Murder at the Pontchartrain by Kathleen Kaska
About Murder at the Pontchartrain
Murder at the Pontchartrain
Cozy Mystery (Humorous)
6th in Series
Setting – New Orleans, Louisiana
Anamcara Press LLC (June 15, 2023)
Paperback : 280 pages
ISBN-10 : 1941237940
ISBN-13 : 978-1941237946
Synopsis
Private detective Sydney Lockhart and her boyfriend/partner, Ralph Dixon, are headed for New Orleans to tie the knot—again. Having been stalled on their first attempt by some unfinished business dealing with their last case, Sydney and Dixon are now in the Pontchartrain Hotel in the Big Easy. While their marriage license rests at the courthouse for its 24-hour waiting period, they stroll to the French Quarter to visit Rip Thigbee, Sydney’s friend from her previous investigation. Rip owns Finder of Lost Souls, a detective agency dealing with the spirits of murder victims whose cases remain unsolved.
When Sydney and Dixon are at Rip’s office, they learn he went missing after investigating the disturbance of local businessman Frank Threadgill’s crypt. Voodoo Queen Frida Mae, whose shop is located next to Thigbee’s, fears that bad juju led to Threadgill’s death and has now infiltrated Rip’s business. Upon returning to their hotel room, to plan their next step, they find Threadgill’s wife, Mildred, waiting for them. Unfortunately, Mildred has been murdered. The police haul the couple down to the station. Their alibi checks out, but they are told to stick around for a few days. Soon a hotel housemaid is murdered, and this time Dixon is arrested, and Sydney is on her own to find the killer.
Hearing of their predicament, Sydney’s bubble-headed cousin, Ruth, and Sydney’s young charge, twelve-year-old Lydia LeBeau, show up to lend an unwelcome hand. Ruth goes undercover as a chef at the hotel. Lydia, who can talk the Pope into letting her assist in saying Mass, talks her way into the famous Pat O’Brien’s bar, where the locals are eager to share what they know.
After interviewing Mildred Threadgill’s family, Sydney begins her investigation by delving into Frank Threadgill’s mysterious past and discovers that he isn’t who he claims to be. The business he once owned was a cover involving an organization of WWII war criminals and the local Ku Klux Klan. As Sydney gets closer to the truth, she is attacked and left for dead in a nearby swamp. With the help of a few jaunty Cajuns, Sydney makes it back to the city with enough evidence to get Dixon released. Ruth thinks she knows who the killer is. Lydia has her own theory and is convinced Ruth is wrong. Sydney doesn’t know who to trust, convinced that every witness she’s interviewed has lied. But her most shocking realization is that the biggest liar is her own future husband.
Excerpt from Murder at the Pontchartrain
Dixon and I were sitting in the interrogation room in the downtown police station when we got word that the dead woman was Mildred Threadgill. Dixon explained our interest in Mrs. Threadgill, as well as the damage done to her husband’s tomb, and that our friend Rip Thigbee was missing and last seen with Mrs. Threadgill. None of which made a rat’s ass difference to Detective Bergeron who was questioning us. Luckily, our alibi checked out. The people staying in the room next to ours said they heard a commotion and then a scream at the time we were talking to the attendant at the cemetery. Nevertheless, the woman was killed in our room. There was a knife missing from our breakfast tray, possibly the murder weapon. The only person in New Orleans who knew we were staying here was Betsy Radley. We were released, but told to stick around.
“Are we on a case?” I asked.
“We’re on a case. What choice do we have? Deal with a murder today. Get married tomorrow.”
“Does that marriage license have an expiration date?”
“It’s good for two weeks. Maybe we should have kept the rental car.”
Betsy was a little more forth coming with information when we returned to Rip’s office to tell her that Mildred Threadgill had been murdered.
“Oh, my,” Betsy said. “Mrs. Threadgill was here after you left, demanding to see Rip. I told her I didn’t know where he was and that the last time I saw him he was with her. She became livid. She said he was supposed to call her a couple of days ago.”
