CHAPTER FOUR

 

Shocked, Finn stared at the photo on the flyer.

If the feds wanted Margaret Jane Barron on embezzling charges in Tacoma, Washington, what the heck was she doing carousing with Franco in New Orleans? Finn studied the other wanted photos again but Franco was not one of them. Not that she expected him to be. Surely, Tommy would have known that much about him. Or would he have even checked? This was supposed to be a simple case of infidelity, not a federal case.

Finn smiled to herself. Knowing a little something, very little in actuality, about the way men’s brains worked, it was no wonder Tommy hadn’t recognized Johnny Franco when he’d accosted them the previous evening. She would have bet her next paycheck that Tommy could ID Margaret Jane Barron in a New York minute with or without her clothes on. Yet if he was standing right beside the amorous Johnny Franco, Tommy wouldn’t recognize her gentleman friend.

Finn plopped down on one of plastic chairs lined up against the wall, her thoughts whirling. She fished her cell phone out of her backpack debating whom to call first—Jack or Tommy. When she went to punch in Jack’s number, a woman standing in line not five feet from Finn cleared her throat. Loudly. She pointed to the wall. Finn saw a sign that detailed no cell phone usage with no words but an overly-dramatic, yet obvious, drawing. If she wasn’t mistaken using a cell phone inside this building would cause your head to explode. Talk about going postal.

Finn grabbed her backpack and marched outside into the heat of the day. As she pushed through the doorway, she glared over her shoulder at the nosy woman who smiled back and waggled her fingers good-bye.

Leaning against the building, Finn tapped in Jack’s cell phone number. She cursed when it immediately went to voicemail. She left him a convoluted message about a woman on a wanted poster in the post office being involved in one of Tommy’s PI cases. She hoped he could figure out what she was trying to say. Then she called Tommy at home figuring he was probably there since it was unlikely he’d make it into his office today.

“Yo, wassup?” he answered, surprisingly upbeat.

“Tommy?”

“The one and only.” She could hear the smile in his chipper voice.

“It’s Finn. Is something wrong?”

“Jonesy, sweetcakes, what could possibly be wrong? I’m feeling super-duper. Did you know I broke my leg?”

Pain meds. “How is the leg?”

“What leg?”

Oh, boy. “Tommy, can you talk to me about your business?”

“I’d rather not,” he stated with what Finn thought sounded like a giggle. Tommy? Sexy, masculine Tommy? Giggling? She had an insane urge to giggle herself.

“I’d rather talk about Emmy, speshif—spesift—spec-if-i-cal-ly,” he said slowly enunciating each syllable. “Damn that’s a hard word—” He drifted off into more laughter.

Under any other circumstances, this conversation would have been funny. This time, however, Finn was more concerned that either Margaret Jane Barron or her lover, Franco, would come after her—again—and break her leg or some other essential body part. And then, go looking for Tommy and start in on another body part of his.

“...about her boobs,” he concluded.

“I’d rather not,” Finn said, shaking her head.

As if he hadn’t heard her, he continued, “Do you know if they’re real or not? Not that it matters to me persh-onally, of course. Just curious. I don’t remember them being so, so, well, damn, so out there before.”

What was it with men? They could be drugged to the gills and still fantasize about breasts? Good God. She should have gone to work for a female private investigator.

If she knew one.

If she knew one who would hire someone with no experience and no license.

If she knew one who would hire someone with no experience and no license who managed to get their boss’s leg broken. Okay, Tommy was her only option.

Unable to keep from goading Tommy about his breast fixation, Finn said, “Emmy knows Victoria’s Secret. Intimately. Have you heard of her?”

“Nope. Don’t know her or her secret. What’s her last name?” After a long pause, he continued, “Wait a minute. I think I saw her on TV.”

Finn swallowed her laughter. She was enjoying this—sort of. Discussing her sister’s boobs wasn’t high on her list of topics she wanted to discuss with anyone, including Tommy. Jack was going to be a lot more helpful. It was time to wrap it up. “Queen Victoria, I believe is her name, and her secret is how she kept it up for so long.”

“Wow. I’d like to meet this woman when I get back on my feet.”

“And off the pain meds.”

