Imogene in New Orleans (20 page)

When Jackson turned on Bourbon Street, he saw Thurston two hundred feet away, caught in a small crowd that appeared to be acting out a scene from the exploits of pirate Jean Lafitte. Jackson remembered Imogene had talked passionately about a local theater company that was hosting a dramatic interpretation promoting an upcoming production of a play based on the famous privateer’s life and legend.

Thurston zigzagged through the gathering multitude, moving in between two cannons and a dozen performers in the middle of the street. Another round of fake cannon fire sounded, and the crowd cheered as a sword fight broke out. Jackson dodged through the standing audience, trying to keep the distinctive Hawaiian shirt in his sights. He gave the actors and performers a wide berth to avoid any possible obstacle, moving under the nearest balcony. He ran directly into a group of women dressed in pirate costumes. They had their backs turned to him as they feigned capture by Jean Lafitte and his “scurvy mates.” Quite a commotion ensued with shrill calls for help and the clanging of metal and the binding of hands in rope.

“Arrgh, you comely lasses, methinks you’ll be a-sailing with me,” said one of the swashbucklers, grabbing two of the women by their arms and dragging them toward the canons. As one of the “lasses” fought for her freedom, she popped Jackson in the jaw with an accidental left hook. He felt her rings scraping his face and he cried out. She reached her hand out to him for assistance, but he pushed it away.

It took Jackson a minute to get oriented. He tried to shake off the ringing in his head. He scooted into the middle of the street just as Thurston hobbled down the sidewalk and took a right, heading toward Glenway’s Gallery on Royal Street. Jackson hurried after him as the pirate women were tied together near the cannon.

Thurston’s slow walk finally helped Jackson, who turned the same corner and followed the bald man from fifty paces. He felt better about his clothing near Bourbon Street. The only way he could truly stick out in New Orleans was if he were walking down the street on fire. A businessman in suit and tie would stick out more than the characters Jackson passed on those old streets.

As Thurston turned on Royal, the cannon blasted again, and afterward, an incredible assemblage of brass music started up on Bourbon Street. He turned around to see the bass drum popping and the horn sections pointing their instruments to the balconies and sending glorious notes to the rooftops.

Neil once told Jackson that even the sidewalks in New Orleans had personality. He couldn’t help thinking about that with the melodious tones of trumpet and trombone filling the air. Thurston sauntered under the iron balconies as if he were on an early-evening stroll in the grid of the Vieux Carré.

Jackson passed a bar filled with partying customers. He turned his head for one brief moment and nearly twisted his ankle. The heights on the curbs were all different. Jackson had to focus more on his footwork to stay upright. He hobbled to the nearest intersection, where every few seconds a crowd gathered to cross. Thurston now stood in front of Glenway Gilbert’s gallery, which was covered with police tape. There was a NOPD car stationed out front, but Thurston had his hand above his forehead, looking through the window.

Jackson felt like a buoy getting tossed around by the waves of people. Thurston moved from the gallery, walking down the street and stopping at a set of locked, wooden doors that led to a three-story condominium building. He stood in front of a keypad and entered a number.

Jackson broke free from the crowd at the street corner and ran toward Thurston, who entered the building, disappearing from sight. In a moment, Jackson made it to the entrance to see where Thurston was going, but the place was sealed tight. Jackson slumped down on the sidewalk, letting his butt hit the concrete. He put his hands in his face. The music from the brass band had gotten less intense and less dulcet now. He breathed shallow breaths, closing his eyes and taking a moment to consider the horrible day. He had almost been trounced by a group of pirate femmes, Buddy, and the lieutenant all in one day. He was so discouraged he took no pleasure in the small triumphs he had experienced upon finding certain tidbits relating to Glenway’s murder and the theft of the figurines.

Then he saw some sunlight slipping through the bottom of the doors and immediately stooped down to peer under the door. His knees scraped the concrete as he sought a glimpse of Thurston. He could see the man walking toward a staircase in a spacious courtyard with lush foliage and a fountain with lions spitting water into a small pool. He wished the opening under the door was large enough that he could reach under and grope for the handle, but it was too small. He heard Thurston trudge up the steps; the sound of his shuffling echoed as he took each one.

