CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ordinarily the one person Finn could count on was Tommy. He never changed. He was happy-go-lucky, confident, and secure in his masculinity. He never questioned her choice of clothes, friends or jobs. He knew about her attending culinary class and had nothing but good things to say about it.
Of course, now he was cranky about the broken leg and somewhat drugged, not out of his mind anymore but not himself. Still a good friend deserved all the help she could muster.
She wanted to make sure Tommy was better before she went to her next class. She also needed to know if he’d learned anything more about Margaret Jane Barron’s business. Miraculously Finn found a couple of free hours in the middle of her day and set to work cooking.
Several hours later, with all this in mind, dressed in clean jeans and a purple tank top, she hopped into her car and turned the key. Nothing. She tried several more times thinking the battery must be dead. Gert’s monster cruiser needed gas and, of course, Finn had no money.
She toted several bags down the street to catch the St. Charles Avenue streetcar cursing cars and life in general. Loaded down with plastic containers of home-cooked food, the enticing fragrance drew friendly looks all around her once she got aboard.
Not that she should feel guilty about Tommy’s broken leg. She did, couldn't help it. If Franco hadn't shown up, it wouldn't have happened but since he did and she was trying to fend him off she felt as if it was her fault. Partially. And she had taken the incriminating photos.
Thus, the food offerings.
She got off the streetcar a block from his building, shuffled down the street, then up a flight of stairs to his door, the heavy plastic bags full of food nearly dragging on the ground.
She stopped a moment to catch her breath, then knocked and called out his name.
He opened the door for her with a huge grin. He wore a yellow Sponge Bob t-shirt and plaid, flannel pajama pants with one leg sliced open to accommodate his cast. “My favorite culinary student bearing gifts.” He sniffed, then rolled his eyes. “And if I’m not mistaken, gifts of homemade food. I love ya, sweetheart.”
“Back at ya. Can I come in or do you want to eat it out here on the gallery?”
“Sorry.” Holding one crutch, he hobbled aside to let her in. “Lost myself in the sweet aroma. Smells like gumbo. Yes?”
“Yes. Shrimp gumbo with fresh-baked brioche. I pulled the bread pudding out of the oven not thirty minutes ago.”
He shut the door behind her. “Did I say I love you? If I didn’t it bears repeating.”
“You did. Sit yourself down on the couch and I’ll dish it up. What would you like to drink?” She opened up cupboards in his galley kitchen searching for bowls and plates.
“Bring me an Abita. I think I can handle a beer. I’m feeling like a new man already.” He rubbed his stomach.
“Have you eaten at all today?”
“Oh, sure. I had a bowl of Wheaties for breakfast and a bag of potato chips for lunch.”
“The breakfast and lunch of champions.”
“You got it.”
She found utensils in a drawer and before long, the two of them were eating gumbo and mopping up the leftover juices with hunks of the brioche. The look of ecstasy on his face surprised her. She imagined it was how he looked in the midst of hot, mindless sex. It was arousing in the extreme and a bonus side effect she’d never imagined. This cooking thing might work out better for her than even she’d originally thought.
“Have you saved room for dessert?” she asked.
“Do alligators eat Cajuns in the bayou?”
She grinned.
“Bring it on.”
Finn stood up and took the empty bowl from his hands. As she backed away, she stepped on his crutch causing it to snap back, smack into the right side of Tommy’s head.
“Yeow!” He hollered, his hands flying up to cover his face. “Damn it all to hell.”
“Oh, my God. Tommy? Are you okay? Can you see?” She dropped the dishes on the coffee table. She pried his hands away from his face, kneeling beside him on the couch. Gently she examined his right eye.
He winced as she touched his face, one eye squinting, the other half closed. His right cheek and right eye were already turning red and beginning to swell. Finn sat back on her heels.
“Is it still there?” Tommy asked, his voice tight.
“Your eye?” At his nod she continued, “Yeah, God, I’m so sorry, I think I’ve given you a shiner.”
“Ha, there’s another story for ya.” He leaned back against the couch, cupping his forehead, rubbing his brow. “You can tell people I tried to take advantage of you and you clobbered me with my own damned crutch. It’ll make for a more interesting story than you stepped on it and it miraculously found its way to my eye.”
