Chapter 1

It was one of those days, rain falling in a gentle mist as I glanced down Canal Street. When thunder shook the windowpanes, I stopped gawking and hurried up the sidewalk.

Late afternoon streets were empty as I reached the Saenger Theater. The old auditorium had occupied the corner of Canal and N. Rampart for as long as I could remember. My parents liked their liquor. They could buy cocktails at the balcony bar and get drunk as they watched the latest Hollywood flick. They loved the Saenger.

Flooded and damaged during Katrina, the theater had recently undergone renovation. With work finally completed, the facility is a destination for music and touring acts. The marvelous new sign over the front entrance greeted me, flashing crimson neon as I entered the lobby.

I wasn’t the only one that had braved summer rain, dozens of other people filing into the main amphitheater with me. Music from an old pipe organ flooded the auditorium as I entered the ongoing festivities. The occasion was a wake, the atmosphere anything but somber. As I gazed at the crowd, I spotted someone I knew.

Rafael Romanov smiled and worked his way toward me. The tall man with thinning hair seemed as dark and mysterious as his hooked nose and Eastern European face. He’d grown a tiny goatee on his pointed chin since the last time I’d seen him.

“Wyatt,” he said, grasping my hand. “You’re looking dapper.”

“Don’t hold a candle to you, Rafael,” I said.

He brushed an imaginary flake off his cashmere sports coat. His expensive jacket complimented the military crease of his dark pants and the gleam of his spit-polished shoes. His light blue silk shirt splayed open enough to draw attention to a hairy chest and the heavy gold chain around his neck.

“I didn’t know you knew Jeribeth,” he said.

Jeribeth Briggs was a recently deceased New Orleans socialite. Unlike most wakes, Jeribeth wasn’t in a coffin. Her corpse, dressed to the nines in a red designer dress and audacious hat, sat on a wrought-iron bench. Her signature feather boa draped her shoulders. As in life, she had a cigarette with a long filter in one hand, a glass of Jack Daniels in the other. Garlands of flowers and lush potted shrubs surrounded her almost as if she were enjoying cocktails in her garden.

“Didn’t know her,” I said.

“Just gawking?”

“I have reasons for being here.”

“Such as?”

“A new client. He requested I meet him at the wake.”

“Strange place to meet a client,” he said.

“His call, not mine. Did you know her?”

“You mean Jeribeth? Saw her many times at Madeline’s when I was a child. Like you, someone is paying me to be here.”

“Oh?”

“My usual gig. Comforting family and friends of the bereaved. From the quantity of alcohol everyone is consuming, I’d say my services will go unneeded.”

Rafael was a defrocked priest; defrocked because his mother Madeline is a witch. As the saying goes, once a priest always a priest. Since leaving the church, he’d served as a rent a priest aboard a cruise ship sailing out of New Orleans. Like most of the other guests crowding the auditorium, he had a drink in hand and a smile on his face.

The Saenger Theater auditorium is large, its walls decorated to mimic an Italian villa. Priceless chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The crowd included actors, politicians, musicians, and many of the city's richest people. Human chatter didn't begin to overwhelm the background music. The acoustics were so acute you could hear every musical instrument while eavesdropping on your neighbor's conversation.

“Now this is the way to have a wake,” Rafael said.

“Wildest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s the Big Easy, Cowboy, not the real world.”

His smile disappeared when I said, “Not sad like Kimmi’s wake.”

My ex-wife Kimmi had married Rafael. When she died, we’d met at her wake and had maintained a friendship ever since.

“Mind if I change the subject?” he said, sipping his whiskey. “See the attractive woman by the punch bowl?”

“Gorgeous. How do I know her?”

“Lucy Diamond. A reporter for Fox. National, not local.”

“Bet she gets lots of jokes about her name.”

“From her frown, I don’t think I’d ask,” he said. “Want to meet her?”

“You know her?”

“We met on one of my cruises, and we've kept in touch.”

Rafael waved, catching the reporter’s gaze. Smiling, she made her way through the noisy throng.

“Rafael,” she said, on her tiptoes to plant a sensuous kiss on his lips.

“Lucy, this is my friend Wyatt Thomas.”

She nodded, acknowledging my presence with only a frown.

“Got to rush, Rafe. Can we do lunch while I’m in town?”

“Love it, beautiful lady,” he said.

“I’ll call you,” she said, kissing him before disappearing back into the crowd.

“Rafe?” I said.

Rafael grinned. “What can I say? She has a thing for tall, dark, and mysterious men.”

“I’m jealous. What’s she doing in New Orleans?”

“Working on a sensational story; something to do with Jeribeth and Dr. Mary Taggert.”

“Oh?”

“The old lady had a few skeletons in her closet. She was best friends with Dr. Taggert.”

“How do I know that name?”

“A prominent surgeon murdered fifty years ago. The case was never solved.”

“I wasn’t alive, but remember hearing about it. Doing cancer research, wasn’t she?”

“Along with Dr. Louis Hollingsworth, the founder of the Hollingsworth Clinic. Someone wrote a book saying the C.I.A. had a hand in the murder,” he said.

