Imogene in New Orleans Read online

  “He hated seeing Glenway at Buddy’s house, and each time, he became more and more disturbed. Hill really thought he was entitled to Glenway. He began spying over the fence, hoping to catch a glimpse of Glenway alone. Seeing Buddy over there made him insane.”

  “Hill finally confessed to what happened on the night of the murder. He saw Glenway by himself at the Tool Belt—you call it the ballet—and he confronted Glenway at the bar. Glenway didn’t want to talk, and he left abruptly, which angered Hill. He followed Glenway to the gallery on Royal Street.”

  “According to Hill, when Glenway rebuffed his advances and told him to leave, a violent confrontation erupted. Hill hit him with the cane, the one with the fleur-de-lis pattern. The fight continued, as did the beating, and the fatal blow—the one that killed him—was a strike to the head.”

  There was a moment of respectful silence, almost as of Jackson and his friends were adjusting to the thought of him dying so violently.

  Then the chief spoke again. “It’s an ugly business, I know. And I hate that my lieutenant impeded the investigation. It’s a good thing Glenway Gilbert had people like you or the case would’ve floundered for who knows how long.”

  A cat ran past the porch, and Goose whined as he watched it.

  The chief sighed. “It’s late, but I was driving home and thought I’d see if you were here. I wanted you to know about Rogers and Thomas Hill.” He looked at Jackson and Billy.

  “Thanks,” Jackson said, “What will happen to them? Or what’s next?”

  “They’ll be indicted soon. Of course, Rogers has agreed to sing like a nightingale in order to have his sentence reduced. He has some damning evidence against Hill, some things Hill said to him about Glenway before and after the murder. A terrible shame, this. Rogers was much more contrite than Thomas Hill, who has a mouth on him to shame a sailor.”

  “You’re tellin’ us, honey.” Imogene walked up behind the chief. “That fellar’s as nasty a man as Imogene Deal McGregor has ever laid eyes to.”

  “Good evening, ma’am,” the chief said. “Ms. McGregor, I’m told you’re the lady who sewed up the whole thing.”

  “Naw, it wadn’t just me that done it.” Imogene limped closer to the porch, followed by Lena.

  Lena sounded like a bird as she chimed in. “If it weren’t for Imogene, shoot, this thang might not have got closed. She had an eye for all of it. She showed them boys and Lena Ward a thang or two, I tell you. And she saved my Leonard from the clink. Lord knows that boy need all the savin’ he can get.”

  Imogene smiled. “Oh, hush it, woman, and bring out what you got these boys. All this blowin’ sunshine up my apron is embarrassin’.”

  As soon as the chief left, Lena handed the boys a long, thin package wrapped in brown paper. Jackson thought it was food until Lena said, “It’s a painting, baby. Buddy give it to Allen to put a frame on it. He say he wanted y’all to have it. I been holdin’ it for the right time and this best as any.”

  Lena made them open it right then. It was the original painting Glenway had created of them last summer. It showed Jackson and Billy sitting on the porch at Neil and Allen’s house at night, Jackson resting against the columns on the porch and Billy propping his head against the wall, sitting in a lawn chair with his eyes closed in his blood-pressure check pose. Allen held the end of a jasmine stem, smelling it, as Neil watched him. The front porch glowed in the picture.

  Imogene’s eyes got big. “Boys, I believe the Gilbert boy would’ve wanted Maw-Maw McGregor to have this, on account of what I done for him.”

  “No, Mama, you’ll have to see it when you come visit our house.” Billy held the picture up in the moonlight.

  Goose sauntered to the edge of the porch and licked Imogene’s hand. “That’s right, Gooey. You’re with me, ain’t you, boo-boo?” She patted his head.

  “Boys, y’all know what’s still irkin’ me? I can’t get my head around them figures the poor Gilbert boy made, the fancy ones. What I mean is, them things has been travelin’ all through this city and I can’t keep it straight. You know, like who all had ’em and when they had ’em?”

  Jackson leaned forward and said, “I’ll try to clear it up, Imogene. The figurines started with Glenway, of course, who as you said yourself, made them. Thomas Hill drooled over them. I think he told Lieutenant Rogers about their value, and they hatched a plan to steal and sell them. Hill was determined to get something from Glenway Gilbert. Rogers started lifting them from Glenway’s studio this summer. I think what fired Rogers up about Neil from the very beginning was Neil catching him at the studio the day we found Glenway dead. And then Neil accused him of not investigating Glenway’s complaints. Of course, now we know why Rogers didn’t investigate.”

  Jackson continued. “And then I took a few of the pieces from Buddy’s and Glenway’s place across the river, hoping to help us solve the murder, but Hill stole those from our room and gave them to Rogers.” Jackson took a sip of lemonade. “And Hill took at least one to wear around his neck. He loves jewelry.”

  “Then how’d that bald-headed Thurston get ahold of ’em?” Imogene petted Goose’s furry crown.

  “Thurston said he took one from the manager’s desk the other day. I don’t think he ever intended to steal them all. He was just frustrated with Hill and his crazy behavior, and he took one to use against him after Hill threatened him.” Jackson tapped his chair so Goose would come over to him. Goose sauntered nearby and sniffed the porch.

  The plantains hung above the house like ornaments. Imogene breathed in the fragrance from the jasmine and then looked at the group. “All right, then. Well, this is a fine place to visit, boys, but we oughta come back when there ain’t no trouble.” She winked at Jackson. “If nothing else, we got us a fine tale to tell ‘em, boys.”

  The end

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Hunter Murphy is a writer from Alabama. He studied at some excellent schools in the Southeast, including Sewanee and the University of Alabama. Some of his literary heroes include P.G. Wodehouse, Eudora Welty, Christopher Morley, Eugene Walter, and Agatha Christie. He’s a fan of good storytelling, no matter the medium. He lives with his longtime partner and their dashingly handsome English bulldog. Imogene in New Orleans is the first in a mystery series featuring Imogene, the boys, and Goose the English bull.

  For more information, please visit:

  http://huntermurphywriter.com/