Imogene in New Orleans

by Hunter Murphy

  As Jackson studied the print, Allen said, “Glenway called the painting Bacchus.”

  “Hmm. No wonder. It looks like the one painted by Caravaggio, doesn’t it?” Jackson stepped closer to the enormous print. Goose inadvertently rubbed up against him as he gnawed on his bone with complete concentration.

  Allen nodded. “Yes, it does. Glenway loved Caravaggio, and just like the Italian master, Glenway used some of his love interests in his paintings. You know who that New Orleans Bacchus is?”

  Jackson flicked a curl from his eye. “No, I don’t recognize him.”

  Allen pointed at the handsome young man, who was strong and tattooed and rough-looking, even though his cheeks had a rosy hue, as if he had just sprinted to the chaise lounge. “Did Neil tell you where Glenway lives?”

  “Yeah, he did. Over in Algiers with some hustler. A hustler named Butch or something?”

  “You’re close. He’s a hustler named Buddy, and he’s no sweetheart. That’s him there as Bacchus. Glenway was smitten with him. Neil wasn’t. In fact, Neil tried to warn Glenway about Buddy several times this year. I’m a little surprised Neil didn’t immediately come home and start blaming Buddy rather than confronting Lena. I guess he just lost his head. I hate he’s in jail.”

  “Me too, Allen. It’s been a whirlwind. Do you really think his city council friend can spring him?”

  “I do. Neil has friends all over New Orleans. If he calls in a favor, the council member will help him.” Allen continued looking at the piece of Buddy as Bacchus. “I framed that print and the original painting. In fact, you probably saw it today in the gallery. I have some postcards of the same event. It was a huge success. No one could put on an art show like Glenway.”

  Jackson noticed the wolf tattoo on Bacchus’s left shoulder and arm. The figure in Glenway’s painting was more of a man than the one in Caravaggio’s. Buddy was a little older, not to mention rougher and more menacing. “Does he look like that in real life, Allen?” Jackson bent down to scratch Goose’s belly. Goose had found a cool spot in the corner of the front room, where the hardwood floor met the air vent.

  “No, he looks scarier in real life. Who knows why Glenway liked that type, that dangerous sort. It’s easy to understand Neil’s concern for him. Glenway could never settle down with someone like you guys have, or like we have, me and Neil. Believe me, several decent people his own age tried to woo Glenway, but he didn’t want stability. He liked swinging from branch to branch…and usually in a dark forest.” Allen shook his head and then adjusted his glasses.

  “How long did he live with Buddy the hustler?” Jackson gently spun Goose around on the hardwood floor, which elicited an immediate growl. “Goose, you’d just bark if you saw someone swinging from branch to branch, wouldn’t you?”

  Allen scratched his face and clasped his hands together. “Glenway’s had that place in Algiers for years, but I think the Buddy thing is fairly new, say, the last four, maybe five months. He started talking about Buddy sometime in March or April, about the same time he finished the painting of Bacchus.”

  “Do you and Neil ever go to the place in Algiers?”

  “Oh, no. I think Neil’s been twice in three years, and I’ve dropped Glenway off there a couple times. Glenway guarded that place like a fortress. A love fortress. But I don’t blame him. He’s an artist, you know, and he needs his time alone, to think and to work—”

  “And to bed hustlers,” Jackson said, smacking the floor. “Goose, you stay away from hustlers, sweet boy.”

  Jackson handed Allen the camera. “Sorry, the painting of Buddy distracted me. Here are the pictures Imogene took. I wanted you to have a look and see what you think.”

  Allen scrolled through the images in the camera, holding it in front of his beard. He smiled at the ones Imogene took on the drive down from Alabama and those in the French Quarter, and then, suddenly, his face turned sour. “The mess in Glenway’s studio. That’s ridiculous. Neil should have known something was wrong immediately.”

  “We just figured he’d been out late,” Jackson said, peering over Allen’s shoulder.

  “I would’ve known right away from the look of the front room that there was trouble. But I do go to Glenway’s studio several times a week. I guess I’m there much more than Neil…because of my framing work and helping him with his money.”

