The Tedescos didn’t know what had happened to Laurette’s car. She drove a green Honda Civic, purchased after her other car had been destroyed in the car accident that killed Hannah. The resident manager at Laurette’s building had told her parents that Laurette and Slade had loaded their belongings into an SUV. I was guessing that Laurette had sold the Honda and used the money to purchase the vehicle. I copied down the information on the Civic and hoped that Antoine Lasalle, if he called me back, could help me trace it.
I said good-bye to Laurette’s parents and left the house. The car I’d rented was a Nissan sedan, metallic green, and I sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, taking a sip from the water bottle I’d left on the console. It was warm on this sunny day in April, but not unpleasantly so. During my week-long visit to the Big Easy, the temperatures had been in the high 70s, with the nights in the high 60s, and we’d had a few rain showers. I’d been told the mild spring weather was quite different from the heat and humidity of the summer and the early fall. It was also very different from the climate back home in the Bay Area, where microclimates vary by town and neighborhood. This spring in Oakland had been a season of contrasts. A couple of weeks ago, we’d had a hot spell, then it had given way to several days of wind, rain and chilly temperatures.
After another sip of water, I took out my cell phone and turned up the ringer. I saw three missed calls and one voice mail. Two calls were from the Bay Area and the third showed a New Orleans area code.
The voice mail was from Antoine Lasalle. His message said he had an appointment in the Sixth Ward this morning and was planning to have lunch around noon. “If you’re in town, you have to try Willie Mae’s Scotch House. Meet me for lunch at noon,” he added, and rattled off the address. “Text me at this number to confirm.”
I sent a text telling him I’d meet him there, then I started the car and took off, heading out of Mid-City into the Sixth Ward. Dad and I had eaten at Willie Mae’s twice during our week in New Orleans. The restaurant served what many customers viewed as the best fried chicken on the planet. It was located on the corner of St. Ann and North Tonti streets. As had been the case on my previous visits, customers were queued up outside the white building. I joined them. A young woman came out of the restaurant and went down the line, asking how many people were in each party. I told her there would be two of us. Then I sent another text to Antoine, telling him I was at the restaurant. Soon after, my phone pinged with a response— “ETA 15.”
About ten minutes later, I was admitted to the inner sanctum and seated at one of the tables. The interior walls were caramel-colored, decorated with framed art and copies of the restaurant’s various awards. In 2005, owner Willie Mae Seaton received the James Beard Award denoting her eatery as “America’s Classic Restaurant for the Southern Region.” The restaurant had been badly damaged later that year, when Hurricane Katrina wrought destruction all over the city. Willie Mae’s had reopened in 2007, to more accolades from the Food Network and the Travel Channel.
I’d just gotten my glass of unsweetened iced tea when the door opened and Antoine walked in. He looked much as I remembered him, tall and lean, with a café au lait complexion and his hair cropped close to his head. I knew from our earlier meeting at the convention a couple of years ago that he was a native of the Big Easy. He was also an Army veteran who had served in Iraq and other duty stations, in a criminal investigation capacity. When he returned to New Orleans after mustering out of the service, he’d gone to work for a local investigative firm, the one he’d left to start his own business.
Today he wore gray slacks and a lightweight jacket over a blue shirt, open at the neck. He spotted me and crossed the dining room to join me. “Jeri, good to see you. What are you doing in town? Vacation?”
“That’s how it started. It’s gotten complicated. It’s a case, and I hope you can help me.”
Interest sparked in his dark brown eyes. He pulled out a chair. “Sure thing. Let’s order first, though.” He signaled to a server, who greeted him by name. “Bring me some of that iced tea. You know I like it sweet.”
“You must be a regular,” I said, glancing up from the menu.
Antoine grinned. “Of course. Best fried chicken in town—except for my mother’s fried chicken.”
“I know I’m going to have the chicken. I mean, why come to Willie Mae’s for anything else? It’s just a matter of which side dishes.”
“I’m partial to fried okra,” Antoine said. “I really like the mac-and-cheese, too. Hey, everything’s good here.”
When the server brought Antoine’s tea, we both ordered fried chicken. It came with three pieces of the delectable chicken and with one side per order, but we got several more—okra and mac-and-cheese, of course, along with green beans and that New Orleans staple, red beans and rice. We also got a green salad, just because.
“So you left the other firm and opened your own shop,” I said.
Antoine nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to do all along. I learned a lot working for the criminal investigation command when I was in the Army, and working for the big investigative firm here in town got me the PI’s license. But I always wanted to be my own boss. I bought a little house on Villere Street a few years ago and remodeled it myself. I live in the back and my office is in the front. Low overhead.”
