Imogene in New Orleans (6 page)

Billy asked, “Did Lena know about his updated will? Because that sort of generosity is an easy reason to kill someone. A hundred thousand dollars is a payload.”

Allen sat up straight in his garden chair, pushing back the fluffy cushion. The tip of his beard pointed at Billy’s face. “Billy McGregor, you think that old woman could’ve or would’ve killed Glenway? She’s a tough woman for sure, much like your mom, but I don’t see her as the murdering type. She’s been too sweet to us and to Glenway. Plus, you saw her yourself. She can hardly stay upright on her own power.”

“Neither can Mother, but she’s stronger than you think. From the looks of his studio, Glenway was drinking Thursday night. We saw wineglasses on the coffee table and empty bottles everywhere. If he passed out on the futon, anyone—including a senior citizen—could have beaten him. That’s all I’m saying.”

Again, Allen began pulling his beard, as if it were helping to keep him from floating off the porch. “I just...I don’t…I don’t know…” Allen blinked several times.

Billy ripped the Velcro cuff from his arm and stood up. “If she did kill Glenway, she’s with Mother right now, alone in her shop over there. All Mother needs is to befriend a murderer.” He clutched his satchel, hopped down the steps, and hurried through the bushes toward Lena’s Place.

Five

“Should we make sure they’re all right, Jackson?” Allen pointed toward the graffitied walls of the praline shop.

“Naw, man. Let Billy go check on her. He can handle himself.” Jackson took a deep breath and patted Goose on the head. The dog’s tongue rested in a puddle of water Imogene had poured him. “You wanna treat, dude?” The beast jumped to all fours as Jackson ran to the car to get a beef bone. He reached into the backseat and saw that Imogene’s camera had slipped onto the floor.

He scrolled through the pictures of the trip—shots from Alabama and Mississippi and Louisiana and then the bridge, the French Quarter, the carriage drivers, and Glenway’s studio.

“Allen, you need to see some of these,” Jackson said, walking back toward the porch. Goose stood on the edge of the concrete steps, awaiting his promised treats. “You mind if we go inside? Goose won’t admit it, but he needs some relief from this heat.” The bulldog started moving around, dancing almost, as Jackson got to the top of the steps.

Allen swung the door open and Goose trotted in with the bone protruding from his mouth like a cigar. He was ready to take on a new scene. Allen led them through the foyer, which sported several of Glenway’s prints. Jackson stared at a framed poster of an art show on Royal Street, where city residents and guests dressed up in their best clothes and did a tour of all the galleries on that famous thoroughfare. Jackson saw Glenway’s initials in the bottom-right-hand corner of the print. The painting showed a young, shirtless man resting languidly on a chaise lounge, surrounded by wine and fruit. He held a plum in his hand. The model had dark, seductive eyes. A window behind the young man showed the gorgeous European-inspired rooftops in the French Quarter.

As Jackson studied the print, Allen said, “Glenway called the painting
Bacchus
.”

“Hmm. No wonder. It looks like the one painted by Caravaggio, doesn’t it?” Jackson stepped closer to the enormous print. Goose inadvertently rubbed up against him as he gnawed on his bone with complete concentration.

Allen nodded. “Yes, it does. Glenway loved Caravaggio, and just like the Italian master, Glenway used some of his love interests in his paintings. You know who that New Orleans Bacchus is?”

Jackson flicked a curl from his eye. “No, I don’t recognize him.”

Allen pointed at the handsome young man, who was strong and tattooed and rough-looking, even though his cheeks had a rosy hue, as if he had just sprinted to the chaise lounge. “Did Neil tell you where Glenway lives?”

“Yeah, he did. Over in Algiers with some hustler. A hustler named Butch or something?”

“You’re close. He’s a hustler named Buddy, and he’s no sweetheart. That’s him there as Bacchus. Glenway was smitten with him. Neil wasn’t. In fact, Neil tried to warn Glenway about Buddy several times this year. I’m a little surprised Neil didn’t immediately come home and start blaming Buddy rather than confronting Lena. I guess he just lost his head. I hate he’s in jail.”

“Me too, Allen. It’s been a whirlwind. Do you really think his city council friend can spring him?”

“I do. Neil has friends all over New Orleans. If he calls in a favor, the council member will help him.” Allen continued looking at the piece of Buddy as Bacchus. “I framed that print and the original painting. In fact, you probably saw it today in the gallery. I have some postcards of the same event. It was a huge success. No one could put on an art show like Glenway.”

