No Mardi Gras for the Dead

by D. J. Donaldson

  “It’s something I’m trying to forget.”

  “I understand. Before I had the fence put up, the alligators used to wander all over the place at night, destroying the flower beds… not on purpose, you understand, just didn’t know any better.”

  For a brief moment, Kit thought she saw two dark shapes in the forest on the other side of the iron fence, but they quickly disappeared into some palmetto. Whatever they were, they weren’t alligators.

  “And those are my greenhouses,” Iverson said. “Still don’t know how I ended up with so many. Why don’t we go down and have a look at them?”

  Kit found that a welcome suggestion, as the heat was becoming quite uncomfortable. The cool air of the cupola was a distinct relief.

  They went downstairs and returned to the study, where Iverson parted the sheers over one of the windows beside the fireplace and Kit saw that it was not a window at all but a pair of French doors. They stepped into a large rose garden enclosed by seven-foot brick walls covered with espaliered climbing roses with huge yellow blooms. Other beds full of bushes with glistening leaves, canes as thick as a broom handle, and luscious blooms that looked as though they would last for months radiated from a cast iron fountain, sending an umbrella of water high in the air.

  “I’m sorry you weren’t here in the spring,” Iverson said. “It was glorious.”

  “It’s not bad now,” Kit replied, enjoying the pizzicato notes of falling water plinking into the reflecting pool. “A house like this must require a large staff.”

  “Five gardeners, two maids, and a cook.”

  “I haven’t seen anybody else around.”

  “They all live offsite and none of them are here on weekends. The gardeners take care of the greenhouses and the lawn, as well as my lily and perennial gardens. But no one tends my roses but me. I don’t even allow them in here. It’s for their own good, really. When one of my other plants dies, it’s a sad thing. When one of my roses dies, it’s a catastrophe. So it’s better if I haven’t anyone to blame but myself.”

  In places where the mulch was disturbed, Kit could see that each rosebush appeared to be in a plastic container that had been sunk into the ground. She made a mental note to ask the purpose of this trick later. Right now, there was something else she wanted to know. “Adrian, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone say what your occupation is.”

  “I used to be a surgeon. But I’m retired.”

  “You look too young to be retired.”

  Iverson tapped his head. “Guess I’m older in here than I appear. They say if a man stays in a police uniform for twenty years and retires, his life expectancy is significantly reduced compared to the general population. All that stress takes an invisible toll. Same thing for surgery—at least for me… too much stress. Much better all around for me to be here. Fortunately, I made some lucky investments. Now let me show you my perennials.”

  They went through a wooden door into an adjacent courtyard so skillfully planted and so filled with butterflies she found it every bit as appealing as the roses.

  “This is false indigo,” Iverson said, “and Jupiter’s beard, Chinese lantern, Japanese anemone… and here”—he went to a plant with shiny leathery leaves—“is a plant that shouldn’t be growing at all this far south.”

  “What is it?”

  “A gas plant. If you damage the roots, they release a flammable gas that will make a little explosion if you put a flame near them. Come see my lilies.”

  Eventually, they reached the first greenhouse. “This is my tropical forest,” Iverson said.

  The greenhouse had a knee-high cement table on each side and one down the middle. All were filled with lush green foliage as dense as any unexplored rain forest. It even sounded like the jungle.

  “Are those birds?” Kit asked.

  “Keep going.”

  A few feet from where they’d been standing, Kit came upon a long aviary filled with twittering finches sitting on the middle table. Something tapped at Kit’s shoe. She looked down and saw a fluffy white chicken pecking at her shoelace. Another chicken came out from under the table, then another.

  “Keep going,” Iverson urged.

  A little farther down, she came upon another cage with two huge parrots in it, a tabby cat asleep on the top. Toward the end of the greenhouse, the foliage again gave way to a cage, this one containing three flop-eared rabbits and two yellow tortoises.

