Fairbanks, Nancy

by Crime Brulee (lit)

  I didn't answer, embarrassed that Julienne might have been staying with a lover. I wouldn't have believed it. And maybe she wasn't. "Did you see her leave?" I asked hope­fully. Maybe she had come right back down.

  "I didn't," said the clerk, "but I went off shift at six this morning. Not his sister? Well, that's New Orleans for you." She still refused to tell me on what floor the dark-haired man had his room. That would be "against company policy."

  I turned away, thinking hard. If the man with the dark hair was Linus Torelli and the woman in the red dress was Julienne, she hadn't been kidnapped at the restaurant or off the street, which was a relief. But why had he lied? And what had he done with her? Or was she still upstairs? If so, on which of the three floors? I glanced at my watch and re­alized that I had to get back to my own hotel and dress for the welcome mixer at the aquarium. The hurricane seemed to be wearing off just in time for the next round of alcohol. Maybe Julienne would attend the mixer.

  7

  Jug Wine and Tidbits

  “Very piquant," said my husband judiciously as he sipped his white wine in a plastic glass. Very piquant is our wine code for vinegary but overpriced. We were attending the welcome mixer at the Aquarium of the Americas with Nils. Since we had run into him in the lobby at the hotel, I could hardly refuse to walk to the foot of Canal Street in his com­pany, especially since Jason did not seem averse to doing so. Fortunately, the rain had abated, and I said nothing more about Julienne after Nils snarled at my first question. I was tempted to mention the desk clerk who had sighted a woman in a red dress in the company of a man at Linus Torelli's hotel, but I held my tongue.

  As I kept my eyes firmly on the aquarium's distinctive round structure with its slanted, flat roof, which the three of us were approaching in virtual silence, it occurred to me that Nils himself might have found Julienne at Torelli's hotel. Could he have gone there looking for her the very night she left the dinner at Etienne's? Then, infuriated by her infi­delity, real or imagined, he might have attacked her. But if so, where was she?

  I resolved to begin calling hospitals as soon as we re­turned to our room, for I was imagining scenarios in which Nils knocked Julienne unconscious after catching her in Torelli's company. Although the softening process of middie age has begun, Nils is a big man. If he hit his slender wife, he would do great damage. After hitting her, perhaps he stuffed her into one of those taxis that lurk in front of large hotels. Then he gave the driver some excuse (perhaps that she had passed out in a diabetic coma), asked to be taken to a hospital, and left her there in the emergency room while he escaped the consequences of his jealous rage.

  All this had passed through my mind as we reached the aquarium and joined the mob of scientists and their signifi­cant others attempting to reach the refreshment tables. The frustrations involved were enough to turn my imagination off for the time being.

  "Might as well enjoy what we've got," Jason was saying of the hors d'oeuvres. "I, for one, don't intend to wait through any more long lines."

  We'd waited fifteen minutes for the wine and even longer for the food offerings, which were not at all up to New Or­leans standards, certainly not as exotic as the alligator puffs I had chosen for the reunion dinner. But then the American Chemical Society organizers had probably decided on this menu and were more interested in economy than culinary adventure.

  "I'd planned to substitute this for dinner," said Nils mo­rosely. He hadn't even mentioned his wife since refusing to answer questions on the walk over. All the more reason to suspect him of foul play, I decided.

  "Jason! And the delightful Carolyn!" The newcomer looked more closely at Nils and came up with his name, too, although Nils is not a chemist. "Dr. Magnussen."

  We all shook hands with Corbin Bunster, the eminent theoritician from Cal Tech, a man who has the amazing abil­ity to remember every person to whom he has ever been in­troduced. For those of us less memory-endowed, Dr. Bunster is not to be forgotten because of his scientific renown and a set of eyebrows that flare from his forehead like the mustachios of an aging Mexican bandido.

  "And where is your dear childhood friend, Carolyn?" he asked me. He remembers not only one's name and face but past conversations, no matter how mundane. "Since Dr. Magnussen is here, I presume the brilliant Julienne is as well, especially as she's scheduled to present a very inter­esting paper at the conference."

  "She's missing," I replied, glancing at Nils to see how he'd react when a famous scientist learned of the disappear­ance.

