A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red Page 15

  I gathered up my clothes and opened my creaky door, wincing at the noise. The house was so old that there were no en suite bathrooms. Actually, it started out with no bathrooms at all, just an outhouse at the back of the courtyard. Thank goodness for plumbing.

  I crept into the guest bath, closed the door, and pulled back the shower curtain.

  Ah crap!

  Stevie was asleep in the tub. His gangly limbs hung over the side and his head was propped up against the faucet. I guess a guy like Stevie was used to sleeping in odd places. I left him there and went into Nana’s bathroom. I showered and dressed quickly, leaving my hair to dry in ringlets since using the dryer was asking for the guys to wake up.

  I found Chuck where I left him, but the mixing bowl was full. Gross. Since he was blocking the main door, I went to the front. That door opened onto the street, but nobody ever used it. I had to scoot a trunk out of the way to get to it, only to find it dead bolted by a key I didn’t have. Fantastic. I’d have to escape through a window. Not ideal, but I’d done it before. First, I tried the windows in Pop Pop’s room, but they squeaked so loud Chuck started to stir. I hoofed it upstairs and looked out my window. Full circle. I was destined to go out that window.

  I got out on the ledge and shinnied across to the garden wall. It was easier than it looked. No wonder Nana made a habit of it when she was a teenager. I stepped, lost my balance and caught myself on the branch of a live oak that was drooping over from the neighbor’s garden. When I looked back down at the wall, the cat was sitting directly in my path. He blinked his green eyes, but didn’t meow or purr or anything. He was so still, I began to wonder if he could make any noise at all. I didn’t relish stepping over him, since he probably had sharp claws and might take offense. But he just sat there and watched me tiptoe across the wall toward the servants’ quarters. The building butted up against it and I had to be careful. Once I got to the back courtyard, I could climb down the trellis next to the pool.

  The trellis looked sturdy so I headed straight for it when I heard whispering.

  So close.

  “Yes, it is,” said a woman in a British accent.

  “No, darling. I’m afraid not,” said a man, also British.

  “I’m telling you that I recognize her.”

  “You weren’t wearing your glasses.”

  “I was,” she said.

  “You weren’t. That’s why you nearly fell into the pool,” he said.

  “I tripped. It’s her.”

  I sighed and turned to see the older couple that I’d seen the day before, sitting at a table next to the pool. It didn’t occur to me that any of the guests would be up at seven, much less outside eating a full breakfast.

  “Hello,” I said with a limp wave.

  They said hello and waved back.

  “I’m not a burglar or anything. Don’t worry.”

  “We didn’t think you were,” said the woman. “You do seem to make a habit of this, I must say.”

  I walked along to the trellis and tested its bolts. Nice and secure. “A habit of what?”

  “Walking on the wall, naturally.”

  I looked up and frowned. The husband rolled his eyes and said, “I told her it wasn’t you on the wall last night, but will she listen?”

  “Wait. You saw someone on this wall last night?” I asked.

  “Are you saying it wasn’t you?” asked the woman.

  “It wasn’t me. What did they look like?”

  “You.”

  “No, it didn’t. It was a man,” said her husband as he got up and helped me down the trellis. The two of them introduced themselves as Bea and Jonas, Londoners on a tour of America. They went on to quibble about whether or not it was a man. Bea had no clue. But Jonas gave a description of what could’ve been a smallish man in a black hoodie and jeans at eleven last night when we were on Bourbon, belting out Bette Midler hits.

  I got a little dizzy when they said hoodie.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” asked Jonas.

  “Did you see where he went?” I asked.

  “He walked along the wall in the direction you came from and then he came back about ten minutes later. We were having a nice glass of wine right here and he didn’t see us.” Jonas sounded completely unperturbed by the situation. I was plenty perturbed. First, the hospital parking lot and now this.

  “See anything else odd?” I asked.

  “Odd?” asked Bea after sipping her tea.

