Louis perked up. He’d been crumbling lots of saltine crackers on top of the chili, just like Jim told him to. The crackers had turned a bright orange color from the layer of grease on top of the chili. Louis poked the orange crackers under the surface of the meat and beans. “Who was the quintet?”
“Dizzy Gillespie on trumpet, Bud Powell on keyboards, Mingus on bass, and Max Roach on drums. And Parker on alto sax.”
“I love Bud Powell,” Louis said.
“Me, too,” Jim said. “The problem was, Parker was really strung out; he was always hocking his horns. He went to one of those school instrument stores and bought a cheap plastic sax that kids use when they’re not sure if they really want to play the saxophone or the bass drum. His wife ended up with it when Parker died, and she auctioned it off.”
“And Kansas City bought it for their new jazz museum,” Bob said between bites of an omelette. “Fabulous. You just don’t find this kind of drama in fictional screenplays. I’m so lucky that I happened to come down with the film crew for the walk-through. The footage of all those jazz stars’ belongings being searched was priceless, absolutely priceless.”
“Oh, there’s a price, all right,” Jim said with a smile. “And we know what it is. Four million bucks.”
Ella Jackson was a little drunk and talking to a photograph in her hotel room. She poured herself another splash of Wild Turkey and paced up and down the corridor between the bed and the dresser console. Howard Stern was on mute on the TV. The phone was ringing—ten, twelve times in a row, then a pause while the caller dialed again, then another ten or twelve rings. Ella wasn’t picking up.
“That you, Boots, baby? You sure were surprised, ol’ man.”
The photograph was an 8 × 10 glossy publicity shot of Boots Turner. He was sitting at a piano with a big smile on his face. The photo was in a cheap black frame and had brown age spots. Boots was in a white dinner jacket that had rounded lapels, vintage early fifties.
Ella stumbled a little, then sat down on the bed and pulled all the pillows behind her back, waving her glass around for emphasis. “I tell you one thing. I’ll be glad to get this over with and get back to God’s country. These backwards Kansas City folk could screw up a wet dream. Here I have Tiny Bennett and Ray Charles, no, it’s Tony Bennett”—Ella giggled—“eating my food. My boys were ready to take the photos”—she took another gulp of whiskey—“and I had you on the hot seat in front of all of ’em. Damn if these Eighteenth and Vine fools didn’t lose their star attraction, some plastic-assed saxophone, something you wouldn’t have allowed on your stage, no way.” Ella giggled and played a pretend sax in the air, still holding her glass. “Serves these hicks right, Daddy. They’ll get theirs. It’s already started.”
Then Ella Jackson passed out, lights and television still on, holding her empty glass in her hand.
Kansas City Chili
2 lbs. lean ground beef or ground chuck
1 large onion, peeled and diced
1 28 oz. can tomatoes
1 large can Campbell’s tomato soup, or 2 regular size cans
1 can pinto or red beans
1 can kidney beans
1 small can green chilies, chopped
1 fresh jalapeno pepper, seeded and chopped
1 T.ground cumin
2 T.ground New Mexico red chili or chili powder
kosher salt
Don’t worry, this chili will not have orange grease floating on the top like the chili that Louis ate at the diner. This is the typical style of chili every midwestern mom makes, probably without the real jalapeno. It has a mild heat. If you want more, add another jalapeno, some hot sauce, or some cayenne.
In a large, heavy pot, sauté onions and meat together until the meat is browned, adding a little neutral oil, such as canola, if the meat is too lean. Add all the ingredients except the beans and simmer for 1 hour. Add the beans and simmer another 20 minutes. Remove from heat and refrigerate overnight before serving; this marries the flavors better, and you can remove any fat that has accumulated on the top of the chili. When you reheat, adjust the seasonings and be very careful to reheat over a low flame as the tomatoes have a high sugar content and can burn.
This chili is great served with cornbread, rice, and toppings such as sour cream, chopped onions, and grated cheddar or fresh Mexican cheese.
