A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (22 page)

I gathered up my clothes and opened my creaky door, wincing at the noise. The house was so old that there were no en suite bathrooms. Actually, it started out with no bathrooms at all, just an outhouse at the back of the courtyard. Thank goodness for plumbing.
 

I crept into the guest bath, closed the door, and pulled back the shower curtain.
 

Ah crap!

Stevie was asleep in the tub. His gangly limbs hung over the side and his head was propped up against the faucet. I guess a guy like Stevie was used to sleeping in odd places. I left him there and went into Nana’s bathroom. I showered and dressed quickly, leaving my hair to dry in ringlets since using the dryer was asking for the guys to wake up.
 

I found Chuck where I left him, but the mixing bowl was full. Gross. Since he was blocking the main door, I went to the front. That door opened onto the street, but nobody ever used it. I had to scoot a trunk out of the way to get to it, only to find it dead bolted by a key I didn’t have. Fantastic. I’d have to escape through a window. Not ideal, but I’d done it before. First, I tried the windows in Pop Pop’s room, but they squeaked so loud Chuck started to stir. I hoofed it upstairs and looked out my window. Full circle. I was destined to go out that window.
 

I got out on the ledge and shinnied across to the garden wall. It was easier than it looked. No wonder Nana made a habit of it when she was a teenager. I stepped, lost my balance and caught myself on the branch of a live oak that was drooping over from the neighbor’s garden. When I looked back down at the wall, the cat was sitting directly in my path. He blinked his green eyes, but didn’t meow or purr or anything. He was so still, I began to wonder if he could make any noise at all. I didn’t relish stepping over him, since he probably had sharp claws and might take offense. But he just sat there and watched me tiptoe across the wall toward the servants’ quarters. The building butted up against it and I had to be careful. Once I got to the back courtyard, I could climb down the trellis next to the pool.
 

The trellis looked sturdy so I headed straight for it when I heard whispering.
 

So close.
 

“Yes, it is,” said a woman in a British accent.
 

“No, darling. I’m afraid not,” said a man, also British.
 

“I’m telling you that I recognize her.”
 

“You weren’t wearing your glasses.”
 

“I was,” she said.
 

“You weren’t. That’s why you nearly fell into the pool,” he said.
 

“I tripped. It’s her.”
 

I sighed and turned to see the older couple that I’d seen the day before, sitting at a table next to the pool. It didn’t occur to me that any of the guests would be up at seven, much less outside eating a full breakfast.
 

“Hello,” I said with a limp wave.
 

They said hello and waved back.
 

“I’m not a burglar or anything. Don’t worry.”
 

“We didn’t think you were,” said the woman. “You do seem to make a habit of this, I must say.”
 

I walked along to the trellis and tested its bolts. Nice and secure. “A habit of what?”
 

“Walking on the wall, naturally.”
 

I looked up and frowned. The husband rolled his eyes and said, “I told her it wasn’t you on the wall last night, but will she listen?”
 

“Wait. You saw someone on this wall last night?” I asked.
 

“Are you saying it wasn’t you?” asked the woman.
 

“It wasn’t me. What did they look like?”
 

“You.”
 

“No, it didn’t. It was a man,” said her husband as he got up and helped me down the trellis. The two of them introduced themselves as Bea and Jonas, Londoners on a tour of America. They went on to quibble about whether or not it was a man. Bea had no clue. But Jonas gave a description of what could’ve been a smallish man in a black hoodie and jeans at eleven last night when we were on Bourbon, belting out Bette Midler hits.
 

I got a little dizzy when they said hoodie.

“Are you feeling unwell?” asked Jonas.
 

“Did you see where he went?” I asked.
 

“He walked along the wall in the direction you came from and then he came back about ten minutes later. We were having a nice glass of wine right here and he didn’t see us.” Jonas sounded completely unperturbed by the situation. I was plenty perturbed. First, the hospital parking lot and now this.
 

“See anything else odd?” I asked.
 

“Odd?” asked Bea after sipping her tea.
 

“Odd, like people climbing over the wall.”
 

Jonas topped off his cup and added a lump of sugar. “Now that you mention it. We were getting ready to go out yesterday morning and I heard someone rattling the gate. It’s sturdy and didn’t give way.”
 

“Did you see anyone?” I asked.
 

“No. Only the other guests. Nice boy named Stevie asked me if I wanted some nice sausages, but we had reservations.”
 

“Those sausages were disgusting. They stank up the entire courtyard,” said Bea.

“You’re sure it wasn’t Stevie on the wall?” I asked.

“No. Stevie’s taller,” said Bea. “It was a woman.”
 

“It was not. That was a man, but not Stevie.”
 

I got the key to the back gate out. “Why aren’t you worried about this?”
 

Jonas shrugged. “We live in London. Nothing surprises us anymore.”
 

I gave him Dad’s card and asked them both to keep an eye out. They never asked me why I was using the wall instead of the perfectly good walkway and I didn’t volunteer the information. I wasn’t sure what I would’ve said anyway. I left them to their traditional English fry-up. Where they got the black pudding would remain a mystery not worth solving. Millicent insisted I try the stuff when I was six on my first trip to London. If I try hard I can still taste it. I fear only senility can wipe that particular food memory away. That was one good thing about Aaron not being with me. He wouldn’t be inspired by the pudding and make it into a hot dog. Aaron could put anything into a hot dog, and I mean anything. The Christmas morning ham and chestnut dogs will live in infamy.
 

