by bow, frankie
“Let’s walk then. It’s better’n nothing. Good thing I got us started early. In another hour it’s gonna be downright hellish.”
“I don’t think we need to wait an hour for that.” I felt like I was breathing a blend of 10% air and 90% hot bus exhaust. “Let’s get this over with and get back into the air conditioning.”
Ida Belle and I dodged through the crowd. A few stores and diners were already open, forcing us to sidle around the clumps of people loitering at the shop entrances. We took a quick detour into a dark little shop called Jazz City. The air conditioning inside the store was a relief, but the shelves held nothing but tourist junk. Disappointed, we continued along Canal Street, then turned right into a narrow side street crammed with hole-in-the-wall restaurants, seedy apartments, and rickety fire escapes.
“Good thing you have me here with you,” Ida Belle said. “New Orleans is the murder capital of the United States, you know.”
“Not anymore. I think Detroit and Flint are ahead of New Orleans.”
“Are you kidding me? We dropped to third place?”
We made another right, and passed the un-glamorous back of the hotel, with its vast ground floor bay devoted to food delivery and laundry.
The next right turn led to a one way alley lined with dumpsters, air conditioning units, and featureless doors painted beige to match the buildings. We stopped and stared. Police cruisers with flashing lights blocked both ends of the narrow street, and a knot of police officers and emergency responders obscured our view of whatever was going on.
“What’d I tell you?” Ida Belle said. “Betcha we almost walked right into a murder investigation right there. Let’s turn right at the next block instead.”
I surveyed the scene.
“I think you’re right, Ida Belle. There was a death.”
“I am? There was? How can you be so sure?”
“You can tell by watching the first responders.” Their movements were purposeful but non-urgent, their expressions flat and resigned. Whatever had happened on that little street, they had arrived too late to stop it.
We came back to the room to find Gertie’s still-untouched bed and no sign of Gertie.
“I'm sure Gertie's fine,” Ida Belle said.
“I guess you're right. What are the chances she managed to get herself murdered in an alley?”
I showered and dressed, and then leafed through the conference program as I waited for Ida Belle to get ready.
“Hey Ida Belle, we missed the Virgin Orientation. That means it's for first-time conference attendees.”
Ida Belle unrolled her curlers and brushed her crisp cylinders of hair into soft white waves.
“Yeah, I figured they didn't mean it literally. Was there booze?”
“Doesn't look like it.”
“Then we didn’t miss much.”
Ida Belle finished brushing, and then pulled sections of hair taut and backcombed until she’d added about three inches to her height. Finally she produced a tall can of hairspray and misted her head until the entire room was fogged with Aqua-Net.
“I bet Gertie’s downstairs waiting for us,” she said, finally. “Let’s get going before all the good stuff’s gone.”
Chapter Fourteen
I was relieved to see a breakfast buffet instead of table service. If it weren't for the sandwich stand in the lobby, I could starve to death on the dainty portions we'd been getting. Ida Belle took two plates so she wouldn’t have to go back and wait in line for seconds. I only used one plate, but put my engineering skills to use by constructing a retaining wall of bacon to hold in the maximum volume of grits, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes.
“There she is.” Ida Belle headed toward the far end of the ballroom, and I followed. I was relieved to see Gertie’s white cottony hair next to Larry’s straw hat at a table near the back. Ida Belle and I moved in and claimed the last two seats at their table.
I felt silly now for worrying about Gertie. She was clearly not lying dead in an ally. I also observed that she and Larry were sitting much closer than they had been yesterday. At least someone's love life was looking up.
The squeal of mic feedback caught me by surprise. I turned my chair around so that I could see what was going on at the front of the ballroom.
Felicity Valentine’s young assistant Danny stood at the lectern, looking disheveled. His rectangular glasses leaned askew, and his face was flushed, as if he’d been crying. One of the organizers stood next to him with her hand over the microphone and watched him with a concerned expression. Another woman hurried onto the stage and handed Danny a glass of water.
