Dead and Breakfast (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 2) (12 page)

Jiff said, “Michelle, you remember our other investigator, was told by the wives and girlfriends of the band members who lived in the New Orleans area that Violet would give them a sob story asking to stay with them a few days and that would turn into weeks, then months, or until they had enough and told her she had to find another place. She never rented or had her own place and she wasn’t selective where she crashed. She’d go home with anyone who offered her a place for the night, only they didn’t realize it was going to be until they kicked her out.”

Ernest said, “I discovered the names of other people Violet stayed with and went to interview them. All the people told me variations of the same story. They all said they felt sorry for her at first because she was pitiful, moved here for love, then the guy cheated on her, or this was the story Violet told them. They gave her the boot when some sleazy guy started hanging round. They figured he was supplying her with drugs, then they wanted both gone so they would ask her to leave.”

Ernest went on, “At one couple’s apartment I noticed an empty dog bed with a photo of the dog in it. I asked the lady, ‘I’m sorry, did you lose your pet?’ She said, yes, her little dog, Pork Chop, was poisoned. She started to cry asking why would someone do that to her sweet little dog? When I asked her if it happened when Violet was staying with them, a look of shock came over her face. Then she said, ‘If she poisoned my dog, I’ll track her down and kill her myself.’”

Ernest reported he spoke to the servers where she worked and they told him that Violet made good tips because her customers felt sorry for her and her sad stories. The other servers told him Violet wasn’t a good co-worker since she made a habit of not showing up and leaving them to cover her shifts even when she said she always needed money. Ernest said two of her co-workers told him they thought she had a drug problem due to her inability to maintain a regular schedule. One of servers told Ernest the guy who was interested in Violet came by when Violet wasn’t working and offered her a twenty-dollar bill to make a call to the new bed and breakfast up the street and ask if some guy had checked in. She remembered it being the day Gervais was killed and Violet had not shown up for work.

The Pancake Paddy manager also got a sob story and felt sorry for her, telling Ernest she thought Violet had a bum musician for a boyfriend but she wouldn’t commit to thinking Violet did drugs. She let Violet work when she showed up since the counter was always short handed. Ernest said she told him, “Look around, this isn’t Commander’s Palace.”

Ernest said, “I asked to see Violet’s timecards for the hours she worked so I could come up with a timeline of where she was and where she wasn’t. The manager told me she didn’t use timecards, only that she kept a running tally of hours worked on a sheet of paper in her office. She didn’t write down dates and times, just hours worked. She would write out their checks on payday, and then throw away the piece of paper. That’s how she did her payroll.”

I asked, “Ernest, did the manager say if she remembered the last day Violet showed up?”

“That was weeks ago and all the papers with their dates and times worked were long gone. The manager did say a guy came by a few times after Violet was a definite no show before he stopped coming to look for her,” he answered.

No one seemed to know the name of the guy but they all described him the same—a sleaze. Big help, what drug dealer wasn’t a sleaze?

Pitiful little Violet had a good hustle to advance her drug problem and didn’t mind taking advantage of just about anyone to keep it going. When Gervais went on the road with the band to get away from Violet, the roommate kicked her out. He told Ernest that Gervais and Violet were on again, off again boyfriend and girlfriend as long as there was free flowing cocaine. They had that in common and it was the way she controlled him. When he started to stray she’d show up with the fun and he’d follow her anywhere until it ran out and she had to supply more. Thus, the calls home for money.

Ernest told us he tracked down the girlfriend who was the last person seen with Violet late on the very night of the murder. The bar, which on the news looked like The Ritz, was a dive bar out by the lake. It wasn’t even air-conditioned.

“The bartender told me he didn’t remember either of the two women who were there drinking on the last night Violet was seen alive. He finally had his memory jogged when I slapped down a hundred dollar bill for the name of the friend.” Ernest looked at Jiff and said, “Sorry boss, cost of doing business.” He went on, “When I went to the home of this friend, she said she would tell me what she knew but she wished to remain anonymous. She didn’t want to be on the news or called into court. Violet asked this friend to use her cell phone that night to get a money transfer from her folks in order to continue drinking.”

