Roy turned onto St. Charles Avenue. “Oh, let’s see. She’d probably say Sophronie was a stunning Spanish Creole woman, that she succeeded two earlier wives who died of yellow fever. New Orleanians loved her, but they thought her husband was graceless, obstinate, and stupid.”
Pete laughed. “Don’t tell me you play the role of the governor.”
Roy laughed louder. “I don’t need to play the role. The real me is already graceless and obstinate. Matter of fact, a neighbor called me dumber than shit for betting on Stormy Gate to win the Derby. I read an article that said the owner is on the Forbes list of billionaires, and he’s from Kentucky.”
“Yeah. Elliott Fraser. That’s who we work for,” Pete said.
“No shit? Well, do you think Stormy Gate will win the Belmont and Preakness?”
“Hell, yeah,” Pete said. “He’ll be MacKlenna Farms’ third Triple Crown winner. We’re looking forward to the victory parties.”
“So how’d Fraser get so rich? I doubt it was from racing Thoroughbreds. That’s a pretty risky business.”
“Elliott has a plaque in his office that asks: ‘How do you make a small fortune in horses?’”
“Start with a large one?” Roy guessed.
“You got it.” Pete and Roy did a quick fist bump. “As for who he is…” Pete said. “If you ask him to talk about himself, he’ll say he’s a baby boomer creeping toward his life expectancy. But that’s bullshit. He’ll outlive all of us.”
“He got rich on Apple stock,” Rick said. “He liked the thought of Apple feeding him in his old age since he’d fed so many apples to his horses.”
Pete turned and glanced at Rick. “Is that true?”
“I don’t know. I heard it from McBain years ago. You tell me.”
Roy pulled to the curb in front of a two-story Victorian mansion with a double portico. “Beautiful home,” Rick said. “If it’s been sitting empty for seven years, somebody has been taking care of it.”
“Mr. Fontenot’s board of directors hired a caretaker to live on the premises. I’ve only been inside once to attend a cocktail party for the reenactment committee the year before they disappeared. At that time, the house was filled with art, antiques, and oriental rugs. Mrs. Fontenot’s aunt, Rose Catherine Arées, was an artist, and most of the paintings were hers. She was well-known in artistic circles.”
Rick returned the folder of photographs to Roy. “The topaz brooch looks Gaelic. Do you have any information on where it came from?”
“Clovis Thompson, the auctioneer who sold the brooch to Ms. Malone, said she asked about the brooch’s provenance. He didn’t know anything. Since it was important to Ms. Malone to know where the brooch came from, it’s important to us,” Roy said. “But—”
“Not important enough to track down?” Rick asked.
Roy glanced in the rearview mirror again. “If you could see the open cases on my desk, you’d understand why I don’t have time to tie off the ends of every thread pulled in a case unless I’m convinced it’ll lead to a conviction. Same with the detectives working this case. The same piece of jewelry found at the site of two disappearances is curious, I admit, but it won’t help find Ms. Malone.”
“We don’t have to see your stack,” Pete said. “We were detectives in New York City.”
“So,” Rick said, “you’re positive the brooch Billie bought at the sale was the same brooch found when the Fontenots disappeared? There’s no second brooch?”
“As far as we know, there’s only one,” Roy said.
Rick unbuckled his seat belt and tried to open the door. “You’ll have to let me out.”
Roy opened the door. “Watch your head.”
Rick ducked at the last second. “Thanks for the warning.”
He stood on the sidewalk and scanned the house, yard, and street. As a former Marine, he’d been to hellholes, shitholes, and outhouses all around the world. He’d seen the other side, too, and had slept and eaten in dozens of five-star hotels and restaurants in North and South America, Asia, Australia, Africa, and Europe.
And here he was in New Orleans, his first trip.
