Rescued By A Kiss (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 1) (18 page)

I grew up in his family as much as my own. I had to think Miss Ruth, Dante’s mother, would just want him to be happy. Well, she wanted him to be happy
and
married to me,
and
have lots of grandkids for her to spoil. This was a giant cluster if ever there was one.

This was a lot to digest, and I needed time. I began to question my own sense of judgment. In the last forty-eight hours my life derailed at the parade and shot me into a parallel universe with Julia, Club Bare Minimum, Duck Man, Charity Hospital, Oz, Stan, and Jiff. I didn’t feel confident in my ability to make a good call.

I needed to speak to Dante to come to terms with this and let him know I still loved him and I knew he loved me. We were just not lovers. He was my best friend and nothing would ever change that. His secret would be safe with me as long as he wanted it to be. I had to let him know that I would love him forever, no matter what. I was Irish, I could take a secret to the grave. My head was spinning, and I needed sleep.

I walked through my apartment door at the rear and heard my father shout up the hall, “Brandy, is that you?” Oh boy, this should be fun on three hours sleep over the last two days.

“Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”

“We’re in the kitchen.” They were both up and in the kitchen. Great. I knew explaining to him would not be a big problem except where the station wagon was concerned. My mother? Different story. When I got to the kitchen, he and my mother were sitting at the table. They were sitting across from each other and there was a letter in the middle of the table between them. He pulled a chair out for me. They sat there and just looked at me. They each had a cup of coffee and appeared to have been up all night worrying. My dad poured me a cup and set it on the table.

“We have been so worried when you didn’t come home, and you left that note about your mom’s station wagon. Then, this morning, a courier came in person and delivered this letter from a law office for you.”

He handed me a letter from the Law Offices of Heinkel and Heinkel, and it was addressed to me. Then, he and my mother held hands across the table like they were waiting for bad news.

“About the station wagon, I’m so sorry to have to tell you how I found it.”

“Left in the project and burned up.” Dad said.

“Yes, how did you know?” I asked.

“Dante told us when he saw the police report on it,” Mom added. She didn’t want me to think my dad was a psychic.

“Really, from a police report?” I thought,
and not the Fire Department?
“Oh Mom, I’m so sorry. These two guys were following me and stole it from where I parked outside of Charity’s emergency entrance. I went to see a friend who got shot. I have money saved, I’ll buy you another car. I promise.”

“Who got shot? You were in Charity? Did you get shot at? What were you doing around people shooting guns at a party?” I never heard my mother sound so concerned about my welfare and not accuse me of making someone shoot at me. I guess she still thought I went to a party with Julia.

“Is that why you are in trouble? Is that why these lawyers are sending you papers?” asked Dad.

“I’m not in any trouble. Papers? What?” I opened the letter in my hand and inside was a check for One Thousand Dollars made out to Schnauzer Rescue and me. The note said,
Thank you for saving my son and Isabella. This is for rescue. Call a car rental company and get what you need until you get a new car and let my office know. I want to pay for the rental and a new car.
It was signed by Geoffrey A. Heinkel – Heinkel Law Firm.

“Mom, did you forget Dante carries a gun?” I asked her, somewhat distracted by the letter from Jiff’s father along with the check.

“What’s in that letter? Are you in some kind of trouble?” asked my dad.

“It is a very long story and I need to get some sleep. I’m okay and I will buy you another car with the money I have saved.”

I knew I wouldn’t let Mr. Heinkel buy me a car, but he sure could donate to rescue. “I’m not in trouble. This is a donation for saving someone’s dog, a Schnauzer.”

“Brandy, you did me a favor. That station wagon served our family well, but it wasn’t going to last much longer. It was on its last leg. You didn’t notice how much oil it was burning? It needed a new engine. It was too old to spend any more money on. I kept putting off looking for new car. Your dad is going to take me shopping for a new one on Wednesday, right after Mardi Gras. I’m getting a brand new car and the insurance money will help pay for it.” My mother sounded and looked almost happy. Well, as happy as I had ever seen her.