Eleven
Boy, this is really getting good,” Joe Long said as the whole group passed the morning newspaper around Sal’s. Sal had just finished his first haircut of the day and was sweeping around the chair. His customer got a bargain this morning, a trim and two first-person accounts of the biggest news in town: the theft of the Charlie Parker sax. Not that Heaven or Mona were eyewitnesses to the actual heist, but being right across the street in the Ruby counted.
“Yeah. Just when I was sure that someone had it in for Evelyn personally, this happens. Now it makes much more sense that someone is trying to ruin the whole opening,” Heaven said irritably.
“Look,” Murray said, pointing at a photograph of the empty display case. The photographer had gotten some priceless shots of all the music celebs milling around Eighteenth and Vine, just like the old days. “There’s Louis,” Murray said proudly. And sure enough, there was Louis and his father standing next to Boots Turner. Louis was gazing adoringly at the older piano man.
“It’s too bad the photographer didn’t know who Louis was,” Heaven said. “He could have gotten a great lead, something about the torch being passed.”
Sal leaned over toward the newspaper to see who they were talking about. “That’s the kid that played at your joint Monday night”
Everyone turned toward Sal with awe. He had been at the Monday night open mike only once, when the whole show was dedicated to him on his sixty-fifth birthday last year. When Sal left his barbershop, he liked to go home to North Kansas City and put his feet up, relax.
“Now, how do you know that?” Heaven asked.
“He and the other guy in the bad suit went into your place in the afternoon Monday, you walked ’em out a while later, then they came right over here in front of the shop and the kid says something about how he hopes you like him or liked it or something,” Sal explained. “I figured they must have auditioned for the open mike. The kid play keyboards?”
Everyone was looking at Sal with various degrees of disbelief. “You are a Sherlock Holmes all right,” Murray said. “Except for one thing. Louis doesn’t speak English. He’s from Minsk, in Belorussia.”
“I don’t care if he’s from the Amazon; he speaks English just fine. He had an accent, yes, but he speaks English as good as my grandmother ever did. How else would I know what he said?”
“Are you sure, Sal?” Heaven asked. “Maybe the father said that to the kid, and you just—”
Sal was belligerent. ‘Just what? Got mixed up? Mistook the kid talking for the father talking? Right. I’ll bet my reputation on the fact that the kid can speak English and if his old man told you different, it’s a scam. Now, who wants to bet?”
No one did.
* * *
“I hate to put you in this position,” Bonnie Weber said, without looking or sounding like she hated it at all. Bonnie and Heaven were catching a quick lunch together at Win-stead’s, the Kansas City burger palace. “But I won’t bust your chops for nosing around at the funeral home if you just—”
Heaven cut in, impatient to tell her version of last night. “I understand. I was there. You weren’t. You want to know who was in visual range, and to answer your first question, if Nolan was in the building, he was,” Heaven said as she bit into an onion ring. “Nolan did a great job of simmering down a real doozy of a fight between Sam Scott, Lefty Stuart, and Boots Turner. He was still up on the stage when Ella delivered her food and her big speech about Boots Turner.”
“I wish someone in Burglary had been savvy enough to give me a call. After all, I’m working a case . . . shit, what am I saying? I don’t have time to cross-reference my cases with
anybody, why should they? I just feel behind the eight ball. What big speech did Ella Jackson make?” Bonnie asked as she took a drink of a thick chocolate malt. “And what was the fight about? Was it Sam Scott and Boots Turner? She’s one of my favorite singers, behind Aretha, of course.”
“Not the same deal; you can like both Aretha and Sam. Well, I haven’t got a chance to tell you any of this but Sam Scott was Boots Turner’s girlfriend when she sang with his band. Then she met the baseball player, Lefty, and she and Lefty fell madly in love, and Boots has never forgiven either of them.” With that juicy flourish of gossip Heaven popped the last bite of a double cheeseburger into her mouth.
Bonnie Weber slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Great! A feud between three famous people who just happen to be involved with the dedication of Eighteenth and Vine, which is turning to shit in front of our eyes.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I know so much?” Heaven said with bravado.