Jackson noticed the wolf tattoo on Bacchus’s left shoulder and arm. The figure in Glenway’s painting was more of a man than the one in Caravaggio’s. Buddy was a little older, not to mention rougher and more menacing. “Does he look like that in real life, Allen?” Jackson bent down to scratch Goose’s belly. Goose had found a cool spot in the corner of the front room, where the hardwood floor met the air vent.

“No, he looks scarier in real life. Who knows why Glenway liked that type, that dangerous sort. It’s easy to understand Neil’s concern for him. Glenway could never settle down with someone like you guys have, or like we have, me and Neil. Believe me, several decent people his own age tried to woo Glenway, but he didn’t want stability. He liked swinging from branch to branch…and usually in a dark forest.” Allen shook his head and then adjusted his glasses.

“How long did he live with Buddy the hustler?” Jackson gently spun Goose around on the hardwood floor, which elicited an immediate growl. “Goose, you’d just bark if you saw someone swinging from branch to branch, wouldn’t you?”

Allen scratched his face and clasped his hands together. “Glenway’s had that place in Algiers for years, but I think the Buddy thing is fairly new, say, the last four, maybe five months. He started talking about Buddy sometime in March or April, about the same time he finished the painting of Bacchus.”

“Do you and Neil ever go to the place in Algiers?”

“Oh, no. I think Neil’s been twice in three years, and I’ve dropped Glenway off there a couple times. Glenway guarded that place like a fortress. A love fortress. But I don’t blame him. He’s an artist, you know, and he needs his time alone, to think and to work—”

“And to bed hustlers,” Jackson said, smacking the floor. “Goose, you stay away from hustlers, sweet boy.”

Jackson handed Allen the camera. “Sorry, the painting of Buddy distracted me. Here are the pictures Imogene took. I wanted you to have a look and see what you think.”

Allen scrolled through the images in the camera, holding it in front of his beard. He smiled at the ones Imogene took on the drive down from Alabama and those in the French Quarter, and then, suddenly, his face turned sour. “The mess in Glenway’s studio. That’s ridiculous. Neil should have known something was wrong immediately.”

“We just figured he’d been out late,” Jackson said, peering over Allen’s shoulder.

“I would’ve known right away from the look of the front room that there was trouble. But I do go to Glenway’s studio several times a week. I guess I’m there much more than Neil…because of my framing work and helping him with his money.”

Jackson looked at Allen. The thought of Neil and Allen offing Glenway cropped up again. It bothered him to think like that, but they were involved with Glenway in odd ways, more like tangled up in Glenway’s life as much as anything. He tried to put the suspicion out of his mind, but he remembered Neil opening the locked studio with his own key. Plus, Allen’s role as the executor of Glenway’s will was disconcerting. He and Billy had spent so many pleasant hours at their house in New Orleans. Likewise, Neil and Allen had traveled to Harristown to visit many times. He stared at Allen, who continued scanning Imogene’s pictures.

Allen looked up. “What’s wrong, Jackson? Why are you looking at me like that? Do you want these pictures back?”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I was just…I was just thinking about Neil going to jail…So you don’t think they’ll keep him overnight?”

“Oh, certainly not. I hope not. If that’s the case, I hope you guys will stay with me.” Allen wiped his face with a bandana from his framing table.

“Hmm, we’d be happy to, but did you know Neil changed our hotel? We booked four days in a bed-and-breakfast, but Neil said a friend of his got us a better deal at another place. Says it has a balcony overlooking Toulouse Street in the French Quarter.”

Allen squinted at the photos on the small screen. “Oh, no, that pretty hair. ‘Tangerine’ he called it. Is that blood on Glenway’s head?”

Jackson leaned toward the camera. “Yes, poor guy. We thought he was sleeping. Billy noticed something wrong with his color and then he pointed out the patch of blood on Glenway’s scalp. It almost looked like dye.” Jackson wasn’t sure if he should bring up the hotel again until Allen had finished with the pictures. He decided instead to check out the walls of Allen’s workshop, which sported the completed jobs and pieces of frames hanging everywhere.

