No Mardi Gras for the Dead

by D. J. Donaldson

  “Could he have visited and not made an entry?”

  “Dr. Dagget is not one to make rounds at night. In fact, I’ve never known him to do it. He lets the nursing staff and the resident on call handle the routine things, figuring that if he’s needed, we’ll call him. Besides, a doctor can charge Medicaid and Medicare for every visit he makes to a patient. But he’d better be sure he can document the visit. They all know that, so an attending always writes something on the chart, even if it’s nothing more than ’vital signs stable.’”

  “Always writes something?”

  “Oh I suppose once in a blue moon he might forget. But we’re talking about someone who came in at a very inconvenient time. If it was me, I’d sure want credit for the visit.”

  “But it could have happened.”

  “It’s possible….” Then Nix added, “You ever respond to the Publisher’s Sweepstakes letter?”

  “No.”

  “Me, neither.”

  *

  * *

  When even a fresh corpse is opened, it exudes a sweet sickly smell that today remained in Broussard’s nostrils far longer than it should have, probably because the body he’d just left was that of an infant, dead because of a simple throat infection, neglected until the tissues had become so swollen, they had obstructed her throat, suffocating her. Now, his arm seemed almost too heavy to lift as he punched the elevator for the floor where the fine-structure lab was located.

  The electron microscopes were under the supervision of Jan Dietz, a naturalized Ph.D. from Austria. Dietz’s operation was so good that you could give him a section already prepared for light microscopy and he could reclaim it from the slide, re-embed it, and slice it further into impossibly thin wafers so that its secrets could be probed by electron beams. Broussard found Dietz bent over a set of micrographs, looking at them through a pair of lenses on short legs.

  Dietz looked up. “Ah, Andy. You haf come as though reading my mind. Your pictures are on the dryer.” He stepped so close his face occupied the zone where Broussard’s glasses couldn’t focus an image. “And how is your day?”

  Broussard stepped back. “It’ll have to improve a lot just to be lousy.”

  “Perhaps you will find happiness in my pictures.”

  Broussard followed Dietz to a piece of equipment that dried pictures on a hot silver drum. Dietz gathered up a handful of eight-by-tens from where they had fallen into a plastic tray and handed them to Broussard with a slight bow. A snapping sound came from the cooling dryer and for a moment Broussard thought Dietz had clicked his heels together. “When you need us again, we are here,” Dietz said.

  Broussard took the pictures to his office, where he fished two lemon balls from the glass bowl on his desk, slipped them into his mouth, and sat down to study the pictures of Paul Jarrell’s pyramidal cells. Dietz had done his usual stellar job, recording in crisp detail the ultrastructure of the nuclear inclusions that Broussard had thought might be viral.

  Generally, viral particles are circular or polygonal, the latter often in crystalline arrays that make them quite distinctive. The inclusions in Jarrell’s cells, however, were composed of amorphous material that gave Broussard no hints as to their origin.

  He slapped the photographs onto his desk in frustration. What the devil were those things? He got up, went to the Mr. Coffee, and poured some Gevalia into his big cup decorated with dancing crawfish. He put the cup to his lips and drank, expertly holding a lemon ball in each cheek so he wouldn’t swallow them.

  Dumbbell-shaped nuclear inclusions.

  Dumbbell-shaped nuclear…

  He leaned his rump against the desk and stroked the hairs on the end of his nose. That phrase… Dumbbell-shaped—His thoughts were shattered by the sound of the telephone.

  There followed a brief conversation so unsettling, it temporarily drove everything else from his mind.

  *

  * *

  While Broussard had been picking up Jarrell’s pictures from Dietz, Kit had returned to her office and found someone knocking on the door.

  “Looking for me?” she said.

  The man turned. It was Walter Browning, from the gourmet dinner.

