What Happened on Beale Street Page 14

  “So what? We never figured Tito had an accomplice.”

  “True, but because Carl was telling the truth about that, I started to wonder what else he might be right about. I did some checking into private parties at Blues City. I had to charm the socks off their event planner, but sure enough, there was a bachelor party the night Danny died. The caterer delivered wings, ribs, hoagies, and fried okra to the reserved balcony. The planner remembered because it was the first time okra was ever requested for a bachelor party.”

  Nicki rolled her eyes. “The culinary tastes of unmarried men are utterly fascinating, but what does this have to do with anything?”

  “Only that Tito Sullivan may have been telling the truth. He told me he sneaked into the party, gobbled down a plate of food, and then filled a second plate to take back to the sound room for Danny in case he showed up later. How would Tito know they served fried okra if he wasn’t there?”

  “So the sound engineer lied.”

  “That’s my theory, but proving it will be hard. I’m not going to Marino until I have hard evidence. He already thinks this case is closed.”

  “Not the most diligent of public servants. How do you want us to proceed?”

  “In the direction Carl Fuentes pointed me. I’ve been focusing on former drug addicts and the underbelly they inhabit, but I’m no longer convinced that’s our best lead. How much do you know about Danny’s work? Everybody has bills to pay, even in low-rent buildings like his.”

  “He played the saxophone in a band. Playing music professionally had been his dream since we were kids. He knew the songs of the old masters—that’s what he called B.B. and Muddy, John Lee Hooker and Robert Johnson. He said they were like Rembrandt and da Vinci in the art world.”

  “Except that Danny wasn’t in a band with a regular gig in Memphis. He was picking up work as a stand-in on Beale Street. Apparently, it’s harder to get steady work there than for a starving artist to find a rich patron. If a sax player was sick, or in jail, or any one of countless reasons they can’t show up, the band leader would hire someone for the night. Fuentes seemed to think Danny’s expertise was in demand.”

  “I’m not surprised. I’ve heard him play. He was great, but why would that get him killed?”

  “Pageant contestants sabotage the competition’s face cream. Olympic skaters bash kneecaps with metal pipes. Why wouldn’t musicians be prone to fits of jealous rage?”

  “That is a stretch, boss.”

  “I know, but it bears looking into. We’ve both chased down thinner leads than this.”

  “Okay. Let’s head to Beale Street as soon as we’re finished here. I am raring to go.”

  Nate smiled at her. Even after graduating from a school for criminal investigation and clearing Hunter of a murder charge, Nicki was still a babe in the woods. “Think about it, Nicki. It’s not even ten. Musicians working the club scene are fast asleep. The blues world is definitely after-hours. You, on the other hand, are in bed by ten with a novel.”

  Her hackles rose like fur on a startled cat. “I once pulled an all-nighter playing Crazy Eights in my treehouse. I can stay up when the occasion demands. Why are you so critical of me?”

  “I think you’re an incredible investigator or I wouldn’t have made you my partner, but Beale Street isn’t much different than the neighborhood that Danny lived in. Plenty of dangerous characters mingle with upstanding aficionados of blues music. Hunter wants you to come home safe and sound.” Nate realized the error of his ways the moment the words left his mouth.

  Nicki set her coffee cup with a clatter. “I should have known he put you up to this. I will skin him alive when I get back to New Orleans.”

  Nate clucked his tongue. “Such violent talk from a Sunday school teacher. All right, Hunter may have asked about my plans, but he didn’t put me up to this. I’m your boss, and I call the shots.”

  Nicki huffed like a dragon. “Perhaps I can investigate ladies suspected of passing coupons after their expiration date.”

  He tried not to laugh. “I still need your help, but just not prowling the clubs on Beale. Besides, Hunter mentioned you’re making progress on the Henry Prescott mystery.”

  “You’re the one I’m going to skin. I intend to needle Hunter to death with endless girlie requests. ‘Oh, darling. Can you loosen this pickle jar lid? I’ve just had my nails done.’”

  “Don’t be mad, Nicki. Part of the reason I don’t need you is that this might be a dead end. I have my male ego to protect.”

