Bonfire Masquerade (7 page)

“Maybe,” I hedged. “After tonight, I'm not sure how much I'll be up for.”

“Totally understandable, Ms. Drew,” said Aaron. “Too much excitement can be a dangerous thing. I myself must head home and get some sleep. I've got another busy day ahead of me tomorrow, designing the future.”

With that, Aaron said good-bye to us. I couldn't help but notice that he took Bess's hand and kissed it. Bess had a way with the guys. After that, he turned and strode purposefully off into the night.

“Spill it,” I said to Bess as we walked inside.

“Yeah,” said George, who must have been waiting
up for us. “I want to hear all about the date. Did you end up their third wheel, Nance?”

“Only by accident,” I responded.

“And boy, does she mean accident!” said Bess.

George gave me a quizzical look. I explained about the warehouse, and the collapsing staircase, and Aaron's last-minute rescue.

“Nancy! Can't leave you alone for one minute. Did you at least find anything out?”

“No.” I paused. “Well, maybe. There was this weird sound, like a voice, crying from the second floor. I don't know what it was.”

“You don't think it's actually haunted, do you?” said Bess.

“Of course not!” I snapped. “Ghosts don't exist. Right?”

“Yeah,” agreed George. “There are lots of explanations. Weird echoes. Cats. Daniel said the workers think the place is haunted—maybe someone is trying to sabotage the construction. It's pretty easy to make voices appear somewhere using a radio transmitter, like what we used to communicate on that shoplifting case.”

“Did you guys talk to Nicole, the resident voodoo expert? I wonder if she knows more about this haunting than she's telling.”

I told her how we'd failed to meet up with her but would try again. Then it was Bess's turn to tell us about her night.

“It was nice. Aaron's sweet! And so handsome. He's a little egotistical, though. If I had to look at one more drawing of his ‘New Orleans, City of the Future,' I would have fallen asleep.”

“Do you think he could have killed Daniel?”

“I don't know,” said Bess. “We only hung out for a few hours. He seemed genuinely sad that Daniel was dead. But who knows? If there's one thing that being friends with you has taught me, Nancy, it's that anyone can be the bad guy.”

“Well, while the two of you were out getting nothing done,” said George, “I did a little research, and struck gold. Take a look at this.”

She handed each of us a printout of a newspaper article from the
Times-Picayune
. I scanned it quickly. Warehouse … robbed … burned to the ground.

“So, it's another article about the arson at Daniel's warehouse?” asked Bess.

“Nope, that's the thing. Look at the date.”

I looked at the header on the page.

“This was a full year ago!” I said.

“Yup. Now look at these.”

George handed me a dozen more printouts. Each was a newspaper article about a dual robbery/arson, all in New Orleans in the last year and a half. In each one, the MO was exactly the same: The buildings were robbed, and then burned to the ground to hide the
evidence. In the ones where there were witnesses, they all reported seeing a gang of costumed young people running from the scene. The police had no leads.

“Is there anything that connects all these places?” I asked, excited. Now we were getting somewhere!

“None that I've been able to find,” George answered. “They're all over the city. Some are rich, some are poor. Some are businesses, some are homes. It seems completely random. They don't even usually seem to get that much from the places they rob.”

“So they're doing it for the kicks?” said Bess. “A group of kids out to have some adventure, whatever the cost to other people?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But then why kill Daniel? That doesn't make sense.”

We all read through the articles quietly, absorbing the facts that were changing the case we thought we were on. Whoever these people were, they were smart. By striking only during festival times, they gave themselves a cover for wearing costumes, crowds to disappear into, and blocks full of revelers who prevented police or fire trucks from getting to the scene of their crimes until it was too late.

“What if …” I paused. The idea was not a happy thought.

“What, Nance?” prompted George.

“What if we're looking at two different crimes? What
if the people who burned down Daniel's warehouse didn't kill him? Or what if someone burned down his warehouse to make it look like it was part of this crime spree, and really they were just after him?”

