She was so frightened she didn’t know what to do. She had no money, no friends, no one to help her, nowhere to go. No choice.
She gave in and told him she’d work for him.
He’d done the same with Katy. Her friend had told her about it when they’d steal time together to talk about their families and how homesick they were. They had a lot in common.
But now Katy was gone. She’d been missing for three weeks. Eileen knew something had happened to her. He’d done something to her. She didn’t know why, but she thought she might find a clue in his office.
She was at the top of the stairs now and no one had seen her. Luck was with her. Maybe. She crept down the hall to the richly carved oaken door with the golden handle.
Holding her breath, she clasped the handle and pushed. The door opened and she stepped inside.
It was dark, empty.
She breathed out her relief and inhaled the musty, close odor of the space. There was a lamp near the door. She dared to switch it on and stood there a moment, blinking in the light as her eyes adjusted to it.
The carpet beneath her was thicker than any other on the boat and blood red. There were pictures on the walls of snakes. But the décor was even more rich and decadent than the rest of the boat. Beside her stood a beautiful bookcase filled with historic pictures of the city in bronze frames. And books. Lots of books. As she studied the titles, she saw they were all about snakes.
There was another bookcase and a credenza along the far wall with a large glass case on top of it.
Then she caught sight of his desk along the far wall. It made her breath catch. It was a gorgeous piece, like something a French prince would own, with several types of wooden inlays and pretty carved edges. A silver tufted executive chair sat behind the desk, adding to the sense of awe it aroused in her.
She took a step forward and something in the glass case moved. She froze. She saw another movement and heard the sound of a rattle.
Holding her breath, she peered into the case. Something was moving in it, slithering over a bed of wood chips. It was long and thick as her fist. Brown and black with rows of white dots etching out a diamond pattern.
Of course. The Eastern diamondback. The rattlesnake they said he kept in here. He called it Beelzebub.
So the rumors were true.
She dared another step toward the desk, and it lunged at her, tongue flicking.
She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. Only the glass had saved her from being bitten. Her heart was pounding, but she couldn’t stop now. She had to see what he had in that desk.
Swallowing down her fear, she forced herself to tiptoe over to it. Papers were strewn over the top. She came around to the chair to get a better look at them, but it was too dark. There was an old-fashioned green lamp on the desk. She dared to turn it on.
Now she could see what it was.
A newspaper from Atlanta. It was open to an article. Quickly she scanned the text. A story about a man on Death Row, about to be executed. Why was he reading that?
This wouldn’t help her. There had to be something hidden in his desk. A record of his employees, the revenue each of them had brought in. What would he have said about Katy May? Surely he would have said something about why the money had stopped, even if it was just a vague note to himself.
And what would she do if she found it? Go to the police? He didn’t like his girls talking to the police. It was forbidden.
She went through the first drawer. Pencils, pens, cigars. Another drawer. Notepad, blank paper, a lace kerchief. Nothing like what she was looking for. She glanced up at the door. She didn’t have long before everyone would be awake.
One more drawer. Biting her lip, she dared to open it.
There was nothing inside except a book. A book with a red leather cover embossed with intricate patterns. It was fastened around the middle with a strip of matching cord. She pulled it out, loosened the cord and opened it.
On the first page she turned to was a long list of hand written dates and dollar amounts. It was a ledger book. Baptiste must be keeping a private record of income and expenses. Probably from his girls. Maybe she could find out something about Katy May in this book.
She turned a few more pages, but there were just more lists. She couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Besides, the dates told her these records were from long ago. She was just about to put the book back when she turned another page.
Suddenly the numbers turned to notes. Scribblings Baptiste must have made. His opinions about people she didn’t know. Someone name Edger who wasn’t trustworthy. A girl he called Lazy Lucy. He didn’t like her at all. A bartender he was getting ready to fire.
She turned another page and her heart stopped.
What she saw on the page wasn’t what she’d hoped for. It wasn’t about Katy May. It was about his mother. Several pages of it. And it was worse. Much, much worse.
Sinking down into the chair, she read it all.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A little after eight, Miranda startled awake feeling as if snakes had been crawling over her all night long.
More bad dreams. She didn’t remember them and didn’t have time for psychoanalyzing them anyway. She got out of bed and hurried to the desk where Parker’s computer sat.
The search was still running. No results yet.
She sank into the chair and put her head in her hand.
“What’s wrong?” Parker asked, sitting up on the bed. He looked like he’d been awake a while and had been lying there mulling things over.
She waved a hand at the screen. “Your search hasn’t found anything.”
His face turned dark. “I know. I checked it a few minutes ago. I didn’t expect much from it. There isn’t enough time.”
That was their problem. Not enough time. “I’ll call Becker and have him take it over.”
She hopped up, found her cell and put in the call. Then she knocked on Wesson’s door to rouse her. “Rise and shine, sleepy head. We’ve got work to do.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” came the mournful reply.