  She stood, her bearing regal. “I find I’m not hungry after all. Text me with any background checks or research requests. In the meantime, I shall retire to my suite to plan my trousseau.” Miffed, she stomped off.

  Nate remained in the booth even after his breakfast was finished. There was no fooling his partner. Hunter had asked him to keep Nicki out of harm’s way. After-hours clubs were no more savory than drug rehab centers. He wasn’t sure how this partnership would work out once they returned to the Big Easy. But for now, Nate knew Hunter loved Nicki more than anything in this world. And she loved him. Sometimes a career wasn’t all that important. Not when you considered the sum total of a person’s life. Danny’s career might have been what got him killed.

  FIFTEEN

  By the time Nicki left the coffee shop and reached the grand lobby, she was no longer peeved with Nate. Or with Hunter. Or with anybody else. Hunter loved her, and his only motivation was to protect her. And this was still Nate’s case. If there was any chance Tito hadn’t killed Danny, she wanted Nate to find out who did. Her unfortunate tangle with Memphis Homicide and the medical examiner wasn’t that long ago, and those involved hadn’t forgotten her. Because she would be more of a hindrance than a help, she needed to stay behind the scenes.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Izzy. Danny’s sister was another reason Nicki didn’t want to go back to New Orleans yet. Had Izzy’s composure during the funeral been an act? Until Nicki felt confident Izzy would be okay without her brother, she wasn’t going anywhere. Especially since someone kept reminding Izzy just how alone she was.

  Nicki glanced at her watch. If Nate didn’t need her at the moment and Izzy was working, she had time to track down scavenger hunt participants. Tabitha Grant had confirmed her grandparents won the diamonds and purchased emeralds the following year—jewelry that got Mrs. Whitley in hot water with her husband. Funny how poor people thought about money all the time, but the rich usually didn’t worry about such matters. Those baubles must have been extraordinary. But she couldn’t very well search for buyers of emeralds sixty years ago. No Internet back then.

  On the elevator ride up to her room, an idea popped into her head. Nicki pushed the button for the ground floor and headed to her rental car as fast as her legs could carry her. It took less than a minute to Google the address of a Memphis newspaper, the Commercial Appeal, and less than fifteen minutes to drive to their corporate headquarters on Union Street. But it took quite a bit longer of pleading and cajoling to gain access to the newspaper’s archives. A helpful tech stayed by her side the entire time to make sure no journalistic espionage happened on his watch. But with patience and plenty of smiles, Nicki was allowed to skim the society pages of November and December 1956 on an old-fashioned monitor in the basement.

  Goodness, it was hard to imagine that trivial details, such as the names of bandleaders and menu selections for a Christmas cotillion, were newsworthy. But the world was different back then—a genteel, fairy-tale world, at least for rich, white society. After an inordinate number of soirees, fund-raisers, and engagement announcements, Nicki found what she was looking for—a grainy black-and-white photograph. Two couples wearing broad smiles and formal evening attire posed in front of the fireplace in the Carlton Hotel. Nicki practically levitated off the metal chair when she read the caption:

  Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Whitley (left) presenting this year’s lucky recipients, Mr. and Mrs. Blake Koehler, with their prizes. The Koehlers are the latest wi
nners of a secret scavenger hunt among Memphis’s inner circle. Details regarding the next scavenger hunt are guarded better than the gold in Fort Knox. From the expression on Bunny Koehler’s face, Santa arrived at the Carlton Hotel a few weeks early this year.

  At the moment Nicki wasn’t concerned with the gold in Fort Knox, but with the wealth encircling Mrs. Koehler’s delicate wrist. She knew from Tabitha Grant that the jewels were emeralds. From the way Blake Koehler held up both wrists, she surmised his prize were cuff links. Even in a grainy, black-and-white photo, the size of the stones was impressive.

  Nicki leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, transporting herself decades into the past. She smelled the crackling fire in the hearth, heard instruments tuning up for dancing in the ballroom, and tasted vintage champagne bubbles on her tongue—even though champagne wasn’t something she drank, vintage or not. And there was Henry Prescott as a young man, smiling as he greeted new arrivals or bid departing guests a fond farewell.

