Drive Thru Murder Read online

  They weren’t stones I recognized like sapphires, rubies or emeralds. They appeared to be semi-precious stones in an heirloom quality setting, but it would take a jeweler to identify them exactly. I picked up a blue one that appeared to be lapis and tried it on. It was an exquisite ring in a filigree setting and it didn’t hurt that it was my favorite color.

  Jiff shook the pouch again and a small, fragile piece of what looked like parchment paper fluttered out. On it, written in beautiful penmanship in a blue fountain pen in faded ink was:

  To my beautiful granddaughter.

  Wear them as I did—a different one every month. Love, Mimi

  I counted the rings again. There were only eleven, which meant the person they belonged to was probably wearing the twelfth one. That made me wonder how could someone not know eleven rings were missing.

  “Brandy, you found a buried treasure here,” Jiff said.

  “One that belongs to someone else. A treasure, or family heirloom someone’s grandmother left her. There’s only eleven so maybe the person they belong to is wearing the twelfth, but I wonder why they were left here. Do you know what these stones are? They look expensive,” I said.

  Jiff was quiet and I had to think he was silently counting the rings himself. He said, “Right, only eleven. The note suggests twelve. If you want, I can find out. I’ll take them to a friend who works at Adlers,” he said turning a ring over and looking at it closely. “These are expensive judging from this setting. It looks like platinum. If you want, I’ll see if we can lift some prints off the note, box or any of the rings. We’ve touched the box and two rings, but I’ll see what our forensic guy can come up with.”

  “Yes, please. Someone tried to keep this box a secret or hidden. It worked until the dog pulled up the carpet,” I said.

  I made a mental note to call our landlord and ask him who lived here before us. I remembered Sandra mentioned someone who disliked the cats but it could be someone before her since the rings looked so old.

  “It seems odd whoever left them didn’t miss them by now, or come back looking for them.”

  “It might be someone who died before she could give them to her granddaughter,” Jiff said. Before he left, he checked all my windows and doors even though I reminded him I had a barking security system. When we kissed goodnight at the front door, his embrace tightened and was more passionate than in the past. Our bodies melted together and I came real close to inviting him to stay the night.

  Chapter Seven

  It was six o’clock on Sunday morning when I woke up. It’s the same time I have to wake up every day for work, and on those days, I struggle to get out of bed. Now, I was lying here wide awake on a Sunday morning when I could sleep in. Another one of life’s little mysteries to ponder. I realized I hadn’t heard Suzanne come in. She usually got in around four a.m. on nights she worked, and Meaux would utter a soft woof under his breath, which was his way of letting me know she was home.

  When I got up to feed the dogs and let them out, the new guy and Meaux flew out the back door. I didn’t have a new name yet, although I called him Jesus to myself and I also made a mental sign of the cross each time I did. I was glad he was trying to housebreak himself by following Meaux’s example.

  I waited until noon and called the CluckIt number. The recording said they would reopen for business later today, Sunday evening. I figured Earline and Lionel would be back at work. I thought I should take someone who knew more about the lifestyle of cross dressing men to ask the right questions, and Frank, who was the handyman at my friend Julia’s guest house, came to mind.

  My friend Julia hired Frank as a handyman to help her around the guest house. Frank was a decorator and a heck of a seamstress, but he was no handyman. Anything that required a repair with a hammer or saw Frank suggested Julia call a professional contractor to handle a particular renovation. Frank called everything a renovation. The only job I had ever seen him handle through completion was hang a painting. Julia now considered him her personal assistant and fashion consultant.

  Normally, he had on a pink Izod golf shirt with pink plaid chino pants and a pinkish lip gloss rather than the overalls with his name and the name of the guest house embroidered on it that Julia bought for him to wear. Every time I saw him he had on enough eyeliner to make him look like Johnny Depp.

  Frank had done a stint in Central Lock up, lived in the French Quarter and was a member of the alternative lifestyle community, so I considered him a good go-to person for these things I had little to no experience with. Besides, if Frank said or asked something offensive, I could apologize. If I accidently blurted out something I might shut them down from giving me any more information.

