Table of Contents
Copyright
Praise for Now Let’s Talk of Graves
Now Let’s Talk of Graves
To the memory of Allan Jaffe
Special Thanks
Let’s talk of graves...
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Now Let’s Talk of Graves
A Samantha Adams Mystery
By Sarah Shankman
Copyright 2016 by Sarah Shankman
Cover Copyright 2016 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 1991.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Also by Sarah Shankman and Untreed Reads Publishing
First Kill All the Lawyers
He Was Her Man (A Samantha Adams Mystery)
Impersonal Attractions
Keeping Secets
Say You’re Sorry: 12 Stories of Ban Manners and Criminal Consequences
She Walks in Beauty (A Samantha Adams Mystery)
Then Hang All the Liars (A Samantha Adams Mystery)
www.untreedreads.com
Praise for Now Let’s Talk of Graves
“As vivid a bunch of local rogues, aristocrats and in-betweens as ever nodded to each other over coffee and beignets in the Quarter… Plenty of action… These characters slip and slide across each other’s paths more often than players in a Shakespearean farce… a grand Carnival tide.” —The Wall Street Journal
“Ms. Shankman has great flair for caricature and writes with wit and humor… A good read… There is an amusing feminist edge.” —The New York Times Book Review
“Witty, well-paced and filled with characters you want to meet again… NOW LET’S TALK OF GRAVES is a thoroughly enjoyable book and Ms. Shankman has captured New Orleans’s quirkiness and flavor through her strong supporting cast.” —Atlanta Journal and Constitution
“First-class entertainment… New Orleans and its denizens are the stars here, in a raunchy, Runyon-esque tour of the city’s social structure, streets, speech, food, and flavor not to be found in the guide books.” —Kirkus Reviews
“A rollicking novel of New Orleans.” —San Antonio Express News
“Shankman’s feisty characters and vibrant Southern setting make for a lively, enjoyable narrative.” —The Drood Review of Mystery
“Shankman makes the place and time vivid.…” —Philadelphia Inquirer
“Terrific… the setting and the characters are marvelous. And the dialogue! I could hear these people talking… highly recommended.” —Dean James, of Murder by The Book
“Sam Adams is witty and perceptive.… NOW LET’S TALK OF GRAVES is laced with insight and humor.” —New Orleans Times-Picayune
“Shankman has genuine gifts for the demanding creation of a good murder mystery.” —Houston Post
“Witty… Shankman’s engaging Southern characters speak in authentic Southern dialogue and engage in swift repartee… readers will be charmed by her spunky style.” —Publishers Weekly
“Shankman should be proud to claim this… Samantha is a delight; the writing is skilled; the plot is involved and involving.” —Washington Times
Now Let’s Talk of Graves
A Samantha Adams Mystery
Sarah Shankman
To the memory of Allan Jaffe
of Preservation Hall—for the good times
Special thanks to Ann Culley in Raleigh and Joseph Epstein in New Orleans for reading, for many kindnesses, and for generous advice. Jane Chelius, a love, and the best of editors. Dana Isaacson, kiss kiss. Matthew Gee, computer wizard, you saved my life. Harvey Klinger, superb agent, prince, and shrink. Johanna Tani, copy editor extraordinaire. Luisah Teish’s Jambalaya (Harper & Row, 1985) was an invaluable resource for voudou.
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth;
Let’s choose executors and talk of wills.
—Richard II
One
THEY HIT SAM with the Hurricane right at the gate.
Laissez les bons temps rouler. Let the good times roll.
The unofficial welcoming committee, a bunch of free-roaming drunks, left her holding a tall glass of the strawberry-colored kick-ass punch that had made Pat O’Brien’s famous—that and the piano players’ dirty songs. “Long John,” the one about a hard-driving dentist, had been Sam’s favorite when she was a teenager, used to pack six in a car, make the long trip down from Atlanta for Mardi Gras. Drunk as skunks Saturday through Fat Tuesday. Nobody’d ever heard of underage in the Big Easy of the sixties.
Now, on the day before Mardi Gras, half past noon, twenty-odd years later and ten years sober, Samantha Adams shifted the long black garment bag she was carrying over one shoulder and looked around the Delta gate for a place to put down the drink.
*
Over at the edge of the waiting area Harry Zack was watching Sam—though he didn’t know her yet. He was watching her because she was a tall, very pretty brunette, a lot easier on the eyes than the pie-eating lady evangelist who’d caught his attention on the pay TV, courtesy of the chubby young blonde in the waiting area who’d been stuffing the TV meter with quarters. The evangelist was famous in New Orleans; her name was Sister Nadine. The pie Nadine had in one hand, the one that wasn’t holding the tambourine, looked like lemon meringue to Harry. Looked pretty good, though the tall, very pretty brunette with the head full of soft dark curls looked sweeter. Trying not to be too obvious about it, Harry slid his eyes up Sam’s legs. Up to her great chest. Elegant nose. He had a thing about women’s ears, but hers were hidden behind the curls and silver hoop earrings. She had huge brown eyes, and a classically beautiful face that reminded him of some star he�
�d once seen in an old movie on TV.