  “Odd, like people climbing over the wall.”

  Jonas topped off his cup and added a lump of sugar. “Now that you mention it. We were getting ready to go out yesterday morning and I heard someone rattling the gate. It’s sturdy and didn’t give way.”

  “Did you see anyone?” I asked.

  “No. Only the other guests. Nice boy named Stevie asked me if I wanted some nice sausages, but we had reservations.”

  “Those sausages were disgusting. They stank up the entire courtyard,” said Bea.

  “You’re sure it wasn’t Stevie on the wall?” I asked.

  “No. Stevie’s taller,” said Bea. “It was a woman.”

  “It was not. That was a man, but not Stevie.”

  I got the key to the back gate out. “Why aren’t you worried about this?”

  Jonas shrugged. “We live in London. Nothing surprises us anymore.”

  I gave him Dad’s card and asked them both to keep an eye out. They never asked me why I was using the wall instead of the perfectly good walkway and I didn’t volunteer the information. I wasn’t sure what I would’ve said anyway. I left them to their traditional English fry-up. Where they got the black pudding would remain a mystery not worth solving. Millicent insisted I try the stuff when I was six on my first trip to London. If I try hard I can still taste it. I fear only senility can wipe that particular food memory away. That was one good thing about Aaron not being with me. He wouldn’t be inspired by the pudding and make it into a hot dog. Aaron could put anything into a hot dog, and I mean anything. The Christmas morning ham and chestnut dogs will live in infamy.

  I shook off that breakfast memory and headed down the street after I made sure no hooded strangers were lurking around. I’d packed my Mauser and some pepper spray, just to be on the safe side. Now it was smart, instead of just paranoia.

  The Ruby Slipper Cafe was open with no waiting. I requested a table with a good view of the street and smiled at the guys sitting at the table next to me. I recognized them from Bourbon. It was a Stag weekend and they didn’t look like they’d been back to their hotel yet. They each had a bloody mary and trembling hands.

  “Hey,” said the bridegroom, who was now wearing his shirt backwards. “Do you have any aspirin or maybe a handgun so I can blow my head off?

  I have both.

  “How about we skip the handgun for now.” I gave him my aspirin and the groom’s party divided the pills.

  “Weren’t you with some guys last night?” The best man belched. “How’d they get so lucky? We could barely get you to look at us.”

  The waitress brought me some more coffee, gave the groom’s men a disgusted look, and took my order. Tasso cream sauce. Thank you, Lord.

  “I know them,” I said. “Family friends.”

  “Are you sure about that?” asked the third groom’s men. He had a big three on his shirt. At least it looked like a three through the multiple layers of stains he added over the night.

  “Well, Chuck wasn’t my biggest fan last night.”

  “The cop,” said Number Two. “Yeah, he kept calling you ‘that woman.’”

  Number Three shook his head. “Not him. The other one.”

  “Stevie? I can’t explain it, but he likes me,” I said and it was true. Stevie did like me. Maybe all the times I’d tazed him had fried his tiny brain.

  “The skinny guy that sings like a chick?”

  “That’s him.”

  “No, I mean the other other one,” said Number Three.

  A little chill we
nt down my arms, raising the hairs to spikes. “I was only with two guys, Chuck the cop and Stevie the Bette Midler wannabe.”

  The groom’s mens’ brows furrowed.

  “Who was that other guy then?” asked the groom. “He was sticking with you like shit on a shoe.”

  “Yeah, he was,” said Number Two. “He followed you outside when Stevie started to sing The Rose.”

  “God. I hate that song, but he was pretty good,” said Number Three.

  The waitress brought my food and it smelled fantastic, better than fantastic, but my appetite was zero. “You were outside, weren’t you?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Number Two. “We were talking about something. What were we talking about?”

  “Girl bands. What did this guy look like?”

  “Oh, yeah. Mel B was hot, like super hot.”

  “Focus, Number Two. What did the guy who followed me outside look like?”

