. I was the last leaf on a very big tree. If I didn’t continue the family line, it was over and that tree would stay as it was forever. I said hello to the tree and went up the stairs to my room. It overlooked the courtyard, had toile wallpaper, and a flowery bedspread on the cushy bed. Never has a bed looked so inviting, but I needed some food. Lucky for me, Matassa Market was a block away. If I hurried, I could get to the deli before they shut it down. I unpacked the Mauser and, after thinking it over, I put it in the side table drawer. Dad wouldn’t be happy, but it didn’t feel right to go to neighborly Matassa with a gun, so I pocketed a key ring-sized pepper spray and headed out.
Matassa was located on a convenient corner, but didn’t see a load of tourists. It was the sort of place you’d never find in the Central West End. A full grocery store was stuffed into the space normally allotted to a barbershop. Matassa didn’t feel clean. It felt like family, messy friendly family. I said hello to a mildly interested clerk at the front and headed straight for the deli. The French Quarter was the one place were Marilyn Monroe look-alikes weren’t unusual. The French Quarter got all kinds and people usually thought I was a cabaret singer.
“Hello?” I said over the small glass deli case filled with sausages, cheeses, and several odd salads. There might’ve been gator in there.
A bald man stuck his head around a rack of chips. “Can I help you?”
“Can I still get a club sandwich?” I said, giving him the big eyes.
“Sorry. Deli’s closed.” His brow wrinkled. “Carolina?”
I grinned. “Mercy. I’m Carolina’s daughter.”
He threw up his hands. “Hey. Hey. Hey. You visiting your grandparents?”
“I’m just here for a few days.”
“I saw you on the CNN.” His brow furrowed. “You’re smaller in person. Tiny.”
“I’m not that small.”
He let out a belly laugh. “You look like an Amazon goddess walking up that beach in that bikini.”
“Trick photography.”
“I guess so. You want a club?”
“Do you mind?” I asked, trying not to look pathetic. Matassa made the best club sandwich in the world. I wasn’t sure why. It was just heaven on sandwich bread.
“Anything for Double Black Diamond’s new cover girl.” He grinned.
“You heard about that?”
“It was in The Times-Picayune. You want a cold drink with that?”
“No, thanks.”
I wandered around the store, while he fried my bacon, and marveled at the sheer amount of stuff they managed to get on the narrow aisles. I got a basket and picked out some Angelo Brocato ice cream, stracciatella, not the truly weird spumoni. The deli guy found me in the cereal aisle and gave me my sandwich, then ducked his head and asked for my autograph. That happened now that DBD named me as their cover girl, but I didn’t expect it in New Orleans.
“Really?” I asked.
“I collect autographs. Brad Pitt was in here last week.”
“How did that happen?”
“I think he was lost.”
“Doesn’t he live like three blocks away?”
He shrugged. “Tourists. So whaddaya say?”
I took a pad and pen out of his apron pocket and wrote a little note.
“Thanks, cher. Trix will take care of ya.”
I paid and walked back to the house. The street was nearly empty, but I could hear Bourbon St. a few blocks over. It was a whole different world over there. I put on my PJs and ate in bed. Actually, I fell asleep with half a sandwich in my mouth, waking only once during the night when I was suddenly awake and absolutely sure someone was in the room. There wasn’t. I went back to sleep to be awakened in the morning by the sun streaming through the windows.
I yawned, rolled over, and discovered I wasn’t alone. Sitting on my dresser was a black cat. It was tall and skinny with unblinking green eyes. Weird. My grandparents weren’t pet people. They liked Swish and Swat less than I did. Pop Pop called cats “Snobs that poop in your house.”
I slid out of bed and went into the kitchen. The cat followed me and sat in the kitchen doorway. I put the rest of my club in the fridge, hoping the cat hadn’t licked the mayo while I was unconscious.
“Do you live here?” I asked the cat.
It stared at me, still without blinking. Even the evil Siamese blinked. I got a bowl of cereal and ate at the counter while the cat watched. It was so weird. I had to call Mom, something I usually would’ve avoided while out of her sphere of influence.
“Hey, Mom,” I said.
“Don’t make a mess. Did you make a mess?”
Groan.
“There’s no mess. I’ve been here twelve hours.”
“You take less than twelve minutes to make a mess. I have it on video.”
“For crying out loud, Mom. There’s no mess. Does Nana have a cat?”
She hesitated and then said, “Yes, yes they do.”
“When did that happen?”
“I don’t know. They just got a cat.”
“What’s its name?”
“Um…Blackie.”
“Original.”