  “Be careful of that fan and all the others, as well,” Iverson said, pointing to one of two large exhaust fans that flanked the door at the end of the greenhouse. “They’re new and the covers haven’t arrived yet.”

  They crossed to the opposite aisle and headed back they way they’d come. Suddenly, Kit’s way was blocked by a black pig that seemed to be grunting a warning. She took a step backward.

  “He won’t hurt you,” Iverson said. “He’s hungry. His food is under the table in that box with the hinged lid. Feed him if you like.”

  Kit reached down to open the lid and the pig put his wet snout on her hand and snorted against her skin.

  “He likes you,” Iverson said.

  “I’m glad,” Kit replied, filling the metal scoop in the box with brown pellets. She emptied the scoop beside the box and the pig stopped grunting and began to eat. “I thought pigs were pink,” Kit said.

  “I used to have a pink one, but he got so big, he couldn’t get under the tables or navigate the aisles. This is a Vietnamese potbellied pig. He’s as big as he’s going to get. Watch this.”

  Iverson clapped his hands together. Without lifting his snout from the food, the pig raised his left leg. Iverson snapped his fingers and the pig’s leg went down. Two more claps. Still snuffling at the brown pellets, the pig raised his right leg. Another snap of the fingers and he dropped it.

  Hardly the Moscow circus, Kit thought, but interesting.

  “Pigs are very trainable if you spend the time with them,” Iverson said. “Take the connecting passageway to the next greenhouse and I’ll show you my orchids.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, Kit saw many kinds of flowers, as well as fish tanks and ferrets, lizards and guinea hens. Near the end of the tour, she pointed at Adrian’s shirt. “You’ve picked up a passenger.”

  Adrian looked down and brought his finger to the small insect near his pocket, nudging it until it climbed on. “One of my little aphid exterminators,” he said, holding it aloft. “You probably know it as a praying mantis, but it’s also called devil’s horse or mule killer. The origin of devil’s horse escapes me, but mule killer refers to the belief that if a mule eats one, both will die.”

  The mantis swiveled its head as though listening to Iverson’s discourse. “Fascinating little insect, but very ill mannered,” Iverson said. “The females have been known to begin consuming the male at the head while still copulating.”

  He gently put the mantis on some nearby foliage. “Now, maybe you’re ready for some refreshment.”

  “What about the roses you wanted my opinion on?”

  “They’re inside.”

  They went back to the study, where Iverson brought Kit a lemonade and went to get the hybrids he’d developed. Instead of the entire plants, he returned with a silver tray bearing four blooms in clear plastic containers with hinged lids. He handed her the first container. “Now, tell me what you think.”

  He watched with great interest as she opened it, brought it to her nose, and inhaled deeply.

  “That’s nice,” she said, closing the container and handing it back.

  Before giving her another, he picked up a gold hand fan with a pink rose painted on it and fanned the air around her chair to dissipate any fragrance remaining from the first flower. She sampled the next three and found herself sure of only one thing: Number four was totally without distinction.

  She looked at Iverson. “Could I try the first three again?”

  After sampling them one more time, she said, “Number two. Definitely number two.”
/>   *

  * *

  At the door, Iverson shook her hand warmly. “Can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming. Not only for your help with my hybrids but for the company. It’s odd, but sometimes, even when all the staff is here, the place seems too quiet. Promise you’ll come back.”

  “I promise.”

  While crossing the bridge over the bayou, Kit considered Iverson’s remark about how the place seemed too quiet even when the staff was all there. What he meant was lonely. The lesson was clear. Despite the great discrepancy in their financial status, John Tully and Adrian Iverson were pathetically similar, both alone, both sublimating the need for companionship into a passion for roses, and in Iverson’s case, animals.

  This realization should have set to rest her ambivalence regarding what had transpired with Teddy. Why continue a relationship with someone you can’t count on for the long haul? Still, by forcing the issue and worrying about eventually being in the same boat as Tully and Iverson, hadn’t she already climbed aboard?