  “Yes I was,” Browning said. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  When they were both comfortably seated in Kit’s office and had exchanged some meaningless small talk, Browning crossed his short legs and said, “I talked to Clay Peyton a little while ago and he said that you came to see him early this morning.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He also said he muffed a couple of golf shots and got so mad, he said some things he shouldn’t have, things that really had no bearing on the subject you were discussing. He wouldn’t tell me what those things were but said you should disregard them, because it was just his anger talking. And he said to tell you he’d try to find out about that check and get back to you.”

  “I don’t understand where you come in. Why didn’t he call me himself?”

  “Two reasons. One, he just felt like such an idiot afterward, he didn’t have the nerve, and two, he didn’t think you’d believe him. I’m here as sort of a bad-character reference. If you’d ever played golf with him like I have, you’d know how irrational he can be if he’s having a bad day. He’s a fine man in most respects, but golf brings out the worst in him. He bought that computer simulator so he could throw his tantrums in private.”

  “And you made a special trip over here to tell me this?”

  “No. I probably wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t going to be in the vicinity, anyway. I’ve got a lunch date with the Tulane chairman of orthopedics to discuss production of a new fixation nail he’s developed. And now that I’ve delivered my message, I’d better get over there.”

  They shook hands, Kit thanked him for coming, and he left. As the door shut behind him, Kit pulled out the phone book and looked up the number of the Tulane department of orthopedics.

  She punched in the number and, when they answered, said, “This is Walter Browning’s secretary. Has Mr. Browning arrived yet?”

  “Who is Mr. Browning?” the voice said.

  “I believe he has a lunch appointment with the chairman,” Kit said. “But maybe I’m mistaken. Could you check, please?”

  “I’m looking at the appointment book,” the voice said. “And I have nothing for Mr. Browning.”

  “Could the chairman have made the appointment himself and forgotten to inform you?”

  “He never makes his own appointments. Everything gets referred to me.”

  Kit mumbled something and hung up, her head buzzing with the morning’s events. A shadow appeared on the frosted glass panel of her door, followed by a couple of knocks.

  It was Broussard.

  “Hope you haven’t made any plans for tonight,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I just got an odd call from Arthur Jordan, who said he wanted to talk to both of us at his hotel at eight o’clock. I told him we’d come.”

  Jordan was the chubby general practitioner from the gourmet dinner. “He say what he wanted to talk about?”

  “The body we found in your backyard.”

  15

  Since it was nearly noon, Kit and Broussard headed for Grandma O’s for lunch.

  “What do you think Jordan’s going to tell us?” Kit asked, trying to talk over the sound of the traffic on Tulane Avenue.

  “He sounded pretty nervous,” Broussard replied. “I’m afraid to say what I think.”

  “Because you believe he was involved in the murder?”

  Broussard pressed his lips together and nodded.

  “Maybe he simply overheard someone talking about it.”

  “Maybe.”

  Unsure of what significance to attach to her encounters with Peyton, Dagget, and Browning and thinking that Jordan might clear all of that up, Kit decided not to mention these matters to Broussard just yet.

  After lunch, to get her thoughts in order and to satisf
y Gatlin, Kit returned to her office and wrote up everything she’d learned that morning, as well as her subjective impressions of the three men. Generally, she was pretty adept at spotting a liar, but the only one of the three who she’d thought from his manner might not be telling the truth was Haley Dagget. Her failure to find any evidence he’d been at Parkside Hospital Sunday night confirmed that impression.

  And what of Walter Browning? From his behavior in her office, he had appeared to be telling the truth, but he’d definitely lied—at least about meeting the orthopedics chairman for lunch. And if he’d lied about that, could she believe anything he said? Without much effort, Kit could see Peyton nervously making a phone call to Browning after she’d left… could almost hear Peyton saying how he’d blurted out some things he shouldn’t. Could hear Browning curse and tell Peyton to keep his mouth shut and that he would try to repair the damage.

  So where did Dagget come in? Maybe Browning and Peyton weren’t involved at all. Maybe it was Dagget… and Arthur Jordan. But then why did Browning lie about his appointment for lunch? And wasn’t it Peyton who had put her on to Dagget in the first place?

