Death by the Riverside

by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

  “Harry and I. At least until she writes a new will, which she’ll probably do once she marries that jerk.”

  Well, fancy that, Karen Holloway and I agreed on something.

  She continued, “Why is everybody so interested in Cordelia and her will? Don’t you want to hear how much money you’ve cost me? How about a little compensation?”

  “Who’s everybody?”

  “Korby and some friends of his. Some cop who kept trying to pick me up. All during lunch. It really got pretty boring.”

  “Some cop?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Captain, somebody. Or was it Lieutenant? Maybe Sergeant. I never pay attention to stuff like that. He did most of the talking, since Korby was on the phone half the time.”

  “On the phone?”

  “Sure, he always has a phone around. What do you care?”

  A lot. I cared a lot. “Who was he talking to? Did you catch any names?”

  “No, I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “Milo?” I persisted. “Any chance he mentioned that name?”

  “Maybe,” Karen answered as she leaned in closer. “There was some M name. Oh, I know, that’s what Korby calls his pilot. For his private plane. But his lawyer was explaining the paperwork to me then.” Her hand brushed against my knee.

  I was so busy trying to figure out Korby’s interest in all this, that it took me a while to catch on that Karen was propositioning me. But I wanted more information, so I had to play along for a while.

  “What paperwork?”

  “Just an agreement that if something happens to Cordelia that I’ll sell to Mr. Korby. He even paid me five thousand for it. Didn’t make sense to me, but he said he had developed quite an affection for One Hundred Oaks.” Now her knee was pressing against mine. “My car’s parked on the street out back.”

  “Where…?” I started.

  “Middle of the block,” she answered with a smile.

  “Where’s Cordelia now? Do you know?”

  “Out at the house sorting through all that old junk. What’s-his-name is out there with her. Korby wanted to know that, too. Why’s everybody so interested in Cordelia these days?”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What I just told you. He seemed very anxious to get in touch with her.”

  I’ll bet. I didn’t like this one bit. “You have to excuse me for a minute. I have a few phone calls to make,” I said, starting to make my exit.

  “What about sex?” she inquired.

  “I’ll tell you what, Karen, buy me ten drinks in the next hour and it’ll be a possibility.”

  I quickly ducked into the crowd, hoping to be out of earshot when she caught my meaning. I got a couple of dollars’ worth of change from the bartender, then headed for the pay phone.

  First I tried Ranson, but I got no answer at either her home or office. I decided not to leave a message. I didn’t know who might be listening in. Then I got a handful of change and called out to One Hundred Oaks Plantation. The phone rang. And rang. It might be Thoreau and Cordelia having adequate sex and not wanting to be disturbed. But it might not.

  Where the hell was Hutch?

  I called Alex Sayers hoping that Ranson was with her. I could be interrupting sex all over southeast Louisiana.

  “No, Micky, I haven’t see or heard from her all day,” she answered in a sleepy voice. “Why, is something wrong?”

  “A hunch. It’s probably nothing. I left something at her apartment,” I finished up, evading her questions. It suddenly occurred to me that Ranson could be in trouble. Alex didn’t need to start worrying until there was something to definitely worry about. “Go back to sleep, Alex. I’m sorry I woke you for nothing.”

  “Okay, Micky. Good night. Oh, by the way, she liked the steps.” Alex hung up.

  I wandered over to Rosie, looking out the small window that she sat next to, wondering for the hundredth time where the hell Hutch was.

  Rosie and I chatted for a while, gossiping about karate—who had gotten what belt and who was sleeping with whom in class.

  I saw Hutch pull up. About time.

  If I hadn’t been watching, staring so intently out the window, I would have missed it. Hutch never got out of the car. A shadow passed between him and the street. When the shadow moved away, Hutch was slumped down in the seat. He could have been a drunk sleeping it off, save for that passing shadow.

  “Call the police and an ambulance, now!” I ordered Rosie. She looked at me for a moment like I had just said I was from Mars. “That man,” I pointed to Hutch, “is hurt. He needs help. Now. Call,” I demanded.

