Page 2 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
She fixed me with a bleary eye. “You forgot to bring a fork? You’re a waitress. It’s a wonder Dumb Annie doesn’t fire you.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll go get it.”
“Forget it,” she said before I could escape. “I got one left from my lunch.” She rooted around near the arm of the recliner and eventually produced a plastic fork with a hardened crust of pasta on it. It had been a high point in Delphine’s life when Pizza Hut had started delivering chicken Alfredo and cinnamon twists straight to our door. She waved the fork at the TV. “Sit down. I want to watchAttic Cash.”
I stifled a groan but didn’t bother to argue. At leastAttic Cashwas sometimes interesting. I cleared off the ottoman next to her, scooping the junk mail into a neat pile and setting it on the floor. Delphine wouldn’t let me throw it away until she’d scoured it for coupons. Even then, I’d have to toss it when she wasn’t looking.
“Hurry up,” Delphine said, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening from ditches to canyons like they did every time she frowned at me. I wondered what had aged her more: the cigarettes or me. It was probably a tie.
“Sorry,” I said.
“I saw on the commercials yesterday that some lady finds a pottery rooster worth eight hundred dollars,” she said. I didn’t comment. Delphine was more about monologues. “I have some good pieces in my collections. Better than some clay chicken.”
I held my tongue with more effort this time. She often made this claim. Instead of mouthing off, I daydreamed that Delphine was on one of her other favorite shows with Dr. Phil, and he gave her some straight talk about how she could call her junk “collections” all she wanted but it was still hoarding.
The sharp pain of Delphine’s bright red fingernails digging into my arm snapped me back to reality. It wasn’t Delphine’s style to touch me for any reason, but now she gripped my wrist, her mouth working like she was talking, but no words came out as she stared at the TV.
“Look at that,” she ordered. A painting sat on the antique appraiser’s table. “I have one like that. Maybe it’s worth something.”
It was large, maybe two feet tall and three feet wide. It showed two ducks quacking at a retreating third duck. Nice colors, but nature paintings weren’t my thing. These looked like a hundred other bird pictures I’d seen hanging in the houses I catered in. Pretty, but kind of boring.
“Turn it up,” Delphine demanded.
The appraiser pointed to the cloudy glass. “Even in this sub-par frame, the colors really shine.” He pointed to the bottom and the camera zoomed in to show the tiny print in the corner. “J.J. Audubon,” it read, followed by some numbers. “John James Audubon was one of the most famous naturalists in the world. His book,Birds of America,is considered the finest ornithology collection of its kind.”
Oh. New Orleans had zoos and neighborhoods named after this Audubon guy. Of course the well-to-do upper crusters would stick his pictures on their walls.
The appraiser droned on and Delphine fidgeted, waiting for him to get down to business.
“How much do you think this is worth?” he finally asked the middle-aged owner.
She patted her helmet hair. “I have no idea.”
Delphine leaned forward to hear the magic number.
“At auction, it would sell for between twenty-five and thirty thousand dollars,” the appraiser said.
Delphine yelped, and I lifted an eyebrow. “You have that exact same picture?” I asked, skeptical. “It’s not a replica?”
“It’s not ducks; it’s an owl, but it’s the real thing,” Delphine said, sounding dazed. “I got it from Mama. Miss Addie gave it to her when Mama quit.”
My great-grandmother Francie had worked as a cook for several years in the home of the wealthy New Orleans socialite Adelaide Comeau before our family textile business turned a profit. It lent Delphine’s claim some credibility.
“I have to find it,” Delphine said, her daze evaporating. “That’s a lot of money.”
Not good. When Delphine said “I,” it definitely meant me.Iwould do the hunting. I tested her. “Any idea which room it’s in?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions. If I knew where it was, I wouldn’t say I have to find it.”
“Right. What was I thinking?”
“Sarcasm is the comedy of the witless,” Delphine said. She said it often. About as often as she used sarcastic putdowns on me.
“Sorry.”
“Check the sitting room. It’s probably in there somewhere.”
Great. Also probably in there: the Holy Grail and a den of raccoons.
