What Happened on Beale Street Page 8

  Nate spent his Tuesday morning doing paperwork and thinking about his meeting with the Ice Queen. If Isabelle didn’t want him butting his nose into her case of vandalism, he could live with that. But could someone explain why she treated him like a toad while cutting this Tony Markham guy plenty of slack? She had climbed into the car of a total stranger to ride to the country because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings?

  If his memory served him right, bruising egos had been Isabelle’s favorite pastime in high school. How many boys had asked her out only to slink away with their tails between their legs? Nate had been one of them. Isabelle hadn’t been interested in men from Natchez because she had set her sights on Vanderbilt University and marriage to a premed or prelaw student. Local math teachers, lumberyard supervisors, and bricklayers didn’t make the cut. And certainly not someone taking classes in criminal investigation hoping to get into the police academy. But maybe life in Nashville after Vanderbilt wasn’t all she’d expected. Something had brought her to Memphis.

  The real mystery, though, was how she could still get under his skin. It wasn’t as if Nate hadn’t dated plenty of attractive women over the years. The fact that he’d never met one to marry seldom bothered him.

  He pulled a stick of gum from his pack to chew away his tension. He needed to focus on Danny. The sooner he solved this murder, the sooner he could get back to his orderly life in New Orleans. Nicki wasn’t the only fish out of water in this town.

  Nate left his car in the hotel’s garage and walked to Kurtz’s Deli on Second Street. Exercise would be good for both his mind and body. According to the number of take-out boxes in the apartment’s trash can, either Danny or his roommate had eaten plenty of meals here.

  When the bell above the door signaled his entry, Nate offered the man behind the counter a friendly smile. “How are you doing? I’d like to order pastrami on rye with mayo, sauerkraut, and cheddar cheese.”

  “Your first time eating pastrami?” The sandwich-maker stopped slicing meats.

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch. Can I suggest mustard instead of mayo and Swiss instead of cheddar? If you don’t like it, I’ll make it your way no charge.”

  “Sounds good. Are you Mr. Kurtz?”

  “Guilty as charged. You want potato salad with that?”

  Nate nodded and pulled out a photo of Danny he’d gotten from Nicki. The snapshot showed them holding up a string of redfish caught one summer morning. “My friend raves about a deli in this neighborhood. I’m curious if I’m at the right one. Do you remember seeing this guy?”

  Kurtz leaned over the counter and shook his head. “Nope. He’s definitely not a regular.”

  Nate tucked the snapshot into his pocket. “How about a short white man, around twenty-eight or so with longish blond hair? Most days he’s pretty ragged looking.”

  The deli owner placed a mound of potato salad on the plate and reached for a huge pickle spear. “Are you talking about that homeless guy who hangs around my picnic tables? He watches for people who don’t finish their lunch and then digs the leftovers out of the trashcan. Some restaurants pour bleach over their dumpster at night to discourage scavengers, but not me. Everybody’s gotta eat, although I wish that guy would spread his patronage around more establishments than mine. People get nervous when he practically stares the food out of their mouth.”

  Nate handed over his debit card in exchange for the heaping platter. “Does he come around often?”

  “Sometimes he’s here at lunch, but he usually checks what’s on my backyard menu after I close.” Kurtz sighed.

  After a few bites of bliss, Nate remembered where else he still needed to be. “This sandwich tastes great, but could you wrap it to go? I need to get down to police headquarters.”

  “No problem. If you’re serious about finding this friend, I would watch the dumpster out back around nine tonight.” Kurtz placed the contents of Nick’s plate into a Styrofoam box.

  “Thanks, and I’m glad you don’t taint your trash. Too much food gets wasted in this country while other people go to bed hungry.”

  “Yep, that’s what my rabbi says.” Kurtz handed him the take-out bag. “Make sure you tell your friends how good my sandwiches are.”

  Nate checked his watch on the walk back to the Carlton to get his car. With any luck he might catch Detective Marino at the precinct because he preferred face-to-face conversations whenever possible. Stretching the truth, evading direct answers, or giving someone the runaround were far easier to accomplish over the phone.

