Death By The Riverside Part 39

"Has she mentioned anything?" I didn't really want to talk to Karen, but I did want to know about Cordelia, what was happening to her. I wasn't sure she would call anytime soon and tell me.

"What are all these questions? I'm tired of questions. If I don't get the money, I don't want to talk about it. Like I told Mr. Korby this afternoon, since Cordelia's healthy as an ox, the likelihood of my getting any of it in time to do me any good isn't likely."

"Mr. Korby?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes, Alphonse Korby. He was a friend of Grandpa's. He took me to lunch today. If I had gotten the plantation, I would have sold it to him. He really wants it, he seems to think that if he buys Holloway land he can get our social standing. I doubt that Cordelia will sell it to him."

"But you inherit if something happens to her?"

"Harry and I. At least until she writes a new will, which she'll probably do once she marries that jerk."

Well, fancy that, Karen Holloway and I agreed on something.

She continued, "Why is everybody so interested in Cordelia and her will? Don't you want to hear how much money you've cost me?

How about a little compensation?"

"Who's everybody?"

"Korby and some friends of his. Some cop who kept trying to pick me up. All during lunch. It really got pretty boring."

"Some cop?" I asked.

"Yeah, Captain, somebody. Or was it Lieutenant? Maybe Sergeant.

I never pay attention to stuff like that. He did most of the talking, since Korby was on the phone half the time."

"On the phone?"

"Sure, he always has a phone around. What do you care?"

A lot. I cared a lot. "Who was he talking to? Did you catch any names?"

"No, I wasn't paying much attention."

"Milo?" I persisted. "Any chance he mentioned that name?"

"Maybe," Karen answered as she leaned in closer. "There was some M name. Oh, I know, that's what Korby calls his pilot. For his * 254 *

private plane. But his lawyer was explaining the paperwork to me then."

Her hand brushed against my knee.

I was so busy trying to figure out Korby's interest in all this, that it took me a while to catch on that Karen was propositioning me. But I wanted more information, so I had to play along for a while.

"What paperwork?"

"Just an agreement that if something happens to Cordelia that I'll sell to Mr. Korby. He even paid me five thousand for it. Didn't make sense to me, but he said he had developed quite an affection for One Hundred Oaks." Now her knee was pressing against mine. "My car's parked on the street out back."

"Where...?" I started.

"Middle of the block," she answered with a smile.

"Where's Cordelia now? Do you know?"

"Out at the house sorting through all that old junk. What's-his-name is out there with her. Korby wanted to know that, too. Why's everybody so interested in Cordelia these days?"

"What did you tell him?"

"What I just told you. He seemed very anxious to get in touch with her."

I'll bet. I didn't like this one bit. "You have to excuse me for a minute. I have a few phone calls to make," I said, starting to make my exit.

"What about s.e.x?" she inquired.

"I'll tell you what, Karen, buy me ten drinks in the next hour and it'll be a possibility."

I quickly ducked into the crowd, hoping to be out of earshot when she caught my meaning. I got a couple of dollars' worth of change from the bartender, then headed for the pay phone.

First I tried Ranson, but I got no answer at either her home or office.

I decided not to leave a message. I didn't know who might be listening in. Then I got a handful of change and called out to One Hundred Oaks Plantation. The phone rang. And rang. It might be Th.o.r.eau and Cordelia having adequate s.e.x and not wanting to be disturbed. But it might not.

Where the h.e.l.l was Hutch?

I called Alex Sayers hoping that Ranson was with her. I could be interrupting s.e.x all over southeast Louisiana.

* 255 *

"No, Micky, I haven't see or heard from her all day," she answered in a sleepy voice. "Why, is something wrong?"

"A hunch. It's probably nothing. I left something at her apartment,"

I finished up, evading her questions. It suddenly occurred to me that Ranson could be in trouble. Alex didn't need to start worrying until there was something to definitely worry about. "Go back to sleep, Alex.

I'm sorry I woke you for nothing."

"Okay, Micky. Good night. Oh, by the way, she liked the steps."

Alex hung up.

I wandered over to Rosie, looking out the small window that she sat next to, wondering for the hundredth time where the h.e.l.l Hutch was.

Rosie and I chatted for a while, gossiping about karate-who had gotten what belt and who was sleeping with whom in cla.s.s.

I saw Hutch pull up. About time.

If I hadn't been watching, staring so intently out the window, I would have missed it. Hutch never got out of the car. A shadow pa.s.sed between him and the street. When the shadow moved away, Hutch was slumped down in the seat. He could have been a drunk sleeping it off, save for that pa.s.sing shadow.

"Call the police and an ambulance, now!" I ordered Rosie. She looked at me for a moment like I had just said I was from Mars.

"That man," I pointed to Hutch, "is hurt. He needs help. Now. Call," I demanded.

The shadow was joined by some more shadows. They were coming down the street to the bar.

"And don't open the door. Those are not nice men." I pointed out the window at the silent shadows.

Rosie had already picked up the phone and was dialing 911.

I slipped the bolt on the door, then moved back out of sight of the window. I couldn't do anything for Hutch, except get myself killed, by going outside.

