What Happened on Beale Street Page 19

  “Do you think it’s the same person who knew your grandpa?” Nicki’s shock equaled his.

  “Does that sound like a common name to you?”

  “Wow, she’s still alive. She must be in her nineties. Let me jot down her address and phone number. I can’t wait to—”

  He quickly closed his laptop. “Absolutely not, Miss Price. I will not break privacy laws even for you.”

  “Don’t you think she might enjoy chatting with Henry after all these years?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe she has no recollection of a bellman from sixty years ago.”

  Ridiculously, Nicki almost burst into tears. “You won’t help me?”

  Mr. Prescott looked stern, but he seemed to be fighting back a smile. “Because Mrs. Fitzhugh left a number on file with us, I’ll call and tell her about you and your project with my grandfather. With your permission I will pass your phone number along to her. Then it will be her choice whether or not to pursue this.”

  “Good idea. Tell her I’m a real nice person and completely harmless.”

  His dimples deepened. “Nice, absolutely, but harmless? That remains to be seen, young lady.”

  After catching up with paperwork and mail, Nate had a little time to kill before returning to the Blues City Club at supper-time, so he put on sweats and sneakers for a run. A park stretched along Riverside Drive with some fine views of the Mississippi and Wolf Rivers. Running usually cleared the cobwebs from his head, burned away extra calories of rich Southern cooking, and gave him perspective on where he was going in life. Too bad it wasn’t working so well for him today. Two hours later, breathless and sweaty, he hiked up the hill to Third Avenue with no better sense of who he was than when he left.

  He wasn’t stupid and didn’t imagine things. Isabelle had enjoyed his company two days ago at Jimmy’s Downunder as much as he had enjoyed hers. Once or twice he’d felt her gaze on him. As mesmerizing as the music had been, it was hard not to stare back. He had a bad case of the Isabelle Andre. And if he learned anything at all during high school, there was no cure.

  Yet when he dropped her at her front door, all she had said was: “Thank you for an enjoyable evening. I hope we can get together again before you return to Louisiana.”

  That sounded like something you said to your boss after an obligatory event.

  He was a desperate man out of options. As much as he hated to admit it, he might have to ask his cousin to intervene.

  Nate showered, dressed casually, and tucked his gun into an ankle holster. Wearing a sport coat would only brand him as an undercover cop or a city inspector out to slap stiff fines on the club for safety infractions. Either way nobody hanging around waiting to pick up work would want to talk to him.

  At five thirty in the afternoon, more employees were scurrying around the Blues City Club than paying customers. Waitstaff rearranged and refreshed tables, restocked coolers, and unloaded dishwashers. Bartenders took inventory of stock. Nate took a seat at the horseshoe-shaped bar and ordered a Coke. Along with his soft drink he was brought a menu and a separate list of appetizers served during the show. He chose a half slab of ribs with fries and coleslaw.

  While waiting for his supper, he surreptitiously observed the musicians arriving singly and in pairs. Many went straight to the stage to check equipment, while others milled in small clusters, talking and joking in low voices. Nate sipped his drink and stared into space as unobtrusively as possible. Once his food arrived, he needed no further distraction. The ribs were the best he’d eaten in years, and the fries were exactly how he liked them—crisp, but soft on the inside. He savored the food and ambiance of the night world coming to life. Instruments were tuned and guitar riffs floated through the air. Customers soon began to drift through the double doors, filling the round tables around the stage first.

  As the crowd thickened, Nate was able to observe more freely. It didn’t take long to find a bear of a man carrying a saxophone case. Judging by his unhappy expression, Nate was fairly certain he found the right musician. He left a twenty atop his bill and slid off the stool.

  “Are you Jimmy Watts?” Nate asked in a soft voice.

  “Maybe. Who are you?” The man’s frown deepened the lines around his mouth.