I shook off that breakfast memory and headed down the street after I made sure no hooded strangers were lurking around. I’d packed my Mauser and some pepper spray, just to be on the safe side. Now it was smart, instead of just paranoia.
 

The Ruby Slipper Cafe was open with no waiting. I requested a table with a good view of the street and smiled at the guys sitting at the table next to me. I recognized them from Bourbon. It was a Stag weekend and they didn’t look like they’d been back to their hotel yet. They each had a bloody mary and trembling hands.
 

“Hey,” said the bridegroom, who was now wearing his shirt backwards. “Do you have any aspirin or maybe a handgun so I can blow my head off?

I have both.
 

“How about we skip the handgun for now.” I gave him my aspirin and the groom’s party divided the pills.

“Weren’t you with some guys last night?” The best man belched. “How’d they get so lucky? We could barely get you to look at us.”
 

The waitress brought me some more coffee, gave the groom’s men a disgusted look, and took my order. Tasso cream sauce. Thank you, Lord.
 

“I know them,” I said. “Family friends.”
 

“Are you sure about that?” asked the third groom’s men. He had a big three on his shirt. At least it looked like a three through the multiple layers of stains he added over the night.
 

“Well, Chuck wasn’t my biggest fan last night.”
 

“The cop,” said Number Two. “Yeah, he kept calling you ‘that woman.’”
 

Number Three shook his head. “Not him. The other one.”
 

“Stevie? I can’t explain it, but he likes me,” I said and it was true. Stevie did like me. Maybe all the times I’d tazed him had fried his tiny brain.
 

“The skinny guy that sings like a chick?”
 

“That’s him.”
 

“No, I mean the other other one,” said Number Three.

A little chill went down my arms, raising the hairs to spikes. “I was only with two guys, Chuck the cop and Stevie the Bette Midler wannabe.”
 

The groom’s mens’ brows furrowed.
 

“Who was that other guy then?” asked the groom. “He was sticking with you like shit on a shoe.”
 

“Yeah, he was,” said Number Two. “He followed you outside when Stevie started to sing
The Rose.”
 

“God. I hate that song, but he was pretty good,” said Number Three.
 

The waitress brought my food and it smelled fantastic, better than fantastic, but my appetite was zero. “You were outside, weren’t you?” I asked.
 

“Yeah,” said Number Two. “We were talking about something. What were we talking about?”
 

“Girl bands. What did this guy look like?”
 

“Oh, yeah. Mel B was hot, like super hot.”
 

“Focus, Number Two. What did the guy who followed me outside look like?”
 

He took a big drink of his bloody mary and his eyes focused. “He wasn’t with you?”
 

“No.”
 

“Maybe I’m wrong. He was just watching you a lot. There were a lot of people, coming in and out. And let’s face it, people watch you. Old guys, young guys, chicks, even.”

“But you all thought he was with me?” I asked.
 

They nodded.
 

“Who remembers what he looked like?”
 

Various expressions of puzzlement crossed their faces.
 

Okay. Don’t suggest anything. Let them find the answer.
 

“What color was he?” I asked.
 

White was the instant answer. Younger, not like an old married dude came next. Black hoodie and jeans after that. As for his face, they had nothing. I guess it didn’t stand out and they were still soused enough that if I suggested a big nose or a scar they would’ve thought he had it.
 

“Do you remember what time you first saw him?” I asked.
 

Stupid question. They didn’t know what time it was, period. And no, they wouldn’t recognize him again. Only the obviousness of my face made them remember me. I was, as always, hard to forget. Whoever that guy was wouldn’t have had a hard time finding me on Bourbon Street. Ask enough people if they’ve seen Marilyn Monroe, and you’d have me.
 

Chapter Sixteen

THE ST. CHARLES streetcar was packed with natives going about their lives and tourists swiveling their heads to catch sight of every stately home. You couldn’t look fast enough. There were so many on both sides and interspersed with restaurants and shops that popped up unexpectedly amid the grandeur.
 

The wooden seat rattled away under my rump and I stopped worrying about the hoodie guy. He wasn’t on the streetcar. I’d checked and rechecked. So I allowed myself to relax and remember. Pop Pop loved the streetcars. When we came down to visit, he’d buy me a pass and we’d ride and ride with no particular destination in mind. We might step off on the Loyola campus and walk around. There’d be lunch at a place we spotted through the open windows. It would invariably be down market and frequented by locals and cost about eight bucks. It was always good in its way. I think Pop Pop wanted to make sure I knew life wasn’t only lived on the refined Hawthorne Avenue. He didn’t resent the Bled family. He liked them very well, but their life wasn’t ours. He made that very clear and I didn’t mind. I always knew who I was.
 

The car screeched to a halt in a way that sounded like it was broken. I got off, behind a lady who looked like she’d just finished a twenty-four hour shift in drudgery, and cut to the right to walk in front of the stone Tulane sign. No one followed me, but I kept an eye out, the way Dad had taught me, always scanning behind my sunglasses. I’d have to be sharp. The campus was alive with students running to class, campus employees heading to work, and various people who appeared to be out for a leisurely stroll. Security was in evidence. I passed two guards as I went deep into the campus and searched for PJ’s, the campus coffee shop that Pop Pop always took me to. It was the way I remembered it, crowded with students studying or avoiding studying. I ordered a latte and went out to sit on the green bench that we always sat on to people watch, except I wasn’t people watching in the traditional sense, more like people fearing. I scanned every few minutes and input Christopher’s frat address that Uncle Morty sent me, along with his schedule.