Ernest said, “I asked this friend, why was Violet drinking if she was pregnant? The friend looked surprised and told me, if she was pregnant it was news to her. She knew Violet could scam her folks for money but she didn’t think she’d take it that far.”

Ernest said, “I asked her if she remembered exactly what night this was? She told me it was on her cell phone in the history and showed me the call Violet made to Chicago. It was the morning of the St. Germain murder. The time was 1:00 a.m. and according to Julia, she and Gervais didn’t get back to the bed and breakfast from their drinks in the French Quarter until 1:30 a.m. or 2a.m. They left Napoleon House around midnight which Andy confirmed and she said they walked around for a while before they caught a taxi.”

“So what do you think happened that night to make Violet want to go drinking?” I asked.

“This friend said Violet was upset when she met her at the bar. Violet told her she had seen Gervais’ earlier that day and Gervais had said he loved her. He also told Violet where he was staying but didn’t ask her to stay with him. When she went to surprise him at the bed and breakfast, she saw him leaving the hotel with a woman. Violet thought he had checked in with her so she followed them. We know the bartender saw Violet leave after St. Germain and Julia left.”

“What time does the coroner put the time of death?” Jiff asked flipping through the file looking for the report.

“I want to say it was between 1:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m.” I said.

“Yes, you’re right. Here it is.” He read the report, and then passed it to me.

“Violet’s friend said they left the bar at 4:30 a.m. and she was pretty lit up,” said Ernest.

“Did you find out how much they had to drink?” I asked.

“I had to pull it out of the friend because she didn’t want to get the bartender in trouble. He should have cut Violet off or taken her keys away, but the friend told the bartender she would take care of Violet,” Ernest said.

“So, how many?” Jiff asked.

“Well, the bill was $93.00. She was doing shots of tequila and the friend had two cosmos,” said Ernest.

“So, at top shelf tequila prices, that would be….” I said, trying to calculate in my head.

“So, she had about seven or eight shots if your drinks were $8-10 each. Sound about right?” Jiff said.

“Yep, that’s what the friend said Violet ordered. She told her friend, this time it’s really over, saying that’s what Gervais liked, top shelf liquor and she was drinking to erase his memory,” said Ernest. “Yeah, that’s what the friend said they paid for and a couple of guys sent shots down to Violet earlier. Violet also told her she did a little coke with the bartender while she waited for her. With all that, and the drinks, she had to be nuclear. I don’t know how she could walk, let alone drive,” said Ernest.

“Do you think one of those guys who sent the drinks waited for her?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. The friend said those guys who bought her shots left about 2:00 a.m.,” Ernest read from his notes.

“When did the friend last see Violet that night? Did Violet go home with her?” asked Jiff.

“Well, she said Violet was having trouble walking and was slurring her words so she offered to take her home even though she thought she would never get rid of her. Violet told her she was going to catch a few winks in her car first before she tried to drive and the girl never pressed it.”

“What time was this? What time did they leave the bar?” asked Jiff.

“The friend said they walked out around 4:30 a.m. and the bartender confirms them leaving at 4:30 a.m. when he closed out their tab.”

“So, Violet followed Gervais with Julia to the Napoleon House and leaves when they leave at midnight. She goes to meet her friend at the bar for 1:00 a.m. the same time Gervais and Julia are walking around the French Quarter and stays there during the timeframe he’s supposed to have been killed at Julia’s?” Jiff asked.

Ernest recapped, “Yes, given that timeline. Violet was in that bar with her friend and given the drinks and drugs her friend said she was having, I doubt she could have masterminded this crime at the spur of the moment and pulled it off. She would have had to slip out of the bar, drive to the bed and breakfast, climb a tree, open a window, slip in and bash St. Germain in the head with enough force to kill him with one blow and slip out, unnoticed. Also, she’d have to think fast enough to take the dress, statue, and maybe the wine bottle with her and toss them in a dumpster up the street? This scenario figures Violet thought it through to frame Julia along the way.”

