Cities of the Dead (22 page)

“You'll meet us at the restaurant?”

“I guess.” Spraggue hung up, turned around to say a quick good-bye to Aimee, and stopped with the words half out of his mouth.

He knew where they would go.

He whirled and snatched the phone out of the cradle, dialed Rawlins' office. The
beep-beep-beep
of the busy signal blared in his ear.

TWENTY-THREE

All the cabs in the city had disappeared. Spraggue ran, sweating in the late afternoon steambath, tripping over the uneven cobblestone sidewalks of the
Vieux Carré
. He spotted a taxi cruising Dauphine and practically jumped in front of it to force it to a halt.

“Imperial Orleans.” He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. Sweat trickled in a thin line down his chest.

At the corner of Conti, he shoved a twenty into the cabbie's hand, coupled with instructions and the promise of another twenty to come.

Two and a half blocks to run.

The hotel's banquet rooms were on the second floor. The thickly carpeted stairway muffled his racing footsteps.

The door from the hallway to the display room was sealed with a gold police sticker. Maybe he was wrong. No. He
knew
, knew the last act, knew where the leading man would have to play the final scene. The entrance to the larger banquet room swung open easily. An ornate white door broke the line of the far wall. Its police sticker hung limply from the jamb.

Spraggue crossed the room, paused with his hand on the doorknob, listened for voices within.

Wait for Rawlins?

He couldn't take the chance.

He opened the door a crack and edged in, silent on thick gold carpet.

The room was as it had been the night of the murder. Spraggue felt he'd already seen it through Mary's eyes, the hanging pots and pans, the glistening displays of cookware, all frozen in place since the police had sealed it off. The chandeliers overhead cast dim shadows in spite of the afternoon light that filtered through the gauze curtains.

At first he thought the room was empty. So many rows of tables. Such absolute silence. The room might have been in the middle of a cemetery, on an island. His own breathing sounded harsh and ragged.

“Go away.” He heard Dora's voice before he saw her and whipped around to locate the sound, relief flooding through him as he turned. “Go away,” Dora pleaded.

“You,” was all the man said. Spraggue didn't have to hear the voice to identify the speaker. Uncle Paulie. Paul Armand.

Spraggue could see two figures in the fading light, one seated, one standing. He was sure they were close to a white outline on the floor, near the tape that marked where Fontenot's body had been found. Dora's suicide would play best there.

“Dora,” he called. “Are you okay?”

“Go away.” All her energy was directed into those two words.

“He's been lying to you, Dora.”

“Enough of that,” Armand said.

“What did he tell you to make you write that confession?”

“Shut up.”

“It was my idea,
monsieur
, all my idea.”

“Did he tell you Aimee killed Fontenot? That your daughter killed her father?”

“It's better left unsaid. Please,
monsieur
, I've made my choice. She will not come to me if she hears strange voices. Leave me, please.”

“She's not coming here. I just left her.”

“You saw her? You know?” Dora's voice sounded strange and sleepy. She was the seated figure. Her head lolled from side to side.

Dammit. The last act had already started. He'd missed the curtain.

“He gave you something to drink, didn't he, Dora?”

She laughed. It echoed through the room and ended on a long lazy sigh. “I know I should not drink in the afternoon. So sleepy.”

“Get up, Dora,” Spraggue said. “Get up and walk over here. I'll take you to your daughter.”

“Oh,
monsieur
, I'm so tired. Can't she come here? Monsieur Armand said she wished to see me. I told him she owes me nothing, no explanation …”

Something glittered in Armand's hand. “She's not going anywhere,” he said.

“Your daughter didn't kill Fontenot, Dora. Armand killed him.”

“
Non, monsieur
. My daughter, I saw my daughter. She came to the hotel room. So beautiful, my daughter—”

“Quiet!” Armand poised his knife behind Dora's shoulder. She didn't seem to notice it. Were her eyes closed or open? “Did Jeannine tell you?”

