The “brothers” might have been a fanciful branding invention, but there was no doubt this store had an impressive assortment of hats: luxurious felt, smoothly woven straw and saucy cloth, mostly for men but a few for women that ranged from broad-brimmed sun blockers to elaborate going-to-church-on-Sunday confections. They were displayed on tall, dark wooden shelves and central tables, beautifully arrayed, hinting of luxury, their invisible tentacles reaching out to nearby pockets for a wallet they could pluck.
“That’s a nice sipping-mint-julep-on-the-porch kind of hat,” an elegant young man said to Dash in a studied Southern accent. Or maybe he wasn’t so young, but he had a youthful appearance that I suspected was enhanced by makeup. The accent might not have been all that authentic, either, but the slim-fitting pants, crisp shirt and suspenders made his attire perfect for the shop. “Have you tried something in blue? It would match those pretty eyes.”
I sighed. It figured that of the two of us, Dash was the prettier one.
“I had a nicer hat, but it suffered an accident,” Dash replied. “I could probably use another one.”
“What are you looking for? Another straw hat? This one has a robin’s-egg-blue band and sharper lines. I think it would set off your eyes and your nice square jaw.”
I struggled not to roll my eyes and tapped my phone to pull up a photo of the hat we’d found in the Charity Hospital Cemetery. I showed it to the salesman. “What about something like this?”
He glanced at the phone and turned his attention back to Dash. “Oh, we do carry that one, but we only have a couple left. I sold one just a few days ago, in fact.”
“Really?” Tamp it down, Pepper. “I mean, do you remember what the person looked like who bought it?”
“Well, that’s an unusual question.” Our salesman finally tore his gaze away from Dash and raised an eyebrow at me.
“I wouldn’t want to commit a fashion faux pas by having the exact same hat as someone else at Cocktailia,” Dash said, drawing the guy’s eyes again. “He might’ve been from the convention. Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Oh, I see. As a matter of fact, I believe this young man was wearing several buttons from Cocktailia on his jacket. Paid cash. Told me he’d been saving his tips for this hat. He looked like a bartender. Big beard. Might’ve been squirrels nesting in it. You definitely don’t want to dress like him. I can help you find another style you’ll love.”
“That is disappointing,” Dash said, getting into his role, “but nothing else here is getting me excited.”
“Well,” our salesman said, sotto voce, “excitement isn’t really our job here. We’re more into elegance. But if you want some real excitement and entertainment, you should come see me in my other job.” He slipped us a card.
Dash glanced at the card, swallowed and handed it to me. It advertised a drag show on Bourbon Street.
“I bet you’re fantastic,” I said to our sales guy and meant it.
“You’ve got to see my new gown for this show, which we’re calling ‘Wham Bam Thank You Glam.’ I’ve got big sequins. Big sequins. Silver, silver, silver. It practically blinds people when I come on stage.”
“My brother here is a huge fan of female impersonators!” I squeezed Dash’s arm and tried not to grin at his glazed expression. “When do you perform?”
“Friday and Saturday night. The midnight show is the best. I hope I see you, sugar,” he said to Dash. “Let me know if you need a new hat for a night out you won’t forget.” He winked and walked away, and Dash grabbed my elbow and practically pushed me out of the store.
“What was that about? I’ve never seen a drag show in my life,” he said as I shook him off and took the lead, steering us toward La Bonne Vie.
“You should. They’re fantastic here. Anyway, I just wanted to make his day. He was flirting with you so hard I thought his mascara would flake off.”
“Mascara?” Dash said with a squeak.
I laughed. “Does your masculinity feel threatened?”
“Absolutely not.” He straightened his hat and slipped his arm in mine. “I have a beautiful woman with me, after all.”
It took me a moment to de-fluster. Dash’s flirting was way more obvious than Neil’s, which was kind of a relief. At least I didn’t need psychoanalysis to figure out what it was. I let myself enjoy the feeling of his warm body brushing against mine as we walked briskly toward our destination.
“So someone actually bought a hat there that looks like the one we found,” I said. “Sound like anybody you know? Buttons? Beard?”
“Half of Cocktailia? But no, no one I know personally.”
“Fake beard, perhaps?” I asked.
“That seems far-fetched. It’s not like the guy anticipated losing his hat in the cemetery, if it was even the same hat or the same guy.”
I frowned. “I don’t know what I expected from the shop. We could’ve asked for a name, maybe.”
“He paid cash. Tips, the guy said.”
“But they have a mailing list. I saw the register on one of the tables, like a guest book. Very old-school.”
“I saw that, too,” Dash said, “but there’s no way to match the hat with a name. I didn’t see dates in it.”
I frowned. “Damn it. OK, we’re here. Let’s hope Nicki is working today.”
La Bonne Vie had light traffic mid-morning on a Friday. A few people sipped eye-openers at the bar. I went up to the seasoned barman and asked for Nicki.
“She should be here in a couple of minutes. Y’all want anything?”
I looked at Dash, and we each took a stool. It was early for me, especially since I had to work, but hey, it was New Orleans.
