4 DEAD ... If Only Read online

  I sat down across from him and leaned forward. “What are you talking about? Be more specific.”

  He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. “You want more specific? How about this? You went to the mayor. Or the commissioner or someone ‘up’ there, and got them to drop the murder charges against one of your own. Gold’s death is now being classified as accidental death by person or persons unknown. The man gets the back of his skull crushed in and it’s called an accident? Give me a break.”

  “Whoa. Back up. We’re not the ones who pushed to have the charges dropped. And as for changing it from homicide to accidental death, nuh-huh.” I shook my head emphatically. “If you think Discretionary Inquiries wields that kind of power, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “Now you cut the crap. I know somebody did something. If not you, who?”

  I let out a trapped breath and looked away.

  “You know something, don’t you? Mind telling me what going on in my own town?” Anger burbled out of him again. “You come here and think you can take over. Do anything you want. Get people killed. Have --”

  “It wasn’t us,” I interrupted. “We’re just in the way, same as you. This revolves around Dennis Manning, the man Vicki was chasing.”

  He stared at me in disbelief. “Manning is dead. I checked it out. He died nine years ago.”

  “No, he didn’t and the FBI knows that. They’re the ones behind this.”

  “Come on. The FBI? Come on,” he repeated.

  I mused for a moment, talking out loud. “I think they would have been perfectly content to have Vicki go down for killing Gold, but we were putting up too much resistance, digging to find who really did it. They dropped the charges so we would go away, which we’re not. We want Manning. And we’ve got two days left to get him before the FBI sends him off into a new life.”

  Devereux gave me a shocked expression then burst out laughing. “Good Lord, you are one delusional, paranoid woman. I’ll bet you don’t even have cats.”

  “Hey! I may be many things, but delusional is not one of them.” I hesitated for a moment, not sure if telling him the whole story was the way to go. “Oh, the hell with it. It started with Vicki’s sister nine years ago.”

  I gave him chapter and verse, leading up to but not including my trip to Colbert’s Motors. I’d hold on to that one for a while. If he didn’t believe me after I finished, tough noogies.

  It took a full five minutes. I ignored the buzzing phone in my bag and finished with, “And I do have two cats, Tugger and Baba. Well, technically, Baba is my boyfriend’s cat, not mine, but – never mind. Too much information.”

  He leaned back, face to the ceiling, as if studying a crack running above him. Silence filled the room, and once more, I could feel the intensity of his thinking. My phone vibrated again. This time I took it out, read the missive, and texted back to Gurn that I would be right down.

  “This might explain a few things.” Devereux finally said, sitting up. He glared at me, the same malevolent look taking over his face. “Every time you Alvarez people show up in town, somebody dies.”

  “I’m going to repeat, we’re not the ones. Not now nor nineteen years ago.” I stood, ready to leave and get on with things. “Look Devereux, you want to hate me and my family? You go right ahead. But you’re a grown man now, not a twenty-year old kid. If you can put those feelings aside, you’d realize the person responsible for your brother’s death was the hired gun who came through the kitchen door shooting, not my father.”

  I headed for the door but turned back to him. He hadn’t moved but sat leaning back on the small sofa, his body looking completely relaxed, except for the burning hatred in his eyes. I was getting used to that look and it didn’t stop me from adding one final comment.

  “I understand if you don’t want to become involved in something as politically charged as this. I’m sure there’s a lot of pressure on your department to wrap this up, but we’re not going anywhere until we get Manning. And that’s for the record.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fancy Schmancy Digs

  Mrs. Llewellyn’s housekeeper, Delphine Robochaux, answered the door of the impressive three-story Greek revival mansion, complete with brass plaque touting its historical place in the community. A tall, aristocratic woman of a ‘certain age’, Delphine Robochaux’s heritage was possibly a blend of French and African-American. Her thick, black hair was worn in a braid atop her head, and nothing softened the stark black dress she wore, other than small, gold coin earrings in her lobes.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Alvarez.” Delphine’s voice was low and cultured. Many a jazz station would have killed for a D.J. with those dulcet tones. “Welcome back, Mrs. Alvarez. I’m so pleased you are well enough to leave the hospital.”

