Dead and Breakfast (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 2) (11 page)

Then the clincher.

Was Julia jealous of Violet for planning a wedding with Gervais, and did she know Violet was pregnant with his child?

This topped them all. Now, the police thought Julia was the third person in a love triangle, which gave them the big motive they had been looking for.

“I thought we were home free,” Jiff said. “Then, Dante asked Julia again if she knew or ever met Violet Fornet. When Julia answered no, Dante pulled out a photo of Violet to show Julia. When Julia looked at the photo closely she realized, and blurted out, that Violet was the person who delivered coffee and lunches she ordered from Pancake Paddy when she was restoring the bed and breakfast. So, now the police had confirmation that Julia did know both Gervais and Violet.” Jiff said this was the motive they needed to keep Julia as their number one suspect.

“Well, for that matter, I could know Violet. You know how it is here; sooner or later you seem to bump into everyone or cross paths. New Orleans is a very small, big city,” I said.

“Yeah, but Violet went in and out of that bed and breakfast. The police now have proven Julia did know her and they believe she lied to them about that. It’s their idea of a motive even if it’s wrong. They can put Julia and Violet together and assume they talked, got to know each other when the deliveries were made.”

It didn’t help that the police didn’t discover Violet was missing. They might have, had they interviewed her place of employment. Only they didn’t look into Violet or her place of employment or anything to do with her relationship with Gervais St. Germain. They didn’t follow up on her until the family filed the missing person report. Knowing that the path of least resistance was an attractive route, the police made their way back to Julia to tie her relationship with the former boyfriend to this missing woman as a crime of passion.

“I have a question.” I asked Jiff, exasperated for Julia, “Since the two people involved in this so far both were slipped roofies, how is this a crime of passion? It seems to me like a crime of passing out.”

“The police believe it’s a lover’s triangle and Julia killed him in bed when she found out about the wedding, the baby, all of it. The police just added charges of drugs and are looking at Julia for the possible murder of Violet Fornet since no one can find her. You might want to go upstairs and talk to Julia. She was a nervous wreck after she saw that photo of Violet and I think she’s lying down,” Jiff said.

“I can’t believe Julia didn’t recognize her from what’s plastered on TV,” I said.

“No one would. The photo of Violet they showed Julia was from a State ID the police pulled up from Chicago,” Jiff said.

“It probably looks more like the waitress who delivered the coffee here than the glamour shots they are posting on TV,” I said.

“Julia is now connected to Violet and St. Germain. The police have proof she knew them both. This case just got harder. What St. Germain promised or knew about Violet and her pregnancy needs to be better documented. He’s the common denominator.” Jiff was reading the transcript from the questioning. He made a call into his office and spoke to Ernest Devereaux, advising him to pull out all the stops to locate Violet or her last known whereabouts. “Forget that the police are even investigating, act like they’re not. Call in Michelle to help you run down leads, or for anything you need, anything at all. Michelle has contacts with the band and maybe she can get some fast answers. I think the police dropped the ball on this one, so do your thing. We need to find out everything we can about this woman and find her before they do. I want cameras rolling when we find her and I want it to be our side of the story being told.” Jiff hung up and looked at me. “I don’t mean to slam the police or your friend, but we can’t let this slide until something pops up. We need to make it pop up.”

“Maybe Dante dropped the ball, maybe he didn’t. Could he be holding back evidence?” Part of me didn’t want Dante to look bad at his job, as angry as I was with him, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him unless I was the one to make it happen. Call it a female thing, I wanted to run him over with an eighteen-wheeler, back up over him and make sure he saw it was me driving. That was the kind of bad I wanted to make happen to Dante.

“They can withhold evidence until discovery,” Jiff answered. “Ernest should have something soon. We need to find Violet.”

The more I went over those questions in my mind, the more I started to think maybe Dante gave up more than he got in that interview. It could be why Hanky stormed out of there.