“Yeah, that, too.”

“I’ll make the introductions myself. I’m going to let you go now. You rest your leg.”

“Jonesy, I am resting my leg. I’m on the couch with the TV on. I’ve got ESPN going and I’ve got a pile of Sports Illustrated and—”

“Swimsuit Edition?” she interrupted. That might explain the boob fascination.

“Yup, that one, too, and some other magazines Jack found at the market.”

“Good for you.” Nice to know Jack had taken care of him. “Please go easy and don’t overdose.”

“Not a chance. That damned Jack took the bottle with him. He said he’d come back to dishpens-dispensh, ah, hell, give them to me.”

“Good thing,” she muttered as she stood and shaded her eyes against the sun, sweat pooling between her breasts. “Love you. Take care.”

“Back at ya, sweetcakes.”

Sweetcakes? Twice in one convoluted conversation? What the what? He’d never called her that in her entire life. Finn went back inside the post office, copied the pertinent information about the Barron woman on a notepad she fished from the bottom of her backpack and went to stand in line for the stamps she’d originally come in for. She had a tour in ten minutes. As much as she wanted to help the FBI find one of their Ten Most Wanted, she did have a living to make. However pitiful it was. Still, there was one line she couldn’t get out of her mind. Reward leading to arrest.

Yikes. How much? She could sure use the cash for tuition.

She switched back to thoughts of Tommy and prayed he didn’t hurt himself reaching for the remote or the latest sex-charged copy of Playboy. Her thoughts zoomed right off the track with a mental picture of Tommy and a Playboy Playmate doing the dirty deed. She almost proposed something indecent to the doddering eighty-something old man standing behind her in line.

It had been too long for Finn. She reached into her backpack, pulled out a candy bar, un-wrapped it and took a big healthy bite. Chocolate never hurt, even after a huge breakfast of Belgian waffles. But, it ran a long second behind actual sex. With an actual man.

***

When Debbie got home from breakfast with Gert and Finn, she made cookies—oatmeal raisin, her favorite—to get her mind off Freddy and how much she missed him.

One hour later, as she munched on a cookie, Debbie knew it hadn’t helped. The little dark raisins merely reminded her of his beautiful brown eyes. She thought about calling or even sexting him but then she remembered why she was in New Orleans in the first place. Oh, well.

She could send him some photos on her cell phone of herself making cookies in her bra and panties so he wouldn’t forget her while she was gone. Only she wasn’t in her bra and panties but she could undress for the money shot. Maybe holding a spoon and a bowl strategically placed and forgetting the underwear altogether. Ha. That would get to Freddy.

For some reason sex was on her mind. It was on Freddy’s mind all the time. They were teenagers. They were supposed to experiment according to Seventeen Magazine. It was natural and normal. And, naturally, she was nothing if not normal.

She gazed out the window at the back of the enormous house next door. A beautiful boy—a beautiful, studly, teenage boy—was stretching his legs to get out of a steel gray Corvette convertible parked in the alley. He was a good six feet tall and as he stood there, the breeze caught his long, wavy, sun-streaked surfer brown hair. Oh, wow. He slammed the car door and strode up the walkway to the back of the house. Debbie grabbed up a handful of cookies. She couldn’t get out the door fast enough. Freddy Who?

***

Finn’s regular two o’clock tour that afternoon was the most difficult of her illustrious career. And quite possibly, the worst she’d ever given. She wasn’t expecting any tips since she couldn’t keep her mind on her job, forgetting her story about St. Louis Cemetery No.1 and who was buried there. The name Marie Laveau escaped her entirely. Someone had to remind her.

She couldn’t remember the script she’d memorized years ago. She couldn’t remember the names of streets she’d loved and walked on her entire life. If pressed she undoubtedly couldn’t even remember whom Jackson Square was named for.

The hot sun bore down on her five customers, radiant young adults from Seattle with intricately knotted scarves around their necks, even the guys. They wore expensive, designer jeans and Doc Martens on their feet. They should have been fun and memorable, asking intelligent, inquisitive questions. Your typical coffee swilling college students. From the same slightly green complexions to the red-rimmed eyes, they were simply hung over. There was no other explanation for their quiet reticence. Ordinarily, everyone loved Finn but then, she wasn’t herself today either.

