by Peter King
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the dominant one of the pair,” I said. I thought back to when I had first seen her, Marguerite Saville, owner of the Bistro Bonaparte. She had been the black-haired, long-lashed number with the nearly perfect features. “She’s a very strong-willed woman and the two of them have a lot to lose.”
I recalled also that it had been Marguerite who had insisted on hiring me when Della and the others had assumed that I wouldn’t be able to act for them, as I was already hired. Marguerite wanted to be sure she knew my movements. It had surprised me when she told me that she had been offered the book, too, but she was close to Leah and, through her, Leah’s husband Earl would have known of Marguerite’s prominence among the Witches. Marguerite would have been eager to get the book and suppress any possibility of her husband’s distillery being exposed.
“The way Kilmer tells me,” Delancey said, “there could be murder charges flying in all directions, as well as other charges. A lot of people in these parts might feel that their relatives had their minds destroyed.” He waved a hand. “Kilmer would like a few words with you—okay?”
“Certainly.”
“He’s got a few questions, like where this wormwood comes from.”
“I’m sure he does. Wormwood doesn’t grow in this part of the world, normally, but it belongs to the sunflower family and is found wild in the Mediterranean so it could be cultivated here. It was probably imported from the Med in earlier times—”
“And since it was banned?” Delancey asked.
I thought back to my visit to the Belvedere mansion and the stroll that Ambrose and I had taken out back, toward the stand of giant oaks. I recalled the large area of blackened soil and remnants of burned vegetation.
“I suppose it would have been possible to cultivate the wormwood plant somewhere around here,” I conceded.
“We’ll let Kilmer worry about that side of it,” Delancey said. “Meanwhile, how about signing these statements?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
JACK KILMER WAS A similar type to Delancey, cautious, thoughtful and an intriguing blend of tough and considerate. I could see the two of them getting along together very well in a field where conflict could arise easily. He looked a lot like Delancey, too, but was taller and skinnier and had a pronounced Louisiana accent. I answered all his questions and tried to skirt away from any theorizing on where the wormwood could have been coming from but it was inevitable that he would press the point.
“Think it was local?” he asked.
“The climate in many of the Southern states is amenable to growing it,” I said carefully. “With modern agricultural techniques, soil can be chemically modified if it’s not fully suitable. They even grow wine-making grapes in places like Canada today.”
He nodded.
“You’ll probably make more progress backtracking through the bars that have been selling it clandestinely, though,” I said.
“We’ll be doing that, too,” he agreed. “Of course, if this gets to be a big deal—class-action, maybe, a mini-tobacco case, that kind of thing, we might have to run through some satellite pictures. Infrared, or some variation of it, might show up wormwood crops. Our guys are getting good at that kind of stuff.”
I’m sure they are, I thought, but they won’t be able to make anything out of pictures of burnt-out fields. I didn’t say anything, though. I was satisfied to let that alone.
We had been talking in Delancey’s home station, and after Kilmer left me, Delancey reappeared. He looked more rumpled than usual but he assured me that he was making excellent progress on wrapping up the case.
“I’ll tell Hal Gaines you were a big help. Might be useful, next time you’re in the Big Bagel getting into trouble.”
“That’s never my intention,” I told him. “From now on, I’m keeping a lower profile. I’ve bought a few of your Louisiana hot sauces to take back with me but otherwise, it’s going to be milder stuff—tarragon and thyme, basil and bay leaves.”
“Think that’ll do it?” He didn’t sound convinced.
“It’s sure to,” I said confidently.
“Yeah,” he said in that languid way of his that meant he didn’t believe it for a second. “Oh, one other thing—”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“The book, the original book. You never did tell me what happened to it after it had caused all this mayhem.”
I had had time to prepare for this question—and just as well, too, otherwise I would have been running out of hems and haws.
“Neither Mrs. Pargeter nor Ambrose Belvedere want to talk about it, but you can safely work on the premise that Mrs. Pargeter considered destroying it then decided that it was Ambrose Belvedere’s responsibility to do that.”
“And …” Delancey gave me one of his little waves that invited me to be more forthcoming.
“And I would say that Ambrose destroyed it.”
He eyed me. “You would, eh? You’re saying I can work on it—that premise?”
“Safely, Lieutenant.” I couldn’t prevent the intrusion of a mental picture of the urn that Ambrose had shown me with ashes in it, paper ashes.
“Tough to put premises in a report,” he commented wryly.
I shrugged; a safe ploy under the circumstances, I thought.
“And I wouldn’t want to have that book reappear and cause trouble all over again.”
“I can understand that,” I told him.
“Because if it did, I’d have Scotland Yard put you in a crate and ship you over here within twenty-four hours.”
“I prefer business class—but hold on,” I added quickly. “I give you every assurance I can that the book has been destroyed. It’s hard to prove that something no longer exists.”
He digested that for a moment.
“Okay, well, have a good trip back—you are leaving today, aren’t you?” His tone was anxious.
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. Just one word of advice—”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Try a credit card from the National Bank of New York.”
For a moment, I was baffled.
“You mentioned a library card for, er, certain uses,” he continued. “I told you it needed to be a credit card. The one that the National Bank of New York issues is the best. We’ve tried to get them off the streets but can’t. Better get one while you still can. Just don’t get arrested for using it.”
