by A W Hartoin
I rounded the corner, smiling, only to stop short at the sight of a figure inside the wrought iron fence. The gate was hanging open and I squinted through the increasing sheets of rain. I couldn’t make out the intruder at such a distance, only that they had a huge black golfing umbrella and were on my family’s property. I pulled out my pepper spray. If this was the guy in the black hoodie, he was going to get a face full. I stomped over in my squishy shoes and hollered, “What are you doing in there?”
The umbrella tilted to the side and it was Chuck, leaning on my family tomb and reading a book. “About time.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, coming through the gate. I reached back to close it and my umbrella tipped and let the rain hit my face. Chuck put his umbrella over me and closed the gate.
“I’m waiting for you. I had a feeling you’d make your way here.”
There was no vase for Nana’s tomb, so I placed my flowers on the altar in front and wished fervently that Chuck would go away so I could talk to them and ask them for their guidance. But he wasn’t going anywhere, the big clod. On second thought, this could be useful to me.
“Can you do me a favor?” I asked.
He moved in closer. “Anything.”
“I want you to give Morty a name for me, but you can’t say where it came from.”
“And where’d you get it?”
“Doesn’t matter. Promise?” I asked, wanting to put my damp hand on his dry chest.
“Promise.” Chuck crossed his heart and grinned.
“Andrew Marlin.”
“As in the Andrew the other Berrys mentioned?”
“Maybe. I hope so.” I could tell he was curious about how I got my information if it didn’t come from Morty or Spidermonkey. Clearly, Aunt Miriam hadn’t told anyone about my meeting Oz at the convent. Maybe senility was kicking in. She never missed a chance to nail me. Chuck started to say something, probably designed to get the info out of me, so a distraction was necessary.
“Why are you really here?” I asked, giving him a knowing glance.
“Tommy called,” he said.
“Tell you off, did he?”
“You could say that. He’s afraid Stevie will lure the Costillas to the grandparents.”
“He probably will.”
“If they show up, I’ll be there,” he said, the brilliant blue of his eyes had darkened to a grayish hue, making him seem more serious than usual.
“Going to take on the Costillas single-handedly?”
“If necessary, I’m not leaving you here alone.”
My hands went to my hips. “And why is that? You think I can’t handle it by myself?”
“It’s a lot.”
I thought about Sheila. I hadn’t told anyone about her yet. I don’t know if it was the steady rain, sealing us in under Chuck’s umbrella, or my ancestors theoretically looking on, but I blurted out, “Sheila’s dead.”
He stiffened. “Who?’
I explained who she was, my interview with Mrs. Schwartz, and the mysterious call to Donatella’s school.
“What has this got to do with the listeriosis?”
“Maybe nothing. The Berry’s might just have hideous luck.”
“Or great luck, depending on how you look at it. The kids are alive because of that little bacteria.”
“Eye of the beholder, I guess.” I turned away and pressed my palm against one of the plaques.
Please help me. Nana believes you can. I believe it, too. Or maybe I’m just desperate. Desperate and standing next to Chuck. Not a good combo. He smells good. And he hasn’t done anything sleazy. That’s good. No. Stop it. It’s Chuck, woman. Get a grip.
I opened my eyes and my hand was on the oldest vault. Robard Boulard died Nov.1831.
Of course it’s you. Here I am, standing next to Chuck and asking you for help.
Robard was the one who purchased the tomb and, according to family legend, was quite something. He made and lost several fortunes. If the rumors were correct, Robard was a serious ladies man. There was another tomb a few pathways away that belonged to the Plasketts, a gens de couleur libres family. Robard was supposed to have had an octoroon mistress, Josephine Plaskett, that he signed a binding marriage-like contract with and then fathered a second family with her. Mom said it wasn’t true. Our ancestor wasn’t a dirtbag. In my experience, whenever you have to say someone isn’t a dirtbag, they most certainly are. I’d seen Robard and his wife’s portraits in The Cabildo museum. She was a small blond with a tight look around the mouth and he was a handsome devil, sure of himself to the core. Actually, he reminded me a lot of the man standing over me with his knowing attitude and rakish grin. Trouble, pure and simple.
“I can’t stand it,” said Chuck, edging closer and filling my mind with his presence. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking.” I removed my hand from the cold stone and tucked it in my pocket, away from troublesome, yet alluring men.
“About me?”
“In a way.”
His eyelids lowered to half-mast. “Really? I consider that progress.”
“You shouldn’t. I was thinking how like Robard you are.”
“I hope he was irresistible.”
I rolled my eyes. “Probably more like incorrigible.”
“I’ll take it.” He lifted the damp curls off my forehead and brushed them back with practiced ease. “You are the only woman I’ve ever known that is beautiful with wet hair.”
He’s trying to suck me in. Fight it.
“And no makeup,” I said with a sneer.
“Especially with no makeup. You’re all clean and red cheeked.”
Oh, no.
“And fabulous.”
Pete who?
“And you make me…”
What do I make you? What? What?
Chuck’s head tilted down, his blue eyes warm with genuine affection. “So horny.”
