Roux the Day (8 page)

“This is great,” she replied in a tone that didn’t quite reinforce her words, but then her professionalism kicked into high gear. “I was only expecting Larry for the show, but now I can put the two of you on!”

She was looking from one to the other of us. She sensed the tension and a mounting amusement showed on her face. “Oh, Larry, don’t tell me you accused him, too, of killing your brother!”

He looked slightly embarrassed. “I had the idea it might startle one of you into admitting something incriminating,” he admitted, and Elsa laughed.

Meantime I was wrestling with another angle. “Show?” was the best I could manage.

“The story of the Belvedere chefs’ book, its place in New Orleans cooking history and the startling murder which may be connected with it.”

“Oh, I can’t contribute much to that,” I said modestly. “You’ve got the right man in Larry here, though. I know he has some strong thoughts on the murder of his brother.”

It was a cat-among-the-pigeons idea. I could have added
Larry is ready to shoot anybody he thinks is a suspect,
but I didn’t want to toss in too much drama and break up any intelligent aspect the show might have.

Larry Mortensen looked vaguely uncomfortable but said, “I didn’t really want to do the show but Elsa convinced me that it might bring new information on Richie’s murder.”

Elsa seemed to relish the effect her summary of the show was having on both of us and said enthusiastically to me, “But of course we want you on the show, too. At the auction, I didn’t know you were a food expert. You can be helpful in telling the people out there all about the book from the point of view of an outside authority.”

She glanced at her Rolex. “Less than an hour. We’d better get along to the studio, get you into makeup right away.” She looked at our clothes with a touch of disdain, Larry’s then mine. Her nose wrinkled. I already knew that tact was not her strongest point so I was not surprised when she said, “I’m sure we can find something for you to wear.”

A murder is the caviar on the toast for the media—for a couple days after it happens, at least. The technical crew was efficient, the wardrobe lady was accommodating and the makeup people did the best they could with the two of us, spending most of their time on Elsa. She looked radiant when they had finished, almost overpoweringly glamorous at close personal range but certainly just right for the cameras.

When we were properly positioned, the cameraman and the young woman with authority over the lights had a few minutes of moving and jiggling so as to get rid of shadows and glare. Another young woman threaded a cord up our sleeves and clipped a mike onto our lapels. There was a countdown, red lights flashed, and a musical fanfare blared out then died away as a plummy, unseen voice introduced Elsa.

She was good at her job—poised, charming, eloquent and exuding a completely different personality from the brassy broad who had been at the book auction. She began by outlining the history of the Belvedere family in New Orleans and relating the success story of their restaurant. “The Book” she described briefly and went on to refer to the murder in Gambrinus’s bookshop.

From then on, the program slid downhill on a slippery slope. I was asked to contribute on the theme of chefs’ books and I mentioned a few. Elsa asked me about famous recipes and I explained that the concept had all been well exploited by today’s marketers. I mentioned Kentucky Fried Chicken which contained only a mix of common seasonings, then went on to an account of Coca-Cola and the alleged “secret” formula that was kept in a safe and was known only to two people. I talked about the sauce on the Big Mac, which is really only Thousand Island dressing, then Elsa eased me out of the spotlight for a commercial break.

Larry Mortensen went into the hot seat next, but Elsa didn’t give him a roasting; it was more of a “heat gently at very low temperature.” Some TV interviewers would have torn him apart but she was surprisingly gentle—another contrast to the abrasive personality I had seen at the auction.

Elsa wrapped up with a couple of police comments about “pursuing valuable leads” and a promise to TV watchers that she would continue to follow this “fascinating real-life crime.”

Television cameras don’t move around; their subjects do. When we went dark for another commercial, Larry and I were whisked out of our chairs and replaced by a couple of local politicians and an engineer to discuss some problem in which the Mississippi River was threatening part of New Orleans. Elsa was focusing on the effect on the river’s supply of seafood and what was being done about it.

