What Happened on Beale Street Read online

  “You stay away from Nicki! She has nothing to do with this.” Isabelle’s hands balled into fists, even though she’d never punched anyone in her life.

  Tony shrugged. “Okay, what about Nate Price? I’d say he has plenty to do with this.” His eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t know who you were bike riding with in the park? That was a real nice picnic on the banks of Beaver Lake. Your restraining order doesn’t include private detectives who come to town butting their noses into police business or honing in on another man’s girl.”

  There was no rational response to his words. There could be no reasoning with Tony, because when Isabelle looked into his eyes she saw a madman. “What exactly do you want from me?”

  His face softened. “A little kindness, that’s all. Answer the phone when I call. Listen to me talk about my hard day once in a while. It’s not all about you, Belle. Maybe we could have lunch or see a movie. I know I rushed things and frightened you off. But this time I’m willing to be patient. I won’t expect anything romantic until you’re ready.”

  For a moment Isabelle was afraid her legs wouldn’t hold her up. “Let me think about this, Tony. I’m not agreeing, but I’m also not calling the police today.” She forced out the words as she shakily stepped back from him.

  But he wouldn’t let her escape so easily. He closed the distance and grabbed hold of her chin. “That’s all I’m asking for—another chance. In time, you and me and Nicki can all be friends. Wouldn’t that be better than something horrible happening? I would hate for Nate to end up like your pathetic little brother.” Tony turned and walked away, whistling a tune as if it were any other lovely spring day.

  Isabelle stared at his back until he turned the corner. Something horrible happening to Nate? Yes, Tony would certainly be caught and convicted. But Nate, the man she was falling in love with, would still be dead. And that frightened her more than anything Tony could do to her.

  After attending church with Nicki and Hunter, Nate spent most of his Sunday afternoon thinking about Isabelle. Correction—Izzy. But now that she’d given him permission to use her inner circle name, he preferred the one her parents had given her. Isabelle. How his perception of her had changed since that misty morning on the riverbank. How different she was from their high school days. Of course, he wasn’t the same sports-oriented jock with no interest in anything else. In his case, change had been a good thing. He only wished Isabelle hadn’t experienced a disastrous first marriage and now a bad date turned into a stalker.

  Yesterday, Nicki pestered him for details about their outing to Shelby Farms and the river cruise, but Nate had refused to say more than, “Things are proceeding along as best as can be expected.”

  His answer hadn’t satisfied his cousin, but Hunter finally intervened to stop Nicki’s interrogation. How could he say more with so little confidence in their relationship? Nate vacillated between wanting to beat the tar out of Markham or follow Isabelle around to keep her safe.

  Nate decided to give her some space to rest up after an exhausting day and time to think seriously about him. If they had a future, she had to make the next move. So he boarded the downtown trolley, which provided locals with transportation and showed tourists the landmarks. He’d been on most of the streets before, but you saw so much more when you weren’t driving. During the late afternoon he called Isabelle but reached only her voice mail.

  When his phone rang twenty minutes later, he answered without bothering to look at caller ID. “Hi, Izzy. Did you have an open house scheduled for today?”

  After a pause, a voice indicated it definitely wasn’t the woman of his dreams. “I ain’t no Izzy, man. That you, Price, the PI from New Orleans?”

  Nate recognized the gravelly tone of the bandleader from Jimmy’s Downunder. “Is this Tyrone Biggs of Blues Nation?”

  “It is. I remember that you and two pretty gals came to the club one night, more to nose around than drink beer and listen to music.”

  “That’s not true, Mr. Biggs. I would say my motivation was equally split between the two. Your guitar riffs were the best I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that conclusion.” He released a soft laugh.

  “How did you get my number?”

  “You’ve been leaving your card with musicians all over town. All your poking around is starting to get on folks’s nerves. So I decided it was time you and me had another chat, but not when I’m surrounded by paying customers and musicians looking to pick a beef with me.”

  “Will this chat involve the Danny Andre murder case?”

