Furry Godmother’s life lesson: Keep a costume on hand. You’re probably going to need it.
I took the ferry to Algiers, enjoying the balmy wind and views of the city. I climbed the wide cement stairs slowly once we docked, taking in the deeply curved bank of the Mississippi and a tiny St. Louis Cathedral standing sentinel across the way. The Kimbers lived in a comfortable working-class neighborhood where children rode bikes and traffic was light.
Mrs. Kimber met me on the porch with open arms. “Thank you so much for making the trip. It’s not easy to get into the city with four kids in tow, and it’s even harder to leave.”
I handed her the carefully packaged costume. “It’s no problem. I had a lot of fun making this one.”
She removed the lid and folded back the layers of green-and-pink tissue papers. “Oh!” She gasped. “Jean Lafitte will love this!” She turned the material over in her fingertips, examining the cut, cuffs, and collar of her kitty’s new pirate costume. “It’s fantastic. Like a piece of art. I almost hate to give it to him!” She pulled me into a quick hug.
The Kimbers had named their cat after a famous New Orleans pirate. Jean Lafitte the human had his own museum in the French Quarter. He became a local legend after helping Andrew Jackson win the Battle of New Orleans with his legions of ships and experience. People still claim to see his ghost wandering Pirates Alley at night, swilling pints and whistling a song from the sea.
“Kids,” she called through the open door, “bring Jean Lafitte.”
Her children barreled onto the porch for a look at the costume. They squealed and laughed and bounced around their mother.
Her husband leaned in the doorframe. “Well, we’ve thrilled the kids. I’m not so sure the cat will feel the same.”
“The cat!” The children swarmed into the house.
Mr. Kimbers kissed his wife’s head and laughed at the costume.
I made my way back to the ferry with a strangely heavy heart.
As the little vessel chugged me back across the river, I realized the pain I felt was grief for the loss of my Penelope. Hearing Pete promise to return her had reopened a barely scabbed wound. I hated coming home to an empty house. No wide, judgmental eyes at the end of a long workday wondering where I’d been and why her bowl was empty. I took a small detour to Friends with Fins, the nearest aquatic pet store, on my way home.
I slowed at the last light before my house and put my hand out to keep my Friends with Fins packages from sliding off the passenger seat. Water sloshed gently in the lidded cup braced between my knees. “We’re almost home, Buttercup.”
Buttercup was a bright-blue female Betta fish with stumpy fins and an understated tail. The fish version of myself, and definitely not an act of betrayal toward Penelope. The salesman had assured me.
I carried my things into the house with added care and kicked the door shut behind me. Buttercup needed a special place to call her own. I settled her cup on the kitchen island and went to lock my front door. I scanned the lawn and street as far as I could see in both directions before going back to Buttercup. Tonight, I wouldn’t come home to an empty house.
“Okay.” I scrubbed my palms together. “Let’s get you set up. I think you’ll be happiest in the kitchen. I spend most of my time here. Everything’s white and cheery. The lighting’s good. There’s coffee and food. I’m not sure why I ever leave.”
I unpacked the new Betta owner supplies and read every instruction as if the fate of the world depended on getting each step right. Half an hour later, Buttercup was peering at her oversized home from the safety of her travel cup. “I can’t get you out of that little house until I’m sure the water in the big house is the same temperature as what you’re swimming in.” I raised my palms. “Take it up with the people who wrote the books. I promise to move you after my shower.”
I did a finger wave at my new roommate and headed to the bedroom. Tension rolled off me. It was nice to have someone to talk to again.
I brought up the Boondocks website and Yelp reviews on my laptop. I didn’t want to show up overdressed, like I had at the Barrel Room. It looked like a standard dive bar. Clothes wouldn’t be a problem, but I needed a new look for the night. Someone had tagged my car with a note. They could be watching me. If they know what I drive, chances are they know where I live. I pushed that horror from my mind. The sooner I found Miguel’s killer, the sooner life could get back to normal. I couldn’t keep up a frantic pace without the quality of my work taking a serious hit. Once that happened, my sales would fall and I’d be broke and hopeless.