  "Missing the wine, is she? A sensible decision," said Bunster.

  "Missing, period. None of us has seen her since last night, not even Nils."

  Bunster looked alarmed. "Missing in New Orleans! Good God, man," he exclaimed, turning to Nils, "I hope you've reported this to the police."

  Nils gave him a fulminating glance, then turned it on me, and left in a huff. This seemed to be his only method of de­parture since arriving in New Orleans.

  "Irritable fellow," Bunster remarked and strode off to display his phenomenal memory elsewhere. Jason and I went to sample the beer after discreetly placing our half-full wine cups on a table of aquarium literature. Then, beer in hand, we began to wander the Caribbean Reef and Gulf of Mexico exhibits on the first floor. They included tower­ing glass tanks inhabited by multitudes of aquatic crea­tures. As Jason greeted colleagues, talked of bonds, molecules, and heats of formation, scribbled little pictures of compounds on the program, and generally acted like a scientist, I tuned out the chemical chatter and admired the scene. There were vicious-looking, beaked turtles making rushes at lettuce bundles carried by divers and, my fa­vorites, giant rays, rippling their sueded, winglike bodies, trailing stingers, and looking much more impressive than those who undulated lazily across the aquarium screen saver on my computer.

  On the second floor in a humid rain forest with suspended walkways that allowed one to stroll amid lush vege­tation and swooping tropical birds, we came across the McAvees and Nils. Carlene was quizzing him about Juli­enne, surprised that she was still among the missing but con­vinced that she would reappear the next day for Carlene's plenary address to the conference. Broder interrupted to say that, in such a dangerous and sinful city, Julienne might have been kidnapped by white slavers.

  Because that was exactly the scenario I had envisioned the night before when I went to look for her in the Etienne's rest room, that particular set of fears was revived. I turned to Nils and asked if he had checked her belongings to ascertain whether anything was missing.

  "I didn't notice anything," he muttered reluctantly, which I took to mean that he had at least looked. "Ask Torelli. He'd know what, if anything, she took with her."

  "He says he hasn't seen her," I replied, without thinking. After all, I hadn't mentioned to Nils that I had pursued Torelli to his hotel.

  "Well, if you believe that, you're more naive than I'd have thought," Nils snarled.

  Actually, I hadn't believed Torelli, not after talking to the hotel clerk, but again I didn't mention that, preferring not to feed Nils's anger about the supposed liaison. On the other hand, when I reviewed Nils's response, I realized that, one, he hadn't commented on my having talked to Torelli, and, two, he'd seemed quite sure that Torelli had seen Julienne. Had he caught them together at the hotel? And if so, what had he done about it? I shivered, remem­bering the violent scenario I had concocted on the way to the aquarium.

  "You must be wrong, Nils," said Carlene. "I can't imag­ine Julienne having an affair. Goodness, I've never had one—well, with Broder—but I married him." Having re­vealed something that shocked none of us, she went off, long, multicolored skirt swishing, to find another glass of the abominable wine; perhaps her foolhardy acceptance came from a misplaced loyalty to California vineyards. At any rate, she left in her wake a red-faced husband. No doubt, Broder was embarrassed to have revealed, even to friends, his premarital indiscretion. He immediately changed the subject to Calvinist theology.

  Within thr
ee minutes even we long-time friends were shifting restlessly, so I rescued us all by murmuring, "As a point of historical interest, Broder, didn't the early Calvin-ists bury those they considered heretics up to the neck and then roll large stones at their heads?" Before he could an­swer, I turned to Nils and asked him to let me look over Juli­enne's belongings, explaining that anything found missing would at least reassure us that she had made it as far as the Hotel de la Poste safely. Sulky to the end, Nils refused, ex­acerbating my suspicions that he himself might be responsi­ble for the disappearance of his wife.

  "In that case, I intend to go looking for her tomorrow in all the places we planned to visit," I announced. "I think you ought to come with me, Nils. Since you aren't involved in the conference, you don't have anything better to do, and you might show some concern for—"

  "I've already said that I don't intend to chase after her. Go by yourself if you're so set on finding a woman who ob­viously doesn't want to be found," he replied.

  "Perhaps I'd better accompany you, Carolyn," said Broder.