  The second Mrs. Alvarez greeting was addressed to Vicki. I was getting used to this double Mrs. Alvarez stuff, although it must be hard on the two ladies in question.

  Mom introduced Gurn and me to Delphine, who welcomed us with professional but sincere warmth. She took our umbrellas, and moved aside to let us enter.

  I stepped into at least a twenty-foot high foyer, airy and bright, despite the outside showers and early evening gloom. The floor was a checkerboard of large black and white marble squares. Pale yellow walls held floor to ceiling windows on the entry side of the room, each framed in layers of diaphanous, white fabric.

  Several paintings hung on a wall to my left, vivid scenes depicting seventeenth- and eighteenth-century life in New Orleans. Directly opposite, a grand, circular staircase led to the second story of the home. At either end of the wall before me, two sets of double doors led to other rooms, probably even more imposing.

  Overhead, a swaged, multi-tiered crystal chandelier sparkled with small inset lights. Directly below, an arrangement of bud-bearing branches and perky flowers in white, yellow, and lavender was worn like a summer bonnet by a cream-color round table. Dark green vegetation dallied around on tables, in windows, and corners of the room, luxuriating in their mosaic tile or ceramic pots. A little opulent for my tastes, but I certainly saw that a Grecian style could be punched up with tropical touches, especially when money-is-no-object guided you.

  “Mrs. Llewellyn asked me to apologize for her absence,” said Delphine, bringing me back to the land of mere mortals. “As she is one of the board members for the Governor’s Ball, she is obligated to participate in many of the meetings regarding it, and will not return until late this evening. Mrs. Llewellyn asked me to ready the library for your use, as you mentioned to her earlier you might want to have a family business discussion. I have taken the liberty of laying out tea and light refreshments.”

  “Thank you, Delphine.” Mom bowed her head in acknowledgment of superior service. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Chef Mateo is in the kitchen preparing dinner. He wanted me to tell you it will be ready around eight o’clock. I believe in honor of the occasion, he is making Crawfish Étouffée, a New Orleans specialty.”

  “We thank you for graciously allowing him into your kitchen,” my mother said in her best lady of the manor voice.

  “It’s actually Cook’s kitchen, Mrs. Alvarez,” Delphine said with a smile. “And she is quite content to hand the job over to someone of his expertise.”

  “You ain’t just whistling Dixie,” I said, before I could stop myself. Mom shot me a dirty look, but in a very dignified manner. Breeding will tell. Gurn turned his head away, laughing.

  “In particular, he wanted to extend the invitation to Miss Alvarez and her companion, Mr. Hanson.” Delphine looked at us with a smile.

  I turned to Gurn. “I guess dinner at Arnaud’s will have to be postponed.”

  “For Tío’s Crawfish Étouffée? I can live with that.” He smacked his lips and let out another laugh. Gurn is one of the most easy-going guys I know. I’m keeping him.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to go upstairs and lie down,” Vicki said interrupting us with a shaky voice.


  “Are you all right, my dear?” Mom’s tone returned to normal, but was filled with concern.

  “Oh, yes. Please don’t worry about me. It’s just a slight headache. The doctor told me to expect these for the next few days and to lie down when I felt one coming on.”

  Before Mom could say more, Delphine spoke up. “Allow me to escort you upstairs, Mrs. Alvarez.” She crossed to Vicki’s side and took her by the elbow before my mother could make a counteroffer. “I have laid out your night wear and prepared a hot water bottle for your feet, to ward off a chill.” She led Vicki to the staircase and both began to ascend the stairs, thus ending our impromptu visit to Downton Abby.

  I looked around. “Okay, so where’s the library? And are we going to meet Coronel Mustard with the candlestick in there?”

  “Liana, sometimes your irreverence for the appropriate can be quite trying.” Mom exhaled sharply.

  “But quite funny,” Gurn said with a grin.