Where the h.e.l.l is Ranson? I thought angrily, moving farther back into the bar. Those men couldn't go on a mad rampage, shooting everyone in the bar to get to me. I hoped. This was a raunchy lesbian bar. Who would miss a few d.y.k.es? And Ranson might have floated out to the Gulf by now. A wave of nausea swept over me. d.a.m.n it, * 256 *

Joanne, don't die before I get a chance to apologize to you. Cordelia.

Another wave of nausea hit me. Where were you the night all your friends got killed, Micky? Hanging out in a bar, getting drunk. No. No more ghosts.

Luck, bad, would cause me to b.u.mp back into Karen. She was sitting on a bar stool with one foot stuck out to intercept me.

"Actually, you were a pretty lousy f.u.c.k, Michele," she said. "Worst one I can remember."

Karen had a car. Not that she would lend it to me at this point.

"It's true I never made your c.u.n.t turn green with envy," I replied, "or at least food coloring, but I couldn't have been your worst f.u.c.k. Not someone like you." I got some small satisfaction out of her reaction.

Half of her drink spilled down the front of her silk s.h.i.+rt.

"That b.i.t.c.h! She told you, didn't she?" Karen sputtered as she got up. "Where the f.u.c.k is she?"

I shrugged.

"Where's Cheryl?" Karen demanded imperiously of the bartender.

The bartender pointed off somewhere in the direction of the dance floor.

Karen shot off in search of Cheryl, muttering obscenities. She left her purse dangling on the back of the bar stool.

I casually leaned against the stool and asked the bartender for another drink. When she turned away to make it, my fingers were in Karen's purse. It was one of those small fas.h.i.+onable ones and the keys were the largest item in it.

I got my drink, left a big tip, and headed for the back of the bar. I took one sip of the drink, then put it down. I didn't need it.

I went into the bathroom. There was a small window over one of the stalls. There was a line of about three or four women waiting to use the toilet and a couple of hand washers. I didn't have time to wait for it to clear out.

"s.h.i.+t!" I exclaimed. "There's a rat crawling across the ceiling!

Two of them! One's falling." You would have to be butcher than butch to risk a rat in your hair. Both the stall doors flew open. I had found Cheryl for Karen. She jumped out, rabbit fas.h.i.+on with her pants down around her ankles. The bathroom cleared out quickly.

I jumped onto the toilet that Cheryl had just been using. Then put one foot on top of the tank. With a fairly long stretch and a jump, I * 257 *

got my other foot on the metal part.i.tion. From there I could reach the window. It was small and covered with metal grating, but latched, not locked. I pushed it open, hoping that the goon squad hadn't thought to cover the back. I heaved myself through, then dropped down between trash cans in the alley. So far, so good. I scurried through the alley, keeping low. A siren wailed in the distance. Get here in time for Hutch, I told it.

No shadows appeared on the street. I made a run for Karen's car.

A red BMW is easy to spot, no time spent hunting for the right car to steal.

I got in, started it, and drove off. The siren got louder, then receded as I drove away.

I kept a lookout for any tails, but I doubted they would expect me to be driving an expensive red car.

I made a quick swing by my place to get a few things. My gun, for one. I tried Ranson again. Still no answer. I left a message, "Hi, gone fis.h.i.+ng. See you upriver." I hoped she got it. I tried Cordelia's apartment. No answer.

Then I called Danny, hoping she was back. Elly answered and told me that she was still in Baton Rouge but would be back in the morning.

"I don't want to sound too melodramatic, Elly, but if you don't hear from me by then, tell Danny to get the police out to One Hundred Oaks Plantation."

"Micky, what's going on?" she asked, sounding worried.

"I'm playing a hunch. It might be nothing," I said. "You'll probably hear from me in an hour and Danny will wring my neck for worrying you."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Read a good book."

"Call soon," she said. I rang off.

I tried both of Cordelia's numbers again. No answer and no answer.

I hoped I was wrong. That all this was a bad dream that I would soon wake up from.

I got back into Karen's car and started driving. I only went below the speed limit at red lights and stop signs.

* 258 *

Every time I had come out here it had been a nightmare. First Barbara, then Frankie. "Not Cordelia," I said aloud to the night. "Not her. No more sacrifices." "As flies to wanton boys are we to the G.o.ds, they kill us for sport"-the line came out of nowhere. King Lear.

Cordelia had died in King Lear.

I drove even faster. It was only forty minutes, but it seemed an age before the gates of One Hundred Oaks Plantation loomed before me. I turned in, still going faster than I should.

Then there was the house, quiet and calm, a few lights on. Cordelia's car was out front, but hers was the only one. I felt a tremendous sense of relief. I had been a paranoid fool and I was very glad of it.

I thought about turning around, not even saying anything. I also thought of waiting hidden on the grounds like some guardian angel sent to protect Cordelia James. But I didn't think I would be a very good angel. I decided the only thing to do was knock on the door and try to explain why I thought she might be in danger and what I thought she should do about it. I could see her standing there, probably in a robe, with a look of bemused tolerance on her face as I made a great fool out of myself.

Then I remembered the shadow pa.s.sing by Hutch. And Frankie.

And Barbara. I no longer felt so foolish.

I pounded loudly with the big bra.s.s ram's head knocker. I banged it again when I got no response. This is a big house and she's probably sound asleep, I told myself. I pounded again. Then I tried the door. It was unlocked.