***

Jiff called in a favor from a friend at NOPD who got hold of the missing person report on Violet Fornet and relayed what he learned. Not hearing from Violet set off the Fornets’ worry alarm thinking something terrible had happened to her. They called the New Orleans Police to report her missing when they couldn’t reach her boyfriend, Gervais St. Germain. That was when they discovered, or rather, were told by the police, that Gervais St. Germain had been murdered. The family told the police they knew it must be connected to Violet’s disappearance because their daughter and Gervais were going to be married. The family also told the police they had been sending money to Violet for her wedding plans.

Boy, did she have her family snowed. Her parents seemed like nice people who believed their daughter was making a life for herself here, not drugging it up with some weirdo, killing peoples’ pets and stalking a guitar player. They were going to be shocked when this all came out.

Over the next two weeks Violet’s disappearance gained momentum in the press. The family flew in from Chicago and held candlelight vigils up and down the street where she was last seen leaving the bar with her friend. The family spent money and paid for full-page ads in the local newspapers offering a reward for information leading to her whereabouts. They printed signs and posted them up and down where she worked and the entire street by the bar where they held the vigils. Signs littered a square mile along the neutral grounds—the grassy space between streets otherwise known as the median in other parts of the world—and every major intersection with a very flattering photo of Violet from the pre-cocaine snorting period of her life. The local news media came out to film one nightly vigil and did a spot on the evening news with the family holding their family pet, crying and asking for everyone to help find Violet. I thought I’d hide that pet if I were them. If Violet was found, and if what I’d learned about her was true, they might be crying over Fido. They made her sound like a saint, St. Violet, not the pet-murdering, hustling, cocaine addict I believed she was.

As Violet’s story unfolded daily in the papers and on the nightly news, so did Julia’s apparent involvement with Gervais St. Germain as the other woman. The family believed—and the news ate it up—that Gervais was planning to marry dear Violet and start their family. Violet had told her parents she thought she was pregnant and that she and Gervais were beginning to plan their wedding. All she needed was ten thousand dollars for deposits on a church, reception hall, band and caterer, oh yes, and the OB-GYN. She was going to need tests done to make sure her baby had good medical prenatal care. Her parents, excited over the idea of a grandchild and Violet getting married, sent the money.

After a day of listening to the news pound on about Violet, Jiff called in the afternoon and invited me to dinner after work. He asked me to meet him at his office in Canal Place. I told him I’d be happy to. He and I had been so focused on Julia and her trial that we hadn’t been spending as much time together the last two weeks. When we did see each other it was about Julia. I missed him. I missed how much attention he paid to me. Jiff made me feel like I was the only girl on the planet when I was with him.

It was Wednesday, a few minutes before 5:00 p.m. and I was preparing to leave my office when the receptionist buzzed me and said I had a delivery. I packed up for the day and when I got to her desk there were a dozen red roses waiting for me.

“Baby, dat man who sent dem roses, and dey are beautiful, loves you, sugar,” Miss Ella said in her ninth ward accent which dropped the “g” on ing and changed all words that started with a “th” to “d.” She spoke New Orleansese. She greeted all employees, all the time adding endearments of darling, baby or sugar to the beginning and ending of every sentence.

I opened the envelope addressed to me and the card said;
I’ve made a reservation at the most romantic restaurant in New Orleans for us tonight. I can’t wait to see you and spend an evening alone together. Love, Jiff.

The
Love, Jiff
surprised me for a second and then it didn’t. He was not shy about how he felt about me and I liked it. I was floating on air when I left my office on Poydras Street in the One Shell Square Building and walked up St. Charles to Canal Street. When I got to that corner I stopped to window shop at Rubenstein’s—a high-end clothing store for men and women. It looked as if Jiff was their poster boy for this place. The suits he wore all looked like they came from here. Dante dressed on a cop’s salary and he always looked great in whatever he wore even though his approach to clothes was a whole lot different than Jiff’s. Dante’s mother used to buy all her boys’ suits off the rack at Sears because she said she could throw them in the washing machine and get the stains out. I was thinking she saved a lot of money on dry cleaning since her five boys were always rough housing even when they were dressed up when I felt someone walk up close behind me. I looked up in the window reflection to see it was Little Tony.

