Dead and Breakfast (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 2) (15 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I hadn’t visited my parents since the big wedding announcement. If I remembered correctly, my mother would be at Pilates and my dad would be home alone. I found him tinkering on one of the cars in the garage behind the house.

“Hey there, don’t I know you?” Dad asked as he leaned and kissed me on the cheek.

“I see you’re in your office working on matters of national security,” I teased back. “I have a surprise for you.” I produced the bottle of Chianti I was holding behind my back and presented it to him. “Isn’t this the same wine you had the night the Fortunata’s were here?”

He took the bottle. “Yeah, this is it. I’ve been nursing along the last glass of what was left in the bottle Donnato left me. He says he’s the only one in the city that has this wine. He has a cousin in Italy that makes this Chianti at his vineyard and they don’t ship to anyone else outside of Italy.” He turned the bottle and pointing to the back of it said, “See the label on the back of the bottle, right here it says it’s from the Fortunata family’s vineyard. Where did you get it?”

“One of my clients is the wholesaler who imports it for Mr. Donnato.” I read the label and looked at it closely. “That’s impressive their family name is right here on it. Apparently, his cousin is shipping him a boatload of it for Angela’s wedding. My client doesn’t drink Chianti so he gave it to me. Where is everybody?”

“Thanks, I’m glad to know I’ll get some of this at the wedding.” He was selecting a ratchet wrench for the vehicular problem he was working on. “Your mother is rolling around on some giant beach ball in some exercise class and your sister went to the movies with Dante’s two younger brothers, you know, the twins. I think one of them has a thing for Sherry.”

“Which one? Maybe Miss Ruth could get a marriage to one of her boys out of our family yet,” I said.

“I can’t keep their names straight except Dante’s. It’s one of them whose name starts with a D”.

“Dad, all their names start with a D. Dante, Danny, Dennis, Darren and Darryl. The twins are Darren and Darryl,” I said.

“Well then, it’s one of them twins. Miss Ruth comes over here crying to your mother all the time over you and Dante. She’s cries you broke Dante’s heart. She cries Dante screwed it up by waiting too long to ask you to marry him. She cries because you don’t live here anymore. She cries every time your name is mentioned. You can’t imagine what I have to listen to. Now she has your mother worried you and Dante aren’t getting married.” His voice became muffled when he lay down on his Craftsman Metal Creeper and rolled under the car to work.

“Miss Ruth is crying over something all the time. She doesn’t need Dante and me as an excuse. What do you think, Dad? What do you think about Dante and me getting married? Do you think we belong together?” I raised my voice and talked down into the car engine so he could hear me.

He rolled out from under the car and looked at me. “If you love him, marry him. If you don’t, move on.” He rolled back under the car.

“One minute he says he doesn’t want to lose me then I don’t hear from him for weeks on end. I never know what he’s thinking,” I said.

“That’s funny. Last week Dante came over here and helped me change the oil on your sister’s car. He said the same thing about you.”

“Really? He comes over here to talk to you?” I asked.

“I think he wanted to see if I thought he still had a chance with you. I told him the two of you needed to get away from all of us—both families—and see how you feel about each other. You know, as my old friend Frank Davis used to say, are you gonna fish or cut bait?” He started to roll back under the car but stopped and asked, “What have you done with Woozie? I have to eat your mother’s cooking. Get her back over here or you and I are going to have a problem.”

“Woozie is needed for the greater good at Julia’s right now. She’ll be back. Didn’t you know Mom couldn’t cook when you married her?”

“Of course I did. I didn’t marry her because she could cook.” Then he rolled back under the car. A horrifying visual of my parents having sex flashed through my mind and I shook my head to clear it. After a few seconds of awkward silence the conversation picked back up.

“Anyway,” I started, “there is so much going against Julia and while there are a bunch of people with a motive to kill that guy, the police are convinced Julia is guilty.”

“What do you think?” he asked.

“The police found her in a lie, and you know, that’s not good. Every time some new fact is revealed it isn’t in her favor. My gut says she’s innocent but everything, and I mean everything else, says she did it.”

“Go with your gut, that’s always worked for me,” he said.

I stayed in the garage handing him tools he asked for so he didn’t have to roll out, get up, look for something, then roll back under. We stayed on more universal topics after that, such as did he think the Pilates class was making my mom look better, or was Sherry interested in one of the twins or did she just go out with them for something to do? I asked him if she ever went anywhere with just one of them. Dad said no, always the pair. Finally, he announced he “got it”, whatever it was he was trying to get, he rolled out and got up, putting away the tools he had accumulated under the car. When he finished he said, “C’mon, let’s go inside. I want to have a glass of that Chianti with my daughter.”