I jumped in the shower wondering if I should barricade the front door and stay put until dawn and got out thinking, “I can’t live like this.” If asking a few questions in the Quarter could push this investigation along, then I was the woman to do it. I dragged a box of old college clothes from my closet and ripped off the packing tape.
An hour later, I faced Buttercup for a second opinion. “What do you think?” My co-ed ensemble included black leather riding boots, skinny jeans, a silver tank top, and a can of aerosol hair spray. “Is the hair too big?”
She stared at her new home next door and made a bubble.
“I agree, but it’s just for the night.” I unlidded her cup and lowered her into her new bowl. “Enjoy your pink-and-white marble flooring and handcrafted sandcastle.” I drew a heart on the bowl in purple dry-erase marker and blew her a kiss.
She took a spin around her new digs and lowered herself behind the castle.
“Oh, Buttercup. If only we all had a sandcastle.”
I applied another round of mascara and called a cab.
The night was gorgeous. A perfect mix of live jazz, oppressive humidity, and nostalgia. I lowered the window to breathe it in. How many times had I taken a cab to the Quarter at night? Too many to count and too long since. I leaned against the backseat door and window for a better look at the beautiful Spanish scrollwork on second-floor galleries untouched by time. A man with bagpipes played a low lament near the Moonwalk as horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped down Canal Street, pretending this was another era and the city was new. I’d been around the world, but there was nowhere else like New Orleans.
* * *
Boondocks was on St. Peter Street. The chalkboard outside advertised, “Soup of the Day: Whisky.” Inside, a traditional Irish bar complete with authentic copper top and stools lined one wall. The remaining walls were exposed brick and worn from age, like the rest of the place. The movie Boondock Saints played on a flat-screen. A bevy of locals filled the seats, complaining about work and kids. A trio of tourists stood near the door, complaining about the heat.
“What can I get you?” A tall blonde jogged to meet me on the opposite side of the bar.
“Coffee?” I fished a ten from my pocket and slid it her way.
“Coming up.”
I wiped a line of sweat and melted hair spray off my temple and noted the distinct absence of pool tables.
“Enjoy.” The bartender delivered a tall, frothy drink on a little napkin.
My mouth watered in anticipation. “What is this?”
“Coffee.” She winked and wiped the bar in big, wet circles. “Plus a little crushed ice, Irish cream, and whisky.”
I admired the glorious concoction. “Have you worked here long?”
She slowed her rag on the shiny surface. “A while. Why? Where are you from?”
“Not far.”
“No?” She smiled. “A local? Why haven’t I seen you here before?”
“I was away. College. Do you know a guy named Adam? Likes to play pool?”
She glanced toward a door in the back wall. “No.”
“No?” I gave her a disbelieving look.
“He’s not here tonight.”
I gave the door she’d glanced at a pointed look and improvised. “You sure? He said he’d teach me how to play, and he told me to meet him here.”
She looked me over, clearly deliberating.
I feigned casual, slid onto an empty barstool, and helped myself to the coffee. The icy sweetness hit my tongue with a high five of fantastic. “This is amazing.” I swirled the drink and marveled. “You just added the cream and whisky to regular coffee?” I took a long satisfying drag. I could make these at home. “It’s brilliant.”
“Plus the ice, a shot of Kahlúa, and some coffee liquor, but not much. You’re tasting the cream and whisky.”
I was tasting deliciousness.
I turned on the stool and gave the small crowd another look. No one seemed like a jewel thief on parole hoping to hurt me. The whole scene was charming in a dive-bar way. I would’ve loved this place in college.
The door on the back wall swung open, and a lanky-looking guy sauntered over to the bar. He had a beanie on his unruly hair and a Louisiana State jersey over baggie jeans. He gave me a toothy grin. “Hey.”
