Read Online Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) by Greg Herren - Free Book Online
Authors: Greg Herren
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that.”
“It’s okay.” I said. “Why don’t you meet me at Slice?”
Slice was an Italian joint across the street from the campaign office.
“Will do.”
She hung up. I walked back into the office, where Rory had resumed packing files. He really was cute.
“I have an appointment, so I can’t wait for Stephen any longer,” I told him. “Can you give him my card and have him call me?”
“Sure.” He smiled.
“And if you think of anything else out of the ordinary, no matter how small or inconsequential it might seem to you, will you let me know?”
He nodded.
When I got to the door, I remembered the question I’d been about to ask when Abby called.
“Rory?”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look up from what he was doing.
“You said you never saw Wendell take a drink?”
“No. When his first wife died, he began drinking a lot, and it became a problem, so he joined AA. He was very open about it, actually.”
Janna had insisted he was drunk on Monday night. She’d said he came home drunk all the time. If he had gone to the Delacroix, maybe he had a few drinks there.
“Thank you, Rory. One more thing.”
He looked up.
“Did he seem different that night? Worried? Preoccupied about something?”
He thought for a minute.
“Not that I noticed. He seemed the way he always did. Sorry. I should have paid more attention.”
“Thanks again,” I said, and walked out into the heat.
Chapter Four
I didn’t have to wait long for Abby.
I’d taken a table right inside the front door, and had just enough time to order a Coke when I saw the wreck of an Oldsmobile she shared with her boyfriend, Jephtha, shoot past on St. Charles. I couldn’t help but grin. The car was a disaster. It was almost twenty years old, with a cracked windshield and dents all over it. The driver’s side rearview mirror was missing, and at some point had been painted with defective paint. It looked like it had the mange. Jephtha had inherited the car from his grandmother, along with her house in the Irish Channel. Despite looking like it would fall apart if you breathed on it, the car ran extremely well. Less than five minutes later Abby walked through the front door.
Abby was a pretty girl. Originally from Plaquemines Parish, she’d moved to New Orleans after the flood and started dancing at the Catbox Club on Bourbon Street. That was where she’d met Jephtha, who had a weakness for erotic dancers. They were both in their early twenties. Jephtha was a computer whiz with a criminal record whom I kept on retainer; he could literally hack his way into any system. If I needed information and didn’t really care if it was obtained legally, I put Jephtha on it. Abby danced to pay her way through the University of New Orleans pre-law program, where she was one semester away from graduating. She was hoping to get into the Tulane Law School once she finished. When I’d asked her to help me with some research, she was so fast and efficient at it that I’d encouraged her to get certified as a private eye. She was a godsend. She loved doing all the tedious things that bored me, and I was more than happy to farm them out to her. She enjoyed tinkering with disguises. She’d done theater in high school, and had taken a course at UNO in stage makeup. Several times she’d shown up on my doorstep in a disguise and I hadn’t recognized her. She was dressed to impress today, wearing a nice pair of navy blue slacks beneath a red silk shirt exposing a tantalizing glimpse of her impressive cleavage. Her hair was all one color for a change, dark brown.
I’d had reservations about working with someone, having got used to toiling along by myself since leaving the police force. She had obliterated those reservations in no time. The whole arrangement was going so well I was beginning to dread the day she decided to go out on her own. She was a natural snoop. Plus, she could always make me laugh. She gave me an impish grin as she slid into the
“It’s okay.” I said. “Why don’t you meet me at Slice?”
Slice was an Italian joint across the street from the campaign office.
“Will do.”
She hung up. I walked back into the office, where Rory had resumed packing files. He really was cute.
“I have an appointment, so I can’t wait for Stephen any longer,” I told him. “Can you give him my card and have him call me?”
“Sure.” He smiled.
“And if you think of anything else out of the ordinary, no matter how small or inconsequential it might seem to you, will you let me know?”
He nodded.
When I got to the door, I remembered the question I’d been about to ask when Abby called.
“Rory?”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look up from what he was doing.
“You said you never saw Wendell take a drink?”
“No. When his first wife died, he began drinking a lot, and it became a problem, so he joined AA. He was very open about it, actually.”
Janna had insisted he was drunk on Monday night. She’d said he came home drunk all the time. If he had gone to the Delacroix, maybe he had a few drinks there.
“Thank you, Rory. One more thing.”
He looked up.
“Did he seem different that night? Worried? Preoccupied about something?”
He thought for a minute.
“Not that I noticed. He seemed the way he always did. Sorry. I should have paid more attention.”
“Thanks again,” I said, and walked out into the heat.
Chapter Four
I didn’t have to wait long for Abby.
I’d taken a table right inside the front door, and had just enough time to order a Coke when I saw the wreck of an Oldsmobile she shared with her boyfriend, Jephtha, shoot past on St. Charles. I couldn’t help but grin. The car was a disaster. It was almost twenty years old, with a cracked windshield and dents all over it. The driver’s side rearview mirror was missing, and at some point had been painted with defective paint. It looked like it had the mange. Jephtha had inherited the car from his grandmother, along with her house in the Irish Channel. Despite looking like it would fall apart if you breathed on it, the car ran extremely well. Less than five minutes later Abby walked through the front door.
Abby was a pretty girl. Originally from Plaquemines Parish, she’d moved to New Orleans after the flood and started dancing at the Catbox Club on Bourbon Street. That was where she’d met Jephtha, who had a weakness for erotic dancers. They were both in their early twenties. Jephtha was a computer whiz with a criminal record whom I kept on retainer; he could literally hack his way into any system. If I needed information and didn’t really care if it was obtained legally, I put Jephtha on it. Abby danced to pay her way through the University of New Orleans pre-law program, where she was one semester away from graduating. She was hoping to get into the Tulane Law School once she finished. When I’d asked her to help me with some research, she was so fast and efficient at it that I’d encouraged her to get certified as a private eye. She was a godsend. She loved doing all the tedious things that bored me, and I was more than happy to farm them out to her. She enjoyed tinkering with disguises. She’d done theater in high school, and had taken a course at UNO in stage makeup. Several times she’d shown up on my doorstep in a disguise and I hadn’t recognized her. She was dressed to impress today, wearing a nice pair of navy blue slacks beneath a red silk shirt exposing a tantalizing glimpse of her impressive cleavage. Her hair was all one color for a change, dark brown.
I’d had reservations about working with someone, having got used to toiling along by myself since leaving the police force. She had obliterated those reservations in no time. The whole arrangement was going so well I was beginning to dread the day she decided to go out on her own. She was a natural snoop. Plus, she could always make me laugh. She gave me an impish grin as she slid into the
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