Imogene in New Orleans (31 page)

“Hurry, baby…Who chasin’ you?...Shoot, they ain’t gonna get you now. Sure as the day.” The woman’s singsong voice floated through the air, and as soon as Leonard closed the door, the old car surged down the street.

There was no mistaking that voice.

* * * * *

Jackson took his time returning to the Tool Belt. He needed an intermission away from the others to reflect on Buddy’s information and Catfish’s escape.

If Hill was Blue Moon, and he was obsessed with Glenway, then it was no mistake that they were staying at Chez Hill. His thoughts brought the manager into focus. He ambled through the streets of the French Quarter, catching the strong scent of gardenia. He remembered Imogene’s assessment that there were dangerous characters in the Quarter after nightfall. Catfish was one such character, and his escape from the ballet made him even more suspicious. He wouldn’t have risked making such a scene leaving the ballet if he weren’t guilty of something.

Returning to the Tool Belt, Jackson approached the front of the building, passing the paddy wagon and the officers waiting to capture more suspects. They were handcuffing two people whom Jackson didn’t recognize.

Inside, he immediately noticed something protruding from the private balcony, a glossy walking cane. He saw a pair of meaty hands grasp the railing beside the cane. He didn’t have to see the face to know whose hands those were, especially with the enormous ring Rogers wore.

“Does that cane belong to Rogers? Surely not,” Jackson whispered, feeling a chill go all over him. Someone else besides Rogers grabbed the cane and removed it from sight.

In the open area of the balcony, Allen let a paper airplane fall on a new dancer below, a young man dressed up like a sailor, his naval cap sideways on his head. He wore dark blue underwear, which hugged his waist like plastic wrap.

Jackson hurried to the second level. He nearly reached the top when Thurston burst from the private balcony, scurrying forward.

“Hey, Canebrake. Hold up, there.”

Thurston hesitated just a moment, keeping his eyes on the floor, and then tried to pass Jackson.

“Wait. Neil told me you were from Demopolis. So, Glenway named you for the Canebrake region?”

Thurston didn’t answer right away. He had not shut the door to the private balcony. He was sort of wobbling in the hallway. Jackson needed to confront him, but he saw faint silhouettes inside the enclosed balcony, so he nudged the door open. He took one step inside and someone forced the door shut, pushing him back out against the wall. He grabbed the wainscoting to keep his balance.

Thurston stumbled toward him. “Yes, Mr. Jackson Miller. Correct. I’m Canebrake from Demopolis.” His breath smelled of liquor. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Thurston tried to push Jackson aside with the cane.

“Who’s in that room? Why is it such a secret?”

Jackson recognized the shiny silver top of the antique cane, the same one he’d seen upon reentering the ballet.

Thurston rested his head against the wall. The soft light from the sconce reflected from his smooth scalp. “The usual crowd. They don’t attend the ballet to be seen. They come to see.” He scratched his leg with the end of the cane.

“Is this yours?” Jackson grabbed the cane and held it underneath the sconce in the hallway.

Thurston shifted his meager weight to lean against the wall. The dim light cast shadows on his face. “Look, I don’t want to get entangled in this predicament.” He wiped his bald head with a handkerchief.

“It’s too late, Thurston. You’ve been tangled up in this mess for too long now. And I suspect you know more about the death of my friend Glenway than you’ve been telling. ” Jackson moved closer to the old man, catching a whiff of expensive cologne mingled with smoke and bourbon.

Thurston staggered to the other side of the hall and headed toward the staircase, but Jackson took a few quick steps to block him. “Wait a minute.”

From inside the room, someone scraped a chair against the floor, and then the door to the private balcony swung open, and the hulking shadow of Rogers filled the entrance. The lieutenant slammed the door and said, “What do you have here, ‘Detective Miller’?”

“Hello Lieutenant. I believe you and Thurston are well acquainted.”

Rogers didn’t respond, so Jackson asked, “What were you doing in that private room, and why’d you shut me out?” Jackson squinted at Rogers, hoping to see the lieutenant’s reaction.

Rogers stormed toward Thurston, completely ignoring the questions. “You need to come with me, fellow. We’re going to the station.” He seized Thurston by the arm.

Thurston didn’t argue or resist, but he did stumble as the lieutenant tried to hurry him along. Rogers snatched the cane from Jackson and stuffed it in Thurston’s hand, then guided him to the bottom of the steps.

