The Buck Stops Here (26 page)

“I already have your audit report, mission statement, and board meeting minutes, but I still need salary information on all paid employees, your budgets, any information you can give me on your fundraising practices, and anything you’ve got about the agency’s future plans.”

“Not a problem,” she said smoothly as I handed her the list, despite the fact that I had asked for an awful lot. “It may take a day or so to pull this all together, though.”

“That would be fine,” I replied. “I’m sorry to be so exhaustive in my search, but we have certain criteria—”

“Hey, listen,” she replied, “if I know anything about Tommy Bennett, it is this: He is a man of integrity. I’m willing to hand over any information he needs.”

I liked her attitude. Tom did have integrity, and it was nice to know she was aware of that fact.

Our meeting nearly finished, Veronica invited me to come to her house that night for a Family HEARTS meeting where they would be going over their final plans for their upcoming fundraiser—a dinner, dance, and auction to be held in a plantation home called Grande Terre.

“We do this every year,” Veronica said. “In the past few years, it has become a major society event.”

She went on about the dress (formal) and the facility (huge and impressive), flipping through a file as she spoke. A moment later she handed me a fat envelope, insisting that if I were still in town by Friday, I should definitely come.

The main item inside the envelope was an off-white invitation, very classy, to the annual Family HEARTS gala, listing the date, time, and location. At the bottom left was information for the RSVP; at the bottom right was the cost, listed as $300 per person or $500 per couple. I let out a soft whistle.

“Expensive,” I said.

“Oh, I insist you come as my guest,” she replied quickly.

“No, I wasn’t talking about myself. The foundation would pay my way. I just meant that’s a pretty hefty price to pay for an evening of dinner and dancing. Do you raise much money?”

I looked at the rest of the papers, which included a map to the plantation house and a list of the donations that would be going on the block for the auction. The items were interesting and eclectic, ranging from an antique armoire to a private cooking lesson with one of New Orleans’ most well-known chefs.

“Trust me, Callie,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “My daddy taught me this secret years ago: The best way to get rich people to part with their precious money, for the sake of a good cause, is to get them all together and then let them try to outgive each other.”

Veronica had to pick up her son from preschool just before noon. She felt bad leaving me to my own devices for lunch, but I told her I would be fine and not to worry. I was glad she had to leave, as it was my intention to use the time to retrieve my car from the hotel parking garage and drive out to Fat City Parcel Service. I just needed to be back here by 2:00, when Beth was coming in to show me their computer system. That was an important meeting for both of my investigations, since, as Tom’s sister—not to mention Sparks’ ex-wife and a member of the Cipher Five—there were a lot of questions Beth could answer for me, many of them without her even understanding what I was asking.

I set off on foot toward the hotel, weighed down with my laptop case in one hand and my briefcase in the other. I had walked less than a block when suddenly, out of nowhere, a teenager darted toward me and ripped both cases right out of my hands. The force knocked me to the ground, and I landed on my hip with a thud.

“Stop!” I yelled as the kid ran away.

Another man was just getting out of his car right in front of Family HEARTS, and in an instant he seemed to understand what was going on. He started to come to my aid, but I pointed toward the thief, who was just rounding the corner.

“He robbed me!” I said.

The man took off after the fellow, and as soon as I could get to my feet, I kicked off my shoes and ran after both of them. Within two blocks I caught sight of them. I watched, amazed, as my hero reached for a slim pole that was holding up the outside awning of a grocery store. He ripped it out of place and, clutching the end of the pole, swung it forward and somehow swept it across the kid’s legs, knocking him down onto the ground. Then he dove for him, tackling him before he could get up. He pinned the young man to the sidewalk, one hand on each arm, and threatened to call the cops.

“No, please,” the kid was whimpering by the time I reached them. “You gotta let me go. I’m out on parole. This’ll put me back inside for sure.”

Looking into the thief’s face, I realized that he had the hardened gaze of a criminal, even though he couldn’t have been more than 18. The man holding him to the ground looked to be about my age, with broad shoulders and thick, callused hands. I couldn’t see his face, but from the way he moved, I could tell he was quite strong.

“You gonna steal from nice ladies again, punk?”

“No, I promise!” the thief cried. “Please let me go.”

I was digging in my purse for my cell phone to call the police when, much to my surprise, the man on top simply rolled back on his heels, letting go.

“Thanks, dude,” the thief said. Then he stood up and quickly trotted away, leaving my cases on the sidewalk.

I put away the cell phone and picked them up, stunned. I wanted to yell at this guy for letting the fellow go, but if it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have my things back. With the thief gone and unavailable for questioning, however, I would never know if I had just been the victim of a simple mugging or if he had been hired to rob me specifically.

“Hey now! Hey now!” someone yelled from up the street before the man and I even had a chance to speak.

We both turned to see a woman outside of the grocery store we had passed, red-faced and angry that her awning pole had been ripped from its mounting.

“Oh, I’m in trouble now, me,” my helper said to me, his accent odd.

“I’ll handle it,” I told him.

Together we walked back to the grocery, and I explained what had happened while my rescuer put the pole back in place.

“See?” he said when he was finished. “Good as new. No harm done.”

Grudgingly, the shop owner examined his handiwork and then let us go.

We began walking back the way we had come. I thanked the man profusely for his help, asking him where on earth he had learned a maneuver like that.

“From polin’ gators,” he said, grinning widely. “Not much different, when you get down to it, no.”

I looked him in the face to see gorgeous deep blue eyes framed in black lashes. His skin was weathered from the sun, but his teeth were white and straight, his jaw chiseled, his shoulders broad.

