The Nicci Beauvoir Collection: The Complete Nicci Beauvoir Series

by Alexandrea Weis

  “Yeah, well, boat boy just doesn’t seem to suit a man like Dallas.” He stared at me for a moment. “Are you still seeing dead people?”

  “Not yet, but the day is young,” I replied, smirking. “So why are you going to Val’s?”

  “I’ve got to pick up her keys. She asked me to keep an eye on her place while she’s away on her cruise.”

  I looked over at my uncle for a moment. I was almost afraid to ask the question that was poised on my lips.

  “Do you think I have lost it, Uncle Lance?”

  “I can’t help you there, kid. I lost it years ago and never want to find it again.” Uncle Lance leaned back in his chair. “Your father told me what you said happened in the morgue when you went to identify David’s body. He said you seem to think David is still alive. Do you think that, Nicci?”

  I smiled for my uncle. The same fake, yet, reassuring smile I had given to my father the night before.

  “I’m just tired, Uncle Lance. I know that David is dead and I guess I was just…stressed about everything I have going on in my life.”

  Uncle Lance raised his perfectly shaped dark eyebrows at me. “Nice acting job, kid. If the writing gig doesn’t work out, try Hollywood.” He leaned in closer to me. “If you really feel David is still alive, then let’s go and find out if it’s true.” He winked at me.

  Now there are a few rare moments in life when you have to let your guard down and, for an instant, trust another person. I carefully analyzed my uncle’s tan face and wondered if this was one of those particular moments. Or, if like most experiences in life, it was a trick to discover my true intentions. I folded my arms across my chest and watched my uncle’s green eyes dance with mischief.

  “What did you have in mind?” I finally questioned, hoping I had found an ally.

  Uncle Lance jumped up from his chair, clapping his hands together. “I’m glad to see you have got some of me in that pigheaded brain of yours. Trust me, Nicci, crazy is my department, not your old man’s.” He thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Now you think you didn’t bury David in Hammond. Right?”

  I raised my eyebrows warily. “So?”

  Uncle Lance smiled. “Why don’t you let me do a little digging? Find out if that’s really the case.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “I’ve got connections.”

  I glared doubtfully at my uncle. “You’re connections usually do prison time for racketeering,” I commented, referring to my uncle’s notorious underworld friends.

  “Don’t need those kinds of connections to do this type of digging. I called someone this morning to look over the police reports on David’s murder.” He shrugged. “If she finds anything, she’ll get back to me.”

  “She?”

  “Did I ever tell you about Beverly?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Where did you meet this one?”

  “Oh, I met Beverly at a strip club out by the airport.”

  “She’s a stripper?” I asked, raising my voice in surprise.

  Uncle Lance laughed at my reaction. “No. She was waiting tables to make ends meet. Apparently, the Tangipahoa Sheriff’s Office doesn’t pay that well. She works in the records department. I called her and asked if she could pull David’s file and see if there is anything we should investigate.” He looked around my room. “Hey, why don’t you come to the French Quarter with me? We can pick up Val’s keys, then grab some lunch, and maybe even do a little window shopping.”

  “I don’t know. Dallas will get back from his run and have a fit if he finds I’m not home.”

  He gave me a silly grin. “We’ll leave him a note. Come on, kid.”

  My uncle’s smile was contagious. I could not help but laugh when he grabbed my hand and pulled me from the bed.

  “All right, Uncle Lance, you win,” I conceded, letting him drag me out of my bedroom.

  ***

  After a quick stop over at Val’s gray Creole cottage on Dumaine and Royal Streets to pick up the keys she had left for him, Uncle Lance and I decided to walk over to Jackson Square and have lunch at one of the small restaurants that overlooked the iconic New Orleans landmark. As we strolled in the shadows of the overhead balconies, I felt the burden of the last few days ease from my shoulders. The May sunshine warmed my face, as we crossed over Chartres Street and walked into the open square. All around us tourists, carrying maps and cameras, were stopping here and there to admire the French and Spanish influenced architecture in the balconies of the Pontalba Apartments, or to study the facade of the Cabildo and Presbytere Museums, or to take in the tall spires of St. Louis Cathedral.