  She liked Hunter’s idea. After she was back in New Orleans and the wedding of the century (according to Hunter’s sister) was behind her, she would plan an annual getaway for her friends. Except right now her friends were scattered all over the country, and most weren’t part of a couple. Times change. Who says friends had to be married to participate? But first she needed to deal with the task at hand.

  Nicki swiveled around to the young man. “Could you print me a few copies of this?” she asked.

  Leaning against a metal filing cabinet with his arms crossed, he couldn’t look more bored. “Sure, for a buck each.”

  When the kid made no move, Nicki realized he was waiting to see her money. “Here’s a five.” She pulled a bill from her wallet. “Please print three copies of this page and keep the change.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he said, pushing off from the cabinet. After he made a few taps on the keyboard, the printer on the far wall rumbled to life.

  While he retrieved her copies, Nicki studied the monitor again. The emerald bracelet and cuff links won by the Koehlers in 1956 provided another piece of the puzzle. She had no idea where this would lead, but she knew what she would do with the copies. Besides keeping one for her investigation, she thought Tabitha Grant might be curious about the recipients of her grandmother’s largess. And Nicki was certain Henry Prescott would love a picture of the Whitleys and Koehlers. As people aged, the years fell away. Often the distinction between long ago and the present began to blur. The photo would bring back fond memories for Henry of an exciting period in his life.

  Nicki thanked the tech, tucked the copies in her purse, and left the newspaper’s headquarters. She called Hunter as soon as she climbed into her Lincoln.

  “Hey, how was your trip back? How are you? Where are you? Have you unpacked yet?” She hurled questions at him in rapid succession.

  Her fiancé responded in the manner she’d come to love. He laughed. “Slow down, O’lette. My trip was uneventful. I am fine. I came straight to the courthouse, so I’ll unpack tonight. I have only a minute, so tell me what you discovered. I can tell by your voice it’s something good.”

  “I found a newspaper clipping of Tabitha Grant’s grandparents. They are awarding the Carlton jewels to Blake and Bunny Koehler. No joke—the wife’s name was Bunny. Who would name a kid that? Because both husband and wife are holding up their wrists, the prize appears to be a bracelet and cuff links.”

  “The super sleuth has worked her magic again. Are those the emeralds which landed Mrs. Whitley in hot water?”

  “One and the same. I wonder where Bunny found them. Maybe hidden under the carrots in the cornucopia centerpiece?”

  “What an imagination you have. Now you know which couple planned the 1957 hunt. Good luck tracking down Bugs and Bunny. Call me tonight after you climb from the rabbit hole. I love you, O’lette. Be safe.”

  “The feeling is mutual, sweet man.” She spoke even though the line had gone dead. Hunter had said those three words dozens of times, yet they never failed to kindle a flame inside her. A flame that kept her warm no matter how damp or dreary the day.

  On her way back to the Carlton, Nicki punched in Izzy’s number. “Hey there, girlfriend, it’s Nicki. My ball-and-chain has returned to New Orleans. How about joining me for supper? I’m thinking greasy pizza with double cheese.”

  Izzy laughed. “Sounds delightful, but I have two houses to show tonight. Between now and then I’m tied up at the office. Can I have a rain check?”

  “Of course. Call me whenever you’re free.” Nicki hesitated and then added, “I want to spend time with you.” She wasn’t sure how her true confession would be received. The two of them weren’t very close in the past.

  But Izzy quickly responded. “I would like that too, Nicki. I’ll be in touch.”

  Nicki slipped her phone into her pocket. She had rest of the day before Nate got back with an update. And nothing better to do than find out what she could on Tony Markham. The guy had probably already moved on in life and forgotten about Isabelle. Maybe he regretted his childish bullying outside the restaurant. But she owed it to Danny’s memory to make sure Isabelle was safe from potential stalkers, disgruntled clients, or balcony defacers.

  Isabelle was filled with regret the moment she got off the phone with Nicki. Her boss, her pastor, and the neighbor who occasionally fed her cat told her that being with people would be therapeutic after Danny’s funeral.

  “Don’t allow much downtime to wallow in grief.”

