Jean Barrett - Private Investigations

Should she resent him for contacting her like this? No, she decided, she had made peace with that particular episode in her past, forgiven him long ago. “Are you in trouble, Glenn?”

He paused. “Maybe.”

“Like to tell me about it?”

“I think we need to get together as soon as possible.”

Christy could appreciate his wish for a meeting. Clients rarely wanted to discuss their problems over the phone. “I’m free right now.” Oh, boy, was she free. “Do you know where my office is?”

“Uh, yes, but my lawyer doesn’t want anyone knowing I’m worried enough to consult a private investigator, and if I’m seen going into your office…”

A lawyer? Just what kind of trouble were they talking about here?

“Look,” he went on, “I’m already downtown. It was…well, necessary for me to be here.” Was there an implication in that she was supposed to understand? “So if we could meet somewhere….”

“Name it.”

“The Café Du Monde?”

“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be there.”

“See you then. And, Christy?”

“Yes?”

“The circumstances being what they are, I appreciate your willingness to offer your services.”

Was that something else she was supposed to understand, she wondered as she put down the phone. She didn’t, of course, but in fifteen minutes she hoped to. Denise was ready to pounce as Christy got to her feet.

“We got us a client?”

“I think so.”

Denise grunted her satisfaction. “Maybe finally get some action around here. Where you goin’?”

“Upstairs. I need to change before I meet him.”

“Must be some real important dude. Must be somebody you got to impress.”

“Never mind.”

Drat the woman and those shrewd jet eyes of hers, Christy thought as she tripped up the narrow stairway to her tiny apartment overhead. It was just like Denise to practically accuse her of wanting to look as attractive as possible when Glenn saw her again after all these years. All right, that’s just what she wanted to do and she was a pathetic fool for caring. So what?

So what if Glenn Hollister had a wife now and was a father, as well, though she’d heard his marriage was foundering? And so what if he’d dumped Christy for the elegant Laura Claiborne, an episode which had left Christy’s heart grievously scarred? Yeah, so what?

She didn’t have an answer for that reckless so what until, about to burrow into the battered old armoire for an outfit guaranteed to please, she caught her image in the long mirror on the door. There was Christy Hawke in long shorts and running shoes, her honey-colored hair crammed under a Cubs baseball cap. Okay, so that much of Chicago was still a part of her. But, hey, it wasn’t her fault. If New Orleans ever got itself a team, she was willing to switch her loyalty.

The brim of the cap shaded a piquant face and a pair of aquamarine eyes that defiantly said, “Here I am. This is what you get.” So why was she getting ready to turn herself into some kind of baby doll? Forget it. Whatever dumb torch she might once have carried for Glenn Hollister, he would have to take her as she was.

And so much for all those so what’s, she concluded as she firmly closed the door of the armoire, grabbed her bag and headed for the stairs.

THE CAFE DU MONDE was located on the river in the old French Market, which had once supplied the city with fresh fruits and vegetables. These days, the long colonnaded structure contained shops, most of them serving the tourist trade. The place was close enough to Christy’s office to permit her to reach it on foot, but just far enough away to put her curiosity about Glenn Hollister into overdrive as she walked there.

That curiosity was at maximum speed by the time she arrived and stood searching the outdoor tables. They were crowded with the usual tourists hunched over beignets and café au lait. Christy was still looking for Glenn when he appeared suddenly at her side.

“I don’t deserve this,” he said out of nowhere in that kind voice that had always been a pleasure to hear. “Not after the way I let you go.”

She turned to face him and realized immediately that she had probably made a big mistake. He was slender, fair-haired and had a face that could still soften her heart. Oh, yeah, not just probably but definitely a mistake for her to be here. On the other hand, with the wolf at her door….

The moment deserved something brilliant, witty, but all she had to offer was an inane, “Helping people is what I do, Glenn. Uh, where can we—”

“I have a table over here.”

He conducted her to a shady corner and tried to seat her so that she faced the view. But since that view was of the nearby Jax Brewery, the scene of her recent defeat, Christy preferred to take a chair looking inward.

When Glenn had settled across from her, and they had ordered coffee neither of them wanted, Christy treated herself to a second examination of the man who had once meant—well, if not everything to her, pretty close to it. And she decided all over again that, yeah, he still looked good. He also looked like hell, which was something she’d missed the first time around. There was a grimness in the little smile he directed at her, a haunted expression in his eyes.

“The circumstances being what they are,” she said, leaning toward him. “That was what you said on the phone. Does that have an explanation, Glenn?”

His gentle gray eyes widened in disbelief. “You don’t know? How is that possible when it must be all over the news?”

She’d been so busy fighting Dallas McFarland for possession of Brenda Bornowski that she hadn’t watched a newscast or read a newspaper since early yesterday. And, of course, Denise couldn’t have told her anything. All Denise ever listened to was her beloved jazz. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I’ve been out of touch. Just how bad is it, Glenn?”

“Laura,” he said, referring to his wife. “She’s dead, Christy. And I’m about to be charged with her murder. That’s how bad it is.”

Beneath her shock, Christy felt a rush of affectionate sympathy for him. But it was one of those “What can I say? What do I say?” moments. The waiter helped her. He arrived to serve their coffee, giving her a few seconds to marshal her thoughts.

By the time he retreated, she’d found her tongue.

“Glenn, I’m so sorry. How awful for you. Your little girl—”

“Yes, this is going to be very hard on Daisy. She knows her mother is gone, but she’s too young for the loss to really mean anything yet.”

Christy faced a tough question, but it had to be asked.

“Glenn, did you—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it, but she didn’t have to. He understood.

“No, I didn’t kill her, Christy. And the cops haven’t accused me of her murder. Yet.”

“But they suspect you of being involved, huh?”

“Oh, yeah, I know they do. I could feel it and my lawyer, who was with me when they asked all their questions, agrees that I may be this far from being arrested.” He held up thumb and forefinger a scant inch apart. “That’s where we were before I called you, with the police.”

“What makes you their chief suspect?”

“I guess it’s no secret our marriage was in trouble, that we’d been fighting a lot lately, mostly about money. And also—” He hesitated, reluctant to impart the rest.

“I have to know everything, Glenn.”

“Yes. Well, Laura’s best friend talked to the police. She told them she’d been worried about Laura, that she’d been acting frightened about something. When she’d asked her about it, Laura said it was me, that she was scared of me, and another friend backed up this story. Which is crazy. You know me, Christy. You know I’d never threaten anyone, least of all hurt them. But the police—”