The Devil's Luck Read online

  Before Q’s godfather had retired, he and Sanger had been convinced that Q’s former bass player and childhood friend, Pete ‘The Pocket’ Fontain, had murdered his girlfriend during a Mardi Gras gig at Lafitte’s Cove. Q and Arlene had found the evidence to clear him while cleaning out Pete’s apartment after he’d skipped town.

  “Oh, great,” Sanger muttered, eyes wide.

  Arlene patted his hand. “That’s right; you were on that case. I’d forgotten. Everyone’s wrong some of the time. And Peter is now a functioning member of society, thank you very much. He’s teaching again.”

  “At Juvie,” Q clarified.

  “He’s helping underprivileged youth,” Arlene corrected.

  “He’s teaching at the only place that would allow a recovering drug addict with a gambling problem to teach children,” Q said.

  Arlene held up her hand. “Tomato, tomahto. When are you two going to make up?”

  “When he stops being an asshole. You didn’t hear it, Arlene. I was there.” She turned to Sanger. “Pete had a relapse when he was living up in Tennessee and put himself in rehab. When he got out, he came home for the holidays. Constance invited him.”

  “I don’t remember this. When did that happen?” Sanger asked.

  “Right after Ben and I got married. You were back at work, being the hero cop who took down a serial killer and all. Anyway, he went off on Bubbe. Called her codependent. Me too. Saying we should have let him hit rock bottom years ago. That we needed him to be a junky. That it was our addiction to him needing us that was the real problem.”

  Sanger let out a low whistle, knowing how little tolerance Q’s grandmother had for ingratitude. “Bet that went over like a ton of bricks.”

  “Oh, yeah. Especially since he waited until after he’d cashed the check for five grand Bubbe had given him,” Q said. “Anyway, Ben took up for me. I took up for Bubbe. Bubbe told him to get out of her house and enjoy standing on his own two feet.”

  “What did Pete do?” Sanger asked.

  “Well, his Swiss cheese brain finally figured out that being a condescending prick to the people who’ve been bailing his ass out all these years was dumb, and he tried to back pedal. But Bubbe said she didn’t want to interfere with a man standing on his own two feet, and wouldn’t be interfering anymore, and out the door he went.”

  “He’s sorry,” Arlene said.

  “Yes, Arlene. He most definitely is sorry,” Q said. “I’m done. I’m glad he’s ok. But I’m done.”

  Arlene and Q stared each other down for several uncomfortably silent minutes before Sanger finally interrupted and said, “So, Mike Ackerman…”

  Arlene softened first and replied, “I’m sorry you had to see that, Aaron bébé. I hate fussing at my children in front their friends. Now, tell me all about yourself.”

  “Mike Ackerman?” he repeated.

  “You’re a workaholic. Q’s mentioned that. I see it, too.”

  He glared at Q as she took a large bite of her muffin.

  “What?” she asked with her mouth full. “You are.”

  “You’ve been talking about me to strangers?” he asked, slightly annoyed.

  Arlene interjected, “I’m not a stranger, Aaron. I’ve known Q for years.”

  Sanger gave her a slight smile before turning his attention towards Q. She tried to throw up a sign on her forehead that read, ‘Nothing to see here. Move along,’ but she wasn’t fast enough.

  Continuing to stare at her, he asked, “How did y’all meet?”

  Arlene glanced at Q before saying, “Pete. Q was with him when he came to rent the apartment.”

  “It’s ok, Arlene,” Q said. “We met in the back of the ambulance, Aaron. After Arabi.”

  Still reeling with the guilt he carried from killing the man that had raped Q, Pete Fontain had descended into a drug-induced madness. Arlene had become his guardian angel after he and Q had shown up on her doorstep to inquire about the apartment for rent. It had taken over a decade for Q to remember meeting Arlene the night of her rape, having blacked out so much of what had happened immediately following her attack.

  “You’re an EMT?” he asked Arlene.

  “I was, for over twenty years. But it got to be too much in my fifties. Now I sell my little lotions and potions and teas to those fancy boutiques in the Quarter and up on Magazine. Much less stressful.”

  “Arlene’s an herbalist,” Q explained to Sanger. “You should see her garden.”

  Sanger smiled wistfully. “My mom had a beautiful garden when I was a kid. I loved it.”

  The doorbell rang, and seven Chihuahuas simultaneously lost their minds, barking hysterically. Arlene excused herself, yelling at her dogs to be quiet as she went to the front door.

  Sanger picked up his muffin and took another bite. Nodding towards the front door, he said, “She seeing anybody? Because she’s perfect for my dad. He loves a woman who can bake. She also looks just like that one actress. The tall one, with the large nose? He loves her. But it’s too bad she’s…” He grimaced, swallowing back his words.

  “Transgender?” Q guessed.

  “No, not Jewish. Not going to work for an Orthodox rabbi,” he said. “Wait. Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  Sanger shrugged. “I wouldn’t have known. Not that it matters. If she ever decides to convert, I’m playing matchmaker. I might play matchmaker anyway. It’d serve the old goat right if he fell for a bohemian gentile from New Orleans and had to stop being such a miserable alteh mamzer.”