Confused, she asked, “Why would I lie?”
“Because otherwise you’ll look clumsy. This way it makes me look like a rascal, a ladies’ man. I’m the love-struck moron who couldn’t help making a pass at you.”
“No, you’ll be the big fat jerk with a black eye and a hard-on.”
He laughed. “Your great cooking might give me one anyway.”
“Seriously, are you okay?”
“I will be as soon as you bring me a dish of that bread pudding. With bourbon sauce?”
She got to her feet. “Absolutely. It’ll take me a minute to put it together, but yeah, bread pudding with bourbon sauce coming up. You sure you’re okay?”
“Bring ice, too. For my face.”
“Good idea.”
“Then I have a tale to tell you.”
“About what?”
“Just you wait.” He tried to wink and ended up wincing.
Ten minutes later, she finished whisking the sauce on the stove and then mounded two bowls with warm pudding. She poured hot bourbon sauce over both and stuck two spoons in the bowls. She returned with her hands full of dessert when a knock came at the door. She handed Tommy his as he hollered, “It’s open.”
“Is it smart to say that?” Finn whispered sitting down next to him.
With his free hand, Tommy reached beneath the couch cushion and pulled out a large, lethal-looking gun. He pointed it at the door.
“Wow.” Finn edged a few inches away never taking her gaze off the weapon.
“No one is going to catch me unprepared again even if I’m laid up with a damned broken leg.” He squinted down the barrel.
“Shooting isn’t necessary,” drawled a familiar voice. “If you want me to go, I’ll go right back out the door without a word.”
They both looked up to see Jack staring at them with his hands on his hips, a slight frown turning down the corners of his mouth. He wore a lightweight jacket over a black tee and faded blue jeans. The coat didn’t do anything to disguise the bulge of his shoulder-holstered gun. Apparently, he came as prepared as Tommy.
“Jack, big bro, good to see ya,” Tommy said as he stashed his gun beneath him. “You can never be too careful these days.”
“Try locking your door.” Jack turned toward Finn. “Terrorized any streetcars lately?”
She pursed her lips. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
He snorted. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. Wanted to talk to both of you. Kill two birds with one stone.” He turned toward Tommy, studying his face. “What’s wrong with your eye?”
Tommy grinned, took a bite of bread pudding, savored it, taking his time before he answered. “Finn here clobbered me with my crutch as I was trying to cop a feel.”
“No kidding.” Jack smiled and raised his palm to her. She gave him a high five and tried not to grin. “Good job. He’s going to have a beautiful black eye.”
Finn rolled her eyes. “It was an accident.”
“So you say,” Tommy mumbled between bites.
Jack leaned in close, studying the contents of their bowls. “I thought I smelled something mouth-watering when I walked in. Bread pudding? Bourbon sauce?”
At Finn’s nod, he asked, “Any left?” He wandered into the kitchen and helped himself. “Who made it?”
Finn shook her head, touching her finger to her lips. He shrugged his shoulders but kept on eating. “I picked food up for Tommy at the deli near home.”
“Good idea. Poor baby brother doesn’t need to break any other body parts fooling around in the kitchen. Besides he can’t cook worth a lick.”
Jack settled into the chair opposite the coffee table with a huge bowl of dessert. After one bite, he said, “This is great. Still warm, pudding-like, not so hard you have to cut it with a knife. Just the way I like it.”
“Just the way it’s supposed to be.” Tommy put his bowl on the coffee table, holding onto the spoon as he licked off the last of the sauce. “So, what did you want to talk about?” He dropped the clean spoon into the bowl. Smacking his lips, Tommy settled back against the couch, turned to Finn and winked. His swollen eye barely blinked.
Jack didn’t notice, intent on eating. “Wow. Is this the best bread pudding or what? I didn’t think anyone could beat The Gumbo Shop’s.”
“Thank you,” Finn answered without thinking. She grimaced but Jack was too busy eating to notice. Tommy patted her knee and mouthed, “good job”, then gestured with his fingers a key twisted to his lips, then tossed away.