I shoved him back and he hit the fence. “I can’t believe you. Idiot! Why do you always have to ruin it?” I spun around and stalked out through the gate.
“Wait!” he yelled.
I slammed the gate right into his knees and he grunted. Served him right. Bastard. No. Horny bastard. I hurried off, jumping over puddles and struggling with my umbrella that had chosen that precise moment to collapse.
“Wait, Mercy! What did I ruin? Was there something to ruin?” Chuck yelled after me.
“No! Stay away from me!” I ran out through the front entrance and into the street, dodging traffic and ignoring Chuck’s pleas. I lost him easily in the streets of the Quarter. I knew them. He didn’t.
I beat Chuck to the house and walked in to the smell of sausages so thick Pop Pop’s room was hazy. The cat was back on the mantel, staring at me with unblinking eyes.
Why me? Seriously. Why?
“Stevie!” I hollered as I peeled off my soaked jacket and kicked off shoes that would never be the same again.
Stevie came out of the kitchen wearing Pop Pop’s Kiss the Cook apron and carrying a meat fork with a sizzling sausage. “Yo, Mercy. You’re just in time.”
“What did I tell you about sausage?”
He thought about it. Thinking for Stevie, included staring at the ceiling a lot. “That you like them?”
“That you’re not supposed to cook.”
“Oh, yeah. You want one? Extra juicy. I found a new sausage guy.”
“And where did he have those sausages? His trunk?” I asked.
“Where else you gonna keep ‘em?”
I threw up my hands. “Fine. I give up. Get salmonella. Just open a window. This place is going to have to be professionally cleaned to get rid of the stink.”
Stevie chuckled. “Yeah. It does kinda smell.”
“After the Costillas kill you, I’ll remember this and my mourning will be cut short,” I said.
A huge smile came over Stevie’s goofy face. “You’re gonna mourn me. See? We are friends.”
“Whatever. I’m taking a bath.
If Chuck ever comes back, tell him not to bother me. I’m armed and female.” I tromped up the stairs, fast at first and then slower. Nana had lots of art on the walls. What had Spidermonkey said? Look for expensive artwork. No. All their stuff was local artists or inherited pieces with a few portraits and framed photos. Robard had been the heyday for my family’s finances. Between cotton market crashes and the Civil War we had become firmly middle class. There sure weren’t any Monets on Nana’s walls. Scratch that. There was a framed Monet poster in the guest bath, but that was probably worth fifty bucks.
I went into my room and found the sausage stink had made it’s way up there. I opened the window and then dumped my purse in search of a peppermint. That stink was getting to me. One sad, lint-covered mint dropped out onto my Mauser. Five second rule! Sort of. I picked off the lint and popped it into my mouth. Soothing, in spite of the added purse favor. I put the Mauser and its clip in the side table drawer where Dad kept trying to get me to keep it normally. He thought purses and Christmas sweaters weren’t good enough to store the precious Mauser. Whatever.
Now for the bath. I filled the tub with steaming hot water and bubbles, and then peeled off my clothes, sinking down into the suds. It was so hot it was almost painful. I’d washed and conditioned my hair and exfoliated every inch of my skin before I heard a telltale thumping, coming up the stairs.
The bathroom door rattled with a hard pounding. “Mercy, we need to talk.”
“No, thanks. Taking a bath.”
“Let me in,” said Chuck.
“Gross. No.”
He went away. It was a miracle. Maybe this was the sign from the family. Nice one. But then there was a different rattling, a little clinking metal on metal.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Picking the lock.”
“I have a gun!”
“In the tub? I don’t think so.”
There was a loud click.
“I’m coming in,” said Chuck.
“Do not come in here,” I said, looking around for an escape. All I had was a tiny window that wouldn’t begin to fit my generous rump.
The door creaked open an inch. “I brought you something.”
Intriguing.
“What is it? You better not say your penis.”
Chuck laughed. “It’s not my penis.” Then he got quiet. “You weren’t hoping that I’d—”
“No, I wasn’t!”
I kind of was. What the hell was wrong with me? Was it the romance of the New Orleans’ old and storied streets, the case, the fear…No. I had Pete. He was safe, predictable…far away.
“Here I come,” said Chuck. “Don’t shoot me.”
He crept in, carrying a large wicker basket. It took him a second to find me in the tub, since I was up to my nose in bubbles. “Oh.” Then he blushed and I mean blushed, about half his blood rushed to his cheeks.
“I told you I was in the bath,” I said, snottily as possible.
“I thought…I thought you were just messing with me.”
“Well, I wasn’t. What have you got?”
He held out the basket. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not taking that,” I said. “You might see something.”
The blush faded and a wicked, familiar grin came over his face. “Would that be so bad?”
I snorted. “There you go again, ruining it.”
“Alright then. I won’t say anything.” He sat down on the toilet with the basket in his lap.
“What are you doing?”
Silence.
“Fine. Go ahead and talk, but be warned I have soap on a rope and I’m not afraid to beat you with it,” I said.
Chuck opened the basket and pulled out a bottle of good Bordeaux, a pair of hand-blown wine glasses, chocolate croissants, and a set of flannel PJs. “You want some wine?”