  “So how old is Beverly?” I inquired, standing outside of Muriel’s Restaurant on the corner of the square.

  Uncle Lance looked up from perusing the limited post-Katrina menu displayed at the entrance. “Twenty-two. A mature twenty-two, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t know if I want to know what you mean. Your taste in women has always left me wondering what dark closet the family pulled your DNA from, Uncle Lance.”

  “Hey, I know I’m nothing like your father.” He rolled his eyes. “Thank God…but not all of the Beauvoirs were as closed minded and boring as my brother.”

  “Or grandfather,” I added, alluding to the infamous founder of Beauvoir Scrap Metal. Lionel Beauvoir was known for his business sense and his notorious lack of humor.

  “Yeah, well, I take after my mother’s side.” He waved his hand casually in the air. “Now your grandmother Rita, there was a joker.”

  I furrowed my brow at my uncle. “Dad never mentions her. Why is that?”

  “She died when we were both just boys. Billy barely remembers her since he was a baby at the time. But I remember Rita. She used to put live crabs in your grandfather’s toilet bowl when she said he was getting too full of himself.”

  “A live crab?”

  Uncle Lance smiled. “Used to make our Sunday mornings a little brighter to see my old man come running out of the john with a crab clamped down on his cheeks.”

  “No wonder Grandpa Lionel was always in a bad mood,” I said, half laughing.

  Uncle Lance shook his head. “No, kid. The bad moods didn’t come until after Momma died. When she was alive, my old man was a hell of a guy. It wasn’t until after Momma passed that Lionel pulled back from your father and me. That’s when he turned all of his attention to the business. He pounded the fear of God into your father to keep the place running after he died.”

  “What did Grandpa pound into you?”

  “Not a damned thing. Your grandfather and I never saw eye to eye. He always wanted me to be like him, but I wasn’t. I was like my mother. So he gave up trying to make me into something and that’s when he discovered your father. He spent the last twenty years of his life turning your father into the anal-retentive accountant he is.”

  “Dad would disagree with you, Uncle Lance. He thinks he has been the responsible one by keeping the family business going.”

  “That’s what Lionel Beauvoir taught him to think. Your father, on the other hand, always wanted to be an artist when he was a kid. Wanted to go off and study art at some fancy school, until our father shut him down. He had dreams of being the next Monet. Just like your grandmother.”

  I gazed in astonishment at my uncle. “Grandma Rita was an artist?”

  “That’s how she and your grandfather met. She was selling her paintings right here at Jackson Square.” He looked about the Square beside us. “Lionel saw her here, and fell in love with her at first sight.”

  “What happened to her paintings?” I watched my uncle’s profile.

  “Only one is left,” he stated. “The one of Lionel hanging in your father’s office. My mother painted that just before she died. Our father gave away all the others.” He sighed. “I would have liked to have had some of her paintings to remember her by.” He turned to me and winked. “And you thought you were the only one in the family in love with an artist.”

 
; I reflected on what my uncle had just told me. I looked around the Square and thought of David. “The first time I saw David’s paintings was here. He had been selling them just around the corner in Pirate’s Alley,” I said, pointing to the front of St. Louis Cathedral. “I had come to the Quarter to do some shopping and stopped to view some paintings I saw displayed in the alley. I was intrigued by the style. Then, I ran into David and found out the paintings were his. We had met only a few weeks before, at one of the debutante teas given by Myra Chopin. Everyone at the party thought he was just another of Sammy Fallon’s gigolos. So did I, until I saw his paintings and realized there was much more to him than what I had initially believed.”

  Sammy Fallon. I shuddered as I thought about my father’s old business rival. A ruthless woman who viewed people more as chess pieces than as human beings, Sammy had hired David to seduce me and feed my father false investment information. She had hoped to bankrupt my father’s business, but David’s love for me had thwarted her plans.