  When I called Julia’s guest house to speak with Frank, he answered the phone, “Thank you for calling the Canal Street Bed and Breakfast Guest House. This is Frank speaking; how may I help you?”

  My guess was, Julia added receptionist to his growing laundry list of duties that didn’t require him to repair anything.

  “Frank, it’s Brandy. How’s it going?”

  “Okay,” he said. It sounded like he put his hand over his mouth to ask, “Do you want to speak with Julia?”

  “No, I wanted to talk to you and ask if you might do me a favor,” I said.

  “Really, what?” he was whispering. I thought it was odd since Frank was no shrinking violet.

  “Well, I was at CluckIt the other night and witnessed a murder and kidnapping. I wanted to ask if you would go with me to talk to the workers there. It seems the one murdered and the one kidnapped were partners, or maybe just one thought they were partners. I’m not sure how to ask some of these questions, and I don’t want to offend anyone. I’m not sure what questions to ask about their lifestyles.”

  “Offend someone gay? We’ve all heard a lot worse and then some. But yes, I’ll go with you,” he whispered. “If it will get me out of here.”

  “What’s wrong? Why are you whispering?” I asked.

  “Julia signed up for a dating service.” He said it so softly I didn’t think I heard him correctly.

  “Wait. What? Did you say Julia is using a dating service? For dates with men?” I asked.

  “Yes, men.” Frank said ‘men’ a little too loudly and then I heard Julia screaming his name in the background.

  Julia had made extremely bad calls when it came to all things male. Her last husband, even though he was now dead, turned Julia against men in general, and dating specifically. On top of that, no man could ever meet Julia’s expectations along with the fact that she had lousy judgment when it came to picking husbands, boyfriends and now, handymen.

  Her ex-husband claimed bankruptcy in order to force her to pay for the divorce so he could get out of paying alimony. When she refused to pay for their divorce, it dragged on and on—until he died and Julia had pay to bury him.

  His death was unexpected, but the bigger surprise came when Julia discovered a key in his desk to a storage unit where he had hidden suitcases full of cash. She was still legally married to him and entitled to all of it. That was how she bought and opened the guest house, declaring she would never have another man in her life.

  “Coming!” he yelled and this time he didn’t cover the phone with his hand. “Yes, and it’s dreadful around here,” he continued again in a whisper. “What time can you come pick me up? I don’t have a car but I’ll wait for you out front. You don’t want to come in here. The dates are not going to her liking,” he said.

  “Enough said. I’ll pick you up out front at ten thirty tonight. Okay?”

  “I’ll be out there. Don’t honk or she’ll look out and want to know where I’m running off too.” Then he hung up.

  I was hanging the curtains I had bought with Jiff, when Suzanne came downstairs and said she was going into work early because a convention of big tippers was in town.

  “Who are the big tippers?” I asked.

  “You won’t believe it, but it’s a convention of gynecologists. They
charge to see a lot more than what we show them, and yet, they tip in hundred dollar bills,” she said shaking her head.

  “I’m happy to give you a ride because I want to go to the bar where Silas works. Woozie says he hears it all so he might have something to add to the CluckIt mystery.”

  “That would be great. I accept your offer. I’m supposed to be there by eight o’clock tonight.”

  “Perfect. After I drop you I can go see Silas. That gives me plenty of time to get back to pick-up Frank and go talk to the CluckIt people,” I said.

  “Frank?” she asked. “Frank, as in Julia’s Frank? Guest house Frank?”

  “Yes, guest house Frank. I asked him to go with me because he, he’s, he knows…” I drifted off.

  “He’s gay and he’ll ask the right questions. I get it.”

  “You’ll never guess what Frank told me Julia’s doing,” I said.

  “I don’t want to guess because I don’t care,” Suzanne said rummaging in her purse. There was no great friendship between Julia and Suzanne, only great indifference. I don’t believe she would have looked up even if Julia was standing in front of us with her hair on fire.