  “Nate Price. I’m a friend of Danny Andre’s. Can I buy you something to drink and maybe dinner? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Do I look like I can’t buy my own food if I’m hungry? And I don’t drink when I’m working.” Watts’s eyes hardened. “Yeah, you sound like Andre’s friend… another do-gooder who can’t keep his nose out of people’s business. So ask your questions. Then I’ll decide if I’ve got anything to say.”

  “Look, I just want to know how Danny ended up dead. If that happened to your friend, you’d be curious too.”

  Watts laughed. “It’s happened to lots of friends of mine, but I’m smart enough to stay out of it. People live longer that way.”

  There was no mistaking the threat behind Watts’s words, but Nate refused to react. “Well, maybe I’m not that bright. I heard you hated Danny and I’m curious as to why. You were both sax players. I would think there would be camaraderie among musicians.”

  “This look like a high school marching band to you? We’re down here picking the strings or blowing a horn to make a living. Danny was just a bleeding heart, always spouting ‘love thy fellow man’ and ‘turn the other cheek’ like a Sunday school teacher. The last thing I need when I’m trying to make money is somebody sounding like my old granny.” Watts moved a step closer, his size downright intimidating.

  Nate was unsure what to do. He didn’t want to fight with Watts as much for the man’s sake as his own. If the guy needed a gig tonight to pay the bills, no one would hire a musician in a combatant mood. So he waited patiently for Watts to break the silence.

  “I’m so sick of white boys who think they can change the world. Like it’s all up to them ’cause they’re so much better than everyone else.”

  “Danny didn’t think he was better than anyone.” Nate had had enough of the bitter man’s venom. “He really liked people, even someone as unlikeable as you, Jimmy.”

  Watts released a dismissive snort. “And see what that got him—floating facedown in the river. Maybe he should’ve just played his horn and minded his own business.” Watts slid off the stool with catlike grace and placed a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “I suggest you not make the same mistake, friend.” Then he picked up his case and strolled out the fire exit without a backward glance.

  Nate shook off a sudden chill. Then he went to find Gus Crane, the club’s soundman according to the bouncer at the back door. That tidbit of information had only cost him twenty bucks, a paltry amount if Crane admitted he’d lied to the cops about the night Danny died.

  TWENTY

  Isabelle had plenty of reasons to look forward to leaving work: A movie she’d been waiting to see was free on cable. She’d just signed contracts for two new homes and uploaded the particulars into the database. Because neither seller demanded an unrealistic price and the homes contained the amenities most young couples wanted, she would probably be able to find qualified buyers within a week or two. And after her encouraging conversation with Nicki, she had decided to become proactive with Nate.

  What was she waiting for? The moment he confirmed Danny’s killer was already behind bars, he would be on his way back to New Orleans. Tito Sullivan had been an argumentative roommate caught wearing Danny’s sweater and watch—gifts from her—with an alibi that didn’t pan out. Sometimes the person who looked guilty really was.

  But when Isabelle reached the parking lot, her hopes for a quiet evening at home vanished. Covering the back windshield of her Prius was the same copper-smelling, rust-colored liquid that had been splashed across her balcony, a substance finally identified as pig’s blood in the lab report. An icy chill ran up her spine. Agents and customers had been in and out of this lot all day, yet no one had noticed? On wobbly legs she moved closer to i
nspect. The blood had barely begun to dry.

  Pivoting in place, Isabelle scanned the lot in every direction as though expecting to see Tony Markham across the street with an empty bucket in hand. But whoever the culprit had been, they were gone. She punched in the number for the police and reported the incident, and then she questioned the receptionist and other agents. The police arrived within a reasonable amount of time and initiated a familiar course of action with unfortunately the same end result.

  Had anyone in the office seen someone suspicious lurking around her car? No one had.

  Had any of her clients recently been dissatisfied with her performance? None that she was aware of.

  Can you think of anyone other than this Tony Markham with a grudge against you?

  “No, there isn’t anyone else,” she said, struggling to hold her temper. “Aren’t you going to arrest Markham? What good is the restraining order if he can still torment me whenever he pleases?”