“You bought all that after the cemetery?’
“I can shop. You want it or not?”
“Yes.”
He poured two glasses and we sipped in silence. I didn’t quite know what to do, and he was blushing again.
“I am sorry, you know,” he said after finishing his glass, rather hurriedly.
“I know, but you can’t say that stuff.”
“Why not?” He wasn’t looking at me, but at the tile on the wall.
“Because I have Pete, and you have half the tri-state area.”
His eyes dropped down to mine. “I’ve given you the wrong impression.”
I smiled. “I seriously doubt it.”
“I’m not that guy.”
“Please. You are so that guy. Look at you.”
He sat up straight, and I swear I could see the abs through his tee. “Look at you. Are you that girl? I’ve heard what people say to you. Are you her?”
It was my turn to look away. “You think I am.”
He gasped. He actually gasped. I didn’t think men did that. “Never.”
I glared at him. “What you said back there was the kind of thing heavy breathers say to me in the middle of the night on the phone.”
“I never thought of it that way. I’m not a prank caller. It’s you and it’s me.”
“My point exactly. You can’t say that stuff.”
He poured me a second glass. “I’ll be more careful. Let me make it up to you.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “You already bought me PJs.”
“I’ll help you with the Klinefeld Group. I know you’re working with Spidermonkey.”
“How’d you know?”
“I’m a detective. Hello, Mercy. Think,” he said with a grin and a voice just like my dad.
I grinned back. “So how do I know you won’t tell anyone what I’m up to?”
“I haven’t told anyone yet and I won’t. You can trust me.”
His eyes said it was true. My secrets would be kept.
“Alright.” I told him everything that Spidermonkey and I had found out, including the connection to SLU. By the time, I got done my water was cold and I was half drunk from the very good Bordeaux.
Chuck nodded and packed up the basket, except for the PJs.
“Where are you going?” I asked. My bubbles were getting scant and I was starting not to care.
“There’s a lot of books in this house. We better get started and, by the way, I’m helping you with Donatella’s case tomorrow.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“Too bad, beautiful,” Chuck said as he walked out the door. “It’s you and me getting it done.”
Ah crap!
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE REST OF the night passed quickly enough. We drank more wine, ate questionable sausages, and went through every book in the house. We peeked behind paintings and prints. We looked through photo albums until our eyes ached, but found exactly nothing. If my grandparents were connected to the Bleds, they’d hidden the evidence very well.
I woke up on the sofa tangled in blankets, wearing Chuck’s flannel PJs. Something smelled fantastic, all apple-y and sweet. And there was something else. Singing. A Christmas song. Christmas was over a month ago. I yawned and untangled myself before going to the kitchen. I don’t know what I expected to find. It certainly wasn’t what I found, that was for sure. I made it to the kitchen door and didn’t go any farther. It wasn’t a radio or CD or iPod. It was Chuck, standing at the stove wearing only a pair of flannel PJ bottoms, singing The Eagles’ “Please Come Home for Christmas.” And he was singing it really well, like better than Don Henley. He’d take a deep breath before each verse and the muscles in his back would ripple. I couldn’t stop watching. I was addicted to watching.
Then he stood back and flipped a pancake. It landed right in the pan, just the way mine never did. Stevie came up beside me. “Hey, Mercy.”
Chuck turned around with his frying pan and saw me, standing there like weirdo stalker.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Watching you.
“I was hungry.”
&nbs
p; He smiled and I did my best not to look down from his face. Those PJ bottoms were hanging low on his hips. Very low.
“Great. I made pancakes and cinnamon apples.”
“Um…good. Great. I’m just going to go back to the living room and do some stuff that I have to do.”
Smooth, Mercy.
“We can eat in there,” said Stevie.
“Yeah, great.” I practically ran out. What a loser.
We ended up sitting around Pop Pop’s sofa table, eating, and watching The Hobbit. The pancakes were fabulous. Aaron had competition, except there wasn’t any chocolate. The cinnamon apples were very tasty, though.
Chuck kept looking at me the whole time and it was unnerving. I think he expected me to Fike him at any minute. My dad had a partner named Michael Fike, who used to lose him on purpose. Getting ditched came to be called getting Fiked. I knew I should Fike Chuck at the first opportunity, but my mind was dulled by copious amounts of sugar. I wasn’t sure where to start. We now had listeriosis, mass murder, a rape, and a strangling. Why couldn’t we have a nice white collar crime? A little tax evasion or fraud? Something that didn’t cause the victim physical pain.
“I’m sorry we didn’t find anything on the Bleds,” said Chuck after scraping the last of his syrup off his plate and licking the fork clean. I think I was supposed to watch the licking. I didn’t. Well, maybe out of the corner of my eye.
“It was a long shot,” I said. “At least we can say we left no stone unturned.”
The cat walked in from the kitchen and jumped up onto Pop Pop’s chair. The same place I’d found him three times that morning before tossing him out.
“How does that thing keep getting in?” I asked.
“While you were gone yesterday, I did a little investigating,” said Chuck.
“And?”
“I have no idea. There are no open windows and no cat flap.”