“Excuse me?” I asked, returning his smile.

“Polin’ gators,” he repeated, and then he went on to describe the process of how a man could catch an alligator using two long poles, one with an iron hook on the end. The whole scene felt incongruous to me, but his story was so interesting and his accent so engaging that I let him continue, mentally assessing my physical condition all the while. My hip and elbow were both sore, but otherwise I was okay.

As the man continued his tale of hummocks and claw prints and alligator dens, we walked back to the spot where I had been mugged. My shoes were still there, but now a woman—who looked like a bag lady—was holding them in her hands, examining them closely.

“Oh,
cher
,” my friend called to the woman, “them sure look like fine shoes. Would you take five dollar for ’em, yeah?”

The woman eyed us suspiciously, one hand on a battered shopping cart that was filled with crushed aluminum cans.

“Ten dollars and you can have them,” she finally rasped.

“Well,” the man said to me, nodding. “Pay the lady then.”

I started to protest but thought better of it. Instead, I retrieved my wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.

“Nice doing business with you,” she said, taking the money and handing me the shoes. She looked down at my bare feet, let out a grunt, and then turned and wheeled her cart away.

“Are you okay?” the man finally thought to ask me. “You look a little shaken.”

I ran my fingers through my hair and exhaled slowly.

“I think I’m fine,” I said. “Though I just got robbed twice.”

“Twice?”

“Yeah, once by that guy, and again just now, when I had to pay ten dollars for my own shoes.”

He laughed, the sound deep and guttural.

“Now, who you think need that ten dollar more—her or you?”

I shrugged.

“Her, I guess.”

“Okay then,” he replied. “Maybe she eat a good lunch today ’cause of your generosity.”

When he put it that way, I felt a bit guilty for begrudging her the money. Smiling, I reached down and slipped the shoes onto my feet.

“Speaking of lunch,” he said, reaching up to smooth the collar of his blue denim work shirt. “Would you be interested in getting a bite to eat? I promise to protec’ you from any and all muggers between here and the nearest restaurant. I’ll be a regular Cajun protection service.”

“Cajun? Is that what your accent is?”

“Yeah,
cher
. Descended from the Acadians, born and raised in a swamp, I am one hundred percent pure dee Cajun. So how ’bout lunch?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, smoothing out my skirt. “I appreciated your help enormously, but I don’t even know you.”

“Well, then, let me rectify that.” He reached up and tipped an imaginary hat. “How do you do? My name’s Armand Velette.”

Once I recovered from my surprise, I told him my name and accepted his offer to go to lunch, all the while trying to keep my thoughts and emotions from showing on my face. This was Armand Velette, former member of the Cipher Five, and one of the people I had come here to meet and get to know! Though I could have done with a less violent introduction, I knew our meeting this way couldn’t have been more fortuitous.

“I probably should clean up a bit first,” I said.

He suggested we go inside Family HEARTS so that I could use their restroom.

“I was jus’ coming here myself,” he said. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

I told him I had just come out of Family HEARTS when I got mugged.

“Well, then, you’ll have to tell me your connection over lunch,” he replied, holding the door open for me. “I been here a lot lately, helping ’em get ready for Friday night’s auction.”

We went inside and I made a beeline for the bathroom. As I dabbed at a big dirt stain on my skirt with a damp paper towel, I listened to the conversation going on in the next room. It sounded as though he was a real charmer with the ladies, and you could tell they were familiar with him, because I could hear loud giggles and even a squeal.

I finally gave up on the stain, tossed the paper towel in the trash, and turned my attention to my computer and briefcase. After making sure they were locked up tight, I came out of the bathroom and interrupted the flirt-fest to ask one of the volunteers if there was somewhere I could store both items. She suggested Veronica’s empty office, so I put the cases in there, trusting that they would remain undisturbed until I returned.

“You ready to go,
cher
?” Armand asked when I came back out.

He opened and held the front door for me as we went, and as he did, I was startled again by his rugged good looks. I realized that I had now met all five members of the Cipher Five: Tom, James Sparks, Beth Sparks, Phillip Wilson, and Armand Velette. Somewhere among the five of them were many of the answers I sought about my husband’s death.

Thirty

Lunch was a very casual affair, a cup of gumbo eaten with a plastic spoon as we strolled through an area called the French Market. Armand was quite funny, and he had a way of saying things just under his breath that made me burst out laughing even as the people around us had no idea what was so funny. Though I was having trouble steering the conversation into any useful direction, we were at least getting along well.

At the far end of the French Market, the roads on either side converged in a “Y,” creating a point. In the middle of the point was a statue of a woman on a horse. I read the sign that said it was a monument to Joan of Arc.

“There’s ‘Joni on a pony,’” Armand said, making me laugh again. “You get a good look at the river yet,
cher?
”

I said that no, I hadn’t, and he proceeded to walk me up over a levee to a strolling platform built along the Mississippi River. My first sight of the mighty Mississippi was a surprise, and I suddenly understood why the family had laughed at me over lunch the day before. This river was huge, a swirling brown mass of water filled with tankers and tugs and even a few paddle wheel boats. About a half mile away, a pair of beautiful bridges spanned the river to the far shore.

We sat on a bench in the warm May sunshine and simply enjoyed the view. I was eager to steer our easy chatter to more weighty matters, but then Armand beat me to the punch by asking me what my connection was to Family HEARTS. I had expected him to ask and had been framing my reply during our walk. Now it flowed easily off my tongue, that I was doing a program audit for an independent foundation, which was the truth.