Imogene in New Orleans (29 page)

Neil scooted over to him and turned the pages to the section on Blue Moon. “And you don’t know how much we’ve been doing either.” Neil motioned to Allen. “Show the lieutenant what we have up here.” Allen was waiting by the wall, ready to reveal the work they’d done. He carefully removed the thumb tacks and pulled back the sheet.

“Okay. Here is our list of suspects. We have TH and Blue Moon, Buddy, Pirate which is you, of course, and Catfish.” Neil pointed his long finger at each suspect as he called their names.

Billy stepped up to the wall and cocked his head “Where’s Thurston?”

Neil elbowed Billy. “He’s not a person of interest.” Neil shook his head the way one would shake off a cocklebur in a field.

Billy turned to him. “But he is. In fact, he knocked my partner unconscious just yesterday—with a fireplace poker wasn’t it? A weapon that could have very well killed Glenway.” He blew a strand of his blond hair from his eyes.

Rogers lifted his shoulders up like a cavalier ready to charge an enemy fortress. “Yeah, if you’ve got ‘Pirate’ up there, you certainly need to have Thurston. I’ve got him as a suspect myself, ’cause his name is all over Glenway’s calendar. He was one of many who mooched off Glenway Gilbert.”

Neil took a giant step toward the lieutenant. “You’re one to talk about mooches, Rogers, Mr. Figurine Pirate.” Neil stood as close as he could to the lawman’s face. “Thurston wasn’t even in Glenway’s will.”

The corner of Rogers’s lips curled up. “If we’re only suspecting people who’re in the will, we need to put your name up there, and yours too, Mr. Allen, and then that old woman downstairs, Lena Ward.” Rogers grabbed the marker and paper on the desk and wrote Neil’s name down. He taped the paper in the center of the list of suspects on the wall.

Neil ripped down the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in Rogers’s face. Rogers stomped toward him and Allen jumped between them.

“Hey, hey. Guys, please. This is counterproductive. Neil, you need to apologize to the officer.”

“Apologize for what? You’ve lost your mind, Allen. I don’t even want this goon in my house.” Neil threw the sheet back from the door and stormed down the steps. Billy followed after him and watched to see what he’d do. Jackson grabbed Billy’s shirt and pulled him back into the room.

Allen tried to calm the lieutenant. “This will work. We’re going to the ballet like we planned. We’re going to find out who killed my friend.”

Neil called up from the bottom of the steps, “Allen, I’m leaving. I’m not waiting on that oaf. We don’t need him. You can either wait or come with me.”

Allen rolled his eyes and went to reason with his partner, but in a couple minutes, Jackson heard the sound of Neil’s car peeling out of the driveway. The noise was followed by someone shuffling from the kitchen.

“Hey, boys, where is everybody?”

Jackson threw open the curtain and saw Imogene staring up the steps. “Some of us are up here. Neil left.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“Well, Imogene, why don’t you ask the lieutenant?”

Rogers slammed his briefcase shut. “Neil’s a hot head. That’s all.” He thrust the cardboard chart under his meaty arm. His muscles rippled as he held on to his supplies. He clomped down the steps toward Imogene.

Lena joined Imogene and peeked up the stairwell. “Shoot, look like Neil been made to run outta his own house. Ain’t that a shame, baby?”

Rogers scowled at the ladies when he reached the bottom of the steps. “Looks to me like he left of his own free will, which is exactly what I’m doing now.”

Upon hearing this, Jackson hustled down the steps, too, turning around only to implore Billy to follow. “Come on. Hustle, my sugarplum.”

Jackson jumped the last few steps to the main level. “Wait right there, Rogers. Billy and I are riding with you, just like we agreed.”

“I can’t believe this. I should never have come here and I knew it.” Rogers scowled. “He accused me of murder just now, you know.” Rogers brushed passed the women so quickly he nearly knocked them down. Lena grabbed Imogene by both arms to stay vertical. Jackson watched him storm down the long hall.

“Boys, I believe me and Imogene’s better off stayin’ here than followin’ that big ’un out there through New Awluns. Far as Lena Ward is concerned, that man ain’t nothing but trouble.” Lena reached out and touched Jackson’s shoulder. “Listen, baby. I know y’all goin’ to that club where my son goes, and if he’s been drankin’, you don’t let that lawman be too rough on him. Leonard, he’s really a good boy. I knowed y’all had the scuffle at the parade, but don’t go holdin’ it against him. He cared for Glenway Gilbert like y’all, just in a different way.”

Jackson nodded even though he didn’t agree with her. Catfish was truly a son only a mother could love. “Hey, Billy, hurry and give Imogene her meds.” He peered out the window at Rogers leaning over the patrol car, talking to the officer.