“Well, there goes using Violet to create reasonable doubt for Julia,” Jiff said.

“I gave Violet’s friend my card and told her we needed to find Violet. I asked her to please contact me if she hears from her. I hope she turns up, safe, no matter what her situation is,” Ernest said.

“In New Orleans, there’s a fine line between the good times and the crimes,” Jiff said.

Chapter Thirteen

Our meeting ended and when we were alone in his office I thanked him for the roses and gave him a long, slow kiss that conveyed my appreciation.

“Wow, I guess you liked them. I was afraid you didn’t get them before you left for the day,” he said.

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything in front of Ernest. I thought you might want to keep that personal.”

“I don’t care who knows how I feel about you. I called that order for the flowers in myself, just so you know. I didn’t have my secretary do it,” he said smiling and very proud of himself.

“So the most romantic restaurant in New Orleans?” I asked.

“Have you been to Feelings?” Jiff asked.

“No, I haven’t been there and it sounds perfect.”

“Great. I made us a reservation,” he said with that smile that made my butterflies have butterflies. He helped me into my suit jacket. Jiff’s manners would rival that of a British Royal. I felt like a Princess in his company. If there was a red carpet needed, he’d roll it out for me, I’m sure. He picked up his suit jacket off the coat stand behind the door of his office and swung it over his shoulder holding it with one finger. He looked like a model on the cover of GQ Magazine. He stepped forward and opened every door for me all the way out of the building.

He hailed us a pedicab outside of the Canal Place Towers. We squeezed in next to each other while our cyclist peddled through the French Quarter down Decatur Street, past Jackson Square, Café du Monde and the French Market, all-alive in the evening with tourists and fun-loving locals. Jiff instructed the cabbie to take St. Peter Street to Esplanade Avenue as our route. This boulevard was beautiful in the early evening. While the driver pedaled fast and hard taking us to our destination we travelled less hurried than those around us in motorized vehicles and enjoyed the peaceful pace of the pedicab.

“This is the perfect way for us to slow down our day,” I said. We rode holding hands under a canopy of oak trees lined with blooming azaleas along one of the languid avenues framing the French Quarter. The speed we travelled reminded me of a time when ladies sashayed by these glorious mansions along this historic boulevard. I imagined then as I was seeing now, people walking their dogs, chatting to one another and stepping out to dinner from these mansions, once grand homes now turned guest houses. Times changed and certainly fashions had as well, but people still did the same things now as they did then in the same footsteps for the last hundred years here. The breeze was delightful as our human powered transportation pedaled faster and faster.

“Please, take your time,” Jiff said to our driver while looking at me and moving a wisp of my hair off my face with his finger. He kissed me and people in passing cars honked their approval. The pedicab driver slowed down.

Our ride was over much too soon when our driver deposited us at Feelings Cafe on Chartres Street at the corner of Franklin. Jiff held my hand as I stepped off the pedicab and walked right into his arms as the driver pedaled away.

“I could do this every night with you,” he said as we stood face to face with our arms around each other’s waists. “Let’s go have a drink and you can tell me about your day?”

This restaurant sits in the original ‘suburb’ of New Orleans, just outside of the French Quarter, off the beaten path in Faubourg Marigny. The unhurried trip down Esplanade carried forward as we entered Feelings Café. Once a plantation home, the building had been totally restored to the beautiful lady she once was. Our host greeted us in the entryway of exposed brick walls with its grand curving staircase. He told us our table was waiting.

Jiff told the host, “We would first like to sit on the patio and have a cocktail, and then be moved to our table. Is that OK with you?” He asked me and I nodded.