“Jeannine, Dora, Aimee. They all told me,” Spraggue said. “Jeannine, married for five childless years in a place that doesn't exactly preach birth control. Jeannine, so protective of her only child. Dora, convinced that her baby didn't die at birth, certain she made arrangements with some kindly nurse to have the baby adopted, raised in a good Catholic home. Aimee told me herself, that little girl in the photographs told me, the one with Uncle Paulie, not papa. Is your wife still a maternity nurse?”

“Speak more slowly.” Dora shook her head as if she were trying to clear it. “I don't understand—”

“Shut up,” Armand said. “Stay in your chair and go to sleep. You know you want to go to sleep.”

“What did you put in her drink?”

“Enough.” The knife glittered.

Time
. How much time did he have? Enough to wait for Rawlins and the police to catch up? Dora wasn't unconscious yet. Would Armand have risked drugging her before her stroll into the police station?

Spraggue took a step forward.

“Don't come any closer.”

“How did you work the adoption?” What if the cabbie didn't go the police?
Time
. Maybe it was bringing Rawlins closer, but every minute took Dora farther away.

Spraggue's eyes had adjusted to the dimness. He could see Armand smile. The chef was wearing a striped short-sleeved shirt, dark pants, a dark tie. He looked less dignified, older minus his tall toque. The knife in his hand seemed a natural extension of one bony arm. He gestured with it and said, “It doesn't matter.”

“Then why not tell me?”

“Why not?” Armand licked dry lips. The knife was a slicing blade, maybe six inches long. Spraggue's eyes checked the periphery of the room. Where was the knife display? “It'll pass the time,” Armand said. “We've got time. Unless you told the police?”

“No,” Spraggue lied.

“And why not? Why the hell not?” The knife moved closer to Dora's cheek.

“Because of Aimee,” Spraggue said quickly, “and Dora. If Dora wants to tell her, that's one thing, but it's none of the cops' business, right?”

Armand seemed satisfied for the moment. Spraggue thought that he never sounded quite so truthful as when he lied. Actor tricks.

“We were old friends,” Armand said, so softly Spraggue could barely hear. “Joe and me …”

“And T-Bob.”

Armand's chin snapped up when he heard the name. “How did you know about—”

“Believe me,” Spraggue said. “I know. I'm not here because of T-Bob or Fontenot. I'm not here because of the past. I'm here for Dora.”

“She's just about asleep.”

“Go on, tell me about the adoption.”
Hurry up, Rawlins
.

Armand licked his lips again, kept his voice low. “It's my one good deed,” he said, “and I suppose it won't go unpunished. I did it out of friendship. Believe it or not, I did it out of love. Joe was my pal. I cared for Joe, but more than that, I cared for Jeannine. I loved her. If Joe hadn't married her, I woulda married her so fast … She was unhappy back then. Lord, unhappy doesn't say half. Her sisters all had children, her in-laws never gave her a moment's peace. It was painful to watch her, to watch what she was turning into, to see her change, get so desperate, so obsessed. There was nothin' else she wanted in the world but a baby. She wanted to adopt, but she was so scared that Joe would never love the kid, that he would leave her. She thought he'd leave her anyway because she couldn't have a baby. And he did.”

“Wait, please, a minute.” Dora's voice was soft and slurred. “I don't understand. What is—”

“Shut up!”

“Jeannine told me he was a cook in Paris,” Spraggue said quickly. He hoped the police wouldn't use sirens. Nothing to alarm the man who clutched the knife so tightly, inches from Dora's face.

“Oh, yeah.” Armand snorted. “A fancy cook in Paris. Nothin' but fantasy. He walked out. He never intended to go back. I know. I was here in New Orleans, already married myself, when Joe took up with this one.” He jabbed the blade in Dora's direction. “Lookin' back, sometimes I think Joe was just waitin' for me to marry before he left Jeannine. He didn't want her, without kids, but he didn't want me to have her, kids or no. Anyhow, he took up with Dora here. I can't say it was true love on his part. He was lonely. He used a different name because—well, something happened, and—”

“A robbery happened. The robbery of an armored van in Morgan City. One man was killed. A man was captured.”

It was cool in the vast room, but Spraggue thought he could see beads of sweat at Armand's hairline, gathering, rolling down his seamed face. The chef nodded at Dora.

