Out of the Easy

  I kept my eyes closed and felt my body relaxing further into the bench. “I did something.”

  “That’s never a good intro.”

  “For some reason, I want to tell you about it,” I said.

  “Okay. Start tellin’.”

  “Back around the New Year, I met a girl, Charlotte, from Massachusetts. She came into the shop, and we got on really well. We had never met before, but it was like she knew me completely. I felt so comfortable with her. Have you ever met someone like that?”

  “Yep.”

  The clouds shifted, and the glow of sun brightened on my face. “But she’s from a really wealthy family, a good family, and she’s a freshman at Smith College in Massachusetts. She even flies a plane. Charlotte kept telling me that I should apply to Smith. I know it sounds ridiculous, me being able to go to a prestigious school like that, but she sent me all the information.”

  Suddenly, the insanity of the whole thing came into focus, and I nearly laughed.

  “But for some reason, I began to want it, really badly. I told Willie, and she was mad. She said I had to go to school here in New Orleans, that I was out of my league trying to get into a college like that. Well, that made me want it more. So I did it, Jesse. I applied to Smith in Northampton. I told you I convinced that lout John Lockwell to sign a recommendation. I sent the application the other day. I’m scared to admit it, even to myself.” My voice dropped. “But I really want this.”

  I felt a shadow glide over my face as the sun slipped behind a cloud. I took a deep breath and exhaled, feeling the weight of secrecy lift off of me and onto the breeze.

  “Crazy, that’s what you’re thinking, right?” I said.

  “What I’m thinking?” His voice was close.

  I opened my eyes. Jesse was inches from my face, blocking the sun. I felt his breath on my neck and saw his mouth. My body jerked with panic and my fists leapt to my chest.

  Jesse pulled back immediately. “Oh, Jo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly. “You . . . had something in your hair.” He held up a piece of a leaf.

  Confusion flooded the space between us. I tried to explain. “No, it’s just . . .”

  Just what? Why was I whispering? I knew Jesse didn’t want to scare me. Yet my knuckles were clenched, ready to fight him off. I felt ridiculous, and he seemed to know it.

  “Wouldn’t it have been funny if you had popped me one?” He laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “Well, not funny, but you know what I mean.”

  Jesse leaned back on the bench and put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Okay, you asked what I was thinking. What I’m thinking is”—he turned to me and smiled—“you better get yourself a winter coat, Motor City. It’s cold in Massachusetts.”

  I barely heard him. Jesse’s aftershave lingered all around my face. I was suddenly aware of how close we were sitting on the bench and was consumed with wondering if his hands were warm or cold in the pockets.

  “How much does a school like that cost?” he asked.

  “A lot,” I said quietly.

  “How much is a lot?”

  “For tuition, residence, and books, it’s close to two thousand dollars per year,” I told him.

  Jesse blew a low whistle.

  “I know, it’s crazy.”

  “It’s crazy, but it’s just money. There’s lots of ways to get money,” said Jesse.

  We walked up St. Peter to Royal, back toward the shop. Neither of us spoke. We moved through the afterbirth of celebration, kicking cans and cups out of the way, stepping over pieces of costumes that had been abandoned through the course of the evening. Jesse grabbed a string of milky glass beads hanging from a doorway. He handed them to me, and I put them over my head. The day had a peace about it, like Christmas, when the world stops and gives permission to pause. All over the city, Orleanians were at rest, asleep in their makeup, beads in their beds. Even Willie’s was closed today. She’d spend the whole day in her robe, maybe even have coffee with the girls at the kitchen table. They’d laugh about the johns of the prior night. Evangeline would complain, Dora would make everyone laugh, and Sweety would leave midafternoon for her grandmother’s. Did Mother miss it? Was she thinking about New Orleans, about Willie’s, about me?

  “Looks like you’ve got an eager customer.” Jesse motioned to the bookshop.

  Miss Paulsen stood with her face to the window, peering inside.

  “Hello, Miss Paulsen.”