  Needing to get her mind off Teddy and her impending visit to the aquarium, she decided to go to the office and put chapter seven of her book, which she had written longhand, into the computer. Once again she faced a bridge decision… Huey P. or the one downtown.

  God how she hated the Huey P. monster. Even thinking about it made her pulse race.

  Two minutes later, at the cloverleaf where those who wanted to take the West Bank loop to downtown went straight, Kit firmly gripped the wheel and turned left, toward Huey P.

  In the next fifteen minutes, she crossed the fearful bridge three times, coming off it the last time with one less thing in her life to worry about.

  10

  The doors to the elevator opened and there was Broussard in a white lab coat.

  “Dr. Franklyn… here on a Sunday,” he said. “We may have to give you more money.”

  The door closed behind her and the elevator began to move. “Thought I’d work on my book a while. What are you up to?”

  “Minin’ for lead… readin’ some slides.”

  “Mining for lead” was what he called digging for bullets. The elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors clattered open. Broussard let Kit get off first, then from behind, he said, “Hold still.”

  Kit felt a touch on her shoulder and turned to see what was going on. Raising his hand to eye level, Broussard said, “Where’d you get him?” On his extended finger was a small praying mantis.

  “Probably at Adrian Iverson’s,” Kit said. “He’s the president of the Rose Society I belong to and his greenhouses are full of them.”

  “How is Adrian? Before he retired, I used to see him every month at the meetin’ of the hospital board. Rarely run into him now.”

  “He seems reasonably content.”

  “Great place he has out there. Wouldn’t mind ownin’ it myself. What are you doin’ for dinner?”

  “No plans.”

  “How about we go to Grandma O’s around five?”

  “Sure, what are you going to do with him?” She pointed at the mantis.

  “Margaret’s been complainin’ about aphids in her terrarium. I’ll put it in there.”

  “She might prefer the aphids.”

  Around four, Kit felt the birth of a headache in the back of her skull, but two aspirin from Broussard sent it on its way. At dinner, when he asked whether she had picked up any new leads in the O’Connor case, she nearly told him about the mystery caller and her appointment at the aquarium. But since she had promised not to talk about it, she didn’t.

  She got home a little after seven and took Lucky for a walk. Then, with five hours before her appointment staring her in the face, she returned to the Pat Conroy novel she’d started while French dug up Francie O’Connor.

  Since there wouldn’t be much traffic and there was plenty of parking around the Hilton at the foot of Poydras, just a short walk from the aquarium, she didn’t leave the house until 12:10. Though the sun had been down for hours, the ground and the pavement had stored its energy, releasing it now so that the grip of summer never loosened.

  She slid behind the wheel and started the engine. She put it in reverse, pulled on the lights, and nudged the gas. The car went nowhere. A little more gas and the car lurched backward. She realized now that it was also listing to the right.

  Going around to the passenger’s side, she saw in the dim glow of the neighbor’s porch light… a flat. Great. Having allowed so little time to get downtown, there was no question of trying to change it.

  She hurried inside and looked up the taxi listings in the phone book. As it turned out, she probably could have changed the tire in the time it took for the cab to get there. At least she wouldn’t have to hoof it from the Hilton. She ducked her head and got in. “The aquarium on Canal, please.”

  The overweight black woman behind the wheel looked at her in the mirror. “It ain’t open.”

  “I know. And could you hurry? I’m late for an appointment.”

  The cab pulled away from the curb, went to the corner, and turned right. There was a crucifix dangling from the rear view mirror and a lot of religious porcelains stuck all over the dash.

  “Tha’s the trouble with the world,” the driver said. “Everybody’s in a hurry. Got no time for the Lord. Too busy chasin’ money or sex. Which is it with you?”

  “Money and sex,” Kit said. “Could we go a little faster?”

  They drove in silence for a while, then the driver said, “You seen how funny the moon’s been lookin’ lately?”

