LITMIR.BIZ

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get her sister something she knew Madeline really wanted.

      Since the shop wasn’t but a few blocks down St. Peter, Charlotte decided to park in a parking lot near Jackson Brewery and walk from there. As she walked along the sidewalk that ran in front of the huge Jackson Brewery mall, she eyed the window displays from the shops inside.

      When she passed a particular display, her footsteps slowed, and she stopped to stare wistfully at one of the mannequins that was decked out in a beautiful sky blue sweater and matching slacks.

      Sighing longingly, she shook her head. “Yeah, right,” she murmured, and regretfully turned away and crossed over to St. Peter Street. There were only a few weeks year-round in New Orleans when the temperature got low enough to even wear a sweater, and since she already had a drawer full of nice sweaters, buying yet another one wasn’t the least bit practical.

      Glancing around as she walked along Jackson Square, she was glad to see that the artists were back at their usual spots along the fence surrounding the Square. It was also good to see that the mimes and the ragtag street musicians had finally returned as well. Everything seemed almost normal again.

      She chuckled beneath her breath when she passed a mime standing statue still, his face painted to look like a clown’s. Every time she saw a mime, the urge to stick out her tongue or make faces at him—anything to make him smile or laugh—would come over her.

      “You’re weird, Charlotte,” she murmured to herself, and kept walking. The farther she walked up St. Peter, the more she began to notice that something was different. For one, the streets were fairly clean, cleaner than she’d ever seen them. Even before Hurricane Katrina, the Quarter had never been all that clean, and afterward, it was worse…until now.

      She’d heard talk about the cleanup in the Quarter, and she’d read an article about it in the Times-Picayune, but this was one case where seeing was believing. The TP article had given most of the credit to a new French Quarter cleanup company, SDT Waste and Debris Services, and to its company president, a young entrepreneur who also owned a couple of hotels in the French Quarter as well.

      Charlotte smiled. One thing she definitely remembered about the article was how handsome the young man was. Why, people, mostly women, even vied for his autograph. Even his own mother was amazed at all the attention her good-looking son the garbageman was receiving.

      By the time that Charlotte finally reached the quaint jewelry shop, she was out of breath, a harsh reminder that she’d been neglecting her daily walking routine of late.

      It took a few minutes of searching through the enclosed glass jewelry case, but Charlotte finally spotted a pair of earrings that looked similar to the necklace Judith had bought.

      “May I help you?” the sales clerk asked.

      “I hope so,” Charlotte told her. “My niece, Judith Monroe, bought her mother a necklace for her birthday. I was hoping to buy the earrings that matched the necklace.” She tapped her finger on the glass case right above the earrings. “I think those are the ones that match.”

      “There’s one way to be certain,” the young woman said as she stepped over to a computer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and within just moments, she smiled. “You’re absolutely right,” she told Charlotte as she turned away from the computer. “The earrings you picked out are the match to the necklace.”

      Once Charlotte had paid for the earrings, she tucked the small jewelry sack inside her purse, then left the shop. When Charlotte approached the first cross street, she had to wait for a line of cars to drive past. When the last of the cars drove by, Charlotte glanced to her right to make sure the street was clear. Just then, a familiar-looking woman emerged from inside a shop across the street. Charlotte froze and narrowed her eyes.

      At first, she thought that surely Joyce had seen her—she looked straight at her—but when she raised her hand to wave, Joyce turned away and hurried on down the street in the opposite direction.

      “Guess she didn’t see me,” Charlotte muttered as she watched Joyce disappear around the corner. But why the hurry? she wondered. And unless her eyes deceived her, everything about Joyce’s body language screamed guilt. But guilt about what?

      There you go again. Can’t ever give the poor woman a break.

      Now even more curious, Charlotte ignored the aggravating voice in her head and glanced back at the shop that Joyce had come out of. When she read the sign above the door, P & J PAWNSHOP, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

      A pawnshop! And a seedy-looking one at that.

      Suddenly, a vision from earlier that morning popped into Charlotte’s head…Joyce and the tote bag she’d borrowed.

      At the time, Charlotte had been more concerned that Joyce had “borrowed” the bag without asking, but now she wondered if maybe Joyce had needed it for more than just carrying her lunch.

      As far as she knew, Joyce had nothing of real value, and renting an apartment cost money, so that left just one thing. Charlotte didn’t want to think the worst, but she couldn’t seem to tame her suspicious nature when it came to Joyce. All of her instincts were telling her it was highly possible that Joyce had “borrowed” something else from her without asking—something of value that she could pawn for money.

      Charlotte shook her head and heaved a big sigh of frustration. There was only one way to find out.

      After looking to her right again and seeing that the coast was clear, Charlotte stepped off the curb and crossed the street to the shop.

      As she opened the front door of the shop, a bell jingled, announcing her entry. For several moments, Charlotte simply stood, her gaze taking in the crowded shop. Unlike on Royal Street, where the shops were well kept and contained beautiful antiques, the pawnshop was filthy. Most of the stuff in it looked like the kind of junk that would have been more suited to a flea market. Already, she felt the need for a bath, just being in the place.

      Making sure she didn’t brush up against anything, Charlotte chose the path of least resistance as she made her way to a glass display counter. Behind the counter stood a rumpled, unshaven man, who didn’t look in much better shape than his dirty shop. Judging by the gray in his greasy-looking dark hair and the deep lines on his face, Charlotte figured the man was either in his late forties or early fifties.

      “Got something to pawn, or are you buying?” he asked, his tone surly.

      “Neither,” Charlotte told him, “but I have a question. That woman who just left is my houseguest, and I’m afraid that she’s stolen something of mine and pawned it.”

      The man narrowed his eyes and shrugged. “Not my problem, lady. That’s between you and your”—he paused a moment—“‘houseguest.’” He said it like it was a dirty word.

      Charlotte thought it was quite revealing that the one thing he didn’t suggest was reporting the incident to the police. “Well, could you at least tell me if she pawned something?”

      He squinted his eyes at her. “Look, lady, I’ve already told you that none of this is my concern, so stop asking.”

      “It is your concern if you’re selling stolen property,” she shot back.

      His expression turned to stone. “Lady, read my lips. Not. My. Problem.” Then, like Jekyll and Hyde, his expression softened, and although it seemed a bit forced, he grinned. “Besides, even us lowly pawnbrokers have a code of honor and confidentiality.”

      Yeah, right, she thought, quickly scanning the display case full of cheap-looking jewelry for anything that looked remotely familiar. Seeing nothing, she did an about-face and headed for the front door. “Thanks for nothing,” she called over her shoulder.

      Not expecting a response, she didn’t wait for one as she exited the shop and pulled the door closed with more force than necessary.

      “‘Not my problem,’” she mimicked beneath her breath as she marched down St. Peter. “What a jerk!”

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