  She turned toward us on the sidewalk. “Oh, hello, Josie.” She looked at Jesse. Her eyes unashamedly scanned him up and down.

  “This is Jesse Thierry. Jesse, this is Miss Paulsen. She’s in the English department at Loyola.”

  Jesse smiled and nodded. “Ma’am.”

  Miss Paulsen stiffened. “I’m also a friend of the Marlowes’.” She addressed the comment to Jesse. “I’ve been trying to reach them for quite a while now. I’ve been to their house, but no one answered.”

  “Well, I better get going,” said Jesse.

  I didn’t want him to leave, to abandon me with Miss Paulsen, who would demand answers to too many questions.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Jesse backed away. “See you, Jo. It was nice.”

  Miss Paulsen shot me a look as Jesse walked across the street. Her shoulders jumped when he fired up his motorcycle. I could see Jesse laughing. He revved the engine again and again, until Miss Paulsen finally turned around. He waved and took off down Royal.

  “Oh, my.” Miss Paulsen touched her coiled bun, leaving her hand on the nape of her neck. “Is that boy in college?”

  I rubbed my arm, still feeling Jesse against me. “As a matter of fact, he is. Delgado. Is there something I can help you with, Miss Paulsen?”

  “Indeed there is.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Enough is enough. What’s going on with Charlie Marlowe?”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  We had agreed upon the story. Charlie was out of town, helping a sick friend in Slidell. So that’s what I told her. The lie came out so easily it frightened me. I used to feel sick to my stomach when I heard Mother tell a lie. How can you do it? How do you live with yourself? I used to wonder. But here I was, lying to Miss Paulsen and smiling while doing it. I even added details about Charlie possibly acquiring a bookstore in Slidell. Patrick and I had never discussed that. I made that up all by myself.

  Patrick hadn’t come to the shop in days. When I stopped by the house, he was always at the piano, playing endless melodies for Charlie. Something had changed. A curtain had fallen between us. It made me want to cry. I’d give my special knock and then let myself in with my key. Patrick would turn slightly from the piano, see it was me, and then turn back around. He communicated with his father through Debussy, Chopin, and Liszt. He’d continue playing, sometimes for hours. I’d bring groceries, straighten up the house, and he’d remain seated at the piano. We wouldn’t exchange a word. But as soon as I’d walk out onto the stoop to leave, I’d hear the notes stop. He was speaking to Charlie through the music. He was ignoring me through it.

  I was happy to see him come through the door of the shop. I couldn’t speak freely because a customer was browsing one of the stacks. Patrick and I had worked together for years, but today the space behind the counter felt cramped. We maneuvered around each other awkwardly and had lost our comfortable rhythm.

  “Hi.” I tried to smile at him. I put my hand on the counter, signaling mystery.

  Patrick looked down at the woman, shook his head, and gave me the sign for cookbook.

  It was the most we had communicated in over a week. I had repeatedly apologized about what happened with Charlie. I knew he heard me, but he hadn’t responded. His simple cookbook signal filled me with joy.

  “Charlie?” I whispered.

  “Randol
ph’s there. I have to run a few errands.”

  I pulled out a stack of mail and handed it to him. “I sorted the bills and checks. I figured you’d be going by the bank.”

  He nodded.

  The woman came to the register with the new Betty Crocker Cookbook.

  “I was so sure she’d choose Agatha Christie,” I said after she left the shop.

  “She desperately wants to read mysteries,” said Patrick. “But she had to buy the cookbook because her angry husband is demanding hot meals as soon as he drops his briefcase at the door. She’s miserable in the marriage—so is her husband. He drinks to escape, she cries in the bathroom sitting on the edge of the tub. They never should have gotten married. She’s even more miserable now that she bought the cookbook instead of Agatha Christie. She feels trapped.”

