Crazy Like a Fox

by Anne Stuart

  She managed a smile as she slid from the car and headed up the front steps of Maison Delacroix. She was wrong, she thought. Wendell’s kiss hadn’t wiped out the traces of Andrew Delacroix’s kisses. It had only brought the memory back more strongly.

  She moved through the front hall quietly on her sneakered feet. She was on the bottom step leading upstairs, when she heard a stern voice call her name. The light coming from the drawing room was so faint she’d almost overlooked it, and she wondered if she could pretend not to have heard the voice. She didn’t want to waste any more time before she saw Carrie, and she certainly didn’t want a tete-a-tete with Gertrude Delacroix.

  “Margaret, come in here.” Gertrude’s voice was inexorable, and with a resigned sigh Margaret turned around and marched into the drawing room. At least Wendell was bound to show up in a few moments and save her.

  Gertrude was sitting in her throne-like chair, one small table lamp sending a pool of light around her feet. Tiny feet in shiny black shoes, Margaret noticed absently, feeling like a huge, gangling hulk of a female. “Come in, Margaret,” Gertrude said, gesturing her into the room impatiently. “You may pour us both a small brandy, and then you may sit down and tell me about your New Orleans visit.”

  “Gertrude, it’s late and I’m very tired,” Margaret said. “I’d like to check on Carrie . . .”

  “Your daughter’s been asleep for at least three hours. Another fifteen minutes won’t make any difference.”

  Gertrude’s mouth was pursed with impatience and disapproval, and Margaret gave in. She wasn’t in the mood for a fight, not with Wendell, not with Gertrude, not even with herself. There was no reason to be on her guard. As long as Peter was gone she couldn’t get into that much trouble simply treading water.

  Gertrude sipped the brandy Margaret handed her. Margaret drained hers in one defiant gulp before sitting on the uncomfortable love seat Gertrude made her victims use. “First tell me about Carrie,” Margaret said. “Did she miss me?”

  “Not that I’d noticed. You aren’t indispensable, my dear. My great-grandchild is entirely capable of having a good time without you around. As a matter of fact, she went to a Mardi Gras party last night at the house of a schoolmate. The Fontaines are a new family, but, then, most families are nowadays, but still perfectly respectable. She was home by ten, slept well and spent today in the gardens. How was carnival?”

  “Interesting.”

  Gertrude sniffed. “Is that all you can say? For a young, unattached female who’s quite attractive, you should be able to summon up a little more enthusiasm. What’s wrong? Didn’t you like New Orleans? Granted it’s tawdry, and decadent, but marvelously so.”

  “I loved the city.”

  “And Mardi Gras is overwhelming to anyone, particularly a newcomer. Was it too much for you?”

  “It was wonderful.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Wendell must have behaved himself properly. The boy doesn’t know how to do otherwise.”

  “Wendell was fine. As a matter of fact, we got separated early on.”

  Gertrude paused in the midst of another ladylike sip, and her eyes narrowed. “Oh, really?”

  “Fortunately he’d asked Cousin Francene to watch out for me, so I wasn’t abandoned.”

  “Wendell wouldn’t have done any such thing,” Gertrude said flatly. “He hates Francene, always has.”

  “But she said . . .”

  “I don’t care what she said. Wendell wouldn’t ask her for a favor and she wouldn’t grant it.”

  The more Margaret thought about it the more sense it made. Francene had never evinced any interest in helping her find Wendell that night that seemed much longer than twenty-four hours ago. Instead she’d delivered her to the phantom and then faded into the night. Whether she’d done it out of a desire to help Andrew Delacroix or hurt Wendell was anyone’s guess.

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter,” Margaret said lamely. “There was no harm done.”

  “So you spent Mardi Gras with Francene?” Gertrude probed.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Exactly who did you spend it with?”

  “There must be five million Delacroix and Jaffrey cousins,” she said, stalling for time and not understanding why. “And all of them were crowded into that tiny house on Dumaine Street.”

  “That sounds normal for carnival. Which cousins did you spend the evening with? Or should I ask which cousin?”

  “Gertrude . . .”

  “I’m not going to ask whether you behaved yourself as a Delacroix should. I’m sure the rest of the family was completely licentious. That’s what Mardi Gras is for, after all. Even I was known for my scandalous moments some sixty years ago. I merely hope you were reasonably discreet.”

  Margaret was about to refute the notion of scandalous behavior, when she had a sudden vision of herself and the phantom atop the tomb in the fabled City of the Dead. “I was discreet,” she said.

