Chapter Thirteen
About the time Claire and Zee decided to call it a day, she received a text from Black telling her that he was due to land in New Orleans by dinnertime. Not particularly chomping at the bit to see him yet or disappoint Nancy on their prearranged night out, Claire texted him back and told him something important had come up that she had to do and she would see him later. All true, she did need more time before she saw him, she did have something else to do, and she had promised Nancy that she'd meet her at the Cajun Grill aboard the
Bayou Blue
. Maybe it would distract her a few hours from the Christien case and Black being a liar and put her in a better mood before she met up with him again.
So, after she and Zee had enjoyed the lovely tête-à -tête with Rocco and other various and sundry Skulls at Voodoo River, as well as the depressing visit to NOPD lockup, she was glad when Zee dropped her off at her car in the steamboat's parking lot. She invited him to join Nancy and her for some fun, but he had a date with a Tulane senior majoring in criminal justice who was hot and who was also hot to spend time with a real live homicide detective and pick his investigative brain. Probably a match made in heaven.
Claire watched him drive away and then looked up at the three decks of the impressive paddle wheeler, replete with all the gingerbread curlicues and adornments of Civil War steamboats of old, and owned and operated by the LeFevreses. She and Black had dined there several times since they'd come to town. What memories she had of them were pleasant, and that was saying something, considering her sordid formative years. But they'd been as glad to see her as Rene Bourdain had been, and that made her feel pretty good. Tonight, she needed to feel good about something. She certainly didn't feel good about Black or her case or that voodoo doll with her face pinned on it, so she headed for the gangplank and a night of good cheer, and maybe even a little fun, if she was lucky.
A restaurant called The Creole was located on the main deck, a fancy-schmancy one at that, with plush maroon carpeting with a gold paisley pattern and gold velvet drapes and white linen tablecloths and sparkling chandeliers and a Creole cuisine to die for. Black loved it.
The second deck stern held the Cajun Grill, which was way more Claire's cup of tea with its po'boys, crawfish gumbo, jambalaya, fiery hot wings, juicy cheeseburgers, and homemade pizza, not to mention jeans and sweatshirt attire. The gangplank was down and hung with silver tinsel and blinking colored Christmas lights and swags of greenery, and the boat looked crowded. It was a bit early for the formal dinner crowd, so most of the customers were upstairs enjoying the Cajun Grill's zydeco band. Claire searched the parking lot and espied Nancy's Tahoe right off, so her friend was already inside.
Things had been super intense all day long, and it had been a very long day. Claire welcomed some downtime, even one hour, and she had better take advantage because it wasn't going to last long. Tomorrow she had to figure out who'd killed Madonna and why, and last but not least, she had to meet up with Rocco, if and when she could find him and she had a pretty good idea where he might be. And she had to do that by herself. She was looking forward to it, sort of.
As it turned out, she was right about the bar. The place was jumping, all right. It was also all decorated up with several sparkling artificial Christmas trees with ribbons and angel ornaments and twinkling white lights as well as lighted wreaths on every window and door and twigs of mistletoe hanging over every table. People were taking advantage of that mistletoe, too. Lots of kissing and groping going on under those seasonal twigs of romance, oh yeah. The band was on the stage, having a rip-roaring good time. Uncle Clyde was going strong on the washboard, and when he saw her come in, he motioned for her to join them.
When she reached the side of the dais, he stopped playing, stepped down, and gave her a big bear hug. A Cajun through and through and proud of it, he looked like a skinny Santa Claus, sans the red suit and furry hat. He had been a fisherman and a true man of the sea when she'd known him all those years ago, but Hurricane Katrina had destroyed his shrimper so he'd taken the insurance money and bought and refurbished the steamboat, much to the delight of the people now dancing and clapping to the strains of “Jolie Blon.” He was the one who owned the houseboat she had stayed on until they'd found Madonna Christien, battered and posed on that creepy altar. Now he lived aboard the
Bayou Blue
with his brothers and most of their families.
