What Happened on Beale Street Page 9

  After an hour, Nicki concluded that those living off the grid truly remained off the grid. She tucked her laptop in her tote bag when she spied the concierge reading a newspaper at his desk. He looked almost as bored as she felt.

  “Good morning, Mr. Prescott,” she greeted. “Things a little slow for a Thursday morning?”

  His face brightened with a smile. “Indeed. Where are the guests hoping for theater tickets or dinner reservations or recommendations for sightseeing? I’m even ready for the bus groups eager to see our famous fish.” He refolded his newspaper. “How are you this fine day, Miss Price?”

  Nicki perched on the edge of a chair. “I’m fine, thanks. That was an awesome tour on Tuesday. I truly enjoyed it.”

  The concierge studied her curiously. “Which part? The part where my grandfather tried to needle me into repeating unsubstantiated rumors and idle gossip?”

  “Absolutely. I adored your grandpa because he reminded me so much of my own. Did Mr. Henry really work here for fifty years?”

  “He did. The hotel hired him when he was only twenty years old. Over the years, he made himself downright indispensable. At least, that’s how Granddad describes his tenure here. No one’s still alive to either verify or refute him.”

  “Goodness, the changes he must have witnessed, not just at the Carlton, but in the city of Memphis and the country as a whole.”

  “You’re exactly right. That’s why it’s hard for my grandfather to accept a quiet life in Oakbrook Center.”

  “He’s stuck in a nursing home?” Nicki hoped that didn’t sound judgmental.

  “Not at all. He’s in an assisted-living apartment. He cooks his own breakfast and lunch, and he eats dinner with people his age in a gracious room with white tablecloths and fine china. The only trouble is his peers only talk about their grandchildren or the latest episode of Survivor. A steady diet of that bores him to tears after living through the aftermath of World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and two Gulf Wars. My grandfather saw the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Civil Rights era, the decline of Memphis, and the city’s eventual rebirth. When Granddad came to work here as a bellman, his father was still farming with a mule. I wouldn’t have believed it, but he showed me an old photograph.”

  Nicki nodded. “My grandparents are retired farmers living in Red Haw, Mississippi, and Papaw still owns a mule to this day.” They both shared a chuckle. “Was that pretty girl who brought him here his granddaughter?”

  “She’s his great-granddaughter. Antoinette is my daughter, but she dotes on him endlessly. Me? I get a new tie and card on Father’s Day and that’s it.” His expression revealed amusement instead of hard feelings over the favoritism. “Antoinette brings him here for brunch once a month. Afterward, she shops with her girlfriends while my grandfather follows me around as I give the tour. This week he called for the Oakbrook van driver to take him back early. The spicy Creole he ate for lunch upset his stomach.”

  Nicki thought of her grandfather with a pang of homesickness. Papaw had to give up his favorite Cajun dishes too. “I understand why Mr. Henry can’t stay away. This hotel has been part of his life for so long.”

  “Granddad was as much a fixture at the Carlton as our famous fish are now. The regular guests knew and remembered his name from year to year. His responsibilities went far beyond opening doors. The bellman performed many of the same duties I have today, but often on the sly. Henry arranged meetings with famous musicians for blues aficionados, obtained front row seats for unadvertised appearances, and always made sure guests knew where to find a church in their denomination. Back then, everyone went to church. People didn’t consult their day planners first.” Robert shook his head. “Forgive me, Miss Price. I seem to have inherited Granddad’s penchant for waxing poetic without provocation.”

  “Frankly, I’m grateful for someone to talk to. I don’t have much to do until my fiancé arrives this weekend to show me around.”

  “Then may I recommend the trolley—”

  Nicki held up a hand. “Not until Hunter arrives. I’ve been ordered to stay put and not spoil his plans. But I would love it if you told me about the Carlton jewels. Sounds like my kind of story.” She absently fingered her engagement ring, the only real piece of jewelry she owned except for a small gold cross, a gift from her mother for her confirmation.

