What Happened on Beale Street Page 7

  Except she didn’t sound grateful. She sounded angry or haughty or just plain crabby. Maybe it was because Nate was handsome, just as Janice aptly pointed out. Or maybe it was due to the fact she couldn’t distinguish decent men from those she should keep far away from.

  Tony Markham was proof positive of that.

  So was her ex-husband of four years.

  “And… the wrong foot we got off on was completely my fault,” she added tentatively. “How can I help?”

  “Tell me the details of last night’s incident. Nicki filled me in on the basics, but I want to hear what happened in your own words.”

  Isabelle felt her spine stiffen. “I may have panicked Nicki over nothing. The more I think about it, the more I think it was a group of bored kids.”

  “Humor me, Miss Andre. Please.”

  Filling her lungs with air, she described meeting Markham on a Sunday afternoon and then agreeing to go out on the most uncomfortable date of her life. “He seemed nice at the open house, very polite and well mannered. He asked so many questions about my job that I thought he planned to take classes to sell real estate.” Isabelle rolled her eyes at her naïveté. “When I was locking up the house, he asked if we could meet for dinner. Nothing fancy, just a casual meal. At first I said no because I have never dated a client. But he looked so… disappointed and lonely that I changed my mind.”

  “So far you’ve done nothing wrong. Sociopaths are masters at role playing, at least in the beginning. How can a person ever find the right one if they don’t show some measure of trust?”

  Isabelle wasn’t sure if he was talking about her or himself. “I agreed to meet Tony at a restaurant near the mall. When it turned out to be closed for remodeling, his second choice was an Italian bistro out in the country.” She met his eyes and then glanced away. “Next, he ordered a bottle of wine after I told him I didn’t drink. When the waitress brought a bottle of Cabernet, he insisted on pouring me a glass. For the next twenty minutes it was a battle of wills, for lack of a better word. ‘Belle, try a little charcuterie and some of my pasta. Won’t you even drink half a glass after I paid so much for the wine?’ ”

  “Markham called you ‘Belle?’ ”

  “Yes, and I hate nicknames except with my closest friends.” Isabelle felt a blush rise up her neck, remembering the dressing-down she’d given Nate on the riverbank. “I told him to call me Isabelle, but he said the name Belle suited me better.”

  “So that was it? One interminable meal of fettuccini Alfredo?”

  “I’m afraid not. When we finished eating, he insisted we go to the movies. He said it was the last day for something he wanted to see.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs. “If only I had stood my ground. In retrospect, everything that came out of his mouth was designed to manipulate me.”

  “After dinner, why didn’t you get in your car and go home? You drove separately, didn’t you?”

  “Originally we met at the mall restaurant. But when he chose the bistro, he said it was silly to waste gas and opened his car door for me.”

  Nate growled deep in his throat. “Markham could have been a serial killer. What were you thinking?”

  “That I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He seemed so… sad. I know it was stupid, but I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

  A muscle tightened in Nate’s neck. “What happened in the theater? Did he try to get fresh?”

  “No, but I should’ve asked about the movie.” Isabelle stared at a framed print of windmills in Holland on the wall. “Let’s just say it was X-rated with plenty of foul language. After five minutes of total embarrassment, I stood and said I was leaving. Markham pulled me down and told me to give it more time.”

  Nate’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I assure you I’m not. I stomped out of the show and called a taxi from across the street. He kept pounding on the phone booth until a crowd started to gather.”

  “The guy sounds like a psychopath. Thank goodness you didn’t accept a ride back to your car.”

  “There’s more, Mr. Price. In the parking lot, Markham called me many colorful names. He said I had ice water in my veins instead of blood like real women.” Isabelle felt a flush climb to her face.

  “The guy could be dangerous.”

  As Nate jotted details in a little notebook, Isabelle pushed back from her desk. “Maybe, but we don’t know he had anything to do with my balcony. For now let’s leave this sleeping dog lie and concentrate on finding Danny’s murderer. If Markham didn’t toss the blood last night, I don’t want to inflame him.”