“And you sent her to us?” Dixon asked.
“She wouldn’t leave,” Betsy said. “I didn’t know what else to do. You said you’d help, so I told her where you were staying.”
“Any idea who would kill her?” Dixon asked, adding a hardness to his voice. When he did that, I knew he was losing his patience.
“I . . . I don’t know,” Betsy stammered.
“I’ll look through Rip’s notes again,” I said.
“So the last time you saw Rip he was headed to the cemetery with Mildred Threadgill, and you haven’t seen or heard from him since?”
“Yes, yes that’s right,” Betsy whispered.
“You’ve been here all week and you haven’t heard from anyone? No one’s called or come in? Just Mrs. Threadgill after we left?”
Betsy began blubbering, which turned to sobs, then to hiccups. Finally, she managed a vigorous shake of her head.
“I want Rip’s home address,” Dixon said.
“He lives upstairs in the apartment on the left. I don’t have a key, but Frida Mae is the landlady. She has one. Wait here. I’ll get it.”
We walked into Rip’s apartment. You wouldn’t think a single guy, an ex-bouncer to be so immaculately neat. Rip didn’t own a lot of possessions, but what he had was clean and orderly. A stack of dinner plates sat on the kitchen counter next to two coffee cups in perfect alignment. Clean silverware stood in a drinking glass. The toaster, minus crumbs, shone like a beacon. Two spotless sauce pans and a skillet were arranged on top of the icebox. What little space he had in the kitchenette he made good use of. The cabinet held a can of sardines, a can of pinto beans, and a box of Wheaties. On the top shelf inside the icebox, sat a package of bacon, carton of eggs, and a stick of butter. The lower shelf held a case of Falstaff beer cans, also aligned with each label showing out. I looked over to find Dixon staring off into space.
“What is it?”
“Betsy’s lying. She knows more than she’s telling.”
“She’s scared. You should have pushed her harder.”
“Let her stew for now. Was Rip in the military?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“I can’t find one wrinkle in his bed sheets. His pillow case smells freshly laundered. There’s no dust on the floor under the bed. His dresser contains the usual undershirts, socks, underwear, and handkerchiefs.”
Dixon opened the closet door. Two dress shirts, a pair of slacks, a sport coat hung neatly, each in their proper category. “Look at this. A pair of scuffed cowboy boots.”
“Don’t sound surprised. Any self-respecting Texan has scuffed cowboy boots, even me.” I looked down at his wingtips.
“What?”
“This entire time I thought you were perfect, but I just realized you’re not.”
Dixon straightened his tie. “You’re questioning your assessment of me?”
I held up Rip’s boots.
“Wait. I’m not ever going to wear cowboy boots. I don’t have to, I’m not a Texan.”
“You will soon be one by marriage. I suggest black boots, slightly rounded toes, modicum amount of stitchery. I’ll shop around.”
“No.”
“At least you can wear them around the house.”
“No.”
“Wearing nothing else, just your boots.”
“Well, maybe.”
About Kathleen Kaska
Kathleen Kaska is the author of the awarding-winning mystery series: the Sydney Lockhart Mystery Series set in the 1950s and the Kate Caraway Animal-Rights Mystery Series. Her first two Lockhart mysteries, Murder at the Arlington and Murder at the Luther, were selected as bonus books for the Pulpwood Queen Book Group, the country’s largest book group. She also writes mystery trivia. The Sherlock Holmes Quiz Book was published by Rowman & Littlefield. Her Holmes short story, “The Adventure at Old Basingstoke,” appears in Sherlock Holmes of Baking Street, a Belanger Books anthology. She is the founder of The Dogs in the Nighttime, the Sherlock Holmes Society of Anacortes, Washington, a scion of The Baker Street Irregulars. Watch for Murder at the Pontchartrain: the 6th Sydney Lockhart Mystery in June 2023.
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