The Ladies Who Lunch

By Kate Kulig

Zofia Smith was looking forward to a few things in May of 2005. Her birthday, fewer tourists as New Orleans hit the heat of the summer, books coming out from her favorite authors. She didn't expect a panicked phone call from her best employee saying he had found a body when he was supposed to be delivering a rare first edition.

While James swore up and down he'd never been to society matron Genevieve Monret's home in the Garden District, the police had enough circumstantial evidence to name him the prime suspect. Zo was repeatedly told to leave the investigation to the professionals, but how do you stop that when you're the one getting the results?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Kulig
• Release date: Aug 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463506400

Kate Kulig

Kate Kulig was born in Saugus, Massachusetts and denies all responsibility for the hospital burning down at a later date. After growing up in both Wilmington and Andover, MA, she graduated from Hofstra University with a BA in Communications with a minor in English. Five states (one of them twice), several moves and more than a few careers later, including time spent as a disc jockey, stage manger, delivery driver, bookseller and a memorable temp job counting arrows, she found herself happily in New York City. When not working at her day job as a project manager, reading, or writing, she can be found prowling Manhattan's ramen shops, traveling to New Orleans, bicycling in Central Park, dabbling in photography, experimenting in the kitchen, playing an assortment of role-playing games, and watching way too many crime shows.

Book preview

1

I thought finding bodies was your job.

I’m learning to delegate. Feliz says it’s good for me.

My flip reply got me a weak grin. James was not in very good mental shape at the moment. Do you think the detectives will get here soon?

I think so, I replied. Honestly, I’m surprised I beat them here. The Sixth District station is a lot closer to this address than Bloody Murder is. Bloody Murder was the mystery bookstore I owned in the French Quarter. James worked for me part-time.

They were out on another case, a familiar voice said. I turned to my right and saw a tall female uniformed cop approaching us. Zofia? Is that you? She was six feet tall, two inches over my five-foot ten, broad across the beam, and stunningly gorgeous. Her brown eyes were deep in color and warm. Damp curls escaped from the tight bun she wore on the back of her head. She’d worked as a bodyguard a few years ago when she was going to college.

I’m bad with names, but this woman was memorable. Gina?

Officer Bertolucci to you, ma’am. but she was grinning as she looked from me to James. I thought I recognized you when you were talking to my partner, but I wasn’t sure. I’d say it’s good to see you, but… she let the sentence trail off.

It’s okay, James said. It would be good under other circumstances. You’re rather unforgettable.

Gina remained all business, but her olive complexion did darken a shade. Most people call their lawyer in this situation and you called your boss. Why?

Wait, am I under arrest? James turned a whiter shade of pale.

I jumped in with both feet. He just called me because I have more experience with dead bodies. Oh shit. Not helpful, Zo. I stopped and tried to backpedal. That didn’t come out the way I meant it. How’ve you been? What’s it been, three years? How about them Saints?

About three and a half. No more bodyguard duty for me, she said, referring to the situation when we first met. I finished school, and decided I really liked it down here. Ma’s upset I’m not back in Boston, but as long as I call her every Sunday after church, she doesn’t give me too much of a hard time.

I smiled. My mother had been big on church as well. She was almost a Catholic nun before she met my father. Hijinks ensued. I’m glad you’re doing so well. I bet you’re a great cop.

I like it. I love this city and it just felt right, y’know?

I knew the sentiment well. I’d been in New Orleans for nine years now, and while I’d never be considered a native, nowhere else felt like home. I made a mental note to thank my best friend, Marie St. Pierre, once again for talking me into changing my latitude. When I’d left Chicago, my life was in shambles, to put it mildly. Now I could say I’d made a good life here, if you didn’t count the occasional dead body.

An American car so nondescript it had to belong to the police pulled up and parked behind Gina’s cruiser. Her partner, a sandy-haired veteran she had called Coop walked up to the detectives.

Hi Coop, a slender, African-American woman in a merlot pantsuit got out of the driver’s side. Her hair was short, straightened, and hugged her head like a cap. It reminded me of Phryne Fisher, a fictional detective in 1920’s Melbourne. Tell me what we have here. She took in the lot of us, raising her eyebrows at the sight of James and me. I was dressed in my work clothes still, which today meant faded jeans that were thin at the knees and a dark green t-shirt. A name tag hung on a lanyard around my neck. My hair, which had been smoothed into a ponytail at about five a.m., was falling in my face here and there, reminding me I was overdue for a trip to the salon. In other words, I looked downright scruffy. Running a bookstore can be dusty work. Maybe I should have stopped to change into something more businesslike.

James was also in jeans, less faded than mine, and a pair of running shoes that had seen better days hung onto his feet with duct tape and luck. If you didn’t look at the shoes, he looked a touch more respectable than I did, wearing a newish polo shirt with a logo I didn’t recognize and less dust. Still, it was only a touch more respectable. He also had a bit of blood on him, and that didn’t help our case at all.