“You know her?” the bartender asked.
I pulled in a breath for bravery and took a chance. “Of course he does. We met on Bourbon Street, and he promised to teach me how to shoot.”
She leaned on her elbow. “I thought you were looking for Adam.”
I shrugged.
Confusion rode the guy’s brow, but he gave my cleavage an appreciative stare and nodded slowly. “Sure. I remember you.” He lifted two fingers in the bartender’s direction. “Get me another and a refill for my friend.”
“Oh, I don’t need . . .” I lifted my empty cup. Huh. I set the cup on the bar.
Two fresh drinks appeared. The guy paid. “You ready?”
Not at all. I slid off the stool and prayed the bartender didn’t make another protest. “Absolutely.”
We cut down the length of the room and through the rear door. The stockroom on the other side was arranged to accommodate two regulation-sized pool tables. The shelves and boxes were pushed against the walls. A handful of men and women hung around, smiling and canoodling. Two men circled the table, cues in hand.
The guy who bought my drink pointed around the room, assigning names I’d never remember to people I’d never recognize again. “And over there is Adam.”
A guy with a smooth-shaven head swore as he lined up his shot. “Man, Tim, can you not talk right now? I’ve got a lot of cash on this shot.”
Tim buttoned his lips.
A guy in a black hoodie and jeans peeled himself off the wall. The chain hanging from his pocket swatted his baggy pant leg as he ghosted to my side. “Is this your girl, Tim?”
I tried not to make eye contact, which was simple because Pocket Chain’s hood covered half his forehead and hid his eyes. The hood, however, did nothing to hide the line of shiny rings in his lip.
Tim barked a deep belly laugh. “Nah, we met on Bourbon. I don’t even remember going there. Crazy, right?”
“Yeah.” The creep moved into my personal space until his body heat warmed my arm. “What’s your name, kitten?”
My jaw dropped open, and I craned my head back for a better look at Pocket Chain. “Um.”
It was Jack, all right. Jack’s eyes were near slits of frustration beneath the hood. He’d shaved his ever-present stubble and added several shiny rings to his face.
Fight or flight kicked in as adrenaline beat back the effects of the boozy coffee I’d finished at the bar. The full cup in my hand felt like an anvil. Would Jack blow my cover? Would he arrest me for obstruction like he’d threatened? My instincts screamed to flee. Curiosity and sheer hardheadedness said I had every right to play pool in a weird stockroom with a murder suspect if I wanted.
I gave Adam another look. He didn’t seem to be very good at pool, but he also didn’t look like a killer. He seemed more like the loud guy at a frat party, running his mouth and getting punched a lot. Though he could’ve paid someone to do his dirty work. It was impossible to tell if he had any money. His scrubby outfit said he was blue collar or wanted to appear that way. The toes of his work boots were scuffed. His belt was worn. The logo on his pocket was familiar.
Tim swung a heavy arm over my shoulder. “Watch it, dude. Kitten’s with me.”
I shook him off and glared. “My name is not kitten. It’s . . . Jack-ie.” I did a smug face at Jack.
“Well, Jackie,” Jack retorted, completely unfazed, “do you have the five hundred to cover your game?”
Tim scoffed. “Man, I just told you she’s here to learn, not play.”
Jack leveled Tim with a look that chilled the room. “Well, she can’t have my time at the table. You don’t come here to hook up. You come to play.” He turned his icy gaze on me. “Maybe you should go.”
Clearly not a request.
Adam threw a chalk cube against the wall and it shattered into pieces. He marched into our little squabble, eyes blazing. “You just caused me to miss my shot!”
Violent curses ricocheted off the walls and my brain. The crowd complained about having to wait. Tim complained about being confronted.
Jack grabbed my wrist and yanked me aside. “You need to leave.”
Fear rooted me in place. I had a very bad feeling about whatever came next.
“What were you thinking by coming here? Are you crazy?” His whispered rant gained speed like a downhill snowball. “And what are you wearing?”
