Cities of the Dead Read online

  The fat man turned to Sergeant Hayes. “Yes,” he said cooly, “I’m almost sure, practically a hundred-percent sure, that this is the man. Same dark hair, same profile. By the way, has anyone asked for me? I was expecting someone to call. It’s rather important.”

  “They’ll take a message at the desk,” Hayes said shortly. “This is kind of important now. You’re making a positive ID?”

  “You mean, right now?” Hampton made a nervous noise, somewhere between a giggle and a snort. “Right here? I thought there’d be one-way glass. A lineup. Witness protection.”

  “What’s the point of a lineup?” Hayes said calmly. “Like you said, you already know Spraggue’s face from the movies. It would have been a cinch to pull him out of a lineup.”

  “And we met briefly yesterday afternoon,” Spraggue reminded them, just for the pleasure of seeing Hampton squirm at the memory.

  “So he’s identified my nephew as my nephew,” Mary said. “What next?”

  “You can save your sarcasm, madam.” Hampton’s quiet dignity would have gone over big on a talk show. “I know what I saw.”

  “I don’t,” Spraggue said.

  “Go ahead and tell him,” Sergeant Hayes suggested.

  “I thought I could just swear out a complaint and leave.” Hampton looked quickly from one face to the next. Realizing that he was the only one seated in the tiny room, he tried to reassert his dignity by standing.

  “You could,” the sergeant agreed. Every nuance of his deep voice, every line in his face, denied his words.

  Hampton shot back his shirt cuff and stared at his wristwatch. “This is absolutely the last time I go through this today.” He glared his defiance at Hayes, but met only a stony frown. “I was standing in front of my hotel last night, the Monteleone, when a car careened off the street and swerved right at me. If I hadn’t jumped out of the way—”

  “What kind of car?” Hayes asked.

  “I told the other officer.”

  “Tell me.”

  “A dark-colored sedan. I don’t drive. I don’t know anything about cars.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Oh, a little past three in the morning.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “The doorman had gone inside the hotel. I was under the impression that the police would look for witnesses.”

  “What on earth were you doing ‘standing outside’ your hotel at three in the morning?” Aunt Mary asked.

  “I may have to answer your questions,” Hampton snapped at Hayes, “but I don’t have to answer hers.” He stared at his wristwatch again. “Could you check to see if someone’s trying to get in touch with me?”

  “I wonder what time this trash has to be taped by, to make the six o’clock news,” Spraggue said.

  Hampton’s head jerked around.

  Spraggue ignored him, spoke instead to Sergeant Hayes. “There’s a TV camera crew camped out on your front lawn.”

  “A TV crew out front?” Hayes echoed in disgust. “If that’s what this Mickey Mouse song and dance is all about—”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about it,” Hampton said quickly. “Why should I? I mean, maybe someone spotted me coming in. I am a celebrity, you know. Millions of people read my books, watch me on TV.”

  “Call the station,” Spraggue said to Hayes. “Ten to one, they got an anonymous tip.”

  “If you’ve been wasting my time—” Hayes began.

  “Wasting your time! I like that. I came in here to help you. You have a killer loose in the streets, waiting to kill again.”

  Hayes swallowed. “Some of our good citizens get pretty drunk in the Quarter around Mardi gras time; they drive a little careless. Maybe that’s what happened last night.” The sergeant made his suggestion through clenched teeth.

  “It was a deliberate attack. And I think it was this man. Unless he’s got an alibi—”

  “For three in the morning?” Spraggue shrugged his shoulders. He should have left that bar and gone home with Aimee Fontenot. He knew it.

  “Did you call those TV people?” Hayes’ arm started involuntarily for Hampton’s collar. The food critic shrank back against the sofa.

  “I have information!” Hampton said quickly. He offered his words to Hayes the way a beaten dog might offer a bone to his tormentor. “Important information, and every time I try to give it to one of your damned officers, they tell me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “About this so-called hit-and-run attempt?” Hayes asked.

  “No.” Hampton’s pale eyes searched the room but failed to discover a sympathetic listener. “I admit, well, I may have made a mistake on that, like you said. It was dark.”