  God.

  Maybe it was all of them, all except Kurt Halliday. She thought about what Peyton had said about Halliday remembering Paul Jarrell’s name from the news. Was that really so unusual? She had a talent for remembering names herself. But then there were those odd visual exchanges between Jordan and Halliday at dinner…. And, of course, Paul Jarrell had to be worked in….

  Jesus. If she kept going like this, they’d need the Superdome to hold all the suspects. Her head began to feel like an overinflated tire and she stood up and paced the office, rubbing her neck. The pressure of her hand felt good, but not as nice as when Teddy used to do it for her. She suddenly had a need to hear his voice.

  She went to the phone, picked it up, and hesitated, her fingers poised over the first digit for the alligator farm in Bayou Coteau. But what would that accomplish? She hadn’t reached any decision. It would only complicate things.

  Instead of calling Teddy, she entered her own number, hoping that there might be a message from Teddy on her answering machine, an illogical hope, since he had her office number and would probably have called her there if he wanted to talk.

  There was only one message.

  “Kit, this is John Tully. Gimme a call when you can.”

  Not yet ready to reimmerse herself in the confusing facts before her, she delayed their further consideration by calling Tully.

  “Kit Franklyn?” Tully said. “Yeah. Hullo, Kit. Good of you to call so soon. Listen, a couple more of my new crosses came into flower and they’re good ones. Maybe better than the one you picked the other day. But maybe not. Think you could stop over sometime today and lemme know what you think?”

  “I could drop by later. How about five o’clock?”

  “Say, that’d be good. And maybe you’d ah… you’d let me show my appreciation by stayin’ for dinner.”

  “John, that’s not really necessary.”

  “Didn’t offer because it was necessary. Did it because I wanted to. What do you say? I’m old, but I don’t have any eatin’ habits that’d make you sorry you stayed. Still got my own teeth, so there’d be none of that clackin’ you get with phony choppers.”

  Thinking how lonely life appeared to be for Tully, Kit decided it wouldn’t kill her to give him a little company. “All right, John, I accept.”

  “Hey, that’s good. I’ll expect you at five.”

  Immediately after she hung up, the reality of what had just taken place sank in. Picturing the two of them eating next to a pile of potting soil, she mumbled, “What have I done?”

  Her fears about dinner proved to be unfounded. When she arrived, she found Tully’s kitchen spotless. The kitchen table was covered with a clean tablecloth and was set with matching dishes. In the center of the table were three large red roses floating in a crystal bowl. Tully himself looked different and it was several minutes before she realized it was because his hair was wet-combed and parted.

  Dinner was a fresh garden salad sprinkled with rose petals, and chicken fettucini with French bread. Kit had seen the Budget Gourmet boxes in the wastebasket, so the entrée didn’t surprise her. There was no wine, because as Tully said, “I want to be awake the whole time you’re here.”

  During dinner, Tully spoke interestingly and surprisingly eloquently of growing up in Atlanta and being in the crowd at the premiere of Gone with the Wind. Of how Vivien Leigh had looked right at him and smiled, and how for the next month, he’d spent every spare cent at the theater, seeing the film a dozen times. He told of his years as a gold miner in Honduras and how frightened he’d been as an infantryman at Normandy.

  After dinner, Tully brought out four small rose plants and Kit gave him her opinion, picking one of the new ones over her previous favorite. Driving home, she didn’t feel as though she’d done anything noble by visiting the lonely old man but, rather, had simply spent a pleasant hour or so with someone she liked.

  Though not much of a TV fan, Kit remained in front of the set after the news to watch a self-defense program for women on a local cable channel she usually ignored. Could she push a Bic into someone’s throat and gleefully watch them drown in their own blood as the instructor advised? She doubted it.

  Broussard arrived at 7:40, driving his yellow T-Bird. She had never before seen him in any color shirt but white. Tonight, it was pale yellow, with a yellow bow tie. She dropped into the seat next to him and shut the door. “Your shirt matches the car,” she observed.

