by A W Hartoin
She blew out a breath and, to stall for time, she ordered a couple of coffees over her intercom.
“Just tell me,” I said. “I’ll find out anyway.”
“You assume there’s something to find out.”
“There is.”
Sheila brought in two coffees on a silver tray and hurried out without a word. Mrs. Schwartz frowned at the door after she left.
“It’s not Sheila’s fault,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I asked her about Rob.”
Her face took on an odd cast. There was not quite an expression. “Yes, well…”
Ah, there it is.
I steepled my fingers and smiled. “She’s awfully upset over a mere co-worker. What was going on between Rob and Sheila? ” I asked.
She looked at me directly without a hint of deceit. “I’m unaware of any impropriety.”
“Don’t you mean you’re not directly aware?”
Something changed in Mrs. Schwartz’s eyes. They lit up, but it wasn’t reflected anywhere else on her face. That’s when I got it, the perfection. Mrs. Schwartz had discovered Botox and she was in love with it.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘directly aware’,” she said.
“You didn’t see anything with your own eyeballs.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But something could’ve been going on.”
“I suppose. Possibly.”
That’s all I got or would get. Mrs. Schwartz was a nightmare to interview. I was used to people showing me who they really were and what they thought with a wrinkle of the brow. Mrs. Schwartz’s brow might as well have been made of stone, for all the good it did me. I pushed for some more information, but there was none to be had. Rob was their highest performer and he’d be sadly missed. Sadly missed was expressed with zero eye moisture. I gave her Dad’s card and stood up to leave.
“I have to ask,” she said.
“Ask away.” I knew what she wanted to ask. I just wasn’t sure if she’d have the nerve to come right out with it.
“Who’s your surgeon?” I have to know. He’s a genius.”
“Mother Nature.”
She tried to wrinkle her nose and failed. It was so weird to watch. Note to self: never do Botox unless you want people to stare at you and wonder what’s wrong with your face. I had enough people staring at my face already.
“You don’t believe me,” I said.
“Marilyn Monroe had a chin implant. You expect me to believe you don’t.”
I tipped back my head to show my scarless chin.
“Your surgeon is extremely talented,” she said.
I don’t like you.
I left without speaking. Snotty woman. I wanted to punch her in her unnatural nose, but I doubt she could feel it. Mrs. Schwartz didn’t ask me about the kids or Donatella. That might be telling or it might mean Mrs. Schwartz was as cold-hearted a she looked.
I wandered around for ten minutes before I got back out to reception. I’d planned on pumping Sheila for personal details. No Botox there and the girl was a tearful mess. I’d know in an instant if she and Rob were having an affair. But Sheila wasn’t at the desk. She’d been replaced with a nearly identical substitute. Where did they get those girls? And when did blue shadow come back and where was I?
“Hello,” I said. “What happened to Sheila?”
“Sheila?”
“The other receptionist.”
“They sent her home,” she said.
“Do you have her address by chance?” I asked.
“Address?”
“Sheila’s address. Her last name.”
“No. Why would I?”
“She works here.”
“Uh, huh.”
The eyes were open, but there was a vacant lot behind them.
“Do you know Sheila’s last name?” I asked.
“No.”
I had to push. I had to see how empty her vacant lot was. “What color is Sheila’s hair?”
“I don’t know, like brown or something.”
Sheila was a blond. The lot was swept clean.
“Did I get it right?” the girl asked.
“Yes. Sheila’s a brunette,” I said.
“Good. I wanted to get it right. Can I help you with anything else?”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Alrighty then. Have a good day.”
I left, mentally flogging myself for thinking my nursing student, Brittany, was a nitwit. She was a rocket scientist compared to that girl. I rode down the elevator with a business man who tried to sniff me. I practically ran out of the office building into the warm sun. There was a tour group passing by and I joined them for a block before cutting out to go to Mother’s. Mother’s was Dad’s favorite eatery and Mom’s least favorite. She’s not the fan of debris that Dad and I are. Debris is basically pan juices with lots of meat bits in it. I wished they sold it by the pint. It’s life sustaining.
