Elise Blackwell - The Lower Quarter

It did not surprise her that he was quick to understand. “The demand creates the supply. You only have slaves pick cotton if people want to buy cheap cotton — to use a Southern analogy.”

“On that subject, let me assure you that my family managed to be on both sides of the war between the states, which of course is the only way to make sure you’re on the winning side. By which I mean the profitable side. But let’s confine ourselves to contemporary history, shall we? One might surmise that you’d like to see me dead as well, albeit on somewhat different grounds.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t considered the possibility.” Johanna scooted back in the seat just a little, stopping herself before she fell into the wide and deep concavity created by decades of the larger and more powerful. She held her back straight, her shoulders back, her chin ever so slightly lifted, her bare knees together. “My focus has been quite singular, so I would have to give that some thought before I could give you an honest answer.”

He laughed, and it sounded to Johanna like genuine amusement. She met it with her usual stare; a reaction only gives someone something to use against you.

He eyed her drink, its condensation soaking the cork coaster even in the refrigerated room. He put his own drink down, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward, elbows resting on his now-spread knees. “Yet surely you credit me for setting things right.”

Johanna maintained the eye contact he had established. “I’m thinking that if I were you, I would avoid terms such as right and wrong. ”

“Fair enough, but back to why we’re here: I don’t give a damn what happened at the Hotel Richelieu or what you’ve done or haven’t done or why. I have even less interest in seeing any harm or trouble come to you. You’re a friend of my son, and it seems to me you’ve lived a nice, quiet life here for a good decade. Really, all I want is to see your life remain as nice and quiet as it has been.”

“You think I killed Ladislav.”

“As I said, you more than anyone else I can think of would have wanted him dead. Or perhaps needed to defend yourself against him — surely that’s what I would believe. Clearly we would be talking about self-defense. No one would blame you for that, and to involve the authorities would be an unnecessary use of your time. You would be compelled to discuss topics you might prefer to avoid. As I said, what I really want is to see your life remain as nice and quiet as it has been.”

“I don’t think that is all you really want, if you will forgive me for being direct.” In her words, she heard his intonations, his way of making some words shorter but drawing out certain vowels. It was something she knew she did: mirror people. Perhaps it came from having to learn new languages, make people like you in those languages. She knew this was why men often fell for her — they could believe she was like them — though she knew it was also because they could sense that she did not really want them. She decided to speak very softly. “You think I killed him and took the painting.”

He pressed the tips of his fingers together, leaned back, and nodded. “I do.”

Now she smiled, and the pleasure in his error was a real one. This allowed her to be more straightforward. “If there were three paintings missing, then Ladislav had at most two of them with him in New Orleans. And not only did I not kill him, I didn’t even know he was here until after he was dead.”

Fontenot cocked his head. While ordinarily a gesture of surprise, it struck Johanna that he’d already known what she would say. “I’m telling you the truth,” she said.

“How do you know he didn’t have the third painting?

Johanna tasted the small bit of victory in the moment, tried to feel it as something tangible on the tip of her tongue. “Because he lost it more than ten years ago.”

Gerard nodded, granting her the point. “Well, whatever the case may be, it needs to be returned to its rightful owner, an act which will restore contentment to all involved.”

“Who is its rightful owner?”

“The man who bought it.”

What she wanted more than anything was the name of that man, but she knew the worst thing she could do now was to name the thing she most wanted. “That’s one definition,” she said.

“It’s the legal definition.”

She could feel her goose bumps and smoothed the fine hairs on her forearms down, one at a time, forcing a pause on the conversation. “So why have you not taken the legal approach?”

“As I have already said, calling in the authorities would complicate things unnecessarily. Why should you get in trouble over a small misunderstanding? All that really needs to happen here is that the painting be returned.”

“To its rightful owner?”

“Precisely.” Now his smile bared his teeth. He leaned all the way back in his chair, holding his drink on his stomach as though the glass was not wet.

Again she mimicked his way of speaking: “May I ask what your interest is in this matter?”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop herself any longer. “Tell me who this ‘rightful owner’ is, and perhaps I can see that you get the painting.”

“That doesn’t concern you, either.”

“On the contrary.”

“You won’t be getting that information from me, and — trust me on this — you don’t really want it. Let’s just make this go away, and you keep leading your quiet little life.”

That he thought her life was little was no surprise, but something else about his words did not calculate properly — and precisely because he thought her life had no consequence. She tried it out loud: “If you didn’t call the authorities, it is because you didn’t want them called, which means you have something to protect or to hide.”

“Maybe I want to protect my son. Or at least protect the Fontenot name.”

Johanna swallowed as slowly as she could so that it would not be visible, realizing too late that this probably exaggerated the motion by giving him time to register it.

He went on, “But you’re right. I don’t think you bashed that goddamn rodent’s head in. You’re tall, that’s for sure, but you don’t look that strong.”

“Maybe I would surprise you.”

“Not your style, anyway. You’d be all about premeditation. You would have poisoned him or at least brought a knife. More than likely you would have covered your tracks much better. The police wouldn’t even know it was a murder. Anyway, I bet you evacuated before the storm. I’d guess you’d be more than willing to take your chances against the wind and water, but you’d be afraid of the men who stayed behind.”

Now his words froze her, and she could not even swallow.

“I hit on it, didn’t I? You weren’t even in town when our Czech friend hit his final wall, and yet you’d let me think you were a murderer. So now I ask myself why. At any rate, I’ve assumed for some while now that it was Clayton who lost his cool. No doubt in my mind that you were the reason for it. Probably thought he was protecting you. Maybe you can return the favor and see that that painting lands in my hands so that I can get it where it needs to go and he can keep leading his sordid little life. Truth is, I’m quite curious to have a look at that particular piece of artwork before I do. Anything that generates so much interest has to be worth a gander.”

She considered avenues of protest and knew it was too late to take any of them. “As I implied, I will see that the painting gets to you if you will give me the name of the man you plan to return it to.”

He winked at her — a clear act of aggression. “Let’s play it this way instead: You get me that painting, and I won’t tell him your name.”