Free Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) by Chris Wiltz

his money and has never done a thing in his life but pretend to write his memoirs for the last twenty years. He had to get rid of all his domestic help a few years ago and that house is going to pot. He couldn't raise a couple of thousand dollars on short notice and not ninety thousand on any notice at all, and I'm sure that's not just hearsay.”
    “Why couldn't he? Maurice described him as a strange bird.”
    “Well, he and I were members of the same men's club and the treasurer of the club told me, confidentially of course, that André had been dropped from the membership roles for nonpayment of dues.”
    “Maybe he got tired of looking at the same hands clutching the daily newspaper”
    Fleming shook his head. “It's the money.”
    “What happened to his wife?”
    “Died in childbirth.”
    “The only child?” He nodded, looking strangely preoccupied.
    “Where's your son, Fleming?”
    His head jerked up. “I thought we were trying to get to the bottom of this Garber business.”
    “We are.”
    “Well, I don't think a discussion of families is pertinent.”
    “Pertinence is relative,” I said.
    “Not my son, Rafferty. A discussion of my son is not pertinent.”
    “Since you hired me to do this job, why don't you let me decide what's pertinent?”
    “Since I'm paying your fee,” he shouted, fingering himself in the chest, “I'll decide what's pertinent.”
    “I didn't realize that your fee entitled you to play Watson to my Sherlock. I prefer to work alone. If I didn't I'd have joined up with Giarrusso's Security Service.”
    Fleming glared at me. “My son is living in New York now. He doesn't have anything to do with this and I want him left out of it. Do you understand?” He said it quietly, menacingly.
    I got up. “I can find my way out.”
    I went through the foyer to the door. He started up the circular stairway. I was halfway out when he called to me from the top of the stairs, “And, Rafferty, you keep in better touch. I like to know what's going on blow by blow and that ain't playing Watson.”
    He disappeared. I stepped out but didn't pull the door to. Instead, I went back in and slammed the door from there and made a quick trip across the foyer and out of view from the stairway. I walked to the back in hopes of running into Mrs. Fleming. I pushed the swinging door to the kitchen. There she was, just sitting at the kitchen table.
    “Mrs. Fleming, I'll be off now. Mr. Fleming has gone upstairs.”
    She gave me a big smile. “Well, I hope you two have gotten your differences straightened out.”
    “Oh, yes, indeed we have.” I smiled back.
    “Oh, good. Such a terrible thing about Stanley. I told Carter that I just couldn't imagine Stanley being dishonest, you know, about the books, that he must be in some trouble, but I never thought when I said that . . .”
    “Well, you were certainly right. He was in the worst kind of trouble.” There was an uncomfortable silence. She got up. “Don't bother to show me out. I just wanted to let you know that everything is okay. Look, I’ll just go out this way.” I moved quickly to the back door.
    “Oh, no, Mr. Rafferty . . .”
    “No, really, Mrs. Fleming, I insist. I wouldn't want to disturb Mr. Fleming if he's gone to bed.” We smiled some more at each other. “I understand your son is living in New York now,” I said conversationally as I put my hand on the doorknob.
    “Yes, he is,” she said pleasantly, like she didn't mind, almost like it was rather exciting.
    I shook my head. “That's a big tough town. Does he like it there?”
    “He seems to. Very much.”
    “Well, he can have it, for me. Too far away. You must miss him.”
    “Oh, I do. I know he loves it up there and I know it's selfish of me, but I wish he would come back. I worry about him—he's very young, you know.”
    “He'll come back, don't you think?”
    She looked troubled. “I don't know. I'm not sure.”
    “Well, I hope you had a nice visit with him last week.” I