Not fifteen minutes into her tour as they walked down Royal past expensive antique shops and elite jewelry boutiques, Finn struggling to recall even one interesting French Quarter anecdote, one of the young men winked at her. She frowned in return. God. Was he hitting on her? That never happened. She looked closer at his wan face, bloodshot hazel eyes, and sparse beard stubble. He appeared to be ogling her breasts. She swiveled around to point out something interesting. Anything. Interesting. Anything. New Orleans. Anything she could think of.

When they turned the corner onto Dauphine Finn tried ineffectually to ignore his grinning face. She came to an abrupt halt when she spotted the apartment building where she’d found the body the day before. The woman behind her stumbled into her back. Finn apologized, then unable to help herself, she looked up and was sorry she did. She blinked her eyes. There, draped over the rail, was another body.

Please God. Not another one. This one, she finally noticed, didn’t look like the last one. It didn’t look the least bit real. Straw tumbled out around its head and feet.

Hangovers notwithstanding, her group seemed more concerned with enduring the tour than enjoying it. Finn couldn’t agree more. With one last look and a shake of her head, she walked them over to her uncles’ voodoo store. For the first time in the tour, they seemed delighted. Neville and Finis were equally delighted to see her arrive with possible customers.

After exchanging pleasant inanities with her uncles and agreeing to bring Debbie and meet for brunch at The Commander’s Palace next Sunday she departed. The boy who winked at her gave her a fifty-dollar tip, whispered his name in her ear—Todd—and his room number at the Meridian Hotel. If she actually showed up, she’d feel like a hooker. Not that she would. She kept the fifty dollars, thank you very much, and smiled her appreciation.

Should she call Jack about the straw man? No. It wasn’t even a body. Would he give her grief? Yes. Would he call her the girl who cried wolf one too many times? Probably. Even if the killer was taunting her, and how odd would that be, why call Jack?

The mind boggled.

She shrugged her shoulders, then left the voodoo store and trekked back to the corner of Hell and Purgatory. She knew it was crazy, that she was undoubtedly certifiable but she needed to see the scarecrow for herself up close and personal. It was probably an early Halloween decoration. In August? She might be the stupidest person in the entire French Quarter but she needed to satisfy her curiosity.

This time she went to the front of the building, stole a quick peek around and seeing no one, pushed against the front gate. It wasn’t even locked. She tiptoed through the narrow walkway back to the courtyard, Mace in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

She stared up at the railing, and could now see the figure much more clearly. There was no doubt. It was a scarecrow.

Her cell phone chimed. She jumped, her heart racing, then dropped her Mace. She rummaged around in her backpack until she snagged the darn thing. She tapped the screen, then gave a tentative, “Hello?”

“Finn, is that you?”

She didn’t immediately recognize the voice but the petulant tone she recognized with no problem. Argh. “This is Finn.”

“Darling girl, it’s Wes.”

Oh. Dear. God. Wesley Ellis St. Clare III. If she wanted more grief in her life, she couldn’t have asked for anyone more perfectly obnoxious to handle the job. She stared at the phone as if it were a snake come to life. “Wes, what the hell do you want?”

“Is that any way to speak to me? You used to love me.”

She thought it was love two years ago, until he abandoned her on their wedding day. Time and meaningful therapy twice a week for several months showed her the difference between true love and infatuation. The dartboard on her bedroom wall with his photo stuck to it and hundreds of darts thrown at his well-fed face helped, too.

“I repeat, what do you want?”

“What makes you think I want anything?” he grumbled, as he always did whenever things didn’t go his way. He still set Finn’s teeth on edge. He wanted something. Why else would he call her now?

“I know you, Wes,” she said, “and I don’t like you. I think I told you I never wanted to speak to you or see you ever again.”

He sighed. “That was two years ago. I figured you’d changed your mind after all this time. I don’t hold any grudges.”

He didn’t hold any grudges? He left her at the altar in a white, sequined, strapless wedding dress she’d saved months and months for, holding a bouquet of baby’s breath, pale blue carnations and purple asters, and a church full of friends and family. Who blubbered for a solid week afterward? Who, after months of seeing a therapist, still wanted to strangle the man with her bare hands? Why would he hold any grudges?

