A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (17 page)

The cab took me to the far side of the CBD and dropped me at Rob’s office in a grey concrete building that looked like it shouldn’t have been in the same state as the French Quarter, much less the same city. The Central Business District was a towering concrete maze. I avoided it at all costs, since I usually got lost.
 

I went into a sumptuous lobby and headed up to the fifteenth floor. The doors opened and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. I should’ve brought a sweater. Mom told me to. I wouldn’t be mentioning the cold unless I wanted another lecture.
 

Schwartz Realty took up half the floor and their lobby was filled with antiques that were probably new, but made to look old. I longed to look under the end tables. Posers.
 

“Can I help you?” asked the receptionist, a young woman wearing so much blue eyeshadow I was surprised she could open her eyes. It was thick, like it was done with crayon.
 

I gave her dad’s card and told her I wanted to see Rob’s boss.
 

“Mr. Schwarz is with a client right now. Do you have an appointment?”
 

“No. It’s about Rob Berry’s murder.”
 

The receptionist gulped and the other clients in the waiting room perked up. Murder in New Orleans wasn’t exactly rare, but in that office it was.
 

“I’ll be right back,” she said.
 

I perched on a hard leather sofa for exactly seven seconds when the receptionist rushed back in. “Mrs. Schwartz will see you now. Right this way.”
 

She led me through a warren of wood-paneled halls covered in tasteful paintings of the city. One wall had a row of portraits of the company’s top realtors with their names engraved on brass placards underneath. The largest was of the founder, Mr. Jared Schwartz, a lantern-jawed man with close-set eyes and a forced smile. The row of portraits was long and Rob Berry was near the end, smiling out at me.
 

“Wait a second,” I said, backtracking to his picture. Since I’d avoided the media coverage of the Tulio murders, I’d never seen Rob Berry’s picture. He came as a surprise. Given Donatella’s looks, I expected a stunner along the lines of Chuck, but Rob was average at best with a soft doughy face and thinning hair. He did have kind eyes. The eyes got me. Donatella must’ve loved his eyes.
 

There was a sniff next to me and I turned to the receptionist. Her lower lip was scrunched up tight, like she was fighting back a sob.
 

“Nice picture,” I said.
 

“Yes,” she squeaked out.
 

“Did you know him well?”
 

She nodded.
 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I patted her shoulder and she buried her face in her hands. Wrong thing to say, I guess. Her sobs went up in pitch and I looked around the hall for clue where to take her, but all the doors were closed. I wasn’t confident I could retrace my steps back to reception. Heck, I got lost in St. Louis and I lived there.
 

A door opened at the end of the hall. A blond woman stepped out and what a woman. She was six feet tall and built like Kim Kardashian with curves that put mine to shame and I’m no beanpole.
 

“Sheila, I’m waiting,” she said in a husky voice that reminded me of my dad when he’d gone on a drinking binge after a tough case.
 

Sheila wiped her eyes and straightened up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Schwartz.”
 

“I haven’t got all day. Move it along. You can cry on your own time.”
 

“Yes, ma’am.” Sheila touched my elbow. “This way.”
 

She took me into Mrs. Schwartz’s office and sat me in a Scandinavian-style chair. The whole office was done in blond wood and clean lines, jarring after the dark-paneled hall. Mrs. Schwartz sat down behind her glass-topped desk and steepled her fingers. “That will be all, Sheila.”
 

Sheila started to say something, but thought better of it. She left, closing the door behind her.
 

“So you work for Donatella Berry,” said Mrs. Schwartz.
 

“I’m looking into the poisoning of her children. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
 

She leaned forward and placed her chin on her perfectly manicured hands. Actually, everything was perfect about Mrs. Schwartz in a weird way. She wasn’t beautiful, but she did a damn good impression of it. Her makeup was flawless. She almost looked sculpted with the way the blush worked with the bronzer to hollow out her cheeks. Her hair was in an updo and there was no way she did that herself. It flowed back in carefully designed waves that were fascinating. It reminded me of a Lego figure’s hair.
 

“What would you like to know?”
 

I went on to ask her all the standard questions. Problems, enemies, blah, blah, blah. Her answers were just as standard. Everything was “no” until I got to Donatella. When I asked about their relationship, a flicker of dislike passed over Mrs. Schwartz’s finely-tuned features.
 

“You don’t like her,” I said.
 

Her head jerked back. “I didn’t say that.”
 

“You didn’t have to. What’s the deal?”
 

She blew out a breath and, to stall for time, she ordered a couple of coffees over her intercom.
 

“Just tell me,” I said. “I’ll find out anyway.”
 

“You assume there’s something to find out.”
 

“There is.”
 

Sheila brought in two coffees on a silver tray and hurried out without a word. Mrs. Schwartz frowned at the door after she left.
 

“It’s not Sheila’s fault,” I said.

“What do you mean?”
 

“I asked her about Rob.”
 

Her face took on an odd cast. There was not quite an expression. “Yes, well…”

Ah, there it is.
 

I steepled my fingers and smiled. “She’s awfully upset over a mere co-worker. What was going on between Rob and Sheila? ” I asked.
 

She looked at me directly without a hint of deceit. “I’m unaware of any impropriety.”
 

“Don’t you mean you’re not directly aware?”
 

Something changed in Mrs. Schwartz’s eyes. They lit up, but it wasn’t reflected anywhere else on her face. That’s when I got it, the perfection. Mrs. Schwartz had discovered Botox and she was in love with it.
 