“Bourbon milk punch,” I ordered.
“Bourbon. A girl after my own heart,” Dash said. “I’ll have the same, with Bohemia Beachside Bourbon, if you have it.”
“We do,” the barman said. “Had a great event with those folks just last night, one of those Distiller Dinners. Super bartender team. They sent a couple of each drink around to us here at the bar, so I had a taste. Good choice. I’ll have these right up for you.”
“There you go. Right from the expert’s mouth,” I said after he’d walked away.
“I didn’t know Neil did that,” Dash said.
“Honestly, I didn’t either. But it was a brilliant marketing move. Now these bartenders know your whiskey, know the kinds of drinks they can make with it, and are talking about it to their customers.”
“And that may explain why Nicki sent the boomerangs.”
“Good point. Oh, look, here comes a woman who might just be who we’re looking for.”
A female bartender had entered from the restaurant side of the house and slid behind the bar. She was pretty, with pinned-up reddish-blond hair and freckles, and she wore a tight, short black skirt and a silky green blouse.
“Y’all being taken care of?” she asked us.
“He’s got it.” I nodded to our guy down the bar. “Hey, are you Nicki?”
“Yeah.” There was hesitance in her voice.
Dash rushed to reassure her. “We just wanted to thank you for the boomerangs. I’m Dash Reynolds from Bohemia Distillery.”
Her face lit up. “Oh, you’re Dash? Nice stuff. I was only too glad to send over those drinks for you. Only I wish I’d thought of it.”
“You—you didn’t?” I asked.
“Another guy asked me to send them. He said he enjoyed the dinner so much, he wanted to say ‘thank you.’ He said he heard you were headed to Snaiquiri and marked them so they’d go to the right people.”
“That’s really nice,” I said, though that’s not what I was thinking. Who the hell sent the drinks? “Did you read the notes after he marked them?”
“No need. Alastair Markham was in the bar, so I asked him to take them over.”
“So Alastair didn’t send them?” I asked.
She laughed. “Uh, no. Not his style to compliment another bartender.” She looked down, picked up a bar spoon and began rearranging the garnishes. Almost like she didn’t want to say anything else.
“What did the man look like?” Dash said. “I’d like to thank him.”
“Oh, not remarkable,” she said. “I don’t even really remember. We’d had a few ourselves that night. Excuse me.” She moved down the bar as our bartender brought over our lovely white cocktails and set them down. He produced a UFO-shaped gadget and turned its crank over each drink, generating a sprinkling of aromatic nutmeg that fell prettily on each foamy white surface.
“Enjoy,” he said before going to check on another customer.
“Do you think Nicki is hiding something?” I whispered to Dash after a moment.
“Maybe she just didn’t want us to know how drunk she was, especially since I have a professional relationship with her place of employment.” Dash took a sip. “Wow, my whiskey is delicious.”
I couldn’t help but smile as I tasted mine. “I detest false humility. It’s true. It is delicious.” I took a deeper sip, savoring the cold, smooth texture of the cocktail. It was like a boozy vanilla shake, only not as thick. “Maybe you’re right. But it’s frustrating she couldn’t tell us anything else about the guy who wrote the message.”
“A random diner from the dinner? I mean, that could’ve been any one of sixty or so soused people, talking to a tipsy bartender. Somebody who overheard us saying we were going to Snaiquiri. I don’t think we’re any closer to finding out who he is.”
“Say he’s the one who bought the hat, and he’s from Cocktailia. And maybe he’s the same guy who did the dinner. We can look at the guest list and try to narrow it down.”
“I have a thought. Nicki?” Dash called out. She came over to us, but this time, her face was more guarded. “Did the man who asked you to send the boomerangs have a beard?”
Her eyes widened and shifted to the door as someone came into the bar, and then she looked back at us. “You know, I think he might’ve had a beard. But it was dark. I really don’t remember. I’m sorry.”
“What about a hat?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, he had a hat.”
“What did it look like?” I pressed.
“Kind of like yours,” she said to Dash. “I don’t really notice things like that. Excuse me.” And then she was off to attend to the new customer.
“Well, that narrows it down,” I joked.
“Look at it this way,” Dash said. “At least we got a killer drink out of it.”
I shot him a look.
“Maybe not the best choice of words,” he said, downing the rest of his. He plunked down the glass and felt around in his jacket pockets, pulling out his buzzing phone. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right back. Hello?”
He went out the door, and I waved at our original bartender, miming the writing of a check. I was only halfway through my drink, but that was plenty. I had way too much to do today, and it was already warm and humid outside. “Could I have a glass of water, too?” I asked when he dropped off the bill. I left cash inside the billfold, drank down half the glass of water he brought, and headed out to see if Dash had abandoned me.
He was standing outside the restaurant like one of those performance artists who pretends to be a marble statue, and was almost as pale.
“Dash?”
“It’s all gone.”
“What?”
“Our checking. The Bohemia Distillery account. It’s been cleared out. All the money is gone.”