Arsenic and Old Cake (19 page)

Gabriel picked up where I left off. “Or he could be fine and just . . . you know . . . hiding from the police.”

Dog Leg looked confused. “Why would he . . . ?” he asked, but the answer hit him before either of us could speak. “Ahh . . . police t’ink he killed dis man.”

“Some of the other residents at the inn seem to think so,” I said. “But I’m not so sure. If you’re up to it, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your brother. That may help us figure out what really happened.”

Dog Leg nodded. “Ask away.”

“We think that he knew the people at the Love Nest from before, back when he lived in New Orleans,” Gabriel said. “Could we run some names past you and see if any of them sound familiar?”

Dog Leg nodded again. “You can ask, but I didn’t know much about his friends back den, and my memory ain’t what it used to be.”

“That’s okay,” I assured him. “Just about anything you can tell us is more than we know right now.” I took a drink from my Diet Coke and wished I’d asked for a margarita instead. “Monroe told me that he goes way back with the two ladies who own the inn, a couple of sisters named Hyacinth and Primrose. He called them the Hoyt sisters.”

Dog Leg rolled the names around in his memory for a few seconds. “Could be. Where’d he know dem from?”

“We don’t know,” Gabriel said. “Nobody’s talking. Their names aren’t familiar to you?”

Dog Leg shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

“Was Monroe involved in anything strange back then?” Gabriel asked. “Anything he might want to keep hidden?”

“Like what? Somet’ing illegal?”

“Could be,” I said. “We’re grasping at straws here, but it seems a little odd that nobody over there is willing to talk about the past.”

Dog Leg shook his head slowly. “Not dat I know of, but he didn’t tell me much about what he did back den. We had our gig at the Cott’n Bott’m, but he came and went. We played. I was on the trumpet. He was our bass man. Had a few drinks. Monroe kept to himself.”

“Sounds like he fits right in with the others at the Love Nest,” I mused. “None of them wants to talk either.” I rubbed my forehead, still fighting the stress headache. “How about Dontae Thomas? That’s the man who died. Does that name ring a bell?”

“’Fraid not. Anybody else?”

“A man named Grey Washington,” I said. “They call him the professor. A pastor named Rod Kinkle, and a woman named Lula Belle.”

Old Dog Leg had started shaking his head again, but the last name made him stop. “Lula Belle Isaacs?”

Gabriel and I exchanged a glance. “Could be,” Gabriel said. “Do you know her?”

Dog Leg nodded slowly. “Back den just about ever’ man in New Orleans knew Lula Belle.”

Gabriel waggled his eyebrows. “Sounds like we’re talking about the same woman.”

“She’s still around, eh?” Dog Leg said with a chuckle. “I always ’spected she’d go early. Mebbe get done in by a jealous wife.”

“Or almost any other woman on the planet,” I muttered. “But she’s still alive and well. Mostly, anyway. She’s pretty elderly now, but she still likes to flirt, and she seemed interested in Monroe last night. Did he know her, too?”

Old Dog Leg shrugged. “I ’spect he prob’ly did. Truth to tell, he wasn’t much interested in de ladies back den. And don’t take dat de wrong way. I’m not sayin’ he was interested in men. He wasn’t interested in nobody. Love didn’t interest him much.”

We were getting nowhere fast. “So he didn’t date anyone back then?” I asked. “He wasn’t in a relationship with anyone?”

Old Dog Leg shook his head. “None I ever heard him talk about.”

I sighed in frustration. “And you have
no
idea why he disappeared the first time?”

Dog Leg’s expression drooped. “None at all. I’m sorry Rita. I wish I did.”

“When he disappeared, did you try to find him?” I asked. “Did you check with friends? File a report with the police?”

“Of course. I did all dat. Nobody knew a damn t’ing. One day he was goin’ to work and comin’ to play with de band. Next day he was gone.”

It took a second for his words to sink in, but when they did I sat up a little straighter. “Going to work? You mean the band wasn’t his job?”

Dog Leg laughed. “Oh no. It paid us some, but not much. Nobody could live on what we made in de clubs.”

“Where did he work?” Gabriel asked. “Is it possible that’s how he knew the Hoyt sisters or the others?”