“Of course,” the host smiled “Right this way.” He escorted us to a bistro table for two in the patio area steps from the bar and the coziest place next to a murmuring fountain. The bar was uniquely interesting in that it was home to some original Elvis and Marilyn Monroe memorabilia displayed in the most tasteful of ways. My parents had taken us on a family vacation to Graceland as kids. My mother, a big Elvis fan, cried at the gravesite out back. All I remember about that trip was that Elvis made tacky shag a home style much like traditional or colonial. In here, his memory and Marilyn’s was—well—classy.

Our host and bartender spoke in soft voices keeping the ambience intimate. Even with couples seated at tables near us, voices whispering to each other made us feel we had the place to ourselves, having stepped into the past for a delightful evening. I ordered an Old Fashioned and Jiff asked if they made a good Brandy Alexander. He asked the waiter if he knew the cocktail was named after a beautiful woman. The waiter suspected it was a trick question while we smiled at each other at the inside joke.

When the waiter left with the drink order I said, “Thanks, you make me feel beautiful.”

“That’s because you are, and I admire the rescue work you do.” He moved his chair closer to mine putting his arm around the back of my chair.

I felt my face getting hot from the compliments I didn’t know how to graciously receive. I came from a family who only commented when you did something wrong, looked bad in what you were wearing or suggested you wear less makeup so you wouldn’t look like a streetwalker leaving to go out. Compliments were non-existent at my house. I did not know how to receive one and it felt awkward. I might have to work on getting used to this. My family also thought rescue work was just about bringing home another smelly, abandoned dog nobody else wanted. Technically, this was true, and while my dad saw the point of rescue he was very careful not to make his opinion too clear in front of my mother.

We enjoyed our cocktails in an unhurried, civilized manner. We lingered awhile over our drinks, holding hands, Jiff pushing that errant wisp of hair out of my face again. He had me laughing at childhood stories he told about his brothers and the tricks they played on each other. He managed to slip into the conversation that he had told his parents about me.

Our host appeared as if reading our minds when we were ready to move to our table.

It was also quiet in the main dining room with a modest crowd all-talking nose to nose. We were seated in a corner near French doors that opened to the street. We told the waiter we were in no particular hurry for our meal so he left the menus. Jiff asked to see the wine list and he returned a few minutes later with it and also an appetizer of Oysters En Brochette saying it was on the house and to take as much time as we needed. He’d check on us in a few minutes.

“Do you come here a lot?” I asked. “They seem to know you.”

“My parents come here with my family often. My mother loves this place and plans, at a minimum, weekly dinners for her and my dad here, and a private party for every anniversary, every birthday or event—even for her adult children—here. I’m sure they recognized my name since my mother makes a lot of reservations. Parties of more than four people are held in the upstairs private room where my rowdy family is usually sequestered. It keeps the bar and dining room intimate, so other diners do not have to endure our liquored up voices slurring or singing ‘Happy Birthday’,” he smiled.

I didn’t want to tell him our family dinners brought to mind the year I was eight and my sister was five years old and my dad gave my mother the electric carving knife—something he wanted—as a Christmas gift. She was disappointed, to say the least, since she had dropped a million hints for diamond earrings. To let him know the level of her disappointment she swore she’d cut his heart out with said knife. Both my sister and I shudder, even now, when we recall that Christmas dinner with all our relatives. My dad uses that electric carving knife every holiday so it’s unlikely that memory will ever fade since it’s revisited yearly.

“I want you to know you are the first date I’ve ever brought here.”

“Why, Mr. Heinkel, I think you’re flirting with me,” I said in my most charming southern drawl.

“I am, and I want you to know I think about you all the time,” he said as he picked up an oyster wrapped in bacon with his fork and fed it to me.

“Wow, these are to die for,” I said after tasting one.

“I’m glad you like them. They are my mother’s favorite and she orders them for all our dinner parties,” he said. “She swears the oysters keep the magic alive in their marriage,” he added. He took one of my hands in his across the table. He touched all the rings I was wearing and asked me why I wore each one. He asked about my childhood and since I wanted to keep the relationship alive, I didn’t tell him much. He asked how I knew Julia. Julia and I had met when we both worked at the Telecom Company. I left out that when she was laid off she went to work in the French Quarter as an exotic dancer, more accurately a pole dancer. I could also feel he was going to quiz me on my relationship with Dante and I definitely didn’t want to go there.