  I looked out the window and watched the woman standing motionless in the street. I played through the scenario Patrick had created and could suddenly see her throwing the book in a trash bin, shaking her hair out, and running to the nearest saloon. Two young men crossed the street toward the shop looking at us through the window. I pegged one to buy the Mickey Spillane novel. The other boy looked familiar. It was John Lockwell’s son, Richard.

  “Jo.” Patrick tugged at my arm, pulling me into him. I felt his hand slide under my hair, and suddenly he was kissing me. By the time I realized what was happening, he had stopped.

  “Patrick.” I was so shocked I could barely say his name. My hand rested on his shoulder, not in a fist. I had let him kiss me and didn’t fight him off.

  He quickly looked out the window. “I’m sorry, Jo,” he whispered.

  His face was so close to mine, drawn with pain.

  “Patrick, I’m sorry, too, I—”

  He didn’t let me finish. He kissed me quickly, grabbed the stack of mail, and left the shop.

  I leaned against the counter to steady myself, filled with a mixture of shock, confusion, and Patrick’s toothpaste in my mouth. I touched my lips. Was it an “I’m sorry” kiss or an “I’m sorry I didn’t do this sooner” kiss? I couldn’t tell. But I hadn’t resisted and was more bewildered than fearful.

  I finalized the inventory that Patrick had requested and sorted a new shipment of books. I was distracted and shelved things in the wrong place. I put the new best seller Confessions of a Highlander by Shirley Cameron in the travel section instead of in romance. I caught my mistake and scolded myself. I moved it to the register display, hoping a regretful housewife would buy it instead of a cookbook.

  I kept returning to the same conclusion. Patrick and I made sense. We were comfortable. We had known each other a long time. We loved books. He was smart, talented, stylish, and very organized. He had seen all my ghosts. There wouldn’t be any uncomfortable explanations or risk of rejection when Dora hooted at me in the street, when Willie insisted I go with her to Shady Grove, or when Mother resurfaced, begging for a sirloin for the black eye that Hollywood had given her. Patrick would take a Greyhound from the station on Rampart to visit me at Smith. On Christmas Eve, he would be waiting at the station in his blue peacoat when my bus pulled in late at night. We’d listen to music together, I’d give him cuff links for his birthday, and we’d spend Sunday mornings drinking coffee and combing the obituaries for dead books.

  I smiled. Patrick didn’t scare me. It made sense.

  The bell jingled. Frankie walked into the shop, peering between the stacks.

  “Wow, twice in the same month. Let me guess—you’ve been dreaming of Victor Hugo?” I asked.

  Frankie looked around. His hands twitched. “You alone?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?” he asked, chomping on his gum.

  I nodded. The ever-present humor was absent from his voice. A shadow rolled through my stomach.

  “Your momma’s on her way back.”

  I let out the breath I was holding. “Already? Why am I not surprised?” I slid a book into its proper place. I had to ask the question. “Is Cincinnati coming with her?”

  “Don’t know. I told Willie, and she told me to come and tell you.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I have a source over at American Telegram. They saw the message transmitted.”

  “Mother sent Willie a telegram?” That seemed odd.

  “No, the telegram was sent last night from the Los Angeles police chief to one of the head detectives here in New Orleans. They delivered the telegram to his house last night, all private.”

  “I knew Cincinnati would get her in trouble. So he’s been arrested, and now she’s coming back.”

  “It’s not Cinci. Your momma’s the one in custody.”

  “What?”

  Frankie nodded. “Telegram said, ‘Louise Moraine in custody on way to New Orleans.’ My leak in the detective’s office said that they’ve been hunting her down.”

  “What for?”

  Frankie blew a small bubble and looked out the window.

  “What for, Frankie?”

  His gum snapped just as the words came out of his mouth.

  “The murder of Forrest Hearne.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I ran to Willie’s, my stomach bouncing in my mouth the entire way. Yes, Mother was stupid. And greedy. A murderer? I didn’t want to believe it. The thought scared me too much. Echoes of all her rotten promises came floating at me from the jar of shame, and with each step I took, I heard the ticktock of Forrest Hearne’s watch—the watch I had found under her bed.