Larry and I watched this from another corner of the studio but before this segment was over, he touched my arm and whispered, “I’m outta here. Sorry if I scared you back there. Maybe my method wasn’t so good.” Before I could tell him that—subject to a count of possible gray hairs which I didn’t have yesterday—no harm was done, he was gone.

I stayed for the remainder of the program. Lights and chairs were being dragged into position for the next hour’s startling revelations and the studio looked temporarily forlorn. Elsa exchanged a few words with a man with Rastafarian whiskers then caught sight of me. She came over. At close range, her makeup looked garish but exciting.

“Not a bad start on that story,” she said breezily. “Let’s hope there are more developments in the next few days.”

“Just no more murders,” I said fervently.

She nodded but I didn’t think her heart was in it. “Well, I’m glad you came,” she said. “Your contribution to the program was great.”

“Good,” I said. “I stayed on mainly to ask you one question.”

She smiled brightly. “What’s that?”

“When I went into Gambrinus’s office and found that body there, you were just leaving. How long were you there and what did you see?”

W
HILE I HAD BEEN
watching the argument over the Mississippi River and its fish, my thoughts had been straying to the imbroglio in which I was caught. A bold stroke was needed if I was going to achieve any progress and make Lieutenant Delancey proud of me.

Someone had been in Gambrinus’s office seconds before me, I was convinced of that. I had heard a door slam and that door led to an alley and a quick escape. Had that person been the murderer? It was not certain but that person had not waited to be caught in the same room with a dead man, whether they were innocent or guilty.

A point on which there could be no doubt was that Elsa Goddard had left the book auction all steamed-up to go to Gambrinus’s shop. She had evidently not told the police this, which suggested a fear of being accused. So I settled on this bombshell tactic and stood waiting to see what her reply would be.

She was cool as ice. “What did I see? The question is what—or who—did
you
see? It couldn’t have been me, I wasn’t there.”

How far did she want to carry this? I went a little further. “I just caught a glimpse of you leaving,” I prevaricated. “You were in a great hurry—and no wonder! Found in a room with a recently deceased man! I presume you got the book?”

“I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t get the book.” Just in time, she remembered to add, “—And I wasn’t there.”

“So who did kill him and get the book? If we assume it wasn’t you?”

“I don’t know.” She paused then said, “You haven’t told the police about this wild idea of yours. Why not?”

“Lieutenant Delancey and I are working both sides of the street on this.” I thought I had heard that expression on television once and it sounded appropriate now. I hoped I was using it in the right context so I added, with an undertone of pomposity, “He’s pursuing some lines of investigation and I’m pursuing others.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re working with the police?”

“Within my limited capacity,” I said modestly.

That didn’t intimidate her—she wasn’t the type to be intimidated by anything less than a starving tribe of cannibals. She did regard me with a little more respect but she wasn’t going to let go easily. She said, “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“Ask the lieutenant.”

She looked as if she had every intention of doing so but her voice was sharp as she asked, “How are you so sure it was me?”

“Your perfume,” I said.

“I don’t believe I was wearing perfume that day, I—” She stopped.

“It doesn’t matter. Just tell me about it—and let me say I don’t think you killed Mortensen.”

“I heard the front doorbell and I thought you were the murderer coming back,” she said, and her voice was normal now. “I wanted to stay and get the story but the body had a bullet hole in the chest and I didn’t want to be caught by the murderer.”

“What did you find when you came into Gambrinus’s office?”

“Must have been exactly the same you found; you were only a couple of minutes after me. I had time to see him, realize he was dead. I looked over his desk to see if the book was there. I couldn’t see it, then I heard the door—that must have been you.”

It sounded reasonable and I had been telling the truth when I said I didn’t think she had done the shooting. Television personalities are not above murder but she didn’t seem likely to kill for a book. Unless there was something else. That called for another question.

“Did you know Gambrinus?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“How about Richie Mortensen?”

“No, neither of them. I assumed it was Gambrinus when I saw the body. I hid in the alley for a few minutes, not knowing if you were the killer. Then the police began arriving. I didn’t want to appear on the scene too soon so I didn’t show up until enough time had elapsed that it wouldn’t look suspicious.”