A uniformed police officer entered the ballroom and stationed himself by the back door. There was no mistaking him for one of the costumed cover models. With his jowly face and solid belly, he was obviously the real thing. At the other doorway, an unsmiling silver-haired man stood with his arms crossed. He wore a suit and tie, but he didn’t need a uniform. Everything about him screamed Law Enforcement.
The plainclothes man gave a nod. Danny took a sip of water. The woman took the glass back and patted his shoulder. Danny walked slowly to the center of the stage and braced his hands on the lectern.
The entire ballroom hushed; everyone watched Danny, who looked uncomfortable in the role of public speaker. He started to say something, but he was too far from the mic, and no one could hear him. He cleared his throat and leaned in.
“This morning there was a—” a squeal of feedback cut him off and he clapped his hand over the mic.
He tried again, and this time he got the volume right.
“Good morning A.R.E.A. attendees. I have some bad news. I’m sorry to say that, uh, I mean, there’s been an unfortunate, um…”
Restless murmurs filled the ballroom.
Danny leaned in again.
“Sorry.”
His voice caught and he took a moment to recover.
“I'm sorry. I can’t ...Detective Jean-Baptiste Augustine, from the New Orleans Police Department...” he looked toward the door. “Detective Augustine will, uh. Yeah. Okay. Um, Detective? Could you…”
Danny stepped back, and the silver-haired man strode to the stage where I could get a good look at him.
Early fifties, five foot eleven, lean build. Probably trains in Krav Maga. Full head of hair. Either lucky genes or enough boozing to inhibit his liver’s DHT production. Dominant stance fills up his space. Vain. Gray tailored suit selected to flatter his physique and coloring. Threat level: to me, minimal. To bad guys, considerable. To the ladies around me...
“Ooh, a silver fox!” someone cooed.
“I confess, sweetheart! Come over here and put the cuffs on!”
“Do you think we could get him to take his shirt off?”
“Show your pecs!”
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Detective Augustine spoke into the mic at the right volume, with a precise balance of warmth and gravitas. “A good morning to you.”
The R-rated banter at my table dried up immediately. Augustine’s accent was pure “Yat,” the un-sexy city inflection more reminiscent of the Bronx than the bayou. This was a good thing, too. If the handsome detective had busted out some charming Cajun lilt, I think the ladies would’ve started slingshotting their panties at him.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news to report. Miss Felicity Vigneau, who some of you know as Felicity Valentine, passed away this morning.”
His words reverberated in the uneasy silence.
“The incident is currently under investigation,” he continued. “For the time being you will not be permitted to leave the hotel premises. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
The murmurs swelled again, loud and excited.
Detective Augustine stepped away from the lectern as about a third of the audience stood and surged toward the exit doors, pulling out their cell phones as they went.
The tragic news didn’t disrupt the conference schedule. The plenary talk went on as planned. Gertie insisted on
staying. She seemed to want to give Ida Belle a chance to absorb the news of Felicity’s death. If they sat quietly and listened to the plenary speaker, they could put off talking about it.
Ida Belle agreed to stay for the talk and then stared at her lap, off in her own world. Larry stayed put too, probably because he didn’t want to leave Gertie. I was worried about Ida Belle, and had nowhere else to be, so I stuck around as well.
The plenary speaker, a famous romance blogger, found herself addressing a distracted audience. She soldiered on like a pro, covering discoverability and keywords and something called the thirty-day cliff. Apparently, a new book loses visibility about thirty days after its release date. You have to keep publishing books, month after month, or readers will forget about you and move on to the new releases.
If only people were always that distractible. I wished everyone could forget about Ida Belle’s outburst yesterday. I suspected that wasn’t going to happen.