Jack witnessed the last motion but, oddly enough, didn’t say anything about it. “I’ve got news but it’ll wait. I’m not letting go of this bowl until every last bite is gone.”
Finn got up to go to the kitchen to hide her astonishment. She put the leftover gumbo in the refrigerator and cleaned up while Jack finished. She left the pan of bread pudding and the bowl of bourbon sauce out in case anyone wanted seconds.
“Okay, I’m ready.” Jack set his bowl on the coffee table.
Finn returned and took her place beside Tommy, tucking her legs beneath her.
“Here’s the latest. The FBI is not only looking for Barron, they want to talk to Johnny Franco.”
“How come?” Tommy asked. “Because he’s an asshat?”
“Not only. Seems lover-boy has a record. He’s not supposed to associate with suspected criminals. I think Finn’s lady friend qualifies.”
“A record for what?” Finn leaned forward, giving Jack her undivided attention.
“Assault with a deadly weapon on a U.S. marshal, no less. Served two, on a two to five, at Angola.”
“No kidding,” Tommy said. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
“No kidding.” Jack scowled back and forth between Tommy and Finn. “You kids sure know how to pick ‘em.”
“We didn’t, bro,” Tommy explained, then with a grin, continued, “Mrs. Franco picked me because I’m the best PI in the city.”
“What else?” Finn could tell by the look on Jack’s face there was more.
“The story is he nearly killed two guys in a bar fight. A witness said one of the men asked Franco something rude like, ‘Who’d your mama screw to give you that ugly mug’ or something equally stupid and Franco went crazy on him, first bashing a beer bottle over his head. When the guy’s pal, the marshal, tried to intervene, he attacked him too but this time hitting him with his gun. Several witnesses said they’d never seen anything like it. He was a madman, pistol-whipping the poor sap. The marshal was in the hospital for three months, the other guy a month. Ordinarily a couple guys in a bar fight, you get probation but since Franco used deadly force and nearly killed these two, one of them the afore-mentioned marshal, the judge threw the book at him.”
“Whoa.” Tommy shook his head. “A real sweetheart.”
“Yeah, there’s even more. When he got out, not a month later, one of these guys, not the marshal, the other guy, shows up dead in an alley in Algiers. The murder is still unsolved.”
“They think Franco did it?” Tommy asked.
“No way to know for sure but I wouldn’t put it past him. I’d say, all in all, you two are lucky he hasn’t gone berserker on your sorry butts.”
“Over a couple of pictures? Overkill much.” Tommy struggled to his feet. “Excuse me. Nature calls.” He winked at Finn as he started from the room. “And, no thanks, I can handle this myself. It’s amazing what getting off those pain meds can do. I can take a piss all by myself.”
“We’re so proud,” Jack muttered.
“Screw you.” The sound of Tommy’s voice vanished behind the closing of the bathroom door.
“What happens now?” Finn asked.
“There’s a warrant out for his arrest.”
“Good. I think. And in the meantime?”
“Keep your eyes open and your Mace handy.”
“That’s it?”
Jack studied her as he chewed his lower lip. “I’m sorry. We can send extra patrol cars to cruise past your house but until something happens, our hands are tied. We’re looking for him but it’s a big city and he’s one man. The FBI is looking for Miss Embezzlement, too. Maybe they’ll get lucky and find them together.”
“Like I did. Accidentally.”
“Like you did, on purpose.”
“Did you hear what she did to Debbie?”
“Yup. I’m sure it was scary for Debbie but it makes it even clearer since she used a toy gun, Barron’s not the dangerous one. It’s Franco you got to watch out for.”
“What’s Franco?” Tommy asked as he hobbled back into the room and took his seat on the couch.
“The more dangerous of the two.”
“I agree.” Tommy nodded as he reached for his forgotten beer. “She stole the money and has been threatening you, Finn, but that’s all, threatening. Franco’s the one who pulled the gun on us. He’s out of control for whatever reason and from what you’ve told us, Jack, he’s volatile.”
“Volatile is the word,” Jack agreed.
“You two aren’t making me feel any better.” Finn regarded one brother, then the other. “I think I should hide under my bed until you arrest him.”