“I was just about to get to that, but I’m afraid.”
“Mona told me. She and Sam went to high school together. But they don’t speak anymore, either.”
Bonnie Weber put her head down on top of her crossed arms on the table and moaned.
“And Miss Ella accused Boots Turner of being the long lost father of Evelyn Edwards, and I think . . .” Heaven was going to say something about the two photos, but then she’d have to admit she stole them out of a dead woman’s office. She’d wait on that one, since it was highly speculative at best.
Bonnie Weber jerked her head up. “And what did Boots say to that?”
“He didn’t get a chance to say anything. Security came running in saying the sax had been stolen and the moment was lost. I saw him try to talk to Ella while we were trapped in the Ruby, but she’d make a smart crack and walk away from him every time. I think she was upset that her big moment ended so fast when a bigger disaster came along.”
“How did everyone else react to Ella and Boots and to Sam and Lefty and Boots? Boy, that Boots was in a heap of trouble,” Bonnie observed.
“I think everyone was embarrassed for Boots. Most of them definitely didn’t know who Evelyn Edwards was or that she’d died almost where Boots was standing. But I think everyone pretty much knows about the rift between Sam and Boots. The sax being stolen was the thing that got everyone going, mainly because they couldn’t leave the Ruby. I think Tony Bennett missed his dinner reservations at the American Restaurant.”
“Any ideas on the stolen sax? Not that I have time to solve someone else’s cases,” Bonnie said as she ate her last French fries.
Heaven knew she should tell Bonnie about the heists in Europe where Jim Dittmar had gigs, and probably about the fact that little Mr. Louis Armstrong Vangirov had been less than honest, but why bother her? None of these were real solid leads yet. Heaven would relieve Bonnie of the burden of these details until she checked them out. “No one confessed, if that’s any help. I’m telling you, the stars at the Ruby were so antsy at being told they had to have their stuff searched, they didn’t even start a jam session while they waited. That’s bad. I think they might have been worried about pot and other drugs. There was lots of shuffling of bags.”
“Ray Charles’s smoking pot is the least of our worries,” Bonnie said.
“Bonnie, can you tell me what happened at the funeral home, what you and Ella talked about after I left?”
“Well, you’ll have to agree that Ella has gone up in the standing as a suspect since she starting throwing money around for Evelyn’s burial. Being generous to a stranger doesn’t seem like Ella’s style. And now that you tell me she accused Boots Turner of being Evelyn’s father, well, you don’t know that kind of detail about a stranger, now, do you?”
“Not one you supposedly have only talked to over the phone a couple of times,” Heaven admitted.
“I wish I could just shut down the whole dedication weekend until I could sort this out,” Bonnie said.
“Time waits for no homicide detective, girlfriend. We learned that in evidence class many years ago,” Heaven said as they threw down their money on the table and got ready to leave.
Mona Kirk looked around the hotel dining room nervously. To her dismay she was five minutes late. She had changed clothes five times, finally settling on the first thing she had put on, a black sheath with no cats on it anywhere. She did have on cat earrings, but they were small. She was trying to look sophisticated for her old friend. She spotted Sam Scott at the corner table by a window overlooking the Plaza shopping area, a faux-Spanish complex that had been built in the 1930s. A table at the Ritz-Carlton overlooking the Plaza. This was as glamorous as it got in Kansas City.
She hurried over to the table. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said, immediately regretting the gracelessness of her opening line. Then she sat down and managed to tangle her purse in the chair legs. All this seemed to amuse Sam Scott.
“We almost have the same haircut,” Sam said with the hint of a smile, looking at Mona’s short gray hair.
“We both have short hair and we don’t dye it. That’s about where the resemblance ends. I get mine cut at a barbershop across from my store. You probably get yours cut by some famous stylist.” Mona knew she was babbling but she couldn’t stop.
“What kind of store do you have?” Sam asked politely.
