Take the Monkey and Run (6 page)

Something about Belinda made me want to open up. I
couldn't tell her the whole story—it was too complicated and would take too long—so I went with the abbreviated version.

“So this Logan,” she said when I'd finished. “You think of him as a friend?”

I winced. “Not in the traditional sense, but for the most part? In a convoluted way, yes.”

“Do you think he stood you up on purpose? Maybe he tried to get a message to you but couldn't.”

“Logan has always seemed pretty resourceful, but I guess I could call the hotel where I was staying to see if I have any messages.”

She looked up the number for the Monteleone for me then handed me her phone.

The reception clerk put me on hold to check and came back on the line a minute later.

“No messages, Miss Wilde, but there's a package for you.”

“Package? From who?”

“Let's see. It's not marked.”

It had to be from Logan.

“I'll be by to pick it up soon.”

“Be sure to have your ID with you.”

That, at least, I had.

I thanked the clerk, hung up, and looked at Belinda.

“You need to go back to the hotel?” she guessed.

I nodded. The only problem was Barry and Anya. “I'm not sure how to get into the hotel without being spotted by the people Logan warned me about.”

“Leave that to me, honey. Belinda is the queen of incognito.”

It turns out Belinda and I have different definitions of
incognito
.

I don't think I would've felt half as ridiculous had we not been on bicycles, but Belinda assured me it would be the quickest way to get to the Monteleone and pointed out that no one would be looking for a blonde on a bike.

You heard correctly. I was
blond
. And not just a run-of-the-mill, regular blond. I was sporting a wig that would put any Texas pageant queen to shame.

The outfit really wasn't that bad. I'd kept my blue jeans but traded my bright red, rather conspicuous, wool coat for a white, down-filled jacket that made me look like the Michelin Man. Though I don't recall the Michelin Man ever wearing angel wings and a halo.

“It's Twelfth Night,” Belinda had told me.

“Meaning?”

“You know, the Epiphany.”

“When the wise men went to visit Jesus?”

She'd nodded as she straightened my wings. “Everyone will be dressed up. There'll be angels, wise men, snowflakes, whatever.”

“People dress up for the Epiphany?”

“Yes, baby. Twelfth Night is the first day of Mardi Gras.”

“You're telling me Mardi Gras starts today?” I wasn't sure if I was excited or terrified at the idea of being in New Orleans during the infamous party season.

“We are going to blend right in,” Belinda promised as she'd finished pinning the halo on my head. And wouldn't you know it, she was right—mostly.

You see, “blending in” when you're a six-and-a-half-foot-tall drag queen isn't possible. But it was a safe bet that, next to Belinda, nobody would notice me.

We parked our bikes across the street from the grand old hotel, securing them via a massive chain to one of the horse-headed hitching posts outside of Mr. B's restaurant.

Hustling across Royal Street, we blended in—again, I use that term loosely—with a bevy of tourists headed into the hotel. Once inside, Belinda guided me up a few steps and to a seat at the famous Carousel Bar.

At first, I was surprised to find the bar doing such a brisk business that early in the day, then remembered it was past noon.

“This place is popular,” I said, looking around.

“The bartenders know what they're doing here, don't you, sugar?” She'd turned her attention to the older black man who'd stepped up to take our order.

“We do our best.”

“In that case, give me your best milk punch. Actually, make it two.”

I'll admit, I don't know much about cocktails, but putting milk and punch together sounded pretty gross to me. Before I could say anything, the bartender had turned away and started making the drinks.

“Milk punch?” I asked, almost afraid to know what was in it.

“Don't worry, we're not talking Kool-Aid. It's made with bourbon.”

Not much better.

“Isn't it a little early to be drinking bourbon?” I asked.

“Never too early to drink bourbon in New Orleans. Besides, we got to blend in.”

Blending in took one rotation of the carousel and a second milk punch, which turned out to taste dangerously like a vanilla milkshake.

By the time we determined the coast was clear, I wasn't worried about being spotted by anyone. Heck, I was a little fuzzy on why I'd been worried to start with.

“Okay,” Belinda said. “You head to the front desk and get the package. I'll meet you in the lobby in five minutes.”

“Got it.” I slipped off the barstool and strolled, only a little more loosely than usual, to the reception desk.

“Hi, I'm Grace Wide—ah . . . Wilde.” I blinked at the man behind the marble-topped counter and tried to act sober. “You have a package for me.”

“You're a guest?”

“Yepper.”

“Do you have your room key or ID?” I handed him my driver's license. He studied the photo, then my face.

“I'm an angel today.” I pointed to the halo in case he needed clarification.

“Very nice.” His smile seemed genuine, so maybe he meant it. “You're going to the parade?”

There was a parade?

Here's the thing—I don't like crowds or most people, but I love a good parade. Paradox.

“Hope so,” I told the desk clerk.

“Here's your package, Miss Wilde.” He handed me a padded envelope half the size of a magazine. I tucked it into my jacket and was turning to go when he asked, “Would you like your messages, too?”

“Messages? Um . . . sure.”

“It's a voice mail. You can listen in your room or use the courtesy phone.” He pointed to a phone at a cute little writing desk on the other side of the reception area.

Did I want to risk going to the room or try to hear over the echoing lobby?

“Can I listen to the message here?”

“Sure.”

He handed me the receiver, pushed a couple of buttons, and after a few seconds, my sister's voice came over the line.

“I didn't hear from you last night so I'm assuming your phone either died or you lost it. In case it's the latter and you don't have access to your contacts, I'm going to give you my number and Kai's. Give one of us a call when you get this so we know you're alive.”