  He took a big drink of his bloody mary and his eyes focused. “He wasn’t with you?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I’m wrong. He was just watching you a lot. There were a lot of people, coming in and out. And let’s face it, people watch you. Old guys, young guys, chicks, even.”

  “But you all thought he was with me?” I asked.

  They nodded.

  “Who remembers what he looked like?”

  Various expressions of puzzlement crossed their faces.

  Okay. Don’t suggest anything. Let them find the answer.

  “What color was he?” I asked.

  White was the instant answer. Younger, not like an old married dude came next. Black hoodie and jeans after that. As for his face, they had nothing. I guess it didn’t stand out and they were still soused enough that if I suggested a big nose or a scar they would’ve thought he had it.

  “Do you remember what time you first saw him?” I asked.

  Stupid question. They didn’t know what time it was, period. And no, they wouldn’t recognize him again. Only the obviousness of my face made them remember me. I was, as always, hard to forget. Whoever that guy was wouldn’t have had a hard time finding me on Bourbon Street. Ask enough people if they’ve seen Marilyn Monroe, and you’d have me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE ST. CHARLES streetcar was packed with natives going about their lives and tourists swiveling their heads to catch sight of every stately home. You couldn’t look fast enough. There were so many on both sides and interspersed with restaurants and shops that popped up unexpectedly amid the grandeur.

  The wooden seat rattled away under my rump and I stopped worrying about the hoodie guy. He wasn’t on the streetcar. I’d checked and rechecked. So I allowed myself to relax and remember. Pop Pop loved the streetcars. When we came down to visit, he’d buy me a pass and we’d ride and ride with no particular destination in mind. We might step off on the Loyola campus and walk around. There’d be lunch at a place we spotted through the open windows. It would invariably be down market and frequented by locals and cost about eight bucks. It was always good in its way. I think Pop Pop wanted to make sure I knew life wasn’t only lived on the refined Hawthorne Avenue. He didn’t resent the Bled family. He liked them very well, but their life wasn’t ours. He made that very clear and I didn’t mind. I always knew who I was.

  The car screeched to a halt in a way that sounded like it was broken. I got off, behind a lady who looked like she’d just finished a twenty-four hour shift in drudgery, and cut to the right to walk in front of the stone Tulane sign. No one followed me, but I kept an eye out, the way Dad had taught me, always scanning behind my sunglasses. I’d have to be sharp. The campus was alive with students running to class, campus employees heading to work, and various people who appeared to be out for a leisurely stroll. Security was in evidence. I passed two guards as I went deep into the campus and searched for PJ’s, the campus coffee shop that Pop Pop always took me to. It was the way I remembered it, crowded with students studying or avoiding studying. I ordered a latte and went out to sit on the green bench that we always sat on to people watch, except I wasn’t people watching in the traditional sense, more like people fearing. I scanned every few minutes and input Christopher’s frat address that Uncle Morty sent me, along with his schedule.

  The building was close, off on the left side of campus. There wasn’t exactly a fraternity row, but most of the houses were on one street, according to Google. I drank my latte and formulated a plot. Christopher was in St. Louis, so I’d say I was there to check that no one had gotten ill. I might not have to say anything at all. In my experience, fraternities weren’t as closed off as sororities. After all, the girls were lovely targets for Richard Speck types and the guys were only good for playing beer pong.

  I mapped out my route to the frat and then strolled through campus past the science buildings and then the dorms. There were plenty of Christmas lights still up in the windows and various signs like, “Call your mother” taped to the glass. My nursing school experience had been much more sedate. My school was attached to the hospital and security was high. No parties. No Christmas lights. Dad loved it. He considered student nurses to be a high value target so we must be locked down.