  “Nothin’ intentional,” he said, backing into the street. “Phillip gave it to me for my birthday and has been askin’ if I’ve ever worn it. Now I have.”

  They circled the block in silence, turned onto St.Charles, and headed for downtown. A kid in a pickup with fancy mud flaps and rubber webbing stretched across the back instead of a tailgate sped past, rap music blaring from his open windows.

  “So,” Broussard said, “you think youngsters really like rap or is it just a stick in the eye to the rest of us?”

  “Still worried about what Jordan will say?”

  “Been tryin’ not to think about it. Guess you didn’t notice.”

  “I noticed. But we’ll be there in a few minutes. How about filling me in on a little background before we see him. Like where you two met.”

  “One of the members of our Gourmet Society moved out of state and Walter Browning brought us Arthur.”

  “Now that’s interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “I mean in a general way.”

  “No. You mean in a specific way. What’s up?”

  “I’d rather not say right now.”

  “Why?”

  “I may be wrong.”

  “No shame in that.”

  “Try it sometime, especially with an audience, and let me know how you like it.”

  “You’re too sensitive.”

  “I’m just allergic to Babe Ruth stories.”

  Despite his concern for Jordan, Broussard let loose with a rumbling chuckle.

  “What is it about Jordan that makes you like him so much?” Kit asked.

  “I’ve always admired the fact he’ll treat folks who he knows will probably never be able to pay him.”

  “I noticed that he wears a wedding ring. His wife going to be in on this?”

  “I heard they’re separated. She’s in their house and he’s temporarily livin’ in a suite at the Winchester.”

  “Kids?”

  “No.”

  “Wonder what brought on the split?”

  “Not my area of expertise.”

  “He seems like too good a man to be a murderer. I’m betting he was an unwilling witness.”

  “We’ll soon find out. There’s the hotel.”

  The Winchester was thirty stories of black glass and glistening ceramic block that had gone up so quickly and looked so darkly efficient it seemed to Kit like a great carri
on feeder that had arrived one night on silent wings. To hear that it now had in its belly half the remains of Jordan’s dying marriage did nothing to dim the analogy.

  They parked in the first floor of the hotel garage and went in the front entrance, preceded by a fiftyish woman in spike heels, pink slacks, and a pink blouse. She was accompanied by a snuffling bulldog wearing a pink jacket and a pink baseball cap held on with an elastic band under his chin. The dog was on a choke chain but still managed a quick exploration of the doorman’s leg with his muzzle on the way inside, leaving dark wet marks on what was a spotless tan uniform.

  Inside, the hotel was cool but not comfortable, the transient, unsettled lives of its inhabitants hanging stiffly in the air. Surely Jordan had done himself no favor by coming here, Kit thought.

  They had entered a narrow paneled corridor that stretched away before them with no obvious bank of elevators. The woman with the dog picked him up in her arms and stepped onto the escalator to their left, which went up to the mezzanine and, most likely, the lobby. Without checking to see what Broussard wanted to do, Kit followed the woman onto the escalator.

  From his elevated vantage point, the dog watched Kit with doleful eyes, his tongue dripping saliva on his master’s arm. Behind Broussard, Kit heard two women gossiping openly about an acquaintance and she glanced over her shoulder to see what people who did such things with witnesses present looked like. She found them normal in appearance and well dressed in tailored suits, each wearing a HELLO MY NAME IS… sticker on her lapel.

  The next few seconds were a blur. A scream from the top of the escalator jerked Kit’s head around. On the mezzanine, a woman was staring at a point high above the escalator, her hand covering her mouth. Kit looked up and saw a dark shape wrapped in vines and green leaves hurtling toward her. Instinctively, she shied from the object and stumbled down one step, losing her balance and falling against Broussard. The moving stairs carried her back to nearly the same spot and the object plummeted by, whipping her with a strand of foliage. It slammed onto the escalator with a sickening jolt.