  “The story would get better coverage with my name in it,” Spraggue said. “Right?”

  “I have information concerning Joseph Fontenot’s death.” Hampton wasn’t letting go of the spotlight now. “He was my friend, and I know who killed him. The police refuse to—”

  “You want to make a statement or just read your speech to the TV cameras?” Hayes muttered.

  “Nobody wants to hear the truth.” Hampton ignored Hayes’ interruption. “Just because Denise Michel is some kind of grande dame around here, some traditional, sacred cow, you’re all pretending she had nothing to do with it. Denise Michel is a dangerous woman. She ought to be locked up. I told that other policeman and he’s done absolutely nothing. Nothing!” Hampton carefully wiped his palms on his pantlegs, and sank back on the sofa. It creaked as it got the full benefit of his weight.

  “I read the statement you gave Sergeant Rawlins,” Hayes said. “As I recall, you didn’t back up your suspicion with any facts.”

  “Hah! Denise Michel had a reason to kill Fontenot that a saint couldn’t ignore. He was horning in on her cookbook deals. Cutting her out. I mean, why do you think she invited Dora down here in the first place? Undying friendship?” He tapped his massive chest, then lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. “No one knows the food and wine scene in New Orleans the way I do!”

  Spraggue exchanged a long glance with Hayes, said, “Maybe the police haven’t really taken advantage of your insider knowledge.”

  “Right.” Hayes swallowed. “Maybe those other officers didn’t realize who they were talking to.”

  Mary gave the sergeant an appreciative wink.

  Hampton’s round face settled into a satisfied smirk. “The police haven’t got a clue,” he said. “I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Bigamy’s still a crime, isn’t it? Denise uses Dora to threaten Fontenot, says stay away from my publishing deals or you’ll wind up with a lawsuit that’ll cost you more than any royalties you’ll ever earn. Not to mention your reputation and your marriage. Now, I’m not saying she set out to kill him. Maybe he tried to kill her and she fought back. She’s one tough woman, Denise Michel. Butchers her own meat.”

  “And what would you say if I told you that she was in plain sight while the murder was committed? We have five, maybe seven witnesses who’ll swear to it,” Hayes said.

  “Then she must have had a partner,” Hampton insisted.

  Little Paulette with the flowered dress, Spraggue thought. “How well did you know Joe Fontenot?” he asked.

  “Oh, we moved in the same circles, you know.”

  “You called him a friend before. An old friend?”

  “Depends on what you mean by that. I was one of the first people in New Orleans to pick up on the truly extraordinary things he was doing with Cajun food. I made his career, not that I ever expected any thanks for it. The power of the press, you know. And TV. There were a lot of chefs I could have talked about on the air, but Joseph was the most deserving. And the way people responded! Fontenot’s cooking was absolutely the new wave. Anyone could see that! Even a fool like Denise Michel. I wouldn’t be surprised if her next cookbook is a direct steal from Fontenot.”

  “Someone told me you were working on a cookbook yourself, Mr. Hampton,” Mary said softly.

  Hampton wiped h
is mouth with his yellow handkerchief, then made an effort at a boyish grin. “You know how people talk, my dear lady. I’ve dabbled in recipes before, but I really do feel that TV is my métier.”

  “This person,” Mary went on, “intimated that not all your recipes belonged to you.”

  “It was Denise, wasn’t it? Denise, Denise! Everyone worships that woman. It’s hard to believe no one can see through her. Dora probably thinks of Denise as her friend.”

  “Shouldn’t she?” asked Spraggue.

  “Well, Denise always wanted to be more than Dora’s friend, if you know what I mean,” Hampton said with a sneer. “When Dora was abandoned, Denise practically took over her life. Oh, yes. She insisted that dear Dora move in with her, wanted to help dear Dora bring up the baby. Quite a fine father Denise would have made, I always thought.”

  “Wait a minute,” Hayes said. “What baby? Slow down. What baby are you talking about?”

  “Well, Dora thought she should give the baby up for adoption. Denise was all for keeping it. She thought a child would be better off without a man—” Something about the quality of the silence in the room made Hampton stop short. “It’s nothing, really. Nothing to do with this business. It was a long time ago. I really didn’t mean to mention it at all. I just get so upset about this insane hero-worship that seems to follow that Michel woman around.”

