by Lisa Turner
Garrett’s lips compressed. “You’re suggesting that Dr. Ramos was involved?”
“I didn’t say that. But I want to know if there were problems between Ramos and the two men.”
Garrett smoothed his palm over his hair. “I did hear shouting during some of their sessions.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t recall the details. Emotional outbursts are common during therapy.”
His statement puzzled her. Neither Ramos nor Davis seemed like shouters. “Do you recall either man having disagreements with other residents?”
Garrett’s nostrils flared. “We don’t spy on our residents. In fact, I barely knew Davis and Lacy.”
“Forgive me, but your eulogy gave the impression that you’d spent a great deal of time talking with Davis.”
“We had a few conversations, but let’s go back to your questions about the doctor. The safety and privacy of our residents is my responsibility. If you believe Ramos was involved in the deaths of these men, you need to tell me now.”
He glared at her. They weren’t sitting in an interview room, but the same rules applied. She was asking the questions, not Garrett. She ignored his demand and went on.
“Dr. Ramos confirmed something you mentioned in the eulogy, that Davis was interested in making a change in a particular person’s life. Davis told Ramos he was sending money to someone living in Boston. Shortly before he died, Davis borrowed two thousand dollars from Augie Poston. He claimed to have a locked-in business deal that would enable him to pay Poston back. Can you tell me anything about that?”
Spots of color appeared on Garrett’s cheeks. “Red Davis was a drunk. He was in no shape to make any kind of deal.” He stopped. “Did Red get the two grand?”
“Yes.”
“I doubt you’ll find out where the money went.” Garrett raised his hand in farewell. “With that, I must leave you. Feel free to look around the property. There’s a donation box at the door.”
She noticed the raised hand was trembling. Perspiration had broken out on Garrett’s brow. “A final question before you go. Last night when you looked through the photographs with Detective Able, you failed to point out Calvin Carter among the informants. Able specifically asked if you could identify anyone. Carter was a young man at the time, but certainly you must have recognized him.”
Garrett fixed her with the stare she’d seen him use to intimidate guests on talk shows. “Possibly my eyes were tired. Or the lighting was poor. Maybe I was distracted by the full moon. Or maybe it’s none of your goddamned business.
“You come here with bullshit questions, wasting my time. The last thing my brother said before he walked out the door of our house was, ‘Know what’s important. Protect it.’”
Frankie blinked. Protect what’s important? What did that mean? Billy had said this wasn’t a big point, but obviously it was to Garrett. She decided to push a little harder.
“If those photographs prove that Carter was an FBI informant, the museum’s future will be damaged. Isn’t that right?”
Garrett focused on the men in the garden below. Something strange moved across his face, then his professional mask slipped back into place. “Believe what you wish. I’m late for an appointment.”
“We’re not finished, sir.”
He swatted the air. “Go to hell, Miss Malone.”
She watched Garrett go. His claim that Davis and Ramos were shouting at each other wasn’t credible. He’d recognized Carter in the photograph, but his speech about poor lighting and being distracted by the moon was ridiculous. Then he’d brought up his brother’s last words. Protect what’s important. Maybe it was the drugs, but the end of their conversation had bordered on madness.
She started to leave, aware that the two men who’d been prepping the beds were watching Garrett hobble to the elevator. They looked back at her, knocking loam from their gloves, their gazes vaguely aggressive as they positioned themselves between her and the elevator.
Don’t screw with me, guys, she thought. I’m the one with the gun.
To avoid a confrontation, she chose the metal staircase that ran down the side of the building and would put her into the back parking lot. At the bottom, she walked along the building, past a row of windows at the ground level that let onto the basement kitchen. Through an open window, she heard a woman singing a Jamaican folk song that she recognized. She stopped and squatted on her heels to look through the half window. A woman, probably the one who’d been singing, had her back turned and was wielding a cleaver, breaking down a whole chicken on a butcher block. She used her thumb to deftly split the chicken’s keel bone from either side of the breasts.