“That station wagon marks the end of an era,” my dad said.

“Error. End of an error.” I corrected him, and we all laughed. They both looked less tired than when I first got home.

My mother pulled at my hair and came away with a small yellow feather. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s a long story,” I said yawning. “I will tell you about it tomorrow. I need some sleep.” I got up from the kitchen table and headed toward my apartment at the rear of the house. Looking at my watch I tried to figure out if my date was tonight or tomorrow night. I grabbed a go cup and filled it with ice water. Over my shoulder I said to them, “I have a date tonight at seven o’clock. It’s with the guy I kissed at the parade. I think y’all will like him. His dad sent me this.” I left the envelope on the kitchen table for them to read, and then headed to the mattress ball.

“Oh, and I’m moving in with Suzanne. We’re going to share an apartment. Don’t worry . . . I’m taking all the dogs. Goodnight.”

The End

Colleen Mooney was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, where she lives with her husband and three Schnauzers, Meaux Jeaux, MoonPie and Mauser. She graduated from Loyola University of the South and has lived in Birmingham, Alabama, New York City, Madison, New Jersey and Atlanta, Georgia. She has been a volunteer for Schnauzer Rescue of Louisiana in the New Orleans area for over twelve years and has placed approximately 225 abandoned, surrendered or stray Schnauzers. If you are interested in learning more about New Orleans or Schnauzers, please contact her at one of the following:

email:

[email protected]

Website:

www.theneworleansgocupchronicles.com

Facebook:

facebook.com/NewOrleansGoCupChronicles

facebook.com/SchnauzerRescueofLouisiana

Twitter:

https://twitter.com/mooney_colleen

Read the next book from The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles series, THE DEAD and BREAKFAST

From The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles

I
arrived at
Julia’s hotel at 6:20 
A.M.
on the dot and found her standing over a dead man in one of her guest rooms. He was nude, lying diagonally across a four-poster antique bed. One leg of the bed was broken causing the bed and the body to tilt headfirst, into a forty-five degree angle. The dead guy, facedown, had a gash in the back of his skull. Blood was everywhere, all over the sheets and the Oriental rug on the floor.

I had thought she was exaggerating when she called at six 
A.M.
and said, “Get over here now. There’s a dead guy in one of my guest rooms.” After she dropped that bomb on me, she simply hung up.

Julia had opened the Canal Street Guest House, a bed & breakfast next door to a cemetery, with money she inherited from her recently deceased husband, S.J., whom she had been trying to divorce. She had just opened her doors at the renovated guest house when this guy had the audacity to die in one of her rooms.

I got here post haste and let myself in downstairs through the kitchen at the rear of the building. I knew the four-digit code on the back door that was for guests to let themselves in after 11 
P.M.
when Julia locked the front doors and presumably went to sleep. I found her in the room with the dead guy staring at the body.

“I can’t believe this is happening on the first day I’m open,” Julia whined.

“I can’t believe it’s happening at all. Have you called the police or just me?” My stomach was knotting up and I mentally indexed things I touched in the mansion during recent visits here to help Julia.

“No, not the police,” she said without taking her eyes off the dead guy.

“Who do you want to call? It’s a dead body. What do you think you can do with it? Sneak it over the fence into the cemetery next door? You have to call the police.” I reached for the phone in the room, careful to use my shirttail on the receiver.

“No,” she took the phone away from me and put it back on the cradle.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?” I had to ask even though I didn’t want to know the answer if it was anything but no.

“No, of course not, but this is going to ruin my business.”

“If you don’t call the police, this is going to ruin your life, along with mine. I’m not going to be an accessory to murder. We shouldn’t touch anything. It might have the killer’s fingerprints on it. What have you touched in here?” I asked looking around the room. It looked like the room had been ransacked, bedding pulled off at the corners, pillows everywhere, a suitcase sat on the luggage rack, its contents spilling onto the floor. Clothes were strewn from one end of the room to the other, a man’s clothes—shirt, pants, underwear, shoes—along with a pair of woman’s black stockings and a black lace garter belt. A worn leather guitar case covered in decals, including “See Rock City” sat next to the suitcase.

