Hot Blooded Murder (24 page)

“Pity. I loved to jump.”

“As a girl.”

“Yes.”

“What about now? You seem quite fit. “

“I wouldn’t have time. Anton wouldn’t–”

“Anton doesn’t care for you to ride?”

“Anton doesn’t care. Period.”

“I see.” I squirmed. This was the part I hated. The prying part, the possibly hurting the person part. But I carried on. “Difficulties?”

She closed up. I trotted out the horse gambit once more. “I live on a small farm where I keep my horse.” Immediate brightness in her sharp blue eyes.

“Yes. My horse is named Count Amethyst, he’s a sort of warmblood.” Well. Warmbloods had been created from a mixture of breeds, right? “You’re welcome to come out and ride some day. Amethyst is a pretty cool customer. Saucy, but safe. Well trained to fourth level dressage.”

“Oh.” Her face slackened with yearning.

“Spouses never seem to understand their partners wanting to ride, do they?”

She nodded.

“My former husband hated it,” I added.

“You were married?”

“Some time ago.”

“Did your interest in horses end your marriage?”

“It didn’t help.” She didn’t need to know it was my horses and his alcohol. But now I’d given her a bit of myself. Maybe she’d return with a bit of herself.

Instead, she looked at a gilded clock on the marble mantel. “Ms. Wiley. It’s been interesting chatting with you–”

“–I meant it about visiting my place.”

“I haven’t ridden in years…”

“You could ride, or not. There’s just something so very soothing about being around a horse, eh?”

Her eyes grew distant. “Yes. I remember that feeling. Reassuring.”

“Yes. So come on out. I’d love it. I’m quite proud of my little ranchette.”

“Thank you. I might.”

I looked closely at her. She might really do it. She wanted to.

“Great. My phone numbers and my email are on my card.”

She picked up my card from an end table and held it in both hands, elbows jabbed hard into her thighs. She stared at it. Her hands shook.

With her eyes still down she said, “I support only one shelter. 1010 Longley Drive. Metairie.”

Abruptly she looked up at me. Her eyes might be damp. They were redder. “I don’t think you’re collecting for charities, Ms. Wiley. I’ve heard of you from Anton. I know you do some sort of detective work. A woman just died. On her horse farm.” She stood. “I must get ready for work. I will show you out now.” I walked silently after her. I stepped over the threshold and onto her front walk. She stepped outside. She was at least four inches taller than me. I looked up at her and extended my hand. Part of my brain was buzzing, 1010 Longley Drive, 1010 Longley Drive….

“Thank you, Mrs. Delon.”

She took my hand and squeezed it so hard I almost yelped. “You’re welcome. I’d rather my husband did not know you had dropped by, Ms. Wiley.”

“Mum’s the word.” I went to the Tempo. Through an open window, Lulu watched my approach keenly. 1010 Longley Drive…

Chapter Twenty Three

In minutes, I found 1010 Longley Drive. A two-story brick building, old, signless. An appearance of abandonment. Bottom story windows boarded up with plywood as if shuttered for a hurricane. None forecasted, yet. The second floor windows were blanked out with mini-blinds. I suspected it had been an office building, or even an apartment complex. I parked in the rear, got out, walked around to the front door. The inner door had a buzzer. I pressed it and a voice said, “Yes?”

“Bryn Wiley. Mrs. Anton Delon sent me.”

“
Mrs.
Delon?”

“Yes.”

A loud buzz and I pushed open the door. Immediately in the hall a broad black woman, with a cautious smile, met me. We were the same height. She stared at me and stuck out her hand. I took it.

“Gayle Johnson,” she said. Dressed in a worn but well-tailored gray pantsuit, she smoothed the scarlet scarf tucked into the V of the jacket.

“How do you do, Ms. Johnson? Bryn Wiley.” I handed her a card.

“Follow me. You’re not allowed past the visitor’s reception area,” she said and she turned into a room with battered sofas. Worn, stained gray carpet. Walls no longer white.

She sat on one sofa and I sat in a ruin of an armchair before her.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“I understand Anton Delon is the major supporter of this establishment.”

A hearty, rolling laugh. “He doesn’t support us. Uh-uh.
Mrs
. Delon, Daisy, she supports us.”

From down the hallway came the sound of a baby crying. I thought I smelled dirty diapers.

“Oh. I’d heard–”

“What’s your bizniss here, anyway?”

“I–well–”

Someone hushed the infant.

