Cities of the Dead (4 page)

There was more than casual interest in the question. Spraggue thought about the bustle of Mary's Chestnut Hill mansion. Pierce, her butler, the fleet of secretaries, housekeepers, the elderly chauffeur.

“Yeah,” he said. “She lives alone.”

“Widow?”

“In World War Two.”

“Long time ago.”

“She never remarried.”

“You're fond of her?” Rawlins licked the big serving spoon appreciatively before putting it back in the bag.

“She raised me from the time I was fourteen. Fond doesn't even come close.”

“Seems a fine woman. Hate to think her cook'd be mixed up in a thing like this. Now your aunt, Mrs. Hillman, would be a pretty rich woman, having her own cook and calling on that Mr. Jackson, who is one hot-ticket attorney, or so I hear.”

“Mary Spraggue Hillman. Runs the Spraggue Foundation out of Boston.”

“As in Davison Spraggue?”

“Yes,” Spraggue said flatly. His robber-baron great-grandfather had a name to conjure with still, years after his death.

“Oh my, yes.” Rawlins made a face. “And you're … I didn't put it all together. Hell, reckon I'd better quit flirting with her then.”

“Please,” Spraggue said, “forget about the Foundation. Forget about the old tyrant. It's been a while since anybody's flirted with her. I think she'd love it.”

“I don't know. People might take it bad. I don't want folks, least of all you, to get the idea that money buys justice around here.”

On Rawlins' round face was the look of suspicion Spraggue had almost gotten used to seeing when people found out he was one of “those” Spraggues. One of the joys of inherited wealth.

Spraggue said, “Is there anyplace I can buy us some coffee? I'll pay for it, if you won't count it as a bribe.”

The sergeant's lips spread in a slow grin. “You sure couldn't bribe nobody with the coffee here. It ain't worthy of the name. I bring in my own.” He hefted another thermos out of the second sack. “In that first file drawer over there, there's two cups.”

The top drawer of a newer file cabinet was sectioned off by a few hanging files. Instead of papers it held packages, small tins, and tiny bottles. Creole mustard. A quart of Tabasco. Stuff so potent the peppery smell was starting to escape. Two hefty mugs were stored under the letter
c
.

“That's my survival drawer,” Rawlins explained. “Lieutenant rents it to me in exchange for coffee. If'n I have to eat store-bought stuff at my desk at least I can season it up to where I can taste it.”

The coffee was strong, laced with chicory.

“Is this lieutenant in charge of Dora's case?”

“Nope,” the sergeant said. “That's me. We work cases on rotation, and my name came up on the roster.”

Spraggue said, “So which civic-minded citizen told you about Dora marrying this Fontenot guy?”

“Woman named Denise Michel. Local celebrity.”

“She's supposed to be a friend of Miss Levoyer's. Doesn't that strike you as odd behavior for a friend, Sergeant?”

“Nope. Never strikes me that telling the truth to the police is odd behavior.”

“Okay. You can make a case for Dora disliking Fontenot, but—” Spraggue started.

“Look, son, I don't make arrests just on motive. Lots of folks hated Joe Fontenot. Everybody I interviewed said he was one son of a bitch. But I got more than motive here, I got the whole rest of the shebang—means, opportunity, the works.”

“Could you spell it out?”

“The knife belongs to your Miss Levoyer. She don't deny it. And it's got her prints all over it. That's means as far as I'm concerned.”

“Pretty dumb to use such an identifiable weapon.”

“I never did see any study of murderers that put 'em in the same class as Rhodes scholars.”

Spraggue sipped his coffee.

“And she was right there at that dinner party,” Rawlins continued. “Your aunt tell you that? Your Miss Levoyer had opportunity.”

“So did a couple thousand other people.”

“Not so many as you'd think.”

“Hotels are public places.”

“Sure are,” Rawlins agreed. “But the private rooms at the Imperial Orleans can be pretty damn private. You know they had a guard at the door taking invitations and ticking off the names on a list?”

“But there might have been people who came in through another door.”

“No other door to come in through. The two rooms, the ballroom where the dinner was and the second room where the display was, do have separate entrances, so they can be used by two groups, say. But for that night the door from the hallway to the display room was locked. The only entrance was through the main ballroom door, and there was someone on that door all night. The killer was on the invitation list.”