“I’d feel better if you did,” Jack said in all seriousness. He nodded to Tommy’s beer. “Got any more of those?”
“Help yourself.”
“Finn?” he asked as he shoved to his feet.
“No thanks. I should get going. I put the gumbo in the fridge, but I left out the pudding in case you want more. I’ll grab my stuff later.” She got up, kissed Tommy on the cheek and waved good-bye to Jack. “See you Saturday, Jack, for the weeding?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
When the door closed behind Finn, Tommy and Jack stared at each other a long moment.
“She made the food, didn’t she?”
Tommy nodded. “You knew?”
“That she’s in cooking school?” When Tommy nodded again, he said, “Yup.”
“You gonna say anything?”
“Nope.”
“Good.”
“Hate to say it, but I’ve got more bad news,” Jack said, stretching his legs out full length in front of him and folding his arms over his chest.
“Lay it on me. I thought I could tell something was up by the sick look on your face.”
Jack took a breath and let it out slowly. “We retrieved a body out of the river. His name is Simon La Fontaine. He works as a carriage driver in the Quarter and he’s one of two brothers who live in the building where Finn saw her body. Looks like he was beaten to death, but after being in the river awhile...well, let’s say, it’s hard to say positively.”
“Yeah? Is it Finn’s body?”
“Don’t know. Possibly. Took her to the morgue but she couldn’t identify him.”
“What does the brother have to say?”
“He’s missing. Tell you the truth. I’m worried. Both of those clowns, Franco and his girlfriend, have been sniffing around Finn and you way too much. You, I’m not so worried about, you can take care of yourself. Even with a broken leg.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, bro.”
“But I’m worried about Finn.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“What are we going to do about her?”
***
After leaving Tommy’s place Finn stood alone in the neutral zone waiting for the streetcar. She squinted her eyes against the setting sun, a yellow sphere teetering on the horizon. A woman across the street corralled three little girls and a baby in a stroller. Finn wondered what it would be like having four kids. She cringed. She didn’t think of herself as the motherly type. Even the thought of one child, to say nothing of four, gave her a feeling of pure, unadulterated terror.
Maybe, sometime in the future—the far, far distant future—she might find the idea of motherhood appealing. For now baby-sitting Debbie was proving to be difficult enough. Of course, a baby didn’t talk back, pierce her tiny belly button or get it on with every available boy. Then again, Debbie had been a sweet-natured silent baby once upon a time, too.
The streetcar arrived with a clang and a rumble, startling her out of her reverie. Finn climbed aboard, paid her fare and found an empty bench. The car overflowed with smiling, purple and red clad, Red Hat ladies. Purple blouses and red pants, purple pants and red blouses, and every combination of red and purple on their clothes. Finn didn’t realize you could even buy shoes and hats in some of those shades.
The women were certainly happy, until Finn sat down and the streetcar failed to move. Died. Dead in the water, or at least in the middle of the street.
Oh, no.
Not again.
“What’d you do?” one of the Red Hatters asked, a quizzical expression creasing her face, the crimson feathers on her hat bobbing like a yo-yo.
“Me?” Finn pointed at herself. “Are you talking to me?”
At her insistent nod, Finn continued, “I got on the streetcar?”
“And it stopped,” the stranger complained.
“It stopped to pick me up,” Finn groused. She saw the driver, who had left his seat and was even now coming down the aisle, scowl at Finn. Along with everyone else on board. Oh, good. At least it wasn’t the same driver who thought she was a terrorist.
“What you do?” he asked, stopping next to her, his hands on his non-existent hips. “You killed dis car.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment. Everyone stared at her with apparent anger on their once smiling faces.
“You brought dis bad gris-gris with you, den, din’t you?” he insisted.
“No, no. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything.”
“How come we're not moving?” someone hollered from the back.
“Dis gal, she put de hoodoo on dis streetcar,” one of the Red Hatters said.
“I didn't,” Finn said. “Honest.”
The woman in the seat behind her wearing a red straw boater leaned forward and whispered, “You best leave, gal, before the natives get restless.”
“Seems like they already are,” Finn whispered back. “I killed a streetcar once this week and Homeland Security wasn't happy.”