  The shadow was joined by some more shadows. They were coming down the street to the bar.

  “And don’t open the door. Those are not nice men.” I pointed out the window at the silent shadows.

  Rosie had already picked up the phone and was dialing 911. I slipped the bolt on the door, then moved back out of sight of the window. I couldn’t do anything for Hutch, except get myself killed, by going outside.

  Where the hell is Ranson? I thought angrily, moving farther back into the bar. Those men couldn’t go on a mad rampage, shooting everyone in the bar to get to me. I hoped. This was a raunchy lesbian bar. Who would miss a few dykes? And Ranson might have floated out to the Gulf by now. A wave of nausea swept over me. Damn it, Joanne, don’t die before I get a chance to apologize to you. Cordelia. Another wave of nausea hit me. Where were you the night all your friends got killed, Micky? Hanging out in a bar, getting drunk. No. No more ghosts.

  Luck, bad, would cause me to bump back into Karen. She was sitting on a bar stool with one foot stuck out to intercept me.

  “Actually, you were a pretty lousy fuck, Michele,” she said. “Worst one I can remember.”

  Karen had a car. Not that she would lend it to me at this point.

  “It’s true I never made your cunt turn green with envy,” I replied, “or at least food coloring, but I couldn’t have been your worst fuck. Not someone like you.” I got some small satisfaction out of her reaction. Half of her drink spilled down the front of her silk shirt.

  “That bitch! She told you, didn’t she?” Karen sputtered as she got up. “Where the fuck is she?”

  I shrugged.

  “Where’s Cheryl?” Karen demanded imperiously of the bartender. The bartender pointed off somewhere in the direction of the dance floor. Karen shot off in search of Cheryl, muttering obscenities. She left her purse dangling on the back of the bar stool.

  I casually leaned against the stool and asked the bartender for another drink. When she turned away to make it, my fingers were in Karen’s purse. It was one of those small fashionable ones and the keys were the largest item in it.

  I got my drink, left a big tip, and headed for the back of the bar. I took one sip of the drink, then put it down. I didn’t need it.

  I went into the bathroom. There was a small window over one of the stalls. There was a line of about three or four women waiting to use the toilet and a couple of hand washers. I didn’t have time to wait for it to clear out.

  “Shit!” I exclaimed. “There’s a rat crawling across the ceiling! Two of them! One’s falling.” You would have to be butcher than butch to risk a rat in your hair. Both the stall doors flew open. I had found Cheryl for Karen. She jumped out, rabbit fashion with her pants down around her ankles. The bathroom cleared out quickly.

  I jumped onto the toilet that Cheryl had just been using. Then put one foot on top of the tank. With a fairly long stretch and a jump, I got my other foot on the metal partition. From there I could reach the window. It was small and covered with metal grating, but latched, not locked. I pushed it open, hoping that the goon squad hadn’t thought to cover the back. I heaved myself through, then dropped down between trash cans in the alley. So far, so good. I scurried through the alley, keeping low. A siren wailed in the distance. Get here in time for Hutch, I told it.

  No shadows appeared on the street. I made a run for Karen’s car. A red BM
W is easy to spot, no time spent hunting for the right car to steal.

  I got in, started it, and drove off. The siren got louder, then receded as I drove away.

  I kept a lookout for any tails, but I doubted they would expect me to be driving an expensive red car.

  I made a quick swing by my place to get a few things. My gun, for one. I tried Ranson again. Still no answer. I left a message, “Hi, gone fishing. See you upriver.” I hoped she got it. I tried Cordelia’s apartment. No answer.

  Then I called Danny, hoping she was back. Elly answered and told me that she was still in Baton Rouge but would be back in the morning.

  “I don’t want to sound too melodramatic, Elly, but if you don’t hear from me by then, tell Danny to get the police out to One Hundred Oaks Plantation.”

  “Micky, what’s going on?” she asked, sounding worried.

  “I’m playing a hunch. It might be nothing,” I said. “You’ll probably hear from me in an hour and Danny will wring my neck for worrying you.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Read a good book.”

  “Call soon,” she said. I rang off.