  Jackson looked at Allen. The thought of Neil and Allen offing Glenway cropped up again. It bothered him to think like that, but they were involved with Glenway in odd ways, more like tangled up in Glenway’s life as much as anything. He tried to put the suspicion out of his mind, but he remembered Neil opening the locked studio with his own key. Plus, Allen’s role as the executor of Glenway’s will was disconcerting. He and Billy had spent so many pleasant hours at their house in New Orleans. Likewise, Neil and Allen had traveled to Harristown to visit many times. He stared at Allen, who continued scanning Imogene’s pictures.

  Allen looked up. “What’s wrong, Jackson? Why are you looking at me like that? Do you want these pictures back?”

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry. I was just…I was just thinking about Neil going to jail…So you don’t think they’ll keep him overnight?”

  “Oh, certainly not. I hope not. If that’s the case, I hope you guys will stay with me.” Allen wiped his face with a bandana from his framing table.

  “Hmm, we’d be happy to, but did you know Neil changed our hotel? We booked four days in a bed-and-breakfast, but Neil said a friend of his got us a better deal at another place. Says it has a balcony overlooking Toulouse Street in the French Quarter.”

  Allen squinted at the photos on the small screen. “Oh, no, that pretty hair. ‘Tangerine’ he called it. Is that blood on Glenway’s head?”

  Jackson leaned toward the camera. “Yes, poor guy. We thought he was sleeping. Billy noticed something wrong with his color and then he pointed out the patch of blood on Glenway’s scalp. It almost looked like dye.” Jackson wasn’t sure if he should bring up the hotel again until Allen had finished with the pictures. He decided instead to check out the walls of Allen’s workshop, which sported the completed jobs and pieces of frames hanging everywhere.

  He walked up to a scene from a café in the French Quarter showing what appeared to be some luminaries having a spirited discussion over drinks. One of the models looked almost like Tennessee Williams but with a unibrow. He grasped a notebook in his hand, holding it near his chest. He was seated with a bald-headed man wearing a wildly patterned shirt and a sly grin, as if he was amused at his own wit.

  Jackson backed up and saw his reflection in the glass. His facial scruff had grown during the day and his salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in wild disarray. He matted it down and then straightened the collar on his shirt. He looked tired, which made him think of his hotel room. “Allen…do you know about the new place Neil got for us?’

  “Of course. Sorry. These are some great pics. I wish I had ink in my printer. I’d print them out now. I can at least download them. Anyhow, about your accommodations. The reservation number is in Neil’s office. You know how organized he is.” Allen led Jackson and Goose into the den that had big fluffy couches that had seen their share of naps. Allen pointed to the open door of Neil’s office, a narrow room with Mardi Gras beads and file cabinets and a long workshop shelf that ran the length of the wall. Jackson’s hip touched the corner of the shelf, which Neil used as a desk.

  “Here they are. Your new hotel is called Chez Hill. Two queen beds and a balcony view for half the price of your other reservations.” Allen handed the piece of paper to Jackson.

  “And what about Goose?”

  Allen leaned over and patted the dog on the head. “You can stay too, Goose.” Goose shook upon hearing his name. Since he didn’t have a tail, he very nearly wagged his entire body when he felt excited. He and Jackson started walking for the door, because Jackson wanted to check on Billy.

  “If you don’t mind, let me upload these pictures before you go,” Allen said
, holding his beard with one hand and the camera with the other. His face had turned pale after looking at the camera. Jackson couldn’t tell if he was upset about the pictures or scared of something he wasn’t mentioning. Allen looked past him distantly before he turned around and rushed back to Neil’s office.

  * * * * *

  “Boys, that Lena Ward is a mess, I tell ya. I laughed till my sides was sore. Don’t get her going on the constables ’round this city. She and her son had some run-ins the likes of which y’all won’t believe.” Imogene glanced out the window as Jackson turned onto St. Charles Avenue again. She took a picture of the streetcar. “Now, I hope y’all didn’t bring me down here from Alabama expectin’ I wouldn’t want a trolley ride. ’Cause y’all know I’ll go by my lonesome if it comes to it.”

  The bell rang on the streetcar as it passed. “Imogene, we’ll ride it as soon as we get a chance. Maybe tomorrow.” Jackson glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Billy looked out the window, but he wasn’t looking at the streetcar. He turned to Jackson and said, “Did you know Glenway’s paying off Neil and Allen’s house too? It’s in his will.”