  "And miss my paper?" demanded his wife, who had re­turned with her wine refill in record time. Presumably, after one glass, other attendees had opted for beer.

  "Of course not," said Broder. "We'll go after your ad­dress. But you'll agree that in a city this dangerous, a woman should not be wandering about unaccompanied by a protective male."

  Dear Broder. It wasn't as if I'd be searching the city at night. I wanted to know if anyone had seen Julienne this morning or this afternoon. Still, I made arrangements to meet Broder after lunch on Monday. With any luck, Julienne might have come back before then. I certainly hoped so, not only because I loved her dearly, but because I didn't see Broder, no matter how well meaning, as someone who would help in wheedling information from denizens of the French Quarter.

  When we finally left the aquarium, which was still packed with scientists taking advantage of free food and drink, and returned to our hotel, Jason went to the bar in Bacco, the hotel restaurant. He wanted to have a nightcap and draw more chemical structures on napkins with an en­vironmental toxicologist from the University of South Florida who had followed us home. I went straight to our room, gumbo delivered from Etienne's in hand, and ate it while I called all the hospitals and the police stations to see if there had been any reports about Julienne. There hadn't, and I anticipated another night of worry and restless tossing.

  How could my best friend have disappeared? When I'd spent less than an hour in her company. Was her marriage to Nils so terrible that she couldn't have stayed for my sake? Admittedly, I'd have been angry had Jason treated me the way Nils treated her at the dinner party, but then Jason would never do that. He may be devoted to his work and dis­tracted from time to time, in fact, a good deal of the time, but he's always a sweet man when he returns from the realms of scientific thought. He proved as much when he arrived in our room, pockets stuffed with napkins written over with brilliant ideas and a libido inspired by the sight of me in my see-through lace nightgown. I may be forty-something, but my husband still thinks I'm the perfect amal­gamation of physical desirability and culinary expertise.

  Poor man. It hasn't yet penetrated his consciousness that, although I still enjoy our marital trysts in the bedroom, I am much less interested in kitchen adventures. I could write a book extolling the joys of other people's cooking. In fact, I am.

  8

  Beignets and Chicory Coffee

  In New Orleans, cafe au lait means chicory coffee with milk. Among other things that the original French set­tlers learned from the Choctaw and Chickasaw Indians was the use of a peppery syrup made from the root of a * dandelion cousin whose new leaves appear in your salad as endive. The chicory syrup in coffee may seem bitter to outlanders, but to New Orleans natives and other aficionados of the blend, it produces a rich bever­age with half the caffeine of undoctored coffee. That may explain why citizens of New Orleans can drink more than twice as much coffee a day as the average American and still contribute to the laid-back ambiance of the Big Easy.

  Carolyn Blue, Eating Out in the Big Easy

  I truly did mean to attend Carlene's lecture Monday morn­ing but reminded myself that Julienne and I had planned breakfast at the Cafe du Monde on Jackson Square. Having missed yesterday's rendezvous, I had to be there today and hope that she would, too. Jason was very understanding about it and consoled me by saying that he wasn't expecting to understand a good deal of the science in Carlene's lecture himself. If he didn't know that much about leading-edge biochemistry, why should I? Therefore, with a clear con­science, I set off, raincoat-clad, newly purchased umbrella in hand, for Jackson Square, which was just over three blocks from the hotel.

  The skies were gray, the streets wet as I chose a green plastic chair from among many placed on flagstones under the green and white striped awnings of the famous coffee­house. Naturally, I ordered chicory coffee and beignets, those hot, delicious squares of fried dough lavishly dusted with powdered sugar. The chicory was a research impulse gone wrong. Even generous splashes of cream and multiple packets of sugar couldn't cut the bitter taste enough to suit me. For once I, the typical Midwestern, north-of-the-Mason-Dixon-Line Yankee, felt sympathy for the benighted Southerners that had been reduced to drinking chicory with little or no coffee during the Civil War. In their place, I think I would have surrendered years earlier just to get a less off-putting caffeine fix with breakfast.