“You still plan on going to Angela’s wedding, right?” I asked.

“You know we wouldn’t miss that mega-dago party for all the gold Italian horns in Little Italy. Your mother has been buying and trying on dresses to show me so I can tell her which one looks the best on her. Problem is, I don’t remember what the last one looked like before she’s standing in front of me wearing another one and asking me which one I like better. She must have ten dresses in there and she plans to return all but one. Can’t you come over here and help her with that?”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea? She and I will only end up in a fight and we will drag you into it. Sherry is much better at fashion than I am. Remember, Dad, she went to school for fashion design. She should help Mom.” Sherry, my sister, did go to school for fashion design, but changed her major at least five times since then. I didn’t want to get roped into telling my mother what looked good on her and what didn’t. Dad didn’t want to do it either.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Sherry is a better choice. Well, are you ever going to bring that new guy you are dating around here and let us meet him?” he asked.

“You think that’s a good idea with Dante next door?”

“Oh, yeah. That might be bad if Miss Ruth pops in while you’re here with him. Then she’ll be crying over that.”

I didn’t want to tell him Dante had already seen Jiff at my apartment early one morning and I didn’t want him blowing a gasket seeing me parade in and out of my parents’ house with him. “I’m bringing Jiff, that’s the new guy’s name, as my date to the wedding so you can meet him there.” I thought this would be a great time to expose him to my family. It would be in short bursts without too much time spent with my dad grilling him on what he did, why he did it and who he did it with. My mother would be busy keeping an eye on my sister, Sherry and the Deedler twins, trying to figure out which one was trying to corrupt her. Hopefully, the music would be so loud they really couldn’t do much more than nod hello and shake hands. This would get the pesky matter of meeting my family out of the way.

It was late when I drove home and I had the feeling I was being followed again. I kept an eye on my rear view mirror. A car pulled out behind me when I left my Dad’s. It stayed a few lengths back and when I turned onto my block, it stopped at the corner and cut the lights while I parked. This stuff with Julia and Violet was starting to make me paranoid. I hurried inside as my three dogs were raising a ruckus barking. No one was going to sneak up on me in my own home, not while they were around.

Chapter Sixteen

Jiff called my office at 11:15 a.m. the next day. I thought he was going to ask me to lunch, but instead he said to meet him at the corner of Harrison Avenue and Wisner Boulevard as soon as possible. The divers had found something.

He told me not to draw any attention to the location or tell anyone where I was going. I left my downtown parking garage and inched along downtown streets in the Central Business District, under the sweltering sun, trying to avoid inhaling bus exhaust from the lumbering behemoth ahead of me I couldn’t seem to pass. I made it to the section of Canal Street, just a few blocks from downtown where the street becomes lined with magnificent ancient oak trees giving a canopy of shade affording a more pleasant drive. Canal runs from the Mississippi River to Lake Pontchartrain across the entire city. I can remember only once Canal was blocked due to a fire and the fire trucks. You just had to turn off Canal, go one or two blocks over and run parallel to your final destination. Simple, fast, easy. The interstate is faster unless there’s been an eighteen-wheeler overturned, an accident or a visiting dignitary and the entire stretch from the airport to downtown is shut down—both ways—to on and off traffic. I prefer the scenic route over the concrete route any day and Canal Street’s overly wide stretch with the streetcars clanging and rumbling up the neutral ground has a soothing effect that the cars going 80+ mph on I-10 just can’t replicate. Once I turned off of Canal by City Park Avenue I was in the heart of the cemeteries on either side of me until I hit Esplanade Avenue. This was the bayou end of Esplanade, the opposite end from our pedicab ride to Feelings of the other night and it was no less beautiful. Homes on this end were large and graceful, but not mansions. I was starting to get lost in thoughts over our dinner that night, and about meeting his parents, and going on a weekend trip with him when Bayou St. John appeared and I was brought back to the business at hand. A dark thought crossed my mind sending a shiver down my spine in this heat, and I decided to check my rear view mirror to watch for anyone following me. The majestic oaks shading my previous route opened up to the sun now in my eyes as I followed the bayou toward the lake. The bayou’s serene flat surface was home to ducks and a canoe rental business. I drove along with City Park on my left, and the New Orleans Museum of Art sitting back like the grand dame of New Orleans she is, at the end of a long driving mall. The park grounds opened up this area even more with all its oaks, magnolias and pine trees. These were landscaped around walking paths and bike trails that framed my drive all the way over the Wisner overpass where I got a great view of the golf course on the left, the lake straight ahead and the Gentilly neighborhood on my right. This street had a lot less traffic and I was sure there was no one following me here. Just to be sure, I passed my turn, went a few blocks, and made a U-turn back to the street Jiff told me to take. If someone was following me they would have to make the U-turn and I would see them. It looked clear so I turned over the bridge into Gentilly to where Jiff directed me to park. He told me not to park on Wisner or Harrison but go over the Bayou St. John Bridge; turn left and go to the end of Davey Street where I should see a black van there with a dive flag on the side. That’s where I would meet them.