  Uncle Lance laughed. “Yep. You and David started out just like Momma and Lionel. Weird, huh?”

  “I have to admit I’m surprised that no one has ever mentioned this to me before.”

  “Well, I was going to, but I figured there was no point in bringing it up. You were so devastated after David died, and then you found Dallas….” He looked back at the square. “You do realize, Nic, that no matter what we learn you still have one hell of a problem waiting for you when you go back to Connecticut.”

  I shook my head “Dallas said he didn’t want me to return to Connecticut until I’m ready to marry him.”

  “Ouch!” He grimaced. “You better figure out how you plan on handling that situation. Because sooner or later, you’re gonna have to face the fact that you’re not in love with the boat builder.”

  My jaw dropped as I gawked at my uncle. “I love him—”

  “But you’re not in love with him,” he injected. “Don’t get me wrong, Nic, I like Dallas. Personally, I love the fact that he’s a better cook than half the chefs in this town. But I see how you two are together, and you’re definitely not in love with him. You’re just using him.”

  “Uncle Lance! Care to be a bit more diplomatic.”

  He shrugged. “Why? We all use somebody at some time for something, Nicci. Humans are not known for their selfless acts. It’s in our nature to be selfish. Hell, look at me. I haven’t done a selfless thing since 1979.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I let your mother go. Little did I know that she would end up marrying my brother.” His smile wavered for a moment. “It was still the best thing I ever did.”

  “She would never have made you happy, Uncle Lance. Mom knew that. No woman will ever make you happy.”

  He raised his dark eyebrows at me. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because no woman will ever live up to the ideal you carry around in your head. My mother came close, but no mere mortal can compete with your version of Aphrodite.”

  He grinned at me. “And what makes me any different from you? Every man you meet you compare to David. I don’t even think David could live up to the persona you’ve created for him.”

  I frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve built David up so much that I wonder at times if you are actually remembering the man, or the myth you created. All people tend to do that when looking back at someone through the hazy glass of grief, but you seem to have taken it to the next level.”

  I was taken aback by his comment. I had always believed my memories of David had been accurate, yet there was something about my uncle’s words that resonated within me. Perhaps I had been putting David on par with the pantheon of Mt. Olympus residents, but I knew what I had embellished had been, hopefully, based on fact.

  I shook off my doubts and held my head up to my uncle. “At least my myth was a living human being.”

  “Is a living human being, kid,” Uncle Lance corrected, putting his arm about my shoulders. “Now let’s go eat,” he stated, pulling me toward the entrance to Muriel’s Restaurant. “I’ll buy you lunch, mixed with a few cocktails, and we will put the whole thing on the company credit card. Just make sure you tell your father it was a business lunch,” he added with a rascally grin.

  ***

  After lunch, we made our way down Royal Street. We peered into shop windows and took in the lively atmosphere of the French Quarter. Street musicians and artists were performing along the sidewalks in hopes of luring the scant number of tourists to deposit money into their open hats. Police officers and United States National Guard militia were still patrolling heavily up and down the streets. Groups of college kids dressed in dingy jeans and grime soaked T-shirts walked the streets, carrying large go cups filled with exotic alcoholic blends. Thereby combining their altruistic efforts, gutting and rebuilding local hurricane ravaged homes, with a little old-fashioned French Quarter fun.

  Dozens of stores had re-opening banners hanging out front. While many restaurants had placed shortened menus on blackboards outside their doors, to let potential patrons know what items were being offered in these post-Katrina times.

  Uncle Lance’s cell phone started ringing as we walked along the street. Well, actually it didn’t ring. It was playing some hip hop ring tone that made more than one pair of eyes give the older man a strange look.

  “Beverly downloaded that into my phone,” he admitted, as he pulled the phone out of his pocket. “I don’t even know what they call it and I have no idea how to get rid of it.” He answered the call. “Hello?”