  Giving no response, Mom led us to double doors on the right. She opened one and stepped aside to allow us to enter the dark oak room. Inside was a true library. It, too, had a twenty-plus foot high ceiling. Filled from top to bottom with hundreds of books, it rivaled many small town libraries across America. Now if Mrs. Llewellyn only had a book loaning program, Ben Franklin would have been proud.

  Mom reached for a switch on the wall. Recessed lights in the ceiling sprang into action, illuminating clusters of wine-colored, leather wingback chairs and matching sofas gathered around low tables in intimate groupings. Beneath their legs, Persian rugs, sumptuous in shades of cream, black and red, covered rich wood floors.

  In front of a line of draped windows along the outside wall, an ornately carved conference table sat surrounded by ten matching chairs. A huge, gilded dictionary rested at one end of the table on a gold-hinged bookstand, awaiting perusal. At the other end a multi-colored, stained glass Tiffany lamp shaped like a large mushroom cast soft hues on the surrounding area.

  French doors led outside to a small garden surrounded by walkways and lush foliage. Centered within the garden was a lit marble fountain featuring nymphs cavorting with dogs, all having a grand time in the cascading waters.

  My attention came back to inside the room, and mainly a buffet table holding an ornate silver tea service on a gleaming tray. White porcelain cups and saucers sat close by as did a tri-tiered silver salver brimming over with cucumber sandwiches, petit fours, cakes, and other goodies.

  “Okay,” I said. “So if this is how the other half lives, I can do this.” I picked up a scone and poured myself a cup of hot tea.

  “Or to be more accurate, the top one percent,” Gurn added, crossing over to a nearby book stack, and picking out a couple of books at random. “My father is a bibliophile and if I’m not mistaken, many of these are rare first editions. Look at the ones locked in this curio. Particularly valuable. There’s The Waves by Virginia Woolf and Charles Dickens’ American Notes for General Circulation. One of those went for over sixty-thousand dollars last year, Dad said.”

  He opened the books in his hand with care, returned each to the shelving, and stepped back giving the room a once over. “My father would love to have this collection. It has to be worth a fortune.”

  “Did you have any idea Mrs. Llewellyn was rolling in dough like this, Mom? Anybody want some tea?” I took a bite of the buttery scone. Heaven.

  “In truth, I did not. A cup of tea would be very nice, Liana; thank you.”

  “Me, too,” said Gurn.

  “When Felicity lived in Palo Alto, her home was not as impressive,” Mom said. “But I don’t think it’s proper etiquette to gossip about one’s hostess.”

  I poured another cup of tea and was handing it to my mother, as the door to the library burst open. Richard rushed in carrying a stack of papers, laptop case slung over one shoulder. His usual fly-away hair was wet and plastered to his head

  “Cripes, is it pouring outside; I could have used an umbrella. Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, but thanks to the partial license plate, I found the scuzzbag. And you’re never going to believe this --”

  “Richard! Please control yourself. When you sit down I’ll call this meeting to order,” Lila interrupted, always one for Robert’s Rules of Order. Moving the dictionary aside, she sat at the head of the conference table. I poured Gurn a cup of tea, set it on the table in front of him, and sat down.

  “Man I am wasted,” said Richard, ignoring Mom and running a hand over his face. “I haven’t had more than three hours sleep in the past two days.”

  My brother paused to drop the bound papers on the table and take off his carrying case. He unzipped the case and pulled out his computer. “But never mind about that. How’s Vicki and where is she?” He looked around as if she might materialize from one of the stacks.

  “She’s upstairs resting, Richard,” Lila said. “Delphine is with her.”

  “She all right?” His voice was anxious.

  “She’s fine, Richard, just fine.” My reply was firm and no-nonsense, in a fair imitation of Lila’s tone. “Now tell us where the man is, fer crying out loud. You made a helluva entrance. Now give.”

  “Dennis Manning’s home is less than three blocks away.”

  “You’re saying Dennis Manning lives here? In the Garden District?” Gurn’s voice carried an incredulous tone, similar to what I was feeling. Richard was unmoved by the tone.