They pulled on clothes, collected Wesson, took the elevator down to the lobby and got into the car. The air was so muggy it steamed up the windows.
In the backseat Wesson fanned herself. “Are you sure it’s October? It feels like ninety-five back here.”
Parker turned up the A/C and the defrost. “Welcome to the deep, deep South.”
He drove around to the old town square, parked the car in a lot, and soon they were sitting in a sidewalk café eating beignets and drinking strong coffee. Miranda hoped the fried dough and caffeine would spark her gray matter to life. They needed all the brain power they could get right now.
“What’s the plan for today, Steele?” Wesson asked.
Oh, yeah. She was still in charge. Miranda shot Parker a dirty look. But he only smiled at her with a confident grin.
She took a sip of coffee. “What do you suggest?”
Wesson chewed thoughtfully on her second beignet. “We could go to the police department near Rossette’s old house. They must be open now.”
“We probably wouldn’t get any farther than we did at the one last night.” Miranda played with the powdered sugar on her plate with her fork. “Our problem is we don’t know anything about this Evangeline Rossette, except that she was Clarence Boudreaux’s mother.”
Wesson wagged her fork at her. “You’re right, Steele. After all, who was she? A barmaid? A prostitute? A nurse in a hospital?”
Miranda turned to Parker. “Do you remember Clarence’s father mentioning anything about his first wife?”
Parker gazed across the street where a row of red-topped mule-drawn carriages waited to take tourists around the square and beyond. She could see he was searching his memory banks, reliving once more the times he had spent with the young Clarence and his family.
But finally he shook his head. “I never knew she existed. And as you know, neither did Clar
ence.”
Devoid of ideas, Miranda eyed the two stories of filigree and hanging ferns making up the balconies along the orange brick building across the street. Down below, artists were lining up easels along a wrought-iron fence bordering a city park.
Wrought-iron, outdoor cafes, outdoor painters. This place reminded her too much of Paris and the terrible things she’d experienced there. They’d nearly lost Becker. The memory unsettled her.
Focus, she told herself. Think. “Rossette must have frequented this area. It seems like everybody’s here.”
“It’s likely,” Parker agreed. “The locals come here as often as the tourists do.”
“And if she’s still here, she might frequent it now.”
Wesson swallowed the last bite of her beignet. “What are you mulling over, Steele?”
Miranda sat back and studied the square. She had an idea, but she decided to check it first. She turned to Parker. “What are your thoughts?”
His gaze scanned the square, the shops, the crowds already gathering. “Evangeline Rossette, if still living, would be in her early sixties. We know she lived in this area when she was in her early twenties.”
“Four decades ago.”
“Correct. This is the oldest neighborhood in the city. It dates back to the early seventeen hundreds. It has scores of old shops, perhaps with old clerks or owners with long memories. Surely someone can remember back a few decades.”
Exactly what had been going through her mind. They were in synch.
Wesson’s eyes brightened. “It makes sense. If Evangeline Rossette used to live in the French Quarter—or still does—someone around here might remember her and her boy.”
“Right. So we fall back on good old fashioned detective work.”
Parker nodded his approval. “It’s as good a plan as any. Shall we split up?”
He was still leaving the decisions to her. Ugh. She thought a moment. She didn’t want to leave Wesson on her own. Wesson might be ready for that, but she wasn’t. But they still needed to cover as much ground as possible.
She pointed toward a distant flagpole. “You take that side of the street. Wesson and I will go that way.” She indicated the area near the orange building.
“Excellent idea.” He rose and laid bills on the table.
She thought about the records he’d found. “Do you have the address of the apartment where Evangeline lived with Armand when they were first married? It was around here, wasn’t it?”
His eyes twinkled with pride, telling her he’d already thought of that. “I do. It’s in the direction I’ll be heading. I’ll check it out. Let’s meet for lunch in a few hours and compare notes.”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
With a half-hopeful smile he turned and strolled away with that casual gait of his. The backside of his sexy form in his snug polo shirt and designer jeans made her heart squeeze.
“You’re a lucky woman, Steele,” Wesson said without a tinge of envy as she gathered her things.
“Yeah, you’re right.” She pushed up. “C’mon. Let’s get going. We’ll see who comes up with something first.”
“Girls against the guy. I’m in.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
They headed across the street from the café, then down Decatur. Miranda thought about stopping everyone who passed one-by-one, but that seem counterproductive.
The warm, moist air was filled with the smell of delicious foods from the restaurants, mixed with the odor of mule droppings from the carriages. It was a strange place, and a strange place to be from. So what type of person did that make Evangeline Rossette? Other than someone who left her husband with only one of her twin sons for reasons unknown, it was impossible to tell.
Bluesy music spewed out onto the street from a corner bar with flashing pink lights. The singer was a woman wailing something in French, no doubt about some heartbreak from some guy who had dumped her. Mint Juleps were the specialty here.
“Let’s try that place,” she said to Wesson.
“It’s as good as any.”