The maître d’ appeared at our table so suddenly we stopped our discussion.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation but you two are the most romantic couple in the room. I would like to send you a bottle of champagne compliments of the house. Please advise your waiter when you are ready after you finish your cocktails,” he said.

Jiff thanked him and we looked at each other when he left. The waiter appeared as if summoned telepathically with the ice bucket and popped the cork. He poured the golden hue of bubbles in two flutes. Jiff and I toasted to a lovely evening in spite of the conversation. It’s hard not to smile at a handsome man across the table from you who hangs onto your every word while drinking expensive champagne. Jiff’s face was easy to look at and his dimples simply added to the boyish charm. But it was his jet black eyes that pierced my soul. It was that intensity, along with him looking like James Bond in the tuxedo he was wearing, that made me walk out into the street and kiss him at a Mardi Gras parade even though I had never met him. The kiss we shared had sent a lightning bolt into my world and woke up my sleeping hormones. When he whispered to meet him at the end of the parade, I did. Of course he was shot at, taken to Charity Hospital and then we were both kidnapped, but all relationships have their challenges. It was working fine now.

“This is very nice champagne,” I said after the waiter left and I saw the name on the bottle.

“It’s my mother’s favorite,” Jiff said.

I wondered if his mother was sitting somewhere in the restaurant watching us. It almost felt like she was there having dinner and I waited for the surprise appearance asking to join them at their table. My worries were for naught.

Even in this romantic setting, our thoughts quickly returned to all the trouble with Julia. Discussion turned to all we’d learned. We recounted what we knew and didn’t know:

• Julia knew Gervais in the biblical sense, and knew Violet from delivering coffee and food from Pancake Paddy.
  
• We still didn’t know who roofied Julia and Gervais. This was the biggest question along with, where was Violet?
  
• After an extensive police search, the wine bottle Julia said was in the room wasn’t found anywhere in the hotel. If we could get prints off the bottle from the dumpster, assuming it was the wine bottle from the room, we might get a line on a credible suspect.
  
• Someone must have given the wine to Gervais spiked and he didn’t know it. We thought it unlikely he knowingly did it to himself but stranger things have been known to happen. His blood alcohol levels may have contributed to spiking his own glass by accident. He didn’t have any history with Rohypnol according to the band but there’s always a first time. Violet had experience with Rohypnol and pets, so we suspected her of spiking the wine and giving it to Gervais. That would explain why he drank it, but now Violet was missing and St. Germain was dead so we couldn’t ask them.
  
• The wine bottle in the dumpster was, for all we knew, just a wine bottle and not the one from the room. Jiff was still waiting on the report from the police department to verify whether or not it was the bottle from the room and if there were traces of Rohypnol on the glass recovered. It was a long shot, but we hoped a fingerprint other than Julia’s or St. Germain’s was on it too.
  

“How much Rohypnol has to be in a glass or how much of the glass do you have to partake to have the desired effect?” I asked as I took a sip of my champagne.

“Very little. One milligram in a glass would do the trick. Just sipping some from that flute of champagne you’re drinking would have the desired effect,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have to drink the whole glass?” I asked, surprised at the minuscule amount needed to render someone incapable of moving or defending themselves.

“No, but the more you drink the longer the effect it has is what I was told by Ernest. He’s the expert right now on roofies. I’ll have to be by the time we go to trial,” Jiff said. When he noticed a slight panic look start to cross my face, he changed his comment to, “if we go to trial. Don’t worry about that now.”

Violet went missing the same night Gervais was killed. What happened that day to cause the orbits of Julia, Violet and Gervais to collide? Julia couldn’t be in two places at the same time drugged on roofies and neither could Violet, given the timeline or as intoxicated as the bartender and her friend made her out to be.