Page 9 of The Shop on Royal Street
Jolene readjusted a hanging strip of duct tape attaching the car’s visor to the windshield of her grandmother’s pea green 1989 Lincoln Town Car before checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “I figured we could kill two birds with one stone by grabbing a carload of stuff from my old apartment on the way back from meeting with Beau’s grandmother. That could save us some time just in case I hear back from Jaxson and he wants to meet to go over anything he’s discovered about the murder.” I heard the note of hopefulness in her voice and would have mentioned it, but I didn’t want to create more sweat by exerting myself.
I reluctantly closed the passenger door and buckled my seat belt. “All right. But could you please turn on the air conditioner? I’m melting and I can’t get the window to go down.” I flicked the window button several times to illustrate.
“That’s because it’s broken. And I’ll turn on the air conditioner as soon as I pull out of the driveway and get going. I can’t accelerate and use the AC at the same time or the engine dies.”
I grabbed onto the armrest, my only consolation being that the carwas as long as a block and made of steel, which offered some protection. I closed my eyes as she reversed down the driveway, the car rocking and the collection of Mardi Gras beads draped over the rearview mirror shimmying as we rolled over the rutted concrete. She backed into the street, an act of faith since it was impossible to see what was coming from the driver’s seat, her petite frame making her look like a little girl stealing her mom’s car. The bench seat was pulled up as far as it would go, and I shot a look at her feet to make sure they could actually reach the pedals.
“You know,” I said through clenched teeth, “I don’t think U-Hauls are that expensive.”
She laughed as if I’d said something funny. “This trunk is bigger than a U-Haul. My grandmama never owned a car that was too small to fit eight bodies and the tools to bury them.”
I slid her a sidelong glance. I remembered that her family had owned a funeral home for generations and that her references to her childhood and other family members—especially her grandmother—were peppered with remarks that might be considered bizarre or even leading if one hadn’t been exposed to Jolene for any length of time.
“We’ll be fine on the main roads, but when we get to the smaller streets with cars parked along the curb, we’re going to have to suck in our breath so we can fit without scraping off any side mirrors.”
She said this without laughing, which worried me. “I know what you’re thinking, Nola, but don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Having access to a car will make your life easier. Especially for field visits. After you learn how to drive, of course. One accident doesn’t make you a bad driver. You just need to try again. Just let me know when, and Bubba and I will be happy to put you behind the wheel.”
“Right. But wouldn’t I need a special license to drive this thing? Like one that would authorize me to drive tanks?”
“Very funny.” She reached over and patted the dash. “You’ll come to appreciate Bubba. Just mark my words.”
That was another thing I remembered about Jolene. She always named her cars. “So, where did this car come from?” I asked, changingthe subject. Even in college, Jolene had been the recipient of a wide assortment of vehicles gifted by her grandmother. Apparently, running the only funeral home in town made them a target of bereaved families looking to off-load unwanted vehicles.
“I’m not sure. My cousin Nathan drove it down for me and didn’t say. I’m sure it came to us the usual way.” She braked hard, making my seat belt press against my chest, as she stopped at the intersection of Broadway and St. Charles Avenue. Flipping off the air conditioner, she said, “Sorry—don’t want to get hit by the streetcar if I have to gun it. There’s one now, but I think I can make it. Hang on.”
I closed my eyes as the car picked up speed, the tires bumping over the streetcar tracks before taking a sharp left turn onto St. Charles Avenue. I opened my eyes in time to see a streetcar rumble past, causing even more sweat to erupt on my forehead.
As if we hadn’t just had a near-death experience, Jolene said, “We’ll park in the Hotel Monteleone garage on Royal Street. An SAE I dated my senior year works there. He’s saving money for grad school, so he works a lot of hours.” She dodged a pothole deep enough that it might contain marine life, my head and its contents swaying along with the Mardi Grad beads. “It’s very handy, since I can coordinate my trips into the Quarter when he’s working, so I don’t have to worry about parking. He makes sure to reserve three spaces at the top just for Bubba.”
I nodded absently as we continued toward downtown, with Jolene dodging potholes, bicycles, and pedestrians while I clutched my armrest. I wanted to admire the historic mansions that lined St. Charles Avenue like grandes dames from another age, dressed up for the social event of the season, but instead I kept my eyes closed for most of the ride so I wouldn’t be tempted to throw myself out of the car to save myself.
As promised, Jolene’s old flame, Alex, quickly traded seats with Jolene as soon as she pulled into the garage, Bubba blocking the sidewalk and most of the narrow street. After a quick hello, I jumped outand stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, relieved to be out of the car and all in one piece.
“Come on. The shop is about two blocks this way,” Jolene said as she adjusted a pair of large white-framed sunglasses on her nose and settled a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head. “I could get a sunburn standing inside my kitchen. And my mama would tan my hide if I let any sun touch my face.”
I followed her, and I was surprised to find that I was nervous. At least I didn’t need to worry about running into Beau. Jolene had confirmed that he was on-site today at the renovation of a midcentury ranch in Chalmette, so the coast was clear as far as he was concerned. All I needed was to win over Mimi and all of my problems would be solved. Theoretically.
The pervasive scent of beer and other not-so-sweet-smelling liquids that I’d heard referred to as “Bourbon stew” followed us as we stepped over discarded plastic go-cups and glops of stuff I didn’t want to examine too closely but knew I didn’t want to step on. Wanting to reassure myself, I said, “And you know Mimi well enough to believe that she’ll be on my side?”
“Um, sure. Although I just said that I know her well enough to introduce you, and to even say a few good words on your behalf.” She quickened her pace.
“But you know her.”
“Yes. We’ve met several times. She and Beau are extremely close, which is why I suggested that we take your case to her.”
“And she’s nice, right? And she’ll listen and seriously consider my point?”
Jolene didn’t answer right away, which intensified the sweat dripping from my temples.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, passersby walking around me like I was a rock in a stream. In any other city they’d probably have run over me and kept walking. Realizing I wasn’t next to her anymore, Jolene turned back.
I crossed my arms, then dropped them, unable to tolerate the sticky sweat that pooled in the insides of my elbows. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. Really. It’s just...”
“Just what?”
She sighed. “Like I said, they’re really close, with him being raised by his grandparents since he was a little boy and all. But she is real nice.” She clamped her lips closed.