  “Well, I sure ain’t hiring you as a backup singer, but that pretty black-haired gal could hum along and shake a tambourine any time she wants to down here.”

  Nate swallowed his initial response to Tyrone’s suggestion and waited.

  “Yeah, it has something to do with Danny. My band doesn’t play tonight, so the Downunder will be dark. Come by in an hour.”

  “I’d like to bring along the homicide detective who’s in charge of the investiga—”

  “I don’t care what you’d like, Mr. PI. Come alone or you ain’t gonna find me.” Biggs hung up, putting an end to the possibility of further negotiation.

  Nate thought long and hard about how to proceed. During their first encounter, he’d had a feeling Biggs knew more than he’d let on, but his tip about Leon Perkins had been a dead end, borne out of a private beef between two musicians. On the other hand, Marino’s warning had been clear. He didn’t appreciate Nate’s involvement with the case. The next time he went behind his back, Nate was sure Marino wouldn’t be quite so nice about it.

  In the end, Nate entered the back entrance of the Jimmy’s Downunder alone, without Marino watching from the shadows across the street. If Biggs had evil intentions, he could carry them out long before the cops busted through the door with guns blazing. Nate didn’t have a death wish, but he also saw no alternative to getting the information Biggs seemed to want to share.

  Biggs sat at the bar alone, drinking from a crystal tumbler with his back to the door. Nate passed two security guards and three cleaning personnel, who paid him zero attention as he wound his way to the main showroom. Biggs apparently held plenty of clout inside the vintage blues club.

  “Mind if I join you, Mr. Biggs?”

  Tyrone patted the vinyl barstool beside him without turning around. “Got this seat saved for you, Price.”

  By the time Nate sat down, a bartender materialized from the shadows, opened a Budweiser, and placed it in front of him. Then he refilled Tyrone’s glass from a bottle of bourbon and vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

  “You remembered what I drank. Thanks.”

  “I don’t miss much that goes on.” Biggs swiveled around on his stool. With all the houselights turned up for cleaning and restocking, the master guitar player looked older than Nate had pegged him to be. Deep creases underscored his eyes and framed his mouth, while his hair was more gray than black. “Thanks for coming alone. I was pleasantly surprised.” Smiling, he sipped his drink. “Since you showed me respect, I’m going to return the favor.”

  Nate took a swallow and wiped his mouth. “Would that favor be helpful information about Danny? Or another wild goose chase out to Leon Perkins’s house, who turned out to be a nice guy, by the way.”

  “You’re funny, Mr. PI, so I’ll overlook your opinion of Perkins.” Tyrone laughed from his belly. “Yeah, I have some helpful information for you.” His demeanor quickly soured. “Stop looking on Beale Street for your friend’s killer. You’re focusing on us because we’re easy targets. Plenty of musicians got rap sheets because not knowing the next payday can lead a man down the wrong path, but you’re wasting your time looking for the killer down here.” Scowling, he set his glass down with a thud. “Let me tell you about the time I met Danny.”

  Nate’s stomach tightened. He was afraid he was going to hear something about Danny he didn’t want to know… or tell Isabelle. “I’
m listening.”

  “I wasn’t happy when Danny started hanging around the Downunder, trying to pick up gigs. He was always real friendly, like he was one of us. Most of the guys didn’t mind, but he got on my nerves. I said to him one night, ‘What does a white boy like you know about playing the blues?’ Danny didn’t bat an eyelash. He asked me if I ever heard of Eric Clapton or Stevie Ray Vaughn or maybe the Fabulous Thunderbirds. I said to him, ‘You trying to aggravate me? Those are all guitar-pickers like me. And you ain’t got no guitar in that case of yours.’ ”

  The bartender placed a second beer in front of Nate even though his first was only half finished. Tyrone waited until he left to continue.

  “Danny unlatched his case and said, ‘No, Mr. Biggs, I play the sax just like Kenny G. Have you heard of him?’ Then he pulled out his sax and starting playing ‘Songbird,’ right on money.”