“What do you want?” she asked, struggling to sound civilized. “I have things to do.”

“I thought you might like to go with me to—”

“Go with you?” She gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to scream hate-filled obscenities at him. “I want to do absolutely nothing with you. I don’t care if you invite me to the governor’s inaugural ball, hell, even the President’s inaugural ball. All eight balls or however many there are. I don’t care if you invite me to be King of Carnival at Mardi Gras, I won’t go.”

“Okay, I think I’m getting the picture. I thought you might like to see a concert or something.”

“You couldn’t possibly get the picture, you, you...” Fuming, she took the steps two at a time up to the second landing and stared down at the scarecrow propped against the rail. “You left me. You deserted me. You are a good-for-nothing, scum-sucking, overbearing, self-centered, damned-for-hell, uh, uh, toad.”

Silence met her rant. Maybe that was a bit much. Fine by her. She punched END. Fisting her hands at her side, she took several deep breaths to calm her nerves. She hadn’t spoken to the man in two years. Two whole years! And he still had the power to make her mad enough to spit nails. She practiced several more deep breathing exercises she’d learned from her therapist, and bit by bit calmed down.

Under control again, sort of, she squatted by the dummy. It looked like the kind they used to demonstrate life saving techniques. Only this one was dressed like a scarecrow. Sort of. There was definitely straw sticking out of the plaid shirt and the denim overalls were ragged at the hem. The whole thing defied logic. Why a scarecrow? Why here? Why now? Did it matter? No. At least, not to her it didn’t. She was trespassing, again, and she had no reason to be there aside from her damnable curiosity. Which killed the cat, if she remembered correctly.

She left the same way she came and marched to the streetcar stop, ignoring the tourists and the traffic, her head high, her heart settling into a more normal rhythm.

As she stood in the neutral ground in the center of the street waiting for the streetcar, an older man in a tan trench coat and fifty’s style brown plaid hat jostled her. He looked like something out of a black and white movie come to life in living color. When Finn inspected his face, he scowled at her, every line in his face creasing. He pointed a finger at her chest. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. She was so not in the mood.

“You better be. Or else you will be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The woman who stood next to her shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t even know you.”

“It don’t matter. You watch your step, missy, or you’ll be a dead woman.”

“Bite me,” Finn snarled as the streetcar arrived. He pushed ahead, elbowing his way around her and the other woman to get on. “Jerk.”

The woman nodded her head in agreement. “It takes all kinds.”

“Don’t I know it.” Finn got on board ignoring the rude man as she made her way down the aisle. She had two free hours before her culinary class so she was going to go see Tommy at his apartment. Visiting him was a surefire guarantee to make her forget the idiocy her life had become.

 

Finn rang the buzzer. When no one answered, she tried the door and found it unlocked. She entered the apartment and found Tommy lying immobile on his couch, his synthetically encased leg reclining on a foot stool. He had the TV remote in one hand, a can of soda in the other. He’d tuned the TV to a football game. Strewn all around him were magazines, newspapers, discarded fast food wrappers and half empty cans of soda.

“Jonesy,” he murmured, grinning. His eyes twinkled with manufactured, drug-induced, good will. “How ya doin’? Don’t mind the mess, the cleaning lady hasn’t come by yet.”

“You don’t have a cleaning lady.”

He winked. “True, but I’m gonna need one after this.”

“At least you sound more coherent than the last time we talked.” She gently pushed his leg aside and sat on the footstool facing him.

“Jack cut my pain meds in half. He said I was beginning to sound like Paris Hilton. Not sure what that means but it must have been bad.”

Finn laughed. “You weren’t making much sense.”

“I always make sense. At least to myself.” He dropped the remote and set his soda on the floor. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a mock frown. He needed a shave, his hair stood at attention in several places and the red and green striped rugby shirt he wore was stained with something red. Gert was right. Even like this, he looked boyish, yet sexy. And in dire need of some female TLC.

“I have something to tell you,” she began. “Are you sure you’re coherent? I’d hate to have to tell you again.”