  As I devoured my beignets and brushed the resulting rain of powdered sugar from my black raincoat (Cafe du Monde would do well to provide bibs for its patrons), I watched the square for Julienne. I had already cased the caf^ both inside and out before sitting down. The stones were bright with rain, and the trees blew in a gentle wind beyond the iron fence. Old-fashioned lampposts were mirrored on the wet street, as were the trailing images of cars and tourist buses. Across the street, a tiny mule with a bouquet inserted in its bridle turned its head to inspect the heaped blossoms of pink and purple inside the fence, while an egg-shaped woman tried to keep her excited toddler calm as she negotiated for a ride in the little red mule carriage. The vehicle had small wheels in front, larger behind, for all the world like an old-fashioned bicycle.

  A man in a yellow raincoat played "St. Louis Blues" on his trumpet, and the sad, mellow notes met scattered ap­plause and the tiger growl of thunder as the sky darkened and a fine rain began to fall. Laughing tourists in hooded jackets and stoic natives, umbrella-topped, passed by. As the rain grew heavier, young people with backpacks ducked under the awnings, and hungry, sheltering pigeons waddled under my table, but amid all this activity, Julienne did not ar­rive, and my disappointment burgeoned. What should I do? I stared miserably at the three white, shingle-capped steeples of the Saint Louis Cathedral, lifting simple crosses to the sky as if pointing out what a sad, dark day it was.

  My waitress, an Asian woman wearing a white cap and long white apron over her black trousers, stopped to ask if I wanted anything else. Having taken up space at her table for over an hour, I felt obliged to order again, a frothy cappuc­cino this time and another beignet. When she brought them, I showed her the picture of Julienne from my wallet. "I'm waiting for this woman. Have you, by any chance, seen her? Either today or yesterday?"

  Obligingly, the waitress peered at the picture. "That's you, isn't it?" she asked, pointing to me on the left. "Must have been years ago."

  Had I aged so much? I wondered. Or did I appear dated because of the waist-length hair? "My friend looks a lot the same," I replied. "Have you seen her?"

  "Not today," she replied, "and I wasn't working yester­day." She peered at the snapshot again. I must have looked as disappointed as I felt, for she added helpfully, "You want me to show it around?"

  I hated to let the picture out of my possession; it was the only photo of Julienne, no matter how outdated, that I had with me. However, I released it, and off she went. It's really very good of her to bother, I told myself. And my search was rewarded, for she return
ed with a young black man, wearing the same apron, cap, and bow-tie costume. "Seen her yes­terday morning," he said, handing back the photo. "Couldn't hardly miss her. Wearing a fancy red dress. Stayed about an hour. Left me a fine tip."

  Almost limp with relief, I finished my delicious coffee, dusted away more beignet sugar, left my waitress a "fine tip," and then set off toward the convention center. Of course, Julienne hadn't been on Jackson Square to meet me this morning! She had gone to hear Carlene talking about computational biochemistry. I had to get there before the end of the lecture. By dint of more jogging than I had done in years, which earned me odd glances from natives, I did arrive while Carlene was still talking, no thanks to the New Orleans Police. At the corner of South Front and Poydras, when I was still blocks from my destination and completely breathless, a motorcycle officer stopped me, evidently under the impression that a pedestrian moving on foot at any pace faster than a saunter must be up to no good. The phrase, "Where are the police when you need them?" hardly applied here. I didn't want to be delayed, but I decided to make the best of his mistake.

  Before he could arrest me or strip search me or whatever he had in mind, I gasped, "Could you give me a ride to the convention center? I'm late for a lecture on computational biochemistry."

  He must have thought my statement eccentric enough to eliminate me from his list of possible wrongdoers. Instead of arresting me, he said, with no little sarcasm, "The N'Awlins Police ain't in business to give rides to tourists, ma'am. You see an extra helmet here? Any place for you to ride on?"

  "Well then, thanks anyway," I called over my shoulder as I ran off. He didn't pursue. Lafayette, Girod, Notre Dame, Julia—I crossed them all before reaching even the corner of the huge center. If only I'd known about the Riverfront Streetcar, I could have saved myself such a traumatic over-exposure to aerobic exercise. Surely it can't be good for one. I arrived with my heart thundering noisily in my chest and my lungs burning, but I did hear the last five minutes of the lecture and congratulated Carlene with proper enthusiasm on her presentation when it was over.