  “The Carlton jewels.” Robert shook his head. “Sounds like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. Granddad developed a flare for the dramatic over the years.”

  Nicki folded her hands in her lap and waited, looking as hopeful as a child in a toy store.

  “I see he worked his magic on you.” Robert sighed. “Take a stroll with me, Miss Price, if you have time to kill. I need to stretch my legs.”

  On their way through the inner courtyard, he greeted guests sipping tea, reading the paper, or simply enjoying the elegance of a bygone era. They paused at the marble staircase leading to the second-floor mezzanine, which was seldom used because most employees and guests chose the elevator.

  “Unlike my grandfather, I don’t know all the details of the story. I only know that in the fifties several well-to-do Memphis couples arrived for a long weekend each year to escape from demanding careers, family obligations, and everyday routines. Life can become tedious even for the very rich.” He winked, a charming gesture that didn’t diminish his dignity in the least.

  “I’m quite sure foundation board meetings and charitable fund-raisers can be exhausting,” Nicki said in a haughty tone.

  “Exactly. The story goes that when they decided their trip to the Carlton would be a yearly event, one of the couples conceived the idea of a scavenger hunt. They went out and purchased gifts—one prize for the husband and one for the wife. I can’t remember what any of them were, but they hid the ‘jewels’ somewhere in the hotel. Then once a day the couple provided hints to the other couples. These clues eventually led to the hidden treasure.”

  Nicki’s mouth dropped open. “Wasn’t the hotel filled with guests?”

  “Absolutely. That was part of the fun. There was always a chance Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So from Little Rock celebrating an anniversary would spot the baubles first. The hotel did not sanction this scavenger hunt. In fact, at first they weren’t even aware of its existence. But one year the society pages published a photo of the winners wearing the booty. After that, hotel management turned a blind eye because these couples were the movers and shakers of Memphis. The scavenger hunt was kept secret so their employees didn’t spend their time searching instead of working.”

  “But your grandfather knew?”

  Robert paused during their leisurely stroll around the balcony overlooking the lobby courtyard. “Yes. That’s how fond people were of him. They not only trusted him, but Granddad often provided a distraction so the jewelry could be hidden.”

  “Good thing crooks didn’t read the Memphis society pages in the fifties.” Nicki leaned against the polished brass railing.

  “Indeed. Some people did find out about the hunt and wanted in it. The hotel staff was ordered never to divulge the identities of the five couples or reveal the dates of the next scheduled hunt. Of course, the couples weren’t too hard to figure out.” When the concierge’s phone buzzed, he glanced discretely at the screen. “I brought you up here for a reason, Miss Price. Take a look at this picture.”

  Nicki leaned close to the framed photograph he indicated. Two middle-age women in expensive ball gowns, along with husbands in dinner jackets, flanked a bright eyed, ebony-skinned young man. “Is this your grandfather with a pair of winners? Who are the other folks?”

  “Yes, but he’s the only person I recognize. You can’t even make out what they won.”

  “I’ll bet Mr. Henry would know.”

  “He may, but unfortunately I’m needed at the front desk. I look forward to making the acquaintance of Mr. Galen this weekend. Good morning, Miss Price.”

  “I’ll ride the elevator down with you,” she said, keeping pace at his side. �
�With your permission, I’d love to visit Mr. Henry. Do you think he would be willing to see me?”

  Mr. Prescott pressed the down button. “Granddad loves company, so I’m sure he would. But if you get him talking about the scavenger hunts, you’d better clear your schedule for the rest of the day.” He jotted an address and phone number on a business card during the ride to the first floor. “If there’s any other way I can be of service, do not hesitate to ask.” He handed her the card with a smile.

  An idea flashed through Nicki’s mind. “One more thing, sir. Could I borrow the picture from upstairs to refresh your grandfather’s memory?”

  The concierge narrowed his eyes. “Because that photograph is property of the Carlton Hotel, I’m not at liberty to grant such permission. But if it were to mysteriously go missing for a few hours, I doubt anyone would even notice. And if someone did, I would imagine it would be back in place before anyone summoned the Pinkertons.”