Detective Duvall, she put her French manicured hand out and we each shook it. You both found the body?

I nudged James. I did, ma’am, er, detective. he stammered. I was delivering a book Ms. Monret ordered. Nobody answered when I rang the bell. I tried the door and it was open. I called out to see if anyone was home, that’s when I saw the bloody footprints in the hallway.

Her look was stern. Why didn’t you just leave the book on the front steps or the mailbox?

James faltered, It didn’t occur to me…

I had to speak up. Detective, I own Bloody Murder Books in the French Quarter. Part of my job there is hunting down rare books for clients like Ms. Monret.

I took a breath to continue, but I didn’t get to finish. Ms. Monret, she our DB? she looked at Gina and Coop.

Gina’s partner answered. Genevieve Monret, 46. Dead of two gunshot wounds to the head. Double-tap, looks like a pro job.

Duvall looked tired. And that, Coop, is why you’ll never make detective. You rush to judgment before knowing all the facts. Back to me. So this book, I take it it’s valuable?

She paid seventeen hundred and fifty dollars for it, I said blandly. That’s why we wouldn’t just leave it on the doorstep. James pulled the book out of his backpack. It was wrapped in brown paper over a layer of bubble wrap. He gently removed the some of the paper to show her the cover.

Seventeen hundred bucks for a book? her partner, a white guy about my age, maybe a little younger, with pale blue eyes, joined our group. He wore a navy blue suit and a tie with a Jackson Pollock splatters.

"It’s a first edition of Nicholas Nickleby," I explained. Duvall looked blank.

The partner’s eyes lit up as he made a connection. Dickens? First edition? My aunt Harriet would love to get her hands on that. Remembering protocol, he produced two business cards and handed one to me and one to James. Detective Keenan. Patrick. Was the first name aimed at me? Duvall certainly hadn’t offered hers. I didn’t usually find detectives such a friendly sort. Like with the nuns that had educated me for twelve years, genuine friendliness was both rare and suspect.

Duvall cleared her throat and sent Gina and Coop to canvas the Garden District neighborhood to see if anyone had seen or heard anything. That task assigned, she turned and focused on James. So, you didn’t want to just leave a valuable book on the steps, I get that. So you went inside…

James picked up the narrative. I saw bloody footprints in the hallway. I didn’t touch anything, I swear! he looked a little wild around the eyes. I put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He took a deep breath and continued. I walked inside, and followed the footprints into the front room, the one with the bay window. She was lying on her side on the couch, with her head facing away.

Was she breathing?

I couldn’t tell from across the room, I went over to her, and when I touched her shoulder, she was cool. Not cold, but like she’d been out in cold weather. James was from Minnesota; he knew about cold weather. I wasn’t sure Duvall did, but she nodded. That’s when I saw the rest of the blood. It was all over the couch, a big puddle on the rug. I’m not sure how I managed not to get more on me.

Duvall made notes in the spiral-bound notebook cops always seemed to carry. She was left-handed, and the diamonds embedded in her yellow gold wedding band caught the light and sparkled rainbows. What did you do next?

I went outside, called 911 on my cell phone. Then I called Zofia.

Smith, I interjected. I’m his boss. And his friend.

Duvall had jaded down pat. Were you acquainted with the deceased, Mrs. Smith?

I get tired of people assuming I’m married just because I’m over thirty. Besides, a detective should notice I’m not wearing a ring. She’s a customer, but we’ve never actually met face to face. I’ve only spoken to her on the phone. She was referred to me by a friend. If we didn’t talk on the phone, we were using email. Welcome to the future where you can have a relationship with the faceless. Usually she sent her assistant to pick up the books I acquired for her, but today she called and said she absolutely had to have it for her book club on Saturday and her assistant wasn’t available, would I please have it delivered?

She aimed the next question at James. And you, Mr.…

Hosking, Keenan put in, reading from someone else’s notes, I guessed Gina’s. Hosking, Duvall said, a slight tightness in her voice indicated her patience was wearing thin. Sister Mary Augusta, my fifth-grade teacher, had the same tone. I had inspired it often; sometimes even without meaning to. Have you ever met Mrs. Monret?

Ms., I said.

Perfectly plucked eyebrows Excuse me?

She always used Ms. to identify herself, I said.

Is it really that important? She said icily.

Not every woman gets her identity from being with a man, Detective, I said with a tartness that surprised me. I usually managed to keep my temper around cops. Lord knew I had enough experience. Something about Duvall got under my skin.

I see, she said, and flipped the cover over her notepad before tucking it away. After a pause so long I expected it to give birth, she shifted her gaze back to James. Had you met Ms. Monret before, Mr. Hosking?

