Hot Blooded Murder (34 page)

“Bryn!” Arthur said, jogging down the driveway. Theo was hustling alongside of him, trying to keep pace with Arthur’s greyhound strides. A deputy came up to me and I handed over the rifle. I waved at Arthur and Theo, then patted Once’s sweaty shoulder. “Way to go, guy,” I whispered to him. He tossed his head.

Panting, they arrived at my side. Theo hugged me, and when he let me go, Arthur patted my back enthusiastically.

“Thank you, Bryn,” cried Theo. “Thank you. You saved the horses and you saved the farm for me!” He was running on, both eyes leaping out at me. “I promise you and I promise Marcie’s soul I will take good care a all these animals. I owe you a lot, Bryn, a lot! Anythin I kin do for you–”

“Quit now, Theo, you’ll swell my head. And I will finish that article tomorrow and it will have the best possible ending now. But you know? I am whipped, guys, absolutely wrung out. I need a break. Maybe I’ll head north.”

“You deserve it, Bryn. Anythin I kin do, let me know,” said Theo.

“Thanks, Theo.” I gave him and then Arthur, a hug. “What a ride guys,” I said.

“You’re not kidding about that,” said Arthur. “So now you’re abandoning us for the far north?”

“Not abandon. Just a visit. I’ll be back in the fall. You-all just watch out for the hurricanes, now.”

And I turned and led Once back to his huge custom stall and spent the next soothing hour bathing him, wiping him down, and polishing up his brilliant champion’s coat.

Epilogue

I walked the hot streets of the French Quarter looking. Looking. The Lexus dealership had told me I might find him here somewhere. I moved down tourist-thick Decatur Street opposite Jackson Square and climbed the steps up the concrete levee, to the top, and gazed at the Mississippi River below. Four steps down I saw my target. Back in St. Tremaine Parish I had already delivered Amethyst to Morgan Oaks Farm and Theo had provided me with some juice for this little errand I was embarked upon. Also, my Tempo was packed for my journey north. Once I finished here, I’d be on my way.

Long gray hair, greasy from street living, crowned the head of the man I stared at. He wore layers of filthy clothing. He held up a Krewe of Rex plastic throw-cup; it contained a wrinkled dollar bill and a few coins. I eased down beside him and hid my desire to flinch away from his stench. He raised bloodshot eyes to me. Now I saw he had a skinny mutt on a string. The dog made a small woof, and Hank Petrie said, “Hush,” to the dog and “What you want,” to me.

I held out a crisp one hundred dollar bill. He reached for it but I snatched it back.

“Mr. Petrie?” I asked.

“Yeah. So?”

“You used to work for the Lexus dealership downtown?”

“Long time ago. So? Ain’t bin there for years.”

His grimy hand was still outstretched toward the money. I kept it away from him, but fanned it up and down, hoping to fan his desire for the money.

“You look like you could use a drink.”

He growled and lunged for the money. I scooted away, but I was still within smelling range. People were moving up and down the steps all around us. I felt safe and strangely calm.

“You checked out a wrecked Lexus that was registered to a Mr. Cade Pritchard, right?”

He stared at me, fear growing in his eyes. The fear was telling me what I suspected.

“I am not the law,” I continued. “I am not even a private detective. I’m just an ordinary citizen and I care about Mrs. Aimée Pritchard. All you have to do is nod yes or no to a very few questions and I’ll give you this money. Then you’ll never hear from me again.” I wasn’t going to mention he might hear from say, Sheriff MacWain, Deputy Tuan Scott or Detective Juarez.

“So?” He licked his lips. Stared at the money.

“I know you found something wrong with the Lexus that Aimée died in. Yes?”

After a long moment, he nodded, just once. His hand shot out toward the bill, I jerked it away.

“Were the brakes fiddled with?”

For a long time he held my gaze, then his eyes dropped and to my surprise, a tear ran down his dirty cheek. This was a man pummeled by guilt, I suddenly saw. Then he nodded again, just the once, in the affirmative.

I suppressed the great exhalation I wanted to make. “Last question. Did you repair those brakes so the police wouldn’t find anything wrong?”

He didn’t hesitate. His head was down and tears dripped onto his soiled khaki pants. He nodded again. Yes.

I handed him the hundred dollars. Slowly he took it, and shoved it into the depths of his layered clothing. I rose, walked up a few steps. The paddlewheeler, Delta Queen, was docked just down from us. Its calliope suddenly started to play “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I saw Hank Petrie’s face sink into his hands, his shoulders shake and he continued weeping hard. I made my way up the stairs, paused once more at the summit to gaze down at Hank’s guilt-ridden back, then let my eyes be soothed by the brown and blue swirl of Old Man River, roiling along.