Out of the Easy(54)

“I’d drive you, Josie girl, but I got to pick up a group of conventioneers and bring ’em over.”

“That’s okay, Coke. Did you hear I’m taking a trip?”

“Sure did. Willie don’t want you around for your momma to drag you into nothin’. She goin’ tell your momma that you’re in Slidell, helpin’ Mr. Charlie.” Cokie scratched at the back of his scalp. “Jo, I gotta ask you. How did you know that one of the wheels was off this thing? From day one, you were pushin’ me about the coroner’s report. Did you know somethin’ ’bout that Tennessee man and your momma?”

“No, I just . . . liked him. He came into the shop. He was so kind and treated me with respect. He inspired me, Coke. I don’t know many men like that.”

Cokie nodded. “Well, looks like we’ll be breakin’ in that thermos on our trip to Shady Grove.”

He drove off to pick up the conventioneers. I started the walk back to the shop, thinking about the watch. I had to get rid of it. I could throw it in a trash bin. I could take it out to Shady Grove and hide it. A car passed me. I heard the brakes hiss and the transmission shift into reverse. The shiny Lincoln Continental backed up and stopped in front of me.

“So did you get into Smith yet?” John Lockwell flicked his cigar ash out the window.

“I’m waiting to hear.”

“Still don’t know what that letter said.”

“It was very complimentary . . . and well written,” I assured him.

“I hope it mentioned your martinis.”

“No, but it mentioned my auto repair connections.”

“Running like a timepiece now. Would you like a ride? Charlotte would consider me a horrible uncle if I didn’t pick up her friend. Come have a drink with me. I have a private apartment in the Quarter now. More discreet.”

“No, thanks. I have plans.”

Lockwell smiled. “Maybe some other time.” He pointed his finger at me. “There’s something about you, Josephine. And I like the lipstick.”

He pulled away. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.





THIRTY-SIX


I sat on my bed with the cigar box in my lap. I looked at Mr. Hearne’s check. Would his wife notice that it hadn’t cleared? If I put it through now, the cops might notice the transaction and come asking questions. I looked at his signature, confident, elegant. My mind traced back to Mother in the Meal-a-Minit, pulling the wad of cash out of her purse, bragging about going to Antoine’s for dinner. They were certainly a pair. Cincinnati in a dead man’s suit, Mother in a dead man’s wallet.

I had put the check in the floorboard with the watch. I’d take them both out to Shady Grove to get rid of them. That should have been foremost on my mind. But it wasn’t. I had spent the whole morning thinking of Patrick, wondering if he would come by the shop. He didn’t. I’d have to wait to see him when I stopped to see Charlie. I watched the clock, counting the minutes until closing time. I had washed my hair and set it last night. I kept looking in the mirror and had changed my blouse twice. Suddenly I wanted to impress Patrick, look good for him.

Miss Paulsen stopped by the shop, snooping once again. I told her that I was going out to Slidell to visit Charlie and would bring back a full report. She wrote a note to Charlie and insisted upon sealing it in an envelope for me to give him. I then sold her the Shirley Cameron book and we discussed her friend from Smith who wrote historical fiction. She thought we’d get along. Miss Paulsen was interesting and kind when she wasn’t being a detective.

A letter arrived from Charlotte asking if I had received word on my application. She also mentioned that her cousin Betty Lockwell had been writing to her about Patrick, asking for another introduction. Charlotte found Betty’s crush funny. I found it annoying. I threw the letter in my desk drawer, locked the door, and headed out.

As I walked, I rehearsed what I would say when I saw Patrick. I wanted to seem comfortable, not let on how giddy I’d felt all day about the kiss. I’d let him take the lead. I listened for the piano when I arrived at the door, but the house was silent. I put my key back in my pocket and knocked.

The door opened. “Hey, Jo. Come in.” Patrick was barefoot, wearing a pressed shirt and feeding a belt through the loops of his slacks. His hair was still wet.

“You look nice,” I said, hoping for a return compliment.

“Thanks. I’ll be right back. Gotta get my shoes.” He ran upstairs.

Something smelled good. I wandered into the living room toward Patrick’s piano. I ran my fingers over the word B?sendorfer and then dragged my hand silently over the keys. Liebestr?ume by Franz Liszt sat on the music rack. I looked at all the notes and marveled at how easily Patrick was able to turn little black dots into beautiful music.

“I made croquettes,” he said as he came back down the stairs. “I used the recipe from the same Betty Crocker cookbook the doomed housewife bought.”

“What does it mean?” I asked, pointing to the sheet music.

Patrick moved up behind me and looked over my shoulder. “Liebestr?ume,?it’s German,” he said.

“I know it’s German, but what’s the translation?”

Patrick closed the sheet music and set it on top of the piano. “It means Dreams of Love.”