His cocky tone snapped my mouth into motion. “Me?” I waved a palm in front of his pierced face. “What are you wearing?”
His chest expanded and his eye twitched. “I’m investigating a murder. You’re obstructing that effort. Leave now and I won’t call your mother.”
I gasped. “You wouldn’t!”
He leaned into my space. “You don’t seem to fear my badge, but you sure as hell fear her. I’m not above getting childish if that’s what it takes to save your life or keep you out of jail.” He liberated his phone from one pocket and swiped the screen to life. “What’ll it be? You staying for a lesson, or am I calling you a cab?”
Adam suddenly shoved Tim and Tim knocked into me.
I tripped over my feet, trying not to grab onto Jack for support. I flung both hands in search of balance as my drink went flying. My back hit the wall. “Oh, no.”
Adam gasped. Iced coffee dripped from the tip of his nose and eyelashes.
I untangled my feet and adjusted my tank top to show a little more cleavage. “I am sincerely sorry about that.”
He delivered his thoughts on my apology with more swearing. Loud swearing.
I pressed a palm to one ear and blinked rapidly. The logo on his shirt snapped something loose in my memory. “You work at All-American Construction?”
I’d take that as a yes and talk to Jack later. He could probably take it from here. No need to involve my mother. I slipped behind Tim and made my way toward the door.
“Hey, babe. Don’t go.” Tim shot an arm out to block my escape.
Adam capitalized on Tim’s distraction and lunged at us.
I jumped.
Adam and Tim struggled, banging into the wall and cursing. They deflected and spun through the crowd until they crashed onto the table, scattering balls and snarling threats. A few beefy bystanders piled on.
I wrenched the door open and waved a silent good-bye to Jack.
He tapped his phone screen. “Go!”
I slipped through the open door but peeked at the chaos I’d left behind. Would Jack be okay? Should I call the police? Would that ruin his investigation?
He put his phone away and grabbed two men by their shirts, hauling the latecomers off the top of the pile. “That’s enough. Knock it off.”
Both men spun blindly toward the hands that had grabbed them and punched outward.
Jack’s head whipped back. “Son of a . . .” He shook his head and checked his mouth for blood. When his fingers came up red, he unzipped his hoodie to reveal his detective badge on a shiny, beaded chain. “Against the wall.” He cuffed the offending duo with zip ties. He readied another set of ties and raised his badge into the air. “NOPD! Don’t move.”
Adam sprang off the table and made a run for the door I was behind.
I jerked the barrier between us and slid the lock.
The door bounced hard under my trembling hand. “That was close,” I whispered to myself.
“You do that?” The bartender appeared beside me, and not too happy. She nodded at the door.
I blew out a shaky breath. “Not intentionally. Did you know Miguel Sanchez?”
She watched me in wonder. “Who’s asking?”
“Me. I’m trying to find out who would’ve wanted to hurt him.”
“Someone hurt him?” Her voice hitched with genuine shock. “Is he okay?”
“No.” Apparently news didn’t travel in the Quarter as quickly as it did in my district. I did my best to steady my voice. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Miguel’s dead. He was murdered four days ago. There are no significant leads.”
Sadness tugged at her eyes. “You a cop?”
“No. Just someone looking for answers.”
The hasty bark of sirens cut through the air.
My time was running out. “Anything you can tell me . . .” I looked toward the open front door where a line of cops in street clothes flashed badges and marched our way with authority.
She turned her back to the room. “There was a guy in here looking for him about four nights ago. You said that’s when he died?”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. He said to tell Miguel he came by and that he owed Miguel one.”
A man the size of a barge pushed past us and unlocked the rear door. “Lacy Crocker?”
I gave an appreciative nod to the bartender as she slipped away. “Yeah?”
“Don’t go anywhere. Detective Oliver would like to talk to you.” He pulled the door open and steamrolled inside.
“I’ll be at the bar.” Ordering another iced coffee.