  The taller of the two officers stopped writing and met her eye. “I know how frustrating this must be, Miss Andre, but unless someone saw Markham in the vicinity of your car, we can’t drag him in for questioning.”

  “We take the temporary protection order very seriously,” said the other officer, “but if we don’t follow the letter of the law, Markham can file a harassment complaint against the department or obtain a TPO against you, as ridiculous as that sounds.”

  Isabelle retreated to her office and watched from the window while police photographed her car, took samples of the blood, and finished their report. Three hours and one splitting headache later, she drove straight to the best car wash in town and then arrived home to a dark condo and a huffy cat.

  “Are you hungry, Mr. Chester?” She lifted the tabby into her arms. Something about hugging a furry animal settled her nerves. She filled his bowl with salmon pate and petted his silky fur while he ate. By the time Chester was licking his paws, she felt almost human again. Reaching for her favorite afghan, Isabelle curled up on the couch with the remote control.

  Twenty minutes into the movie, a pebble thudded against the patio door, an odd occurrence considering the overhanging balcony above hers. Isabelle jumped to her feet, the little hairs on her neck standing on end. She parted the drapes an inch in time to spot a dark SUV driving away. The same SUV that had taken her to the Italian bistro out in the country. Markham’s car.

  With shaky fingers, she punched in 9-1-1. This was no after-the-fact complaint without witnesses. She had seen her tormentor’s car within the radius protected by the restraining order. Within minutes, the police arrived, the same officers who had responded to her earlier call.

  With her description of his vehicle, they intercepted Markham leaving the development. However, upon questioning, he produced a page of condo listings, both rentals and those for sale from another agency. He explained that the restraining order was nothing but a mistake, but he was complying nevertheless. He claimed he’d been interested in the Glades long before he’d met Isabelle but would only consider units beyond the TPO’s specifications. Without sufficient cause to arrest him, Markham was sent on his way.

  Isabelle pulled up Nate’s number in her list of contacts the moment the police left. Tonight she just needed to talk. Maybe swap work stories or reminisce about former teachers at Forrest High School or share news about old friends. She didn’t want to discuss Markham or her frustration with the legal system. Or appear like a needy, hysterical woman once again. When he picked up on the second ring, her heart almost burst in her chest.

  “Hi, Isabelle. I planned to call you last night about my visit to Leon Perkins, but according to the text I got from Nicki you were having dinner with her. Then I tried calling you all day. What’s up?”

  “I muted my phone earlier and then forgot I had done that. Sorry about missing your calls. Right now I’m just hanging out with my cat, watching a movie. If you have no plans, why not join me? I’ll send out for pizza.”

  Nate hesitated less than a second. “I ate ribs and fries at the Blues City Club while waiting for the musicians to show up, but I’ve never turned down a slice of pizza in my life. I’m on my way.”

  “The Blues City Club? You went clubbing without me and Nicki?” She felt herself start to relax.

  “Only this once. What should I bring for movie night?”

  “I have plenty of Coke in the fridge, so just bring yourself. And the sooner the better.” Isabelle hung up relieved she hadn’t disintegrated into an emotional train wreck. After a quick check of the street, she called the pizza shop and filled a bucket with ice.

  Nate arrived at the same time as their supper. She tipped the delivery man generously and set the pizza on the counter. But as soon as the man left she burst into tears.

  “What’s happened?” Nate locked the door behind him. “I thought I heard something in your voice that made me uneasy.”

  “I didn’t want to act like this when you got here,” she said, fighting for control. “I want us to have a n-normal evening.”

  “Okay. I’m not sure what normal looks like, but I’m willing to give it a try.”

  She sniffed and then reached for a tissue to blow her nose. “Then let’s sit down and eat some pizza before it gets cold. Why don’t you get our soft drinks from the fridge?” Isabelle had only a short while to pull herself together. When he returned with two Cokes and the ice bucket, she was sitting on the couch with the pizza, plates, cups, and napkins on the coffee table.

