“Have you been workin’ dominoes?” I asked him. I always knew when Cokie was gambling because his dark fingertips were dusted with chalk.
“Yeah, me and Cornbread been playin’. How bad off is Mr. Charlie?” asked Cokie.
“Pretty bad. He needs this medicine.”
“Dr. Sully sent two kinds. One is only to use if he gets real real bad.”
I walked into the living room, looking at the two bottles. Patrick was snoring, but not like Charlie upstairs. Charlie was sawing, pulling loud rips with each breath. Patrick’s breathing purred, his upper lip puffing out when he exhaled. I set the two medicine bottles in front of him on the coffee table and pulled a quilt up to his shoulders. I started to leave, but suddenly looked at him, bent down, and kissed him on the forehead.
TWENTY
The contents of Charlotte’s package lay neatly arranged on my desk—the Smith catalog, brochures, and application. Charlotte had included a tattered copy of Candace Kinkaid’s sequel, Rogue Betrayal, with an inscription that teased, To my dear friend Jo. May your heart ever swell with rogue desire. Fondly, Charlotte. She also sent the Smith College photograph that she had mentioned at the party. I propped the small picture up on my desk.
My head felt heavy and I longed for a nap. I had gone to Willie’s an hour early in order to check on Charlie by breakfast. Charlie had calmed down and agreed to take his medicine. He no longer spoke and just sat in the chair by the window, clinging to the pink heart-shaped box. I worked in the bookshop all day until Patrick arrived in the afternoon. We had agreed he would work for just a short time while I saw to my business, the business with Mr. Lockwell.
I looked at myself in the broken mirror hanging on my wall and sighed at the girl staring back at me. I had chosen a dress I felt was my most professional for an office visit and wished I had appropriate gloves to match. But I didn’t have gloves. The color had faded from the dress after years of washing and wear. My shoes were scuffed. Hopefully no one would notice. I blotted my lips with a tissue.
812 Gravier Street. Everyone knew the address. It was the massive white-domed Hibernia Bank Building. Mr. Lockwell’s office was on the eighth floor. As the elevator climbed, my stomach fell. I replayed Mr. Lockwell’s condescending tone in my head, the little scoffing sound he made through his nose in Willie’s driveway. I thought of Willie’s shotgun in my arms, fierce and strong. Holes in the fence, I told myself. Salted peanuts.
The elevator doors parted, revealing polished hardwoods and a well-dressed woman at a reception desk flanked by potted ferns. I had expected a hallway with offices. Mr. Lockwell had the entire floor. The woman inspected me thoroughly as I stood a foot outside the elevator doors clutching my purse.
“This is the eighth floor,” she said.
“Yes.” I nodded, taking a step closer. “I’m here to see Mr. Lockwell.”
Her thin eyebrows rose. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m a friend of the family. He’s expecting me. Josephine Moraine,” I said, realizing I was speaking louder and faster than intended.
The woman picked up the phone. “Hello, Dottie. I have a Josephine Moraine here for Mr. Lockwell.” She paused and stared at me while speaking. “She says she’s a friend of the family and that he’s expecting her.”
Ten minutes passed, then twenty, an hour. I flipped through a LIFE magazine on the table, pretending I was interested in the article on President Truman. The receptionist alternated filing her fingernails and answering the telephone, throwing glances my way occasionally and shaking her head. I sat stiffly on a chair, becoming angrier with each minute. I approached the desk. “Perhaps I’ll just visit Mr. Lockwell at his house this evening. Could you ring back and see if that might be more convenient for him?”
She called back, and within an instant, the doors swung open and Mr. Lockwell appeared in a starched shirt and tie. “Josephine, so sorry to keep you waiting. Charlotte will have my head. Come on back.”
Mr. Lockwell guided me into a large corner office. The room was five times the size of my entire apartment, with tall gleaming windows overlooking the city. He closed the door and walked behind his broad mahogany desk. “I was just about to have a drink. Join me.” He gestured to a long sideboard filled with decanters, glasses, and an ice bucket.