  The musician laughed at the memory. “Then I said, ‘Anybody can practice one song till they get it right. That don’t mean nothing.’ ”

  “ ‘Name your tune, Mr. Biggs.’ Danny wasn’t the least bit nervous. So I started picking songs from our usual playlist that have heavy sax, and he played every one of them note perfect. Even my regular sax player was impressed.”

  Nate cracked his knuckles. “Danny and I go way back, but I never heard him play. You have no idea how bad that makes me feel.”

  “Is that so?” Tyrone sounded surprised. “Then you missed a real treat. Danny was a natural. He could hear a song once and pick it up. You give him half an hour, and he would play it perfectly. Sure, musicians gotta eat, but nobody killed him because they were jealous of his talent. Bluesmen love the music, first and foremost. Everybody liked Danny, even me after a while. And the few who didn’t… well, they pretty much don’t like anybody.”

  Nate watched a waitress wrap napkins around silverware. “If not on Beale Street, then where should I look? Point me in the right direction.”

  Tyrone finished his drink but waved away the bartender when he reappeared. “Since you never heard Danny play, you probably didn’t know about his love life either. When Danny started filling in on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, this woman started showing up to listen. Tall, blonde, short skirts. She would sit right there, bat her eyelashes, and clap her hands like a woman in love, l-u-v.”

  “And you think Danny’s girlfriend beat him up and threw him in the river?”

  “What I’m telling you is that high-maintenance girlfriend has a nasty ex-husband, bigger than an ox. He came around one night and started making trouble. He was some rich guy who didn’t like his ex’s new downtown friends, if you catch my drift. The bouncers weren’t too nice when they threw him out ’cause of all the trash that guy was talkin’. But it was no easy task to remove him.” The band leader rose to his feet. “That’s all I can tell you. Time for me to go home. I’m here too much the way it is.”

  Nate extended his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Tyrone shook. “Thanks. I appreciate the information, along with what you said about Danny.”

  But when Nate started to take out his wallet, he clamped a hand on Nate’s wrist. “Keep your money in your pocket, Mr. PI. That round and the advice were on me.” Tyrone gestured with his chin toward the door. “I think you can find your way out.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  When Nicki met Hunter in the hallway Monday morning, both of them were smiling. “Good morning, handsome man,” she greeted. “What has you in such a good mood?”

  “Certainly not the idea of returning to New Orleans without you. But all in all, I would say we had a bang-up weekend. Don’t you agree?” Hunter pressed the elevator button and leaned over for a quick kiss.

  “I do, indeed.” Nicki returned the kiss with all the ardor public spaces permitted. “I’m glad you got to meet Henry. And I’m overjoyed we ironed out a few wedding details with your mom.”

  Hunter rolled his eyes as they entered the elevator car. “In this case, FaceTime worked out infinitely better than being in person. We are not allowing her to turn our reception into an opportunity to pay back her social obligations.”

  “Do you think limiting her to three hundred guests was cruel and unusual punishment?” Nicki tried to maintain a straight face.

  “I do not. Because your mother wants an open house in Natchez after our honeymoon, some of her guests probably won’t drive to the Big Easy. Once the RSVPs roll in, my mother may be able to increase her number.”

  “My mom will come, but Mamaw isn’t comfortable out on water of any kind—river, pond, or lake—and Pawpaw has never been on anything bigger than a fishing boat. Unfortunately, some of my aunts feel the same about a yacht reception. Are you sorry you proposed to a country gal?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

  “You must be joking. I’m just glad Mother hasn’t scared you away with her pushiness.”

  “Actually, her arranging the reception is a load off my mind. Once I found out what Tournedos Rossini and langostinos were, I even like her menu.”

  “Feel free to change anything you want. This is our day, Nicki, yours and mine, not my mother’s.” His arm around her waist tightened into a hug.

  Once the elevator doors had opened and they made their way through the lobby, Nicki spotted Robert at his desk. “Hunter, while you have the valet bring the car around, I would like to ask the concierge something.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Does this have anything to do with my chief competition? Henry needs to remember I saw you first.” He buzzed her cheek before exiting through the double doors.