He walked up to a scene from a café in the French Quarter showing what appeared to be some luminaries having a spirited discussion over drinks. One of the models looked almost like Tennessee Williams but with a unibrow. He grasped a notebook in his hand, holding it near his chest. He was seated with a bald-headed man wearing a wildly patterned shirt and a sly grin, as if he was amused at his own wit.

Jackson backed up and saw his reflection in the glass. His facial scruff had grown during the day and his salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in wild disarray. He matted it down and then straightened the collar on his shirt. He looked tired, which made him think of his hotel room. “Allen…do you know about the new place Neil got for us?’

“Of course. Sorry. These are some great pics. I wish I had ink in my printer. I’d print them out now. I can at least download them. Anyhow, about your accommodations. The reservation number is in Neil’s office. You know how organized he is.” Allen led Jackson and Goose into the den that had big fluffy couches that had seen their share of naps. Allen pointed to the open door of Neil’s office, a narrow room with Mardi Gras beads and file cabinets and a long workshop shelf that ran the length of the wall. Jackson’s hip touched the corner of the shelf, which Neil used as a desk.

“Here they are. Your new hotel is called Chez Hill. Two queen beds and a balcony view for half the price of your other reservations.” Allen handed the piece of paper to Jackson.

“And what about Goose?”

Allen leaned over and patted the dog on the head. “You can stay too, Goose.” Goose shook upon hearing his name. Since he didn’t have a tail, he very nearly wagged his entire body when he felt excited. He and Jackson started walking for the door, because Jackson wanted to check on Billy.

“If you don’t mind, let me upload these pictures before you go,” Allen said, holding his beard with one hand and the camera with the other. His face had turned pale after looking at the camera. Jackson couldn’t tell if he was upset about the pictures or scared of something he wasn’t mentioning. Allen looked past him distantly before he turned around and rushed back to Neil’s office.

* * * * *

“Boys, that Lena Ward is a mess, I tell ya. I laughed till my sides was sore. Don’t get her going on the constables ’round this city. She and her son had some run-ins the likes of which y’all won’t believe.” Imogene glanced out the window as Jackson turned onto St. Charles Avenue again. She took a picture of the streetcar. “Now, I hope y’all didn’t bring me down here from Alabama expectin’ I wouldn’t want a trolley ride. ’Cause y’all know I’ll go by my lonesome if it comes to it.”

The bell rang on the streetcar as it passed. “Imogene, we’ll ride it as soon as we get a chance. Maybe tomorrow.” Jackson glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Billy looked out the window, but he wasn’t looking at the streetcar. He turned to Jackson and said, “Did you know Glenway’s paying off Neil and Allen’s house too? It’s in his will.”

Jackson slammed on the brakes. “What? How do you know this?” He slid his sunglasses to the end of his nose and glared at Billy. The slight brown circles under Billy’s eyes had gotten darker throughout the day. His eyes drooped, as if they were exhausted from what they’d seen. “Jackson, at least turn off this street first. You’ll get us run over, stopping in the middle of the Garden District.” A car behind them honked its horn. “I told you.”

Jackson hit the accelerator and cut in front of a car in order to take the next street. The driver he slighted gave him a few honks and shouted out the window. Jackson parked beside one of the bright mansions lining St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District. The blue, three-storied house with carved trim and old windows had a tall iron fence surrounding its perfect yard. Imogene took a picture of it before she asked why they’d stopped. “We goin’ inside, boys?”

Billy said, “I overheard Lena telling Mama just a minute ago…when they were in the kitchen.”

Jackson rubbed his face and then slapped the steering wheel. “And how did that point come up, the paying off of Neil and Allen’s house in Glenway’s will?”

“Lena was defending herself from Neil’s accusations in front of Mama, from what I could tell. I listened at the window Lena keeps open for customers, until they caught me and made me come inside.”

“What are y’all saying up there, boys?” Imogene took another picture. “My ears got water in ’em. Y’all speak loud and plain so Maw-Maw can hear.”

“We’re talking about Glenway paying for Neil and Allen’s house in his will,” Jackson said for the third time, as if by repetition he could comprehend it. Imogene took her white-rimmed sunglasses off and stared at Jackson. “How’d you learn that, Jackson Miller?”

“Billy told me.” He looked at Imogene, whose cheeks were red from the heat. She looked worse than Goose, who was more accustomed to sleeping eighteen hours a day than roaming all over a subtropical, exotic city. He lay outstretched on the backseat and stared at Imogene’s hands as she nibbled on a praline.