Dog Leg nodded slowly. “Possible, I guess. He never did talk much ’bout his work neither. I always figured dat’s because it was such a dead-end job. He had dreams, dat boy. Thought he was goin’ to be famous. Make it big. Truth was, he could barely pay rent. Had to come to me for extra cash all de time.”

“Where did he work?” I asked, feeling cautiously hopeful.

“Had him a job at Letterman Industries workin’ in de warehouse. Stock boy, I t’ink he was.”

My heart skipped a beat, and I met Gabriel’s gaze with wide-eyed excitement. “Isn’t that the same place the professor said he used to work?”

Gabriel nodded. “I’m pretty sure it is.”

Dog Leg’s old face registered excitement. “De professor? What you say his name was?”

“Grey. Washington,” I said. “Do you know him?”

Old Dog Leg spent a minute trying to resurrect a memory of the professor but finally shook his head again. “I’m sorry. Wish I could be more help, but I jus’ don’ know much.”

He looked so disappointed I regretted letting him sense my frustration. “It’s okay,” I said and put my hand on his. “We know more now than we did when we got here. Does Letterman Industries still exist? Maybe the police can get a look at their old employee records.”

“’Fraid not,” Old Dog Leg said, hosing down my excitement again. “Place burned down ’bout ten years ago.”

I sat back in my chair and frowned. “Of course it did. So we’re back at square one. Unless you can think of someplace he might have gone? Is there any chance he’d come to your house?”

Faint hope sparked in Old Dog Leg’s expression. “He might. But I didn’t answer his letter, so I don’ know. T’ink you can find him again? Now dat I
know
it’s him, I gotta find out why . . .” His voice cracked, and he swiped the corner of his eye with the back of his hand.

Gabriel met my gaze. “What do you think? Can we find him?”

“We can try,” I said. I touched Dog Leg’s arm gently. “We can
try
,” I said again. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“Understood.”

“We don’t have a lot to go on,” I reminded him.

Apparently, Gabriel was feeling more positive about our chances than I was. “At least now we have a connection between Monroe and the Love Nest gang.”

I laughed a little at his use of the word
gang
. “Yeah, they’re a rogue band of septuagenarians, running amok and wreaking havoc in the neighborhood—except, of course, they can barely move.”

“And one of them might be a heartless killer,” Gabriel reminded me.

There was that, of course. And they were still the only people who knew what happened forty years ago to make Monroe Magee their public enemy number one. All we had to do was get them to talk about it.

That ought to be a piece of cake.

Twenty

Traffic was a mess when Gabriel and I drove back to the inn, which gave us plenty of time to rehash the conversation we’d just had with Old Dog Leg. “I think he took it well,” Gabriel said as we inched along Saint Charles Avenue. “Don’t you?”

“Better than I expected,” I agreed. “But I think we may have given him false hope when we told him we’d try to find Monroe.”

Gabriel braked for a traffic light—practically unnecessary in the gridlock. “I don’t know why you say that. It can’t be that difficult to track him down.”

“Seriously? The man’s an expert at losing himself, or have you forgotten that he disappeared for forty years?”

“There are two things wrong with your argument,” he said, giving a little crook of the finger to a car waiting to merge. “When Monroe disappeared the first time, he was a much younger man. And it’s a completely different world now than it was then. Somebody somewhere will spot the van he’s driving and call the police.”

I wasn’t so sure. “You’re assuming he’s still in the van. He could have ditched it and be driving something completely different.”

“So the police will track him using credit cards or the GPS on his phone. I’m sure they’ve got account numbers by now.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.” I made a mental note, though, to ask Sullivan about the methods he was using to locate Monroe.

It was nearly dark when we finally pulled into the Love Nest neighborhood, which was pulsing with Saturday nightlife. The shopkeepers, old men, and young mothers who’d made up the daytime population had already begun to give way to the nighttime crowd of brash young men and women looking for a good time. I spotted a couple of plainclothes cops going door-to-door and wondered if they were trying to find someone who’d admit to having seen or heard something at the time of the murder. Or maybe they were tracking gang members. Or drug dealers. Whatever it was, I felt safer knowing they were there.

As I turned to look away, I noticed an old man marching along the sidewalk wearing the uniform of a Union infantry soldier: blue wool coat, slouch hat, and polished knee boots. He walked with his head held high and his eyes straight ahead, completely out of place in the foot traffic that swarmed around him.