  Whether it was luck or help from above, Chip Marino was hunched over his desk when Nate wound his way through the warren of cubicles. “No rest for the weary, eh?” He flashed a grin.

  “Price, you’re a sight for sore eyes. You ready to go for ribs and a few cold ones tonight?” Leaning back in his chair, Marino laced his fingers over his stomach.

  “Soon, but not today. I just had lunch at Kurtz’s deli and promised to eat with my partner tonight. That guy makes great pastrami on rye.” Nate slouched into the chair in front of his desk.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. What can I do for you?”

  Nate’s focus fell on several pictures spread across the surface of the desk. They showed a deceased young woman who hadn’t died of natural causes.

  Chip tapped the photos into a neat stack and slipped them into a folder. “You here for an update on the Andre case?”

  “I wondered if the APB turned up Tito Sullivan yet.”

  “Nah, those things work a lot faster with folks who drive, use credit cards, or hang out with a predictable group of friends. None of that fits a homeless guy.” Chip typed a few words on his keyboard.

  “I think I found a lead in the trash in Danny’s apartment.”

  “Rubbish picking. Always a fine idea to put our skills to good use.”

  Nate resisted the impulse to ask if the detective ever tried it or considered it beneath his dignity. “It’s amazing how predictable people are when you check out what they throw away.”

  Chip typed a few more words before saving his file and then closing the lid on his laptop. “You have my full attention. Did you find the address of a sugar mama who let him crash for a few days? After a long hot shower, of course.” He chuckled merrily.

  Nate couldn’t understand why some people found homelessness a source of amusement. Life’s catastrophes could derail the best-laid plans for the future. “I found menus for a deli on Second Street and decided to check it out. The owner didn’t remember Danny, but he recognized Tito from your description. He said Sullivan digs through the dumpster almost every night looking for half-eaten sandwiches.”

  “Yuck. No way I could get that hungry. Can you imagine biting into a sandwich and discovering someone stubbed out a cigarette or parked their used gum?” Marino pulled a sour face.

  Nate waited for the homicide investigator to arrive at the obvious conclusion. But instead Marino continued to contemplate what unsavory surprises awaited someone searching for food behind a restaurant. “Be that as it may,” Nate said, losing patience, “will you take some officers and watch the alley behind Kurtz’s tonight? Sullivan usually drops by around nine.”

  Marino focused on Nate. “Is that what you think I should do? Just drop whatever I’m working on to chase after a garbage-eating junkie?”

  “It’s just a suggestion, Chip. There’s a good chance you might catch a murderer.”

  “Got any clue where you are, old buddy? This is the booming metropolis of Memphis. You think Andre is the only homicide I got? Take a look at these.” Chip spread a stack of files across his desktop. “We have a home invasion, two car-jackings that didn’t end well for the car owner, three drive-by shootings, plus your usual assortment of dead hookers and gang members. And those are just recent cases that came in around the same time as Andre’s. We won’t even mention the cold cases sitting in file cabinets. You PIs work, what, one or two cases at a time? Our department has dozens
to solve.” Oddly, Marino’s voice contained no anger or resentment, just an unemotional statement of facts.

  Nate let a few moments pass before replying. “You’re right on all counts. I pick and choose the cases I want and seldom work more than three at once. But you may be able to close this one if you stakeout Kurtz’s dumpster tonight.”

  Slowly, Chip’s face bloomed into a grin. “Tell you what. Since tonight ain’t our night for spicy ribs at Sonny’s, I think I might invite a few brothers in blue to join me for corned beef or smoked turkey piled high on a hoagie roll. Who knows who we might just collar while dining on the taxpayer’s dime? I’ll keep you posted.” Marino lifted the lid of his laptop and returned to his paperwork.

  “I appreciate it. And when we do go for barbecue, that meal will be on me.”

  NINE

  On Wednesday Isabelle walked the thirty-something couple out to their car with a friendly smile, despite the fact her throat hurt and her shoes felt two sizes too small.