“She's asleep,” he said. “Joe never knew she was pregnant. And after he—well, after he went away, I watched. I felt responsible. I'd told Joe, if anything happened … Well … She looked for Joe, but she never matched him up with French, the guy in the papers.”

“Whose idea was the adoption?”

“Hers. She fought with Denise about it. I heard. There was gossip, all right. And I knew what to do. You're right, my wife's still a maternity nurse. Elise would eat lunch at the restaurant where Dora worked. Dora had to work right up until the baby came. No money saved, Joe gone. My wife, she'd talk to Dora, make up stories. She was an adopted child, she'd say, or some such stuff, and she'd never ceased to bless the day when her poor unselfish mother gave her up for adoption, gave her all the advantages of family life.

“Dora didn't have many friends. My wife became her best friend, her prop to lean on. When it came time for the birth, it was my Elise who recommended a hospital, a doctor. Everything would be taken care of. And it was.

“There's always been a market for babies. The structure was all in place. My wife knew who to pay. It was a fine thing we did. Best thing I ever did. Dora would have given up the child anyway. Was it so wrong to grant Jeannine's wish? To save her marriage? To keep Fontenot's daughter Fontenot's daughter?”

Dora snored softly in her chair.

“What did you tell Joe?”

“Not a word. He thought the kid was his and Jeannine's, conceived right before he moved out. That's what she told him, that's what she told everybody who didn't know the truth. She lied about the kid's birthday. Aimee's younger than she thinks.

“Then after a while, Jeannine didn't want to see me anymore. That was hard. I suppose I reminded her that the baby wasn't her blood kin. She loved that baby more than she loved Joe, more than me. When Aimee was five, six years old, Jeannine asked me to stay away. I've hardly seen her since.”

“Does Jeannine know the child is Joe's?”

“Stay where you are.” The knife glistened close to Dora's throat. “I never told her. I think maybe she knows. It didn't make a difference. She wanted that baby. She loved that baby the minute she set eyes on it. You know, she never knew about Joe and prison. Used to make me laugh sometimes. There she was, so scared he'd find out her secret. And there he was, so scared she'd find out his.”

Where the hell were the police? “Why frame Dora for killing Fontenot?”

“I didn't plan it that way. I was going to run away, lose Joe somehow. But then I saw her at that seminar and she was like a gift.”

“Even if she could be proved innocent, you thought she'd confess if you threatened to incriminate her daughter.”

“I never thought it would come to that. I never thought you'd start nosing around. It was an impulse, taking her knife. She set it down near me. I just touched it, to see, what it felt like. And nobody was lookin'. So I slipped it up inside my shirtsleeve, and it felt good and cold and hard. I thought, well, if she says anything about missing it, that's as far as I'll go. But she just locked the case real careful and never said a word. And Joe—Joe was so full of himself at the banquet, talking about his ‘friend's' funeral. Just remindin' me that he knew about T-Bob. That knife started burning up my arm.

“We'd agreed to meet in here, while dessert was being served. So I could pay him. I was supposed to pay him for the rest of my life. Everybody was milling around by then. Lots of people drunk.”

“You?”

“He was gonna ruin me, take everything away. After what I'd done for him, saving his only child—”

“That's one child who might have done better unsaved.”

“Prison changed Joe. Made him hard and mean and narrow, always grabbin' after that time he lost. I didn't know he'd turn out like that. I had the child's best interest at heart. I want you to believe that. It was a good deed.”

“It doesn't even the score. You killed two men.”

“Two.” Armand repeated the word softly.

Spraggue moved a step closer. “I know what Fontenot knew. About the body in the cemetery.”

“I swear to you,” Armand said. “I killed T-Bob in self-defense. He went crazy and killed a guard during that robbery. He planned to double-cross me, take the money—”

“It doesn't matter now. It may have mattered then, but not now.”

“I was forced into doing what I did. There was no other choice I could have made.”

“There's a choice now. Let me get Dora out of here. Before it's too late. What did you give her?”

“Stay where you are.”