Red Beans and Vice (6 page)

“And you would have needed an accomplice for the other job since you didn’t come in the meeting holding the cross high above your head like Don Quixote.”

“My, my, you have been thinking this through,” Amelia Hart said as she leaned back in her chair, looking Heaven over like she was noticing her for the first time.

“So, if we both believe you didn’t do it, who did?”

“It is intriguing. I’ll grant you that. For all the crime in New Orleans, folks leave the churches pretty much alone. We don’t have to lock ‘em up like you do up North.”

Heaven handed Amelia her card. “Will you call me if anything happens while I’m gone? I’m concerned that whoever is doing this is just getting started: that the benefit dinner could be a real disaster. You’re in the business
of knowing what’s happening in town. You hear and see more.”

Amelia noncommittally took the card and put in in a desk drawer. “What was the second thing?”

Heaven fished around in her purse and pulled out a slim booklet. “I went back to the convent yesterday. By a stroke of bad luck, I was there when the termites swarmed. But that’s not the second thing. I bought this little book about your ancestor in the bookstore.
Henriette Delille: Servant of Slaves.
Imagine my surprise when I read that she herself had a slave. And you all upset about the Sisters of the Holy Trinity.”

Amelia Hart flared, of course. “We’re all victims of our times, Heaven. By the time Henriette was a grown woman, in 1850 say, it was very hard to free a slave. You white folks had made sure of that. She would have had to put up a big bond, plus the slave had to leave the state. Maybe her…” the word was hard for her to get out, “slave didn’t want to leave New Orleans.”

Heaven stood up. “I didn’t know a thing about any of this until just two days ago. I’m just trying to understand. It does seem strange that any of these religious women, whether black or white, would not see that to own another human being like you own a dress is wrong.”

“Easy for you to say, standing here now.”

“I also noticed in the booklet that Henriette received her slave from her sister. Was that your great-great-great-grandmother?”

“Fuck you, Heaven. Are you saying I’ve got the same blood on my hands your white ancestors have? Not in a million years. Now get out of here.”

Heaven paused at the open door. “I meant what I said about coming back next year and cooking for your
aunt’s order,” she said as a parting peace offering. She didn’t wait for a response, just found her way to the reception area and to the street. “Well,” she said out loud as she walked down Chartres, “that certainly went bad fast.”

T
he Pan-American Coffee Company warehouses were what you’d expect; right on the wharf, an outdoor concrete dock with a tin roof and filled with wooden pallets, some empty and stacked high on top of each other, others loaded with fifty-pound burlap bags of coffee beans from all over Central and South America. It was basically the same story inside some ancient-looking warehouses, bags of beans everywhere.

Heaven was following Truely around, trying to act interested. He noticed she was distracted.

“What’s the matter, Heaven girl, still hungover from last night?”

Heaven shook her head. “No, I’m over that. I went to see Amelia Hart this morning.”

“Doing some of your famous sleuthing? Watch out for that one, Heaven, she’s hell on wheels.”

“And I made her so relaxed and comfortable by reminding her that her free-woman-of-color religious great-great-great-aunt, or whatever it is, owned at least one slave.”

Truely laughed. His lanky frame held a suit beautifully. “Now what ever possessed you to do that?”

“Well, I got this book over at the convent about her aunt. I just couldn’t get over the fact she pitched such a fit, and her family owned slaves, too. I’m new at this Civil War stuff. It’s still so vivid to folks here. Of course, we had our own problems out in the Midwest, but they
don’t seem to come up in conversation very often. Right where I live, in Kansas City, the Kansas folks were on one side of the Civil War and the Missouri folks were on the other. But I guess, because it was new territory out there in the 1860s, we don’t have the same long history with slavery as you all do down here. New Orleans is older than the United States, for God’s sake.”

“A fact we like to bring up as often as possible,” Truely said as they headed back through the warehouse to his office.