Jackson shook his head. He whispered, “They aren’t fooling me. If Rogers wanted to arrest Thurston, he could have done it inside that locked room.” He decided to go tell Neil and Allen what he’d seen. As he passed the door to the private balcony, someone cracked it open and Jackson slid along the wall to peek inside. He saw the waiter lean over and light someone’s cigarette. As Jackson inched closer to the door, the lighter went out. Then the waiter started to leave. Before he took more than two steps, someone wearing a shirt with fluffy sleeves smacked the young man on the butt, making him nearly skip out of the room. The door closed and Jackson watched the server bustle toward the stairs with a drink tray and two twenty-dollar bills in his hand.

Jackson joined his friends, and in less than an hour, they watched Rogers arrest six more men at the bar. Jackson was quiet, thinking about Blue Moon, Buddy, Catfish, Lena’s Cadillac, Thurston, Rogers, and the cane incident.

Billy said he was tired and ready to leave. Rogers had not returned. Neil agreed, and he easily convinced Allen to go, too. Allen had run out of singles. On the way to Neil’s car, Billy whispered, “I hope it was worth it, leaving Mother alone while we watched Rogers pretend to do something about Glenway’s death.”

Jackson didn’t dare mention he’d seen Lena’s Cadillac in the alley with Leonard. He didn’t know what Lena was doing at such an hour in the Quarter. “I did learn who Blue Moon is.”

“Jackson, Blue Moon doesn’t matter.” Billy made Jackson slow down to give some distance between them and Neil and Allen. He nodded to the other men and whispered, “I watched them all night. I’m still suspicious, even if they are our friends. When you went to chase Catfish, they didn’t go. They were having some kind of intense conversation that they stopped abruptly when I approached. Something isn’t right about all that. But for now, I’m just ready to get Mother and go to the hotel.”

Safely in the car, Jackson leaned back in his seat and watched the French Quarter rooftops pass by as they headed uptown to Neil’s. Neil cruised, apparently in no hurry to get home. Billy didn’t complain either. There was a warm breeze blowing in the car as they passed the mansions in the Garden District and they could smell the sweet aroma of the night-blooming jasmine. Soft light fell on the neutral ground along the streetcar tracks.

Jackson thought about his escape from the lieutenant. Billy had fallen asleep checking his vital signs. When they arrived at the house, Neil and Allen got out of the car first, and Neil hurried inside.

Jackson tried to wake Billy, who rubbed his eyes and told Jackson to go get Imogene, so they could leave. Jackson noticed that the patrol car was no longer there. He stretched and walked around to open the door for Billy.

Neil ran back to the porch, waving his arms in the air and calling out in a fevered, frantic voice “Oh my God. Imogene and Lena are gone.”

“What?” Jackson said.

“Goose isn’t here either.” Neil smacked the nearest house column and then slammed the door.

Twenty-Nine

They searched the neighborhood for hours. Lena’s Seville wasn’t at the praline shop. Jackson put his ear to the door, listening for movement inside, but heard none. Billy dialed Imogene’s phone a hundred times, eventually finding it in the couch where she’d been sitting during dinner. After this discovery, he collapsed on the couch and checked his vital signs.

Periodically, Jackson tried to comfort his partner, but Billy was clearly beyond comfort. He compulsively monitored his blood pressure until he became unresponsive.

Neil paced from the front door to the back. When he passed Billy in the den, he’d pause a moment and wring his hands together and then keep marching. At one point, he burst out on the front porch, where Jackson and Allen sat. He declared, “She’s kidnapped. Yes, kidnapped.”

Jackson watched Neil hurry along the side of the house, past the jasmine and under the plantains. “What makes you say that?”

Neil stopped and appeared to attempt an answer. He matted down his mustache and said, “She’s gone. They’re gone. She’s kidnapped.” He followed the property line between his house and Lena’s shop. Jackson and Allen watched him. Neil snapped a branch off a blue hydrangea and marched toward the front porch. “My fault. All my fault. If not for me, she wouldn’t be kidnapped.”

“Neil, stop it,” Jackson said. “If Billy hears that nonsense, he’ll have another panic attack.” Jackson patted the chair beside him. “Come sit.”

Allen stroked his beard in rapid movements, watching Neil’s frenzied behavior. “I’ve never seen him like this, Jackson.”