“What about the waiters? They didn't come through the main door—and where waiters can pass others can pass.”

“True. But the hotel staff isn't a bunch of waiters picked up for a special banquet. There's always a banquet at the Imperial Orleans. And the waiters are well-known.”

“That doesn't mean one of them didn't hate Fontenot.”

“From what I hear all waiters hate all cooks and vice-versa. We questioned the staff and we were satisfied. And none of them mentioned any extra waiter, anybody unfamiliar.”

“Everybody looks familiar in a waiter's uniform.”

“So you're imagining some impostor waiter, somebody lurking in the kitchen, waiting his chance—”

“It's possible.”

“But it's so fancy,” Rawlins said. “And right now we got a nice simple solution. I like simple solutions. Nine out of ten times, they're the goods.”

“This is the tenth time.”

“You're so sure about that?”

“How many people were at that dinner?”

Rawlins shrugged. “Eighty.”

“Well, even if nobody extra waltzed in and the kitchen staff is as pure as snow, that's seventy-eight people with as much opportunity as Dora.”

“But only one with that knife. You ask her about that knife.”

“I will, Sergeant.”

“You gonna keep callin' me ‘sergeant'?”

“Would you prefer ‘detective'?” Spraggue asked.

“I hate callin' people by what they are instead of who they are. If you call me ‘sergeant' or ‘detective,' I gotta ‘mister' you back. You got a first name, right?”

“Michael.”

“Mine's Gorman, so folks call me ‘Rawl' for my last name.”

“Mostly, I'm Spraggue. So folks won't call me ‘Mike.'”

“I'll tell you something, Spraggue: Most murders are pretty damn pat. Wife kills a husband. Husband kills a wife. Most of the time we find the guy standing over the body with the knife or the gun, still wondering what he did. The rest of the time, somebody turns himself in a day or two later, saying I don't know what came over me, but she insulted me something terrible and I couldn't take that, now could I? Most murders are the same damn thing.”

Rawlins refilled his coffee mug, dumped in two spoons of sugar, and said, “Look, I'm sorry about this. I'd just as soon have met your aunt on another occasion. But I'm satisfied we got the right person. The D.A. agrees. And that's where my job ends.”

“Not necessarily.”

“No?”

“You could help me find a loose end to pull at.”

“Huh?”

Spraggue slipped a faded photostat out of a plastic sleeve in his wallet, placed it on the desk.

Rawlins fingered the card, read it all the way through. “One Massachusetts private investigator's license, expired,” he said. “Your aunt said you were an actor or something.”

“Right now, I'm in the ‘or something' phase.”

Rawlins studied the card. “Six-feet-one. You still weigh one-seventy-five?”

Spraggue shrugged.

“I'm shorter than you, but I sure weigh more. This here says brown eyes and yours look kinda yellow, but I'll pass on that. What it don't say is why anybody with your last name would want a crummy private eye license.” The suspicion was back in Rawlins' voice.

“I'd rather be playing Broadway leads. Nobody's offering.”

“Is there somebody in Boston who'll vouch for you?”

“Captain Hurley. Homicide.”

“I'll check that out.”

“I want to see the coroner's report. I'd like to know why you're so damn sure it's Dora's knife. A knife's a knife, and from what Mary said, there were knives all over the room. I'd like to know what Fontenot had on him when he died—”

“You don't want much, do you?”

“I'm just anticipating a little. How long do you think it's going to take for that high-priced attorney to file a discovery motion?”

“It's, uh, irregular.”

“You know, that woman who's stuck in your cell makes the best cup of coffee I've ever tasted.”

“She use chicory?”

“Her own blend of beans. Colombian and Kenyan. Grinds it fresh every time.”

“Okay,” Rawlins said. “Okay. Just do me a favor. Tell your aunt I'm cooperating with you.”

“Sure. Now Dora said that Fontenot used a different name when he married her. If a guy uses an alias once, he might do it twice. How about running his prints?”

“Seems a whole lot like blaming the victim to me. Poor guy's dead—”

“That's right. Beyond blame and praise and jail and all that crap. Dora's not.”