Then Jackson heard another set of footsteps. They sounded fussy like Hill’s, but when he looked again, he saw a woman’s heels as they clomped toward the door. He had just enough time to get up from his place when she swung the door wide open and burst into the street. He grabbed the door before it closed and held it there for a moment to see if Thurston was watching. He peered into the courtyard. On the far wall, he watched Thurston make it to the third floor of the staircase.

Open walkways on each floor offered views of the entire courtyard. Jackson moved into the courtyard, careful not to be noticed. He crept to a palm tree, and the gigantic fronds sheltered him. He pushed a branch aside and watched as Thurston approached an apartment and slipped inside. After a few breaths, Jackson took off toward the stairs as quickly as he could.

Jackson clambered up two flights and then stopped suddenly, realizing he was making enough racket to draw attention. He peered over the railing and scanned the courtyard below for activity. Nobody. The only thing to be heard was the gentle splash of the lion fountain at the pool. On a normal day during a normal vacation to the Crescent City, he would have stayed at the edge of the balcony to admire the lush foliage below, the bougainvillea and the exotic palms and ferns framing the dipping pool. He would have enjoyed the century-and-a-half-old brick and the way the glass looked on each apartment, how it melted and dripped toward the ground.

Today, however, he was on a mission. He tiptoed up to the third floor and began creeping along the condos when a door opened nearby. He plastered himself against the wall, heaving from the exertion.

The door slammed closed again and he dared a quick peek. He had to find out what Thurston was doing with Hill and why he was running off and who he was exactly. Jackson knew Thurston had been withholding information in the park. The revelation that Neil knew Thurston was also troubling, and he wondered what else he didn’t know.

Jackson couldn’t remove the image of his sweet friend Glenway bludgeoned to death, lying cold on the futon in his studio. It was staying with him like a stray dog hangs around someone who feeds it. He saw Glenway everywhere: on the sidewalks, in restaurants, in his sleep, and while he walked the Quarter. The letters “TH” from Glenway’s book were stuck in his mind.
They’ve got to be the first two letters of Thurston’s name.

Jackson continued down the walkway until he was three doors down from Thurston’s apartment, taking each step as carefully and as silently as he could. His boat shoes weren’t built for running and jumping and hiding and bumping into people. His feet throbbed.

He rested against the wall, his bare legs touching the cool, painted surface. He waited there a moment and then peeled himself away and scooted down two doors from where Thurston had entered. The wooden walkway rocked and creaked as Jackson moved. He put his ear up to the wall, right next to the window, and listened. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. He tried to slow down his respiration. He heard the sound of the wood giving way nearby, as if a weight had been placed beside him. He was trying to keep movement to a minimum. He slowly turned his head and caught a glimpse of a shadow above him. Then he felt a sharp thud against the back of his skull and his body fell to the floor in a heap.

Nineteen

Jackson woke up not knowing what or who had clobbered him. He was no longer on the walkway of that 1830s building. He was lying on a hand-woven rug in a clean apartment surrounded by antiques and finery. He heard the familiar sound of a Haydn trumpet concerto played by one of New Orleans most famous sons, Wynton Marsalis. The second movement had just begun, and its honeyed melody filled the room. Lying facedown, he opened one eye to study the apartment, comprised of one and a half open levels connected with a short staircase leading to the top level. The staircase began just a few feet from his throbbing head. Above the mahogany banister, he saw a man rearranging objects in the upper loft area. The man held the door opened to a chiffonier and he leaned inside it. The man’s bald head shone in the light from the windows. Thurston! As he worked, he hummed along with the trumpet. He had donned one of those old-man shirts, which Jackson loved, the kind with the pockets above the elbow.

Jackson rolled over and felt the knot on his head. “Dammit, Thurston.”

“Ah, hello, you creeping, sleeping beauty.” Thurston walked to the banister and leaned over it. “What on earth were you doing sneaking around my apartment? Don’t you remember there was a murder only two blocks away?” Thurston waved his hands in the air, as if he were conducting the music from Wynton Marsalis’s horn. “How can you not love this one? Bah bah bahh.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me what I was doing, rather than knocking me on the head?” Jackson frowned.

“Shhh, the third movement’s starting. This is the best part.” Thurston closed his eyes and nodded gently.

