Chapter 2

 

Like Melissa Manetti, I was asleep when Carla returned. When she shook my shoulder, I opened my eyes. Unlike Carla, the older woman with her wasn’t smiling.

“You saved my life,” Carla said.

“No problem. You owe me.”

Ignoring my blatant hint, she said, “Wyatt, this is Aunt Beth.”

Beth looked like a slightly older version of Carla’s mom, with the posture of a West Point cadet, her hair inhumanly black through the miracle of some talented salon worker. Unlike Carla’s eyes, Beth and Melissa’s were obsidian. She finally smiled when I shook her hand.

“Thank you for staying with my sister.”

“No problem.”

“I have some things to discuss with her, so, please excuse us.”

“Of course,” I said, backing out of the room.

Carla followed me into the hallway.

“Aunt Beth can be a little rude at times.”

“No problem. I’m glad I could help.”

“She booted me, too. Told me not to return until she calls. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

“You sure?”

“I offered, didn’t I?”

It was her turn to smile when I said, “You haven’t seen my apartment lately.”

Not bothering to comment on my proposal, she led me downstairs to her old Volvo. We were soon driving on Veteran’s Boulevard toward the French Quarter.

“I love this part of town,” I said as we passed the Metairie Cemetery. “You’re the local historian. What’s the story on all the ornate graves?”

“You kidding me? You genuinely don’t know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”

“The cemetery was the site of the Metairie Race Track. Horses from all over the world raced here, and most of the local elite belonged to the Metairie Jockey Club. Very exclusive.”

“What happened?”

Carla’s eyes rolled, as if she were dealing with an idiot. We’d passed the cemetery, the tall buildings of downtown New Orleans beckoning us, and cars passing on the nearby freeway.

“Charles T. Howard, the person that started the first Louisiana lottery, applied for membership to the club and was denied.”

“Why?”

“You live here. You know why, and you know what I mean when I say he wasn’t from ‘old money.' No matter how much wealth he possessed, the members weren’t going to let him into their club.”

“Not much has changed.”

“Mr. Howard took it personally and promised he’d live to see the race track turned into a cemetery. No one knows how, but that’s what eventually happened.”

“Quite a story.”

“Look at an aerial photo of the cemetery, and you’ll see it’s in the exact shape of the old race track. Mr. Howard has a prominent crypt, and a controversial statue.”

“How so?”

“The statue of a man has its finger to its lips as if something nefarious might have happened.”

“Did it?”

“Tell me. You’re an investigator. I’m just a historian.”

“A gorgeous one at that,” I said.

“You need to stop coming on to me, Wyatt Thomas.”

“Why?”

“Because you have no intention of being faithful to any woman.”

“I never played around on you.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Then I guess it’s no use asking you to come home with me tonight.”

Carla laughed aloud. “By dark, I’ll probably hate you again.”

“You never hated me.”

“Don’t get me started.”

“We were quite a couple. Things like that don’t often occur.”

“I have a new boyfriend. Remember?”

“Your mother said he has no blood in his veins.”

“So that’s what this is all about. You’re jealous because someone else likes me.”

“Not true. I remember all the incredible times we had.”

“Uh huh! Your little ragdoll until someone prettier and sexier came along. Well, there are men out there that like me for who I am. Someday you’ll recognize as much.”

“That’s the problem with you,” I said.

“What problem?”

“You’re smarter than I am and never let me win an argument. I was always on the defensive.”

Carla shook her head, but her smile remained. “You never give up, do you?”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll change the subject. At least for a few minutes. Tell me what you know about the hospital your mother is in.”

“Oschner?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s public information.”

“When it comes to N.O., no one knows more than you.”

“There you go again,” she said.

“I’m serious. How long has Oschner been at its current location?”

“Since the forties.”

“This century?”

“What are you angling at?”

“Nothing, really,” I said, not wanting to expound about the spirit I’d seen. “I’ve heard you talk about your paternal grandparents, not your mom’s parents. Why is that?”

“It’s personal.”

She glanced away from the road and glared at me when I said, “Because your grandfather was hung for murder?”

Carla slammed on the brakes, slowing so rapidly a passing car stood on his horn and waved a fist at us.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Don’t get us killed.”

Carla continued to glare, but her gaze refocused on the highway.

“Who told you that?”

“Your mom.”

“Impossible. Aunt Beth had to tell me.”

Traffic had increased, and Carla yanked the wheel to avoid an oncoming car crowding our lane. Her eyes suddenly wide, she locked her gaze back onto Veteran’s Blvd.

“I didn’t intend to distress you. Want me to drive?”

“That’s a hoot. You don’t even have a license.”

“Didn’t say I do, and it was your mom that told me a story about your grandfather.”

“No way. She wouldn’t tell you and not me.”

“She thought she saw the ghost of your grandfather last night. Maybe the drugs. It’s not relevant because it was still frightfully real to her, and apparently painful.”

“What did she tell you?”

“First, keep your eyes on the road before you pile into the back of that truck.”

Carla popped her neck, and then took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m concentrating. Now tell me about this ghost Mom saw.”

“She said your grandfather spoke to her. He told her he wasn’t guilty of murder.”

“No trial,” Carla said. “A mob hung him. He never had a chance.”

“Mob?”

“He wasn’t the only one. There was much political and social corruption at the time, the cops and local politicians bought and paid for. The citizens finally took matters into their own hands.”

“And your grandfather was a victim.”

Carla had slowed to a creep, another driver behind us laying on his horn. With a screech of rubber and a neck-wrenching yank, she pulled off the road into a shopping center parking lot.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Before I answered, my cell phone rang. It was Bertram.

“How’s Carla’s mom?”