  Nicki thanked him before going back up to her room and googling car rentals in the neighborhood. She needed her own car while in Memphis. Robert easily could have arranged that for her, but she felt she had reached her question-quota for the day.

  Besides, she was an investigator, wasn’t she?

  TEN

  Nate smiled at the note slipped under his door while he’d been sleeping: Gone to visit a sweet old man I met during the hotel tour. He lives in Oakbrook Assisted-Living Center. Don’t wait up. Nicki

  That was his cousin—always the person with the biggest heart in the room. He was glad she wasn’t fighting him tooth and nail to stay on Danny’s case. To catch this killer he needed to prowl some of the city’s worst neighborhoods, and until Sullivan was in custody, it would be safer to talk to potential witnesses alone. And not busybodies with too much time on their hands. In his experience, people often put a spin on what they saw, and interpretations could be very different than reality.

  Once Nate reached Danny’s block, he parked along the curb and strolled leisurely toward the apartment building. Along the way, he attracted plenty of attention. Maybe next time he should rethink Dockers and a golf shirt in the inner city. He probably looked like a parole officer or social worker out to catch parents indulging in destructive habits. He didn’t know which would be worse for his image.

  Two storefronts from Danny’s entrance, Nate spotted a young woman hunched over a large tablet. Behind her was a ratty backpack and a couple of soft-sided coolers, giving the impression she spent long hours in this spot. Nate assessed her sidewalk artistry. The caricatures weren’t bad, but if she made her living selling them, she could use a few lessons. “How ya doing, miss? Those are pretty good.”

  She peered up at him through heavy eye makeup. “Keep moving, loser. I ain’t that kind of girl.”

  Nate was taken aback. She couldn’t be more than eighteen. The possibility she might sleep on the streets broke his heart. The idea of her being that kind of girl made his stomach queasy.

  “Of course you’re not, and you’ve got me all wrong. I’m just interested in your sketch of the Road Runner. Will you take ten bucks for it? I’ve always loved that bird.”

  She stared at him until he pulled a crumpled ten from his pocket and dropped it by her feet. Then she started sketching furiously, her focus not leaving the paper. “You a cop or something? If you’re undercover, you really need a better disguise.”

  “Nah. I flunked covert operations. That’s why I’m a private investigator out of New Orleans. I’m looking into Danny Andre’s murder for personal reasons. He was a friend of mine.”

  Her thick pencil hovered above the sheet for a few seconds. “You don’t look like one of his pals.” She went back to work.

  “People change. I knew Danny in high school, and then we kind of drifted apart. But I don’t like that somebody killed him and dumped his body in the river.”

  Her industry came to an abrupt halt. “That’s what happened? I heard he was dead but didn’t really believe it. I thought he owed somebody money and was layin’ low.”

  Nate sat next to her on the stoop. “I wish that were the case. Someone beat him up real bad.”

  The girl focused on the building across the street, her eyes shiny and moist. “Danny was a sweet guy. He’d give you the shirt off his back and half his lunch if you asked. If I knew who wasted him, I’d tell you, Mr. Private Investigator, but I don’t.”

  “What about Tito Sullivan? You think he could have done this?”

  She snorted. “Why would he? Danny was the reason Tito ain’t on smack anymore.”

  “Maybe he… relapsed?” Nate couldn’t remember all the street terminology.

  But the girl didn’t seem to notice. “Not that I’m aware of. Tito’s been straight since Danny hooked up with him up at that outreach center.”

  “Did Danny ever use, to your knowledge?”

  “Oh, please.” Her young face scrunched into a scowl. “You have been out of touch. Danny would never do drugs. He saw too many messed up lives working in the bars on Beale. He didn’t even drink.”

  Nate took a moment to reflect. “That’s what I thought, but I wanted to hear it from somebody else. Could you point me in the direction of this outreach center? Maybe they know who had a grudge against Danny.”