  The area by the dorms was mostly empty, broad expanses of green lawns. I was alone. Somehow that made me feel awfully exposed and nervous, more nervous than when I’d been in the crowds by PJ’s. Then a man came around the corner and I jerked back at his sudden appearance. He wasn’t wearing black at all and I relaxed. He was a brother in a long white cassock with the traditional beaded belt and large wooden cross. That’s where tradition ended. He was also wearing neon green Nike tennis shoes and a John Deere baseball cap. He smiled at me when we crossed paths and I felt safe again in a world where brothers like John Deere caps.

  I exited the campus and joined the hubbub on the street. Cars were honking as students darted in front of them and ran for the campus. Delivery trucks pulled up onto the sidewalk and the drivers hauled open their big metal doors with grinding clangs. Much better than the quiet of the dorm area. Down the street I saw Christopher’s frat without trying. It was hideous and funny at the same time. The house was a two story, craftsman style, probably built in the thirties. There were wide concrete stairs down to the cracked sidewalk and they were painted in thirds, green, red, and orange. The house’s pillars were painted like barber poles and there were fake palm trees on the front porch and part of the lawn. The roof was missing some shingles. Half the windows were cracked and most of them were covered in what looked like beach towels instead of shades. Next door was a well-mannered sorority house. If it had a nose, it would’ve been wrinkled in distaste at its garish neighbor.

  I stopped in front and lowered my glasses. “Wow.”

  Two girls passed me, overburdened with enormous backpacks. They’d come out of the sorority and glanced up at Christopher’s house with sneers.

  “Don’t go in there,” one hissed at me.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “They’re being investigated.”

  “Really? For what?”

  The other girl drew back and said before hurrying away, “What do you think?”

  Overwhelming roach infestation? Underage drinking? Hazing? I had no idea what they’d be investigated for if it wasn’t the normal stuff. Girls could be so difficult sometimes.

  I walked up the stairs, dodging beer cans and a couple of bongs, and wondered if Donatella had actually seen where Christopher was living. The front door was locked so I knocked, even though it didn’t look like a knocking kind of joint. To my surprise, the door opened and I was face-to-face with one of the most straight-laced guys I’d ever come across and that’s saying something, since I was dating Pete. The guy wore pressed khakis, a snow-white polo, and heavy-rimmed black glasses. His skin was flawless and he showed zero surprise at my appearance.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in a soft New Orleans accent.

  I smiled broadly. “I hope so. I’m here about Christopher Berr
y and the illness in his family.”

  His smooth brow furrowed under his sleek brown hair. “Christopher’s in St. Louis.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.” I held out my hand. “Mercy Watts and you are?”

  “Toby Granger. I can’t tell you anything. We believe in privacy here.”

  Please.

  “Sure you do. I assume you know what happened at Tulio.”

  “Tulio?”

  “The restaurant in St. Louis where his father was murdered,” I said.

  Toby swallowed hard. “Yeah. I know about that. Have you seen Chris?”

  Best not to lie in such moments. I didn’t even know what Christopher looked like. “No. I’m friends with his mom, Donatella. They’re spending their days in the PICU with Abrielle and Colton.”

  “Are they okay? I heard they were really sick.”

  “They are. How well do you know Christopher?” I asked.

  He shrugged and, I swear, his polo crackled. “A little. I’m a junior. Look, I’ve got to go.” He didn’t move or invite me in. I’d been counting on the frat guys not really caring what happened. Toby cared. Damn him.

  “Okay. Look. Are you perhaps pre-med?” I asked.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Educated guess. I’m a nurse. What do you know about listeriosis?”

  He stared at me, so nothing. I gave him a quick rundown and then asked, “Can I come in? It’s getting hot out here.”

  Toby sighed and opened the door wide. “Sure, but I have class in fifteen.”

  I walked in and was surprised at how clean it was. The wood floors were shiny if a little scarred from use. No beer can pyramids or trashed furniture in the hall or in the TV room where Toby brought me. It was cheap particle board furniture, but nice. I guess they kept their crazy outside. Toby offered me a seat on a well-worn sofa, but didn’t sit down himself. Message received.