“Stable but still in the hospital. Carla’s bringing me to the city and is dropping me off.”

“You kiddin’ me! You bring her in to see me, you hear?”

Carla was staring at me as I stuffed the phone in my coat pocket.

“You have a cell phone? I thought you were a technophobe.”

“Someone gave it to me during my last case. I kind of got attached.”

“I see. Then you are driving now.”

“Nope! I still prefer public transportation, but I do have a laptop.”

Carla glanced skyward, shaking her head. “Oh my god! The world is coming to an end.”

“Say, Carla, what was your grandfather’s name?”

“Vincento Pedretti. What difference does it make?”

“Just wondering.”

Forgetting about her grandfather, she eased back into the flow of traffic. We exited the off-ramp near the Superdome, soon tooling through the French Quarter toward Bertram’s.

“You’re not going to leave without saying hi to Bertram, are you? He wants to see you.”

“You know I have to get back to the hospital.”

“No, you don’t. Not until Aunt Beth calls you. You told me so. Remember?”

“Well...”

“Bertram will kill me if he knows you were outside his place and didn’t take the time to drop in and say hi.”

“You’re such a talker,” she said. “No wonder I’m not a virgin anymore.”

“Stop it. I wasn’t the one that took your virginity.”

Carla nodded. “Yes you did.”

“No way.”

“As God is my witness, Wyatt Thomas.”

“Stop it!” Are you coming in, or not?”

Without answering, she found a parking spot instead. We walked the short distance to Bertram’s, already crowded with rowdy football fans even though still early in the day. It didn’t stop Bertram from sprawling across the counter top and giving Carla a hug when he saw her.

“I thought you told me you’d never be caught dead with this one again,” he said, pointing at me.

“A moment of weakness. How you doing, Bertram?”

“Like a gator in a chicken coop,” he said. “How’s Mama?”

“She scared the crap out of me. I hope she’ll be okay.”

It was then I noticed someone sitting at the bar, smiling as he listened to our exchange. When he pivoted on the stool, waiting for an introduction, Bertram obliged him. It was my old pal Eddie Toledo.

“Glad to hear about your mama. You know this person?”

“No, I don’t,” she said.

“I’m Eddie,” he said, flashing a Pepsodent smile and grabbing her hand. “Why waste your time with this loser?”

“Wyatt and I are just friends,” Carla said.

“Best news I’ve had all day,” Eddie said. “Bertram bring this lovely woman something alcoholic.”

Eddie held a prominent government job, though his hair was a tad too long for the position he occupied. It didn’t seem to matter. His youthful looks and upbeat personality had propelled him through the ranks at a rapid pace.

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to return to the hospital.”

“I hope she’s okay,” he said.

Eddie continued to hold Carla’s hand. After glancing to see if I’d noticed, she gently pulled it away.

“The doctors said we’ll know more tomorrow, but one of the nurses assured me she’ll be fine.”

“There you go, then,” Eddie said. “Nurses are always a day or two ahead of the doctors.”

“Hope you’re right about that.”

“Eddie’s the Assistant Federal D.A. here in the city. Don’t worry, though. I won’t tell him about all the heinous crimes you’ve committed.”

Carla gave me a dirty look that turned into a smile following Eddie’s comeback.

“She’s guilty of being beautiful. I see that much. At least have breakfast with me. There’s a little cafe down the street that does excellent French toast.”

“I don’t know,” Carla said. “Wyatt?”

“The loser can come along,” Eddie said. “I’ll buy.”

“With that offer, we better go,” I said. “He owes me at least three lunches, not to mention a Saints ticket, or two.”

“Don’t listen to him, pretty lady. I’m the most generous person in town.”

When Carla glanced at Bertram, he gave her another hug. “Go on,” he said. “We can catch up later.”

We were soon out the door, a cold nip in the air, exacerbated by a chill breeze blowing down Chartres Street. It didn’t matter because it wasn’t far from Bertram’s to a little cafe near Jackson Square.

Business was apparently dead, a man standing on the street in front hustling customers. Only five tables occupied the slate floor of the cafe housed in a row of old French Quarter buildings. They were all empty when the man seated us near the door. A trickle of tourists passed slowly on the sidewalk outside.

“Something to drink? Mimosa?”

“Coffee for me,” Carla said. “With lots of milk.”

“Make that two,” I said. “But black for me.”

“Kir Royale,” Eddie said.

“What’s that?” Carla asked.

“Chambord and champagne. Try one, you’ll like it.”

“Better stick with coffee,” she said.

They were both as hungry as I was, and we were soon feasting on eggs and cornbread hash. Eddie was working on his second Kir Royale, finally succeeding in getting Carla to take a sip.

“Carla’s a fourth generation Italian,” I said. “Her mother is the best Italian cook in New Orleans, maybe the world.”

“You kidding me? I’m from New Jersey. I grew up on Italian food,” Eddie said.

Carla turned in her seat until their knees touched.

“You like lasagna?”

“Not just like, I lust for it. No one cooks Italian like my mama.”

“Mine does,” Carla said.

“I think I want to meet your mother. I’m off today, and that’s why I’m slumming in the Quarter. Can I take you to the hospital after breakfast?”

“No, but if you’re serious, you can come with me.”

Eddie held up his credit card. We were quickly tabbed out, Carla and Eddie on their way to Oschner as I opened the door to Bertram’s bar.

“Where’s Carla?” he asked.

“With Eddie.”

“You kidding me. You okay with that?”

“We broke up over a year ago.”

“That Eddie’s a mover, him.”

“They call him Fast Eddie for a reason. I’m going upstairs,” I said, yawning as I gave him a backhanded wave.