“Hey, Jack, I can take my own cockeyed medicine. Y’all need to go get after that fellar ’fore he leaves. Don’t you worry about ol’ Imogene Deal McGregor. She’s got sense of her own.”

Billy quickly extracted her medicine from his satchel and handed it to her. She shook her head, but Lena pleaded, “Take your medicine, baby. I gotta take mine too.” She pulled a pill pack out of her apron. “Shoot, my son, Leonard, he stay on me, too. But we lucky we got chil’ren who loves us.”

“Yeah,” Imogene said, grabbing a bottle of water from the table. “This ’un here nearly loves me to death.” She pointed at her son. Lena swallowed a mouthful of her own pills.

“Shoot, you got a pile of ’em yourself, shug.” Imogene handed her the water just as Jackson hurried to the front door and saw Rogers walking toward his vehicle. “Hey, Billy, come on. He’s about to leave us.”

Running out the door, Jackson jumped into the back seat of Roger’s car, leaving the door open.

“Shut that now ’cause we gotta go. It’s nearly ten p.m., and you know the queers’ll be cramming the bar by now.” Rogers glared at Jackson through his rearview mirror.

“Rogers, I know you’re just being your usual, hateful self, using the word ‘queer’ to offend me, but I’m not closing the door until my Billy McGregor arrives.”

The door at the front porch opened and Billy walked slowly toward the car. Jackson motioned for him to hurry, but Billy didn’t seem to get the message. The lieutenant finally called out in a booming voice, “Billy McGregor, get your tail in the vehicle or you’ll be left on the curb.”

Imogene and Lena mashed their faces up against the glass fleur-de-lis, apparently trying to discern the cause of the racket. Jackson waved at them and they returned the gesture. Billy slid inside and closed the door just as Rogers rolled beside the patrol car and glared into it. Jackson saw Rogers’s pointed look at the subordinate. Was it some sort of sign or command? Jackson prodded Billy to watch it. The officer in the car nodded and then Rogers nodded in return.

“Is he coming with us, Lieutenant?” Jackson asked.

Rogers sat up straight. “No, I’m leaving an officer here to guard the old folks.”

Jackson wondered about that. Guard them or keep them pinned to the house?

“I don’t trust him,” Billy whispered, and Jackson wondered if his partner had read his mind. “But if they’re aiming to keep Mama and Lena in that house. Well, good luck to them. Earlier today, Lena was telling Mama about some attorney who had some information. I couldn’t comprehend exactly what they were saying and then they caught me eavesdropping. I don’t know if they’ll leave, but I know that cop can’t stop Mama from doing anything if she’s got her mind set.”

Twenty-Seven

Rogers and the boys approached the ballet, which stood at a sharp corner where two streets met together at a “V.” Jackson noticed a big van parked a half block away. He asked Rogers about it.

“It’s the paddy wagon for our suspects.” A few patrons stumbled from the Tool Belt’s doors. Rogers said, “Remember, I got four black-and-whites around the corner.”

Jackson skipped ahead of the lieutenant. “Roger that, Rogers. We got it. Bring on the boys, then.” Jackson saw Rogers glare at the bar and straighten his back, as if he were on guard against any sexual advances. Jackson grinned at Rogers’s discomfort. “Hold on. Are you paying our cover charge?”

“Shh. Hell no.” The lieutenant reached in his wallet. “Stick to the plan. We’re here for a purpose and don’t forget it.”

Jackson walked in first and paid for himself and Billy. The doorman wore a tight, blue and red jumpsuit with sequined stars. “Betsy Ross would be proud of you, young man,” Jackson said, as the doorman handed him his change.

The youth stopped Billy, “I need to look through your bag before you can go in.” He rifled through Billy’s satchel. “What are you planning to do with all these medical supplies? Are you the EMT here?”

“No,” Billy said. “I’m a…well—”

“A hypochondriac is what he is,” Jackson said. “He’s Florence Nightingale with a nervous condition.” The doorman returned Billy’s bag, but he studied Billy for a moment before waving him through.

Rogers had already gone ahead of the boys. Jackson and Billy approached the bar, which took up half the building. Above it, Jackson noticed a mezzanine where patrons could sit and watch the activity. It was divided into two unequal parts. On the left side, Jackson could distinguish the faces in the larger area, some people leaning over the railing. The smaller area to the right, however, was dark. It appeared to be a private area with the best view in the house. Jackson squinted but still couldn’t make out any faces in the shadows.