“So either we're looking for a gang of arsonists, and a murderer … ,” said Bess.

“Or a gang of arsonists who are also murderers … ,” added George.

“Or a single murderer-slash-arsonist pretending to be a gang of arsonists in order to cover his or her tracks,” I finished.

CHAPTER
8

JOE
REAL PARTY KILLERS

I saw Lenni go down in a heap, with Sybil on top of her. A guy with biceps the size of my head threw a devastating punch right at Frank's head. Thankfully, Frank managed to duck just in time, and with a careful push, sent the guy tumbling. A second later, someone grabbed me from behind and sent me flying into a couch. After that, the room was just a mass of arms and legs, screaming and yelling.

I managed to lock my legs around the person on top of me, and I flipped him over onto the ground. Lenni was on her feet again, locked arm in arm with Sybil. Another girl was sneaking up behind her, though, about to knock her on the head. With nothing else to do, I yanked one of the pillows off the couch and threw
it at her. I managed to clock her in the head, which probably didn't hurt her all that much, but did slow her down long enough for Lenni to toss Sybil into her.

“Bull's-eye!” Lenni yelled, before leaping back on top of Sybil.

Frank was being circled by three punks who took turns darting in and throwing punches at him. So far none of them had managed to land, but once they did, he'd be in trouble. I made my way over to him, hopping over a writhing mass of people on the ground. Somehow, this no longer seemed to be about us—the Krewe de Crude was fighting with themselves!

And if I wasn't mistaken, some of them were even laughing.

I slipped behind one of the three people surrounding Frank. She was a massive girl—at least six foot two, and solidly built. I slipped my foot between hers, and then shoved her hard. She tripped over my foot and went flying to the ground. Quick as a flash, I joined Frank in the middle of the circle. Back-to-back with him, I felt safer. There's no one I'd rather be in a fight with.

“What the heck is going on?” said Frank. “I don't know!”

Two guys rushed us at once.

“Left!” I yelled, letting Frank know which way I was going to go. Right as the two guys were about to collide into us, I stepped wide to the left. Frank stepped to the
right. They ran right past us, with too much momentum to slow down—until I grabbed one of them by his long ponytail, snapping his head back. He fell backward like a character from a cartoon, stiff as a board. When I looked up, Frank was tossing the other guy over his shoulder.

Somehow, Lenni appeared right next to us.

“Good job, guys! Glad to see you can handle yourselves.”

A new, bigger circle had formed around us. It seemed to be the entire Krewe de Crude. They were breathing hard, and there were a lot of black eyes and spreading bruises. But there were still more than a dozen people surrounding us. These were not odds I liked.

Sybil stepped forward. Lenni must have gotten her pretty hard, because there was a small trickle of blood dripping out of her right nostril.

“You guys are pretty good,” she said. Weirdly, she didn't seem angry. She sounded … impressed?

“Thanks,” said Lenni, pretending to clean her nails on her shirt, although it was a toss-up as to which was dirtier. “You guys are pretty tight yourselves.”

“So what are you really doing here? Sharkey knows we wouldn't deal in stolen stuff, not like that, anyway. Did he really send you?”

“No.” I stepped forward. I had no idea who this Sharkey character was, but I was getting the sense that
there was more to Sybil than met the eye. I was going to go out on a limb and try something.

“I'm Joe. This is my brother Frank.”

Frank waved.

“We have family here in New Orleans, and last year, someone broke in and stole their stuff. Then they burned the house down. They lost everything. We're just trying to figure out what happened. Lenni was helping us because we didn't know who else to turn to.”

At the mention of the fire, some of the Krewe nodded and exchanged looks. Sybil didn't say anything until I was done. Then she looked me up and down.

“We've heard about those jobs. That's not our style. We take from the rich, give to the poor. Like Robin Hood, you know? We started a soup kitchen in the neighborhood last year. We love New Orleans. It's our home. Those guys, they're just destroying things. Taking from anyone. I'd love to get my hands on them.”