From the normal traffic noises, kids playing in swimming pools, and a loud lawnmower trimming the lawn next door, it could be any street in America. Except this one had grand live oaks and stately mansions. And it also had an electric streetcar rolling down the center of St. Charles, charming customers with mahogany seats, brass fittings, and exposed light bulbs. It all symbolized the charm and romance of the city. Yeah, he’d read the promo, and from what he could see, the city deserved its reputation and global allure. Well, he hadn’t eaten the food yet or heard any jazz, so he’d hold off writing his review on Travelocity until after supper.
Rick pointed to the For Sale sign. “How much are they asking for this mansion?”
Roy joined him on the sidewalk. “Four and a half million. You probably have that in a piggy bank.”
“Not me. And the jet belongs to the company,” Rick said.
Roy nudged him with his elbow. “After we talked on the phone, I read up on you. You’re Pat O’Grady, the author of those books with the all-conquering hero who strides through the Old West righting wrongs, defeating villains, and rescuing the helpless.”
“Shhh. I try to fly under the radar about that part of my life.” He had enjoyed writing under a pseudonym until Amber spilled the beans to Meredith. After that, he avoided hazing from Braham and Jack, the other writers in the family, by not talking about his writing success.
“I’ve read all of them,” Roy said. “My favorite parts are when your lead character channels his inner MacGyver, escapes the villain, and rescues the heroine.”
Pete howled. “It’s all crap. Half the stuff he writes wouldn’t work in real life.”
Rick was immediately defensive. “What the hell are you talking about? My consultant runs all my MacGyver tricks through a computer program that rates the probability of success. I never include any tricks that fall below seventy-five percent.”
Pete laughed even louder. “You need a new consultant. McBain’s books appear on all the best-selling lists, and he doesn’t want more competition.”
“We don’t have the same fan base.”
Pete couldn’t stop laughing as he pushed open the wrought iron gate and walked through. “Is that what McBain tells you?”
Rick scowled at Pete, then he shot a steely glance at Roy. “See what you started? That’s why I keep my writing quiet.”
“Well, I’ll continue to read them, even if you jump the shark in your next book. You can count on me.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Rick climbed the steps, feeling the give on the bottom one. The caretaker was neglecting his job. “So why hasn’t this house sold? Is it the price?”
“From what I hear, when potential buyers discover it’s the Fontenots’ house, they cancel appointments to see it. Many people still believe they’ll come back, and nobody wants to be living here if they show up on the front porch.”
“Makes sense to me,” Pete said. “It would give me the heebie-jeebies to think they could reappear and expect to live in their house again.”
Roy reached for the handle to the screen door. “There’s also a problem with a strange odor in the house. Ms. Bradshaw said she and Ms. Malone both complained about it.”
“Like what?” Rick asked.
Roy held open the door for Pete and Rick to enter, and he followed behind them. “According to Ms. Bradshaw, it was an earthy smell, like the door to the cellar was left open, but the cellar is only accessible through an outside entrance.”
“They need to get an environmentalist to figure out where the smell is coming from,” Rick said. “Once a house gets a black mark like that, it’s much harder to sell. My brother spent a year hunting for a ranch in Colorado. He heard story after story about mysterious sightings and odors that kept properties from being sold.”
Roy let the screen door snap shut behind them. “The Marriott might never r
ent the room Ms. Malone was using because of the odor. Ms. Bradshaw said it was the same smell in the Fontenots’ house.”
“Did she have an explanation for why the smell followed Ms. Malone back to her room?” Rick asked.
“Ms. Bradshaw said the odor was in the jewelry box. Since it was left open, she wasn’t surprised the stink permeated the room.”
Rick wasn’t surprised the smell was in the hotel room. The fog always smelled that way, but why was it still in the house if the Fontenots disappeared seven years ago? If it was in the jewelry box, maybe it had always been left open.
Roy consulted a note he pulled out of his pocket. “I’ll go find the agent who’s working the sale. Be right back.”
Rick turned his back to the hallway and whispered, “Sophia’s brooch turned what we knew about them upside down. Now Billie’s is messing with us again. We’ve got to get out of this business.”
Pete replied with a nod and an eye roll. “We’re in too far to get out.”