“Thanks for the recommendation, Lieutenant,” I said. “I hope I won’t need it. How are the law studies proceeding?”
“Okay. Gonna have to make a decision soon on what direction to head in.”
“Criminal, civil, real estate—that kind of decision?”
“Something like that.”
“Any preferences at this stage?”
“Years on the force incline me toward criminal law but at the same time, I’m thinking of going for something more constructive.”
“I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. Will you consider going back to New York?”
He shook his head firmly. “No way. I like it here. It’s a cockamamy city in a lot of ways but I like it.”
We shook hands as a nearby phone rang and a voice called for him.
On the way back to the Hotel Monteleone, I stopped at Eric Van Linn’s office. He had my check ready and even offered me a cup of coffee although he expressed regret that they had no chicory-containing product in the building.
“Ambrose Belvedere tells me he is very satisfied with the outcome,” he said, regarding me across his shiny-topped desk.
“He told you that he invited me to visit him at the Belvedere mansion?”
“Yes. I am sure you can understand why he wished to remain as our unidentified client earlier—”
“Of course,” I said. I could afford to be magnanimous.
He seemed to be hesitating over what to say next. It appeared to be an unusual circumstance for him; he was rarely at a loss. He got it together and went on
in his suave manner.
“I must tell you, I suggested to Ambrose that disbursing your check to you should be contingent upon your signing a release form.”
“Release?”
“You became privy to a number of matters that are confidential to the Belvedere family. The family’s reputation and even possibly Ambrose’s intentions of reopening the Belvedere restaurant could be affected if some of these reached the media.”
An array of angry responses flashed before my eyes but I didn’t have the check yet so I simply said, “Ambrose didn’t say anything of this so I presume he is content that he can rely on my discretion.”
Van Linn nodded, slid the check across the desk and we parted on remarkably amicable terms, considering that one of us was a lawyer.
The checkout procedure from hotels has long been one of the more infuriating and frustrating activities in the whole travel experience, but at the same time it has been one process that has benefited enormously from computerization. I had completed the necessary details and was heading for a taxi when a voice called to me across the lobby and a blonde in yellow and black approached.
“Hello, Elsa,” I greeted her, “you just caught me in time. I’m heading for the airport.”
“So it’s all over.”
“Yes, I suppose you want to do a wrap-up program,” I said.
“Not really.” Her blonde hair danced as she shook her head. “We have a new revelation in the city council—a big splash. The Belvedere business is old hat—yesterday’s news already.”
“Ah, how quickly we forget,” I sympathized. “It must be hard for you to keep up with the fickle public’s appetite for news.”
She looked at me, not sure if I was being sarcastic and decided I wasn’t. “I’m not happy with it,” she confided. “I was hoping to get you and Ambrose Belvedere on the program but he declined and this city council rumpus blew up instead.”
“Good luck with it,” I said heartily.
“I might pursue the Belvedere story at a later date,” she said, but I knew that once it had faded from the forefront of public interest, that was very unlikely.
“Okay, give me a call if I can make any contribution,” I said. I was pretty safe making that offer, I thought.
“Just for the record …” she said, and I waited.
“A number of loose ends dangle—”
“I’ve found that’s usually the case,” I told her. “It’s seldom a perfect wrap-up. For instance, you mentioned St. Cynthia’s.”
She nodded.
“You knew that the chefs of the Belvedere family had all ended their days there.”
“Yes. It’s a mental home, terminal.”
“Was it going to feature in one of your programs?”
As I asked the question, I waited for her to confirm the connection with absinthe. Surely that was an irresistible angle for a journalist?
She shrugged. Had I misjudged her? Did she have some scruples that I hadn’t noticed? Did she have some compassion for the family reputation after all?
“Marguerite and her husband are under arrest—did you know that?” she asked, and I supposed I would never know the answer to my mental questions.
“I haven’t caught any recent local news—”
“Could that have anything to do with the Belvedere book?”
“The case seems to have slid out of the current frame of interest,” I said. “Still, with forged copies floating around, I suppose it would.”
“You think there ever was a genuine copy?”
“I strongly doubt that such a thing exists,” I said, and waited to see if the switch in tenses slipped past her. It did.
She tried another tack. “You were hired to buy the book, weren’t you? That’s why you came to New Orleans.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Your principal must be dissatisfied that you failed.”
“You can’t win them all,” I said, wondering when my supply of clichés would run out.
“I suppose not. Well, I’ll let you go; you must be anxious to get home.”
“It’s been an enjoyable visit. This is a great town. Next time, I’ll have to stay longer.”
The bellboy approached. “Your limo to the airport is here, sir.”
Elsa looked as if she had more questions, but she probably realized that the flow of answers was drying up.
“Got more cases at home to take care of?” she asked.
“I have a trip on the Danube Express coming up. I have to review their menus.”
“Sounds like fun. You can’t get into trouble doing that.”
We exchanged friendly farewell kisses, and, as I entered the limo, I wondered if they might have developed into more. But then I was winding through the narrow streets—New Orleans was displaying her colorful mishmash of African and European cultures, and I was glimpsing all the restaurants that I would have liked to have tried and picturing all the meals that I had missed. …
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2002 by Peter King
cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7729-4 (ePub)
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER
TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Copyright