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, come on, now. I’ll call Dottie in to mix us up a couple of martinis.”
I set my purse on the chair and walked to the table. “Shaken or stirred?”
He seemed amused. “Stirred. Dirty.”
I mixed his cocktail, feeling his eyes searing through my back.
“Whoa, now that’s a drink!” he exclaimed, taking a sip and sitting down at his desk. “How long have you been making martinis?”
“I just learned,” I told him.
“I wish you could teach Lilly to make a real drink. Sure you won’t join me?”
I shook my head and took one of the chairs in front of his desk. “I know you’re extremely busy.” I pulled a piece of paper from my purse with the address of the Smith registrar on it and pushed it toward him on the desk. “The letter can be brief. Just a recommendation to include with my application.”
Mr. Lockwell leaned back in his chair, not even glancing at the paper. “Oh, so you’re serious about this, are you?”
“Quite.”
He took another sip of his martini and loosened his tie a bit. “Did you tell my niece that you ran into me the other day?”
“No, I haven’t had the opportunity yet.”
“Well, young lady, I don’t really know you, and I can’t write a letter of recommendation for someone I don’t know.” He eyed me carefully. “Maybe you should consult your family about this recommendation. Perhaps your father?”
I feigned a sad expression. “Unfortunately, he’s no longer with us.”
“Oh, no?” He took a swig of his martini. “Well, where is he?”
“I believe you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” he said, leaning over the desk toward me, “but I don’t believe you. You’re trying to hustle me, kid. You’re slick witted. I smelled something wasn’t right when you and your fella came to my home. Richard and Betty are still arguing about your piano-playing friend. I’ve seen him before, sitting in the back of the cathedral in the middle of the day.”
“You’ve seen Patrick at the cathedral?” That was surprising.
“Yes, we sinners frequent the cathedral,” he said sarcastically. He stared across the desk at me. “So, are you proud, poor, or both? My niece, Charlotte, loves to feed strays, but generally they at least have a decent pair of shoes.”
A tight burning flamed within my chest. I shifted forward and folded my hands carefully on his desk. “Well, it was such a fortunate coincidence to run into you and your friend with the pigtails when I was delivering books. I had hoped to ask you—or Mrs. Lockwell—for a recommendation anyway,” I fired back.
He engaged, moving his bishop closer to my queen. “Oh, yes, delivering books. I stopped by your bookshop in the Quarter. Twice. It was closed.”
“Family illness.” I nodded. “But I know that Mrs. Lockwell loves to read. I’d be happy to bring some books by for her.” I put my hands back in my lap.
We sat in silence across from each other, me clutching my purse, Mr. Lockwell perspiring.
“If I write you a recommendation and for some reason you get in, next you’ll ask me for money. That’s how this works, right?”
Genuine shock pushed me back in my chair. I had never, ever intended to ask Mr. Lockwell for tuition money. “I assure you, Mr. Lockwell, I do not want your money.”
“Right. You think this is my first rodeo?”
“I simply want a strong recommendation from you, a name that the application board might recognize and respec
t.”
“Because your father’s no longer with us,” he said with mock pity. “I imagine your mother’s no longer with us either, huh? You’re taking this Cinderella story to Smith?”
“Really, this is not about money. I want to go to Smith. Charlotte has sent me all the application materials. I had excellent marks in school.”
A clock on the wall chimed. Mr. Lockwell drummed his fingers against the leather inlay on top of his desk. I looked past his hands to the bureau behind him. Silver frames. Family pictures.
“You know, I just might tell my wife about the whole thing. You see, a business associate asked me to meet him for a drink at Willie’s, and when I got there, I didn’t want to stay and insisted we move the meeting to a bar in the Quarter. I’ll tell Lilly. After all, that’s what happened.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “You can absolutely tell her that, Mr. Lockwell, if you like.”
“What I’d like is to never see you again.”
I had him. I could close it.