  “With whom?”

  “Andrew Delacroix. One of the Baton Rouge Delacroix, Francene said.”

  It must have been a trick of the light. Gertrude’s pale complexion seemed to have turned absolutely ashen.

  “I don’t know of any Andrew Delacroix from Baton Rouge.”

  “You can’t know of every Delacroix cousin. There are far too many of them.”

  “I know them all. Family is important down here, Margaret. We pay attention to such things. There is no Andrew Delacroix from Baton Rouge. Not in our family.”

  “Wendell said the same thing.” She wished she dared get up and pour herself more brandy. She wished she hadn’t been so quick about draining her glass. “As a matter of fact, he said something about staying with Francene, so maybe he was from New Orleans. But Francene said she lived in Peter’s apartment.”

  Like a flash the suspicion dropped from Gertrude’s face. “Maybe I’ve overlooked someone,” she said quickly. “Perhaps he was a Shreveport Delacroix who moved to Baton Rouge. These things are possible. Francene doesn’t pay much attention to minor details. Too busy with her ‘career,’” she sneered.

  “What is her career?”

  “She’s a professor at the University of Louisiana. She used to work with Peter before . . .”

  “Before he went crazy,” Margaret said, putting it bluntly.

  “Before he had his breakdown,” Gertrude said, phrasing it more politely. “She’s a difficult, abrasive woman.”

  “I liked her.”

  Gertrude only raised her eyebrows. “So this Andrew took you around the French Quarter and brought you safely back home?”

  “Yes.” Margaret wasn’t about to offer any more information. Particularly since she couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that Gertrude herself was holding something back, something about her mysterious phantom.

  “Is Wendell still sulking?”

  “Wendell didn’t sulk . . .”

  “You forget, I’ve known him all his life. Wendell gets that wounded-puppy look, mopes around and generally makes everyone feel guilty. Of course, he never does anything to remedy the situation. He just sighs and waits for someone else to fix things.”

  “We had a very pleasant drive back.” She wasn’t about to encourage Gertrude in her attack on Wendell. Not that she didn’t agree with the bulk of Gertrude’s assessment. But Wendell needed respect from his family, not attacks,

  “So you enjoyed yourself.”

  “Very much,” Margaret agreed. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I’ll never forget.”

  “It’s once-a-year experience,” Gertrude corrected. “In another few years Carrie will be old enough to go.”

  The thought of her daughter in the crowded, sleazy, anything-goes streets of New Orleans at Mardi Gras was enough to send cold chills up a mother’s spine. �
�We’ll see,” Margaret said, twisting the filigree ring nervously and wondering how soon she could escape.

  She’d forgotten how sharp Gertrude’s eighty-six-year-old eyes were.

  “What’s that?” Gertrude asked.

  “Just a trinket someone tossed me from a float.”

  “You learn quickly. It’s very few who manage to catch a trinket the first time around. What is it?”

  “Just a ring,” she said, aware that Gertrude seemed pleased. “It’s a replica of the sort of thing they used to throw a hundred years ago, or so Francene said. It’s just a pretty little trifle.”

  “Let me see it.”

  For some reason Margaret was loath to hand it over. “I can’t get it off. It’s too tight.”

  “Let me see it,” Gertrude repeated, holding out her hand. Margaret had no choice but to place her much larger hand in hers, noting with surprise that Gertrude was trembling. Her creepy eyelids were low over her clever eyes, and Margaret almost thought she could hear a sigh.

  “Very pretty,” the old woman pronounced, her voice soft. “Where did you get it?”

  “I told you, it was thrown from a float. I was lucky enough to catch it.”

  “Who threw it? Andrew Delacroix of Baton Rouge?” she said sharply.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you really believe this is a worthless trinket? A replica?”

  “What else would it be?”

  “What else, indeed!” Gertrude said. “If I were you I wouldn’t wear that in Lisette’s sight. She tends to be a little difficult on occasion, and you strike me as the sort who prefers to avoid scenes.”

  “Why should there be a scene?”

  “Because that ‘worthless trinket’ on your hand is a replica of a ring that’s been in our family for more than one hundred and forty years. We’re very sentimental about that ring. Our ancestor, Alceste Delacroix, tossed it to his future bride, Marguerite Valcour, from a float, and it was her engagement ring. It was always a matter of some scandal, Alceste’s choice of a bride.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Marguerite was an Ursuline novice. She was about to enter holy orders. She shouldn’t have been out in Mardi Gras at all.”