“Not everyone wants to name their cat something as lovely as Skanky.”
“Point taken.” I looked around the kitchen. “Where are the cat bowls?”
“Stop harping on this,” said Mom.
I made some much needed coffee. “I’m not harping. I have to feed it.”
“No, you don’t. I think the neighbor is supposed to be taking care of it. Just throw the cat out.”
“What neighbor?”
“I don’t know. Where are you heading today? We need to be updated frequently. Your dad and Morty are handling the ot
her Berrys.”
“Handling how?”
“We want to know who that Andrew is that they mentioned. He could be the connection between them and Blankenship,” said Mom.
I took my first gulp of coffee. Oh my god did I need that. “Mom, I didn’t get the feeling that they orchestrated the shooting at Tulio. I think they saw the chance to make some serious bucks off their family tragedy and jumped on it.”
“Your father has a feeling.”
Enough said. Dad was famous for his feelings. He knew when something wasn’t right. If he thought there was a connection between the other Berrys, Tulio, and Blankenship, there probably was, but the idea made me sick to my stomach.
“Mercy?” asked Mom.
“Does Dad think they sent Blankenship to Tulio?” I asked.
“Not exactly. He thinks you’re right about them, but there’s something there. You have to find the source of the Listeriosis. We’ll handle the shooting.”
Mom lectured me for another ten minutes about safety. I scored some points for bringing the Mauser and plenty of pepper spray, but she was more worried than usual. If my parents were so freaked, why didn’t they send Aaron with me? I kept expecting him to wander in. Aaron was normally like Velcro during my investigations, but I didn’t mention him. I didn’t need that little weirdo dogging my footsteps, although I did miss the food.
After the rundown on locking doors, Mom started on checking for tails as if it was a given that someone would be following me around New Orleans. I had to tell her I felt an impending bout of diarrhea in order to get off the phone. Once we hung up, I realized she never told me which neighbor was supposed to take care of the cat, but I wasn’t risking another call. No way.
“Alright you,” I said to Blackie, who stared at me from the door. “You’re going out.”
I picked him up and put him out the door. He stared at me with those intense green eyes and then sauntered across the courtyard to sit next to the fountain and proceeded to stare at me. Great.
“Shoo,” I said. “The food isn’t here.”
Blackie didn’t care and he still didn’t care after I’d showered and packed Grandpa’s Mauser in my purse. When I went out the door to start backtracking through Abrielle and Colton’s last day in New Orleans, the cat was still sitting by the fountain, not moving or blinking. He made Skanky look normal. At least my cat blinked.
I passed Blackie and headed down the alley. When I looked back, there he was sitting at the entrance. Still watching. Creepy damn cat. I locked him in and trekked off to Mom’s old elementary school. It was only three blocks, but I had a chance to soak up the French Quarter. It had its own particular smell. Moist (yes, that is a smell) and earthy with a hint of vomit and flowers thrown in. Mom wouldn’t like that description. She would say the French Quarter smells like the Old World. Now I’ve spent considerable amount of time in the Old World, traveling with my godmothers, Myrtle and Millicent. The Quarter is completely unique. That’s not to say bad. In fact, I love it. It’s real and it doesn’t care what you think.
That’s exactly how I felt walking down the cracked sidewalk. I didn’t listen to my mom, who advised a floppy hat and shapeless sweatshirt to make me less obvious. Experience has taught me that when I try to be less obvious, I attract a lot of attention. Mom wouldn’t know that. Her hats are anything but dull affairs and she doesn’t own a sweatshirt. I did put on sunglasses and yanked on the hem of the tank dress, but it rode up anyway. Mom would be horrified. I caught her trying to burn my dress once, but I stopped her just in time.
I came around the corner and crossed the street in front of Lafitte’s Blacksmith shop, a really cool old bar which probably had nothing to do with Jean Lafitte. The elementary school covered most of the block and looked the same as when Mom went there, red brick with arched windows and white trim. I trotted up the stone stairs and got myself buzzed in by saying I was a friend of Donatella Berry.
A woman waited for me in front of the office. She was about twenty-five, but had a distinct old lady vibe about her. Her hair was knotted up in a tight bun and she wore some of the dowdiest clothes I’d ever seen.
“Hello,” she said in a squeaky voice.
I stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Mercy Watts.”
“I’m Chelsea.” She looked at my hand and forced herself to shake my fingertips. I could see her struggle and it made me feel bad for putting her on the spot like that.
“I’m helping out Donatella. I’d like to speak to your principal, if I may,” I said.
Chelsea burst into tears and began to snuffle like a Truffle pig. I didn’t see that coming.