“I guess my point is, I’m not claiming any moral superiority because my great-great-grandparents didn’t keep slaves. The prairie settlers were way too poor for that. But because it isn’t part of my family history, it seems like it would be kind of creepy.”

Truely stopped and pointed around at the vast room they were standing in. “I’m the ninth generation of my mother’s family to import coffee. I’ve got forklifts and conveyer belts and electronic tracking systems up the ass. We run this whole warehouse operation with just forty employees. Of course, we’ve got lots more people out at the roasting and shipping facility. But I know as well as I know my name that this room, or one on this very spot, was filled with slaves in, say, 1850, doing what those forklifts and conveyers belts do now. It’s eerie,” he said softly and took Heaven’s arm.

They stopped at a state-of-the-art coffeemaker. “Want a cup?” Truely asked as he poured himself some. Truely’s coffee cup seemed permanently attached to his hand. He gestured with it gracefully.

“What is it?” Heaven asked, embarrassed to be such a snob.

“This is from a Jamaican estate right across the valley from Blue Mountain. Good enough?”

She nodded and accepted the cup, slurping as they walked. “Delicious. Is it as expensive as Blue Mountain?”

“About half the price. So, Heaven, who do you think is fooling with the convent?”

“I think it will take much more New Orleans knowledge than I have to even identify all the suspects,” Heaven said.

When Heaven and Truely rounded the corner into Truely’s office they were surprised by a man sitting in Truely’s chair. He was a big man, no, a mountain of a man, like a former professional football player at age forty. The guy wasn’t fat but he wasn’t all muscle either. Tall, too. He startled both of them, Truely more than Heaven. “Where you been?” the big man demanded.

“Showing my friend from out of town around,” Truely said cautiously, not introducing Heaven and the unexpected visitor.

“I thought we had an appointment yesterday?” the big man said, ignoring Heaven completely.

“Yes, I guess we did,” Truely admitted.

“I guess we’ll have it right now,” the big man said, looking at Heaven dismissively.

Heaven got the hint. There was no way to pretend the guy wasn’t emasculating Truely. He was sitting in Truely’s chair behind Truely’s desk and he didn’t bother to get up when Truely came in. That was fairly insulting. “I’ve got to go anyway. I’m meeting your best friend at K-Paul’s.”

Truely’s eyes looked sad that Heaven had been exposed to this big lug, but he still smiled politely and gave Heaven a hug. “Watch that boy. He’s a pistol. We’ll see you next month.” With that he almost pushed Heaven out in the hall and closed the door. Heaven
walked slowly away from the office, hoping to catch a piece of conversation, but no yelling erupted that she could hear. Maybe it was just rudeness on the part of the other man, nothing more.

But here in New Orleans, where superficial manners were an art form, rudeness jarred Heaven. This guy wasn’t one of the rival coffee people who had confronted Truely at the hotel bar. He was someone else who wasn’t happy. Heaven shivered. Something was wrong.

“I
don’t remember it being so upscale,” Heaven said as she and Will were seated.

“Just another way the world is going to hell in a hand-basket. K-Paul’s has gone and cleaned up,” Will said as he rubbed his hands together gleefully. “The food is still good, though.”

“I sure had fun last night,” Heaven said before she thought. “The four of us, I mean,” she quickly added.

“Me, too. How come I haven’t met you before? You’re sure the best one of Mary Beth’s Northerner friends.”

Heaven couldn’t resist. The scene at Truely’s was just too fresh in her mind. She switched the conversation. “Speaking of friends, yours says for me to watch out for you, says you’re a pistol.”

Will looked like he had just been called a captain of industry. But before he could reply an older man in a linen suit stopped by the table. “Tom Tibbetts, don’t get up. Just call my office this afternoon. We may be able to do something with that Chef Mentuer property.” He walked on.

Heaven looked quizzically across the table.

“I told you only my friends called me Will. I can’t be the only one at this table with several names. You can’t tell me your momma named you Heaven.”