Roy returned to the foyer. “The auctioneer, Clovis Thompson, is on the phone. He’ll be here in a minute or two.”
Rick took out a small notepad and pen from his sport jacket’s inner pocket and flipped the pad open to check the notes he’d written earlier. “Did Ms. Bradshaw say how long she and Billie were together on Saturday?”
“Ms. Bradshaw said she chased Ms. Malone through the convention center because her phone was turned off. When she finally caught up with her, Ms. Malone invited Ms. Bradshaw to go to the estate sale with her. That would give them time to discuss what they were going to talk about at their afternoon session.”
“What time was that?”
“About noon,” Roy said.
“Did they Uber, take a taxi, ride the streetcar?”
“They took a taxi here and an Uber back. When they returned to the hotel, they had an hour before their session started. Ms. Bradshaw wanted lunch, and Ms. Malone returned to her room to make calls and check emails.”
“Do you know what they talked about?” Rick asked.
“According to the detective in charge, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary—their catering businesses, the convention, a tour of Chalmette Battlefield, drinking wine by the pool. All rather innocent. Ms. Bradshaw is still at the hotel and is available to answer more questions.”
“I don’t see Billie visiting a battlefield. She saw plenty of those in Afghanistan.”
“The convention organizers scheduled free time for the attendees to tour the city. The Chalmette Battle Tour and River Cruise is one of the most popular.”
A man in his fifties with a careful combover introduced himself and handed out business cards. “I assume you’re here about the disappearance of Ms. Malone. I told the detective who was here earlier everything I remember.”
“Would you mind telling us what you told him? Sometimes telling it again triggers a memory,” Rick said.
There was no defensiveness in his voice when he said, “Sure. No problem. Ms. Malone showed interest in a set of china and silver flatware. Another agent quoted the prices for both, and she asked if the china was negotiable. The agent told her if she was interested in both the china and flatware, he’d be able to make a deal. She insisted the flatware was too expensive. At that point, the two women left the dining room and went upstairs, where they found some antique jewelry.
“When they came back downstairs, we haggled until we reached an amount for the set of china, the brooch, and a jewelry box full of cufflinks. They completed the sale and left, but Ms. Malone returned a few minutes later and asked if I knew the history of the brooch. I told her I didn’t. She also asked for the owners’ contact information so she could call them about the brooch’s history. I told her they had been missing for seven years and were recently declared legally dead. And that was it.”
“I heard there were complaints about an odor in the house. Could you describe that?” Pete asked.
“It was an earthy smell.” Clovis sniffed and sniffed again. “Funny, but it’s gone now.”
“When did you notice it was gone?” Rick asked.
“Just now.” A look of surprise came over Clovis’s face, changing quickly to a delighted grin. “It started mysteriously and vanished mysteriously.”
“When did it start?” Rick asked.
“Yesterday, and we lost two potential buyers because of it.”
“So you smelled it for what? Twenty-four hours?” Rick asked.
“Something like that,” Clovis said. “I’m going to call the potential buyers and see if they’re still interested.” He pinched his nose, thinking. “On second thought, I’ll wait until tomorrow to be sure it’s gone.”
Rick reviewed his notepad again. “Was there anyone in the house who seemed to take an interest in Billie or Ms. Bradshaw, or even the brooch?”
“There were a dozen customers here at the time interested in the antiques and paintings, but they didn’t buy anything.”
“Were they already here when Ms. Malone arrived?” Pete asked.
“I believe they were,” Clovis said.
“Did Ms. Malone show any interest in the art or antiques?” Rick asked.
Clovis shook his head. “Only the china, a silver service, and the brooch. Oh, and the cufflinks, but Ms. Bradshaw bought those. Ms. Malone drove a hard bargain, and I knew she’d walk away if I didn’t come close to her price. We both enjoyed the game.” He shook his head again. “I’m sick over her disappearance. She’s such a nice lady.”
“We’re doing everything we can to find her, Clovis, and you’ve been a great help. I believe we’re done,” Rick said. “Do you have any other questions, Pete?”