“Well …” Rawlins sucked in a deep breath. “If I do, you'll have to tell your aunt I cook the best gumbo in town. That means you want a taste.”

“I'm done with my coffee. Just pour me a little in the same mug.”

“Hot” wasn't the word to describe Rawlins' gumbo. It was like a test. Spraggue could feel the heat rise in his throat and his face turn red. When he didn't cough or choke, and he managed a smile, Spraggue knew he'd passed.

FOUR

“I sure made a mistake on you,” Albert Flowers said disgustedly.

The cabbie's name was lettered on the front fender of his battered Oldsmobile. A coffee-colored man with a beguiling grin, he'd already impressed Spraggue with his knowledge of the city, his references to the hoodoo power of the charms hanging from his rearview mirror, and his offer of service by the day to the Northerner who had to learn to loosen up and enjoy easy-going New Orleans.

“I think, oh boy, here comes one of them big-spending Yankees,” Flowers continued, “just offa the plane and lookin' for a good time. Good man for Albert. Then right off you wanna go to the police station. And now you wanna know about this leather bag that smells funny. Sounds like gris-gris to me.”

“Gree-gree? Is that French?” Spraggue asked, puzzled. “What's it for?”

Flowers shrugged. “Gris-gris is for a lot of things. You can get a gris-gris to put on a spell, or guard against a spell. You can get one for spirits and one for men. They all different. It depend on who made this one you're talkin' about.”

“And who might have done that?”

“I can't tell you. I couldn't tell by lookin', not even by touchin', and I ain't eager to touch no such thing, no way. But I can tell you this. It cost some money if it's a leather bag. Not somethin' the tourists buy for a lark, somethin' made to order. This gris-gris belong to some guy in the jail? Maybe if you told me what he's been arrested for—”

“He's not in jail,” Spraggue said. “He's dead.”

“I guess that gris-gris didn't work so good then,” Flowers said. “I doubt, though, the man be lookin' for a refund.”

Spraggue smiled. “I suppose,” he said, “the gris-gris could belong to the man's killer, if he was obliging enough to leave it behind. You said it wasn't the sort of thing a tourist would pick up. It's unusual?”

“Not that strange. Not here among the right sort of people.”

“And if it were found near the body of a man who was a chef here in New Orleans?”

“Nothin' to say a chef can't be interested in a little hoodoo.”

“Is that ‘voodoo' or ‘hoodoo'?”

“Hoodoo. It's sort of a mix, a mish-mash of voodoo from the islands, all messed up with local Catholic. Your chef, now, he a man of color?”

“White man. Cajun, I think.”

“Be more usual to find a charm like that on a man of color, but we got some white hoodoos here too.”

Spraggue said, “Maybe you can tell me where I'd be likely to learn something about that charm.”

“Maybe I could.”

“And, of course, if you were assisting me as well as driving, there would be an increase in your pay.”

“Assistin' you in doing what?”

“I'm sort of a private investigator,” Spraggue said. The expired-license sort, he added silently.

“You gonna bribe me? Well, okay, I'm easy, I'm easy. I'm just figurin' out the best place to start. I ain't really into no voodoo, no hoodoo, no witchcraft, you know. I keep the charms and stuff, but mostly 'cause the tourists expect it. They want to hear about voodoo, and they want to hear about the graveyards, those spooky-looking tombs, all above ground. Now I hear there's a woman works at this tourist place, this witchcraft museum. Woman named, let me see—Del, yeah, for Delores. Sister Del, she call herself. If we find when she be at work, she can probably send us to somebody who would know about an old leather gris-gris.”

“Can you make me an appointment to see this Sister Del?”

“I can sure try.”

All the time they were talking, Flowers was driving through streets that narrowed by the block. They crossed a wide boulevard and Spraggue was abruptly oriented, sure of his location. They had found the French Quarter, the
Vieux Carré
, the section of New Orleans he knew from a long ago six-week Tennessee Williams' festival, understudying Brick in
Cat
and Stanley in
Streetcar
, waiting every night for the lead to show up too drunk to go on. Over ten years ago, he figured, startled by how quickly the time had gone. Back then the Quarter had seemed on its way out, its elegant Spanish facades crumbling. Now a renascence was in swing. Fresh paint. New gutters. Old wrought-iron balconies gleamed.