The Big Easy & Other Lies - Melanie Jacobson Page 0,2

corner. “J.J. Audubon,” it read, followed by some numbers. “John James Audubon was one of the most famous naturalists in the world. His book, Birds of America, is considered the finest ornithology collection of its kind.”

Oh. New Orleans had zoos and neighborhoods named after this Audubon guy. Of course the well-to-do upper crusters would stick his pictures on their walls.

The appraiser droned on and Delphine fidgeted, waiting for him to get down to business.

“How much do you think this is worth?” he finally asked the middle-aged owner.

She patted her helmet hair. “I have no idea.”

Delphine leaned forward to hear the magic number.

“At auction, it would sell for between twenty-five and thirty thousand dollars,” the appraiser said.

Delphine yelped, and I lifted an eyebrow. “You have that exact same picture?” I asked, skeptical. “It’s not a replica?”

“It’s not ducks; it’s an owl, but it’s the real thing,” Delphine said, sounding dazed. “I got it from Mama. Miss Addie gave it to her when Mama quit.”

My great-grandmother Francie had worked as a cook for several years in the home of the wealthy New Orleans socialite Adelaide Comeau before our family textile business turned a profit. It lent Delphine’s claim some credibility.

“I have to find it,” Delphine said, her daze evaporating. “That’s a lot of money.”

Not good. When Delphine said “I,” it definitely meant me. I would do the hunting. I tested her. “Any idea which room it’s in?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions. If I knew where it was, I wouldn’t say I have to find it.”

“Right. What was I thinking?”

“Sarcasm is the comedy of the witless,” Delphine said. She said it often. About as often as she used sarcastic putdowns on me.

“Sorry.”

“Check the sitting room. It’s probably in there somewhere.”

Great. Also probably in there: the Holy Grail and a den of raccoons.

“Well? Go!”

“Now?” I asked.

“Now.”

I took the awkward step over Delphine. At least a den of rabid raccoons wouldn’t shoot cigarette smoke at me through their wizened nostrils. Scratch my eyes out with their freaky raccoon claws, maybe. But no cigarette smoke. And an archeological dig in the sitting room would beat a night on the ottoman manning the fast-forward button. I walked out without a backward glance. Delphine sank back into her TV stupor.

Back in the day, the den used to be the informal family room, and the sitting room was for fancy company, like if the parish priest came to visit. But as long as I’d lived here it had only been another room full of junk. I decided there was some truth to the archeology analogy as I surveyed the heaps and tried to figure out where to begin. I had a feeling I was about to unearth more pieces of Delphine’s life than I ever wanted to see.

With a sigh, I grabbed the box directly in front of me, intending to wrangle it to the side so I could make a path through the crowded room. As soon as I lifted it, a lizard shot out and darted between my feet. I dropped the box and shrieked.

Possible rabid raccoons and a confirmed lizard infestation.

Awesome.

Forget this. I bolted toward the door. Might as well tackle the fabric mess first and stay away from the lizards. I could always tell Delphine I had a hunch to check the spare room for the Audubon if she questioned me, but she wouldn’t; someone in a co-dependent relationship with her Dial-a-Psychic never questioned hunches. I shot a last glance at the lizard cave and fled.

Chapter 2

There’s gross, and then there’s gross.

Things that are gross: month-old pizza boxes, moldy bags of dog food, mildewy towels, cat poop, and a great aunt who gives herself a weekly sponge bath in the TV room of the house you are forced to live in. Definitely gross.

But gross is shoving aside a box of ancient Good Housekeeping magazines in the spare room and stumbling across the petrified remains of a cat. Which was the ick factor of lizards times two million.

I froze when I realized what I was staring at, kind of in horror, kind of because if I moved, I would puke. I scrambled back as fast as I could to the foyer, away from the gray pancake that used to be a house pet.

I slid down on the bottom step and practiced some yoga breathing. Then I thought about the cat and hyperventilated again. It must be One Eye. I thought he’d answered the call of the swamp when he disappeared last winter. Looked like he’d wandered back