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘directly aware’,” she said.
 

“You didn’t see anything with your own eyeballs.”

“No, I didn’t.”
 

“But something could’ve been going on.”
 

“I suppose. Possibly.”
 

That’s all I got or would get. Mrs. Schwartz was a nightmare to interview. I was used to people showing me who they really were and what they thought with a wrinkle of the brow. Mrs. Schwartz’s brow might as well have been made of stone, for all the good it did me. I pushed for some more information, but there was none to be had. Rob was their highest performer and he’d be sadly missed. Sadly missed was expressed with zero eye moisture. I gave her Dad’s card and stood up to leave.
 

“I have to ask,” she said.
 

“Ask away.” I knew what she wanted to ask. I just wasn’t sure if she’d have the nerve to come right out with it.
 

“Who’s your surgeon?” I have to know. He’s a genius.”
 

“Mother Nature.”
 

She tried to wrinkle her nose and failed. It was so weird to watch. Note to self: never do Botox unless you want people to stare at you and wonder what’s wrong with your face. I had enough people staring at my face already.
 

“You don’t believe me,” I said.
 

“Marilyn Monroe had a chin implant. You expect me to believe you don’t.”
 

I tipped back my head to show my scarless chin.
 

“Your surgeon is extremely talented,” she said.
 

I don’t like you.
 

I left without speaking. Snotty woman. I wanted to punch her in her unnatural nose, but I doubt she could feel it. Mrs. Schwartz didn’t ask me about the kids or Donatella. That might be telling or it might mean Mrs. Schwartz was as cold-hearted a she looked.
 

I wandered around for ten minutes before I got back out to reception. I’d planned on pumping Sheila for personal details. No Botox there and the girl was a tearful mess. I’d know in an instant if she and Rob were having an affair. But Sheila wasn’t at the desk. She’d been replaced with a nearly identical substitute. Where did they get those girls? And when did blue shadow come back and where was I?

“Hello,” I said. “What happened to Sheila?”
 

“Sheila?”

“The other receptionist.”
 

“They sent her home,” she said.
 

“Do you have her address by chance?” I asked.
 

“Address?”
 

“Sheila’s address. Her last name.”
 

“No. Why would I?”
 

“She works here.”
 

“Uh, huh.”
 

The eyes were open, but there was a vacant lot behind them.
 

“Do you know Sheila’s last name?” I asked.
 

“No.”
 

I had to push. I had to see how empty her vacant lot was. “What color is Sheila’s hair?”
 

“I don’t know, like brown or something.”

Sheila was a blond. The lot was swept clean.
 

“Did I get it right?” the girl asked.
 

“Yes. Sheila’s a brunette,” I said.
 

“Good. I wanted to get it right. Can I help you with anything else?”
 

“I seriously doubt it.”
 

“Alrighty then. Have a good day.”
 

I left, mentally flogging myself for thinking my nursing student, Brittany, was a nitwit. She was a rocket scientist compared to that girl. I rode down the elevator with a business man who tried to sniff me. I practically ran out of the office building into the warm sun. There was a tour group passing by and I joined them for a block before cutting out to go to Mother’s. Mother’s was Dad’s favorite eatery and Mom’s least favorite. She’s not the fan of debris that Dad and I are. Debris is basically pan juices with lots of meat bits in it. I wished they sold it by the pint. It’s life sustaining.
 

It was the lunch rush, but I squeezed into the last counter seat available and ordered a debris po’boy. Mom would’ve been disgusted and that made it extra good. I texted a picture to Dad and then got down to business. Morty and the nerd crew—it pained me to think of Pete as one of them—wouldn’t be in Portland for another couple of hours, so background on Sheila would have to wait. I didn’t want Rob to be a cheater, but an insanely jealous girlfriend would come in handy. Other than that, I didn’t have much. A trip out to Donatella’s house was in order. It was a reach, but I could search and see if anything turned up. I’d get some samples of the milk and cereal they ate for breakfast, just in case, but that was probably a waste of time. Threatening letters from a homicidal maniac would be nice, but I wasn’t feeling lucky.

Chapter Twelve

MY CAB SCREECHED to a halt in front of Nana’s and I slipped my shoes on. My beaded wedges looked so cute that morning when I picked them out, but when I started to walk back to the Quarter, three blisters popped out in a matter of four blocks.
 

“Wait here,” I said. “I’m just getting new shoes and then it’s out to Belle Chasse.”
 

The cab driver smiled. “Sure thing.”

I got out and rummaged around for the key. I found it about the time an older English couple came down the alley and unlocked the gate.
 

“I’m calling Caro. We will not stay here, if this isn’t rectified,” said the woman.
 

“Darling, don’t get yourself in a tizzy. Caro has the highest standards. One call and she will fix it,” said the man, who looked pained and bored at the same time.
 

“It’s disgusting. This can’t go on.”

I waited for them to exit, but they ignored me and purposely let the gate close. Nice. The couple walked away, discussing how to inform Caro of the situation. Caro was Nana, so I was mildly interested, mostly because I might be expected to do something. Get a plumber. Unclog a toilet.
 

I unlocked the gate and checked my messages. Nothing from Nana or Pop Pop. If I got out quick, I could deal with it later. Unclogging toilets should be done later, whenever possible. I always hoped for a miracle and sometimes I got one.