“My fingerprints are gonna be all over this room. I did the cleaning before this guy checked in.” She stared at the body.

“Did you hear or see anything?”

“Uh, uh . . .” Julia struggled with an answer.

“It looks like he put up a fight from the condition this room is in. The bed’s broken . . .” I said looking around. My attention stopped on the black lace thong hanging from the chandelier. “Are those yours?”

“Yes, but it’s not what you think.” Julia went pale.

“Go on.”

“We, uh, were having a good time, uh, and then, uh, the bed broke. We just continued with the uh, sex, uh, until, uh,” she trailed off, completely out of “uhs”. Her voice quivered then gave way to a full body wave.

I wasn’t going to get any information from her if she kept staring at the guy. I ushered her out of the room.

“I’m guessing the blood rushing to his head isn’t what killed him. I think we better go to the kitchen and call the police. Then I want you to tell me everything you remember since this guy checked in. The police are going to ask you so it would be good for you to start remembering. I’ll stay with you and help you anyway I can.” This was a disaster of giant proportions.

We went downstairs to the kitchen at the rear of the building where I had let myself in earlier.

The kitchen was a large room to begin with and all the appliances were top of the line. Everything was commercial size, a subzero refrigerator and freezer, a Viking stove, two sets of triple sinks along miles of countertops with enough Carrera marble to rebuild Italy. Julia had done a brilliant job renovating the Victorian style building adding modern conveniences along with beautiful, comfortable antiques. The woman had great taste and now, after finding suitcases full of cash hidden in a storage unit after S.J.’s death, enough money to buy the best.

“The longer we wait to call the police the worse this will get,” I said and went to the phone on the wall and dialed 9-1-1. I told them the name of the guest house, the address and that there was a dead guy here in one of the guest rooms.

The dispatcher asked if there was anyone hurt and needed an ambulance.

“Does dead count as hurt?” I asked.

After she paused long enough to convey annoyance or indifference (we are talking city worker) she said, “That’s a no for an ambulance. Don’t let anyone leave. A police car will be there . . . shortly,” and hung up.

“Start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out, but make it quick, the police will be here shortly.” I did the finger quotes around shortly but Julia wasn’t in the right frame of mind to appreciate sarcasm. “Is anyone else in the building? Other guests, housekeepers, workers?”

“No, no, just him. I have others checking in later today. He came here to play at the French Quarter Festival this weekend. He arrived a day early to see some of his favorite New Orleans places before the rest of his band gets in town. Oh God, the rest of his band is checking in later today. What am I going to tell them?”

“Let’s worry about what you are going to tell the police. So, how did you end up in his room?”

“After he checked in he came back to ask me to call him a cab to go to the French Quarter. Oh God!” Julia started wringing her hands.

“What?”

“I took him to the Napoleon House where my friend Andy works as a bartender. He was there and he will remember us having drinks til 1:00 
A.M.
”

“Sit down. Take a breath and just tell me everything you know or remember from the beginning. Start with his name.” The automatic coffee maker just made the swooshing hiss with the three beeps alerting caffeine-addicted individuals, such as myself, that it was ready. I went to get two mugs and poured us each a cup of coffee. I found a bottle of Jameson’s in the cabinet with the powdered creamer and sugar free packets. Aha, Julia’s private stash. I added a generous splash to her mug to help take the edge off of her nerves.

“His name is Guitarzan.”

“This is no time for jokes.”

“No, he said his friends in the band called him Guitarzan.”

“Is he in the jungle band with Jane and the Monkey?” I asked and Julia ignored me.

“I have been working non-stop on this place getting it ready to open and I needed a break. After he checked in, he came back downstairs and asked me to call him a cab. He wanted to go to the French Quarter. Then he asked if I’d like to go with him and have a drink, so I said yes.” Julia’s voice was getting shaky again.

“What’s his real name, Julia?” I asked again starting at square one.