Finally my work had taken me there; unfortunately, it also kept me flitting about the suburbs with nary a glimpse of the central city.
The case involved missing heirloom jewelry, an unlikely assortment of heirs as suspects, a clutter of family feuds, and assorted nasty complications. One of the finest feats of my career was to deftly remove suspicion from a dearly hated daughter-in-law, a sweet girl who intensified the client’s enmity each time they met by having a mind of her own, and pin the crime on a much loved and trusted servant who had been with the client for twenty years.
I then brought off a much more difficult achievement by persuading my boss, Raina Lambert, to give me time off to enjoy Savannah. I planned my sightseeing agenda with more care than General Sherman had used in capturing the place in 1864, and I added several maneuvers the general hadn’t thought of such as discovering which bar served the best mint juleps and comparing dialects of southern fried chicken and candied yams at various restaurants.
I fell asleep thinking of appropriate elaborations such as the substitution of baked ham for the chicken and the extension of my research to pecan pie. When the phone rang, I stirred myself resentfully, picked up the receiver, and groaned, “Go away.”
Raina Lambert’s voice said, “I’ve made reservations for you. You can catch a night plane if you hurry.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I told her. “Just this morning you gave me a week off. Remember?”
“That was then. Now you’re needed somewhere else. A New Orleans businessman has disappeared.”
“Not to worry,” I said. “Everyone disappears in New Orleans, but no one stays missing very long. People get confused by the fact that the bars there never close, and they lose track of time. Have you checked Bourbon Street?”
“The man’s name is Marc DeVarnay. He’s been gone for two weeks, and no one has any idea what could have happened to him.”
“Two weeks is a bit long for a binge,” I conceded.
“He has no vices at all. He even drinks with severe moderation.”
“Then he’s gone to heaven, which is outside our jurisdiction.”
Raina spoke in the firm tone bosses always adopt when they think an argument has gone on long enough. “Here’s the information on your flight reservation. I’ll have Mara Wilks meet you at the St. Louis airport with DeVarnay’s dossier and photographs.”
“St. Louis!” I exclaimed. “I thought you said New Orleans!”
“St. Louis,” she said firmly.
However remarkable the Gateway Arch may be, it is paltry compensation for losing both Savannah and New Orleans in one stroke. Resignedly I wrote down the details.
I made my plane with minutes to spare, but I had ample time during the remainder of the night, on planes and in airports, to mentally review all of the attractions I wasn’t going to see in the fascinating city of Savannah. At eight o’clock the next morning, instead of strolling down Bull Street to admire its historic squares, I was landing at the Lambert-St. Louis International Airport, fairly launched on the wildest of wild goose chases, though I didn’t know that yet.
Mara Wilks, a thirty-five-year-old mother of three who could have passed for a high school student with some artful neglect of makeup and dress, was there with a thick envelope of material that had been faxed to her. A selection of photographs had been sent by overnight express.
“I’ll circle past the office and see if they’ve arrived yet,” she said.
While she drove, I occupied myself with reading about Marc DeVarnay. His credentials were the sort that make mothers of marriageable daughters drool—he was single, he was handsome, he was popular, he was successful in a business he loved, he came from a prominent old New Orleans family, and he was sole heir to ten million dollars.
Fate had been almost excessively kind to him. As if wealth, good looks, and popularity weren’t enough, he had founded his own antique store six years earlier, and it was hugely profitable. He was young—just thirty-two—with excellent health. He was intelligent, he was liked by his friends and even by his employees, and he had the respect of his competitors, most of whom were willing to concede, however grudgingly, that he was a very, very good antique dealer. Not only was his family highly respected in New Orleans, but if there had been a French equivalent to the Mayflower, the DeVarnay ancestors would have arrived on it.
Unfortunately, he also was missing. Had he suddenly crapped out after rolling sevens and elevens all his life? No one knew. On a Wednesday night two weeks earlier, he had left for St. Louis to attend an auction. He telephoned his widowed mother to tell her he was about to start for the airport—he always called her at least once a day. Shortly after that, he called a cab. Then he called back and cancelled the cab.
An expensive leather suitcase, a gift from his mother, was missing from his home, as were his toilet articles and some clothing. Obviously he had packed for the trip and left home with his suitcase. A quick check in St. Louis revealed that he arrived there, claimed his reserved hotel room, and attended the auction. He made a purchase at the auction and had it shipped to his store in New Orleans. All of that was as expected.
The one significant irregularity was that he failed to telephone his mother on Thursday or at any time after that. This had never happened before except when he was in Europe. She hadn’t heard from him since the call he made Wednesday night just before he left for the airport. He checked out of his St. Louis hotel on schedule early the next morning, Friday, but he missed his return flight to New Orleans, and neither he nor his suitcase had been seen since.
Jolitte DeVarnay, DeVarnay’s mother, was severely critical of the way the police had handled the case, but most missing men eventually show up again, screaming for help when they sober up or run out of money. DeVarnay hadn’t.
As far as anyone could discover, he had no enemies, no business or personal crisis to run away from, no secret life about to come unraveled. He was as open and above-board as the heir to ten million dollars could be. Even so, the police figured he had his own good and sufficient reasons for dropping out of sight for a week or two, and eventually he would be heard from.
His mother informed anyone who would listen that the police were idiots. Marc was a good son, he was close to his mother, and he wouldn’t have gone off of his own volition without saying anything to her about it.
Jolitte DeVarnay was not only a wealthy pillar of New Orleans society and politics, but she had long since promoted herself to duchess. She took her case to a series of higher courts—first the police commissioner, then the mayor, and finally the governor. It went without saying that she was on a first name basis with all three. Each in turn gave the police a prod or two but refused to call out the National Guard or ask the president to declare New Orleans a disaster area. By that time DeVarnay had been missing for two weeks, no one seemed to be giving his disappearance the serious attention his mother thought it deserved, and she was desperate.
On the recommendation of several wealthy friends, she made one more telephone call—to Lambert and Associates. Probably the fact that we call ourselves “Investigative Consultants” influenced her decision. She sounded like the kind of person who would feel humiliated if she had to engage a detective. Once she agreed to a retainer that would make even her bank account wince and indicated a willingness to accept a final bill in accordance with her status as millionaire and duchess, Raina Lambert took her complaint very seriously indeed and gave it the highest priority.
Meaning