“Then this works well for both of us. Your glowing recommendation will get me into Smith—all the way across the country—and you’ll never hear from me again. Ever.”
He lit a stub of a cigar from a Waterford ashtray on his desk and drained the remaining liquid from the glass. “Ever, huh?” I could practically see the thought bubble above his head. It had Evangeline dancing around in her short plaid skirt. “Maybe I can put something together,” he said. He pulled the piece of paper with the registrar’s information toward him.
“I’ll wait for it. That’s Moraine, M-o-r-a-i-n-e.”
“What, do you expect me to type it up myself? I’ll come up with something and Dottie will prepare the letter.”
“Two copies, please. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“No, I’ll have them sent by the bookshop when they’re ready. You won’t need to come back.” He raised his eyebrows and his glass. “And make me another one of these before you leave. Damn good.”
As I turned to leave Mr. Lockwell’s office, he stood near the window, fresh drink in hand. “Bye-bye, now, Josephine,” he said with what I thought might be a smile. He didn’t offer to walk me out. I made my way down the elevator to the lobby of the building, exhaling a mixture of relief and happiness as I walked through the door to the street.
“Miss Moraine.”
Someone touched my elbow, and I turned. It was a police officer.
“Detective Langley would like to ask you a few questions. Come with me, please.”
TWENTY-ONE
I sat, humming, on a cold metal chair in the hallway of the police station, staring at the gray tile floor. It reminded me of the floors in my grade school. When I was bored, I used to stare at them, imagining they were a cloudy vat of water and with a secret password, the seam in the tile would open and suck my desk straight down into the abyss. I’d have to hold on, I’d be moving so fast, my thick hair blowing a tangled tempest behind me. I didn’t know what the abyss was, but I was sure that something better than New Orleans was under the school’s gray tile. The police station floors didn’t feel at all promising. Filmy residue from a dirty mop had painted circular shadows near the legs of each chair. Whoever cleaned the station was lazy. You always moved chairs to mop properly.
A clatter of hacking and high heels stopped in front of me.
“Well, hey there, Josie girl. Your momma’s not here, is she?”
Dora’s sister, Darleen, teetered in front of me, the left side of her neck speckled with either hickies or a beating.
I shook my head. “No, she’s not here.”
“Thanks for waiting, Miss Moraine.” A pudgy man with a receding hairline leaned out of a doorway nearby. Darleen raised her eyebrows and then quickly walked away, the exposed nails from her worn stilettos tapping against the tile. I walked into the office.
“Detective Langley,” he said, extending his arm for a handshake. His palm felt moist and fat. “Have a seat.”
The windowless office was nothing like John Lockwell’s. Stacked file boxes lined each wall nearly to the ceiling, and piles of folders rose up around the detective on his desk. The air was thick with hot breath and nicotine. No photographs. The detective pulled a file folder in front of him and took a swig from a coffee mug that hadn’t been washed in months. I could see a caffeine skin on the inside of the cup.
“We’re lucky we caught up with you. Your friend from the bookstore told us you were running errands on Gravier Street,” said the detective.
I nodded. I had seen Frankie and Willie have conversations with the police. They always listened intently and spoke very little. I intended to do the same. Willie used to have a police contact who covered for her in exchange for time with Dora. He was fired and Willie no longer had an inside cop.
“I don’t know if you’re aware, Miss Moraine, but a gentleman from Tennessee died of a heart attack at the Sans Souci on New Year’s Eve,” said the detective. He waited for a response.
“I read about it in the papers,” I told him.
He nodded and held up a picture of Forrest Hearne. Handsome, sophisticated, kind Forrest Hearne. He was smiling in the photo, his teeth perfectly aligned like squares of clean chalk.
“Mr. Hearne’s checkbook register shows that the afternoon prior to his death, he made a purchase in the bookstore where you are employed. Do you remember anything about him?”