  Q shook her head in silent amusement and sipped her coffee, admiring the sweetness that lurked under her friend’s armored exterior. It was also the trait that sometimes kept her up at night, worried what would happen to that tenderness inside of him if the darkness he encountered every day broke through the shields he’d built up to protect himself from it.

  Arlene returned to the kitchen with a short, pudgy woman with dyed pink hair and bright purple glasses. Life had clearly beat up on her at a young age and the etched wrinkles on her face illustrated every bump on the road. Her eyes were rimmed red and she dabbed at them with the soggy wad of tissues in her hand.

  As soon as she saw Q and Sanger, she said, “Oh, god, Arlene, you have company. I’m intruding on your visit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Arlene replied by pulling out the chair that she’d previously occupied and sitting her new visitor down. “Sit down, Wanda; I’ll put you together some tea.” She pulled down several jars from the open shelves above the kitchen counter and said over her shoulder as she put the kettle on, “Wanda, honey, Aaron is a homicide detective. He’s investigating Mike’s death. He and Q stopped by for a quick visit before coming to talk to you. Q used to know Mike. Remember, sweetheart? She’s the one that found him.”

  The information was too much for the former Mrs. Mike Ackerman and she slumped over as a fresh batch of tears consumed her.

  The kettle whistled, and Arlene poured the boiling water inside into a cup. The sweet smell of lavender and allspice filled the room. Q inhaled and instantly missed Ben, who constantly and seemingly inexplicably smelled like both.

  Wanda looked up when Arlene set the cup of tea in front of her, and Sanger flashed his effortless smile across the table. She took a jagged inhale and apologized. “I just can’t seem to stop crying since my husband died. I can’t believe he’s gone. I thought we’d be two old farts yelling at cars to slow down from our rockers on our porch. I never thought I’d end up all alone.”

  Sanger said, “We met a couple of weeks ago, Ms. Jacobs. I’m Detective Sanger. I came by with my partner a few times to talk to you.”

  Wanda shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t know about anything anymore.”

  He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Ms. Jacobs. If this is another bad day, we can come back again some other time.”

  She took a drink of her tea and it settled her down somewhat. “There will be plenty of bad days,
no since in waiting any longer. I thought if I could just not talk about it, it wouldn’t be real. But I guess I’ve already put off y’all off long enough. Just ask your questions, detective.”

  He studied her face for a moment. “No, drink your tea. It’ll keep a little while longer. My partner is on his way. He’s the one that came to talk to you last week, but you were on your way out, I think he said. You relax. When he gets here, we can have our talk.”

  Q eyed Sanger, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth or not. She decided to take him at face value and take her opportunity to finally offer her condolences. “Wanda, I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to Mike’s funeral. I was in the Emergency Room or I would have been there. He was one of my favorite people. I’ve known him since I was a kid. He sold me my first guitar. I met my drummer when he was still working behind the counter at the Emporium.”

  Recognition washed over Wanda’s face. “You’re Tommy’s singer. I’m sorry. I’m all out of sorts these days. They can’t give me anything to help me sleep because of my issues. Tommy said you were sick and were sorry you couldn’t make it to the service. I remember now. How did you find him? Tommy didn’t know.”

  “Before I left on tour, I took my nephew to the store to pick out his guitar. I went back to go pick it up and the Emporium was closed when it should have been open. It was Sunday. I thought Mike had drank too much wine and overslept, so I went to go wake him up. When I got to his house, the door was open.” She gestured to Sanger. “I called Detective Sanger. He’s a friend of mine. And he went in.”

  Wanda asked Sanger. “Did he suffer?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. It was instantaneous.”

  Q watched her friend as he told the lie. Mike’s hand had slipped when he’d fired the handgun at his temple and he had missed the most critical portion of his brain. He had likely convulsed in and out of consciousness for several hours on the floor of his bedroom before he finally bled out. She wondered how many times Sanger had told a similar fabrication, seeing how easily the words came to him.

  “How long were you and Mike married?” Q asked.

  Wanda smiled. “Thirty-four years this December. But we were only really married for the first nine. And most of them we were high. I had a drug problem, so did he, only not as bad. He drank too much, more than he liked to, to keep up with me. When he sobered up. I couldn’t. He left. After he filed the paperwork for the divorce, I cleaned up, too, to try to win him back. We tried to be together sober, but it just didn’t work. We separated and just stayed that way. I loved him. I can’t believe the bastard didn’t call me. Why would he do this to himself?”

  “The man that owns the nail salon up the street from the Emporium said that Mike was having money troubles,” Q replied. “He was thinking about selling the shop.”

  “That was my idea,” Wanda said. “He was working so hard trying to save it. Installing PA systems, renting out gear. He wasn’t healthy. His diabetes was barely under control. It was too much.”

  “Mike had diabetes?” Q asked.

  Wanda nodded. “Sweet tooth. That man loved his dessert.”