James replied quickly. No, ma’am, today was the first day I saw her. Too quickly? No, he was just a nervous wreck.

Duvall pressed lush lips together and tried to find something wrong with his reply. Not finding one, she fished in her jacket pocket and pulled out two business cards. Call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful, she said and handed one to me. To James, she said, We need you to wait a minute, someone from the Crime Scene Unit is going to do a GSR test on you.

James nodded assent. Yes, ma’am.

That’s gunshot residue, do you understand that?

It didn’t seem to be a good idea to mention that Bloody Murder Books specialized in whodunits.

2

A negative GSR test, a curt dismissal, and a short walk later, James and I were out of the wealthy Garden District and in the adjacent working-class neighborhood of the Irish Channel. Specifically, we were at Parasols Bar and Grill, which was as famous for its roast beef po’boys as it was for its raucous St. Patrick’s Day festivities. James perused the menu and sipped a Guinness. I opted for a Harp, since I was going out to dinner with my boyfriend later. I wouldn’t have room for dinner after a beer that ate like a meal.

James was still shaky. I couldn’t blame him. Finding a dead body will do that to a person. I was glad I hadn’t actually seen this one up close and personal. I have the embarrassing habit of fainting at the sight of fresh blood. Seeing tiny spots of dried blood on James’ polo didn’t bother me, thankfully. Sorry about your shirt, I said, trying for light conversation.

It’s okay, he said. I got it at a thrift shop. Not too far from the murder scene, actually.

I nodded. You might want to do something about those sneakers.

He nodded agreement. Yeah, they’re in bad shape. It’s hard to find shoes my size, though. I have narrow feet. When I find a pair that fits, I wear them until they fall apart.

I think you’re beyond that point, I said. Before I could continue, my phone chirped. I was still getting used to the new sounds this one made. I’d let my high-tech boyfriend talk me into not just a new phone, but a Blackberry with various features like email, internet, and text messaging. The chirp was the indicator of a text. I looked at the screen.

Zo, I’m sorry, I have to cancel tonight. High-profile customer needs something done yesterday. I love you.

I reached for the other menu on the table. My dinner plans just changed.

James looked concerned. I thought you had a date tonight.

So did I, I sighed in resignation.

James was quiet for a moment. I thought you guys were doing okay. He was referring to my nearly three-year relationship with one Michael Woo, geek for hire. Charming, fun, handsome, sexy, and occasionally downright infuriating. Like right now. We still saw each other regularly, but ever since a secret in his past had come to light last year, things had become strange. And strained. And sometimes they were perfectly normal. In other words, he was not as reliable as he used to be. He also wasn’t as confident. He was occasionally so wracked with shame you’d swear he was Catholic. How are you supposed to move forward after you forgive someone without them forgiving themselves?

I looked for humor. What was that Emerson, Lake and Powell tour called back in the late eighties? Not Palmer. Cozy Powell played with them for a short while. James was a musician with eclectic taste and he picked up on my meaning immediately.

Touch and Go.

Got it in one. I said, making an effort not to sound cynical. It didn’t work.

What gives? This was a switch. Usually, when James and I were talking about someone’s romantic life, it was his. James was famous for the love affair to end all love affairs. He’d had at least seven in the years I’ve known him. Now he was listening to his normally composed boss be rather more emotional than she normally was in public. I didn’t like it when I got this way, but at least I was with someone I trusted.

I took a deep breath. We can go for weeks where everything is wonderful, like last year never happened, and then a streak of moodiness and withdrawal will hit him like a freight train. I sighed softly. It looks like we have reached the beginning of another one. Anyway, it seems as if there’s a chance to work late, or to take a job out of town, he takes it. Most of the time when we’re together, he’s just like he always was. Then, for a minute, he’ll get this faraway look in his eyes and be somewhat distant for the rest of the night.

He still hasn’t forgiven himself for letting you get hurt, James said, reaffirming what I already knew. James tended to be a good touchstone for the male psyche. At least the sensitive side. For pure macho, I would have preferred to ask my brother, but he’d been dead for several years, damn him.

What is this ‘let me get hurt?’ crap? I snapped. I was about to say more, but paused pre-tirade as an overtired server came over, summoning a convivial smile from his back pocket. James ordered the roast beef po’boy with a side of onion rings. I went for smoked sausage with a side of sweet potato fries. Comfort food. I also ordered another beer. Comfort booze.

Zo, he blames himself for you ending up kidnapped and in the hospital last January. The whole mess with Ian McKay and Holly Fisher was his fault. If he’d just told you about his past, you would not have wound up in the hospital.

He would have told me, in his own time, I reflexively went to Michael’s defense. It is not his fault that Holly Fisher was a drugged-up nutcase. Holly had been a co-worker of Michael’s a long time ago in a galaxy far away. They did some partying back in the day, along with Ian McKay and several friends. Okay, they did a lot of partying. There was cocaine. There was a lot of cocaine. Arrests were made one night, my boyfriend served time. All this happened long before I met him. He was in Narcotics Anonymous. He’d had no trouble with the law since.