  “No, I hadn’t really noticed.”

  “Now why you suppose that is? You obviously a well-educated person. How come somebody that never finished high school notices somethin’ you don’t?”

  The insolent tone in the woman’s voice was beginning to get under Kit’s skin. She looked for the driver’s ID on the back of the front seat but found none.

  Wishing to avoid an unpleasantness, she did not respond in kind. “People are different,” she said. “You see changes in the moon, I might see things you don’t.”

  “Now tha’s an ignorant answer.” The woman looked at Kit in the mirror. “And don’t you be givin’ me that look like you think I’m crazy.”

  “Stop the cab.”

  “We ain’t there yet.”

  “I don’t care. I want out.”

  The meter said $8.20. Kit flipped a ten into the front seat and scooted out of the cab. As Kit shut the door, the cabbie said pleasantly, “Now you have a nice night.”

  The cab went off down the street and Kit looked at her watch: 12:40. Already ten minutes late. Where the hell was she, anyway? She set off in the direction the cab had been going and got her bearings at the next corner. In the French Quarter, the streets would be jammed, but here on this side of Canal, the city was dead—no cars, no people. Only empty streets with cold, quiet buildings looming on each side. The desolation surprised her because she’d never been in this area so late at night and hadn’t been paying attention as they drove. Stupid move, getting out of the cab like that.

  As nearly as she could figure it, Poydras was a couple of blocks straight ahead. It was a major street, where she might find another cab. And even if she didn’t at least there would be people.

  With her hand around the lipstick Mace spray she always carried, she began to walk briskly, trying not to give in to the knowledge that this was something a woman does not want to be doing in any city, let alone one where the degenerates have their national headquarters.

  A car approached from behind her and slowed. Aware that any display of nervousness could provoke an undecided psychopath into attacking, she resisted the impulse to look back. She had been blessed—or, as she felt now, cursed—with a provocative little fanny that was hard to camouflage in slacks, even though she always chose them carefully. She found herself wishing she was built more like Grandma O.

  The car eased slowly past, its driver so faintly visible inside that he must have turned of
f his dash lights. His features were obscured, but she could tell that he was leaning in her direction, looking her over. Then, abruptly, he increased his speed, proceeded to the corner, and turned right.

  Kit sighed and came back to earth, feeling as though she’d been walking on her toes. Despite being greatly relieved at the disappearance of the car, the experience left her with a heightened sense of vulnerability, as though a dog with a reputation for biting was sniffing at her heels.

  She began to walk faster. At the corner, she looked in both directions, hoping to see some sign of life. By now, even a bum would have made her feel better. But there were only mocking shadows.

  She hurried across the street, forcing her mind to happier circumstances—to the Rib Room, to the murmur of conversation, the gentle ring of her wineglass touching Teddy’s. Then the sweat creeping down her back turned cold. The car was back.

  Its engine slowed and she could feel red eyes burning into her. She tried to put more purpose into her walk, at the same time searching the empty streets for help. But there was none. With all the people in this city, why couldn’t there be just one when she needed them?

  The car was pacing her now—from the sound, very close. Her heart was hammering in her ears, making it hard to hear what was happening behind her. Through the heart noise, she heard the car stop. At the same time, one of its doors opened and footsteps came quickly toward her.

  She broke into a run and heard the car begin to move. But there were still footsteps coming. Her brain howled in misery. There were two of them.

  A hand grabbed her by the arm and she pivoted on the ball of her left foot, bringing her pepper –spray canister around in an arc, her finger on the button.. But another hand grabbed her wrist. In the confusion, she saw a blue shirt and the flash of silver.

  “Miss. Miss. It’s all right. I’m a cop.”

  The words slowly filtered through her flaming fear. I’m a cop. COP.

  She stopped fighting and the cop let her go.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have come up on you like that without identifying myself,” the cop said. “Hope I didn’t hurt you.”