  Q kicked Sanger’s foot under the table, having had more than a few long discussions with Sanger about his sugar intake, which inevitably resulted in him giving her a lecture on her vodka intake, and the two of them retreating to their separate judgmental corners.

  “When he used drugs, what did he like?” Q asked.

  “Heroin. Mostly. Sometimes coke, but he was such an asshole when he had a couple of rails in him, he didn’t do it around people. Just when he was doing the books for the store. Helped him focus.” Wanda sipped her tea and her eyebrows stitched together. “Honestly, I can’t imagine him shooting up again. He really didn’t seem to miss it. If he’d wanted to kill himself, I don’t know why he’d get wasted first. When Mike made a decision, he usually just made up his mind and did it.”

  Sanger asked, “Did you know he had a gun?”

  “Guns. Plural. They were all over the house the last few times I went over. He said he was thinking about becoming a reseller, he liked them so much. Insisted that I get one, too. But I can’t even look at one after what happened to those babies at that school up North. Turns my stomach. Evil things. So, he gave me one of his. It’s hidden away up in my attic. Been there since the day he gave it to me.”

  “Did Mike know that?” Q asked. “That you hid it, I mean?”

  “I didn’t want to fight with him about it. I said my peace and then hid the piece he bought for me as soon as he left.” She laughed slightly under her breath at her pun. “I don’t even know if it’s loaded.”

  “I could take care of that for you,” Sanger said. “You can surrender it to me. It’s just a little bit of paperwork.”

  Wanda exhaled slowly. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Q bit her tongue, knowing that her question should wait until Sanger’s partner was in the room. She wrestled with her self-control for ten intolerable seconds before she opened her mouth. “Mike was drinking, too. Whiskey.”

  Sanger dramatically turned his head to look at her and gave her a sly, wide-eyed grin.

  “Shut up, Sanger,” she said. “Wanda, I thought Mike hated whiskey. He made a big stink about it with Tommy a couple years back.”

  Wanda cursed. “That makes a lot more sense now. He loved smack, but didn’t like needles, so, he’d have a drink or two first. I told him it would get him killed.”

  “Any idea why he’d pick whiskey? Tom Wills said he’d never touch it because of his father,” Sanger said.

  “That’s only part of it. He used to love drinking whiskey and shooting up. But after he got sober, he went to therapy and somehow started associating whiskey with his dad. He used the association to keep him from relapsing.” Wanda began crying again. “Oh god, it makes sense now. About a month ago, I was at a meeting and one of the people there had relapsed... she told the group she saw Mike leaving her dealer’s and that’s what made her decide to go ahead and use again. If Mike was using again after decades of being sober, why shouldn’t she?”

  “You didn’t confront him?” Q asked.

  “No. Flavia is insane, and her dealer lives above one of the clubs on Frenchman. I told her Mike was just there fixing the PA or something and she twisted it around just to give herself an excuse.”

  “Which club?” Sanger asked.

  “The 528 Bar.”

  Sanger’s phone dinged, and he turned it over to look at the screen. “My partner’s outside. Would you like to go to your house and take care of that gun? We can finish this up over there unless you’d be more comfortable here.”

  Wanda shook her head. “I want that thing out of my house.”

  Q said, “I’ll wait for you here, cowboy.”

  Sanger pulled her to her feet. “Nope. You’re still coming.”

  “Why?” she whined. “You don’t need me.”

  “Yes, I do. It’ll be faster if you’re there. Otherwise, I’m just going to have to bug you later with follow-up questions. Come on.” He turned to Wanda. “Besides, I’m sure Ms. Jacobs doesn’t mind.”

  Wanda replied, “Actually, I have something that Tommy might like. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll give it to you and you can get it to him?” She stood up. “I’ll run over now and dig it up. Go on and finish your visit with Arlene and just come on over whenever you’re ready.”

  Q sighed.

  Nice, Clementine. Real fucking nice.

  After Wanda left, Q and Sanger finished their coffee and said their goodbyes. As they walked out of the house, Arlene caught Q’s elbow and held her back.

  “You should watch yourself, there,” Arlene said, indicating Sanger talking to Rex near his truck. “You two go together like beans and rice.”

  “Please.” Q held up her left hand. “I’m married to the most beautiful man in the world. I can handle Aaron Sanger. Besides, it’s not like that. He’s Ben’s friend, too. And he’s so alone. His mom’s dead.
His brother’s dead. He and his dad don’t talk. Ben and me are all he has, really.”

  Arlene studied her for a moment and glanced over at Sanger who smiled at them both and waved at them to join he and Rex. She looped her arm through Q’s and said, “You ask me? You’re playing with matches and gasoline.”

  “Well, I didn’t ask you.” Q stuck her tongue out and crossed her eyes, making Arlene giggle.

  As they approached, Sanger said, “Rex, you remember Clementine.”

  Rex avoided Q’s eyes and every other part of her and replied, “Sure. Hey, Q.”

  Q bobbed her head around trying to make eye contact with him before snapping her fingers in his face. “Eyes, big boy. Jesus, is it really that hard for you to not stare at a woman’s tits?”