scrolled through the images in the camera, holding it in front of his beard. He smiled at the ones Imogene took on the drive down from Alabama and those in the French Quarter, and then, suddenly, his face turned sour. “The mess in Glenway’s studio. That’s ridiculous. Neil should have known something was wrong immediately.”
“We just figured he’d been out late,” Jackson said, peering over Allen’s shoulder.
“I would’ve known right away from the look of the front room that there was trouble. But I do go to Glenway’s studio several times a week. I guess I’m there much more than Neil…because of my framing work and helping him with his money.”
Jackson looked at Allen. The thought of Neil and Allen offing Glenway cropped up again. It bothered him to think like that, but they were involved with Glenway in odd ways, more like tangled up in Glenway’s life as much as anything. He tried to put the suspicion out of his mind, but he remembered Neil opening the locked studio with his own key. Plus, Allen’s role as the executor of Glenway’s will was disconcerting. He and Billy had spent so many pleasant hours at their house in New Orleans. Likewise, Neil and Allen had traveled to Harristown to visit many times. He stared at Allen, who continued scanning Imogene’s pictures.
Allen looked up. “What’s wrong, Jackson? Why are you looking at me like that? Do you want these pictures back?”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I was just…I was just thinking about Neil going to jail…So you don’t think they’ll keep him overnight?”
“Oh, certainly not. I hope not. If that’s the case, I hope you guys will stay with me.” Allen wiped his face with a bandana from his framing table.
“Hmm, we’d be happy to, but did you know Neil changed our hotel? We booked four days in a bed-and-breakfast, but Neil said a friend of his got us a better deal at another place. Says it has a balcony overlooking Toulouse Street in the French Quarter.”
Allen squinted at the photos on the small screen. “Oh, no, that pretty hair. ‘Tangerine’ he called it. Is that blood on Glenway’s head?”
Jackson leaned toward the camera. “Yes, poor guy. We thought he was sleeping. Billy noticed something wrong with his color and then he pointed out the patch of blood on Glenway’s scalp. It almost looked like dye.” Jackson wasn’t sure if he should bring up the hotel again until Allen had finished with the pictures. He decided instead to check out the walls of Allen’s workshop, which sported the completed jobs and pieces of frames hanging everywhere.
He walked up to a scene from a café in the French Quarter showing what appeared to be some luminaries having a spirited discussion over drinks. One of the models looked almost like Tennessee Williams but with a unibrow. He grasped a notebook in his hand, holding it near his chest. He was seated with a bald-headed man wearing a wildly patterned shirt and a sly grin, as if he was amused at his own wit.
Jackson backed up and saw his reflection in the glass. His facial scruff had grown during the day and his salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in wild disarray. He matted it down and then straightened the collar on his shirt. He looked tired, which made him think of his hotel room. “Allen…do you know about the new place Neil got for us?’
“Of course. Sorry. These are some great pics. I wish I had ink in my printer. I’d print them out now. I can at least download them. Anyhow, about your accommodations. The reservation number is in Neil’s office. You know how organized he is.” Allen led Jackson and Goose into the den that had big fluffy couches that had seen their share of naps. Allen pointed to the open door of Neil’s office, a narrow room with Mardi Gras beads and file cabinets and a long workshop shelf that ran the length of the wall. Jackson’s hip touched the corner of the shelf, which Neil used as a desk.
“Here they are. Your new hotel is called Chez Hill. Two
“We just figured he’d been out late,” Jackson said, peering over Allen’s shoulder.
“I would’ve known right away from the look of the front room that there was trouble. But I do go to Glenway’s studio several times a week. I guess I’m there much more than Neil…because of my framing work and helping him with his money.”
Jackson looked at Allen. The thought of Neil and Allen offing Glenway cropped up again. It bothered him to think like that, but they were involved with Glenway in odd ways, more like tangled up in Glenway’s life as much as anything. He tried to put the suspicion out of his mind, but he remembered Neil opening the locked studio with his own key. Plus, Allen’s role as the executor of Glenway’s will was disconcerting. He and Billy had spent so many pleasant hours at their house in New Orleans. Likewise, Neil and Allen had traveled to Harristown to visit many times. He stared at Allen, who continued scanning Imogene’s pictures.
Allen looked up. “What’s wrong, Jackson? Why are you looking at me like that? Do you want these pictures back?”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I was just…I was just thinking about Neil going to jail…So you don’t think they’ll keep him overnight?”
“Oh, certainly not. I hope not. If that’s the case, I hope you guys will stay with me.” Allen wiped his face with a bandana from his framing table.
“Hmm, we’d be happy to, but did you know Neil changed our hotel? We booked four days in a bed-and-breakfast, but Neil said a friend of his got us a better deal at another place. Says it has a balcony overlooking Toulouse Street in the French Quarter.”
Allen squinted at the photos on the small screen. “Oh, no, that pretty hair. ‘Tangerine’ he called it. Is that blood on Glenway’s head?”
Jackson leaned toward the camera. “Yes, poor guy. We thought he was sleeping. Billy noticed something wrong with his color and then he pointed out the patch of blood on Glenway’s scalp. It almost looked like dye.” Jackson wasn’t sure if he should bring up the hotel again until Allen had finished with the pictures. He decided instead to check out the walls of Allen’s workshop, which sported the completed jobs and pieces of frames hanging everywhere.
He walked up to a scene from a café in the French Quarter showing what appeared to be some luminaries having a spirited discussion over drinks. One of the models looked almost like Tennessee Williams but with a unibrow. He grasped a notebook in his hand, holding it near his chest. He was seated with a bald-headed man wearing a wildly patterned shirt and a sly grin, as if he was amused at his own wit.
Jackson backed up and saw his reflection in the glass. His facial scruff had grown during the day and his salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in wild disarray. He matted it down and then straightened the collar on his shirt. He looked tired, which made him think of his hotel room. “Allen…do you know about the new place Neil got for us?’
“Of course. Sorry. These are some great pics. I wish I had ink in my printer. I’d print them out now. I can at least download them. Anyhow, about your accommodations. The reservation number is in Neil’s office. You know how organized he is.” Allen led Jackson and Goose into the den that had big fluffy couches that had seen their share of naps. Allen pointed to the open door of Neil’s office, a narrow room with Mardi Gras beads and file cabinets and a long workshop shelf that ran the length of the wall. Jackson’s hip touched the corner of the shelf, which Neil used as a desk.
“Here they are. Your new hotel is called Chez Hill. Two
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