  “Keep talking,” Hayes said. “I’ll decide if it’s important.”

  For a moment Hampton fought the impulse, but then the desire to gossip triumphed. “Well, the truth is Fontenot didn’t just walk out on Dora,” he said, trying to pretend he wasn’t enjoying the sensation. “He dumped her when she got pregnant. Of course, the argument between Dora and Denise, that fizzled out. It was all academic anyway. The baby died.”

  “Whoa,” Hayes said. “What are we talking about here? How did the baby die?”

  Hampton shrugged. “All I know is she never brought it home from the hospital. Birth defects, I heard. Just a terrible story. I was certain Denise had told you. Or someone. Because you were so quick to hold Dora for Fontenot’s murder. I mean, I’m sorry I had to be the one to blurt it out like that. Although,” he turned eagerly to Aunt Mary, “it will make the case stronger for the defense, don’t you think? If it does come to trial. I mean what kind of jury wouldn’t understand? She could plea-bargain or something.”

  “Mr. Hampton,” Hayes said, “we’ll need an addition to your statement, concerning this baby.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Or do you still want to press charges against Mr. Spraggue? Because if you do, when you leave here, which might not be for quite some time, I can guarantee that I’ll keep those annoying TV interviewers away from you. You’ll leave by the back door, maybe under special guard, so that the newspapers don’t try to bother you either.”

  “I don’t want to press charges,” Hampton muttered.

  “You’re free to go, Mr. Spraggue. Mrs. Hillman.” Hayes nodded toward the door. He didn’t want them around for any further revelations.

  “One thing,” Spraggue said quickly. “You knew Joseph Fontenot when he was married to Dora?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. I didn’t know anything about the man apart from his cooking until, well, until everything came unstuck. As for Dora, I knew about some man she’d married. That’s all. I mean he wasn’t a great cook then, was he? Wasn’t a name, just a hanger-on.”

  “That’s enough,” Hayes said. “You two are free to go.”

  The big man ushered them out and closed the door.

  “I wonder,” Mary said in the elevator on the way down to the ground floor, “where Hampton was in 1966.”

  “And what his name was,” Spraggue said. “I wonder about that.”

  SIXTEEN

  The lights on the second floor of Joe Fontenot’s dream restaurant were out, except for a single lamp burning behind flimsy curtains in the front foyer, the kind of lamp one might leave on to scare away burglars. Spraggue strolled a block to a public phone and dialed Jeannine Fontenot’s number. He was too far away to hear the ringing; it wouldn’t carry across the heavy rain-soaked air. He imagined the bell in the upstairs apartment, echoing off empty walls. He let it ring fifteen times and hung up, satisfied.

  It would have been easier if Aimee Fontenot had volunteered the key.

  A rusty metal fire escape rising from the concrete slab of a back parking lot was the best bet. He didn’t want to fool with the expensive alarm system Fontenot had installed to guard the first-floor restaurant. Funny how even cautious people ignored security from the second floor up. Good thing he’d noticed the cheap lock gracing the upstairs living room window and hurriedly flipped it open just before Jeannine Fontenot had demanded that the pseudo news-team depart. No doubt Fontenot would have gotten around to changing it.

  An occasional car hissed by on the rain-slicked road. The area, a mixture of residential and commercial property, was the sort of place where a solitary figure in a raincoat might be noticed by a passing patrol car. Spraggue trusted to the camouflage of a grocery bag to blend into the scenery. A wonderful burglar’s prop, he thought, the overstuffed innocuous brown grocery bag, binding the human race together with the shared tedium of universal checkout lines.

  Through rain-spattered glass, the apartment over the restaurant seemed unreal, a cozy dreamlike scene glimpsed through a blurred TV screen. The window slipped up noiselessly. Mrs. Fontenot, bless her, hadn’t checked the lock after his visit. But four inches open, the window caught.

  Spraggue felt no sense of unease, no breathlessness, no rush of adrenaline. He was immersed in his role, not a burglar, but an absent-minded, respectable homeowner. He had done this before, locked himself out. Such a bother, with all these groceries. And in the rain.

