Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (37 page)

As he walked along the alley toward Marais Street, Valentin glanced down at the place where the two miscreants had fallen and said a quiet thanks Little or Nelson or whoever was in charge hadn't sent better assassins.

The grocery had been open for two hours and Valentin glanced in through the window to see Frank's two helpers hurrying about, waiting on the Saturday-morning crowd. It appeared that the proprietor had taken the rare privilege of coming in late.

Valentin knew how late Frank had been up because he had spent the evening in the saloon, something he hadn't done since he'd gotten back to town. He told himself it was a tribute to Joe, the kind his friend would have appreciated. Frank had a jass band playing, with a trumpet, clarinet, bass fiddle, a guitar that was handled in a way that reminded him of Jeff Mumford, and a bass drum and snare, which was unusual for a small ensemble. The two Negroes, two Italians, and one Creole played clean and sharp, and the room shook with the feet of the dancers and the pounding of the drums. Valentin let Frank park him at a table in the front corner, and he nursed a couple whiskeys. Some rounders and sporting girls he had known from the past were surprised to see him there and sat down to chat. He was relieved that no one wanted to ask him about what had happened in the alley and no one mentioned Kimball. They just wanted to have a good time. Into his second whiskey, Valentin thought it was almost like it had been before, and it took his mind off his troubles for a little while. He smiled, thinking about an old Negro he'd met calling it "chasing the
blues.
"

Speaking of which, round about midnight, Beansoup walked in with Charley, who was carrying his six-string banjo. Charley didn't look too happy to be there, but then he never looked too happy to be anywhere. He was just that kind of man. Beansoup saw the detective and gave a little start, but Valentin smiled and nodded, and the kid's face went pink with relief, and he stood aside. That's when Valentin saw Betsy standing there looking shy and pretty.

When the band took a break, Frank waved a hand and Charley and Beansoup got up on the low stage and played three songs, the first a mournful gutbucket lament about a woman named Delia, another one of those that was taken from a true story. Then came a fast, wickedly funny song about a place where "babies cry for whiskey and birds sing bass." The finale was a bouncy rag. Though still rough at the edges, Beansoup managed to hold up his end. Some people in the crowd started grumbling about wanting the band back so they could dance, and Frank hustled the duo off, putting a Liberty dollar in each musician's hand.

Charley decided they were done for the night and went off to spend his dollar on a pint and a crib girl. Beansoup and Betsy brought their drinks to Valentin's table. With the first fast tune, they got up to dance, Betsy in an expert bounce, Beansoup with a clumsy display of flailing arms and legs. He came back to the table huffing with happy exertion.

When the band stopped around two, Valentin, Beansoup, and Betsy were still at the table. The crowd thinned and Frank came over to join them. Valentin had gotten just a little tipsy, and he looked around the table from face to face, feeling a sort of languid peace come over him. It had been a long time since he had felt anything like that. He had slept pretty well afterward, too.

Now he stood on the Marais Street banquette watching the rain wash the cobblestones, realizing that the evening's interlude was over, and the light of day meant it was time to finish what he'd started. He sauntered off in the direction of Canal Street to get a bite to eat before he caught a streetcar north.

He stepped off the Esplanade Line car at one o'clock and walked through a light rain down Rendon Street to St. Philip.

He opened the Benedicts' front gate and stepped onto the gallery. Betsy didn't appear after he knocked and waited. He turned the doorknob and found it unlocked. He went through the rooms and into the kitchen. From what he could tell, the maid was not on the premises, probably making Saturday market. Or maybe she had found a place to hole up with Beansoup. Or Emile or Little Junior.

When he got to the kitchen and looked outside, he saw Anne Marie standing in the garden, still and a little dazed, as if she had wandered out there and gotten lost. She was wearing a simple white day dress with short puffed sleeves. Her hair was woven in one long braid down her back.

She turned when she heard the door open. It was very quiet, and with the drops of rain from the tree branches pocking the soft earth and the mist rising around her, she looked like a figure in an old painting. Valentin stepped down off the gallery and along the flagstone path.

They looked at each other for a long moment. "I found the letter," he said. "But I could have missed it. I almost did."

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice breaking a little. "That was foolish."

"Did you reach Henry Harris?"

She shook her head somberly. "No. He wouldn't speak to me."

"What were you trying to do?"

"I don't know. Accuse him. Make him say something about my father. It was stupid. I know that." Her shoulders shook and, standing there in the rain, she began to weep pitifully.

Valentin took her arm and steered her to the gazebo. There were two wrought-iron benches, painted white, and he settled next to her on one of them. The rain was coming down a little harder now, and the house faded into a blur as the sky went from blue to slate. He watched her and waited.

She took his hand in hers and spent an absent moment caressing his skin, as if it was something exotic. He was just a little surprised by this sudden immodesty, but she seemed content to stay like that.

"I need you to tell me," he said presently.

With a little sigh of regret, she released his hand. Then she took a breath to steady herself.

"I found it over a month ago," she began. "I was looking for something else and there it was. I didn't understand it. How could it be that my own father would be a party to something like that? So I showed it to him, and he told me the whole thing." She stopped, swallowed. "He told me that they broke those people so they could do what they wanted. He said they made it so they couldn't feed their families. He didn't make any excuse. He admitted it." She took another shuddering breath. "He saw how ashamed I was. How ashamed of him."

"And he decided to do something about it."

"I guess he did," she said. "He came to me a few days later and said that he'd told Kane they had to make things right. He also sent a message to Harris. He told them if they didn't do something, he'd give the letter to the newspapers."