  I watched how his face lit up when he spoke. “Bevie! I was just talking about you to my niece.” He listened for a moment and held out the phone in front of me. “Bevie, I’m going to put you on speaker so my niece, Nicci, can listen in.” He hit a button and Beverly’s trill voice came out of the phone’s small speaker.

  “I looked into the name and date you gave me, Lancie,” Beverly said.

  I leaned in closer to my uncle and raised my eyebrows. “Lancie?” I whispered, grinning.

  Uncle Lance covered the phone with his hand. “She can call me whatever she likes,” he insisted. “As long as she gives us what we need.” He then lifted his hand from the phone and began to listen to what Beverly had to say.

  “I pulled the autopsy report like you asked. The coroner’s findings were just like you said. Death was the result of a single gunshot wound to the back of the head. There’s also a physical description of the body and some distinguishing marks listed in the report. And there is a picture of a man’s half covered face stapled on the front of the file.”

  “Beverly, this is Nicci,” I stated into the phone. “Could you please read the description of the body and the distinguishing marks to me? Any scars, in particular. I’m looking for certain scars David had on his body.”

  “A well-nourished thirty-six year old male with brown hair and green eyes,” Beverly began. “Approximately, six foot one with a single gunshot wound to the right rear occipital region. There is an old surgical scar to the lower right abdomen, probable appendectomy. Scars noted on the back of the right hand, left neck, and the right shoulder.” She paused. “The report says the right shoulder scar looked like an old gunshot wound.”

  “Gunshot wound?” I mouthed silently to my uncle.

  Uncle Lance gave me a concerned glance.

  “David had a scar on his right cheek. Is there any mention of that in the report, Beverly?” I quickly inquired.

  “Nope, that’s it,” she answered. “I also checked the logs for other gunshot victims brought in on the date you gave me, August 27, 2003. But there were no other victims brought into the morgue that day. Is that all you needed?”

  I was not able to speak. I felt as if the world had opened up beneath me and was about to swallow me whole.

  “Bevie, I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me. You’re the best,” Uncle Lance hastily declared, after placing a supportive han
d on my shoulder.

  “So are we still on for this weekend, Lancie?” Beverly asked, sounding like an excited teenager.

  “You bet,” Uncle Lance replied. “I’ll see you at the Hotel Monteleone on Friday night.”

  Beverly squealed into the phone. I damn near jumped out of my shoes at the sound of her excitement.

  “I can’t wait. Gotta go,” Beverly said and then quickly hung up the phone.

  Uncle Lance put his phone back in his trouser pocket. “You all right?”

  I noted my uncle’s worried gaze. “David didn’t have any bullet wound scars. He had gray eyes, not green. And he didn’t have a scar on his lower right abdomen. The man described in that autopsy report is not David Alexander.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression, as well. Are you sure you want to go on with this, Nicci? And you do realize that this doesn’t prove anything.” He softened his voice slightly and added, “They could have just messed up the autopsy. Things get missed when people get busy.”

  “Beverly just told us that David was the only gunshot victim recorded that day. Besides, Uncle Lance, it’s Hammond Louisiana. There are not a lot of murders in that town. I seriously doubt they accidentally missed the scar on his right cheek and added scars from someone else in that report. Scars and tattoos are important details for identification. They usually try to get those right to avoid confusion.”

  “We still have some more digging to do,” Uncle Lance admitted.

  “More digging?” I questioned.

  “We still have to check all the hospitals in that parish. I have a friend in the police department who can pull up all gunshot victims admitted to Tangipahoa Parish hospitals on August 27, 2003. All right?”

  “Yeah…sure,” I stammered, still reeling from what Beverly had just told us. “Uncle Lance, what in the hell is going on?” I asked as I stared into his face.

  “I don’t know, Nic.” He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, I’m really taken aback by all of this. I can only imagine what you are thinking right now.”

  I scanned the busy French Quarter street surrounding us. “All that keeps running around in my head is that if something did happen to David, he couldn’t get back to me because he had some type of debilitating injury, or he never wanted to find me in the first place. Maybe I was wrong about him.”