“What interest did they have in her?”

“Not sure, my friend. Something to do with the Kennedy assassination.”

I must have rolled my eyes because Raphael held up a palm, smiled and shook his head.

“It's hard to separate fact from fiction because there are so many conspiracy theories floating around out there,” I said.

“Don’t know about that. What I do know is Madeline used to hold séances at our house when I was young. Jeribeth and Doctor Mary often attended.”

“What’s your mother told you about it?”

“Madeline never discusses her clients, even with me. If you want to know something about Dr. Mary, Lucy is the person to ask.”

As with Rafael, the Catholic Church had also expelled Madeline. Her heresy was being a witch. She has a shop in the Quarter called Madeline’s Magic Potions. By all accounts, she is a witch. When Rafael grabbed another drink from a passing waiter, I glanced at the punchbowl.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Has Ms. Diamond told you anything?” I asked.

“Not much, even though we had drinks last night at the Carousel Bar.”

“Sweet.”

“I wish. Lucy’s there every night, usually drinking alone.”

“Not even with her crew?”

“Hardly. They’re staying at the Sheraton.”

“Because?”

“Lucy’s a bitch!”

“I see,” I said.

“Razor tongued, and she uses her words like blunt instruments. Her producers have an impossible task enticing celebs and politicians. She has rough edges, but her viewers love it when she unloads on her guests.”

“So she’s . . .”

“Bitch personified,” he said, finishing my question.

Jazz music had grown louder. I glanced at the punchbowl again, realizing I was the only one without a drink.

“Excuse me a moment?” I said. “I need to visit the punchbowl.”

“I’ll be here when you return.”

“I think you’re right about having no consoling to do.”

He nodded, hoisting his whiskey glass in a salute. “I ain’t complaining, boss.”

The crowd had grown. As I inched toward the punch bowl, a young woman in front of me caught a heel and almost fell. When I grabbed her shoulders, she nodded before moving away into the throng.

From the spread on the table, some lucky caterer had earned a fat payday for this gig. They weren’t the only ones. Local florists had also made out like bandits. I noticed as I sidestepped a potted peace lily.

Smelling the gumbo, I remembered I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Piles of shrimp and crawfish rested on sheets of yesterday’s Picayune. In deference to my white jacket, I decided to pass on the food.

No one had touched the grape punch. Likely because it wasn’t yet spiked with alcohol. Since I have a low tolerance for anything alcoholic, I took a sip first to make sure. When I turned, I bumped the person standing behind me. Grape punch splattered the woman’s silk blouse, the growing stain spreading across her chest like a bloody wound. It was the Fox reporter Lucy Diamond.

“You idiot!” she said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Back off, you moron. Do you have any idea how much this blouse cost me?”

“Is there anything I can do?” I said as she pushed away through the crowd.

“Yeah, drop dead!” she said, showing me her middle finger.

People were staring at me as if I were a serial killer. I slunk away in shame to a corner of the amphitheater vacant of guests. When I backed against a potted tree, someone tapped my shoulder.

“Don’t turn around,” a man’s voice said. “I told you to come alone.”

“I did. I bumped into a friend.”

“Nothing we can do about it now.”

“You’re the person that asked me to meet them here?”

“Yes,” he said. “I got a job for you.”

“What exactly are you hiring me to do?”

“You’ve heard of Mary Taggert?” When I nodded, he said, “My mother. Everybody in New Orleans knows someone murdered her. I want you to find the killer, and then make sure everyone in town knows his name.”

“The case is fifty years old. It’s not just cold; it’s frozen solid.”

He placed an envelope in my hand. “You’re my last hope. There’s information in the envelope and a large retainer. Can I trust you?”

“Yes.”

“Hope so. Not much I can do about it now.”

The man turned me until I faced the potted palms, my mind blocking sounds of the noisy wake.

“At least tell me something to get me started,” I said.

“Check the envelope and you’ll know everything I know. Now, give me five minutes before turning around.”

“Wait . . .”

“Don’t turn. Trust me; it’s for your own good.”

I wheeled around the moment I heard his feet begin to shuffle. He was too busy elbowing his way through the crowd to notice. I followed the balding little man in white socks and old checkered sports coat. It was dark outside as he hurried through the doorway. He broke into a run when he reached the sidewalk. It didn't take me long to realize why.

A black sedan waited on the street outside the Saenger. It pulled away from the curb when he exited the front doors. Seeing the vehicle, he dodged traffic and sprinted across Canal Street. The sedan did a sliding u-turn, barely avoiding a streetcar returning from the cemeteries. When it screeched to a halt two Hispanic looking men exited, chasing my client up the sidewalk.

Both men wore black sports coats and khaki pants. One of them tackled my new customer, sending him sliding across the concrete. The second pursuer tapped the back of his neck with a club. I raced across the street, dodging traffic as they dragged him into the awaiting car.

“Hey, stop right there!” I yelled as they shoved him into the backseat.

One of the men had a pistol, people on the sidewalk ducking as he pulled the trigger. Two muffled pops were the only thing I heard, and it was the last thing I remembered for a while.