She cocked her large head, eyes calculating. “I’m waiting.”

“Well. The truth is there’s been a murder on the Northshore. I am helping with the investigation. “

“Who do you think did this murder?”

“Not sure as yet, eh? But–”

“You think Big Daddy Mr. Anton looks good for it.”

I felt shocked. “Well–”

“–Wouldn’t surprise me. You ever check out the so-called women’s shelter he’s the big philanthropist for?”

“He’s not the philanthropist for this shelter?”

“Not a bit of it. This is all Daisy’s.”

“There’s another so-called women’s shelter, Mrs. Johnson?”

She didn’t blink. Pursed her coral lipsticked mouth. Her eyes raked me up, down, across. “You ‘d have to be careful. Smart lady like you, though, maybe you could get in there and find out the truth.”

“Truth?”

“It’s on Chardonnay. In the Quarters. You know your way around here?”

“I’ve lived here for twenty years.”

She nodded. “Big dark purple place. Corner of Esplanade. Can’t miss it. You drop on by there. What you driving?”

“I have a Ford Tempo.”

“Uh-huh. What’s that?”

“Battered old green car. Compact.”

She frowned. “Not ‘spensive.”

“Not in the least.”

“Uh-huh. You better stay well out of sight. They prefer ‘spensive cars.”

“At a women’s shelter?”

“Wait’ll you see the kinda woman they’re shelterin’. At Mr. Anton’s place.”

I felt a mix of comprehension and horror. “You mean it’s a–”

She tightened her coral lips. “Num-um. I didn’t say anything.” She leaned closer. She had a faint rose fragrance.

“Only Mrs. Delon involved here, and we are the real thing.” The baby wailed as if to support this declaration. Again, the hushing. “With Mrs. Delon it ain’t always charity. Sometimes she’s here as a person needin’ shelter. Herself. This place is a big secret from Mr. Delon. Daisy must really trust you, send you over here.”

I let my eyes grow huge. How had I managed to gain such trust from that short interview? I felt grateful even though it was a mystery to me. “I see.” I didn’t. Gayle Johnson’s eyes grew also. They were the brown of Café du Monde double-dripped coffee before the au lait. Eyebrows raised, she nodded significantly at me and I nodded portentously back. Then we smiled.

“Now I will show you out, Mz Wiley. Nice of you to drop by.” At the door she paused and added. “You remember now. Big Daddy Delon don’t know about this place.” Her eyes warned me.

“
I
don’t know about this place, Mrs. Johnson.” She grinned, conspiratorially. We laughed. I knew instantly this was a woman that, in other circumstances, I could be friends with.

Soon I was back in the Tempo. I drove down Veteran’s Boulevard and got on I-10 East into New Orleans proper. Exited at Canal, backtracked to Chardonnay in the Quarter, down to Esplanade. Slowed. There it was. Three-story place. Throat-of-althea purple stucco. Posh. Also shuttered up, as though the occupants were out of town. As I motored past a second time, a tiny woman came out. She was dressed in a Chanel suit and carried a black patent purse on a gold chain. Her hair was sleekly back in a chignon and just before she slid on dark glasses I saw she was Asian. She paused at street level. Waited. A silver Cadillac pulled up. She stepped out in Manolo Blahnik-looking four-inch heels and got in the back seat. I U-turned around the grassy median, watching them in my rearview. Lulu’s tufted head rose up and blocked my view so I said, “Lu! Drop!” She lay down in time for me to see the Cadillac flash around a corner. I followed. The car went down to Canal then turned again. Soon it was passing through a brick archway into the Winston Esquire Hotel. The liveried doorman opened the door and the woman got out and went into the hotel. I turned in too. I waited behind the Cadillac. Huge copper urns spilled out blue lobelias and purple wave petunias. The Cadillac turned to leave, it passed an urn, and I saw a white man with a fat face and a thin ponytail at the wheel. I waved to the doorman I wasn’t staying, and I followed the Cadillac out. I mean, no one would expect a redhead in an old Tempo to be following, would they? I felt no danger.

