The Devil Close Behind

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, ­institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

  The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes. All other use of those designs without the publisher’s permission is prohibited.

  Copyright © 2019 by Janet Dawson

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-56474-825-6 (e-book)

  A Perseverance Press Book

  Published by John Daniel & Company

  A division of Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc.

  Post Office Box 2790

  McKinleyville, California 95519

  www.danielpublishing.com/perseverance

  Distributed by SCB Distributors (800) 729-6423

  Book design by Eric Larson, Studio E Books, Santa Barbara, www.studio-e-books.com

  Cover photo: DNY59/iStockphoto

  library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

  Names: Dawson, Janet, author.

  Title: The devil close behind : a Jeri Howard mystery / by Janet Dawson.

  Description: McKinleyville, California : John Daniel & Company, [2019] | Summary: “Jeri Howard’s on vacation in the Big Easy, but a friend asks a favor and the vacation turns into a case. Laurette Mason has given up her job and apartment and disappeared with her mercurial musician boyfriend. Slade, as he calls himself, has a hard time with authority. His response to being thwarted is to strike out, sometimes in a deadly fashion. With the help of a local NOLA PI, Jeri’s investigation takes her from the French Quarter and the clubs on Frenchmen Street to warehouses and apartments in workaday New Orleans. The road leads from Louisiana back to California, and an explosive end”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019029472 | ISBN 9781564746061 (paperback) Subjects: LCSH: Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3554.A949 D48 2019 | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/20190294723

  To Daisy, a cat with opinions

  I am grateful for the assistance of my fellow writers

  extraordinaire, Julie Smith and J. D. Knight.

  Thanks for the NOLA love.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  It started with a phone call, as such things frequently do.

  I was in my office on a quiet afternoon in April. The PI business had been slow. I’d finished up a couple of big cases and a handful of small ones. Now I was drinking my way through a fresh pot of coffee as I caught up on paperwork and filing.

  When the phone rang, I peered over the rim of my coffee mug at the caller ID readout. A new client? Or an existing one?

  No. My father was on the other end of the line. Now retired from teaching history he was as busy now as he ever had been. One of the activities that filled his time was birding. In fact, when we’d had lunch two days earlier, he had been excited about his upcoming birding trip to New Orleans with a friend, another retiree named Steve who lived near Dad in Castro Valley.

  I set down my mug and reached for the phone. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”

  “The birding trip.” Dad sounded glum. “Steve can’t go.”

  “You two have been planning this for ages. What happened?”

  Dad sighed. “He was up on a ladder, cleaning out the gutters at his house. He’s ten years older than I am. A man his age has no business climbing ladders.”

  “Aren’t you the one who fell off a stool last year while changing a lightbulb?”

  “Don’t remind me,” Dad said. “That was just a minor tumble. The only thing that got injured was my dignity, from falling on my butt. Steve’s fall was major. He broke two ribs and his left ankle.”

  Since birding involves a lot of walking, that put a damper on things. “So, the trip is off?”

  “It’s still on,” Dad said, his mood lightening. “You’re going with me.”

  “Going with you?” I repeated, coffee mug arrested midway to my mouth.

  “Sure. Why not? You said the other day business was slow. Take a week off and go traveling with your old man. I’ve already got the reservations for the hotel. And a local birder will take us to all the hot spots. Come on, Jeri. All you have to do is buy a plane ticket.”

  “Well…” I drew out the word, hesitating, thinking of all the reasons I couldn’t get away. Or were they excuses? I was too busy. But I wasn’t. I was between cases with nothing much to do but shuffle paper. I’d gotten a phone call an hour ago saying that the court case I was supposed to testify in had been settled, with no need to go to trial.

  Dan Westbrook, my sort-of fiancé, was out of town. I’d dropped him off at Oakland Airport the day before. Dan is a travel-and-­recreation writer and his latest project is a book about hiking in New Mexico. His return was open-ended, he said. He would stay away as long as it took him to research the book, which involved moving from place to place, hiking trails, taking photos and writing during the evening on his laptop. Dan suggested that I fly to New Mexico and join him at some point during the trip. But that would depend on my schedule. Besides, I knew how he was when he focused on a project. I didn’t want to distract him.

  As for the home front—my cats and my house on Chabot Road—I had a built-in caretaker. Madison Brady, the University of California grad student who rented my garage apartment, could feed the cats, take in the mail and keep an eye on things.

  How long had it been since I’d had an actual vacation, something other than a quick weekend getaway? How long had it been since I’d visited New Orleans? In both cases, too long.

  I made a decision. “Okay, I’ll do it. Big Easy, here we come.”

  * *

  Dad and I had been in New Orleans for a week and we were having a great time. We went on birding excursions, toured historical sites, and spent hours in local museums. We also ate our way through several wonderful restaurants and listened to great music in the clubs.