“I know about overhead.” I’d recently left the office I’d had for several years because the rent had gone up so much. Now I had office space in another building owned by a friend’s law firm. Personally, I didn’t care for the idea of having my office and my home in the same place, but to each his own. Or chacun à son goût, since we were in New Orleans.
The server returned, delivering our fried chicken and side dishes. For a moment there was no conversation as we communed with our food. It was that good. Then I set down the remains of my first piece of chicken and wiped my greasy hands on a napkin as I told Antoine the initial reason for our trip. “Birding and history. I’m here with my dad, though he’s going home today. He’s retired now, but he was a history professor at Cal State. Since he stopped teaching, he’s gotten into birding.”
“I like history. Took several classes when I went to the University of New Orleans, before I joined the Army.” Antoine speared okra with his fork. “If you’re into history, you’re in the right place. History we’ve got. Have you done one of the plantation tours? Or gone out to Chalmette?”
“We went to the Whitney Plantation earlier in the week. And Chalmette, yesterday. We took that paddlewheeler, the Creole Queen, from the foot of Canal Street. And Dad connected with a local birder. She took us to City Park and Bayou Sauvage.”
“You’ve covered a lot of territory.” Antoine scooped up another serving of mac-and-cheese. “My grandma was interested in birds. She had a backyard feeder, was always pointing out the different kinds. I hope you saw some good ones. Now, what’s the story with this case that’s cropped up?”
“I got a call last night from my friend Davina, who lives in the Bay Area. She was born and raised here. She’s concerned about her sister, a woman named Laurette Mason who’s had a rocky time the past few years. Both her husband and daughter died recently.” I helped myself to red beans and rice and gave Antoine more details. “Sometime last fall, Laurette started dating a musician named Slade. Her parents, George and Sabine Tedesco, don’t like him. Slade moved in with Laurette in February. This weekend, the Tedescos discovered that Laurette quit her job at Entergy, gave up her apartment and car and left with Slade. I don’t know if she left town or just moved somewhere else here in New Orleans. Her parents are worried. I went to see them this morning.” I gave him an overview of my conversation with the Tedescos. “There could be all sorts of reasons Laurette didn’t tell her folks what she was up to,” I added. “She’d called her mother on being overprotective, from the sound of it.”
“Yeah, they do sound overprotective. I mean, this lady’s old enough to know her own mind, right? You having second thoughts?” Antoine asked. “About agreeing to do this?”
“Maybe. However, I said I’d do it, so I’m gonna do it.”
“Okay.” Antoine picked up another piece of chicken. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“I’m wondering about Laurette’s car. It’s a green Honda and her dad gave me the license plate number.”
“Easy as pie,” he said. “I’ve got a connection at the Office of Motor Vehicles. I’ll see what I can find out about that car. I’m betting she sold it.”
“That’s my best guess. And if that’s the case, there’s a transfer of title somewhere in the public records.”
“This guy Slade’s a musician? I can definitely help you on that. My sister Daisy is a singer. She’s got her own band and she knows a lot of people in town. I’ll ask her if she’s ever heard of this guy. In fact—” He wiped his hands on a napkin and pulled out his phone, moving his fingers over the screen. Then he looked up. “Daisy’s band has a gig tonight at the Spotted Cat on Frenchmen Street. How about we go over there and ask her?”
“Good idea,” I said. “I know where the Spotted Cat is. Dad and I were there a few nights ago.” I paused for another sip of iced tea. “Once we’re done with lunch, I suggest going over to the apartment where Laurette and Slade lived. It’s in Mid-City.”
Antoine nodded. “I’ll go with you to the apartment. Then I have another appointment this afternoon, across the river in Algiers. Daisy’s first set is at six o’clock. I’ll pick you up at your hotel around five-thirty and we can head on over to the Spotted Cat. You said your dad’s going home later today. How long are you going to stay in town? And where?”
“I can stay a few more days, but I have to be back in Oakland by Tuesday, for some meetings on Wednesday. As for where I’m staying, I extended my reservation a few days.” I gave him the name and address of the hotel.
“I know where it is.” Antoine finished his last piece of chicken. “Now, they do have some fine bread pudding here.”
I looked at the chicken bones on my plate and shook my head. “I couldn’t eat another bite. As it is, we’re going to have to get some boxes for the rest of these side dishes. You want to take them home?”
“I absolutely do,” Antoine said. “And I’m gonna have some bread pudding.”