  I tried both of Cordelia’s numbers again. No answer and no answer.

  I hoped I was wrong. That all this was a bad dream that I would soon wake up from.

  I got back into Karen’s car and started driving. I only went below the speed limit at red lights and stop signs.

  Every time I had come out here it had been a nightmare. First Barbara, then Frankie. “Not Cordelia,” I said aloud to the night. “Not her. No more sacrifices.” “As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, they kill us for sport”—the line came out of nowhere. King Lear. Cordelia had died in King Lear.

  I drove even faster. It was only forty minutes, but it seemed an age before the gates of One Hundred Oaks Plantation loomed before me. I turned in, still going faster than I should.

  Then there was the house, quiet and calm, a few lights on. Cordelia’s car was out front, but hers was the only one. I felt a tremendous sense of relief. I had been a paranoid fool and I was very glad of it.

  I thought about turning around, not even saying anything. I also thought of waiting hidden on the grounds like some guardian angel sent to protect Cordelia James. But I didn’t think I would be a very good angel. I decided the only thing to do was knock on the door and try to explain why I thought she might be in danger and what I thought she should do about it. I could see her standing there, probably in a robe, with a look of bemused tolerance on her face as I made a great fool out of myself.

  Then I remembered the shadow passing by Hutch. And Frankie. And Barbara. I no longer felt so foolish.

  I pounded loudly with the big brass ram’s head knocker. I banged it again when I got no response. This is a big house and she’s probably sound asleep, I told myself. I pounded again. Then I tried the door. It was unlocked.

  “Cordelia,” I called as I entered. “Cordelia,” I yelled again.

  Something touched my temple. Something cold and metal. The barrel of a gun.

  How comforting to know I was right after all.

  Goon boy the third quickly patted me down and found my gun, then motioned me in front of him. He grunted directions at me and pointed me toward the ugly parlor where I had given Ignatious Holloway the film.

  Alphonse Korby was there, sitting as if he already owned the plantation, along with my old friend Milo, and assorted goons and thugs. Off in one corner, looking pale and drawn, was Cordelia. Thoreau was sitting next to her.

  “Miss Knight,” Korby said. “How nice of you to visit us. It saves us the time and expense of having to find you.”

  “Anything to oblige a faithful family friend and respected businessman like yourself,” I replied. “Not to mention anti-drug campaigner.”

  “Don’t push your luck, Miss Knight,” he responded, evidently not liking my greeting.

  “Why? Will I get two bullets instead of one?”

  “Micky, oh, Micky,” Cordelia said, shaking her head. “Why are you here?” But she knew why I was here.

  “I was actually headed for Biloxi but I took a wrong turn.”

  “You ain’t going to be laughing very long,” Milo opined.

  “You two know each other?” said a man who had had his back to me when I entered. He indicated Cordelia and me.

  “We’ve met,” I replied coolly, not wanting to give anything away. I looked at him, that handsome smiling face. “Raul Lafitte, police informant. How much do you get paid to be a murderer?” I taunted him.

  He jerked up. “Keep talking, Micky” he replied, his smile back in place. “It’s too late to do you any good.”

  “Maybe. You’re not as clever as you think. I’ve had you figured for a while now.” I was lying.

  “How?” he demanded.

  “Women’s intuition,” I answered.

  “Miss Knight,” Korby said, “I would be interested in that information. Please tell us how you know Mr. Lafitte’s identity.”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Milo, I am in no mood for Miss Knight’s jocularity. Convince her to answer the question.” Korby had the emotional responses of a lizard. His heavy-lidded eyes seemed to never blink.

  Milo grinned. He motioned for two of the goon squad to grab my arms.

  “No,” Cordelia protested, standing up. “Don’t hit her.”

  “Beating helpless women.” Thoreau backed her up.

  “This babe ain’t helpless,” Milo commented, still grinning.

  “Frankie Fitzsimmons told me,” I answered. “Just before he died. You know, like in all those old movies.” I was stalling to buy time, not out of any desire to get my face beaten in.

  “I see you’re going to be a good girl,” Korby said. “Now, tell us who you passed that information on to.”

