The shotgun house supposedly got its name because one could fire a shotgun through the front door of such a house and bird shot would fly out the back door without hitting any walls. I don’t know the veracity of that story, but the long narrow houses were common all over New Orleans.
Antoine’s house was one of them. It was located on North Villere Street, just a couple of blocks off Esplanade Avenue. The exterior had been painted a sunny yellow with white trim. Like many of the shotguns I’d seen in the city, the house and its small front stoop jutted all the way to the edge of the sidewalk. Antoine sat on the stoop next to a pot of red geraniums, a mug of coffee in his hand.
He stood up to greet me. “Come on in. I just made a fresh pot.”
The classic shotgun single, like the one Antoine owned, was one room wide. What had been the living room was now Antoine’s office. The bedroom in the middle of the house now served as living and sleeping space, with a bed tucked into one corner and opposite this, a comfortable-looking recliner angled in front of a wide-screen TV on a stand. Through an open door I glimpsed the bathroom. Another door, closed, presumably led to a closet. Antoine led the way through the middle room to the kitchen at the back of the house, near a door that led out to a small backyard. Antoine took a mug from a hook on the wall and filled it with coffee. He handed it to me and I took a sip. Good and strong. He motioned to the kitchen table. With its retro yellow Formica top, I wondered if he’d found it in a vintage store, or more likely in a relative’s storage shed. We sat down on the yellow vinyl-covered chairs that went with the table.
“Tell me about the fire in Slade’s apartment—and the fatality.”
Antoine nodded. “My friend at the fire department says when the firefighters put out the fire, they found a body. A man, later identified as Ray Brixton. The autopsy says smoke inhalation probably got him first.”
I gave an involuntary shudder. Death by fire is an awful way to go. “Was the fire an accident? Or deliberately set?”
“They haven’t made that call yet,” Antoine said. “Or they’re not saying. The building was old, a double shotgun house that had been carved up into four units. Could be some problem with the electrical wiring, just like Troy said last night. Although Pat Doucette, the woman who owns the building, told the investigators that everything was up to code. I’ve known her for years, so I’m inclined to believe her. The place was empty and she was doing some touch-ups and repairs before renting it again. There were cans of paint and paint thinner in the place.”
“Those things are highly flammable.” I took another sip of coffee. “Say it was something with the wiring. A spark from the wiring ignites the paint? Or say it’s arson. The paint could have been used as an accelerant. Who was the victim? Do we have any more information other than the name?”
“Ray Brixton was another musician,” Antoine said. “We do have a lot of those in this town. At first the investigators thought he might be squatting in the apartment, since it was empty at the time of the fire. But when they identified the body, they found out Brixton had a place of his own in the Marigny. I tracked down the obit in the Times-Pic. And a picture.”
He handed me a couple of printouts. Ray Brixton was twenty-five years old and a guitarist, according to the obit. The photo Antoine had found showed that he had blond hair to go with a wispy mustache and a goatee. In the picture, he was playing at a club on Bourbon Street, the establishment’s name on the wall above the bandstand.
“What was Brixton doing in Slade’s old apartment? How did he get in? Did he force the lock, come through a window?”
“Good questions. Nobody knows.” Antoine got up and poured himself another mugful of coffee. He rejoined me at the table. “He could have broken in. They couldn’t tell if the door had been forced or a window broken, because the fire took care of that. But why would this guy be there?”
“Unless he’s the one who set the fire,” I said. “And got caught before he could get out.”
“It’s possible. But why would he do that? And here’s a completely different theory. Brixton’s got a sister named Cindy. She’s been telling anyone who will listen that her brother was murdered. By Slade.”
I stared at him. “That puts a different spin on things. We know Laurette’s parents don’t like Slade. Neither does Bert, the apartment manager. But Laurette’s neighbor Norma and her friend Brenda both seem to think Slade is a nice guy. Last night Troy said he was self-centered and hard to live with. But murder? If Cindy Brixton is accusing Slade of killing her brother, that could be the reason Slade and Laurette suddenly decided to leave town.”
“I’m with you there. It’s suspicious.”
“We need to talk with Cindy. I wonder what she looks like. Remember, Norma Santini said Slade had been confronted by a tall skinny woman with blond hair. It looks like Ray was blond. Maybe the mystery woman is his sister. However, Brenda Kohl is tall and has blond hair.”
“Skinny?” Antoine asked.
“I wouldn’t call her that.”
“Could be either of them. I got a phone number for Cindy Brixton from my fire department pal, but she’s not answering calls or responding to my message. I located an address for her. We’ll just have go over to where she lives, to see if we can catch her at home. I can’t do that till later today. Tell me what you found out from Brenda Kohl.”
I gave him an overview of my conversation with Laurette’s coworker. “I’d like to find out where Slade is from originally or even just before he came to New Orleans. It’s possible he’s gone back to wherever that is, and taken Laurette with him.”
“Agreed.” Antoine nodded. “Most musicians in this town have other gigs. Daisy works in an admin job over at Tulane and sings at night. So in order to rent that apartment from Pat Doucette—”
“He had to fill out an application,” I finished. “I’ll go over and talk with her when we’re done here.”
“Which is right about now.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got some things I need to do on a case. I’ll text you later.”