“It is one of the best. I listen to Marsalis’s version as often as I can. But forget the music. What on earth did you hit me with?” Jackson ran his fingers over the place he’d been thumped, feeling the knot on the top of his skull. He looked around and saw a fireplace poker leaning up against the old, marble hearth. “Did you hit me with that, Thurston? Your buddy Neil and I just discussed the possibility that Glenway was beaten with a tool like that.”

Not until after the concerto ended did Thurston return to the thoughts of this earth. “A strange man creeping around my apartment? I had to take action.” He held his carved walking stick up in the air, as if he was ready to take action again.

“Be careful with that.” Jackson moved up to the sofa and grabbed a silk pillow, so he could shield himself. “I want to know about the letters ‘TH’ from Glenway’s book. You evaded the question last time I asked. You need to be honest. I’m certain Glenway knew you. You tried to act like he was a mere acquaintance, but after seeing you interact with Neil and hearing what Buddy said, I know you guys were friends.”

Thurston smiled. “Ah, who wouldn’t want to be around Glenway Gilbert? That pretty hair, all that money, all that talent, great taste, culture. He was one of the finest conversationalists in the city. Of course I knew him. I didn’t love him like some of the others, but I liked him. I enjoyed him. We had a rapport and some tastes in common.”

“Like the boys at the ballet?” Jackson asked, studying the lines on Thurston’s face.

“Among other things.” Thurston smirked.

“Other things?” Jackson waited for a response, but none came. “Did you sleep with each other?”

“Why would you want to know such a thing?” Thurston took a few steps down the short staircase, grasping the wooden rail.

“Because my friend is dead, Thurston, and I’m trying to figure out who did what with him. Apparently, he wrote down a good list of suspects in his personal journal and the letters ‘TH’ were clearly written. I’m not leaving until you give me some clear answers.”

Thurston ambled down to the first floor. Jackson sat up and felt his head tingling. He shook his head, which only served to make him dizzy, then stood up, fighting through the light-headedness. He slumped forward and fell toward the staircase. He caught himself on one of the banister’s wooden spindles. The back of his head wouldn’t quit throbbing.

Thurston brandished the cane, apparently feeling threatened by Jackson’s wobbly approach. “Would you like another go, Mr. Miller?”

Jackson felt something akin to heat rise to his face as Thurston held the cane in a swinging position. It was obvious the man was prepared to use it. “The only way you’ll ever hit me again is if my back’s turned.” Jackson lunged at Thurston and ripped the cane from his hands. He raised it above his head, nearly touching the ceiling fan blades as they floated around the room. He swung the stick down, hitting the ottoman as hard as he could, knocking dust into the air. Thurston gasped, sort of the way a dowager would gasp if she saw a man prancing around nude in her room.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to protect myself. Do you understand? You’re not getting another chance to hit me. And if you ever even threaten me again, you’ll wish to the King of Carnival that you hadn’t.”

Thurston turned away, and Jackson reared the cane back again, aiming for another swat, this time at an old tapestry that hung beside the staircase.

“Please stop. You’ll break that cane. It’s worth more than my government check.” Thurston held his wrinkled hands out to prevent another hit.

Jackson let the cane rest by his side and took a deep breath. “Answer me this. If you were my friend and I found you beaten to death in your own studio and it appeared that the cops were doing little to figure it out, wouldn’t you want someone to try to help??”

“I suppose so.” Thurston perched on the ottoman, which still had dust particles floating around it.

“Then stop acting coy.” Jackson stepped toward him. “It’s time to make much of time, to gather the rosebuds while we may, like the poet says.”

Thurston grabbed Jackson’s arm. His face lit up, as if he’d just had a brilliant thought. “Yes, that’s Robert Herrick. ‘And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.”

“But Glenway’s already dead, Thurston. He didn’t deserve to be killed.” Jackson looked around the room, noting the lovely Queen Anne desk and the gilded mirrors. On one wall he saw a copy of the painting that depicted Buddy as Bacchus. He held the cane in his hand and approached the wall to get a closer look at the art. “Even though you claim you didn’t know Glenway well, you have his work all over the place. Look at this one.” Jackson pointed to a painting where two men sat on a wagon in front of what looked like a Louisiana mansion.