The Cadillac retraced its route and when it pulled up in front of the building on Esplanade three beautiful women were waiting on the sidewalk, all of them as well turned out as participants in TV makeover shows. They got into the car. I followed again. This time one was dropped outside an elegant hotel at Esplanade and Decatur, another at the Hilton on the Mississippi River, the third at a bed and breakfast out on the lake by the Marina. The Cadillac drove back into the French Quarter and turned down an alley behind the purple building. It was one-way. Heavily parked. I edged in behind the Cadillac. It stopped and without thinking it through, I did too. Now what should I do? Had the pony-tailed guy even noticed the Tempo on his tail? I was edgy and nervous: following people wasn’t my style, nor was I any good at it. Suddenly, I felt hot air blast onto me. Cripes! My passenger door was open! I leaned down and peered toward the intruder. I saw a skinny bald man, his face like a skull, sweating in the June heat, pointing a gun at me. I went blank with panic. “Get out,” he snarled. Lulu, still prone in the back, softly growled. I felt more hot air rush into the car on my left. I whirled. The Cadillac’s pony-tailed driver stood there. He motioned at my nose with another black gun, silencer-elongated. I raised my hands, and said, “Gentlemen, what’s this all about?” My voice wasn’t shaking the way I was. The gun’s snout looked big as a cannon on an old sailing galleon.

“Shut up! Get out of the car!” said Ponytail.

Skull-face swore, and then said, “Out.” I swung one leg out very slowly, let one toe touch pavement. Lulu was stirring. Just as she rose up, Skull, not seeing her, shut the passenger door. Then he ran around the front of the car, I suppose, to assist Ponytail against mean ole me. I wasn’t moving fast enough. I could not bring myself to step out into the snouts of those guns. I prayed desperately for some freak intervention from the Universe. Then Ponytail slammed his fist into my temple. It hurt, and lights exploded before my eyes. I was groggy, not out, but my head fell forward. He leaned in and I felt his gun hand sliding behind my neck, probably to drag me out. Then, over my right shoulder, I saw a flash of big teeth. Lulu snarled and took a huge chomp on his gun arm. Poodles have teeth like wolves. He yelled. She held on as if she’d suddenly morphed into a pit-bull.

Only slightly stunned, I put the car in gear and accelerated around the Cadillac. The open door slammed into Ponytail as I whizzed past. It knocked him to his knees. He yelled as he went down. Skull was running alongside. The car zoomed down the narrow street, door banging, Lulu holding fast. Ponytail screamed as he was dragged along. When we reached the street, I braked and yelled, “Lulu! Drop it!” She held for a beat, large eyes begging me,
please let me hold onto this arm!
then unscissored her jaws and let go. I shoved my foot down on the gas, cranked the wheel hard left so the car jumped forward and squealed around on almost on two wheels. The gun fell from the man’s hand onto the seat; his bloodied arm slithered from around my neck and out the door. He fell on the pavement. I grabbed the door and slammed it shut, drove, then a block away, pulled over and stopped. I sat and breathed quickly for a few moments. I was trembling so badly I couldn’t grasp the steering wheel. I could see in my side mirror Ponytail was still crumbled on the street. Skull was nowhere in sight. After the blood resumed flowing to my brain, I speed-dialed a number. One ring and Tuan answered.

“Scott here.”

“Tuan, Bryn Wiley.”

“Say, stranger, what’s up?’

“What’s down, I think. I was just attacked in the French Quarter–”

“That’s not unusual–”

“–by two thugs, one driving a Cadillac. I think they are in the employ of Mr. Anton Delon. Do you know any law enforcement persons over here who could come and take care of this trash?” In the mirror, I saw Ponytail raise his head from the road. His face was very red and most likely he was also very angry.

“Quickly. My dog bit one of them and he–fell–on the pavement. Banged up a bit. Don’t know where the other one is but I don’t want to hang out here too long. They both have big guns. They pointed the guns at me. Lulu took a gun away from one of them. Big ugly object. On the seat here next to me.”

“Bryn! You need to get the hell out of there! I know who to call. Where are you?”

I gave him street names. “Lulu can go back and stand over him till the law arrives–”

“Don’t! Bryn. We don’t want you getting shot. I’m radioing right now.” But Ponytail was up on all fours. I was afraid he’d get up and disappear. I looked around. No sign of the other assailant. No traffic on this quiet side street, but more exposed, and thus safer, than the alley had been. Then I heard a distant siren. I felt rescued. Skull wouldn’t accost me with a gun out here on the street with the cops coming. I backed the Tempo up till I was parallel with the fallen driver. He lifted his head and bared his teeth at me. I lowered my window. Lulu was upright, alert, growling. I was debating whether to let her out to stand guard when the door behind me was tugged open and I experienced a sharp pain on my head, heard cacophonous barking of a dog, a shot and then, perfect blackness.