It was the lunch rush, but I squeezed into the last counter seat available and ordered a debris po’boy. Mom would’ve been disgusted and that made it extra good. I texted a picture to Dad and then got down to business. Morty and the nerd crew—it pained me to think of Pete as one of them—wouldn’t be in Portland for another couple of hours, so background on Sheila would have to wait. I didn’t want Rob to be a cheater, but an insanely jealous girlfriend would come in handy. Other than that, I didn’t have much. A trip out to Donatella’s house was in order. It was a reach, but I could search and see if anything turned up. I’d get some samples of the milk and cereal they ate for breakfast, just in case, but that was probably a waste of time. Threatening letters from a homicidal maniac would be nice, but I wasn’t feeling lucky.
Chapter Twelve
MY CAB SCREECHED to a halt in front of Nana’s and I slipped my shoes on. My beaded wedges looked so cute that morning when I picked them out, but when I started to walk back to the Quarter, three blisters popped out in a matter of four blocks.
“Wait here,” I said. “I’m just getting new shoes and then it’s out to Belle Chasse.”
The cab driver smiled. “Sure thing.”
I got out and rummaged around for the key. I found it about the time an older English couple came down the alley and unlocked the gate.
“I’m calling Caro. We will not stay here, if this isn’t rectified,” said the woman.
“Darling, don’t get yourself in a tizzy. Caro has the highest standards. One call and she will fix it,” said the man, who looked pained and bored at the same time.
“It’s disgusting. This can’t go on.”
I waited for them to exit, but they ignored me and purposely let the gate close. Nice. The couple walked away, discussing how to inform Caro of the situation. Caro was Nana, so I was mildly interested, mostly because I might be expected to do something. Get a plumber. Unclog a toilet.
I unlocked the gate and checked my messages. Nothing from Nana or Pop Pop. If I got out quick, I could deal with it later. Unclogging toilets should be done later, whenever possible. I always hoped for a miracle and sometimes I got one.
But it wasn’t a toilet or bugs or any of the things that could go wrong with a vacation rental. It was something that could only go wrong in my life. I was halfway down the alley when the smell got to me. Not hot dogs, which I kept expecting, but something else much less savory. Sausages, and not good ones. The sort of sausages that ought to have been thrown out, not barbecued.
There was no one in the courtyard. I headed back to the pool on the other side of the servant’s quarters and found it empty, too. Maybe it was a neighbor. Nana couldn’t be expected to control them. The high brick walls on the three sides of the property blocked my view, but there wasn’t any smoke that I could see. Weird. And that’s when I got worried. I went back to the courtyard and looked at the back of Nana’s house. Smoke. A layer of it drifted around Pop Pop’s room like heavy cloud cover.
“Oh shit!” I didn’t co
ok anything. Did I cook something? I ran to Nana’s door with my key, but it was unlocked. I flung it open and ran into the kitchen. There standing over the stove was a lanky man with limp black hair. I could barely see him through the greasy smoke billowing out of the pan he was holding.
I pulled my pepper spray out and aimed. “Who the hell are you?”
The man forked a rancid-looking sausage and turned to me with a goofy smile. Stevie, the loser son of Big Steve Warnock.
“Hey, Mercy. Hungry?
I sprayed him.
A humid breeze blew in through the kitchen window, but it didn’t help. The smell of rancid sausage had taken hold. If I didn’t figure something out, Nana would kill me. Stevie did it, but that would hardly be seen as a good excuse.
Honk.
The cab!
“Don’t move!” I yelled at Stevie, who had his head under the kitchen faucet. He sputtered something through the water and I ran out.
The cab driver didn’t look so much relaxed as angry. “What happened to your shoes?”
I’d forgotten all about the shoes. “Something came up. I’m sorry.” I thrust the fare at him, plus a generous tip, and ran back through the gate.
Stevie did move. He never listened or learned. He was back at the stove and the burner was fired up.
“Stevie!”
He jumped and clonked his head on the hood. “What happened?”
“Turn that off.”