“Katherine O’Malley,” she said, wanting to turn the conversation back to Truely. “Will, can I ask you something that isn’t any of my business?”

“I’ve been married twice, well, three times if you count that month in my senior year of high school.”

“I’ve got you beat by two, if you count that month in your senior year of high school. But that’s not what I want to ask you. Is Truely’s business all right?”

The waiter arrived and they ordered; gumbo and a miniature eggplant version of a pirogue, the flat-bottomed boats of the bayou, filled with spicy crayfish for Heaven, and some oysters and blackened snapper for Will.

“And we’ll have a bottle of that good Sancerre, the Pascal Jolivet,” Will said as he handed in their menus. “Why do you ask about Truely’s business?” He didn’t say she was barking up the wrong tree, she noticed. Answering a question with a question was old but it still worked.

“Well, today I went over to the warehouse, to see how a coffee operation functions, and when we went back into Truely’s office, there was a great big man sitting in Truely’s chair behind his desk, which I found to be the highest form of insult.”

Will started the spin control for his friend. “If someone sat in Truely’s chair and he didn’t give them hell, they must be a good friend. How old?”

“Forty, maybe. He looked like someone who had played for the Saints about ten years ago.”

“Heaven, you’ve been living in Kansas City too long,
where those Italians were into everything in the food world and were always dropping by to get their cut.”

“Duh, New Orleans can keep up in the organized crime department,” Heaven said haughtily, thinking of her Italian/American/Vietnamese neighborhood back home.

“Truely Whitten is not mobbed up, Heaven, no way. Is that what you’re trying to say? Did this guy look Italian?”

“No, he looked like a big bohunk from the University of Nebraska, twenty years removed.”

“What happened?”

“The guy said Truely had missed an appointment and then they kicked me out. Truely didn’t even introduce me and, for such a Southern gentleman, that spoke volumes.”

“Oh, it did, huh? Heaven, I think this trouble at the convent has got your imagination going on overtime.”

Heaven refused to be waylaid. “And there’s more. The other day we met Truely at the Monteleone and these two guys were with him and one of them left looking real mad and the other one said, ‘It’s not a joke,’ and they were from the rival coffee importer.”

Will gave her that grin. “Boy, you are Nancy Drew, aren’t you? Sounds like Leon Davis to me. He’s full of bull. I doubt he could buy Truely out if Pan-Am were for sale, which it isn’t. Heaven, honey. Relax.”

Their first courses arrived and Heaven bit her tongue for a minute, then slipped in one more try. “So, everything’s fine with Truely?”

“Let’s talk about us, instead. Are you involved with anyone in Kansas City?”

“Yes,” Heaven said hurriedly, with a follow-up smile
that she knew was flirtatious. Sometimes she couldn’t help herself. She felt guilty about that. She loved Hank. “And you?”

Will shrugged. “This and that. When you’re as handsome as me, you have to fight ‘em off with a stick.”

Heaven got ready to give him a stinging reply, and he winked. “Just kidding. I know you have a sense of humor, ‘cause I saw it last night. I’ve only been divorced this last time for a year. I’m not ready to get hooked up again, just yet. So, what about us having a mad affair when you come back next month?”

“Said with about as much passion as you had when you were talking about your real estate business last night. I get the feeling you don’t take much seriously, Will.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Any affair planned a month in advance like a dentist’s appointment wouldn’t be worth having,” Heaven said.

“Touché. Then let me show you my place after lunch. It’s right over on Governor Nicholls. It’s on the historical register. That bad boy Clay Shaw lived there once.”

Heaven thought back. She was sure Will and his Porsche had been coming out of a courtyard on Ursulines, not Governor Nicholls. But before she made a fool of herself about French Quarter geography, she’d check it out when she returned next month. Will must know where he lived, after all. And he could have been visiting a friend. “How about splitting a piece of sweet potato pecan pie instead?” she said sweetly.