  “Why don’t I just—”

  “No, Mr. Price. Please confine your investigation to my brother’s case.”

  “You’re the boss, Miss Andre.” Nate’s face screwed into a tight mask. “By the way, the medical examiner’s office will call when they release Danny’s body. As his next of kin, you’ll need to make arrangements. If you don’t already have a funeral director in mind, they may have suggestions for inexpensive crematoriums.” He straightened to his impressive height, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you can’t afford… only that you have options. I’ll be in touch.” He headed for the door as though a fire alarm had gone off.

  “Wait, that reminds me of something.” Isabelle braced her hands on the desk.

  Nate paused in the doorway.

  “Danny didn’t like fire. He wouldn’t want to be cremated. He wanted to be buried in the ground.” When she locked gazes with his unfathomably blue eyes, Isabelle’s knees went weak. “I’ll arrange a funeral with my pastor. But since I’m new at this church, I was wondering if… ” Her voice cracked.

  “Say what’s on your mind, Miss Andre.”

  “Would you be one of Danny’s pallbearers? I may even need Nicki because I don’t know how many mourners will attend. And I don’t know any of Danny’s friends.” Tears she’d struggled to hold in check slipped from her eyes.

  Nate blinked. His expression indicated her request was the last thing he expected. “Sure. As soon as arrangements have been made, you can count on Nicki and me. Give me a call if you need help with anything else.” He laid a business card on her desk before moving quickly out of the door and down the hall.

  Somehow, they both managed to rub each other the wrong way every chance they got.

  EIGHT

  When her phone alerted her to an incoming call Tuesday, Nicki picked up on the first ring. Hunter. “Hello, sweet man. What a lovely surprise,” she cooed. “You and I have been playing phone tag lately. I hope that means you’re doing your civic duty with plenty of competent testimony.”

  His husky laugh warmed Nicki’s heart down to her toes. “When I get done with that father-daughter team, there will be no chance of parole during this millennium. Court has recessed for lunch, so I thought I’d see how Nancy Drew is doing.”

  Nicki filled Hunter in on the vandalism to Izzy’s balcony and her request for help, along with what she found out about Danny’s roommate. However, once she described her visit to the ME—a story she’d left out thus far—she raced over the details at breakneck speed.

  “What? Slow down, Nicolette. I have a thirty-minute recess and nothing better to do than listen to your sweet voice.”

  Sighing, she relayed the key details of her encounter with Dr. Blackwood in a decipherable fashion.

  “Nate fired you because of one slipup? I will punch that guy in the nose. I don’t care if he is my best friend.” As usual, her knight in shining armor was willing to ride to the rescue.

  “Not fired from the agency, just from this case. He says I can’t maintain professional distance because Danny was one of my closest friends.”

  “And I have to agree with him. What a horribly cruel way to die. How could someone who loved him possibly remain objective? Besides, I didn’t want to ruffle your feathers earlier, but if Danny was a musician, he probably hung out on Beale Street. And that is no place for a
lady.”

  “What a sexist thing to say. You’re the one getting the sore nose, Galen.”

  He laughed. “I’ll keep an ice pack handy. Come home. You can find plenty of work to do here.”

  “I think I’ll stick to the original plan because I can help Nate on the computer. I want to remain close to the Carlton and still help find Danny’s killer.”

  “Then it sounds like I’m coming to Memphis this weekend. Sooner if the DA wraps up my testimony early.”

  “By Friday night you’ll find me pacing the floors and talking in tongues. A gal can only stare at a computer monitor for so long.”

  “You should take the Carlton tour. It’s delightful.”

  “You do understand I’ve spent time in a hotel before, don’t you? I think I can find the gift shop, rooftop garden, and workout room without a uniformed guide.”

  “Trust me on this, sweet pea. The Carlton is loaded with history. People from all walks of life have stayed there since the Civil War, and some of those lives have been on the wrong side of the law. You’ll have enough fascinating tidbits to share at teatime for years.”

  “Teatime, Hunter? I’m barely twenty-six, not eighty.”

  “You don’t do happy hour, so teatime is your best choice for making new friends.”