  Jackson slammed on the brakes. “What? How do you know this?” He slid his sunglasses to the end of his nose and glared at Billy. The slight brown circles under Billy’s eyes had gotten darker throughout the day. His eyes drooped, as if they were exhausted from what they’d seen. “Jackson, at least turn off this street first. You’ll get us run over, stopping in the middle of the Garden District.” A car behind them honked its horn. “I told you.”

  Jackson hit the accelerator and cut in front of a car in order to take the next street. The driver he slighted gave him a few honks and shouted out the window. Jackson parked beside one of the bright mansions lining St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District. The blue, three-storied house with carved trim and old windows had a tall iron fence surrounding its perfect yard. Imogene took a picture of it before she asked why they’d stopped. “We goin’ inside, boys?”

  Billy said, “I overheard Lena telling Mama just a minute ago…when they were in the kitchen.”

  Jackson rubbed his face and then slapped the steering wheel. “And how did that point come up, the paying off of Neil and Allen’s house in Glenway’s will?”

  “Lena was defending herself from Neil’s accusations in front of Mama, from what I could tell. I listened at the window Lena keeps open for customers, until they caught me and made me come inside.”

  “What are y’all saying up there, boys?” Imogene took another picture. “My ears got water in ’em. Y’all speak loud and plain so Maw-Maw can hear.”

  “We’re talking about Glenway paying for Neil and Allen’s house in his will,” Jackson said for the third time, as if by repetition he could comprehend it. Imogene took her white-rimmed sunglasses off and stared at Jackson. “How’d you learn that, Jackson Miller?”

  “Billy told me.” He looked at Imogene, whose cheeks were red from the heat. She looked worse than Goose, who was more accustomed to sleeping eighteen hours a day than roaming all over a subtropical, exotic city. He lay outstretched on the backseat and stared at Imogene’s hands as she nibbled on a praline.

  “You was spyin’ on me, wadn’t you? Speak it true, Billy McGregor. God’s listenin’ atchya.” She shook her head, as if she had suffered yet another indignity.

  “Mother, do you know Lena Ward could have very well killed our friend Glenway?” Imogene continued staring at the mansion. “And you just ran over there and started helping her like y’all were at a church picnic.”

  “Bull mess, son. That woman wouldn’t kill a snake if she seen it in her bathtub. Y’all need to look elsewhere if you thank she done it. Lord, and her a widow woman like me with arthritis. Y’all think the awfullest things. No wonder you use that blood-pressure cuff so much.” She crossed her arms and watched another streetcar lumber down the avenue, angling her body to follow its track.

  “Mother, you always have to exaggerate. I’m glad I did hear that tidbit about Neil and Allen, because you weren’t planning to tell us, were you?” Billy turned the AC vent to his face. His hair stuck to the sides of his head.

  “I was gonna tell you. When we got settled. But Lena told it in confidence, and I didn’t wanna go ringin’ the bell on sweet Neil and Allen. It ain’t right. Way I figure it, them boys was good to the Gilbert boy, just like they’ve been good to me and Lena and most ’specially they been good to y’all.” She tapped them both on the shoulder. “And the Gilbert boy just wanted to hep ’em all he could. Shoot, you know we got people like that, Billy McGregor, and they’d do the same cockeyed thing for them they loved.” Imogene hit the console in between the boys when she said it. Goose barked and then jumped up on all fours.

  “Yes, Mother, but those people aren’t suspected of murder, now, are they?” Billy ripped the cuff from his arm.

  “Shoot, you talk like a boy with a paper rump. Next thing, since y’all already accused Neil and Allen and a senior citizen who can hardly walk right, you’ll be accusin’ me too. If y’all are gonna act like this, you may as well put me on a train back to Alabama.” She slammed her back against the seat and turned her head.

  “Jackson, forget it. Just drive. Mama’s obviously so tired she can’t think straight.” Billy cracked open a bottle of water and tried to hand it to her, but she wouldn’t take it. She pushed it back twice before Jackson took a big swig. “Ahhh.” He looked in the mirror and saw her mumbling to herself. “Come on, Maw. Don’t be mad. I’m just surprised you don’t find it a bit odd.”