I clasped my hands together so they wouldn’t tremble, thinking of Forrest Hearne’s check crisply folded in the cigar box under my bed. “He . . . said he was from Memphis and was down for the Bowl.”
The detective didn’t look at me. Instead, he stared down at the file, sparked a match, and lit a cigarette. He held up the pack, offering one.
“No, thank you.”
He stuffed the pack in his shirt pocket. “What did he buy?”
“Keats and Dickens,” I said.
He made a note on a dog-eared pad in front of him. “That’s the title of the book?”
“No, those are the names of two writers. He bought a book of poetry and a copy of David Copperfield.”
The detective continued writing and yawned. His tongue was stained the color of mustard. My shoulders relaxed slightly. This man was what Willie called a Paper Joe, not someone actively pursuing a case, just getting notes for the record. He certainly wasn’t the chess match John Lockwell had been.
“Okay, did you notice if he was wearing any jewelry? The widow reported that the deceased had an expensive watch.”
An icy rod shot through my nerves and into my throat. The watch. Of course she noticed that it was gone. Under the engraving F. L. Hearne on the back were also the words With Love, Marion. It was obviously a gift. An expensive gift. And now she wanted to know where it was. Tick, tock, tick, tock—the sound pulsed through my head.
“Did you notice a watch, Miss Moraine?” asked the detective.
“Yes. He was wearing a watch.”
“How do you know?” asked the detective.
“I noticed it when he was writing his check.”
The detective flipped the photo of Forrest Hearne up toward him. “This fella looks like a society guy. Nice watch?”
“Mmm-hmm. Gold.”
The chair groaned as he leaned back. He yawned again and ran his hand through the thin plumes of hair he had left. “Okay. So you can confirm that he had the watch when he bought the books?”
“Yes.”
“And what time was that?”
“I don’t recall the exact time. Late afternoon.”
“Anything else? Did he appear sick to you?”
“No, he didn’t appear sick.”
“Marty.” An equally disheveled man leaned in the doorway. “Shooting over in Metairie. The guys out there are saying it’s one of Marcello’s guys.”
Sleepy Detective Langley suddenly perked up. “Any witnesses?”
“Two. Both talkin’. How much longer ya gonna be?”
“I’m done. Just let me grab some coffee, and I’ll be down. Thank you, Miss Moraine. Sorry to interrupt your day, but the gentleman’s family is concerned about the watch and some cash that’s missing. They keep contacting us. I’ll show you out.”
“That’s not necessary. It sounds like you have pressing business. I’ll show myself out.” I gathered my purse and left his office and the station as quickly as possible.
The family’s concerned about the watch. Of course they were concerned. How far would his wife go to find it? The strands of anxiety in my stomach were now firmly tied in knots. I felt like I might be sick. How did the watch end up in a man’s sock in my mother’s bedroom? I could have just told the detective I had found the watch and was happy to give it to him for Mrs. Hearne. But then he might have questioned why it ended up at Willie’s, he’d question Willie, and she would find out I had the watch and hadn’t told her. Besides, Willie was always saying she didn’t want any problems.
I knew what to do.
TWENTY-TWO
I ran my thumb over the letters etched in the gold. I saw it on his wrist and heard his deep voice. Good luck at college, whichever one you choose, and Happy New Year. It’s gonna be a great one! He had no idea. He seemed well, full of hope. David Copperfield. I barely knew him, yet something in me clung to the watch, and I wanted desperately to keep it. But I couldn’t.
I put on my sweater, dropped the watch in my purse, and left my apartment.
The cold air hung damp and a misty rain fell softly in the dark. I should have brought an umbrella, but I didn’t want to turn back. I knew if I did, I might lose my nerve. So I continued down the sidewalk on Royal toward St. Peter. The cloudy sky turned the streets into a wet black maze. Generally, I could watch for shadows behind me on the pavement, but tonight there weren’t any, just a slick of black. Doors slammed and voices echoed between the buildings. A man yelled at his son about the trash, and a soprano sang a beautiful aria from somewhere above me.