Just as he put his elbows on the lacquered wood near the beer taps, a red-haired bartender with a big grin ran toward him. “Hey, guys. I know you. I tend bar at Lafitte’s, and Maw Maw came in the other day and showed me your pictures. I’d recognize that salt-and-pepper hair anywhere.” He pointed at Jackson’s thatch. “Where is she?”

Jackson ran his fingers through his hair. “Are you talking about Imogene?”

The red-headed worker flipped a damp white towel over his shoulder. “Yeah. But she said I should call her Maw Maw McGregor. She was looking for men named Pirate and Catfish. When she showed me your pictures, she said you were Glenway’s friends. She’s a mess, isn’t she?”

Jackson still looked at the gent sideways, trying to figure out who he was, which didn’t stop the man from talking as he filled a tall glass of beer. “The last time I saw her was at midnight the other night with Miss Lena Ward, the queen of pralines. I was working at Lafitte’s, which she calls the ‘pirate shop.’”

Jackson had neglected to tell Billy about Imogene sneaking out like a teenager. He smiled uncomfortably at the bartender’s remark and then watched Billy’s piqued reaction.

“What do you mean, you saw her at midnight?” Billy asked, slinging his satchel in his lap. He plopped on a bar stool. “We’ve been with her the entire trip.”

“Oh.” The smiling redheaded fellow wiped the surface in front of him. “She and Lena came to show me the painting Glenway worked on for Lafitte’s anniversary. Your mother told me she had figured out that Leonard, or Catfish, was Lena’s boy. She’s a feisty one, that Imogene Deal McGregor. She really did love Glenway. We all loved him. Well, what can I get you to drink?”

Jackson asked, “Why are you working here at the ballet, I mean the Tool Belt, when you have a job at Lafitte’s?”

“I moonlight anywhere the money’s good.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “You know, I just saw Catfish a minute ago. I believe he went upstairs. Are you after him like your mama was?”

Billy nodded. The man pointed, and the boys glanced up at the balcony, making eye contact with patrons on the left of the partition. Jackson could still only see hands on the right. He asked for two root beers.

After the bartender poured the drinks, he said, “They’re on me. Listen, before you go, could you tell me what happened to that painting Glenway was working on for Lafitte’s anniversary? We’d love to see it.”

“It’s in safekeeping. I’ll make sure it gets to you soon. We’re holding it until we can figure out who killed Glenway.” Jackson surveyed the room, trying to spy Rogers. “Glenway painted a person of interest in that painting.”

“Really? Who was it?” The bartender tried to follow Jackson’s gaze to see where he was staring. Rogers’s big, beefy cranium leaned over the balcony above them. The lieutenant then whistled and waved them upstairs.

Jackson said, “We’ve got a few ideas, but it’s probably best if I don’t say just yet.”

“All right, then, boys. Y’all give your mom my best. Tell her to come see me at Lafitte’s when she’s got a minute.” The fellow stuck his freckled hand out to Jackson.

Jackson saw Billy roll his eyes and then shake his head, as if relaying the message would be the last thing he ever did. The pleasant redheaded man continued to smile, apparently taking no offense at the gesture.

Jackson led Billy through the gathering crowd. The music in the building changed to a famous boxing movie’s theme song. The lights dimmed to allow the spotlight and disco ball to illuminate the area. The crowd began cheering just as the boys reached the pool tables at the far end of the room. They paused a moment at the foot of the steps that led to the second level. Jackson saw a young man dressed as a boxer come out of the shadows and hop up on the bar next to the redheaded barkeep.

The dancer started bouncing around, as if he was warming up for a fight. His moves drew whistles and catcalls. The dancer had an olive skin tone like a Greek model, and he was perfectly fit, with just enough muscles to be attractive without looking ridiculous like Rogers. The patrons at the bar immediately grabbed for their rolls of money. The dancing boxer removed his hooded robe and revealed a well-toned abdomen. Dollars flew out of the sky like pollen out of French Quarter trees in springtime.

Jackson grabbed Billy’s hand, feeling the wave of enthusiasm, and headed for the far right corner of the bar. Some patrons playing pool stopped their game to inch closer to the show, and the boys hurried up the stairs.

Jackson made Billy stay close to him, because of the darkness. “Come on, bud. Everything’s fine.” After a few slow, deliberate steps, they made it to the top. Jackson planted both feet in the dimly lit hall. He squeezed Billy’s hand and turned to look at him when suddenly, from out of the murky hall, someone broke through and tackled Jackson. It was one of those tackles they teach on the football fields in Tuscaloosa and Baton Rouge, a head-on collision right in the chest. The assailant’s shoulder tagged Jackson directly below the sternum, causing him to fall to the edge of the stairs and roll to his side groaning. He scooted out of the way, hoping his tackler had not hit him intentionally.