“What?” The woman frowned, her thin lips narrowing. “Go on now, honey. I have a gun in my pocketbook and a cell phone. I can call Homeland Security as well as the next person.”
At this point Finn had to wonder which was worse. Staying or leaving. While the natives argued about the best way to string Finn up without getting arrested, she slipped out the side door.
When she hit the opposite side of the street she sprinted away, took a sharp right and disappeared among the crowds.
Twenty minutes later, she found a park bench outside Jackson Square. Her head throbbed and her throat hurt. She placed her backpack beside her and slumped against the seat.
She was beginning to think whoever put the voodoo doll Jack found at the scene of the disappearing body had truly put a spell on her. Since then everything in her life had spiraled out of control. It was past time for her to take back her life. She hated to spend the money, but when she felt like she could walk without falling over, she traipsed down to Decatur and caught a taxi to take her home. No more streetcars for now. If ever.
***
“I really like Benjy,” Debbie informed Finn over dinner that evening. She grinned. Wearing Finn’s old Pedro for President t-shirt and black leggings, her multi-colored hair tousled, her eye-shadow neon green, she looked as young and fresh as the teenager she was.
Despite feeling as if she'd missed a beat or eight in the awkward two-step of her life, Finn had managed to throw together a simple baked potato soup and garlic toast for the two of them to eat after her silent, thank-you-God, peaceful cab ride home.
“That's wonderful, Debs,” Finn said, after swallowing the spoonful of hot soup she'd put in her mouth. “Please don't get too attached. You're going home in a few weeks. You wouldn't want to break his poor fragile heart.”
It was hard to say with a straight face. She doubted teenage boys had hearts, fragile or otherwise.
Debbie snickered. “I, like, doubt that's gonna happen.”
Finn enjoyed Debbie's company, finding it oddly tranquil. The normalcy of simply sitting down and eating reminded her of their childhood with three talkative girls vying for attention around the dinner table.
Debbie broke off a piece of bread, tossed it in her mouth and thoughtfully munched. “I guess I have to go home and start school pretty soon.”
“I suppose so. Freddy awaits.”
“Freddy.” Debbie got a faraway look in her caramel-colored eyes and broke off another piece of bread. Holding it in her hand before she popped it in her mouth, she gave Finn a sly grin. “How could I forget about Freddy?”
“How is the relevant question. Benjy perhaps?”
She nodded in agreement. “Benjy is, like, hot and all, but Freddy, he's, you know...”
“The yin to your yang? The Abbott to your Costello? The peanut butter to your jelly?”
“Huh?”
Finn shook her head. “The love of your short life.”
Debbie grinned back. “That's it, f’sure. He rocks my world.”
“So says Dorie.”
Debbie pursed her mouth, holding back an incorrigible grin. She waggled her eyebrows up and down.
“She has seen him in all his glory, hasn't she?” Finn returned the grin.
“'Fraid so.”
“Let's not go there. I heard more than enough when I talked to Dorie the other day. You've been giving her fits.” Finn stood up to clear the table.
Debbie slowed in the act of reaching for her glass of milk. “I don't know what you mean.”
“Doesn't matter. I know you'll be good from now on out.”
“Why not? I've been good while I’ve been here, haven't I?”
Finn playfully smacked her shoulder as she turned for the sink. “You mean except for playing strip poker with Benjy and attacking a woman when she pointed a gun at you. Why, you've had a regular day at the beach.”
“I didn't know you had a beach here.” When she saw Finn's smirk, she stopped speaking. “I'm kidding. I, like, knew that. I lived here before we moved to Florida, you know.”
“You were, what, ten?, when you moved away. Maybe you didn't remember New Orleans isn't exactly a thriving beach community.”
“Very funny.” Before she handed Finn her glass, she tipped it up and swallowed the last of her milk. “Who was that woman anyway? She looked really mad.”
“It's a long story.”
“I've got time.”
“Yeah, but I don't know if I have the stomach for it right now. Maybe later. You should know what to do if she comes back again, though.”
Her eyes widened. “Will she?”