  Nicki approached the concierge on a mission. “Good morning, Mr. Prescott. Do you have time to research something while I drive Hunter to the airport?”

  “Let me guess.” Robert cocked his head to one side. “You’re interested in any hotel renovations orchestrated by Smithfield Interior and Design around the year 1960.”

  “My motives seem to be rather transparent today.”

  “Granddad called me Saturday night after your visit. He was quite excited. I appreciate your interest in him, but did you visit any of the places I recommended to your fiancé?”

  “Yes, sir. Saturday night we drove to the Ground Zero Blues Club in Clarksdale. Yesterday we went to the zoo after church and finished our day at Riverfront Park.”

  “It’s a start, I suppose.” He turned on his computer. “Go, Miss Price. Your car is here. I’ll have whatever information is available on Smithfield’s work when you return.”

  Two hours later, Nicki sat in the coffee shop staring at schematics for a renovation to the grand lobby. Clever as she was with a computer, an architect or engineer she was not. Most of the cosmetic changes involved lighting, wall coverings, and the relocation of the reception desk. The only major addition was the ornate fountain in the middle of the courtyard’s pond. Constructed of Italian marble, the fountain was the lobby’s artistic centerpiece besides being a functional water supply for the fish. Nicki rubbed her tired eyes and sighed. No matter how long she stared at the blueprints, she didn’t discern any potential hiding spots for diamonds that would have hidden them for decades.

  With the blueprints in hand, Nicki marched back to the concierge and waited patiently her turn. After a group of senior citizens secured a trolley schedule, dinner reservations, and directions to Graceland, Nicki spread the schematics across Robert’s desk.

  “The more I study these, the more I’m convinced the jewels are in the fountain. Even Mrs. Fitzhugh thought the original clue meant the main lobby. After all, it’s two-and-half-stories high, has great views from the balcony mezzanine, and the fireplace can provide the warmth mentioned in the poem. Besides, everyone knows the sound of water is calming. Plus, the fountain was the only new piece added that year.”

  “I noticed the same thing, but that fountain has undergone regular maintenance since its installation. I can’t tell you how many times the motor has been replaced. The fishpond has been regularly drained and inspected for sixty years. Any diamonds hidden would have been
found by now.” He gathered the blueprints into a pile and rolled them into a tube.

  “But don’t you think—”

  “No, I don’t. And if I see you sloshing around in that pond, Miss Price, I’ll drag you out by your ear and lock you in your suite until Mr. Galen comes back.” His expression didn’t encourage debate.

  “I understand. But if you don’t mind, I would like to hang on to these a little longer.” Nicki grabbed the roll and ran away before he could stop her.

  Back inside her room, she set aside the blueprints and pulled out her copy of the newspaper’s article on the Smithfields’ death. Rereading it carefully, her brain latched onto an error in semantics. Reaching for her phone, she called the only living participant of the scavenger hunts with a memory. “Hello, Mrs. Fitzhugh. It’s Nicki Price. Do you have time for a few more questions?”

  “All I have left is time, my dear. Any progress with solving the final hunt?”

  “Maybe. I’m looking at blueprints for renovations to the lobby, which include the addition of a marble fountain. Because Mr. Smithfield’s company oversaw changes to the pond, those jewels have to be hidden in that vicinity just like you thought.”

  “All well and good, but remember, according to the rules prizes had to be accessible without damage to the Carlton and without creating a ruckus. So climbing a fountain or draining the pond of water wouldn’t have been permitted.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but there’s something else I’m confused about. You received a poem on Friday that sent folks scurrying to the rooftop, where they found nothing. But according to the newspaper stories, Mr. and Mrs. Smithfield died late Saturday night, approximately at one a.m., which actually would have been Sunday morning. Wouldn’t they have given out another clue at dinner that evening?”

  Mrs. Fitzhugh was silent for so long Nicki grew uneasy. “Forgive me, ma’am, if I sound disrespectful to their memory. I know they were good friends.”