There was an odd noise in the background and a muffled sound as she covered the receiver to speak to whomever she was with. The bourbon in my brain was not helping me think and she was already reciting her number when I realized I didn't have anything to write on or with. By the time I borrowed a pen and notepad from the concierge she was halfway through her number. Thankfully, I knew the area code and prefix so I was able to scribble the number down, along with Kai's.

I heard another shuffling noise over the message and my sister said, “There isn't room for you up here. Go on. Hugh, can you help me out here?” I couldn't make out Hugh's response but I heard the words
crazy
and
dog
.

Dr. Hugh Murray, exotic animal veterinarian, überflirt, and my sister's new honey, must have been helping Emma deal with Moss and his stubborn streak.

It didn't worry me—Hugh had plenty of experience with animals—until I heard a third person speak. The voice was too faint to tell who it was but my dog's reaction was loud and clear.

He growled deep and low.

A warning. What the heck was going on?

“Um . . .” my sister said into the receiver. “I've got to run. Call me later, okay? Love you.”

Before she hung up I heard her say, “Moss, cut it out.”

Okay, now I was a little worried, but I couldn't stand
there at the front desk and call her back. It was too much of a risk. I would have to hope she'd handled whatever situation had come up.

I thanked the desk clerk and handed him the phone. Even though I was itching to see what was in the package, I didn't want to hang around any longer than necessary.

I turned to look for Belinda. I spotted her posing with a couple of tourists next to the gigantic grandfather clock in the hotel's foyer.

I caught her eye and gave her a nod to say I'd gotten what we came for, then hooked my thumb toward the entrance.

After extracting herself from her admirers, Belinda sashayed to where I was waiting and we hightailed it out of there.

We bustled out of the gleaming glass and brass doors of the hotel and took a right—which was the opposite direction from where our bikes were parked.

“Where are we going?” I asked Belinda. “The bikes are that way.”

“Leave the bikes. We're not going far.”

Figuring she had a plan, I followed. The day remained chilly—which was a good thing. I needed the cool wind to blow the clouds out of my bourbon-fogged brain. Our hurried pace also helped.

Even in platform heels, Belinda was fast, and I struggled to keep up with her long stride. We walked past antiques shops boasting gilded furniture and glittering chandeliers and art galleries displaying bold modern paintings. At one shop, I spotted a large calico cat lounging in the front window next to one of those famous Blue Dog paintings.

Just past the marble steps of a beautiful judicial building we stepped into the welcome warmth of Café Beignet.

The place was hopping. Its tiny round tables were packed with customers waiting for the café's namesake treat. A waiter zigzagged through the crowd carrying a tray of the powdered sugar–covered fried dough, and suddenly I was hungry again.

“We'll never find an open table,” I said to Belinda, realizing
she hadn't attracted as many looks as I'd expected. Maybe this crowd was more local and used to seeing Amazonian-sized drag queens sporting angel wings and halos.

“Sure we will. Come on.” Belinda led me out a side door into a courtyard and over to a small metal table.

“We should be okay here,” she said as we sat. “Let's see what you've got.”

I pulled the package out of my jacket and hesitated, glancing around. “You sure? We're only a couple blocks from the hotel.”

“Whoever these people following you are, they ain't going to come here.”

I followed the wave of her manicured hand to the building next door and saw what she meant.

Two police officers walked up the steps and crossed the portico. As they reached the door, it opened and a third cop exited the building.

“A police station?”

“Right next to a place that sells fried dough. Ain't that something? Now, the suspense has been killing me. What's in the bag?”

Before tearing the package open, I took time to inspect the envelope, but found only my name, handwritten in thick black ink.

The package contained two things: my phone and a card.

“Is that your phone?”

“Yes.”

“So your friend gave it back?”

“Looks like it.”

“Is there a note or anything?”

I shook my head. “Just this.” I held up the card.

“Whose phone number is it?”

“Logan's, probably.”

“Does that mean he wants you to call him?”

“I don't really care what he wants. I need to get in touch with my sister.”

I opened my contacts and hit her number. It went to voice mail without ringing. I left her a message to call me back and hung up, frowning.

“I'm sure she's fine,” Belinda said, reading my expression easily.

“It's not her I'm worried about.” I explained what I'd overheard on Emma's message and my concern for whomever Moss had been growling at.

“Well,” Belinda said. “You didn't have a second message at the hotel saying he'd mauled anyone, right?”

“Right.” I relaxed a little at the logic.

“Check your phone.”

I did. There were two missed texts from Kai. One wishing me luck on my “case” and a second from that morning, saying he was working a case and would be out of touch until that afternoon.

“Nothing about Moss,” I said to Belinda.

“Then don't sweat it. You got bigger fish to fry.”

I picked up Logan's card and dialed the number. After a couple of rings, a recorded voice told me the person I was trying to reach was unavailable and suggested I try my call again later. I shrugged and hung up.

“No answer,” I said to Belinda. She huffed out a dissatisfied breath and leaned back in her chair.

“Well, damn.”

My thoughts exactly. “Sorry. It looks like we went to a lot of trouble for nothing.”

“Not nothing. You got your phone back.”

She glanced at the screen and her eyes widened. “Is that the time? I've got to run. I've got a client coming in for a reading.”

Out of her enormous bag Belinda produced a dark blue jacket, a colorful ski hat, and an extra-large Ziploc bag. She opened the bag and motioned for me to lean closer. With a few nimble plucks she removed the bobby pins holding my wig in place and moments later I was a brunette again.
Belinda slid the wig, halo and all, into the bag and zipped it closed.

“Anyone who saw you going into the hotel as a blond angel won't be looking for a subdued local. Trade.” She held out the jacket. I shrugged out of the one I was wearing and handed it to her.