Tom Hoke - Murder in the Grand Manor

He gave up on Leddon for two reasons: he couldn't chase the man down, and he didn’t have suicidal traits. Jim raced across the lobby toward the bar and somebody's hunk of tin roofing sailed through the front door of the hotel just behind him. If he had been a second later, half of him would be gone one way and half the other. Bertha won his total respect at that particular moment. She'd been close before.

The Tribbles and the bride and groom probably were safer in their bedrooms, separated from the bar by one hurricane. The Tribbles had each other. The bride and groom had each other. Jim had the whole goofy crew, except for the elusive Beau Mitchell, Jerry Duprey, and Leddon. At the moment he could get along very well without them.

East of the bar was what used to be called a sun porch. It had windows on the south, but the east wall was solid which formed protection for the bar. The bar, he hoped wouldn't get the pilings and branches, or a boat that might have been left on the beach.

There was a door between the sun porch and the lobby. He yelled at his crew, and it took all of them to close it. Then everybody trooped silently into the bar. He followed and looked them over.

He had a captive audience. They were all standing there acting like he was going to lead them in Onward Christian Soldiers or Nearer My God to Thee just before the ship was sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Even George didn't look too tough. He was blowing and going from pushing shut the door.

Instead of bursting into song, Jim waved at the table laden with bread, beans, and cheese.

"Eat, drink, and…" he started to say, and changed his mind. It didn't seem tactful.

"Drinks are on the house," he announced pleasantly. "We have some waiting to do. At the moment I would say we are relatively safe." He wasn't so sure about that, but it sounded good.

His crew relaxed. Apparently they trusted him. Aunt Annie sighed. Lena echoed her sigh, you could hear them both over the wind.

The drunk on the bench had raised his head when they came in. Now he flopped back and went to sleep, happily unaware of Bertha's rising anger. Jim envied him. But, somehow he was comparing bucking a hurricane with getting used to driving a nitroglycerin truck.

You could get used to a hurricane the same way.

Anyway, he did have something on his mind beside Bertha. He had been listening avidly to all the fancy history of the Gulf Coast, and admiring Janet Wharton's eyelashes. She had said, "But…but…" about the time Aunt Annie and Lena moved in on them and the whole lobby took off. He wanted to know where she was going from there, but that wasn't all. Her recital was very well done, too well done for him.

He found Janet Wharton sitting in a corner by herself. Just the way he wanted her. He set the lantern on the bar, walked over to Janet, leaned over, and whispered in her ear, "Think up a good answer, Sis, in about twenty seconds!

That's while I get us a drink. You had it all down pat. Why?" She gave him a half scared look and he relented. "I just want the rest of it, o.k.?"

Everybody in the room seemed to have finally resigned themselves to waiting out the storm.

Aunt Annie curled up on the bench across from the long, tall drunk. Lena sat next to her, staring into space. Jim carried two glasses over to the corner where Janet sat. For some reason she seemed amused. She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look, and then had the grace to look away.

"Now" he said, plunking himself down beside her. "Give me the poop, Lady. I know there must be something you haven't told me yet. I can feel it in my private investigator bones.

Let's stop playing games. Maybe the waves were lapping at your feet. Maybe they weren't.

But, how come you arrived at the hotel? The Civil Defense guys said they were moving the diehards to the schoolhouse. And don't tell me you were just coming after your library book."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with his hand over her mouth.

"Before you fill me in, I want you to know your speech sounded like it had been recently recited. It sounded like it came out of the local history book or newspaper. Could it be possible somebody else provided your story??

She stared at him. "How did you know?"

Then she said, "All this didn't come out of a history book. A lot of it came from my father.

He was my source for legends. "

"What about the waves lapping at your feet?"

"They WERE lapping at my feet, really. The men with Civil Defense were quite annoyed.

They suggested I look for shelter elsewhere. So I did. But I came here because I am naturally curious. You gave me that author routine. I could hardly swallow that." She looked around the room. "Also, this is supposed to be the highest spot for miles. Everyone knows this place survived hurricanes before." She sounded dubious about the present.

She hadn't answered entirely, but he knew she would get to the point eventually. "Did you know Mrs. Benning personally, other than just as a library visitor?" She shook her head.

"Before I spoke of him, did you ever hear of Jerry Duprey?" Again, she shook her head, but a light flickered in her eyes.

"I guess I should have said Jerome Duprey, because I assume that is his name. Of course he is the rightful heir to this charming establishment, or what's left of it. You started to tell me something when Bertha took over the lobby. There must be more to your story, something is missing." He looked at her intensely.

She had been holding out on him. She replied quickly, "My father was a newspaperman. He worked as a stringer for the Times Picayune. It was my father who did all the original research about the New Orleans Mint. It was also my father who spent literally years putting the story together. And it was my father who had his story entitled How the Mint Was Robbed published in the newspaper.

Janet paused, and then dropping her eyes toward the floor, she added: "He was also the reporter who interviewed the old Choctaw Indian who had witnessed two killings in 1861.

My father knew both stories were linked. He knew the mint was robbed, and he also knew where the money was buried. He only published the first story. The other he kept for me!"

At last they were getting somewhere. But, instead of introducing the graveyard, Jim explained, "In the Hancock County Courthouse I discovered the last grantee to a piece of land to the west of here was Mrs. Benning. To put everything into perspective, I also found out the piece of land she inherited was originally granted to Jeane Dupree. “

"An employee of the mint, buried the gold and silver coins on Mrs. Benning's property?" An understanding smile spread across Janet's attractive face. Apparently she was well aware of where Mrs. Benning's property was located.

There was a long moment while they listened to a great thumping on the roof. Then she said conversationally, "You are thinking along the same track as I am. Maybe Mrs. Benning found the site where the mint money was buried, and someone killed her trying to find out."

"What did Mrs. Benning look like?" he asked, knowing Janet had seen her recently, and she obviously kept a detailed photographic image of everyone.

"She was short, and she didn't need to dye her hair. It was coal black," she commented.

"Did Edith Benning have any Choctaw blood in her?" Jim asked.

"Sure she did, but if you must know Mr. Jim Charlie Smith, I happen to have Indian blood in me too. So what's the matter with that?"

"Look," he responded hastily, "there's nothing the matter with that. For all I know I'm an eighth Cherokee. Who cares? But my stomach says eat. I'm going to gather up some food.

You gun up on the Choctaws, Janet, while I forage for food."

By this time George had abandoned his bar tendering. He and the short salesman and the man in the shorts were slumped in chairs around a table. Lena had stretched out and joined Aunt Annie in slumber. Mr. Reese sat patiently at another table alone with his hands folded. He had no expression on his face and no glass in front of him. He did not crave the company of anyone.