A bandanna in black, green, and gold, the colors of the Jamaican flag, covered her hair. Hoop earrings swung in rhythm with the cleaver. From beneath her shirtsleeve, Frankie saw flashes of a green watchband on her left wrist.
The woman was tall, with broad shoulders underneath her chef’s apron. Her muscular arms moved as gracefully as snakes, glistening in the kitchen’s heat as she swept the chicken parts onto a tray and reached for a new carcass.
On the shelf above her head stood two statues representing orishas—Ochosi, the divine hunter with his bow, and Ogun, the protector with his shield and sword. A red candle, symbolizing strength and domination, burned between the statues.
Frankie recognized the woman as the stern mistress who’d been seated with the men from the shelter at the funeral. She didn’t trust hunches, but she was having one now. Ovia had described the woman who bought the curses as a Santerían worshipper who was unusually tall. This woman stood six feet in her sneakers.
Frankie gathered her courage and took the steps down to the kitchen. The woman looked up as she came through the door.
“We take no visitors in the kitchen, miss. Thank you very much.” She waved her cleaver in dismissal and continued working.
“I heard you singing ‘Linstead Market.’”
The woman stopped. “You know Jamaican folk songs?”
“I’ve spent time in the islands.” Frankie approached the butcher block for a closer look, aware of the cleaver in the woman’s hand. The name “Dominique” had been scrawled across the top of her apron with a laundry marker. Five signature necklaces of the Santería necklace initiation hung at her throat along with a sixth necklace for Ogun, just as Ovia had described.
“Sid Garrett suggested I look around the kitchen,” she said.
“Ahh. You must be an angelfish then. The bossman calls people angelfish when they give money to the shelter.”
The image of a delicate fish wriggling on Garrett’s hook flashed through Frankie’s mind. “He might consider me an angelfish of sorts.”
Dominique’s head-to-toe appraisal reminded Frankie that she didn’t look anything like an angelfish. She shopped at Target, not Bergdorf Goodman.
“My family owns a nursery,” she said. “Mr. Garrett wants our help with the roof garden.” She inclined her head toward the statues on the shelf. “I see you honor the orishas. Are you a believer?”
Dominique gave her a sidelong glance. “You know Santería?”
“Enough to place ebbos in my home for good luck, but not enough to solve my problem,” she said in a plaintive tone.
Dominique selected a boning knife and ran the thin blade down the chicken’s backbone. Frankie recognized the high-end Japanese chef’s knife, far more expensive than she could afford.
“Strong money got no problems in America,” Dominique said. “You an angelfish, you got strong money. I’m busy now, forty chickens to break down for bossman’s bashy party tomorrow.” She cocked her head toward the door.
The conversation was over unless Frankie could hook her interest. In the Jamaican culture, family matters most. She put on a downcast face. “You talk strong money, but money won’t stop the man who wants to steal my family’s land.”
Dominique’s gaze darted up. “This man takes your gardens?”
“A j
udge will give him our land next week unless I stop him.”
The knife hovered over the chicken. Dominique’s eyes cut at Frankie. “A mayombero will make guzum curse for you. You know Santería, you know this is true.”
“Are you talking about Dr. Ramos?”
“Nah. Ramos is no obeah man, no voodoo. I know mayombero who will send this gravalishus man away.” Dominique tilted her head in consideration. “Or this man could die. I have seen it happen with my own eyes.”
This had to be the woman Ovia described. And from the sound of it, she’d watched Red die. “How can I find this mayombero?”
“She trusts no one. I will get the curse for you.”
“For how much?”
“Eight hundred dollars.” Dominique put down the knife, her sleeves riding up while she crossed her arms as if this was her final word.
Her watch was different from anything Frankie had ever seen. How had Billy described Augie’s stolen watch? Green band. Vintage. Valuable.
“Eight hundred dollars. Too much for a curse.” She nodded at Dominique’s arm. “Tell me about your watch.”