“Ha. I’m as coherent as ever. Honest. Hit me.”

“You know those shots I took of the philandering Johnny Franco and his lady love?”

“How could I forget? She of the lovely breasts and neon butterfly tattoo.”

“That’s the one. I saw her photo up on the wall in the post office.”

Tommy jerked as if he’d been touched with an electric cattle prod. “What?”

“FBI’s Ten Most Wanted.”

“No kidding. What for?”

“Something big. I can’t remember. Hold on.” She dug out her notebook and took a look. “Embezzlement in Tacoma, Washington.”

“Wow. She’s a long way from home.” He unfolded his arms and placed them on top of his head. Staring at the ceiling, he continued, “Embezzlement. That covers a multitude of sins, none good. She must have taken a boatload of cash from someone important. If I remember my PI training at all, you have to have stolen hundreds of thousands to get on their list.”

“What does it mean to us?”

He squirmed, moved his leg and winced. “Good question. I doubt she wants photos of herself floating around. I sure as hell wouldn’t. That could be why Franco was so upset. On the other hand, one might not have anything to do with the other.”

“Meaning,” Finn said, picking up the thread of his thoughts, “Franco might simply be mad that we caught him cheating on his wife. He might not know what his girlfriend has been up to or even who she really is.”

“Anything is possible,” he agreed. “Finn, not to change the subject but I really need to take a leak.”

“Oh-kay.” What exactly did he want her to do about it?

He grinned. “And, no, you don’t have to hold my equipment while I go. I need you to help me get to my feet, then walk me to the bathroom. The last time I tried to get to the bathroom by myself I fell and walloped the shin on my good leg.”

She put her arm around his waist, then helped him to rise. Together they hobbled across the room, through the bedroom and to the bathroom on the other side. He put one hand on the door and turned to look at her. “If you hear me fall, come in and help a grown, humiliated, half-naked man to his feet. Otherwise just stay here, then get me back to the couch. If you don’t mind.”

“Not a problem. Are you sure you can do it by yourself?”

He grinned, then reached out his free hand to mess up her hair. “I’ve managed to piss by myself for thirty years. It would be embarrassing to admit I can’t do it now because I broke my damned leg. Of course, if you really want to come in and hold it for me, I won’t complain.”

“Sorry, big guy, but you’re going to have to take things in hand yourself.”

“Not things,” he said, closing the door behind him. “One big thing.”

While he was in the bathroom, his cell phone rang with the theme from Jaws. “I’ll get it for you,” she hollered. “Be right back.”

She found his phone on the end table beneath the September Playboy. “’Lo?”

“Is this Tommy Boyle’s phone?”

“Yes, it is. Can I take a message?”

“Yeah, tell him Roy Windom called. I own the furniture store below Tommy’s office.”

“Okay.”

“His office was broken into early this morning before we even opened the warehouse at five. There are papers and files and stuff all over the floor. I don’t know if anything was taken. I called the cops and they said they’d make a report but they said Tommy needed to take a look and see if anything’s missing. They tried calling him but didn’t get an answer. They told me they’d try to reach him again later today. That early in the morning there really was no need to track him down at his apartment and wake him up for a simple burglary. I think the computer’s hard drive is missing. I don’t know what else.”

“God.” Not what Tommy needed on top of his broken leg.

“Why isn’t Tommy here? I know he keeps peculiar hours but he’s usually around by mid-day.”

“He had an accident. He broke his leg last night falling down those outside stairs.”

“Damn. Sorry to hear that. That didn’t have anything to do with the break-in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please let Tommy know and give him my best for a speedy recovery. I broke my shoulder once. It was hell on wheels and hurt like the dickens.”

***

Several hours and several Advils later, Finn stared at today’s chef instructor, Chef Westrom. The woman stood with her hands on her narrow, white chef’s coat-covered hips, her chef’s hat tilting off the left side of her head. Her beady eyes, black as her cold heart, stared at the quaking young man beside Finn. Even seated, Finn could feel his knees shaking. His head bobbed in agreement with each word the instructor spewed in his direction.