“I hope like hell not. Let's watch some TV, let me relax a bit, then I'll give you the scoop. Is Dancing With the Stars on tonight?”
The doorbell buzzed. Debbie looked at Finn and Finn looked at Debbie, her brows raised. “Expecting anybody?”
“Nope.” Debbie moved toward the front door. “Maybe it's Benjy and, like, you know, he's come over to beg me to stay here forever and ever.”
“Very funny.” Finn grabbed a dishtowel and dried her hands. She followed Debbie into the front room, and said a silent prayer that Barron hadn't decided to make a house call.
When Debbie reached to open the door, Finn nudged her aside and snuck a peek through the security-eye in the door. She shook her head and stepped aside, letting Debbie open the door.
It wasn't the Barron woman standing on the other side of the door. It wasn't Tommy on crutches or Jack borrowing trouble. It wasn't even a neighbor come to borrow a cup of sugar.
Debbie stared.
Finn stared.
Wesley Ellis St. Clare III stood outside the door and grinned, his teeth sparkling fresh-from-the-dentist white, his eyes twinkling, his wavy professionally scissor-trimmed hair perfect. Wearing a pink oxford cloth shirt and knife-pleat khakis with boat shoes and no socks, and oddly enough in the heat of a sweltering Louisiana summer, a lavender sweater tied around his shoulders, he held up a pair of tickets. “I've come to take you out.”
Debbie snorted. Turning toward Finn, she said in a stage whisper, “Wow. Slow learner much.”
“Wes, what are you doing here?”
“We're going to see the Nevilles.”
“No, we're not.”
He waved the tickets in his hand. “Sure we are, got ‘em right here.”
“No. We're not.”
“I'll go with you,” Debbie chimed in.
“Shut up,” Finn said without any heat behind her words. “Don't you have something to do, someplace to go, some guy to seduce?”
“Nope. I'm, like, gonna stay for the fireworks.”
“There won’t be any. Wes is leaving. Isn't he, Wes?”
Oddly enough, his shoulders drooped. His smile withered, his trouser creases wilted, even his sweater looked less lavender. He placed his free hand on his hip. “You're still angry, aren't you? Why don't you invite me in and we can discuss this like adults.”
“Wes, don't you get it? We don't have anything to discuss. We're done. Finished. Over and out. Read the credits at the end of this horror movie.”
Debbie giggled. “Even I get it.”
“Okay. This time, I'll back off,” Wes said, turning to go. “You must be PMSing or something. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise I'd have my purse in my hand so fast your head would spin. Otherwise I'd be out the door before you had a chance to turn around. Are you crazy?
“I am not PMSing. I simply don't want to go out with you. Try and get this through your thick skull. No way. No how. Not ever.”
“No,” Debbie said. “Is the word in your vocabulary, Weasel Wesley?”
He stared at Debbie, his mouth dropping open, then he turned back to Finn. His cheeks bloomed with blotchy color. “I didn't know you felt this way about me, Debbie. I thought we were best buds.”
“I was thirteen the last time we saw each other, Weasel. You broke my sister's heart. Like, how could we ever be best buds? Are you, like, for real?”
Finn took Debbie in her arms and hugged her. “You're the best sister ever.”
Thankfully, Wes left. He turned halfway down the walkway. Over his shoulder, he caught Finn's stare and winked. The man was unbelievable, irrationally confident. Was it possible he still didn't get it?
Absolutely possible. Probable, in fact.
Finn shut the door, taking Debbie by the shoulder and steering her toward the couch. “I love you. Chocolate?”
“I love you back. And, hell yeah, to the chocolate. Now before we turn on the TV, tell me what's with the woman with the fake gun?”
“You really want to know?”
“I'll say. Like, why would anyone pull a gun on sweet little ol' me? I don't even know her. I'm innocent.”
“Innocent? Now that's a stretch.” Finn went into the kitchen and grabbed the emergency bag of peanut M&Ms out of the pantry. Debbie lay sprawled in the corner of the couch, her eyes bright and inquisitive, a slight smile curving her lips.
She handed the bag to Debbie. She ripped open the package and tossed a few into her mouth.
“Sit tight, Debs. Have I got a story for you.”