Realization that there was more to this deal crossed the woman’s face. Her fingers brushed the watch face. “My family passed this down to me. You like it?”
“I do.”
“My grandmother leaves me watches and more things. Very rare.” Dominique let her words dangle, meant to entice.
“You’re willing to part with these things?”
Male laughter came from beyond the kitchen. Two gangly young men banged open the door and swaggered over to pull aprons off a hook and tie them around their waists. A smaller dark-skinned man came in behind them. He tucked himself into a corner and began reading a book, glancing up on occasion at Dominique.
One of the other men gestured at Frankie. “Hey, Jamaica. We got us a new girlie cook?”
“Outside with deez box of potatoes. Peel and wash.” Dominique pointed at the door.
She turned to Frankie, angrily shaking her head. “I’m done over with this kitchen. My auntie has a California job for me four days from tomorrow. I will wear a chef’s coat with my name sewn in red. And I take my Jamaican friend with me over there. He’s always with a book.” She spoke to the little man in the corner. “Go to the cooler and bring more chickens. You and me have work to do.”
He nodded and stepped inside the walk-in cooler.
A stocky man with a mangled nose shuffled into the kitchen. “Hey, Domino. You want help with them chickens?”
She brandished the cleaver. “I’m no Domino,” she hissed.
“Shit, lady, forget it.” He slung a box of potatoes onto his shoulder and walked outside with the other men.
“You see?” she said to Frankie. “I sleep here; I work here. Bossman makes me come to his house twice a week to scrub his toilets and iron his shirts.” Her eyes flashed. “He works me like I’m his property. No respect for Dominique. But I show Mr. Bossman. I show him.”
The woman paused, running her tongue over her lips, thinking. “Yes. I have decided. We meet at the bus station. I’ll bring the curse and things to sell. You bring cash. We both get away from these bad men.”
Frankie nodded. Dominique had just laid out a classic sting operation for her own takedown. “I’ll see the man who wants to steal our land tomorrow. I need that curse tonight.”
“I’m in the kitchen till eight o’clock. We throw a bashy party tomorrow for TV people. You and me, we will meet at the bus station tonight at nine.”
Frankie wrote her number on a piece of paper and laid it on the counter. “You call when you’re on your way.”
“Yes. Good-bye now.”
The Jamaican man returned with the chickens. Dominique’s cleaver came down to severe a chicken leg, as if both their troubles had been resolved.
Frankie left the kitchen, hardly able to resist going back to clamp cuffs on Dominique. The woman’s tough act would break down in the interrogation room. But if she was right and that watch was part of Augie’s property, arresting Dominique now could mean the rest of the stolen items might never be found. Dominique could claim she’d bought the watch on the street. They would have no reason to hold her. Billy needed more persuasive evidence than that to get Dunsford off his back.
She found the lobby where an old man in an oversize Stetson was sitting behind the desk. He grinned at her approach.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” he said and shoved the hat brim back with his thumb.
“Wonderful place you have here. By the way, I didn’t catch the name of the Jamaican chef.”
“You mean Dominique Powell?”
“That’s it. Has she worked here long?”
“Couple of years. Long enough to think she runs the place.” He laughed.
“Thanks.” She slipped a ten in the donation box on her way out the door.
Chapter 43
At City Market Billy picked up his tuna sandwich with a side of fried okra and a giant iced tea. He sat at a sidewalk table in the shade of a spreading oak across from a Main Street trolley stop. Four days ago he’d shared a similar table with Augie in front of the Peanut Shoppe. Only four days.
He thought about Augie’s mental illness and how Lou’s obsession with Rebecca Jane had brought him down. Can we sense our hidden flaws before the damage is done, or will they take us from behind? Augie deserved to round the bases and coast into home plate. Instead, his flaw stole his dignity. Someone else stole his life.
He shut down those thoughts and focused on his food. The tuna was chilled and delicious. The fried okra still sizzled with hot oil. A breeze from the river swept up the bluff, carrying the sound of carriage-horse hooves echoing down the corridor of granite buildings.