  “Fine. When I finish checking out Danny’s roommate, I’ll look into it. But remember, if this tour costs money and I don’t like it, you’re paying me back.”

  “I have every faith and confidence my five bucks is safe.”

  Truly, Nicki needed a trip to a grocery store because soft drinks from the vending machine or the gift shop were costing her a fortune. But as she stepped off the elevator to hunt down a nearby store, she practically tripped over an ornate stanchion that hadn’t been there before. The brass-and-enamel signboard read: “Today at 2:00 p.m., tour the famous Carlton Hotel. Hear tales from its illustrious and colorful past. Admission: general public, $10.00; hotel guests, $5.00; children, free.”

  “There are no accidents in life.” Her mamaw’s favorite adage coupled with Hunter’s suggestion made Nicki smile.

  She checked her watch and went to the front desk. “Excuse me. Where do I sign up for today’s tour?”

  “Right here, Miss Price.” The clerk waved off the crumbled bill Nicki dug up from her purse. “We’ll just charge the ticket to your room.” She handed Nicki a paper reproduction of the signboard. “The tour starts in half an hour. Meet at the fountain.”

  Nicki was impressed by two things: One, the whiteness of the clerk’s glorious smile. I’m definitely using the wrong toothpaste. And two, the fact that the young woman addressed her by name.

  For the next thirty minutes, Nicki people-watched at a bistro table in the indoor courtyard. Since mastering the ability to lip-read, she enjoyed other people’s conversations, whether young or old, on business or on a family getaway. Usually, those on business were in a hurry, while vacationers maintained far better moods. No surprise there. As the crowd gathered for the tour, their attire suggested everyone fell into the vacationer category. Also no surprise. Elderly senior citizens, young women with toddlers, and lovey-dovey honeymooners closed around their guide as he approached the fountain.

  “Good afternoon, and welcome to our hotel.” The man spoke with a rich, deep baritone that required no amplification to be heard. “If we haven’t had the pleasure yet, I am Robert Prescott, the senior concierge at the Carlton. It’s been my honor to have worked here for the past twelve years. This establishment has provided Memphis hospitality throughout several wars, fires, floods, political upheavals, social unrest, and urban renewal. From the day it opened, the Carlton has remained dedicated to excellence in dining, shopping, and superb accommodations.”

  “Get on with the tour, Bobby. You don’t need to toot the hotel’s horn.” This advice came from an ancient, ebony-skinned man sitting in a wheelchair.

  Nicki had watched a young woman wheel him to the fountain, kiss the top of his head, and then join her friends in the lobby. The girl couldn’t be more than twenty, while the gentleman had to be ninety at least.

  “Good afternoon, sir, and welcome back.” Seemingly unaffected, Mr. Prescott bowed to the heckler before resuming his rehearsed narrative. “Why don’t I point out some of the details of our grand courtyard, and then we’ll head to the mezzanine level?”

  Nicki was impressed by the concierge’s bearing as well as his polished appearance. He took the definition of dapper to a new level. Not a speck of lint marred his expensively tailored suit. His thick, silvery hair was expertly cut, while crow’s feet enhanced rather than detracted from his café au lait complexion.

  “Here in the center of the courtyard is our pride and joy—our hand-carved Italian marble fountain and pond, home to our famous fish since 1945.” Mr. Prescott explained at length about the yellow marble produced in Siena, Italy, an area of Tuscany famous for violet, blue, or red veins running through the hard stone.

  When the concierge began to describe the type of fish that lived in the pond, the elderly guest interrupted a second time. “These folks don’t want to hear all that decorator and zoology nonsense. Tell them the story about how the fish got in the fountain in the first place. What about that movie starlet in the fifties who tried to catch one in her champagne glass to take home to Hollywood?” He chuckled at the reminiscence.

  Everyone else also laughed, even though only the heckler seemed to know the amusing story.

