Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (25 page)

"I'll only be a minute," Valentin said. "Then you can go back to bed."

"What's wrong now? Is somebody else dead?"

"Yes," the detective said. "Somebody else is dead."

Morton started to come awake. "Jesus!"

Valentin sat down on a café chair. Morton planted himself on his couch, a fine overstuffed affair of walnut and brocade.

"Treau Martín," Valentin said. "The bass fiddle player in the Union Hall band."

He allowed a moment for the news to sink in, glancing over Morton's shoulder and through the bedroom door. He saw dark limbs tangled in the sheets atop the four-poster bed. The woman was coffee colored, just like Justine, and for the briefest instant, he felt his heart thump and his stomach clutch; then he saw the long, thick hair and relaxed.

Morton snapped his fingers to bring his attention back. "So what the hell is going on?"

"All those fellows who played in that band are dead, except for one."

As hard as Morton tried to keep his face blank, his eyes flicked, giving him away.

Valentin said, "I need to find him, Jelly."

The piano man was quiet for long seconds as the rain rattled the windowpanes. Then he said, "You better go see my godmother."

As she went about tidying herself and the apartment in preparation for Paul's appearance, Justine picked up Tom Anderson's note a half-dozen times, then put it down again. Her curiosity was quickly turning into unease. What did the King of Storyville want with her? It had to do with Valentin, of course. There was no other connection. Unless...

She brushed the thought away, but the unsettling feeling remained. There was something about Mr. Anderson, the way he seemed to know everything about everyone. Valentin had told her once that the man was like God, lording over Storyville and its denizens. It had never occurred to her that he might know things about her, too. She was a nobody, another back-of-town sporting girl, one out of the thousands. Now she realized that she was different because of Valentin St. Cyr, Anderson's right-hand man. Maybe, like God, he kept a ledger and her name was on it, along with an accounting of her sins.

That drove her mind on a jag and sent her rushing to the bathroom, where she brought up what little was in her stomach. She was glad that the apartment had a new flush toilet and she didn't have to clean a mess. She wiped her mouth and drank some water from the tap. Then she opened the cabinet over the sink and took down the amber-colored bottle that held her prescription. This time she put a full dose and then some into the glass of water. She knew her mind wouldn't be right when it took hold, but it didn't matter. Paul wouldn't care. He was already beginning to ignore her, and his interest in frolicking with her was a sham. She could guess what was coming next: he would ask only for French and Greek, because he didn't want her as a woman at all. He was just playing his part in the farce that his position in New Orleans society demanded. She'd seen it before.

She studied her face in the mirror as she drank the medicine down. She saw lines creeping from her eyes. Twenty-four and there were lines from her eyes.

She put the dropper back in the bottle and then held it up to the light. She had just visited the apothecary and it was almost full. It occurred to her that all she had to do was drink the contents in one quick swallow and her troubles would be over. There would be no broken heart over Valentin St. Cyr. There would be no disgust over what she had to do with Paul Baudel. There would be no facing Tom Anderson tomorrow. There would be no past, no history of a dirty, broken-down, foul-smelling shack along the bayou north of Ville Platte haunting her. There would be nothing, only a blessed darkness.

She regarded her face more seriously, looking into her own eyes to see a light that made her smile. No, not that; not today and not ever. Though sporting girls did it all the time, her life was too precious to end. She wouldn't let Valentin or Paul or Mr. Tom Anderson or any of the other men who passed through with such arrogance drive her that far down. Never.

She put the bottle back in the cabinet and left the bathroom, turning out the light.

It was a noisy, busy night at the Cafe. Some dignitaries from out of town, rich business types, had appeared without notice, and there was a scramble to make sure their every whim was sated. They took over two of the best tables and ordered champagne all around. The band played tunes at their request. The gamblers sniffed the air, then got up to welcome the gentlemen and ask if they might perhaps like to join in a game of cards.

Valentin did not see Tom Anderson all evening. The King of Storyville was on the premises; the detective could tell from the bottle of the best Scotch whiskey that was hustled from the bar through the back hall to the office upstairs. When Valentin asked the head bartender who was visiting, the response was a blank shake of the head. He cornered the waiter who had been serving Anderson and learned that there were two men in the office, and one of them was Chief O'Connor. The other, he believed, was a city official, perhaps an alderman. Whatever was going on was a solemn affair, the waiter whispered, and on a Friday night yet.

Valentin had a prickling sense that what was being discussed upstairs had something to do with him and the dead musicians. Maybe it was finally dawning on someone that there was something brewing.

He thought about creating an excuse to knock on Anderson's door, then realized that it would be too much of a ruse. The King of Storyville would know exactly what he was doing and chase him off. So he waited for some trouble or problem that would give him good reason to break in on the little party and at least catch a glimpse of these mysterious guests and overhear a snippet of their conversation. Nothing happened, though; the gentlemen behaved like angels for once, and everyone was having a marvelous time, drinking, gambling, eyeing the pretty octoroons, and dancing to the music from the six-piece band.

Later, when Valentin inquired again, he was told that Anderson and his guests had departed, their destinations unknown.

Dominique tried to sleep, got up, lied down again, stared at the wall. She couldn't stay still. There were too many ghosts about, too many sounds in the night that told her spirits were getting restless. Or maybe it wasn't spirits at all. Maybe it was that woman.
Justine.
She might well be the one who had been lurking about, stirring up the air as she put some kind of juju around the door, as a way to witching her replacement into leaving out. Dominique had been hearing footsteps and the creaking of the hinges of the street door, had seen the slips of shadow that disappeared around a corner just as she got to the balcony.

Enough was enough, she decided. In the morning she would visit a shop and buy some things of her own to put around the door. At least she could put something out when Valentin was gone. He didn't believe, wouldn't stand for it. She'd do it anyway. They both needed the help.