  “It’s in the basement of that big Baptist church on Fifteenth. You can’t miss it. Fresh Start or New Hope or something like that.” She tore the top sheet with the Road Runner off her pad. “You owe me ten more bucks for the conversation.”

  Nate pulled a couple twenties from his wallet to add to the ten along with his business card. “Call me if you think of anything else. And thanks for the sketch. I’ll hang it on my office wall.”

  The girl looked at the money and then shoved it into the pocket of her jeans. “Here’s some free advice: Save your cash for somebody with useful information.”

  “You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

  With that the neighborhood’s artist-in-residence grabbed her backpack and coolers and disappeared into the alley.

  Nate headed toward Fifteenth Street and easily located the Baptist church, but the outreach center was another matter. No sign indicated “Fresh Start” or “New Hope” or anything similar. After driving around the block twice, he finally parked and tried the doors of the sanctuary and entrance to the church office. Both were locked. But off the back alley, a leaf-strewn set of concrete steps led to a heavy, reinforced door. Nate went down the stairs and knocked twice. When patience produced no results, his intuition prodded him to turn the knob.

  The door opened into a low-ceilinged room that smelled of bleach, dryer softener, and chicken soup. Despite the fact no one had answered his knock, the room was filled with occupants either napping or staring at a television. Cast-off sofas and upholstered chairs were arranged for cozy conversations. Along the wall, long cafeteria tables with metal folding chairs waited for the next meal.

  A brusque command curtailed Nate’s perusal of the decor.

  “Don’t just stand there, man. Close the door,” said an underfed teenager. “If you’re looking for a meal or a place to crash, sign in on the sheet.” He pointed at a clipboard with pen attached with a string. “If you’re selling something or taking a survey, or you’re here for any other reason, get lost. Nobody wants to talk to you.” With those instructions the boy disappeared through a door marked “Men.”

  Nate couldn’t help but notice the teen’s blackened teeth, a dead giveaway of his drug of choice—methamphetamine. Well, perhaps his former drug of choice. Nate signed his name in the column indicating he needed a meal. Not that he was hungry, but he was at a loss as to how to proceed. One of the room’s occupants, a hollowed-eyed man sitting on the couch, had kept his gaze on Nate since he arrived. The man was around forty in clean but faded clothes, his black hair buzzed close to the scalp, his skin a rich shade of ebony. The newspaper on his lap was open to the front page.

  “Mind if I join you?” asked Nate.

  “Free
country,” the man said with a shrug. “You don’t look like you need a meal or a place to crash. You some reporter trying to grab a Pulitzer with a new angle on junkies?” His laughter held little humor.

  “I can barely write a grocery list, let alone a prize-winning article.” Nate sat at the end of the couch and stretched out his legs. “I want to talk to whoever runs this place about a friend of mine.”

  The man’s smile revealed straight white teeth. Meth was apparently not his demon of choice. “The director’s name is Carl Fuentes. When he ain’t here, I’m in charge to make sure nobody gets out of hand and busts up the place. I’ll throw ’em out on the street if they forget how to behave.” He crossed his arms over his chest, further accentuating his biceps.

  “Nate Price,” he said, offering his hand. “Any idea when Mr. Fuentes will return, Mr…?”

  “My name is Wallace, not Mr. Anybody.” He shook with little enthusiasm. “Ain’t seen Carl for a couple days, but he don’t punch a time clock around here. You can sit and wait, or come back tomorrow, or come back next week. Don’t make no difference to me. But I don’t recommend staying for supper. None of these guys know the first thing about cooking, and I ain’t nobody’s maid.”

  “Does Carl do the cooking?”

  “Most of the time. Him or one of the volunteers.”

  “Carl helps men get clean here?” Nate dropped his voice very low.

  “If this looks like rehab to you, Nate Price, you must live under a rock.” Wallace sneered with contempt. “We provide a meal, a place to sleep, and somebody to talk to after you’re discharged from rehab. If an addict goes back to his old crowd on the street, sobriety ain’t gonna last long.”