  A little more exertion made the stubborn sash yield. Beads of sweat mingled with the rain on his neck.

  He leaned inside the window and deposited the grocery bag on the floor. Then he stepped inside.

  The living room couch was still dented where he’d sat chatting with Jeannine Fontenot. Newspapers lay in a pile near a sagging overstuffed chair. He wondered if Mrs. Fontenot had belatedly checked his byline.

  He moved to the tiny vestibule, wiped his feet on the rubber doormat. His raincoat dripped on the beige rug. He checked the time. The hands of his wristwatch glowed in the dark. Nine o’clock. How late would the bridge game go?

  He left the window open, calculating the time it would take him to escape once he heard the front door open downstairs. Would he hear it? The steps leading up to the apartment were wooden, bare. He tested a couple. They creaked satisfactorily. He’d hear them.

  Where to begin? The feeble light from the lamp in the foyer didn’t do much beyond casting mysterious shadows. The living room had few places of concealment. Cardboard boxes sat, fat and dusty, in a corner. Spraggue ruled them out. He’d given them a brief glance before and found only cookbooks and photo albums. Fontenot wouldn’t have left the kind of documents he was looking for in packing boxes.

  Were they kept in the house? Were they secret from Fontenot’s wife? Did Jeannine know all about her husband’s time in prison? Was the cooking trip to France a dream she had turned into reality through repetition and belief?

  First assumption: Jeannine didn’t know, He’d listened to her, watched her as she spoke about Joe’s cooking odyssey to France, studied her hands, her eyes.

  Would papers dealing with Fontenot’s past be stowed in the restaurant safe? They’d need a safe in the restaurant, someplace to store the night’s receipts before the morning’s visit to the bank. But Jeannine would surely know the combination. Not the safe, then. Some secret place.

  He paced the length of the hallway, identifying the rooms that opened on either side. Aside from the large front room and a tiny kitchen where shiny copper pans hung eerily overhead, there was a tiled yellow bathroom and a bedroom—very French Provincial, with a flowered bedspread and tight little rosebud curtains. He drew
the shades down and clicked the button at the base of a bronze bedside lamp. The light gave off a rosy glow through a tinted shade. The bedroom held a chest of drawers made of dark carved mahogany, a dressing table with a triple mirror and a needlepoint bench, and two matching end tables. One was filled with a collection of old birthday cards and matchbooks, two bottles of pinkish nail enamel, a single knitting needle: Mrs. Fontenot’s side of the bed. The other was cluttered with disordered bank statements—all from the legal First National account—cold remedies, a box of coughdrops, a lurid paperback novel. In the closet, behind clothes stuffed in too closely and laundered not often enough, was a shelf six feet off the ground. On tiptoe, Spraggue found dust and two hatboxes, each complete with flowered hat.

  Jeannine hadn’t begun the business of sorting through her husband’s clothes, the sad giving-away and getting-rid-of process that follows any death. Spraggue went through Fontenot’s clothes, searching every pocket. Two movie stubs, two nickels, and a dime.

  The most promising room would be a study, someplace with a desk—a desk with a locked drawer or a secret cubbyhole. A room with a desk, that was what he was after.

  And that was what he found. It opened off the bedroom, so small that it wouldn’t have qualified as a closet in the old Spraggue mansion. It must have been windowless like a closet, so impenetrable was the dark.

  He heard the noise and stopped dead, listening intently, his heartbeat thudding like a timpani.

  “Come on in, snoop.”

  He reached in and rubbed the wall where the light switch should have been, found it, flicked it on. No need for secrecy any more.

  A woman tilted back in a leather armchair, legs bare to the thigh, elevated and crossed on the desk. Her hands were tucked behind her head, elbows spread wide. She wore a black cotton T-shirt, scoop-necked, sleeveless. Tight. A short black skirt. Her toes, poking out of black high-heeled sandals, were painted a garish green.

  He couldn’t see her face.

  She wore a Mardi gras mask, the visage of a great, feathered, sequined bird. Green, brown, purple. A cruel, predatory, hawklike bird.