  “Don’t spend too much time alone thinking about Danny.”

  “Stay busy; stay distracted; and when you come up for air, the pain will have lessened.”

  Who came up with these helpful tips? Not everyone dealt with loss the same way.

  Unfortunately, neither couple scheduled to view homes tonight were willing to reschedule. Otherwise she would have loved grabbing a pizza with Nicki. In the brief time they spent together, Isabelle saw what her brother had loved about his friend. Nicki was forthright—almost to a fault. She said exactly what was on her mind without a duplicitous bone in her body. What you saw was what you got with Nicolette Price. After a long tedious day trying to make buyers and sellers happy, Isabelle yearned for a few hours of honesty.

  Having a friend, a real friend, would be wonderful. Perhaps she would lose her own pretentiousness. A man like Craig wouldn’t have been attracted to her unless they shared some of the same qualities. That realization had struck like a lightning bolt as she left Danny’s graveside. Nice people didn’t worry much about the impression they were making. They were more concerned with others than themselves. While she and Nate waited in Nicki’s backseat, Isabelle realized he was a nice guy. She doubted he would use that term to describe her, but perhaps it wasn’t too late to change.

  Hours later, Isabelle waved goodbye to the last couple and climbed into her Prius, exhausted but relieved. Although the first family hated the small bathrooms, the treeless backyard, and just about everything else about the house, the second couple expecting their first child had loved it. Perhaps they were tired of throwing money away on rent or the limited space in their apartment, but they offered an amount close to the asking price. The current owners accepted their bid without further negotiation and within an hour a formal contract had been drawn up, signed, and notarized. The young couple was on their way to becoming homeowners, and Isabelle would be able to make her own rent payment this month.

  Glancing at her watch, she decided she was too tired to cook pasta or even chop vegetables for a salad. After seven hours in the office and then four hours in the field, she was famished. Jack’s Deli, right on her way home, made the best Greek salads in the world. Or at least in Germantown.

  Isabelle parked on the street, placed her order at the counter, and breathed in the fragrance of garlic bread sticks. Soon she was carrying out a romaine feast, complete with fava beans, blue cheese-stuffed olives, a marinated chicken breast, and homemade croutons. Jack was famous for personalizing each salad t
o his customers’ specifications rather than adhere to a standardized recipe.

  “Hey, there, Isabelle. Got your regular takeout order?” A man’s voice drifted soft and melodic from the shadows. A moment later, Tony Markham stepped into a yellow pool of streetlamp light. “I thought Wednesday was your Greek salad night. Tonight is only Monday.” Markham acted as though he’d made some kind of joke.

  Isabelle tightened her grip on both the paper bag and her car keys. “What are you doing here?” Unfortunately, her voice cracked on the final word of her question.

  “Do you mean in Germantown? I love this place. I told you when we were together that I’m watching every new listing for something in my price range.” He smiled with the assurance of a confident man.

  “No, I mean here.” Isabelle hooked her thumb over her shoulder. At least the deli’s facade and front window were well lit. A few customers still lingered at the round café tables.

  “You mean at Jack’s?” Tony sounded confused by the question. “I love this deli.” He lifted a brown paper sack to match hers. “Turns out the Greek salad is my favorite too. Like you, I always get the full size. After all, how many calories are in lettuce, a chicken breast, and those divine stuffed olives?”

  “How do you know what I usually order?” she demanded, imagining a tiny transmitter hidden under her jacket lapel. “Have you been following me?”

  “Relax. Just because you and I broke up doesn’t mean I can’t patronize my favorite take-out place. Besides it’s easy enough to figure out Jack’s specialties, especially among the ladies.”

  Isabelle didn’t know what upset her more—his knowing her culinary preferences or that she was such a creature of habit. “You and I didn’t ‘break up,’ Tony. We had one date and things didn’t exactly click for us.” She rotated the ring of keys inside her palm so the longest key could be ready as a weapon. If she had the stomach to use it.

  He shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, use whatever terminology you prefer.” He stepped closer so he could stare down at her. “Look, it’s a lovely night for a walk. What do you say we take our salads to Municipal Park to eat?”