“Are you okay?” I asked, restraining myself from touching her shaking shoulder.
“I…I…I”
Another woman came out. She was older with feathered blond hair circa 1983. She heaved a sigh and said, “Alright Chelsea. What is it now?”
“Dona…tella.”
The new woman rolled her eyes and shooed Chelsea back into the office. “Go blow your nose and have some chocolate.”
Chelsea stumbled back into the office in an ugly cry and I was momentarily speechless. My showing up to interview people got various reactions, but that was a new one. Donatella took it better than that.
“You are?” asked the woman.
I explained the situation and she introduced herself as Kathy Brun, the assistant principal. She led me back into her office and we sat down in well-worn, but comfy, chairs.
“So what do you want to know?” Kathy asked.
“Was Donatella having any problems with anyone? Any trouble at all?”
Kathy chuckled softly. “Not Donatella. The thought is ridiculous. Everyone loves her. She’s a great administrator. No problems at all.”
“You’re friends?”
“I think so,” she said with confidence. That meant no, not real friends, not the kind you tell your husband stories to.
“Did anything unusual happen on the day she left for St. Louis?” I asked.
“Nothing. Typical day. Donatella left early to see if they could get on an earlier flight. But you know that, right?”
“She told me. Did you tell anyone that she left early? Was anyone curious about it?”
“It wasn’t a secret. She was dreading the trip, actually.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, Colton’s a handful. He doesn’t like changes in his schedule. Donatella likes to keep things consistent for him.”
“So why did she decide to leave early?”
“She thought if she could get him to the hotel and let him have a swim in the pool before the dinner, he’d be in a good mood. Don’t let me give you the wrong impression. Colton is a great kid, very smart.”
“But…”
“Like I said, he’s a handful. She wanted to give him a little time to adjust and calm down.”
“What would happen if she didn’t?”
“He might refuse to eat or want to leave right after they got there. Nothing big.”
“Does everyone know this about Colton? Did it surprise you that she decided to leave early?”
Kathy smiled and got a little teary eyed for the first time. “We’re a close community in this school. Donatella didn’t hide her struggles with Colton. No, I wasn’t surprised when she asked to leave early.”
I didn’t like that. It sounded like Donatella was an open book. If someone wanted to predict what she was going to do, it wouldn’t be too hard. I could do it, based on what Kathy just said. I asked if Donatella was close to anyone else on the staff and we went to see a third grade teacher by the name of Erika Cullen.
I knocked on the door. Erika excused herself from her class and Kathy took over while we talked in the hall. I gave her a brief rundown of the situation and Erika crossed her arms. Not a good sign.
“I’m trying to help Donatella,” I said.
“So you say,” said Erika.
“You can call her and ask. I have no objections, but do it soon. I’ve got t
o figure this out fast.”
Erika started to text someone and I had to bite back a groan. I had things to do, beignets to eat. Time was a wasting.
After about two hundred texts, Erika pocketed her phone. “She said it was okay.”
All that for okay? Fine.
“Has Donatella had any problems with anyone, for any reason? I don’t care if it’s about a parking space, tell me,” I said.
She crossed her arms again. “She said to tell you, but—”
“Go ahead. It’s just information to me.”
“There’s a rumor going around about her and Mr. Donnelly, the science teacher.”
“An affair?” I asked.
“He wishes.”
“So, no affair?”
“Donnelly likes her a lot, but she made it plain that she’s very married. She adores…adored Rob. And he adored her. They had no secrets.” Erika teared up and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “She’d never cheat on him.”
“Was he angry, insistent?” I asked.
She nodded. “He got a bit weird. Leaving her flowers and notes on her car, but he never threatened her or anything.”
“Did Rob know?”
“Sure. She told him everything. They were very close. Rob called Donnelly and told him to knock it off.”
“Did he?”
“As far as I know.”
“When was all this?” I asked.
“About six months ago. You don’t think that Donnelly had anything to do with Abrielle and Colton getting sick?” She gasped. “Or the shooting?”
“No, I don’t.” I said it as firmly as I could. “But I’m checking everyone out. The kids weren’t around here on the day they left, right?”
“Nope. I haven’t seen them in weeks. They go to school outside the city.”
Kathy came out into the hall. “How’s it going? Getting everything you need?”
Erika looked uncomfortable and I didn’t mention Donnelly. “Yes, Erika is very helpful. Can we have a couple more minutes?”
“Sure,” said Kathy and she went back into the classroom.
I raised an eyebrow at Erika. “Kathy doesn’t know about Donnelly?”