He still feels responsible. We men are raised to protect you womenfolk. I winced at the bad joke, but I was glad to see him smile. I’m not kidding, Zo. You and Jerry pulled his nuts out of the proverbial fire when Holly kidnapped him. You and Jerry saved him, he didn’t get himself out of that. That’s a blow to the ego. Even worse, you ended up Holly’s prisoner. To add insult to injury, it was Ian who ultimately saved you, not him. He feels like he failed you. I also can’t help wondering if there’s some jealousy of Ian there.

You know, if I were hearing that bullshit from Jerry, I would almost accept it. Jerry Ashe was Michael’s boss and one of my best friends. At least when he wasn’t being over-protective, which was a lot of the time. Since the frequency was down from ‘most of the time,’ I considered it a net win and let him live. Jerry’s the last chevalier on the planet, and he feels responsible for everyone in trouble. However, he’s realistic enough to know that it was better that someone, anyone, get me out of that mess than for me to get killed or worse. More time as a prisoner would have been so much worse. The helplessness, the fear, the boredom, the getting slapped around by a woman who was dangerously close to snapping. Unconsciously, I rubbed my wrists where sharp plastic cable ties had cut them, leaving suicidal-looking scars. I took a long pull of beer. It didn’t help. I took another one anyway.

Am I just banging my head against a figurative wall? I asked, striving for a neutral tone of voice. It came out a bit frenetic, too quick, too high-pitched.

Honestly? Oh shit. People only ever ‘honestly’ like that when they know you won’t like the answer.

Yeah, I mentally braced myself.

You might be. It’s been over a year. You haven’t talked about moving in together in a long time, or at least you haven’t mentioned it. Well, Feliz said you haven’t mentioned it. He grinned. Feliz was my partner in business and one of my favorite people on the planet. Considering the nature of our merchandise, I supposed you could also call her a partner in crime as well.

I considered what James said. "You’re right, we haven’t, but I thought that was just logistics. You know, who moved in with whom, or did we get a new place. We never could figure out where we were going to live. If I moved into his condo, I’d have to get up even earlier to get to the store and start baking muffins. I couldn’t do the baking anywhere else—they’d get cold if I had to transport them across town. If he moved in with me, where the hell were we going to put all my books and all his movies?" We both had more than a wall of each. Given more room, I would buy more books even though it was easy enough to borrow them from Bloody Murder.

You would have figured something out. Hell, a year ago, I thought you’d be married by now. Here’s the food.

I smiled as the server gently laid the plates in front of us, along with a stack of extra napkins. Smoked sausage. One of the best things in the world, especially when loaded with garlic as this one smelled to be. I grew up in a Polish household, not that you’d guess that with a last name of Smith, and smoked sausage was common dinner fare. The snap of crackling fat woke my appetite up and I dug in heartily. James’ po’boy was a little messier than mine—it involved a fair amount of brown gravy. We ate in companionable silence for a while. The sweet potato fries were a delicious complement. I never liked sweet potatoes mashed but fries I would take anytime. Alton Brown would probably have some scientific reason for my preference, something about how heat changed the texture. I didn’t worry about it.

It was more fun to concentrate on my sandwich, which, like most food in the Crescent City, had an interesting history. If you ask the Leidenheim Baking Company, the phenomenon started back in the early twentieth century when brothers Benny and Clovis Martin came from rural Louisiana to New Orleans to seek their fortune. At first, in their new lives, they worked as streetcar conductors. Later, they opened a sandwich shop near the tracks.

New Orleans has the best French bread in the state, if not the country. Perfect crust on the outside, light in the center with just enough chewiness to make it a pleasure to eat yet not give your jaws a painful workout. You could find it holding the fillings of dozens of sandwiches. Even the famous muffaletta, which has mostly Italian roots, gets its bread from French bakeries. The Martins quickly realized they were running into a slight problem—it was hard to efficiently use French bread, with its tapered ends, to make consistently-sized sandwiches. There is now, thanks to the Leidenheims, a standard po’boy loaf. What you stuff it with is completely up to you and the possibilities were, if not endless, at least varied. Besides the roast beef and gravy, which was dripping down his fingers, James’ sandwich included lettuce, tomatoes and pickles, as did mine. Adding these garnishes meant your po’boy was ‘dressed.’ Feliz liked hers best with fried catfish. Fried oyster was probably my favorite, but smoked sausage suited my jilted mood this afternoon. After half a sandwich and a third of my fries, I said, I didn’t want Indian food tonight anyway. Make the most of a bad situation, right?

James finished chewing a large bite and looked at me. Liar.

3

I enjoyed the ride on the St. Charles