“Hey, li'l girl, you be just a sight fo' sore eyes, you. How 'bout takin' a turn with the fiddle whilst I make sure the waiters done turned up fo' the downstairs crowd?”
Claire smiled at his Cajun brogue. She really wasn't in the mood, but she took the violin and greeted Luc LeFevres, who was pushing his accordion for all it was worth. Luc was tall and slim and dressed in denim overalls, but the shirt he wore under it was snowy white and crisply starched. Cousin Napier was on the bass fiddle, portly and full bearded and strong as an ox.
Claire didn't know any of them well, not anymore, but she liked having people around her, especially people who treated her like family. Black was the only other person she considered family, except Bud and her colleagues at the lake. She felt a streak of guilt that she was avoiding Black. She wasn't really angry with him anymore, more curious than anything, and she knew he would explain everything away and they'd be fine again. She just needed some time to think it all through first. It wouldn't hurt him to reflect on it, either.
The guys started out with a second rendition of “Jolie Blon,” always a crowd pleaser, and Claire joined in. She was still a little rusty, but she could play that song. Since she'd started playing again out on the bayou, to Saucy's delight, she guessed, she had been enjoying it. Excited patrons crowded the dance floor, and Claire felt herself relax, despite the fact that she hit a bad note once in a while and made her fellow musicians laugh. Everybody in the place was talking and dancing and having fun, and that's what she needed to do, too. Forget voodoo altars and stitched lips and lies and death and blood spatter, just for a few hours of mindless frivolity.
As she ended the song to enthusiastic applause, Claire caught sight of Nancy Gill where she stood having a drink at the packed bar. Nancy waved and then pointed behind her to the entrance. And who should be standing there but the great Jack Holliday himself, all big and impressive and studly, wearing a black nylon Saints warm-up jacket and black jeans. To Claire's annoyance, he was watching her and quickly motioned her over to him, as if they were the best buds in the world all of a sudden. Had he lost his mind, or what?
Frowning, Claire ignored him. Holliday was still a person of interest in the Christien case, perhaps even the
numero uno
suspect, which meant he was case related, big time, and any kind of social interaction was just not going down. Not here, not anywhere.
Claire put down the fiddle, waved good-bye to the LeFevreses on the dais, and headed toward Nancy. Nancy was still watching Jack when Claire reached her, and a quick glance around told her that lots of other people recognized him, too. After that, came a spattering of applause and a few autograph seekers. Great, now he was playing the popular-celebrity-with-nothing-to-hide role.
“Lord have mercy, Claire, he looks even better in person.”
Claire watched Holliday stop at a table and scribble his name on a napkin, smiling and chatting as if he wasn't worried one bit about being under suspicion in a murder investigation. He seemed incredibly comfortable and at ease and unconcerned.
“Remember that poor, beaten girl stretched out cold on your table, Nancy? Remember her eyes and her mouth? Your hero there just might turn out to be the one who did all that. Just look at his hands. Nice big murder weapons.”
“Yeah, all that's true. But he didn't do it.”
Nancy was teasing, of course. She was laughing at Claire's serious warning. “Tell me he isn't hot. Make me believe it.”
“He's okay.”
“Are you kidding me? Oh, that's right, now I get it. You've got a guy like Nick panting after you, don't you? And he's even better looking than Jack, I have to agree. So guess I'll have to take Jack.”
“We're professionals, Nancy. Please don't forget that. You're acting just like Zee did about that guy.”
“Have you ever seen me act in less than a professional manner?”
“No. But Holliday hasn't come over here yet.”
Nancy laughed. “Don't worry. I'll keep my head. Maybe.”
It didn't take Holliday long to disengage himself from his adoring public. Then he headed straight for Claire. She watched him approach, football fans reaching out to touch him. Jeez. The Big Easy was one heck of a football-lovin' city, all right.
“Don't forget to introduce us when he gets here,” Nancy said. “I mean it. I just wanna meet him, shake that big weapon of a hand, that's all.”