Chapter Fifteen
“Authors Got Talent”
Iberville Room
Here’s your chance to present your story to the people who can get your book in front of a publisher—literary agents! Agents aren’t just here to crush your dreams. We’re always looking for great writing, and we want to see what you have for us! In Authors Got Talent, our panel of agents will listen to your work being read aloud. As they lose interest they will raise their hands. The first author whose pages get read all the way through without any hands raised is the winner!
When the breakfast talk ended, Ida Belle, Gertie, Larry, and I meandered out to the crowded hallway.
“The next session is Authors Got Talent.” Gertie sounded sheepish. “I don't want to be disrespectful or anything, but I was so looking forward to having my chapter read.”
“It's not disrespectful,” I said. “Gertie, you should go ahead. I think I need to have a chat with Ida Belle.”
“Not necessary.” Ida Belle avoided looking at me. “I don’t need to talk about anything. Besides, I wanna support Gertie. I’m going with Gertie and Larry.”
“Fine. I’ll go too then.” I was worried about Ida Belle, and made up my mind to stick to her like a tick.
The four of us trooped up the wide carpeted stairs to the next floor, in search of the Iberville meeting room.
“So what do you think happened to Felicity?” Gertie asked as we reached the landing.
Ida Belle and I exchanged a glance.
“I'll go save us seats.” Larry said.
“Poor Larry.” Gertie watched him hurry off. “He's so sensitive.”
“Poor Larry?”
“We saw something this morning,” Ida Belle said. “Police and ambulance in the side street on the north side of the hotel.”
“It must've happened last night, then.”
“If that was her,” Ida Belle said. “Not sure it was.”
“Did you want to go in before they close the door?” I asked.
Gertie went up front to drop her sample pages off for the panel of agents, then returned to the back row, where Larry had held our places.
“This is so exciting,” Gertie sat down next to Larry and snuggled up next to him. “I hope the agents like it.”
“I thought you already had two or three books published,” Ida Belle said. “Don't you already have an agent?”
“No, I'm publishing independently,” Gertie said.
“You mean vanity publishing?”
“It’s not vanity publishing. It's independent publishing. But if I got an agent I'd have a shot at a traditional publishing contract.”
“I'm not sure you need one, Gertie,” Larry said.
“Oh no, I just thought of something. This will be the first time anyone hears this chapter. What if someone in the audience decides to copy it?”
“I think that kind of thing doesn't happen very often,” Larry said.
“Especially now that Felicity's out of the picture.” Ida Belle crossed her arms and scowled.
“Ida Belle!”
“Ida Belle what? She was an old fraud.”
“She's dead,” Gertie scolded. “You mustn't speak ill of the dead.”
“You know who else is dead? Hitler. Am I supposed to say nice things about Hitler now?”
“Oh, honestly, Ida Belle.” Gertie looked around the room. “Larry, I don't want to sound selfish, because of the terrible news about Felicity and all, but do you know, I still haven’t seen Lexi Tingle here. Do you think—?”
“Why do you care?” Ida Belle asked.
“That chapter I just dropped off up there, it started as an exercise for her course. The one I'm taking online. I was hoping she'd be here to hear it read out loud. Oops! Shush, everyone. They’re going to start reading.”
Since Gertie was the only one of us talking to begin with, complying was easy.
I had no trouble recognizing Gertie’s entry. My first clue was when the reader announced that the entry she was about to read represented a daring new genre called “Seniorotica.” My second clue was that Gertie blushed bright pink during the reading, and positively blazed crimson at the applause that followed.
I’d never tell Gertie, but I thought her scene was a little unrealistic. From the action atop a speeding train to the episode in the hot air balloon, I doubted that the acrobatics she described could’ve been accomplished by a pair of stuntmen, let alone a couple of retirees. But I’m more of a nonfiction reader, so probably not the best person to weigh in on a love scene.
Gertie’s entry didn’t win. She took her defeat graciously and applauded the winning entry, something about a fiery young schoolteacher being plucky and brave in Wyoming or Oklahoma or somewhere like that full of handsome, brooding cowboys.