  Through the Internet and the local branch of the Audubon Society, Dad had connected with a local birder. Esther Landau, like Dad, was a retired professor. In Esther’s case, she had taught English at Tulane University. She was also an avid birder. They exchanged emails and set up several outings. Our first began early in the morning, when Esther picked us up at our hotel and took us to Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge, in the northeastern part of the city. Bordered by Lake Pontchartrain on the northwest and Lake Borgne to the southeast, the refuge was one of her favorite places to bird.

  The first wildlife we saw, however, wasn’t avian. As we got out of the car and headed down a pier that extended over the water, a
pair of eyes surfaced and a large scaly green beast swam toward us. It was the first alligator I’d seen in the wild, and I didn’t like the looks of it any better than the ones I’d seen behind bars and barriers in zoos.

  “There’s a roseate spoonbill, Tim,” Esther said, raising her binoculars.

  Dad and I followed suit, checking out the gorgeous pink plumage of the bird. In short order, we saw other species we hadn’t seen in our part of the country, such as the tricolored heron and the anhinga, which Esther told us was sometimes called the snakebird, because of its long neck. I was thrilled to see a cardinal perched in a tree, my first actual cardinal in the wild. Of course, I’d seen photos of them, but cardinals are rare in California.

  We had lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant in New Orleans East, then headed back to the city. After brief naps at our hotel, we strolled through the French Quarter and ate bowls of gumbo for dinner, finally queuing up to get into Preservation Hall, on St. Peter Street near raunchy, raucous Bourbon Street.

  The following day was devoted to history. Dad and I spent hours at the impressive World War II Museum in downtown New Orleans. When we bought our tickets, we were each given a simulated dog tag with the name of a man or woman who had served in some capacity during the war. At various times as we toured the exhibits, we used our dog tags to activate terminals that gave us information on what the person whose name was on the tag had been doing at the time.

  For me, our tour of the exhibits dedicated to the European and Pacific theaters of operation brought memories of Dad’s mother, my Grandma Jerusha, for whom I’m named. When she was still alive, she often talked of her Rosie the Riveter days as a welder at the Kaiser shipyards in Richmond, California. By contrast, my grandfather, Ted Howard, didn’t talk much about his time in the Navy during the war. He’d served in the Pacific theater, fighting what the historians called the island war, as Allied forces drove relentlessly toward Japan. Grandpa had lost his older brother at Pearl Harbor, the young sailor entombed, with so many others, in the sunken wreckage of the battleship Oklahoma. That was why Grandpa had joined the Navy early in 1942. Before leaving, he married Grandma. She had been a bit player in Hollywood, sharing a house with other aspiring actresses, taking small parts in movies at MGM and other studios. Putting that behind her, she traded lights, camera and action for coveralls and a welding torch.

  Not talking about war experiences was common, I gathered. One of my Doyle uncles came ashore at Omaha Beach on D-Day and earned a raft of medals, but he would never talk about what he saw and did. At least Grandpa Howard shared a few stories before he died, prompted by Dad, the historian, and his younger sister Caro, a writer of historical novels.

  One morning, we rented a car and drove to the Whitney Plantation. It was located on the west bank of the Mississippi River in St. John the Baptist Parish, on the River Road, where several other plantations were located and open for tours. Dad particularly wanted to visit this one. The plantation, which once grew sugar, was now a museum focused on slavery and its brutal legacy. Various buildings, such as the small church and the living quarters, were filled with haunting statues of enslaved children. Some distance from the church was a series of granite walls, engraved with the names of those people who were enslaved on the plantation.

  Our next outing with Esther was in New Orleans itself, at City Park, its acres covered with stately live oaks, followed by lunch at a restaurant Esther liked, Katie’s in Mid-City. Then she drove us through the Garden District, Uptown, Audubon Park and the Tulane campus where she’d taught. We wound up at the Creole Creamery on Prytania Street, not far from Esther’s home. Since I’m always in the mood for ice cream, I was fine with this particular stop. The creamery had a wide selection, everything from buttermilk lemon pie to brown butter and on to chocolate, which had its own dedicated case filled with multiple varieties.

  Today was our last day in New Orleans. Dad and I took a cruise on a paddlewheeler called the Creole Queen, heading downriver to Chalmette. Dad, ever the professor, informed me that what was known as the Battle of New Orleans, at the end of the War of 1812, was actually a series of clashes that took place from December 14, 1814 to January 18, 1815. The battle here at Chalmette took place on January 8, 1815.

  “It’s as important as some of the Revolutionary War battles,” Dad told me as we left the steamboat and made our way along the levee to a staircase that led down to the battlefield, now covered with grass. “If the British had won…”

  But they hadn’t. Andrew Jackson and his troops, which included a contingent of pirates led by Jean Lafitte, fought off a much-larger British force intent on capturing New Orleans.