“How did you meet Larry?”

She smiled. She looked quite human despite the heavy makeup. “He accused me of killing his brother.”

“You, too?” I returned her smile.

“It seems to be his investigational technique. He accuses everyone.”

“Do you have any thoughts on what happened to the book?” I asked.

“No. Oh, I didn’t go to the auction to buy it for myself. I went on behalf of a group, they wanted—”

“You mean the Witches.” I nodded and she stared.

“You know about them?” she said, genuinely surprised.

“Oh, yes, we know,” I said in an offhanded way, shamelessly allying myself with the New Orleans Police Department.

She eyed me, obviously wondering how much else I knew. In my turn, I wondered how much more she knew that I didn’t. I waited to see where else this trail might lead, but she didn’t offer any help.

“Is there anyone else who might want the book?” I asked her. “Enough to kill for it?”

She seemed about to answer but thought better of whatever she was going to say and instead said, “It could be valuable enough that a number of people would be after it.”

“Because of its intrinsic value? Surely not.”

“There could be … something else.”

“Such as what?” I asked.

“One of the recipes?”

I tried to analyze how much importance she attached to this idea. “Seems a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Are you going to follow this up?” I asked her.

She nodded vigorously and her blonde hair, though not long, danced a little. “The book is still a good story—it has to be when it involves one of the greatest names in New Orleans cuisine.”

“Exclusively?”

“Oh, no, I always have lots of stories going. This one isn’t likely to bring developments every day so I’ll probably come back to it every two or three days. I’ll keep that up as long as it’s still live.”

I nodded, waiting for her to show some spirit of cooperation in that endeavor, but she only gave me her professional smile. It was obvious that she’d like to know anything I found out, but I didn’t intend to reciprocate.

“Well, good luck,” I told her.

“Tell me one thing …” Her voice was unusually moderated.

“What is it?”

“Have you been to St. Cynthia?”

“Who?” I was baffled by the question.

She studied me, looking for signs of concealment. She evidently didn’t see any. “No, I guess you haven’t.”

“Who is she and why—”

She was already talking over my question. “It doesn’t matter. You can find your own way out, can’t you?”

I could and did.

I was ready for some sustenance after the morning’s excitement and it was approaching lunchtime. I dug into my pockets and came up with the cards I had been given by the Witches. One of the first that came to hand said
VILLA ROMANA
, and had the name of Della Forlani, one of my erstwhile kidnappers.

It was on the edge of the French Quarter and the cab ride was uneventful—no pursuers, tails or gumshoes. It was a little disappointing, really, to be forgotten already.

A drunk was singing “New York, New York” in a karaoke bar as I walked past the open door, and a few thin streams of tourists sauntered about. A man on a street corner was hawking packets of red beans and rice, and across the street a bearded, haggard young man was playing something mournful on a saxophone. It sounded like Hoagy Carmichael.

A lunch counter had a sign in the window,
EAT LOUISIANA OYSTERS AND LOVE LONGER
, and the Villa Romana was just past it, a pleasant building with green shutters and a wrought-iron balcony out in front above the entrance.

Della was in the restaurant, taking the first orders of the day, for it was still early. She beamed at the sight of me. “So glad you could come. Would you like a table by the window?” Restaurants like to fill the window seats, as it makes the place look popular, and I wanted one so that I could watch the passing scene.

After giving her order to the kitchen, she came out with a young woman who took over as Della came and sat at my table. A glass of sparkling white wine appeared at my right hand. “Prosecco,” I said, “one of my favorite wines.”

She clapped her hands with glee. “Good, I hoped you’d like it.” Then she became suddenly serious. “I hope we didn’t give you palpitations when we—er, kidnapped you. I’ve suggested that we stop doing that, but I’m outnumbered.”

“After the first few uncertain moments, it was all right,” I said. “Gives me something unusual to talk about back home. I may be the only person in my circle of friends who has ever been kidnapped. I’ll be the envy of Hammersmith.”