Neil completed two circles around the herb garden with the mint glowing in the moonlight, and then he strode down the property line again. “Gone. Kidnapped.” On his next pass beside the front porch, he threw his hands in the air and looked at the top of the porch columns. “I think Rogers instigated this whole charade, so he could use a kidnapping as leverage…”

“Neil, look at me.” He wouldn’t do it. Instead, he stared at the windows behind Allen like they held answers. “Why would he do that, Neil? Why?”

Neil bent over the gardenias near the street and said, “In order to get the figurines and pay us back for our blackmail. Why wasn’t I thinking? Poor Imogene and Lena. Kidnapped.” Then he walked into the foyer and called Rogers, relaying his theory in three consecutive attempts, all of which ended with Rogers hanging up on him.

Neil was ready to call his friend on the city council when Jackson stopped him. “Wait. Don’t do it. They’re not kidnapped. They’ll show up.”

Neil glared at him. “What? Out of thin air, like magic?”

“I just have a feeling they will, that’s all.” Jackson avoided Neil’s stare, knowing he had seen Lena’s car and heard her voice earlier. He stood up. “I’ll just have another look around.”

Jackson crossed the street and walked through the basketball courts, where he had run from Rogers. He turned around and saw Neil and Allen huddled up together. He doubled back, walking down the sidewalk past Lena’s Place. He crossed the next intersection and then heard a low rumbling sound, almost like the sound of a boat trolling the bayou.

He recognized Lena’s Cadillac, and as soon as he stepped forward, the car stopped in the road. He saw arms flailing in the backseat and hurried closer. Out of the car jumped Catfish, clutching his mesh hat and fleeing into the darkness. Jackson didn’t budge. He couldn’t do any more chasing.

He turned back toward the house, and just as he reached the wall, he heard Allen say, “Look, there, behind you, Jackson.” Allen pointed at the street. Lena cruised onto the property, laughing out the window like she was catching beads on Canal Street.

Imogene sat in the passenger seat, and Goose perched in between the old ladies with his tongue out, licking his lips. His face was covered in white powder. It looked like someone had dipped him face-first in a bag of flour. Lena and Imogene cackled as he moved from one of the women to the other, trying to see who would offer the next delicacy. Imogene dropped something in his mouth while Lena parked the car. She smacked the steering wheel in amusement and then opened the door. “Dat dog, he’ll eat any thang.” Goose could not contain himself. He huffed and snorted and sneezed.

Imogene hugged the happy bulldog. “That’s Maw-Maw’s sweet boy, yes, him is.” Before Imogene could get out, Jackson and Neil stepped up to her open window.

Jackson screamed first. “Imogene, where have you been?”

“Honey, Lena took us to the Quarter for some of them Franch doughnuts!” She was covered in powdered sugar. He helped her out of the car. She didn’t look like a woman who’d done anything wrong. She had glazed, satisfied eyes. “Son, these thangs is even better at night. I’ll lay a dollar on it. They was good during the day when we had ’em but even better now. Where’s ol’ Billy?”

“Imogene, you weren’t supposed to leave.” Jackson helped her up the first step.

“Aww, bull. Y’all ain’t told us to stay here. ’Sides, we got hungry. And I got a hankerin’ for a treat.” She wiped her face with a napkin and clutched her bag of beignets as if it held a million dollars.

“Baby, we didn’t think y’all was comin’ home,” Lena said, holding on to a portable file folder, wrapped in a piece of twine.

“Billy’s had a conniption fit over you being gone.” Jackson studied the women. Imogene’s hands were full. As she leaned over to give Goose a sugary morsel, he saw a piece of paper sticking halfway out of her pocket. He couldn’t see all that was on the paper, but he thought he saw one familiar name.

“Where’s he at, then? He knows Mama’s gotta live her own life.” Imogene shook her head. She saw Jackson looking at the paper. She stuffed it down her pocket and winked at him.

“We was aight, baby,” Lena said, holding on to Jackson’s arm as they walked up the stairs. “I know this city. Plus, we had this dog here.” Goose followed on her heels lest she drop some of the doughy deliciousness. Jackson petted him. He decided to wait until the right time to ask about their other “business” in the French Quarter and their other passenger—Catfish—and the file Lena clutched to her abdomen.

Imogene peeked in on Billy, who was snoring on the couch. Her shoulders slumped when she saw her son with a white washcloth covering his face and the blood pressure cuff strapped to his arm. She looked like a sad, older Marie Antoinette, with the white beignet powder rubbed into her cheeks. “That boy worries hisself too much about his mama. There ain’t another son would do that, though, so I kinda feel bad for troublin’ him.”