  “I gotta admit it smells good.” Nate settled at the other end and filled their glasses with ice and Coke.

  “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” Isabelle separated slices with a spatula and placed two on each plate. Handing one to him, she began to devour her piece of pizza.

  Nate watched for a moment and then duplicated her actions down to wiping his mouth after the second slice. “Okay, we’ve eaten. Now suppose you tell me what happened today that has you spooked?”

  Isabelle swallowed her last mouthful. “I’m not much of an actress, am I?” She gazed into his worried but sympathetic face.

  “You already have a career, so start talking.”

  She recounted the incident with her car at work, the police response, and then seeing Tony’s vehicle on her street. “The same officers responded, and we had talked about the TPO earlier at my office. They caught him at the other end of the complex, but he produced a page of condo listings from a different real estate agent. He said nothing in my restraining order prevents him from moving to the Glades.”

  Nate leaned his head back. “Markham has this whole thing figured out. My guess is you aren’t the first person he’s stalked.”

  “That doesn’t give me much comfort. What can we do, Nate?” She threw her balled napkin down on her plate. “The police said they are powerless to act without proof he’s in violation of the judge’s order.”

  “Proof may be hard to get.” The corners of Nate’s mouth pulled down. “I’ll look into Markham’s history to see if Nicki missed something. Maybe I can find something to show a pattern of stalking. In the meantime don’t let him get you down. Most stalkers want to intimidate, not harm their victims. They derive pleasure from seeing you squirm, so don’t let him win.”

  “How exactly do I accomplish this?” Isabelle tightened the afghan around her shoulders.

  “You start by eating another piece of pizza. Then we’ll open two more Cokes, and I’ll tell you what I learned from a couple of sax players. One of them wasn’t a big fan of your brother’s.” Nate waited a few seconds before he added, “Then we can watch a movie and maybe get to know each other.”

  She felt her face turn warm. “I’d like to get better acquainted. As for the rest, I’ll give it a shot.”

  He offered a lopsided grin. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “I have a DVD of last year’s best movie, but it’s more than three hours long. How much time do you have?”

  “You have plenty of food, a comfortable couch,
and that afghan looks warm. I’ll call Nicki and tell her where I am. My time is my own, Isabelle, and tonight there’s nowhere else I would rather be.”

  Isabelle glanced away as her emotions bubbled to the surface. “Thanks, Nate. I’m grateful. What will we do if Tony comes back?”

  “Let’s see… we could call the police. But they’ve already done their duty twice today. So why don’t I drag him from his car and beat the stuffing out of him?”

  “That doesn’t sound very professional… or very Christian.”

  “No, it doesn’t, but it does sound infinitely satisfying.”

  They both laughed. Then while Nate served up two more slices of pizza, she went in search of a movie for later. There was no more talk of Markham, or beatings, or the Germantown police. Isabelle settled back as Nate described his visit to a famous blues club. It hurt knowing that Jimmy Watts had hated Danny for no other reason than he was generous and tried to help people.

  But it was lovely listening to Nate—a man trying so hard to find her brother’s killer. Simply being in the company of someone willing to take on Tony Markham made her feel that anything was possible.

  Nate awoke with a crick in his neck and a stiff back. But the scent of bacon wafting from the kitchen, along with the realization of where he was, relieved plenty of discomfort.

  “Good morning,” he called. “And what a fine day it is. Bathroom down the hall?”

  Isabelle peeked around the corner, her dark hair loose and flowing down her back. “Last door on the left. I set out towels, a new toothbrush, and a shaving kit Danny left here. Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.” Her head disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Nate lumbered to his feet and worked out the kinks in his spine. On his way down the hall, he couldn’t help but glance into the other rooms. Most men probably weren’t curious about a woman’s tastes in furniture, yet he wanted to know everything about Isabelle. Last night he found out she cried during Hallmark commercials, loved buttered popcorn, and still looked gorgeous at eleven o’clock.