She pounded one fist into the palm of her other hand. With the look in her eyes, and the blood trickling down her nose, I wouldn't want to mess with her, even if she did weigh only a hundred pounds soaking wet.

The longer we talked, the calmer everyone became. A few drifted off to the other side of the warehouse. Sybil flopped back down on the couch. Lenni sat down heavily on the floor.

“I can tell you they're not anyone in the neighbor-hood,”
Sybil continued. “Whoever these freaks are, they're not operating out of the Bywater.”

“Any clues on who they might be?” asked Lenni.

“I wish.”

“Can you tell us anything that might help us find them?” said Frank.

“No. Wait, yes! I don't know how helpful this will be, but the stuff that they steal—none of it shows up in the pawnshops or thrift stores. I don't know what they're doing with it, but they're not selling it.”

That was interesting. I had no idea what it might mean, but it was definitely out of the ordinary.

“If you find these guys, let me know. They're messing with my city—they're going to have to deal with me.”

There were some shouts of agreement from the assembled Krewe. We hung out with them a little longer, and Sybil told us about all the projects they were doing in the neighborhood—the soup kitchen, a community garden, a local fashion line that taught kids how to sew and make their own clothes.

“Where does all the money come from?” asked Frank at one point. No one answered.

Lenni gave him a look and then poked him in the ribs. “Ignore him. He was dropped on his head as a kid.”

Shortly after that, we left. As we walked back through the Bywater, I could tell Frank was still upset about something.

“Should we call the cops on them or something? Who knows where their money is coming from?”

Lenni hit him again. “Don't you fabulous spy boys have something better to do than harass people who are actually trying to make life better down here?”

She had a point. Frank blushed.

“You're right, I'm sorry.”

“Of course I'm right,” said Lenni. She looked at an imaginary watch on her arm. “Look at that, time for me to go. There's a second line tonight, and I don't want to miss it.”

She pulled her skateboard out of her bag and hopped on it. Soon she was zooming off.

“Wait!” I yelled. “Where are you staying? How can we contact you?”

“I've still got your phone!” Lenni yelled as she disappeared around the corner, leaving Frank and me scratching our heads.

“What's a second line?” I asked Frank.

He shrugged.

With nothing else to do, we decided to follow our last remaining clue. The phone we'd followed to the Bywater belonged to one Andrew Richelieu. According to the police records, he was the spoiled son of a rich banking family and had had no idea his phone was even missing. Chances were, he wouldn't have much information for us, but we had to try.

I pulled out my phone and called the number the police had given us for Andrew.

“What?” a surly voice answered on the other end.

“Hi, is this Andrew Richelieu?” I said, surprised.

“Uh, duh.”

“Well, this is Joe Hardy. I'm working with the New Orleans Police Department. I believe they mentioned I might be contacting you about—”

“Whatever. I don't really care, and I have a party tonight to get ready for. What do you want?”

Man, the police report had been kind! This guy was a brat.

“I'd like to talk to you about the theft of your phone.”

“Fine. Party starts at eight p.m. Ask the butler to find me when you get here.”

The line went dead. Andrew, it seemed, was a man of few words—and all of them were hostile.

Four hours later, Frank and I were seated in the back of a taxi, on our way up to the Garden District. Parties seemed to be the order of the day. The streets were lined with huge columned mansions, all of them lit up with tiki torches and mini spotlights, with parties that spilled out onto their lawns and balconies. Some were formal affairs—black ties and evening gowns, with elegantly simple masks. Others were wild, raging parties with dancing and blaring music. And the parties weren't contained to the houses. Every corner seemed
to have an impromptu band performing, people dancing, laughing, singing.

I could really get to like this town,
I thought.

Finally we arrived at Andrew's house. Unlike many of its neighbors, his house was clearly modern. It was made of glass and burnished bronze and looked like a tiny skyscraper, complete with a pointy tower on top. It was out of place on the street of old French houses, but somehow, it worked. Weird as it was, it was beautiful.