“Get a hold on your hormones, Nancy. I mean it.”
“I'm not gonna jump his bones, Claire. At least I don't think so.”
Then Holliday was there, towering over them, and the rapt expression on Nancy's face made Claire want to laugh.
Holliday said, “Hey, there, Detective. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah, fancy that. Are you following me, or what?”
“Actually, I am. We need to talk.”
“How'd you know where I was?”
“I called Zee. He said you were here.”
Damn, Zee knew better than that. She felt her phone vibrate so she jerked it out, expecting it to be Black and glad for a reason to ignore Holliday. Maybe she'd go home and deal with Black sooner than she thought.
“Hi, I'm Jack Holliday,” the big former jock was saying to Nancy.
Nancy took the hand he held out and smiled. “Nice to meet you. I'm a huge fan. Have been ever since your Tulane days. I'm a Tulane grad myself.”
Claire moved away. Caller ID said Zee Jackson.
“Just a heads-up, Claire. Jack Holliday called me and asked where he could find you.”
“And you obliged him.”
“Well, yeah. He said he's gotta talk to you about the case. Said it's real important.”
“How'd he get your number?”
“I gave him my card.”
“Okay, he found me. And it better be important. Talk to you later. Have fun tonight.”
Claire punched off, and yes, she was a tad peeved. But if a suspect suddenly had some new information to add to his initial statement, she was all ears. She turned back to Holliday. “I guess you know that Nancy's the Lafourche Parish medical examiner, Mr. Holliday.”
Momentarily, he looked startled, but then it turned into interest. “No kidding? I'd never of guessed that. Want to join me for a beer, Nancy?” Nancy nodded, and Jack called over the bartender and ordered two cold Turbodogs. Then he turned to Claire. “How about letting me buy you an Abita, too, Detective?”
“You really think I'm gonna do that, Mr. Holliday?”
“No. I was just being polite. I take it that you're still on duty?”
“No, I'm definitely off duty. But I'm not going to sit around and drink with you. You are a person of interest in this case until I can rule you out as a suspect in the murder of Madonna Christien.” That was all rather official-sounding, yes, but all true, too.
“What about after that?”
Holliday had to be smarter than this. If he was coming on to her, Claire considered what his motives might be. Other than to charm her into going easy on him, she couldn't come up with anything much that made sense. And some friend he was to Black. She placed her attention on the band.
Nancy was being hit on by a good-looking guy standing on the other side of her, so Holliday swiveled his chair around to face Claire and became quite the chatterbox all of a sudden. “You're really good on that fiddle. You play zydeco like a born Cajun.”
“So?” Okay, that was rude. But Holliday was not taking the hint to get lost.
“I meant it as a compliment. I like Cajun music.”
“Really? I thought you hailed from Colorado.”
“Ah, you've been checking me out.”
“That's why they call me a detective.”
“So you're with Nick, huh? I was surprised I didn't put that together. He talks about you a lot. I guess I just didn't expect you to be working as a deputy down there in the bayous. The connection just didn't click at first. I should've recognized you, though. I've seen pictures of you in the newspapers.”
“So, Zee said that you have information pertinent to our case, Mr. Holliday.”
“Call me Jack, will you?”
“Well, no.”
“Is there somewhere around here where we can talk privately?”
Claire wondered if he really did have something important to tell her. Maybe he was just going to hit her with some cockamamie, made-up story that put him in a better light.
Holliday suddenly waxed serious. “It's important, Claire.”
Now that was irksome. They were not on a first-name basis. They looked at each other, did some sizing-up, followed by a rather challenging eye lock.
“Okay, I'm game. Give it to me.”
“I want to show you something. In private.”
Now she was curious. She glanced around. “There's an empty booth over there. That private enough for you?”
Holliday trailed her to a window booth overlooking the Mississippi River, the water of which looked very dark and cold in the December evening. The plate glass was foggy, and outside the deck railings were wrapped with more tiny white twinkling Christmas lights and fake greenery and red plastic bows.