Out of the Easy (22 page)

I rubbed my arm, still feeling Jesse against me. “As a matter of fact, he is. Delgado. Is there something I can help you with, Miss Paulsen?”

“Indeed there is.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Enough is enough. What’s going on with Charlie Marlowe?”

THIRTY-FOUR

We had agreed upon the story. Charlie was out of town, helping a sick friend in Slidell. So that’s what I told her. The lie came out so easily it frightened me. I used to feel sick to my stomach when I heard Mother tell a lie. How can you do it? How do you live with yourself? I used to wonder. But here I was, lying to Miss Paulsen and smiling while doing it. I even added details about Charlie possibly acquiring a bookstore in Slidell. Patrick and I had never discussed that. I made that up all by myself.

Patrick hadn’t come to the shop in days. When I stopped by the house, he was always at the piano, playing endless melodies for Charlie. Something had changed. A curtain had fallen between us. It made me want to cry. I’d give my special knock and then let myself in with my key. Patrick would turn slightly from the piano, see it was me, and then turn back around. He communicated with his father through Debussy, Chopin, and Liszt. He’d continue playing, sometimes for hours. I’d bring groceries, straighten up the house, and he’d remain seated at the piano. We wouldn’t exchange a word. But as soon as I’d walk out onto the stoop to leave, I’d hear the notes stop. He was speaking to Charlie through the music. He was ignoring me through it.

I was happy to see him come through the door of the shop. I couldn’t speak freely because a customer was browsing one of the stacks. Patrick and I had worked together for years, but today the space behind the counter felt cramped. We maneuvered around each other awkwardly and had lost our comfortable rhythm.

“Hi.” I tried to smile at him. I put my hand on the counter, signaling mystery.

Patrick looked down at the woman, shook his head, and gave me the sign for cookbook.

It was the most we had communicated in over a week. I had repeatedly apologized about what happened with Charlie. I knew he heard me, but he hadn’t responded. His simple cookbook signal filled me with joy.

“Charlie?” I whispered.

“Randolph’s there. I have to run a few errands.”

I pulled out a stack of mail and handed it to him. “I sorted the bills and checks. I figured you’d be going by the bank.”

He nodded.

The woman came to the register with the new
Betty Crocker Cookbook.

“I was so sure she’d choose Agatha Christie,” I said after she left the shop.

“She desperately wants to read mysteries,” said Patrick. “But she had to buy the cookbook because her angry husband is demanding hot meals as soon as he drops his briefcase at the door. She’s miserable in the marriage—so is her husband. He drinks to escape, she cries in the bathroom sitting on the edge of the tub. They never should have gotten married. She’s even more miserable now that she bought the cookbook instead of Agatha Christie. She feels trapped.”

I looked out the window and watched the woman standing motionless in the street. I played through the scenario Patrick had created and could suddenly see her throwing the book in a trash bin, shaking her hair out, and running to the nearest saloon. Two young men crossed the street toward the shop looking at us through the window. I pegged one to buy the Mickey Spillane novel. The other boy looked familiar. It was John Lockwell’s son, Richard.

“Jo.” Patrick tugged at my arm, pulling me into him. I felt his hand slide under my hair, and suddenly he was kissing me. By the time I realized what was happening, he had stopped.

“Patrick.” I was so shocked I could barely say his name. My hand rested on his shoulder, not in a fist. I had let him kiss me and didn’t fight him off.

He quickly looked out the window. “I’m sorry, Jo,” he whispered.

His face was so close to mine, drawn with pain.

“Patrick, I’m sorry, too, I—”

He didn’t let me finish. He kissed me quickly, grabbed the stack of mail, and left the shop.

I leaned against the counter to steady myself, filled with a mixture of shock, confusion, and Patrick’s toothpaste in my mouth. I touched my lips. Was it an “I’m sorry” kiss or an “I’m sorry I didn’t do this sooner” kiss? I couldn’t tell. But I hadn’t resisted and was more bewildered than fearful.

I finalized the inventory that Patrick had requested and sorted a new shipment of books. I was distracted and shelved things in the wrong place. I put the new best seller
Confessions of a Highlander
by Shirley Cameron in the travel section instead of in romance. I caught my mistake and scolded myself. I moved it to the register display, hoping a regretful housewife would buy it instead of a cookbook.

I kept returning to the same conclusion. Patrick and I made sense. We were comfortable. We had known each other a long time. We loved books. He was smart, talented, stylish, and very organized. He had seen all my ghosts. There wouldn’t be any uncomfortable explanations or risk of rejection when Dora hooted at me in the street, when Willie insisted I go with her to Shady Grove, or when Mother resurfaced, begging for a sirloin for the black eye that Hollywood had given her. Patrick would take a Greyhound from the station on Rampart to visit me at Smith. On Christmas Eve, he would be waiting at the station in his blue peacoat when my bus pulled in late at night. We’d listen to music together, I’d give him cuff links for his birthday, and we’d spend Sunday mornings drinking coffee and combing the obituaries for dead books.

I smiled. Patrick didn’t scare me. It made sense.

The bell jingled. Frankie walked into the shop, peering between the stacks.

“Wow, twice in the same month. Let me guess—you’ve been dreaming of Victor Hugo?” I asked.

Frankie looked around. His hands twitched. “You alone?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“You sure?” he asked, chomping on his gum.

I nodded. The ever-present humor was absent from his voice. A shadow rolled through my stomach.

“Your momma’s on her way back.”

I let out the breath I was holding. “Already? Why am I not surprised?” I slid a book into its proper place. I had to ask the question. “Is Cincinnati coming with her?”