  I pretended to think for a minute.

  “Everyone,” I answered. “People I passed on the street. The deli lady. At least three different winos…”

  “Milo,” Korby interjected, “it’s late.”

  “…and everybody I know on the police force and at the D.A.’s office.”

  “Names, please,” Korby asked.

  “They’ll be here soon. You can meet them,” I said, hoping it was true.

  “Joanne Ranson, Hutch Mackenzie, at best,” Lafitte supplied. “It didn’t get beyond them. I had Ranson’s line bugged. She’s a lesbian, isn’t she?” he asked with a salacious expression.

  “Joanne?” I didn’t want to play his game. “I’ve been trying to get her in bed for years, but there have always been too many men around for me to even get a chance. How many times did she turn you down?”

  “The D.A.’s office, Miss Knight? Please explain,” Korby asked, evidently not interested in Joanne’s sex life. Lafitte had obviously propositioned her and she had just said no.

  “A bluff,” I replied. I was not going to give away Danny.

  “That’s not a satisfactory answer, I’m afraid. Milo, jog Miss Knight’s memory.”

  “I always forget things when I get punched. Particularly names,” I quickly told him. I guess he didn’t believe me.

  Milo hit me in the stomach, hard enough to double me over. I had tightened my stomach muscles, like you’re supposed to, but it didn’t seem to help much. In karate we would occasionally have classes in which you would stand still and let another person hit you. The idea was to find out what it felt like to be hit and to learn that you could take a punch.

  Milo belted me again in the stomach.

  No one in karate had ever hit as hard as he did. The blow staggered me. I would have fallen if the two thugs weren’t holding my arms.

  “No! Stop it! You bastard!” Cordelia yelled.

  She jumped between me and Milo. One of the nameless goons grabbed her arm to pull her away, but she wrenched free from him.

  “How dare you! My grandfather was your friend. At a time when a lot of people weren’t. You’ll never get this property if you
hit her again,” she spat at Korby.

  “I’m sorry this distresses you, my dear. But I’m afraid some unpleasantness is required by the situation. However, if you can convince your friend to tell us what she knows, perhaps we can avoid the worst of it,” Korby spoke in his lizard-like tone.

  “Let me talk to her alone,” Cordelia asked.

  “That’s not possible. You have a minute. Do your best,” Korby finished.

  Cordelia turned to face me. I tried to stand up straight for her sake. My arms were still being held.

  “Let her go,” she said, but the order didn’t come from Milo or Korby, so the goons ignored it. “Micky…I’m sorry you’re here.” Then she stopped, just looking into my eyes. “I’m sorry,” she shook her head. She reached out and touched my cheek briefly, an aborted gesture in front of all these onlookers.

  “Time’s up. Milo, continue,” Korby ordered.

  “No!” Cordelia protested, but two thugs muscled her away. “Damn you!” she cried, still struggling.

  Milo hit me again, this time on the jaw. I felt the stinging smart of a cut lip and blood started dripping down my chin.

  “Frankie told me some other things, too,” I said, spitting out blood. Milo moved back, waiting for me to talk. “He told me how you liked to dress up with him, Milo. He said you were pretty good at it and that you really liked lacy, pink bras.”

  “You fucking dyke,” he exploded, hitting me in the stomach and the chest in quick succession. But he was angry and sloppy and he got a little too close. They weren’t holding my legs. I kicked him as hard as I could in the balls. He bent over, grabbing his groin. I kicked again, before the goons holding me could react. Milo wouldn’t be punching me anymore. At least one of his hands had to be broken.

  I got hit between the shoulder blades with the butt of a pistol for my efforts. The second blow knocked the air out of my lungs. I hung suspended between the two men, a sharp, mounting pain in my back. Suddenly they let go of me and I fell heavily to the floor. I lay there, gasping for breath, like a fish in the sand.

  “Easy,” Cordelia knelt beside me. She had broken away from whoever was holding her. “Relax, if you can.” She put her hand on the back of my neck, calming me enough to get my breath. “Tell them,” she said. “They’ll kill you if you don’t.”