Without turning around I said, “Fancy meeting you here. You shop at Rubenstein’s?” Even if Little Tony did shop at this haberdashery he would make whatever he wore look like it belonged on a hit man.

“Naw, who wants to be trussed up like a turkey at Thanksgiving in one of those suits all day? I’m more of a casual guy,” he said.

“So, why are you here?” I asked him and turned to face him. He was wearing the wise guy uniform of black shirt, black tie and black jacket. “You look hot in that?” I realized I made a poor choice of words immediately.

“Yeah? I think you look pretty hot yourself. Why don’t you and I go get a drink somewhere?” He was back doing the pimp-bouncing thing with his head on every word.

“Thanks for the invite, but I’m on my way to a meeting in Canal Place,” I said tapping my watch with a finger.

“Well, why don’t I wait for you and we go get a drink after your meeting,” he said.

Something about the way Little Tony was pushing his agenda having just popped up downtown in the business district gave me crawly skin. My gut was saying not to trust him or tell him exactly what my plans were. “Thanks anyway, but maybe some other time because this could go on for hours and I have no idea when it will end.” I looked at my watch and said, “Oh gosh, I’m going to be late…see you at the wedding.” I hurried away from him before he could come up with some other lame brain idea.

Jiff’s office was on the top floor and I arrived about 5:30 and found him talking with Ernest in his corner office, the one with the spectacular view of the curves in the Mississippi River. I could sit there for hours and watch freighters or cruise ships sail by or the Algiers Ferry fight the Mississippi River currents to maneuver turns or approach the docks.

“Hey, Brandy.” He waved me in. “Ernest has uncovered more info on Violet over the last twenty-four hours,” Jiff said when he spotted me outside his office.

I greeted them both as Jiff came around from behind his desk and put a hand on each shoulder and we exchanged a loving kiss, a lot more than a peck on the cheek. Ernest stood up when he saw me and we gave each other a hello kiss on the cheek. The New Orleans custom of kissing hello or goodbye on the cheek with someone is indicative of how comfortable friends and business associates are with you. If you don’t know them or have just met, then you just shake hands. Jiff ushered both of us to a round table off to one end of his spacious corner office where he pulled a chair for me to sit after he helped me off with my suit jacket and hung it on the coat rack in the corner. Ernest and Jiff took seats and Ernest pulled out his notebook.

Jiff brought me up to speed on their findings, “Ernest verified the information on the missing persons report that Violet hadn’t called home in over two weeks. He pulled her cell records and the family phones to see when she stopped calling. He cross-referenced the names and Violet’s calls stopped about eighteen days ago. She was the only child and had lived with her family in Chicago until she came to New Orleans to visit during Jazz Fest last year, fell in love with Gervais, the city and the never ending party and decided to stay. She met Gervais playing in a bar one night. Initially, she moved in with St. Germain who shared an apartment with a roommate while he was in New Orleans playing music. Six months of the year he usually travelled with the band all up and down the river playing at college frat house parties or honky tonks. Violet got a job as a Fabulous Flipper—what they called the servers, at Pancake Paddy and called home regularly, weekly, sometimes twice a week, asking for money.”

Ernest said, “I verified this by obtaining Violet’s bank account and the sums that were regularly transferred into it. Large sums of money were deposited into the account in Chicago while only withdrawals were made by Violet here in New Orleans. It was always cash. There were no withdrawals or checks drawn to indicate she ever paid rent or a light bill. No checks were ever written for a deposit on anything remotely associated with a wedding, i.e. caterer, dress, church, restaurant…nothing.”