  “Please keep looking, Miss Andre. We want four bedrooms, not three, and two and a half baths. Those homes you showed us today were all too small. Five bedrooms would be ideal with one on the first floor in case we need to move Paul’s mother in with us.” All this from a young mom of two with a third on the way. “And those backyards didn’t offer much for a growing family. We would love a full acre so the children can get some exercise when they play.”

  “I have two properties in Monroe Heights that may fit the bill. Both homes are large with nice yards. One has an above-ground pool that stays with the house.” Isabelle tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt.

  “Oh, no. Not Monroe Heights,” interjected Mr. Smalley. “I read that their school system has dropped a level in the ratings. If we have to pay this much for a house, I can’t afford to shell out for private schools too.” He wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist. “Please confine your search to the better suburbs, Miss Andre.”

  “And I would like laundry facilities close to the bedrooms, not off the kitchen, and certainly not in the basement.” Mrs. Smalley shifted her weight to her other hip.

  Isabelle ran her finger down her clipboard at listings in the couple’s preferred area. Nothing with their requirements came even close to their price range. “Are you certain one ninety is the most you can manage?”

  “Yes, but you assured us this was still a buyer’s market.” Mr. Smalley frowned. “The minimum down payment will almost wipe out Gretchen’s decorating budget the way it is. Who knows what kind of tacky wallpaper the current owners have up on the walls?”

  Isabelle resisted the urge to ask if they had heard the term “starter home” or the idea of a wife working while the kids were in school. “Perhaps you could negotiate a thirty-year mortgage instead of a twenty-five with your banker? That might bring monthly payments into a more manageable range.”

  “Goodness, Miss Andre, I would like my husband to be able to retire before he’s sixty.” Mrs. Smalley chewed on her lower lip.

  The husband opened the car door for his wife. “Let’s stick with the preapproved loan amount as it stands and hope something comes on the market soon. We want to move in and get settled before the next school year.”

  “I’ll keep looking and give you a call.” Isabelle waved as the couple drove away.

  What else could she say to a hopeful couple who only want the best for their growing family? How did she explain they were aiming for the stars? They would need a much larger down payment and better monthly income to purchase such a big house on an acre lot. Perhaps she could show them homes in areas not as posh or convenient but infinitely more affordable.

  Isabelle sighed as she climbed into her hot car. She’d been that kind of stars-in-the-eyes bride once, a long time ago. When she’d fallen in love with Craig Mitchell, she planned the rest of her life—three children, maybe four; private schools; good colleges; a cottage by the lake; maybe even a membership at a Nashville country club. Why would the wife of a corporate lawyer, who graduated in the top five percent of his class and passed the bar exam on his first try, expect anything less?

  What she didn’t expect was Craig having a hard time with the “forsake all others” part of their marriage vows. Isabelle had forgiven his first indiscretion after he begged for forgiveness and promised never to stray again, but when she found receipts in his car for hotels they had never been to, she became suspicious. Then, when someone name Rochelle started texting indecent photos to his cell phone, Isabelle confronted him.

  Her husband had offered two options—either turn a blind eye while enjoying a comfortable lifestyle, or pack her bags and move out. Isabelle chose the latter. Because they had no children and had amassed few assets, she received no alimony and a miniscule settlement. Fortunately, she’d studied real estate and pursued her license as a way to pass the time until babies came along. Good thing she was a fast learner because God apparently had other plans for her than motherhood.

  Craig decided they should split the credit card debt evenly, which, unbeknownst to her, had turned out to be substantial. And he had amassed huge debts all over town, thanks to his passion for betting on sports. Several bookies came after her, even though she’d been no more aware of his gambling habit than his addiction to pretty women in short skirts. After paying off what she could, Isabelle changed back to her maiden name and moved to Memphis. Danny was the only family she had left, and if her brother needed to live here to find work as a musician, that’s where she wanted to be.

  But if she wanted to pay the rent this month, she had better find a suitable house for the Smalleys and a few other clients.

  When Isabelle stepped through her front door, she found Mr. Chester waiting to be cuddled. Every time she petted her cat, stress from unrealistic clients, worries about money, and aggravation from aggressive drivers or heavy traffic melted away. She had a cool pitcher of lemonade in the fridge, a stockpile of movies, and the entire evening to herself.