She hadn't meant to carry whatever had got on Jeff Mumford to Mr. Valentin's rooms. She had only been looking for a place to hide from fear and get relief from her loneliness at having her man taken away. The Creole detective, so quiet and respectful, seemed like a safe choice in a city full of men with nothing but bad intentions.

He was a gentleman. Still, Jeff or no Jeff, grief or no grief, she was ready almost right away for him to come to the bed. Something about him made her want to grab hold and not let go. She understood why Justine would want back in.

That quadroon wasn't going to go without a fight, even though she was the one who had left him. Now she was sneaking around, worrying their door, laying who knew what kind of charms about. Dominique was ready for anything Justine could bring. She would fight back with her own hoodoo. She wasn't going anywhere.

It was late, almost midnight, and Lieutenant Picot waited on the dark street corner. The collar of his overcoat was turned up and his derby pulled down low. He kept his hands in his pockets and his back turned to the street, lest anyone who might recognize him happen by. The wind was blowing through the treetops, shaking more rain down on the streets and banquettes.

Aside from the faint hissing of the drizzle, it was quiet on the corner. Up and down the streets in four directions, the stately homes of white Americans of means stood in elegant silence. Through tall windows, he spied chandeliers all aglow and, beneath them, figures moving in ballets of wealth and position. If he went closer, he would hear their mellow voices and rich laughter, the low whispers of servants, and the music from Victrolas.

He'd been waiting and he wondered what he would do if she didn't appear. Then, moments later, she was there, as stealthily as if one of the shadows had materialized into human form. She was wearing a long coat and a shawl that she had drawn up over her head like a fascinator, so he could barely make out her features.

Picot didn't speak for a long moment; he couldn't. Each time he tried, something caught in his throat and he had to turn his face away.

She grew impatient. "Well?"

"There are five people dead," the lieutenant said, sounding grim.

"Five?" She seemed impressed by the number. "Is that right?"

"I can't keep it hidden."

"You're a police officer," she said brusquely. "You can do anything you want. You've kept all sorts of things hidden. You're quite good at it." The voice was almost teasing, but with an edge like a sharp blade, a sound he never got used to.

"This is no comedy!" he hissed at her. "Crimes have been committed!"

"Be calm, now," she warned him, softening her tone.

He took a breath, settled himself. "Five dead. I'd say that evens the score. More than evens it."

She shook her head. "Not yet."

"There's someone who can stop it now," he warned her.

"And who would that be?"

"That one I told you about. Tom Anderson's man. The Creole detective St. Cyr."

"Don't worry about him. Or anyone else, either."

"He's no fool."

"We'll see who's a fool and who isn't," she murmured.

"I can't help you."

"I didn't ask you to," she said petulantly, with a schoolgirl's lilt. She looked back along the street, fixing her eyes on the facade of a Victorian house that was halfway down the block on the other side. A streetlamp stood before it, casting a glow of amber over the sculptured front garden. She turned back to him, smiling deliberately. "Is that all you have to say?"

"This is goin' to end bad," Picot said. "I got a feeling."

She laid a familiar hand on his arm. "You were always so superstitious," she said. She took the hand away, drew the shawl farther over her head until it almost shrouded her eyes. She made a wave, a common little motion, and then drifted off, back into the shadows of the quiet street.

Saturday dawned with a sun that was first pale yellow then hazy white as it cut through the chill of the autumn morning. The rain had stopped sometime in the middle of the night, leaving the streets shiny wet. The sun rose high enough to poke through windows and chase the shadows away. It wasn't yet warm enough to burn off the puddles, so water stood in tiny ponds among the cobblestones and glistened when the rays struck them, making some streets look like they were paved with diamonds.

It was market day and the wagons clattered into the city from the Delta farms. It was also a day for enjoying the city's earthier delights, and trains chugged into Union Station and unloaded hundreds of men and boys who were lucky enough to be off work.

One such citizen, fresh out of the fields, with his face scrubbed, his hair oiled and parted, and his week's pay heavy in his pockets, stepped onto the platform, as wide-eyed and giddy as a schoolboy.

As he crossed Basin Street for his first look at Storyville, he saw a comely quadroon, startlingly pretty even with her face partially hidden by a thin veil. Other men along the banquette stopped and turned as she went by. Winks and whispers lapped in her wake. Just because none of them could ever afford such a prize, there was no law that said they couldn't look.

Later, after the young man's day was done, after he had tasted rye whiskey and a sporting woman, after he had spent his last dime and climbed aboard the train that would carry him off to the tedium of his backwoods home, he would recall the first image that greeted him, a woman the color of latte with doe eyes and a curving figure that made promises, a walking mystery that he would never fathom.

Justine arrived on the gallery of Josie Arlington's mansion a few minutes before the specified time of two o'clock.

She was alert for once, having gone to bed early and slept through the night. Paul had shown up at his usual time and they had chatted over brandy. At least she thought so; she didn't really remember. She did recall the way he watched her, with pointed frowns and little mutters of annoyance. Abruptly, he drained his glass, mumbled something about a society obligation, got up, and left. She took off the fancy dress she had put on for him and went to bed. She was still a little groggy when she woke, and it took the better part of the morning for her head to clear. She thought about taking another small dose of her medicine to brace herself for the appointment, then decided against it. She didn't want to miss anything because her mind was dull.

This day she wore a broad-brimmed rose-colored hat with a crimson veil to conceal her features. When she got to Basin Street, she passed through the crowd of men who had just crossed over from Union Station, caught their stares, and heard their whispers. She hurried to the door of the Arlington, thinking that all she needed was for Beansoup—or, god forbid, Valentin—to spot her.