He didn’t. I did. I have never seen a grosser sausage in my life. I put a lid on the pan so I wouldn’t have to look at it any more.
“Go lay down, while I figure out what to do with this…this stuff.”
“Let’s eat it.”
“We’re not eating it. I’d throw it out the window, except I’m afraid a stray dog will get it and die.”
Stevie ambled out with a dripping face. Of course he did. Why would he bother to dry off like a normal person? I checked to see if the stove hood had a higher setting than turbo. It didn’t, so I put the pan on the granite countertop to cool off.
I found Stevie on Pop Pop’s favorite leather sofa, dribbling all over it and rubbing his eyes.
“Don’t rub,” I said and went to get a towel and a wet washcloth.
I wrapped the towel around his sopping head, trying to be gentle when I so didn’t want to be.
“Ow. My head hurts,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said, pressing the cool cloth to Stevie’s red eyes.
“Why’d you spray me?”
“Instinct.”
“I didn’t do nothing,” he said.
“You try my patience.”
“Patience?”
“Never mind. What are you doing at my grandmother’s house?”
“Hiding out.”
“You’re not even going to bother to lie?” I asked.
He lowered the cloth and gave me his sad puppy eyes. “I cooked.”
“That smells like salmonella, so I’ll pass. How’d you know I was here?”
“Your mom told my mom in an email. I have her password,” said Stevie.
I put the cloth on my forehead. This was just great. “Is it your birthday?
“It’s ‘my sweetie boy.’”
Gag.
“Of course, it is. Who are you hiding from this time?”
“Your dad.”
“You’re hiding from my dad in my grandmother’s house? How stupid are you?”
Pretty stupid. I don’t know why I asked.
“Ernie told me about hiding in plain sight, I thought I’d try it out.”
I sat back. This better not be going where I thought it was going. “Who’s Ernie?”
“Ernie Costilla.”
“Oh my god. You’re hiding from one of the Costilla brothers?”
Stevie gave me the blank look that he did so well. “Yeah. He wants to kill me.”
I smacked him with the cloth. “You’re hiding from Ernie Costilla here? Are you crazy? He’ll kill me to get to you.” I wasn’t exaggerating either. Ernie Costilla was the criminal that Mexican drug lords looked up to.
“No.” Stevie shook his head like I was silly for having such an idea. “I’m hiding from your dad. If I go to jail, Ernie’ll have me killed.”
“You have an arrest warrant out then. What state?” I asked.
“Just Missouri.” But he didn’t look all that sure about it.
“I’m calling the cops.”
“You’ll get me killed,” he said.
“You did that yourself. What idiot thing did you do? Tell me you didn’t steal from the Costillas.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t think he’d notice. There were a lot of stereos in that warehouse.”
“How many stereos did you take?” I asked.
“Sixty-two.”
I dropped the cloth and punched him in his bony shoulder. “I’ll kill you myself. Sixty-two stereos? Who wouldn’t notice sixty-two stereos?”
“You want one? I got ‘em in a storage unit out in Slidell.”
“No, I don’t want a stolen stereo. I want you out and you can take those disgusting sausages with you.” I picked up my phone. “Time to go, Stevie. I’ll give you a five minute start, just to be sporting.”
He crossed his arms. “I’ll stay here.”
“You can’t stay with me. I’m working and you’re, you know, you. There’s probably a trail behind you wider than a semi.”
“No way. I was careful. All cash for travel and I used a fake name at the storage place.”
I had to ask. I couldn’t help myself. “What name did you use?”
“Steven Warnockski.”
I slapped my forehead.
“You like that. See how I added the ski at the end? Nice, huh?”
There were no words.
“Besides, you’re not working.” He stretched out and put his hands behind his head.
“Yes, I am.”
“You packed four pairs of stilettos.”
“You went through my stuff?”
“Yeah and I am digging the thongs. They’re getting a little ratty though.”
I smacked him with the cloth again. “You touched my panties, you freak? What is wrong with you?’
“I’ll take you shopping. I saw a Frederick’s of Hollywood on Bourbon.”