When I got to the meeting spot, Jiff and Ernest were standing with two divers looking at footage taken on a video camera. The divers were standing there dripping wet, still in their neoprene dive skins and operating a video camera in a waterproof housing with the most enormous lighting gear on it I had ever seen.

“Welcome to Hollywood Deep South,” Ernest joked.

“Yes, we foolishly go where those with more sense think better of,” replied one of the divers who introduced himself as Hardware. Hardware operated the camera equipment. The other diver was peeling off his dive skin to his waist, toweling off and put on a T-shirt that said,
Divers Do It Deeper
on the back. Ernest introduced him as Jake.

“What, no nickname?” I asked.

“No, just Jake, but you can call me whatever you want,” Jake said smiling.

“Easy there fella, she’s his squeeze,” Ernest said nodding toward Jiff.

Hardware queued the video back to the beginning. We all watched the small screen. There were no images, only darkness until the strobes illuminated an object the camera aimed directly at. The only sound on the recording was the divers breathing through their regulators. It was creepy and sinister watching the video of what was mostly dark water with darker objects in it until the lights bounced off something big, like a rusted motorcycle frame missing a wheel or a large car or truck engine. One skiff with a giant hole in it was upside down on the bottom along with several car bumpers and fenders partially submerged in the silt. All kinds of junk scrolled past the viewfinder along with numerous bicycles or metal chairs in distorted and twisted shapes. When the divers’ fins touched the bottom, silt clouds mushroomed and billowed around them cutting the vision to zero. They would slowly swim away from that spot and find undisturbed, dark water to film. Then something very large loomed out of the darkness. A white rusted object came into view and I recognized it as a van resting on its side. The diver-cameraman swam in a circle around it to capture the license plate while his dive buddy went to work, tying a line with a float he sent to the surface above it, marking the location. Then they continued to swim on slowly looking for another treasure. They repeated this and marked about five more cars until the open shark mouth popped into the viewfinder and there was a sudden jerk of the camera. Everyone started laughing and the diver who was shooting the video said, “Man, that surprised the hell outta me. Why didn’t you tell me what it looked like?”

“That would have ruined the fun,” Ernest said.

“Looks like you found it. Where exactly is it?” I asked.

“Keep watching,” Jiff said.

The divers circled the vehicle and there inside, still in her seat belt, was Violet. I caught my breath and my hand went to my chest.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have warned you. These guys told us she was still in the car,” Jiff said.

The video took several minutes to document all parts of the vehicle exactly the way it looked and how it was positioned. It looked like it drove straight into the bayou and came to a stop on the bottom. It was upright on all four tires resting in about fifteen feet of water. The divers didn’t mark or touch it, but instead came up and videoed the landmarks showing its position to the bridge, road and water’s edge.

“We only tag vehicles that didn’t have anyone in them,” the diver named Jake said. “Some may have floated in there from Katrina and others are probably insurance claims dumped here hoping no one ever finds them. The police can figure out what’s what from the VIN numbers if they can locate any that haven’t rusted off or been removed,” said one of the divers.

“That’s clearly Violet or someone in her car with no one else,” Ernest said.

“And she was driving,” Jiff said. “That suggests there was no foul play.”

“My money is she was drunk and she fell asleep at the wheel,” Ernest said. “I’ll get my uncle’s dredging company out here. I want us to control the pulling out of these vehicles. I’ve already told him that we might need his help here and he’s all for it. You know he’s good on camera. He said he’d like to give that family closure by finding their daughter. I’ll make a call to the news stations as soon as he gets here and sets up.” Ernest walked away from us dialing his cell phone.

“The police are going to want to send down their own divers, don’t you think?” I asked.

“We work for the police department,” Hardware said. “I owe Ernest a favor. We’ll say we were here spearfishing and found that vehicle. I’ll call it in when you give me the go ahead.” Smiling, his dive buddy held up two spear guns.

“Hardware, call it in to Detective Deedler. It’s his case and it might buy us some good will if he knows we let him take the credit,” Jiff added.