Then his imagination skipped over the how-do-you-do-my-name-is-could-I-call-you-sometime-first-second-third-date business and he wondered—after all that—where would he take her? If, after a leisurely lunch at Galatoire’s, making love to her from the very first minute with his mind, his eyes, little sighs, lots of good wine, she said yes? Where would they go, skipping hand in hand out of the restaurant together?
He closed his steel-gray eyes, the one on the left having less far to go—the lid drooped just a little. He could see the place in his mind. A cottage at the Maison de Ville in the Quarter. Jammed with antiques. Bathtub big enough for two. Bed even bigger—draped with old lace. The perfect love nest.
Now, wouldn’t that be nice?
Take it to the Lord in prayer, the TV blared as Sister Nadine cut loose. Harry opened his eyes and the bedroom vanished. But the brunette, with a smart-alecky sort of grin on her pretty face, hadn’t.
It’s you she’s staring at, Harry Zack. You, right there.
*
But it wasn’t Harry she was seeing. Sam was grinning off into space, seeing her friend Kitty Lee in her mind. Kitty, who was supposed to meet her at the gate. Kitty, who was always, chronically, since they’d been roomies twenty years ago at Stanford, late. Kitty, yelling at her on the long distance every day for the past week: Why don’t you hurry up and get your butt over here, gonna miss the whole goddamn Mardi Gras. Don’t make the Comus Ball your ass is grass might as well stay home. Then, when Sam finally did get a breather, filed her story on the shooter picking off some of Atlanta’s finest citizens like deer right through their picture windows, left the Constitution and its Byzantine problems behind her, grabbed the last seat on the flight—now, where was Kitty? Well, hell, hadn’t everyone always said that woman would be late to her own funeral?
Sam’s gaze focused. Not bad, she thought, zeroing in on Harry. Not bad at all. In fact, in the looks department, great. Wide brow. Nice nose. Couldn’t see the color of his eyes from here. Blue, maybe. Or was that gray? High cheekbones with bright spots of color just beneath. Fair-skinned with a dark shadow of stubble. Wide mouth—a little pouty. That look was in, wasn’t it, at least for models. Well, he could model. Broad-shouldered and lean, though not much taller than she. A ringer for Paul Newman’s son. Grandson? Oh, Lord. He was pretty young. Pretty and young. That wild tangle of black curls could use a shearing. So is that what she’d say to him if she got the chance? Young man, you could do with a haircut. Sound like his aunt. His mother.
Well, hell, why not? Younger men were in fashion these days, weren’t they? And she’d been considering, so far only in the abstract, the possibility of grabbing up one for her own amusement. And, matter of fact, it wasn’t as if the handsome young man in the rumpled raincoat wasn’t staring back. Of course, he might just be thinking about stealing her pearls. But more likely he was searching for an opening line. She straightened her back, gave him her good profile. Thirty-nine and a half wasn’t, by God, dead and nailed down. Not yet.
*
Harry caught Sam’s look and flashed her a little smile. Then, suddenly shy, he looked away, his gaze searching for a place to light, landing on the chubby young blonde whose rear was a real tight fit in the TV chair. She seemed to be mesmerized by Sister Nadine and that lemon meringue, licking her lips and fingering a little gold crucifix. Another necklace spelled her name out in big gold letters: TERI.
He wondered what the pretty brunette’s name was. Laura? Suzanne? He sneaked a look back at her. Whoops. She was still staring. Waiting for him to make the first move, maybe. Jesus! He stared down at the floor, up at the ceiling. He’d promised himself next time he’d have one ready. Well, sucker, this was next time. And what did he have to pull out of his bag of tricks? Nothing more than a handkerchief. Thank God for small favors—it was clean. But he needed it; he was sweating like a pig. He blotted his forehead, swiveled his gaze back to the chubbette.
While he was waiting for the right side of his brain, the so-called creative half, to kick in, come up with something clever to say to the brunette, he’d practice his new trade on this lady. He was an insurance investigator now, right? So investigate.
He’d start with age. How old was Teri? Nineteen? Twenty?
(How old was the brunette? Old enough to be interesting, that was for sure. But not too old, and, when a woman was as attractive as that, who was counting?)
Back, boy, back. Okay, Teri, her baby in a wet Pamper squalling on the floor beside her. Well, that’s what happened to them, girls from Westwego, Mandeville, Slidell, maybe over the state line, Pass Christian, Biloxi. He was warming to it now. They got married, got pregnant, got fat, and the good times were over before they were old enough to vote. Droves of them rolling carts out into the Kmart parking lot. Disciples of Sister Nadine. Leading the good ol’ dead-end fat-ass life.
The blonde turned her head, catching him staring. Wasn’t that always the way? Well, he didn’t want to say anything to her, which meant he could probably chat her up like crazy. But lookahere! What a nasty shiner she was wearing.
No mystery there for crack investigator Harry Zack. Miss Teri hadn’t gotten the chuck on the table quick enough to suit ol’ Billy Bob. Or hadn’t properly chilled his Dixie beer.