They stepped inside and saw the bar was half-empty. After all, it was only nine-thirty in the morning. There were several tables of couples who looked like tourists. Another with a group of young women who looked like real estate agents having a business meeting.
In a round booth in the far corner three older men in T-shirts, shorts and tennis shoes sat, nursing tall colorful glasses. A big black guy, an even larger white guy with swirly tattoos along both arms, and a thin, long-bodied man with leathery skin and long string gray hair down his back.
Could be friends of a sixty-plus-year-old woman. She gave Wesson a nudge and headed for them.
The skinny one looked up from his drink as they approached. “Oh, hoh! Look here, my friends,” he said in a thick Cajun accent. “Two beautiful women have come to see me today. What can I do for you ladies?”
“Are you a local, sir?” Wesson said.
He chuckled loudly. “She calls me sir. See? I command respect.”
This brought on hoots from his friends.
“Are you?” Miranda said to the chunky guy with the tattoos.
He gestured to his friends. “Why, yes. We have lived here all our lives. But life is always better with a beautiful woman to drink with.”
Annoyed with the flirting, Miranda pulled out her card and handed it to the skinny dude. “We’re from the Parker Investigative Agency. We’re on a case and we haven’t got much time.”
“You have time enough for a drink with Francois. Come, sit down.” He moved over to make room.
The big white guy pointed at Wesson. “And you come sit here with me, cher. No?” He scooted over and patted the booth next to him.
Wesson blushed. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Ignoring the come on, Miranda remained standing. “We’re wondering if any of you know or knew a woman named Evangeline Rossette.”
“Evangeline Rossette,” the man named Francois repeated, rolling the syllables around on his tongue as if he were sucking candy. “What a pretty name.”
“She would be about sixty-three years old now.”
“I like an older woman. But one your age will do, as well.” He reached around to Miranda’s backside and pinched her butt.
That was enough. She grabbed his arm, squeezed it hard and brought it around his back. “If I were you, I’d watch where you put that hand, bud.” If he kept this up, she’d get him on the ground next and put him in a headlock.
“Navré, navré,” he cried out, more stunned than in pain. “I apologize. I meant no harm. I was only having a little fun.”
She let him go while his friends guffawed at him.
The black man waved a thick hand toward Francois. “Answer the ladies’ question, couillon.”
Francois’s gray brows drew together as if he were sobering a bit. “A woman named Evangeline Rossette? Can you tell me more about her?”
She couldn’t tell him much. “She would have had a son with her. She left her husband forty-two years ago with him. He was only one year old at the time. He would be forty-three now.”
“Forty-two years ago?”
“They lived in the French Quarter then. Might still live here.”
Francois’s shaggy gray brows rose. “What did she do? Murder someone?”
“We’re not sure.”
He thought a while, then shook his head. “I am sorry. I do not recall anyone like that. Or perhaps I should say too many women might fit that description.”
This was a bust. Francois’s brain was too filled with brandy and booze. He had her card, but she wasn’t going to tell him to call her if he thought of anything.
“Thank you for your time.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to have a drink with us?” He started to raise his arm.
“We’re sure.” Before he could grab her again, she turned and hurried out the door with Wesson.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“That
was cool, Steele,” Wesson said when they were back on the sidewalk. “The way you handled that guy, I mean.”
Miranda shrugged. “You could have done the same.” Wesson had had the same training Miranda did. At least at the Agency.
“I’ve never taken on a guy in a bar before.”
“It’s not so hard.”
“Still, it was cool.”
“Thanks.” Miranda spotted a quaint little shop with a blue awning and a lot of gold on display in the window. “Let’s try in here.”
“Love to.”
Wesson had to be into jewels.
They spoke to two of the clerks and the owner, who happened to be in the back, but none of them could remember anyone named Evangeline Rossette or her son. Miranda led Wesson back outside. They talked to several artists with their colorful portraits lined up against the iron gate, but none of them had heard of Evangeline either.
They headed around a corner. Someone was playing zydeco music here. They passed a boy tap dancing for tips. He was too young to have known Evangeline Rossette, but she and Wesson tossed some change into his hat.
She by-passed the bar touting sixteen ounce beers and headed instead for a cigar shop with bright green doors. Inside the cramped space the smell of cherry flavored tobacco was thick as Miranda questioned a man on a stool who must have been at least seventy.
“I knew an Evangeline once.”
Miranda’s hopes rose. “Really? Do you know where she is now?”
“No, no. That was Adeline. I get them confused.”
He couldn’t remember any more.
Back out on the street, Miranda felt stymied. “If only we had something to show them.”
Wesson agreed. “Even an old picture of Evangeline. Something.”
She stopped in her tracks. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“If her boy was Dr. Boudreaux’s identical twin, he would look like him.”
Wesson frowned. “We don’t have a photo of Dr. Boudreaux when he was a boy, do we?”
“We’ve got one from ten years ago in the case file. I’ll have Becker scan it and send it to my phone.”
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