“Don’t know. I told Willie, and she told me to come and tell you.”

“How did you find out?”

“I have a source over at American Telegram. They saw the message transmitted.”

“Mother sent Willie a telegram?” That seemed odd.

“No, the telegram was sent last night from the Los Angeles police chief to one of the head detectives here in New Orleans. They delivered the telegram to his house last night, all private.”

“I knew Cincinnati would get her in trouble. So he’s been arrested, and now she’s coming back.”

“It’s not Cinci. Your momma’s the one in custody.”

“What?”

Frankie nodded. “Telegram said, ‘Louise Moraine in custody on way to New Orleans.’ My leak in the detective’s office said that they’ve been hunting her down.”

“What for?”

Frankie blew a small bubble and looked out the window.

“What for, Frankie?”

His gum snapped just as the words came out of his mouth.

“The murder of Forrest Hearne.”

THIRTY-FIVE

I ran to Willie’s, my stomach bouncing in my mouth the entire way. Yes, Mother was stupid. And greedy. A murderer? I didn’t want to believe it. The thought scared me too much. Echoes of all her rotten promises came floating at me from the jar of shame, and with each step I took, I heard the ticktock of Forrest Hearne’s watch—the watch I had found under her bed.

I crept in through the kitchen door. Dora sat with her emerald dress hiked up around her thighs, bare foot on the kitchen table. She was painting her toenails a pearlescent shade of pink. She took one look at me and opened her arms.

“Oh, sugar, come to Dora. I’d get up, but I’d ruin my hooves.”

I walked into Dora’s arms. She squeezed me into what felt like pillows. “Now, I’ve read a couple crime novels, hon. Nothin’ has been proved yet. Willie said they’re just callin’ her in for questioning.”

“But why?”

“Because she offed a rich guy, stupid,” Evangeline said as she walked into the kitchen.

“Now, Vangie, hush,” scolded Dora. “Louise didn’t off anyone. She was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Dora turned to me. “When police questioned people, someone said they saw her having a drink with the rich man on New Year’s Eve.”

“Mother was drinking with Mr. Hearne?”

“Was that his name?” asked Dora.

“Yeah,” said Evangeline. “Forrest Hearne.”

“Ooh, now that’s a sexy name. Was he somethin’ to look at?” said Dora.

“Picture in the paper looked all that. Said he was an architect and rich,” reported Evangeline.

“Now, why didn’t he come to the
maison de joie
to see the queen of green?” said Dora. “If he did, he wouldn’t be dead.”

“Dora, stop,” I said.

“Oh, sugar, I’m sorry. I’m just sayin’ that you shouldn’t worry yourself. After all, the police are questioning everybody now, aren’t they?” Dora raised her eyebrows slightly. Her sister, Darleen, had seen me in the police station.

“I guess.” I nodded.

She nodded back. “I’d be more concerned that Cincinnati might be comin’ back with her,” said Dora.

“Well, Louise is gonna have to stay up in the attic,” said Evangeline. “That room is mine now. I finally got the stink out.”

I got up to find Willie. Evangeline grabbed my arm at the door.

“Stay away from John Lockwell,” she whispered. An asterisk of spit shot through her teeth and onto my chest. She stared at the bubble of saliva. “Oh, look.” She grinned. “It’s raining.”

• • • 

I knocked on Willie’s door.

“You shouldn’t be here” was the reply.

I walked in anyway. Willie sat fully dressed for the evening in her traditional black. Her hair was pulled up higher than normal, anchored with two diamond-encrusted fleur-de-lis combs. The black book sat open in front of her on the desk.

“I’m getting as bad as Charlie,” she said over her shoulder. “Last week I wrote down that Silver Dollar Sam likes Seven and Seven.” She made a correction. “It’s Pete the Hat that likes Seven and Seven.”

Willie’s black book was a card catalog. She listed each customer with a code name, what girl they liked, service preference, even what they drank and what card game they played. Silver Dollar Sam was really a car salesman named Sidney. But he had a tattoo of a silver dollar on his back. There was just enough information in the book for Willie to use it as an insurance policy. If anyone gave her trouble, she had a visit record she’d offer to share with his wife or mother. Before the action started each night, Willie would examine the list of any advance reservations. She’d make sure to remember their favorites while making it all seem natural and unrehearsed.

Willie appeared completely calm about the news of Mother. She always said she could make tea in a tornado. Her ease relaxed me.

I picked up a tube of Hazel Bishop lipstick from her bed and blotted some color onto my lips and cheeks. “So, what do we do?” I asked.

Willie turned a page in the book. “We’ve already discussed this. You won’t speak to anyone. You stayed in on New Year’s Eve. You saw nothing. You and your mother are estranged. When she gets back, you’ll go out to Shady Grove. You’ll be out of town for a while.”

“By myself?”

“What, you want Cincinnati to go with you?”

“No, but won’t it look strange if I’m suddenly out of town?”

“Oh, are you so important that everyone will notice? You said the police already asked you questions and you answered them. All the locals know your mother, and they know better than to mess with me and mention your name. No one will say anything.”

“But who will clean the house in the mornings?”

“What, Cinderella, you’re gonna miss your scrub brush?”

I leaned against the post on Willie’s bed. “No, I’m going to miss you, my wicked stepmother.”

Willie put down her pen and turned in her chair. “How do you know I’m not your fairy godmother?”

We stared at each other. I looked at Willie, dressed in all black, with chianti lips and eyes that would send a snake slithering back into its hole. I suddenly burst out laughing.