This felt like home. His shoulders dropped, and he inhabited his own skin for the first time in weeks.
The trolley crossed the intersection and rolled to a stop. Doors whooshed open. A young woman in skinny jeans and ankle boots stepped off.
He instantly recognized her honey complexion and the classic planes of her face. Theda Jones walked to his table, languorous, hypnotic, never breaking eye contact as she approached. He knew the type, comfortable with the power she held over men. Her confidence made her even more provocative.
“May I join you, Detective Able?” she said. The timbre of her voice sounded polished beyond her years.
“Of course.” He stood and angled the second chair away from the table.
She smiled and took a seat. “I’m Theda Jones. I met Augie Poston the day before the funeral for Daddy Davis and Little Man. Augie told me about you.”
“We crossed paths outside of the funeral home.”
She rested her elbows on the table, interlacing her long fingers. “When I saw you sitting here, I knew God had brought us together.”
“I don’t believe you tracked me down through divine intervention, Miss Jones.”
Her smile stiffened. “Forgive my subterfuge. Augie told me about your home on the river. I was on my way there when I saw you from the trolley. But I still believe there’s a touch of the divine involved. That’s how I live my life.”
He didn’t buy that last bit. According to the New Orleans PI, he was gazing into the eyes of a call girl and gifted con artist. He avoided the word “whore,” because Theda Jones had been pushed into the business. She had supposedly made a break from it.
“What’s on your mind, Miss Jones?”
Her lips pursed. “I’m frightened, and I don’t know anyone in this city who can help me.”
“Go on.”
“Last week everything changed. I found out Little Man had died. By the time I got to Memphis, Daddy Davis was gone, too. That young man at the mortuary was kind enough to introduce me to Augie. He told me you were looking into their deaths.” She paused, picking up on his skepticism. “I know. Augie said too much, but men do that. They like to tell me things.”
He remembered how bowled over Augie had been by the photo of Theda seated at the
piano. It was a miracle he hadn’t given her his credit card and pin number. “You said you’re frightened.”
“The man at the mortuary told me they died of natural causes. I think there’s more to it. Daddy Davis sent a letter and a package to me a few weeks ago. He asked me to keep them safe. He hinted there might be trouble.”
Her eyebrows rose, looking for his acceptance. A letter, a mysterious package. She must think he was an idiot.
“Is Red Davis your father?”
“He’s the only man who’s ever been good to me. I met Red and Little Man at a club in the Quarter where we were performing. They thought I had talent. There was some trouble, so Red arranged a scholarship at a conservatory in Boston. He bought my ticket, bought my clothes. They were like two angels flying me away.”
He wondered if she knew she was the reason they ended up homeless. “Did Red keep in touch?”
“He sent letters and some pocket money. Red always signed his name Daddy Davis. The letter and package were the last. I didn’t hear from him for a couple of weeks. Then I read about Little Man. I spent every cent I had to get here.”
Theda’s story ran close to the PI’s report except for the part about turning tricks for Cool Willy. Couldn’t blame her for leaving that out. The real discrepancy was that she claimed to be flat broke. She’d shown up at the Rock of Ages Funeral Home in a hired car and dressed like a million bucks.
She looked past him, her gaze becoming fixed. She reached into her handbag and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. “There’s a man watching us,” she whispered.
Billy turned for a look. “Ah, hell,” he muttered.
J.J. eased off the wall and sauntered over, same spotless sneakers, only this time his jersey read GOT JESUS? with a fat question mark printed in gold. He stood outside of Billy’s reach while cocking his head at Theda, giving her a big, gummy smile.
“Morning, lovely lady. May I recommend a downtown carriage ride? I’ll arrange a better tour than the detective here can ever give you. No charge.”
“Beat it,” he said to J.J. “Now.”
Theda removed her glasses. “That’s a nice offer, but I’m sure a gentleman like you knows when not to intrude.” She gave him a finger-wave good-bye that drew an even broader grin from J.J. but didn’t send him on his way.