  Setting down her cat, Isabelle padded to her room for shorts and a T-shirt. A few minutes later, minus her heels and business suit, she popped a frozen dinner into the microwave and filled a bowl with prewashed salad. While she waited, Isabelle intended to clean out her purse of gum wrappers and old receipts, but instead her focus landed on the business card for Price Investigations.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Nate Price, bonded, licensed, and insured. Insured against what, Mr. Price—wreaking havoc in female hearts? Remembering Janice’s reaction when he came to the office made Isabelle laugh. Maybe it wasn’t just young women who behaved foolishly in his presence. Shamefully, she remembered her own rude reaction when they met on the riverbank. No matter whether male or female, well-educated or unsophisticated, most people based their initial reaction on physical appearance. And she was no different. She had been intimidated by Nate’s good looks, and that negatively affected her treatment of him.

  “Who are you really, Mr. Price?” Isabelle spoke to an empty room.

  Mr. Chester responded with an impatient meow. His kibble bowl was empty, a transgression not easily excused.

  Give me a call if you need help with anything else. The memory of his easy-going style, along with a promise to ride up on a white horse, left her feeling bewildered. “Help from you is the last thing I need, considering my past history with handsome men. If I had half a brain I would give up dating altogether.”

  Chester frankly didn’t care if she remained single for the rest of her life. He let out a howl, restating his simple but urgent demand.

  After feeding her cat, Isabelle curled up on the couch with her salad and red-beans-and-rice entrée. She flipped through the movie choices and finally decided on a PBS mystery on the DVR. But the first forkful of romaine hadn’t reached her lips when something on the patio caught her eye. Rose petals were scattered across the freshly scrubbed concrete all the way to the sliding glass door. Isabelle bolted from the couch, nearly dumping her dinner on the rug.

  Throwing back the
draperies, she spotted a floral wreath leaning against the side wall. The rose petals were dried and curled, the flowers of the wreath wilted and brown. The words Rest in Peace blazed across the wide white ribbon, while the bottom banner declared, Dearly Beloved. We’ll miss you.

  Someone had stolen the wreath from a grave, probably from a recent burial. And Isabelle had a very good idea who that someone was.

  The next morning, unable to sleep late, Nicki was up and pacing the length of her suite by six thirty, praying she wouldn’t spend another day cooped up in her room. There was only so much a person could learn cloistered inside a hotel. She drank two mini pots of coffee and ate an apple, a pear, and wedge of smoked cheese on Melba toast. She didn’t dare call Nate this early. He never rose before eight o’clock no matter what the circumstances.

  Their dinners lately had been enlightening, to say the least. From a menu in Danny’s trash, her cousin found an establishment frequented by Tito Sullivan. As long as Detective Charles Marino followed through on his pledge to protect and serve the city of Memphis, Danny’s killer may already be in jail. That is, if Marino didn’t get called out on a higher profile case and if Tito kept to his normal routine of kosher suppers at Kurtz’s Deli. But Nate had spent an uneventful Tuesday night staking out the dumpster alone, without the assistance of Memphis’s finest, and Sullivan hadn’t shown up. Then he spent an equally nonproductive Wednesday haunting Danny’s neighborhood, talking to people who had little to say to someone they didn’t know. He’d abandoned his vigil at the dumpster when the skies opened with a deluge.

  Would the elusive roommate turn out to be a murderer? The amount of destruction inside the apartment indicated rage, not a simple misunderstanding between friends that had spiraled out of control. Would the smaller-sized Sullivan have been able to overpower Danny in order to inject the drugs? Or did he have someone helping him?

  So many questions. Nicki glanced at her watch and sighed. She’d practically worn a path through the carpet, yet it was still only seven a.m. After an invigorating shower, she dressed in a long silk skirt and cotton top. Carrying her laptop down to the lobby, she decided to continue her Internet search in a beautiful spot. If Marino hadn’t already slapped the cuffs on the roommate, then maybe something else useful would turn up.