  “Where’d you get that scone, Lee?”

  “Behind you. There’s tea, too.” I pointed to the tea service.

  He went to it, poured a cup of tea, and piled a small plate high with every variety of food available. “Not only does Manning live down the street from Anne Rice, I drove by it on my way here. It’s the green house with the high, wrought iron fence around it. A dog is in the front yard, too -- mean-looking thing. A Rottweiler. God, is it wet outside.” Richard flung droplets of water from his briefcase onto the floor.

  “Dennis Manning lives here in the Garden District?” Lila was still grappling with the facts.

  “Dennis Manning leaves his dog out in the pouring rain?” I asked.

  “There’s a dog house, Miss Animal Protection League,” My brother said, cramming half a scone in his mouth. Crumbs spilled on the table and carpet. Oblivious, he sat down chewing.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full and be careful of the crumbs,” Lila reprimanded.

  Richard went on as if Lila hadn’t spoken. “I wanted to go right over to that scuzbag’s house --”

  “But you knew that would have been an unprofessional move. Correct, Richard?” Lila said, giving him her severe monarch stare-down.

  Richard ignored her. He’s good at ignoring anyone and everyone, especially if he is in the midst of imparting information or eating. Now that he was doing both, there would be no dealing with him. We’d have to let him run his course, knowing he would grace us with his knowledge in his own good time.

  Gurn, Mom and I watched in silence as Richard shoved a half a cucumber sandwich in his already full mouth, and continued to masticate. This is the drawback to having a computer genius for a brother. They’re pretty deficit in the social skills department.

  Richard gulped his tea to help wash things down. He swallowed and continued chewing, as if we were not even there. Finally, he spoke.

  “The bastard is living in the Garden District under the name of Samuel Randolph. The first record of him is a visit to a local doctor about a leg wound, about two weeks after the incident on the boat in Pacifica. My guess is he was wounded in the blast and when he established his new identity in New Orleans, he went to a doctor. According to the doctor’s report, he had a knee replacement, but not much more could be done for the damage to the muscles in his thigh.”

  Richard slurped more tea, while we were mesmerized by what he was telling us.

  “His wife lives with him under the name of Laura Randolph. Get this; their kids live with her mother in Wisconsin. The records show them as orphans. Says she d
ied in a car crash four years ago.”

  “After her husband faked his death, she faked her own, and left the children with her mother?” Lila’s voice was filled with shock and condemnation. She took a long sip of tea, probably to calm her nerves.

  “And you should see her now. Talk about a changed woman.” Richard banged a few keys on his computer with the hand not holding a teacup, and turned it around for us to see the screen. “Look.”

  Several candid images of an emaciated woman, bearing tattoos on her neck, wrists, and hands came into view one after another in slideshow form. Instead of a youthful and curvaceous long-legged blonde, this middle-aged, boney, and dry-looking woman had light brown hair worn in a brush cut.

  “Look at her arms,” Gurn said. “No matter what outfit she’s in, she’s wearing long sleeves. I think she’s using, and the sleeves cover her tracks.”

  “From Miss Palo Alto to heroin addict,” I muttered.

  “Here’s something else that’s bizarre,” Richard said, “I found an ad of Manning’s or rather, Randolph’s on Craig’s List. Seems he’s looking for a private, resident chef, although, I don’t understand why. Isn’t he scheduled to testify for the Grand Jury on Tuesday and then depart for places unknown, along with his wife? Why advertise for a chef?”

  “Great way of keeping up appearances,” I said.

  “Makes it look to his pals like he’s here to stay. If they knew what he was up to, they’d probably kill him,” Gurn added.

  “We need to be careful with this.” Lila’s voice was quiet and thoughtful. “We’re very close to being in over our heads. We don’t have the manpower or expertise to handle a mob syndicate and the FBI. We need to be prepared to end this investigation, if necessary.”

  “Never,” I said.

  “I won’t endanger anyone at this table,” Lila said in a stern voice.