  Mr. Prescott quirked an eyebrow at the man in the wheelchair. “Perhaps later, if time allows. In the meantime, let’s move to the gallery upstairs, where portraits of our founders and photographs of some famous guests can be found. You can take either the elevator or the stairs to the mezzanine level.” He flourished a hand in the two directions the guests could go.

  “One moment, please,” interrupted a young woman, one of the lovey-dovey newlyweds. “Was that beautiful starlet Marilyn Monroe?”

  “To my knowledge, madam, Miss Monroe never stayed here. However, the Prime Minister of England, the Princess of Monaco, and several presidents have, along with notables from the music and theater worlds as well as the political arena. Guests from the nineteenth century included famous riverboat gamblers and titans of the Industrial Revolution.”

  “If the folks want to hear history, Bobby, let’s tell them about the yellow fever epidemic of seventy-eight. Thousands of people died, and thousands more hightailed it out of Memphis as fast as their legs could carry them. Plenty of hotels went belly-up, but the Carlton kept its doors open as a hospital for the sick. The city of Memphis almost went bankrupt, but the Carlton survived and was bustling with customers a few years later.”

  Some of the tourists looked skeptical, most flabbergasted, but Nicki wasn’t easily fooled. “Are we talking about 1978?” She addressed the older man, but their distinguished tour guide answered instead.

  “No, ma’am. The epidemic was in 1878, a year this gentleman remembers fondly. This is Mr. Henry Prescott, my grandfather.” Robert shook his head at the heckler-turned-helpmate.

  The crowd laughed, the mystery of the pushy guest solved. “Our concierge is your grandson?” Nicki asked Henry, intrigued. “How did you learn so much about the hotel, sir?”

  His watery old eyes twinkled with delight. “That’s easy, missy. I worked right here for more than fifty years. Everyone knew Henry the bellman because I did a right fine job.”

  Nicki pulled her camera from her bag. “Fifty years? You should be the one giving the tour. Mind if I take your picture?”

  “Don’t mind a’tall. I did give tours until my grandson got promoted to top dog. Then Bobby thought I should be put out to pasture just ’cause my legs weren’t no good. I was only seventy.” Henry slapped his palms on his thighs and then smiled for the camera.

  The concierge rolled his eyes. “All good things must come to an end. But one day a month we still enjoy your plethora of knowledge during our extended tour. Now, dear guests, let’s regroup in the
mezzanine, where I’ll explain some of the radical changes to the Carlton over the years.” He reached for the handles of his grandfather’s wheelchair.

  “I can roll myself just fine, Bobby. There’s nothing wrong with my arms.” Henry propelled himself toward the elevator, while half the group headed for the stairs.

  Nicki and the concierge exchanged a look. Watching the family dynamics was well worth the price of admission. Robert’s distinguished facade had slipped a notch. A man well into his forties had just been reduced to grandchild status, one in which a person never advanced beyond age fifteen.

  When the group reassembled on the upper promenade, Henry allowed the tour to continue uninterrupted for ten minutes. Robert described a former glass-walled tearoom, the grand ballroom, and a mineral-infused indoor pool, all of which had been replaced with modern amenities in recent years.

  “It would have been cool to hold our prom here,” said the fan of Marilyn Monroe.

  “I would love to soak in a warm spa after yesterday’s sightseeing,” said an older woman, rubbing her elbows.

  “Okay, Bobby.” The former bellman couldn’t remain quiet any longer. “You can’t leave out the tale of the Carlton jewels. Everyone would love a story about the good old days.” He clapped his hands with anticipation.

  Robert drew back a sleeve to check his watch. “They might, but I’m afraid we’re out of time. If there’s anything I can do to make your stay at the Carlton memorable, do not hesitate to ask.” Smiling, he bowed low to a round of applause.

  Nicki stayed to ask the concierge how early breakfast was served, and when she turned to talk to Henry, he had already disappeared into the elevator. She raced down the hallway to the staircase, but by the time she reached the lobby, Henry was being helped into a van by a uniformed attendant. The pretty young woman and her pals were nowhere in sight. What a shame! Because if anyone could spin an interesting yarn on a somnolent afternoon, it would be the retired bellman of a four-star hotel.