My heart did a little skippy dance in my chest, and I turned to Gabriel. “It’s Grey! Pull over and let me out. Quick, before he sees us and takes off or something.”

Gabriel drew his attention from traffic for a split second so he could stare at me, incredulous. “Are you joking? You want me to let you out here? Alone?”

“Just do it. I’ll be fine. The police are right over there if I need help.”

He made no move to slow down.

“Come on, Gabriel! Pull over and stop. Please. This might be the only chance I get to talk to the professor alone.”

I could see Gabriel arguing with himself over the wisdom of letting me get out in that neighborhood without protection. “And how are you going to explain why you’re following him?”

“I don’t know. I’ll pretend to be shopping or something.”

Gabriel laughed without humor and glanced at the collection of stores and businesses huddled together along the street. “Shopping. Where? The tattoo parlor?”

“If I have to. I’ll tell him I’m picking out a tattoo for you to get. Something romantic, like a snake with my name on it.” I reached for the buckle of my seat belt. “Come on!”

He clearly wasn’t sold on the idea, but he finally pulled to the side of the road so I could get out. “Just be careful. I’ll stay in the area to keep an eye on things and make sure you’re safe.”

I would have agreed to just about anything if it meant I could get out of the car. “Fine. Just don’t let him see you.” I slipped between a couple of parked cars and onto the sidewalk, then fell into step behind Grey, who, so far at least, seemed unaware that I was stalking him.

Thankful for small favors, I closed the distance between us and tried to look surprised when I ran into him—literally—as he stopped to inspect something that had attached itself to the bottom of his shoe.

“Excuse me! I didn’t see you—” I broke off, tried to look flustered, and then pretended to recognize him. “Oh! Hello. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Grey responded with a sharp salute. “First Sergeant Charles Remond Douglass at your service, ma’am. Are you all right?”

I offered a friendly smile, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. I wondered if he was a little unhinged or just still in character from a session at the library. “I’m fine. Thanks. Just a little embarrassed. If I had to run into someone this way, I’m glad it’s someone I know.”

When he still didn’t react as if he knew me, I tried another way to crack his veneer, waving a hand in front of his uniform and going for the flattery angle. “I take it you’ve been to the library?”

“Yes ma’am. That I have.”

“The kids are lucky to have you. Are you going back to the inn now?” He didn’t answer, but I thought I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, so I jumped on it before it disappeared. “Would you mind if I walk with you, Professor? I lost track of time, and I’m a little nervous walking the streets by myself.”

Grey looked uncomfortable with my request, but he was too much of a gentleman to say no. He gave a curt nod and began to walk again.

Score one for me. I fell into step beside him and kept up the conversation. “I’m glad to see that you’re going about your regular routine. I was worried about how much Dontae’s death had upset everyone.”

He slid a glance at me, and I sensed him struggling to maintain his character. “Routine is an important part of a soldier’s daily regimen,” he said after a moment.

Forget the soldier. I wanted to talk to the old man who’d retired from Letterman Industries. I did my best to look sympathetic, hoping I could draw out the real Grey Washington. “Well, I admire you for staying the course. I’m completely exhausted after being woken up in the middle of the night. I guess you were asleep when they found Dontae in the garden.”

Grey picked up the pace, moving so quickly I had to jog to keep up. I could only hope I’d be so agile when I was his age. “I was in my room, yes. I wasn’t asleep, though.” He dodged a couple of kids sharing a joint and slipped me a look filled with disappointment. I guess he’d been hoping to leave me in his dust.

I pretended not to notice. “Oh? Did you hear anything unusual outside, or did you see anything?”

The disappointment on his face turned into annoyance. “I was reading.”

“Is that a no, then?”

He didn’t answer. I was still stinging over the way he’d evaded my questions at breakfast, and determined not to let him give a repeat performance now. I tried a more direct approach. “You mentioned last night that you retired from a place called Letterman Industries,” I said. “How long did you say you worked there?”

Did I only imagine the slight check in his step? It was hard to tell. “You must have me confused with someone else. My name is Charles Remond Douglass, oldest son of Frederick Douglass. I’m a printer by trade.”