“Don’t believe I do.” Pete shook Clovis’s hand. “Thanks for your help. I hope you sell the house.”
Rick followed Pete and Roy down the sidewalk. Before he climbed back into the Ford, he stared at the house. Billie walked out of there with a piece of jewelry that changed the course of her life. Did she have any sense of what was to come? He shook off his apprehension and climbed into the car. If he wanted the answer, he’d have to find her. And damn it, they weren’t even close to figuring out where the fog took her.
“We don’t want to take up any more of your time,” Rick said to Roy. “I’d like to talk to Ms. Bradshaw. Do you have her number?”
“No, but I can get it. Do you want me to set something up?” Roy asked.
“Sure,” Rick said. “She might be anxious about meeting with strangers after what happened to Billie. An introduction would probably be helpful.”
“I’ll send a text to the detective in charge.” Roy typed a message, and a minute later, his phone pinged. “Got it.” He punched in a number. “Ms. Bradshaw, this is Detective Landry with the New Orleans Police Department. I’m with Rick O’Grady. He’s from Napa and knows Ms. Malone, and he’d like to meet with you if that’s possible.” Roy paused and then said, “Sure. He can be there in about fifteen minutes.” Roy concluded the call. “She’ll meet you in the hotel lobby.”
“Do you know what she looks like?” Pete asked.
Roy pulled the car away from the curb and made a U-turn. “From what I heard, she looks like Marilyn Monroe with a few extra pounds, and her husband is a Marine.”
“Sexy with a don’t-mess-with-me-attitude. Is that what you’re saying?” Rick asked.
Roy laughed. “They didn’t describe her that way, but having a Marine for a husband keeps guys from hitting on her.”
“A wedding ring usually works for me,” Rick said.
Roy looked in the rearview mirror. “You ever been married?”
Damn, that question hurt. “Never made that walk before.”
“What about your brothers?”
“Two are married, and one is still single,” Rick said.
“Leave me Connor’s phone number? I want to catch up with him.”
“Sure.” Rick pulled out a business card, wrote Connor’s phone number on the back, and passed it through the open partition
window. “Pete, would you put this on the console for Roy?”
Rick consulted his notepad again and jotted down a note about Morgan Bradshaw. “I think I met Morgan a few years ago when I was interviewing caterers for a big job at the winery. She was pregnant,” Rick said. “I would never admit this to anyone else, but her pregnancy concerned me. If she had the kid early, or God forbid, went into labor the night of the event, the entire evening could go to hell. And my neck would have been in a noose.”
Pete mimed a noose around his neck and gagged. “If Meredith hadn’t put it there, Elliott would have done it for sure. And I’m on your side, Rick. I would have hired a hot veteran over a pregnant Marilyn Monroe any day.”
“If you think you’re going to get back in my good graces after what you said earlier about my books, good luck with that.”
Pete laughed. “Man, you’re touchy.”
Roy turned onto Convention Center Boulevard. “I’ve got to get back to the Eighth District office, so I’ll drop you off at the hotel. If you want to meet later for drinks, call me.”
“Sounds good,” Pete said. “After we interview Ms. Bradshaw, we’ll catch up with Sophia at Jackson Square and then go from there. I’ll give you a call.”
After Roy drove away, Rick and Pete stood outside the Convention Center and compared notes before they went in to interview Morgan Bradshaw.
“I know the fog carried Billie off, but where she went is anybody’s guess.”
“Maybe Ms. Bradshaw has an idea,” Pete said.
“What are you going to do? Ask a hypothetical question? If Billie could go anywhere at any time, where would she go?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Pete said.
“Let’s play it by ear.”
They entered the hotel lobby, and Rick recognized Morgan Bradshaw, aka Marilyn Monroe, sitting alone in a quiet corner looking intently at her phone.
“Excuse me,” Rick said. “Morgan Bradshaw?”
She looked up and gave him a half-smile. “You’re Rick O’Grady. You might not remember me—”
The Topaz Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 10) Page 9