Finn listened, cringing, her own heart in her throat, as the woman upbraided the poor guy, a fellow student. For his misdeeds, which were miniscule in Finn’s mind, he was taking a beat-down the likes of which she’d never heard. He hadn’t whipped his cream properly. He hadn’t cooled his bowl properly. According to the chef, he hadn’t done anything properly since he dragged himself out of bed this morning.

Days like this made Finn ponder the wisdom of her career choice. In spite of it all, she thanked God she wasn’t the one on the receiving end today. She had been the brunt of this particular instructor’s wrath on two other days she’d not soon forget. She didn’t care to repeat the terror she’d felt with the spotlight shining on her. The humiliation lasted long after the actual day, several weeks, truth be told.

As the sound of the old bat’s vitriolic rant slowed, then stopped altogether Finn mustered the courage to lift her head. She found herself eye to eye with the woman herself.

“Surprisingly, Miss Jones, your dish was perfectly adequate.”

High praise indeed. Finn released the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you, Chef.”

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement.”

“Of course,” Finn agreed, nodding her head. A thick red curl escaped from her chef hat and bobbed in agreement next to her nose.

The instructor’s eyes narrowed as Finn quickly stuffed the renegade hair back up under her hat. Luckily, the woman moved on to her next poor victim.

Was she cut out to be a chef? She loved to cook and try new recipes out on her friends. Was it enough? Could she put off her animosity of the Wicked Witch and look past this class to see a brighter, and hopefully, better paying, future as a real honest-to-God chef?

Every day she reminded herself this was what she truly wanted.

Damn. Could she grow a pair? She gave herself a mental butt-kicking. This was what she wanted. And nothing was going to stop her from reaching her goal. Get over yourself, Finn.

She seriously did not want to spend the rest of her life traipsing through the streets of the French Quarter, especially in the overbearingly hot, humid days of summer, repeating the same tired, boring stories of its historical past to paying tourists. No matter how much she loved the French Quarter she could give her talk in her sleep but, admittedly, some days she bored herself.

More importantly, did she want to be the one sister who waltzed through life never accomplishing anything of importance? She knew the answer to that one.

No way. Make that a resounding N. O. Way.

She removed her white coat and striped chef hat, stuffed them into her backpack and started for the door with the rest of her forlorn fellow students. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye near the bank of windows on her right. She blinked several times. It looked like the same person—er, ghost—she saw last night.

She stared, a bark of laughter caught in her throat. He saluted her with a serious expression on his face and a tip of his tall white chef hat, then his form shimmered, wavered and disappeared altogether. She bit the inside of her lip. She refused to acknowledge, even to herself, that she was seeing ghosts. Again. And a chef? What was that all about? Lack of sleep? Lack of oxygen? Lack of common sense?

She was exhausted, sleep-deprived or going crazy but she was most definitely not seeing ghosts.

Finn didn’t believe in ghosts. Not Casper, not Blackbeard, not even the Ghost Whisperer. Sheesh.

Even ever intrepid Debbie would be having a coronary if she saw this ghost and she believed in everything supernatural. Including her favorite TV show, Supernatural.

Finn was drained. After all, she’d been bashed in the head after seeing a dead man, accosted by a deranged, angry man, then spent half the night in a hospital waiting room worrying about Tommy. She’d even been threatened today by a perfectly horrible stranger at the streetcar stop.

Any normal person could have a hallucination or two. Any normal person, even, might think they’d seen a ghost. It could happen. She’d be fine once she got a good night’s sleep. It was one too many shocks in too few hours.

When she got home, exhausted and irritable, she found Jack sitting on her stoop drinking iced tea from one of her own glasses. In his snug black jeans, tight black tee shirt, he exuded his usual take-me-to-bed charm. He gifted her with a disarming smile. She knew that look. She was in trouble. And it wasn’t because she’d recently seen a ghost.

“Where you been? Debbie didn’t know. She was nice enough to get me a glass of tea, though, before she galloped over to Gert’s to play with the cats.”

“D’you want to come in?” she asked, refusing to answer his question and lie about her whereabouts.

“After you,” he said, standing up and stepping aside. “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.”

“And I have news for you.”

He grinned. “Let’s share.”