I have a ground floor parlor that I’ve converted into an office. It has French doors and a nice view of the bird feeder in the courtyard. It’s main attraction is that I don’t have to go to a separate office to conduct business. I can sit in my boxers and make any necessary phone calls, which is just what I did, after checking around for any signs of my mystery visitor from the previous night.
New Orleans, due to its voodoo history, has a bad habit of attracting the angst ridden. People looking for revenge, or love or just answers flock here from all over the country. These folks are most commonly in the form of teenage Goths who wander around the city day and night looking for…something. One of my present cases was one such girl.
Amber Bellestone had run away from Biloxi, Mississippi just over a month ago and due to diary entries, her parents had reason to believe she was here. I had reason to believe she was here too, but not because I had read her diary. I knew she was here because just yesterday, before I decided to check up on the good Doctor, I saw Amber laid out on a slab at the city morgue.
When her parents first hired me two weeks ago I had asked some of my more reliable contacts if they had seen Amber. I had discovered that she had been in town but was last seen on her way to Baton Rouge with a local that went by the name of Tweaker. I didn’t personally know Tweaker but I had heard enough about him to know that if Amber was running with him, then she was probably in trouble.
I had called her folks to let them know what I knew and also called up a retired detective acquaintance who did investigating in Baton Rouge. He got in touch with the Bellestones but by the time they sent him a picture and he showed it around, Tweaker and Amber were on their way back south.
Another of my street contacts, whom I call Blue Plate (he always wants to be paid in meals), had gotten in touch with me and let me know when Amber was back in New Orleans. One cheeseburger, large order of fries and a mint milkshake later and I was finally able to get my first look at Amber in person.
Tweaker had not been kind to her. He had gotten her hooked on heroin and when his supply got low the pair took the trip to Baton Rouge. On the way back south Amber had apparently taken more than she could handle and OD’d. Tweaker, gentleman that he was, had dropped her off outside of the ER at Tulane Medical Center. Now I was left with the unpleasant task of calling the Bellestones and informing them that I had found their daughter and the condition she was in.
It’s really none of your business how the conversation went. Suffice it to say that they were extremely upset and I was extremely sorry.
After, with hopefully, the worst of my day out of the way, I climbed the stairs and went out on the balcony. I had purposely caught the Bellestones before they could leave for work and now I sat and watched my corner of The Quarter come to life.
As I sat there, feet propped on the iron railing, a glass of apple juice in one hand and the picture of Richard Fasol in the other, I contemplated the previous evening and ran through what I knew.
I had been hired by Clayton Masterson’s sister, Sheila Dobbs, when he missed their weekly Skype call. She lived in Chagrin Falls, Ohio and aside from the weekly call with her brother, she didn’t speak to him regularly. Sheila was concerned about him and had told me something disturbing during our phone conversation. She said Clayton had told her to call me if he should ever miss their call.
“Wait, Mrs. Dobbs…,” I began when she told me that.
“Please, Mr. Fisk, call me Sheila.”
“Okay, Sheila. And I’m Eddie. You’re saying that Clayton told you to call me, specifically me, if he should miss even one of these calls?”
“Correct. He told me, and I quote, if I ever miss a call, call Edward Fisk immediately. He told me your name and gave me your phone number and address.”
“Did he tell you why it had to be me? I don’t think I ever met him.”
“No. He didn’t give me any specific reason besides saying that you were one of the best because you always cared. He said that if something happened to him, you would find out why. He never mentioned if he knew you or not and after he initially told me to call you, he never mentioned you again, except to remind me to call.”
I was already perplexed but, even more so, I was intrigued about what was going on with Masterson. I made up my mind then and there to take the case.
“Okay, Sheila. First things first: If you have my address I’m going to need you to send me a picture of your brother. And any information you have about the people he associates with in New Orleans.”
“I’m out of town right now. I can send you whatever you need when I get home in, just give me a few days.”
That phone call had been two days ago. Instead of waiting for the pictures of Masterson, and because I enjoy breaking into buildings, I had taken it upon myself to check out his house. That’s how I had come to be creeping up his stairs last night.
Now, sitting on the balcony, with the sun coming up and the hummingbirds and bees buzzing around the hanging flower baskets, I got the chilling feeling that I had missed something important last night. The fact that Masterson had specifically asked for me to handle the case had perplexed and intrigued me at the time. Now, it had me worried. I slowly replayed every instant, every nuance that I could remember and had just gotten to the point when Mr. Trench fired the shot into the floor when I heard a door close across the street.
I took my feet from the railing, put my juice down on the small table next to my chair and stood up. I peered into the street and saw exactly who I expected to see looking up at me: Ms Alston.
“Morning Ma’am.”
“Good Morning Marlowe. I trust your visitor caused you no more problems last evening?”
“No, Ma’am, he did not. Everything was ship-shape.”
“That is good to hear. Now, I won’t keep you, as you appear busy, but I wanted you to know that I may enjoy a white more than a red this evening. Perhaps that quaint Goats do Roam 2009 that you introduced me to last month?”
“Ms Alston you have read my mind. I shall come prepared.”
“Very good Marlowe. I’ll leave you to it. And please, have more than a glass of apple juice for breakfast.”
All I could do was shake my head and smile as Ms Alston started walking toward the French Market on the other side of The Quarter, pulling a small hand cart behind her. And then all I could do was look after her in wonder as something that I missed last night came flooding back to me.
Last night, when Mr. Trench had smiled at me he had given a brief nod of his head, as if he approved of my being there. At the time I had put it down to fog causing the light on his face to shift but now I wasn’t so sure. Much like Ms Alston’s absolute certainty that I would be on my balcony having a glass of apple juice for breakfast, Mr. Trench seemed as if he may have expected me to show up when I did.
As I stood looking after Ms Alston I remembered seeing the man’s face as he stood in the hallway the night before. The light hadn’t been perfect but I could now remember the smile and then, immediately after, the nod just before he shot the floor.
I turned from the railing and my elevated view of St Philip Street. “Curioser and curioser,” I said to myself as I went back inside to fix myself a real breakfast and put some clothes on.
