Patrick wanted someone else. I wanted him to be happy, but why couldn’t he be happy with me? I knew the answer. He couldn’t choose me. Patrick wanted a literary life of travel, learning, and social substance. I was a scrappy girl from the Quarter, trying to make good. No matter how I parted my hair, I couldn’t part from the crack I had crawled out of.
I wished I had a friend in the Quarter, someone like Charlotte. Someone I could share secrets with, collapse on her bedroom floor, and spill my guts about Patrick to. I saw so many girls walking arm in arm, laughing, an inexplicable closeness and comfort that they had a protector and confidante. They had someone they could count on.
A man leaned against a car outside the bookshop. He saw me approach and walked to meet me on the sidewalk. It was Detective Langley.
“Miss Moraine. I’m glad I waited. I was hoping I could ask you some additional questions.”
I looked up and down the street, checking to see who was around to report to Frankie.
“We can step inside the shop if you like,” he said.
I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and walked to the counter. I sucked in a breath to calm my nerves. “What can I help you with, Detective?”
He mopped his wet brow and took out a tattered notepad. “The day you came to the station, you said that Mr. Hearne bought two books.”
I nodded.
“Yeah, the books were found in his hotel room, and there was a receipt in one of them. His wife has told us that the check never cleared. She thought that was odd. The check is listed in the checkbook register that was found on him.”
My mind raced, trying to catch up with my heart. I pointed to the sign near the register. “We don’t take checks, Detective. Perhaps Mr. Hearne wrote the check before he saw the sign and then paid in cash?”
He pointed his pen to the sign. “That’s gotta be it. Thank you.”
“I’ll show you out.”
“One more thing.” He rubbed his head. “I’m sure you know that your mother is being questioned. She was seen with Hearne the night of his death. Do you know where your mother was on New Year’s Eve, Miss Moraine?”
I looked at Detective Langley. His story was obvious. Every Sunday he’d drive to his mother’s for dinner. His mother, probably named Ethel, had meaty ankles, weary gray curls, and wore a flowered housedress. A wiry black hair sprouted from the mole on her chin. She’d shuffle around a hot kitchen all day in preparation for her son’s weekly visit. She’d make something special, perhaps with frothy meringue, for dessert. He’d eat every bite. After his car pulled away, Ethel would wash the dishes, allow herself a slug of blackberry wine, and then fall asleep in the living room chair, still wearing her apron.
“Miss Moraine?” He interrupted my thoughts. “I asked if you know where your mother was on New Year’s Eve.”
“Have you met my mother, Detective?” I asked.
“Yes, I have.”
“Then I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you that we have been estranged for quite some time. I’ve lived upstairs in this bookshop since I was twelve years old.” I stared at the detective. “I’ve never spent New Year’s Eve with my mother, and I have no idea where she was.”
He put his pen in his ear to scratch an itch or dislodge some wax. “Well, the chief wanted me to come talk to you. I told him he was going to a goat’s house for wool, but he’s got a checklist, you know.”
Coming to me was like going to a goat’s house?
“So, Miss Moraine, if you weren’t with your mother, where were you on New Year’s Eve?”
“I was right here, upstairs in my room.” I motioned toward the back stairs and regretted it the moment my hand moved.
Detective Langley looked toward the stairs at the back of the shop. What if he wanted to search my room? How would I explain thousands of dollars in Cokie’s gambling money in my floorboard? He would probably think it was the cash missing from Mr. Hearne. Droplets of perspiration popped at the back of my neck.
He leaned on the counter. “Did anyone see you here on New Year’s Eve?”
“Yes, Patrick Marlowe, the owner of the shop. He came by with a friend around midnight.”
“Did you all go out then?”
“No, Patrick will tell you I was quite indisposed, in my nightgown and hairpins.”
The detective chewed his lip in thought. I could practically see the dim lightbulb buzzing above his head. “What if I told you that someone saw you out on New Year’s Eve?” he said.
“I would say they were lying, hoping to pressure me into telling you something different. I have told you the facts, Detective. I was here, all night, on New Year’s Eve. You can speak to Patrick Marlowe and James from Doubleday Bookshop. They both saw me here.”
I almost felt bad for the guy. He’d never stay afloat in the Quarter with such transparent methods.
He thanked me for my time and left. I locked the door, turned out the lights, and watched him drive away. Then I ran across the street to call Willie.
I recounted all the details.
“He just left?” she asked.
“Yes, he just drove away.”
“They’re still digging. They don’t have anything,” she said.
“Willie, does Mother have an alibi?”
“Trust me, you don’t want what your mother has. Go back and lock your doors.” She hung up the phone.
I ran across the dark street. I fumbled with my keys, trying to find the right one in the low light. I heard a noise. My hair tore from my scalp as I was yanked and slammed up against the glass door. I felt something hard in my back.
“Hey, Crazy Josie. That was a bad, bad move. You really think it’s wise to go talkin’ to the police?” Cincinnati’s sour breath was hot in my ear.
“I wasn’t talking to the police.”
He shoved me into the door again. “I saw you. I stood and watched you talk to that copper.” His hand was on the back of my head, shoving the side of my face into the glass.
“I wasn’t talking to him. He just . . . asked me a question.”
He slapped his knife on the door next to my eye. “You,” he whispered, “are a liar.”
My body shuddered.
I saw a couple walking toward us down Royal and opened my mouth to scream. Cincinnati jerked me off the door, slung his arm around my neck, and forced me to walk with him.
“Don’t even think about screaming,” he said through his teeth.
I tried to follow his paces, my face practically wrenched in a headlock. His left hand held the blade of his knife at my waistline. I felt the sting of the tip against me. We walked a block up to Bourbon Street, and he pushed me into a small bar. I saw my mother sitting at a table in the back near a window, a litter of empty glasses in front of her.
He threw me into a chair and quickly pulled one up behind.
“Look what I found,” said Cincinnati.
“Hi, Jo.” Mother sounded sleepy. Her blue-shadowed lids bobbed like the last flaps of a dead bird.
“I told you that was the detective who drove by. And when I looked, guess who was chatting him up?” Cincinnati lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in my face.
Mother sat up, her tone shifting slightly. “Why were you talking to the detective, Jo?”
I slid my chair away from Cincinnati and closer to my mother. “The day Mr. Hearne died, he came to the shop. He bought two books. The police found the books and the receipt in his hotel room. The detective came to ask me about them.”
“Just now they came to ask you?” said Cincinnati. “Why didn’t they come earlier?”
“I don’t know,” I said, looking at my mother. I couldn’t stand to look at Cincinnati.
Mother reached for Cincinnati’s hand. “See, baby? That’s nothing. They just asked about books.”
“Shut up, Louise. She’s lyin’. The kid’s slick like me, not stupid like you.”
“I’m not stupid,” contested Mother. “You’re stupid.”
“You watch your mouth.”
Mother pouted. “Well, I’m no longer a suspect. They confirmed my alibi, and we’ll be goin’ back to Hollywood. This town’s just too small for us,” she told me.
“When are you leaving?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” said Cincinnati. “Why, you wanna come with us, Crazy Josie?” He put his hand on my thigh. I threw it off.