When Authors Got Talent was over, we all trooped downstairs to Galerie B for the next session (“Multicultural Romance: When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong, and How to Make It Right”). There we were warned that using food to denote skin tone was both unfashionable and insensitive, and that no socially aware author would write about skin the color of coffee, chocolate, cinnamon, caramel, or honey. I found myself wondering how I’d describe Carter LeBlanc. Cookie dough? Biscuits and gravy?
I hoped no one could hear my stomach growl.
Chapter Sixteen
On the way out of Multicultural Romance we passed Felicity’s assistant Danny in the hallway. He was chatting up a group of women and handing out his business card.
When we were safely past, Ida Belle said, “I think he did it.”
“Danny? Felicity’s assistant?” Gertie frowned. “What's his motive?”
“I don't know. I don't like him. Maybe he's Felicity's secret son and he has a grudge against her for never acknowledging him.”
“Well now you're thinking like a writer,” Larry chuckled.
“And he had gambling debts and was desperate,” Gertie chimed in, “and he knew she left him a bunch of money in her will, so he killed her!”
“Friend of mine worked as a personal assistant,” Larry said. “Tough way to make a living. No HR department, no rule book, you just gotta keep the boss happy no matter how unreasonable or unfair they are. It’s no fun depending on one person for your livelihood.”
“Yeah,” Ida Belle said. “Ask any housewife.”
“Wait a minute,” Gertie said. “If Felicity left her assistant a pile of money in her will, how come he seems so desperate to find another job?”
That was one thing I could be thankful for. As long as I was on the Company payroll, I had a salary, benefits, and a nice pension to look forward to. Assuming I didn’t get myself killed before I retired.
Gertie, Ida Belle and I repaired to the room. I brushed my teeth to wake myself up and clear out the taste of conference coffee. Ida Belle sat on the bed and stared out the window. We had an impressive view of the city, with the wide, toad-colored Mississippi snaking through it. Gertie spent a long time in the bathroom, and emerged in a formfitting black lace tea gown.
“What’s that
supposed to be?” Ida Belle asked. “You look like a slutty Sicilian widow.”
“I’m wearing black out of respect for Felicity’s passing. Besides, Goths are sexy.”
“Suit yourself, Morticia.”
Gertie ignored Ida Belle and fixed herself a glass of cough syrup and Coke. Quiet settled over the room as Ida Belle gazed out the window. Finally, she spoke.
“I hated Felicity more than I ever hated anyone. She took advantage of my friendship, and she ruined my reputation. I should be dancing on her grave right now.”
“I don’t think she has a grave yet,” Gertie said. “She’s probably in one of those refrigerated drawers down at the morgue.”
“That wasn’t my point, Gertie. My point was that now she’s gone, I see we were just two old women with a few moments left on this earth. I dreamed of this day, and now that it’s come, I don’t feel happy about it at all. It's kind of disappointing.”
Gertie absently touched the cameo brooch pinned to the black lace at her throat, and gazed at a distant point. “Because you can feel the cold breath of the Reaper on your neck. And you wonder how long it’ll be before you, too are clasped in his chill embrace.”
“Is anyone else hungry?” I asked. “If you guys aren’t going to use your lunch tickets, I’ll take them.”
The morning’s bad news hadn’t ruined anyone’s appetite as far as I could tell. The tables in the Mardi Gras Ballroom were filling up fast. I fingered the conference ID tag in the clear plastic holder hanging around my neck and made sure, for about the fifth time, that my lunch ticket (beef) was safely tucked inside.
“Ida Belle,” I said, “I see a couple of empty—Ida Belle?” I looked around and saw that she was a few feet behind me, in conversation with Detective Jean-Baptiste Augustine.
Uh oh.
“You go on inside,” I whispered to Gertie. “I’ll stay here and make sure Ida Belle’s okay.”
“I’ll save your seats.” Gertie opened her big bag and showed me a wad of gallon-sized plastic freezer bags. “And your lunches, if I have to.”