  She refused to respond. All she did was pet Goose’s back and frown.

  Jackson looked at the big blue home in front of him and said, “Well, Neil’s found us another place to stay all of a sudden too. I know it’s a good deal, but Glenway’s murder has me confused, not to mention suspicious. Neil and Allen are some of our oldest friends.”

  Imogene piped up. “Yeah, y’all got pictures of ’em both everywhere at home. That’s why I can’t figure why you wanna accuse ’em.”

  “Imogene, I’m not accusing them. I’m just saying they had something to gain from Glenway’s death, and so did your new friend Lena Ward.” He watched Imogene poke her lips out and shake her head.

  Billy grabbed the directions to the hotel from Jackson. “I’ve never heard of Chez Hill,” Billy said. He looked worried as he read through the brochure.

  “Yeah, me neither, but it’s close to everything—Jackson Square, Café du Monde, the Old U.S. Mint, Canal Street, the Louis Armstrong Park, where we’ll see the second line parade.” Jackson drove toward the Quarter with the evening sun setting over the city. They turned off Rampart Street onto Toulouse and saw the gilt and stenciled sign CHEZ HILL.

  “We’re here, Imogene. You gonna give us the silent treatment for the rest of the trip?” Jackson smiled even though she didn’t answer. He threw on a visor to help contain his wild hair. It looked like his curls had been treated in an electric socket. He went to check in and returned in ten minutes with the room keys.

  After packing the luggage onto a carrier and tightening the leash on Goose, he convinced Imogene to exit the vehicle.

  She was still sore about Lena and Neil. “Y’all ain’t even worried about your friend gettin’ toted off to jail. You ain’t called him once.”

  “Mama, we have been worried about him, but how are we supposed to call him in jail?” Billy opened the door for his mother.

  She elbowed her way past him. “All’s I’m saying is if he was special to y’all, you’d help him.” She crunched her sun hat on her head, even though the light had started to dim throughout the French Quarter.

  Jackson gave the car keys to the valet and led them under the enclosed parking space where guests’ cars were crammed side by side. The parking area was covered by hotel rooms above, and Jackson guided them out into the courtyard to the nearest elevator.

  Imogene hobbled behind the boys, and as soon as they got in the open, she whistled through her teeth. “Honey,
this is fancy, ain’t it? Y’all complained, but that Neil knows what he’s doing in every particular. Sweet hominy.” She began snapping pictures of the lush greenery and manicured flowers lining the pool. She approached a decorative topiary in the shape of a tuba.

  “Come on, Mama. Let’s get up to the room.” Billy followed Jackson to the elevator. Goose slowed down to sniff the grass. A short man wearing a black coat with a purple handkerchief walked in front of Jackson and then stared down at the dog. He turned and put his hands on his hips, blocking the boys’ way. He looked the boys up and down, and then Imogene, and finally Goose. His eyes rested on the beast, who was freeing himself of excess water all over the perfectly trimmed shrubs. The man was compact, as if a tall man had been pinched together on all sides. He wore an official-looking nametag and had quick, fastidious mannerisms.

  “Who are you?” His mouth was contorted in such a way that he appeared to have just eaten a handful of coffee grounds and was still suffering from the taste.

  “I’m Jackson Miller. This is my family, and we’re going to our room on the second floor. Number 204…Mr.”—Jackson squinted to read the man’s name badge—“Mr. Hill.”

  “Oh, no you’re not. Not with that dog, you’re not.” Hill stamped his loafer on the concrete, which made a popping noise, and then he pointed at Goose, who stood stark still and gazed with faraway eyes at the curious man. Goose licked his considerable snout.

  “What do you mean? We were told that dogs are allowed on the property, Mr. Hill. Is that not correct?” Jackson held his arms open. Goose’s leash dangled from his right hand.

  “Dogs, yes,” Hill said, his nostrils flaring, “but not pigs.” He pointed at Goose and then planted his hands back on his hips. The man’s hair was receding and he had combed it forward, which accentuated his bald spot all the more. He had a unibrow, which Jackson immediately marveled at, wondering why he had not taken a sharp razor to it. He would have continued on this line of thought had he not been so disturbed by Mr. Hill’s diatribe against Goose.