“That was probably a porn shop.”
“Close enough.”
I looked up New Orleans police department on my phone. “I hope they put you in the general population.”
“No, you don’t. You like me. We’re the same.”
“We’re not the same. I’m surprised you can breathe on your own.”
“Our dads are the same,” he said.
Stevie had me there. Big Steve and Tommy Watts were showstoppers and cast big shadows. But that didn’t make me the same as Stevie, the guy who once tried to sell drugs to the undercover cop who arrested him the week before. I’d been arrested, but never for being a complete idiot.
“If you think I feel sorry for you, you’re wrong,” I said.
He tilted his head. “Do you feel sorry for my mom?”
“I feel pity for your mom. It’s gone way beyond sorry.”
“Works for me. Mom would be crazy upset if I went to jail and got killed. She’d never forgive you.”
“You need to go to jail.”
Big Steve was a powerful lawyer and, so far, he’d managed to keep Stevie out of jail with a series of questionable deals. He did it for Olivia, Stevie’s long-suffering mother. She believed with all her warm heart that Stevie would turn out great, if only they could just get him through his awkward phase. Keep in mind that Stevie’s awkward phase started in Kindergarten where he’d eat anything on a dare, including rocks and worms.
“Jail won’t help. The Costillas will kill me and Mom’ll be devastated. I’m her sweetie boy.”
“Why do you have to be such a dirtbag?”
“I’m a good guy.” He said it with big, red eyes, and he believed it. Stevie never really hurt
anyone but himself and his parents. He wasn’t violent. Did he deserve to die because he stole from criminals? Darn it. I’m such a sucker.
Stevie grinned. “I knew you couldn’t do it.”
“Fine. I won’t turn you in, but you can’t stay here. When the Costillas show up and kill you, they’ll get blood all over and I am not cleaning that up.”
“Deal. You want a sausage now?” he asked, grinning.
“Do not eat those sausages. Throw them away and don’t cook anything else. There’s a club sandwich in the fridge that I left out all night. You have a better chance of survival eating that. I have to go out. I want you gone by the time I get back.”
“Sure thing.”
“Where will you go?” I asked.
“There’s always a place for a guy like me.”
A guy like Stevie? That would be what? A failed criminal with a low IQ.
“I’m charming,” he said.
I gave him a look meant to convey my doubt, but he didn’t get it. He looked rather pleased with himself. As long as he left, I guess I didn’t care. I had a bacteria to track down and it was bound to be way more wily than Stevie the worm eater.
Chapter Thirteen
MY CAB PULLED up in front of Donatella’s house in the upper-middle class suburban of Belle Chasse. It was a new plantation style house with lots of white pillars and wrought iron on the balcony.
“You want me to hang?” asked my driver.
“No. I could be awhile.” I paid him and went up the long walk to the big front door. My code worked and I let myself into the two-story foyer. I froze. It was one of those sixth sense things. Something was wrong, but the problem wasn’t immediately apparent. The foyer was gorgeous with highly-polished floors and a gleaming crystal chandelier. The flowers on the side table had died in Donatella’s absence and petals littered the table and floor. That was normal, but something else wasn’t.
I stepped back out and took a look at the alarm keypad. It didn’t tell me if there had been any other entries. It had been armed and the door was locked, so why did I feel so exposed? I called Uncle Morty, but it went straight to voice mail. Still on the plane. Damn. There was nothing else to do, but to go in. I pulled out my Mauser and stepped back into the cool foyer. The room to the right was a formal living room and it was also perfect. I crossed the foyer and entered a home office. At first glance, it looked fine, too. But when I walked through, there were a few things that caught my eye. The desk drawers weren’t pushed all the way in. The top of the desk had a few items on it, a lamp, calendar, a pen holder, and several family photos taken recently by a lake. All these things were carefully arranged, but one thing wasn’t, an address book. It lay open off to the right side. Whoever looked at it wasn’t seated. Odd. Donatella was obviously a neat freak. Everything that I’d seen so far had a place. That address book wasn’t where it should’ve been.