  I crept in through the kitchen door. Dora sat with her emerald dress hiked up around her thighs, bare foot on the kitchen table. She was painting her toenails a pearlescent shade of pink. She took one look at me and opened her arms.

  “Oh, sugar, come to Dora. I’d get up, but I’d ruin my hooves.”

  I walked into Dora’s arms. She squeezed me into what felt like pillows. “Now, I’ve read a couple crime novels, hon. Nothin’ has been proved yet. Willie said they’re just callin’ her in for questioning.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she offed a rich guy, stupid,” Evangeline said as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Now, Vangie, hush,” scolded Dora. “Louise didn’t off anyone. She was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Dora turned to me. “When police questioned people, someone said they saw her having a drink with the rich man on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Mother was drinking with Mr. Hearne?”

  “Was that his name?” asked Dora.

  “Yeah,” said Evangeline. “Forrest Hearne.”

  “Ooh, now that’s a sexy name. Was he somethin’ to look at?” said Dora.

  “Picture in the paper looked all that. Said he was an architect and rich,” reported Evangeline.

  “Now, why didn’t he come to the maison de joie to see the queen of green?” said Dora. “If he did, he wouldn’t be dead.”

  “Dora, stop,” I said.

  “Oh, sugar, I’m sorry. I’m just sayin’ that you shouldn’t worry yourself. After all, the police are questioning everybody now, aren’t they?” Dora raised her eyebrows slightly. Her sister, Darleen, had seen me in the police station.

  “I guess.” I nodded.

  She nodded back. “I’d be more concerned that Cincinnati might be comin’ back with her,” said Dora.

  “Well, Louise is gonna have to stay up in the attic,” said Evangeline. “That room is mine now. I finally got the stink out.”

  I got up to find Willie. Evangeline grabbed my arm at the door.

  “Stay away from John Lockwell,” she whispered. An asterisk of spit shot through her teeth and onto my chest. She stared at the bubble of saliva. “Oh, look.” She grinned. “It’s raining.”

  • • •

  I knocked on Willie’s doo
r.

  “You shouldn’t be here” was the reply.

  I walked in anyway. Willie sat fully dressed for the evening in her traditional black. Her hair was pulled up higher than normal, anchored with two diamond-encrusted fleur-de-lis combs. The black book sat open in front of her on the desk.

  “I’m getting as bad as Charlie,” she said over her shoulder. “Last week I wrote down that Silver Dollar Sam likes Seven and Seven.” She made a correction. “It’s Pete the Hat that likes Seven and Seven.”

  Willie’s black book was a card catalog. She listed each customer with a code name, what girl they liked, service preference, even what they drank and what card game they played. Silver Dollar Sam was really a car salesman named Sidney. But he had a tattoo of a silver dollar on his back. There was just enough information in the book for Willie to use it as an insurance policy. If anyone gave her trouble, she had a visit record she’d offer to share with his wife or mother. Before the action started each night, Willie would examine the list of any advance reservations. She’d make sure to remember their favorites while making it all seem natural and unrehearsed.

  Willie appeared completely calm about the news of Mother. She always said she could make tea in a tornado. Her ease relaxed me.

  I picked up a tube of Hazel Bishop lipstick from her bed and blotted some color onto my lips and cheeks. “So, what do we do?” I asked.

  Willie turned a page in the book. “We’ve already discussed this. You won’t speak to anyone. You stayed in on New Year’s Eve. You saw nothing. You and your mother are estranged. When she gets back, you’ll go out to Shady Grove. You’ll be out of town for a while.”

  “By myself?”

  “What, you want Cincinnati to go with you?”

  “No, but won’t it look strange if I’m suddenly out of town?”

  “Oh, are you so important that everyone will notice? You said the police already asked you questions and you answered them. All the locals know your mother, and they know better than to mess with me and mention your name. No one will say anything.”

  “But who will clean the house in the mornings?”