***

I asked Jiff why he was being so nice to Dante. He explained he thought Dante did Julia a favor calling us in and showing his hand with the questions surrounding the missing person’s report on Violet. Dante gave us a heads up and returning the favor, so to speak, made us look like nice guys. Jiff said Dante was going to find out anyway and there was nothing for us to gain by taking the credit. I wasn’t much for sharing goodwill with Dante at the moment. He hadn’t bothered to call or say hello. For all I knew he was handcuffed to Hanky Panky right now.

The dredging company arrived with two trucks and set up, ready to launch into pulling those vehicles out of the bayou when the TV news channels started to arrive. They were lowering heavy cables into the water when the police, and by police I mean my two favorites—Dante and Hanky—arrived. I was on the other side of the bayou behind the dive van but I could see the vein pumping in Dante’s neck from where I stood when he spotted me with Jiff.

Ernest’s uncle, Noble Jacques St. Amant of Thibodeaux, Louisiana, owned the largest dredging company in the South. He had pulled cars, trains, sunken boats, ships, barges; you name it, out of just about every body of water south of the Mason Dixon line. His company and bravado were second to none. Once asked if his real first name was Noble, he answered, “Cher, my family are descendants of Louis King of France. We were all noblemen so we’re all given the first name of Noble. You have to use our middle name with it so forty Cajuns don’t turn around when you yell, hey Noble.” When Noble Jacques St. Amant arrived, he ran the show. He was perfect for the camera and the news people loved him.

Ernest drew the attention of a popular reporter and brought her over to meet Uncle Noble. In his charming Cajun accent—he laid it on a little thicker when on camera—he told the reporter just where to set her cameras for the best footage when he started pulling the vehicles out of the water. Other TV stations and crews were racing around trying to determine what their best vantage spot was.

“Now, Chere, you listen to me. You are gonna want to get better shots at the first few that I pull outta dat dere bayou, but don’t you move, Chere. Don’t give up your front row spot for the cheap seats. You stay put, ma petite, and you will get the best shot of Violet Fornet’s vehicle. C’est bon,” he said putting his arm around the reporter and walking her to the perfect viewing spot. The other reporters and cameramen scampered around to stake out their positions.

One reporter interviewed Noble and asked him why he was offering his services without charge to the City of New Orleans. “If it was my daughter,” he answered, “I’d want to find her. If I can help give these people some peace or closure, then God would want me to render my assistance. These folks need peace.” With that he marched off to instruct his workmen about securing the dredges. He told them to use the hydraulic winches rather than the grab bucket. He had told us earlier the grab bucket can smash a car and he didn’t want the family traumatized if Violet’s car came up mangled. The scuba divers geared up to go in. Their job at this point was going to be to hook the vehicles so the dredge could winch them out of the bayou.

Noble Jacques didn’t disappoint the press. After pulling out a Jeep, the van on its side and a Lincoln Continental, the divers hooked the Shark-mobile and it slowly emerged from its watery grave. Her family was there and when they saw the body in the car, Violet’s mother fainted. Dante and his partner were there and commandeered the vehicle as soon as it was free of the winch and the forensics people went right to work. What couldn’t be discounted was that she was driving, still in her seat belt and there was no one else in the car.

Jiff, Ernest and I kept a low profile, out of sight as much as possible. Jiff had his own cameraman taking videos of Violet’s vehicle recovery for their use in court, if it came to that.

“I feel really bad for Violet’s family having to see her like that. What a way to find a lost child,” I said to Jiff and Ernest.

“They lost Violet long before she ever drove into that bayou,” said Ernest.

After a couple of hours of documenting everything that happened and interviewing all the key people involved, the news media packed up and left. Jiff and Ernest went and thanked Noble and his company for their assistance in finding Violet. It had taken them a couple of hours to locate her and remove her from the watery grave. The police department took the credit for finding Violet since it was their divers who found her while spearfishing.

The police recovered Violet’s belongings in the trunk. Dante told the press it looked like her clothes in a suitcase and a couple of tote bags were in the trunk. Ernest’s police buddies told him what Dante did not tell the press. Also found hidden in the wheel well was an airtight bag of cocaine.

The coroner’s report showed the cause of death was drowning.

I thought if Gervais St. Germain had invited Violet to stay with him at the bed and breakfast, they’d both be alive, stoned of course, but alive, and Julia wouldn’t be in the middle of this fiasco. The press wasn’t ready to let Julia completely off the hook even though there wasn’t any evidence of foul play involved in Violet’s disappearance. They still made her out to be the home wrecker and further speculated Julia’s relationship with St. Germain is perhaps what drove Violet to commit suicide by running off the road into the bayou. The cocaine and the night of drinking were not mentioned in their news report. Julia really needed a break in the news. Where were our politicians who make national newsworthy sexual and corrupt blunders when we needed them?