“A cat store. It’s named the City Cat. But I don’t actually sell cats, although sometimes I do give them away. People leave off cats they don’t want and I have a deal with a vet who gives them their shots and then,” Mona wished someone would stop her mouth, “I give them away to good homes.”
“If you don’t sell cats, what do you sell?”
“Gift items for cat lovers. Almost any thing you can think of is made in the shape of a cat, plus tee-shirts, earrings”—she pointed at her ear like a QVC host—“and then actual things for cats, like jeweled collars, fancy food dishes. Cat lovers are very loyal. Do you have a pet?”
“No, I’m still on the road too much. Lefty usually goes with me. Then there are his speaking engagements. It seems Lefty has become very popular on the sports dinner circuit. The whole country is finding out what I’ve known for years: My husband is the best.”
“I hope I get to meet him,” Mona said. When there was silence from Sam she felt her cheeks flush. “Maybe we should order.”
Just at that awkward moment the waiter appeared. In Mona’s opinion, it was the first good thing that had happened since she arrived at the restaurant. She pointed at something under the entree salad heading and asked for iced tea. Sam ordered a steak, rare, a green salad, no dressing, and a baked potato, no butter or sour cream. Milk to drink. “I won’t eat again until after the concert. I have to have that protein and calcium,” she explained.
When the waiter was gone Sam took control of the conversation. “I thought long and hard about your letter, Mona. In the long run, I wanted to be fair. If I didn’t let you say your piece, I’d be just as bad as . . .” She paused.
“As I was all those years ago?” Mona finished the sentence for her. “When all that ruckus happened last night, I was afraid that would be a good excuse for you to not talk to me. Boots and Lefty and the saxophone and all. But instead you suggested lunch and I have to tell you, I didn’t sleep a wink last night, thinking about everything.”
“Someone stole Charlie Parker’s saxophone. If we weren’t on the national news before, we will be now.” Sam chuckled. “By the way, how did you find my agent?”
“Easy. Called your record company and asked for your publicist. Told the publicist I worked for Steven Spielberg and he wanted you for a small part in his next film, and so I needed your agent’s name and number. Called up your agent and asked the receptionist for the address of the agent’s office. It was probably a little more elaborate than necessary, but it was fun.”
The waiter brought their food, too fast for Mona’s taste. She was afraid this would all be over before she even got her bearing
s.
“I appreciate all the trouble you went to,” Sam said, “and it was considerate of you to give me a heads-up about your part in this weekend. I’m afraid I have my hands full with Lefty and Boots. I didn’t need any surprises.”
“Like I said in the note, I want to apologize for hurting you with my stupidity and ruining our friendship,” Mona said simply.
“Well, Mona, there’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. I wish I could say it was forgotten long ago. But things that happen to you when you’re a kid, they stick in your head.”
“The other thing that I need to say is I was wrong. Not only did I hurt you, for which I am sorry, not only did I mess up our friendship, but it all happened because I did something that was wrong.”
Sam looked sad. “I hear what you’re saying, baby, but you have to understand where I’m comin’ from. Intellectually, I know we were just kids, and I know a part of your concern back then was that I’d be treated badly by folks in Saint Joseph. And, God knows, Boots Turner was not the right man for me. But Lefty Stuart is. And he happens to be a black man, too. Now, I’m not saying that we haven’t had some tough times. And I know the world we live in, the music world, the sports world, has accepted racially mixed couples much better than in a small town. We are blessed in that respect.”
“But? I hear a but in your voice,” Mona asked.
“But when I saw you last night at the Ruby, my eyes just filled up with tears. I was that hurt kid again, who found out her friend didn’t have unconditional love for her. I wanted to hear, you know, ‘Whoever you want, Sam; I’ll be there for you, Sam.’ I don’t know how I’d ever shake that pain, Mona.”
“It can’t be fixed, can it?”
“Do I blame you? No, honey, I do not. But do I think we can start talking on the phone every week, going on little trips together? No, I don’t think that is in the cards for us. I’ve always missed you, Mona, I truly have.”
The Cornbread Killer Page 15