But she’d hang around for a while yet—time for Billy Bob to break an arm, some teeth. Harry had seen more than he cared to of women like her. They made him sad, but you couldn’t make them listen. She’d have to come to it in her own time, hang around until she got fed up lying about running into doorknobs. Then she’d take Junior there and split. After about two payments, Billy Bob’d get behind on his child support. The next thing you know, he’d decide she shouldn’a got custody of his only begotten son anyhow. He’d sneak over to the baby-sitter’s, sweet-talk her in that way he had, grab that kid and—Harry peeked back at the brunette. Oh, hell. She had company now. What difference did it make if he were batting a thousand making up stories about the blonde, when all he wanted to do was sidle up to the brunette, give her the big slow smile he’d inherited from his daddy, say howdy?
*
Kitty Lee had no problem doing that: “Lord have mercy, Sam, if you ain’t a sight.”
Sam grinned at her. There she was, ladies and gents, redheaded, blue-eyed Miss Kitty Lee, still five foot two, hadn’t grown an inch.
“Sorry,” Kitty said, breathless. “Couldn’t find a parking spot. Bastards wouldn’t let me leave it at the curb, like I used to. Nothing’s like it used to be. Jack in the Boxes and Burger Kings. Not a single sign left of graciousness and gentility.”
Sam snatched her into a big hug. “Thank God for Kitty Lee. Mouth going 122 miles per hour. State patrol ought to ticket that thing.”
Kitty stood back, tiny feet wide apart. If Jimmy Cagney had been born a Southern woman, he’d have been named Kitty. “You’re right! But shut up and let me take a look at you. Damn!” All this out of the side of her mouth. “Still beautiful, goddamn unnecessarily tall, and absolutely right. I am so glad to see you.” Taking Sam’s arm and pulling her along. “Come on, let’s go get your luggage and blow this dump. Grab some lunch, go home and visit with Ma Elise. She’s dying to see you.”
“And me her. Let’s git.” Sam could feel her Southern shifting into third gear the second she laid eyes on Kitty. “What are we waiting for, three choruses of ‘Dixie’?” She hefted her garment bag and a tote.
“That’s your luggage? That’s it? Oh, Jesus, spare me. I couldn’t get my undies for a weekend in something like that. Are you sure you—”
Sam jiggled the bag. ‘Turquoise-blue silk to the floor. Caroline Herrera. Hideously expensive. Shameful décolletage displaying thirty-nine-year-old bosom intactus. Gonna knock ’em dead at that ball.”
“Oh, Sammy! Most of ’em already are. Ancient and pickled.”
“Well, what the hell? I’ll dress for you. We’ll kick up our heels. Swig us some serious root beer.”
*
Harry’d give a lot to see Sam—wasn’t that what Kitty Lee’d called her—in her ballgown. Maybe he could get ol’ Kitty, one of his big sister Sudie’s best friends, to introduce them later. But that very minute, the Delta flight from LaGuardia had arrived at the next gate, and he faded to invisible behind a column.
Here was the lady he’d been waiting for, the one he had business with—the one who swore she’d suffered severe whiplash, not to mention all kinds of emotional trauma, when her little tobacco-brown Mercedes coupe had been popped from behind.
She sure didn’t look like she was feeling any pain right now, this redhead scooting right along in a too-tight white jumpsuit, big shoulders, with a red fox coat thrown over one arm. You’d think the gentleman of Italian descent in the dark, shiny suit who’d been waiting for her would carry the coat, what with the whiplash and all. But maybe the gentleman—whom Harry knew to be Joey the Horse, a famous, in some circles, man-about-town—was having a hard time remembering about the neck injury. The lady, whose name was Chéri, wasn’t wearing her neck brace, or much of anything else, under that jumpsuit. Now she was tossing her red hair like a mane and twisting her neck this way and then that to kiss Joey on both cheeks. Not just once, but twice. Well, she was French, Chéri, right?
The camera Harry carried in the canvas duffel over his shoulder was clicking away like crazy.
Yes, indeedy, his uncle, his mama’s brother, Tench Young, and, more importantly, sole proprietor of Young Preferred Reliance Insurance and Investment Company, was gonna be right proud of him.
Harry, he’d said not too long ago, now here’s your chance to stop breaking your mama’s heart, straighten up, and fly right. Come work for me and learn to be an insurance investigator, join the real world, give up that crazy songwriting dream, and get real. Son, ’fore you know it, you’ll be a vice president. Take over old Preferred Reliance from me when I get ready to step down from this son of a gun.
Hell, why not? Harry had given Uncle Tench the slow smile. Why not bag the off-again-on-again jobs—cab driver, process server, oil rig jockey, anything he could think of to maintain his reputation as a hell-raising bad bad Uptown boy pretending he was trash. After all, boy was losing some of its cute, especially since he’d awakened one morning a couple of months ago after a night of too many Dixie beers and too few women and realized he’d crossed over the line into thirty while asleep.
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