"What did he expect them to do?"

"Find those people, if they could, and pay them for their pain and suffering. That's what he wanted to do. Then he got all secretive. The phone would ring and he'd whisper into it. There was something going on, but he wouldn't tell me what it was." She stopped for a moment. "Then that Monday morning, the police were at our door. His body had been found on Rampart Street." She let out a sudden sob. "It was my fault! If I hadn't accused him like that, it never would have happened!"

"It's not your fault," he said, leaning closer. "He wanted to do the right thing. When Harris found out, he had him murdered. You can't be responsible for that. Do you understand?"

She began to weep harder, her sobs deep with grief. He guessed that she might be embarrassed to act this way in front of a stranger and prefer to be alone with her sorrow.

"I'm going to do something about this," he told her.

"Do what?"

"I'm not sure. And I wouldn't tell you anyway." He waited for a moment to let her weeping subside. "I should go," he said gently.

She raised her eyes. "Don't," she said. "Don't leave." She used her wrist to dab the tears. "I don't want you to." Her voice was forceful. She reached up and laid her fingers on his cheek. Her gaze floated over his face, inch by inch. Then something seemed to fall loose, and she closed her eyes and kissed him on the mouth for lingering seconds. She put her lips to his ear and whispered, "I want you to come into the house now. Please."

He held himself still, feeling the pounding of his heart.

"I'll be waiting for you upstairs."

She watched his face for another moment, kissed him lightly again, stood up, and slipped out of the gazebo and into the gray drizzle. He could barely make out her shape as she made her way along the walk to the back gallery. When she got to the kitchen door, she stopped and he could discern her profile. She went in, closing only the screened door behind her.

Valentin looked out the other side of the gazebo, through the mist toward the back gate that led to the alley, his route of escape. She had told him everything he needed to know. As much as he might have wished for one, there was no reason for him to stay. She was in a delicate state, and if he went into the house, they both might well regret it.

With that thought, he stood up and stepped from under the cover of the gazebo.

He hadn't been with a woman since Christmas Day, when he'd heard weeping through the thin slat walls of the hotel in the dusty New Mexico town. He went to knock and the shy half-breed Navajo, sad and alone, let him in.

Now he pushed open another door to find Anne Marie standing at the foot of her four-poster brass bed. She had turned back the covers and had let down the shades and curtains. Her feet were bare. She treated him to a steady look, her aquamarine eyes liquid and her mouth slightly open, and he knew it was a last chance to beg off and leave.

As he closed the door behind him, he glanced toward the window, an old habit. The roof of the back gallery was outside, just in case he needed to bolt in a hurry. Then he remembered that there was no husband, father, or brother to come pounding up the stairs.

He went to stand behind her. She closed her eyes and inclined her head. He reached up to the back of her neck and undid one button at a time, working his way down to her tail-bone. When he got them all undone, she leaned forward a little and the garment came loose and fell to the floor. Underneath, she was wearing a silk camisole of pale ivory. She stepped out of the dress, then turned around, sat down on the edge of her bed, and reached for him, her face infused with a secret light.

Twenty minutes later she was curled into him, letting his body envelop her. She didn't say anything, keeping her face turned away and her eyes closed. Gradually, he sensed something in the way she pulled herself tighter and she started to weep again, though now with a kind of release. He raised himself on one elbow to see that she was shielding her face. Tears trickled from under her hand and onto the sheet.

At first he thought it was because of what had just happened, though in the moment, she'd been anything but reluctant, spreading her legs to draw him into her and frolicking with spirit once she got past the clumsy part and the moment of wincing pain. She had huffed and gasped and spoken his name in breathy whispers.

Now she was sobbing, though, and he began to fear what might be next. If she claimed that he'd raped her, he'd be finished. He'd have to run and never come back. Warrants would be issued for his arrest. That his case would be finished would be the least of his troubles.

She began to breathe in slow, peaceful sighs. Or maybe in her shame, she was only pretending to fall asleep. He watched her for a few moments more as she drifted off. He knew that he should get out of there, but it was so peaceful and quiet and she was so warm. Telling himself that he'd only linger for a little while, he curled behind her and closed his eyes.

The thump of the door closing woke him. He didn't know how long he had been asleep; more than a few minutes, to be sure. Through the space between the curtains, he saw that the sky outside the window was a darker gray. Anne Marie slept on, hugging a pillow tightly.

It was past time for him to go. He lay quietly for another few minutes, and then separated from her, an inch at a time so as not to wake her.

He dressed in silence, wondering what was going to happen now. Especially when she came awake and realized that she had been ruined by a colored man, and that there was a dark stain on the mattress to prove it. He grimaced over that.

He had not meant for it to happen, and it was not something he could undo. He'd be living with the consequences, sooner or later. He finished dressing, then slipped out the door and down the hall, carrying his shoes in his hand.

As much as he wanted to go, he thought of something he needed to do. Stopping at the next door, he turned the knob and opened it. Mrs. Benedict was sitting propped on her bed. She was wearing a nightgown and her face was blank and dull, as if she had been woken from a deep sleep. The look she gave him was without surprise or even much interest, as if strange Creole men carrying their shoes wandered into her bedroom regularly.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said. "I opened the wrong door."

She gave him a sidelong glance that hid a cunning smile. "Yes, you did," she said. "Now what are you going to do about it?"

He wasn't sure what she meant. The one he had just come through? Her daughter's? Or the one that led to her husband's murder?

"They were the worst kind of thieves," she said suddenly, in a dark and plaintive voice. "What did they think was going to happen?"

Valentin watched her gaze roam.