  When Julia was laid off from the telecom company I still work for, and before she found the suitcases full of cash, Suzanne helped get her the job at The Club Bare Minimum as an exotic dancer, where she worked. Julia had no filter when it came to her thoughts, which often blasted out of her mouth in an opinionated rant, causing Suzanne to regret recommending Julia for the job.

  “Yes, you do want to know because you’ll be amused.” I paused for effect. When she looked up I said, “Julia joined a dating service.”

  Suzanne’s head dropped backward then popped up to look straight ahead in mock surprise and she said, “How is any service going to find a man to date her? Julia has more issues than Newsweek.”

  “Frank said he needed to get away from her and out of the guest house for a while. He practically begged me to take him.”

  After I dropped Suzanne off, I found a parking space and went in search of Silas. He was working as a bartender at a boy bar on Bourbon Street. Silas, however, was not gay. He said the tips were great so he stayed there.

  “Hey, Brandy Babe, what brings you here? This is no man’s land for you.” Silas greeted me as he hopped up and leaned over the bar to kiss me.

  “I came to see you. Can’t a girl get a drink from the hottest bartender in New Orleans?” I flirted with him shamelessly.

  “Rum and tonic, right? Three limes?” Silas remembered everyone’s drink even if he only made it for you one time. “Meyers dark, no Mt. Gag.”

  “Yep. You rock,” I said. “Don’t make it too strong. I got a long night ahead of me.”

  Silas was a tall, very muscular man with light brown skin and straight black hair to his shoulders that he wore in a ponytail, or Indian style with braids on either side of his face. Tonight, he had the braids.

  His features—nose, eyes and lips—were more Indian than black. He also had beautiful green eyes that twinkled when he smiled. Many would call him Creole, a local term for racially mixed people.

  “Are you still doing the Big Chief gig?” I asked.

  He sometimes performed as “Big Chief” in one of the French Quarter clubs since his dad, Woozie’s husband, was a Tchoupitoulas Indian. Silas was a natural entertainer. He used some of the exquisite feathered head dresses and costumes that his dad would take a year to make, then wear one time at Mardi Gras, and start on a new one the day after Carnival was over on Ash Wednesday.

  “Sometimes, if it works with my schedule here. I make better money as a bartender. So, what can I do you for?” he asked, setting my drink down in front of me.

  I had known Silas almost as long as I had known Woozie. She always said he was her son, but I had heard whispered speculations from my parents on the subject. The overheard conversations suggested Silas was Woozie’s nephew, her sister’s son, and Woozie decided to raise him as her own. Woozie and her husband never had any children and her husband died when Silas was about nine years old.

  I always felt Woozie was more of a parent to me than my own mother. I just asked her outright one day if Silas was her son. She told me no, and she and her husband didn’t want to tell Silas that unless he asked them. If and when he did, they would always be truthful.

  What Woozie told me, and what my parents never knew, was his father was a wealthy man her sister, Gloria, worked for uptown. Gloria had several children and when her husband found out she was pregnant by another man—a white man she worked for no less—he left Gloria with all their children to raise on her own.

  When Gloria asked her employer for more money due to her change in marital status, having several children plus his on the way, he fired her. Woozie stepped in and took Silas as her own.

  “Silas, I was at the CluckIt on Esplanade a few nights ago when someone was shot and another guy was pulled out the drive-thru window and kidnapped. Woozie suggested I come talk to you since you might have heard something about it through the grapevine. The two people hurt, were men—partners, but were transgender or dressed like women,” I said.

  “Boy, if it wasn’t for bad luck you’d have no luck at all,” he said. “How do these things find you?”

  “I don’t know, it’s a blessing and a curse. I didn’t get hurt so that’s the blessing part. Dante was the homicide detective that showed up to make matters worse.”

  “Did he have that hot little partner of his with him? What’s her name, Hanky?” he asked, smiling, and I noticed that twinkle.