  “It really makes a difference to walk the battlefield,” Dad said as we reached the bottom of the stairs and set out across the expanse. “It helps me understand how the battle played out.” He pointed. “The British sailed into Lake Borgne and then they marched overland. The Americans set up a line of defense here, along this ditch. It’s called the Rodriguez Canal.”

  He set off, happily tramping along the canal, which ran perpendicular to the levee. I smiled as I quickened my pace to catch up with him. He was the same way when we went to Gettysburg, when my brother, Brian, and I were kids.

  We walked for a while, then repaired to the visitors’ center to check out the offerings in the gift shop. Dad bought a few books and then we headed back to the levee to catch the steamboat.

  We walked from the waterfront back to the French Quarter, talking about which restaurants we liked best. Our splurge meal had been at Commander’s Palace. I loved Bayona and Atchafalaya. Dad preferred Galatoire’s and K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen. As for musical venues, Preservation Hall was at the top of the list, though we’d also been to several of the clubs along Frenchmen Street, as well as Tipitina’s and the Maple Leaf.

  Now, on this balmy Tuesday evening, we’d had an early dinner at K-Paul’s on Chartres Street and headed for a second visit to Preservation Hall.

  When we left the hall later that evening, we strolled along the banquette—that’s New Orleans talk for sidewalk. The tune of “Joe Avery,” one of my favorites, still bounced around my head. I’d purchased a CD at the Hall, and now I was tapping my hand against it, using it to keep time. Dad laughed as I sashayed down St. Peter Street. Nobody else gave me a second glance.

  “I like traditional jazz,” Dad said.

  “So do I, but I also like Rebirth Blues Band and Kermit Ruffins.” We’d seen both during the week we’d been in New Orleans.

  My phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket and looked at the screen. The call was from Davina Roka, a friend at home who was a New Orleans native.

  Back in the day, Davina and I had both worked for Errol Seville, the private investigator who’d helmed the Seville Agency in Oakland for many years. I considered Errol my mentor. He’d taught me everything I know. He’d died last fall and I felt his loss keenly. Davina’s path and mine had diverged after Errol closed the agency and retired. I had opened my own shop, continuing as a private investigator.

  Davina, who had an undergraduate degree in Planning and Urban Studies, had gone off to Europe for a few months, and when she returned, she went to work for a nonprofit that was working to build affordable housing. At one point she considered getting a master’s degree in City Planning at UC Berkeley’s College of Environmental Design. Then she veered off in a different direction, heading up the hill to the nearby School of Law, where she was in her third and final year, focusing on social justice and public interest law.

  Before getting on the plane to New Orleans, I’d consulted with Davina about which restaurants, clubs and museums to visit while Dad and I were in NOLA. Perhaps she was checking in with me to see how the trip was going, or whether I was home yet.

  I answered the call. “Hi, Davina.”

  “Jeri, are you still in New Orleans?”

  Something was wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Davina’s voice was usually cheerful. She was one of those people
who was steady, on an even keel, unperturbed. Nothing much fazed Davina. But right now, there was a worried note in her voice.

  I stepped into the doorway of a now-closed shop. Dad moved away, then stopped to look at the touristy wares in the window of a store that was still open.

  “Yes, I am,” I said. “We’re heading home tomorrow afternoon. What’s up?”

  “I need your help.” Davina took a deep breath and released it in a sigh. “My sister, Laurette. She’s missing.”

  Missing.

  The word conjured up all sorts of feelings, most of them bad. Last year, in August, my brother had gone missing. I was the one who spent several tense days searching for him, talking with people, developing leads and following up on them. I had tamped down my own alarm and frustration, masking my fear, holding it together for my parents while I scoured Sonoma County for clues. I’d finally found him, but it had been a rough week. And Brian’s marriage, rocky for a lot of reasons, might yet be a casualty.

  What had Davina told me about her family? The basics. Davina’s father, who had worked on the New Orleans docks, had died in a workplace accident when she was seven. A couple of years later, Davina’s mother had remarried, another dockworker who’d been a friend of her first husband. She and her second husband had two children, a girl and a boy. Davina was thirty-four now. Her siblings were in their twenties, I thought.

  “Tell me what happened. And how can I help?”

  Davina sighed. “Laurette’s had a rough time.”

  She gave me a quick overview. Laurette was twenty-six years old. She’d married a man she met in college, Chris Mason, and they’d had a child, a daughter named Hannah. Chris had gone to school via the Navy Reserve Officers Training Corps, which meant he was on active service for a designated period of time. Three months after graduation, he was on his way to the Middle East, where he died in a shipboard accident.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can see what you mean by Laurette having a rough time.”

  “Damn war,” Davina said. “It gets worse, though.”