“Knock it off, Mary Alice. You’re not this stupid. We know where the bodies are buried—literally. This isn’t a footnote, it’s a goddamned reckoning, and you don’t want to acknowledge that because it means you have to figure out what to do about the problem of Akiko.”
I heard her exhale through her nose, sharply, like a bull will before it charges. “My wife is not a problem, Billie. But I don’t expect you to understand that.”
She started to stomp off, a tricky thing in deep sand. “Hey, Mary Alice,” I called after her. She turned back and I stuck my middle finger up.
She flipped me off in response as she stalked away. I dug out a fresh cigarette and lit it, blowing a mouthful of smoke out slowly. “That could have gone better,” I said to the crab.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was three hours wheels up to touchdown in Miami and we took our time disembarking, careful not to draw attention to ourselves by hurrying. We made our way through Customs and Immigration, but Minka’s work was good. We cleared the official channels with half an hour to spare before boarding our flight to Atlanta on another airline. When we arrived, Hartsfield was thronged with the after-Christmas crowds, everybody pushing and shoving. So much for peace on earth and goodwill to men. It must have gotten thrown out with the reindeer wrapping paper.
It was eleven pm by then, and we caught the last flight to Birmingham, landing after midnight. Natalie was whimpering with fatigue, but I pushed on, followed doggedly by Mary Alice and Helen, who somehow managed to look perkier than the rest of us. I picked up the rental car Minka had reserved for us, and we settled in for the final leg. Natalie dove for the back seat, crashing into sleep as soon as she landed. The rest of us took turns driving, and five hours later I was at the wheel again, crossing the Twin Span Bridge into New Orleans just as the sun came up. I followed I-10 into the city, keeping with the flow of morning rush-hour traffic until we got close to the French Quarter. Mary Alice was dozing in the passenger seat and Helen and Natalie were curled together like puppies on the back seat.
I poked Mary Alice awake. “Better get them up. We’re almost here and we’re going to have to move fast when I stop.”
She roused Helen and Nat and collected the little baggage we had with us. I left the car running on a side street just off of Rampart. Within half an hour it would be in a chop shop, stripped for parts, leaving no trace of how we’d gotten to the city even if anyone managed to track us as far as Birmingham.
“What now?” Mary Alice asked, shouldering her bag.
“We walk,” I said, pointing towards the Quarter. If I’d been on my own, I’d have taken a precautionary lap around the block, but Helen was drooping again and Natalie was barely on her feet. Going without good sleep for twenty-four hours is easy when you’re twenty; it’s a bitch when you’re sixty. I felt every minute of that lost night as we trudged down Ursulines. It was as quiet a block as you could find in the French Quarter. No drunks stumbled down the uneven sidewalks; no vomit pooled in the gutter. It was almost serene.
We stopped in front of a nondescript gate fitted with a keypad. The gate was backed with thick, padded black canvas, obscuring any view into the property. I punched in the code and there was a moment of expectant silence. Then a soft buzz, a clang, and the gate swung open. Beyond lay an arched brick tunnel, softly lit by a single gaslight that flickered. Something scuttled around in the shadows on the damp ground.
“What was that?” Natalie asked, peering into the gloom.
“Probably a rat,” I told her cheerfully. I slammed the gate closed behind them, making sure it locked. “Welcome to my place.”
The tunnel led into a courtyard bordered by four brick buildings, each one more decrepit than the last. The fa?ades, linked by galleries and staircases, leaned against each other for support like elderly women having one last gossip.
The three women stood, turning slowly as they took it in. An overgrown tea olive reared up in the corner between stacks of crumbling bricks. There were more stacks—slates, boards, bags of cement—and pots full of shrubs in various stages of growth. In the center, a fountain missing its jet was full of green water. The surface rippled a little and Natalie jumped.
“What’s moving in that water?” Mary Alice demanded.
“Louie the carp. He came with the house.”
“Well, I suppose it’s nice to have a pet,” Helen said politely.
“It looks like it’s about to fall down,” Nat said, staring up at the flaking black wrought iron holding up the second-floor galleries.
“It might. Watch your step up there,” I said.
“It must have been beautiful once,” Mary Alice said with a stab at diplomacy. “I’m sure it could be nice again.”
“With a little elbow grease and a few sticks of dynamite,” Natalie replied.
“You’re staying for free,” I reminded her.
Mary Alice put on a brave face. “Does the plumbing work?”
“Sometimes,” I said. It was clear Mary Alice and Natalie weren’t impressed. I turned to Helen.
To my surprise, she smiled. “It’s perfect. Thank you for bringing us here, Billie.”
Mary Alice had the grace to look a little ashamed, but Natalie merely yawned. Just then a door—wide, with peeling turquoise paint—opened and a tall, skinny girl emerged. Before I could introduce her, she was on me, wrapping me up tightly and lifting me an inch off the ground. She smelled like maple syrup and burnt toast.
“You scared me. Don’t do that,” she said firmly as she put me down.
“We’re alright,” I told her. “You did great.”
She kept one hand on my shoulder and turned to look at the others, her head cocked like a squirrel’s. “These are friends?”
“Mary Alice, Helen, Natalie,” I told her. “This is Minka.”
They made polite noises and she nodded back before turning to me. “I made breakfast.”
“You can’t cook,” I reminded her.
She shrugged. “It is not good. But you should eat.”
She led the way through the turquoise door into a shell of a house. The brick walls that held it up had been left standing but the interior partition walls had been punched out and the upper floor removed entirely so the ceiling was two stories above our heads. An old door laid onto stacks of bricks made a makeshift kitchen counter to hold the essentials—coffeemaker, hot plate, and toaster oven. There was an expensive electric kettle for tea, but that was my only concession to luxury.
A table that could have seated forty for dinner stood in the center of the room with a small scattering of chairs that didn’t match. The windows were stained-glass Bible stories with clear glass in a few places where the original panes had shattered and been replaced cheaply. The rest were mostly cracked, with a long, jagged line marking the upturned face of Mary Magdalene as she knelt before a risen Jesus.
“What is this place?” Mary Alice asked.
“Former convent,” I told her as I pointed them to places around the table. A platter was stacked high with cold, burned pieces of toast, and the butter was upholstered with a layer of crumbs. But the coffee and tea were hot.
We sagged into chairs, each of us taking a mug and ignoring the ruined bread. “The sisters belonged to an order associated with Mary Magdalene,” I went on. “Down the street is a convent that used to belong to the Ursulines. The nuns who built this house came a few decades after. They were a nursing order and they were wiped out by a yellow fever epidemic.”
“It is haunted,” Minka put in cheerfully, coming to sit with a cup of coffee.
Mary Alice turned to her. “Haunted?”
“With ghosts,” Minka added.
“Nun ghosts,” I clarified. “They’ve driven a few owners away, but they’ve never bothered me and they don’t seem to trouble Minka.”
She shrugged. “It is nice to have company when you live alone.”