  “Yes, that’s the part that’s the curse.” I looked at Silas and cocked my head. “Hot? Hanky? When’s the last time you had your eyes checked?”

  “Ohhh, somebody’s jealous,” he said. His eyes were twinkling.

  “Jealous? Of Hanky? I don’t think so, and yes, she was with him. You want me to fix you up with her?” I said.

  “I don’t need help in that department,” he said strutting around behind the bar. He had his wrists on his hips which caused his elbows to stick straight out from his body. He puffed out his chest and he was bouncing his head forward and back with each step showing off what he believed to be his manliness. He looked like a rooster parading in a barnyard.

  “If Hanky saw you right now I don’t think even you, Mr. Hot Stuff, would have a chance with her,” I said, giving him a big eye roll.

  “Maybe you could tell her the next time you see her how incredibly sexy I am. You know, in case she needs her eyes checked.” He continued the strut to the end of the bar and back making me laugh at his silliness.

  “I will, and it will serve you right. Don’t forget you asked me when it turns into the biggest hot mess of all time,” I said thinking Silas needed to get a job where he is around more hetero people—women—if he thought Hanky was hot.

  “Enough of Hanky. I came here for something else. Do you know anyone named Jimmie, or James Batiste, goes by Merlot? She had a partner, or so she thought, named Charles Ballon. Jimmie called him Chardonnay. Ballon was light skinned with a shaved head when he wasn’t wearing a wig in drag.”

  Silas leaned over with his elbow on the bar, resting his chin in his hand. “Let me think. This is a popular joint so almost everybody comes through here at one time or another,” he said. “Nothing comes to mind right this second, but I’ll ask around.”

  “The Jimmie person thought they were a couple, but it seems that the person who climbed in the window and shot her said something about staying away from the Charles person before he—yes, it was another ‘he’ dressed in a miniskirt—dragged Charles back out through the window with him. That’s all I got on them. I appreciate you trying to find out anything,” I said and sipped my drink.

  “No wonder the police aren’t doing much. It must be hard for them to figure out who’s who. How do you know these people and why do you care about this so much?” he asked.

  “I feel bad Jimmie loved someone who didn’t love her back, and I think th
e Charles guy brought this on the both of them, and Jimmie paid the price. Charles, aka Chardonnay, seems to have been stepping out on her. He might even go both ways. One of the workers told me she would overhear him on the phone talking trash or having porn-like conversations with different people,” I said. “And it wasn’t Jimmie he was talking to.”

  “I’ll ask around about those two. New Orleans is a big, small town where everybody knows somebody you know. Gay, straight, black, white, transgender—we all cross paths with each other sooner or later, and someone will know them.”

  Chapter Eight

  I decided to go to CluckIt with Frank around the same time the murder happened, hoping the two people I wanted to talk to would be working. On the drive to pick him up, I called CluckIt to make sure Earline and Lionel were scheduled to work tonight’s shift. They were.

  The next thing I did was text Jiff and tell him Frank was going with me, and I’d call him after, if it wasn’t too late. I didn’t want him trying to talk me out of going without him.

  As planned, I picked Frank up at the guest house at ten thirty. This was Sunday night, and I had to be at work by eight o’clock Monday morning. With luck, I’d get home by one a.m.

  “Is Julia still home?” I asked as I pulled up and Frank almost jumped in my car before it came to a stop. He was wearing his oversized satchel across his chest, New York style, with skinny jeans, a white blouse—a ladies’ blouse, not a man’s shirt, and kitten pumps.

  He had on a lot of black eyeliner above and below his eyes to look like he planned to audition for a heavy metal band. The eyeliner matched the color of his dyed black hair, cut in a feathered, pixie-like bob. Frank was constantly using the back of his hand to brush away imaginary hair he perceived to be in his face, or on his neck.

  “I just made it back here in time to meet you. It took Julia longer to get ready for a date tonight than the Queen of England takes for a Coronation,” Frank said fanning himself with one hand as he settled himself in my car fastening the seat belt in place with his other hand.