  Margaret was aware she’d managed to keep her expression only politely interested. Gertrude didn’t know what costume she’d chosen at the last moment. She didn’t know the odd coincidence that bordered on eerie. “What happened?”

  “Well, of course they’d been meeting secretly, but her parents were determined that one of their children should enter the church, and the other two were already married.

  So Alceste, as legend has it, threw her the ring, jumped off the float and carried her away. That was their last Mardi Gras—New Orleans was very lax even back then, but people still believed nuns should be nuns. And the ring’s been in the family ever since.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “On your finger, my dear.”

  “I mean the real one,” Margaret said staunchly, ignoring the feeling of uneasiness that had crept over her. The nun’s habit had been her choice of costume, hadn’t it? And Margaret, and its French form, Marguerite, were common enough names.

  Gertrude shook her head. “It disappeared more than ten years ago. I had my suspicions as to where it went, but I couldn’t prove it.”

  “Where do you think it went?”

  “You aren’t going to like this, Margaret.”

  “Probably not. Where did the original of my ring disappear to?”

  Gertrude’s mocking smile acknowledged Margaret’s determination. “It was stolen by my worthless grandson Dexter to cover his gambling debts.”

  For a moment a chill of absolute horror swept over Margaret. Dexter was dead. She’d identified his body, and there’d been no doubt at all. That hadn’t been his ghost last night, teasing and flirting. No, Wendell was more like Dexter. Andrew took after the other side of the family, Peter’s side of the family. It was just an uncomfortable coincidence.

  “I don’t think so, Gertrude. Dexter and I were married ten years ago, and I never saw it.”

  “I imagine he sold it. He certainly wasn’t capable of holding on to anything of value. Except, perhaps his family.”

  “I was about to leave him,” she said flatly.

  Gertrude nodded. “Good for you. It must have been no life for my great granddaughter.” She settled back in her chair. “What did Wendell think of the ring?”

  “I don’t think he noticed it.”

  “I’ll warn him. You certainly don’t want to have to go through explanations and justifications all over again.”

  “I wasn’t justifying.”

  “Go to bed, Margaret,” Gertrude said, waving her away. “No one gets enough sleep during Mardi Gras, and we need to be well rested to face tomorrow.”

  “What happens tomorrow?” she asked, knowing, dreading, hoping for the answer.

  “Peter comes home,” Gertrude said. “And heaven help us all.”

  PETER WAS DRIVING fast much too fast, along the River Road. It was three-thirty in the morning, Francene’s Saab didn’t have anywhere near the pickup his old Jaguar had had, but by pushing the pedal down hard he was managing upward of eighty-five. He was playing Cajun music on the car radio very, very loud, and while he hadn’t had anything to drink since a single brandy five hours ago, he felt drunk and restless. He missed New Orleans. What were the words of that old Louis Armstrong song, “Do you know what it means, to miss New Orleans?” He knew, better than anyone.

  He missed his Jaguar. Wendell never could drive worth a damn, and if he ever got out of this mess he would probably be better off buying a new one than trying to repossess his old baby. Assuming that he’d have any money. Assuming he’d get out of this mess.

  He missed his house. Damn, he missed his house. He missed peace, and quiet, and being able to scream and shout and know that no one was going to stare at him as if he were crazy.

  And he missed Margaret. He was a fool to go back so soon. Doc would have covered for him. He could have headed north, to Virginia or even New York. A couple of weeks among people who’d never heard of the Jaffreys or the Delacroix would have done him a world of good. Helped him to face his captivity with a little more equanimity. Helped him to stop thinking about Margaret Jaffrey’s soft mouth and red hair, her angry, vulnerable eyes and her tigress personality.

  But he was going back because he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to see if she still wore the ring. He’d bought it from Dexter ten years ago, when his irresponsible cousin had stolen it, and he’d always meant to give it back to Grandmère. But his first task had been to keep it out of Rosanne’s greedy hands, and he’d almost forgotten its existence. Until he’d looked into Margaret’s eyes and thought of emeralds.

  Hell and damnation, he was sick of all his. There were times when the thought of just smashing into a live oak at seventy miles an hour seemed the best kind of conclusion. But he never had been, never would be, that kind of man. For the past year or so he’d been drifting, ready to be defeated by the bizarre circumstances of his life. Now he’d found something to live for. Something to fight for. The time for drifting was over. The time for action was now.

  Slowing down, he did a fast, dangerous U-turn on the deserted road. He had to get to Doc Pitcher’s by dawn if he was going to make it back to Maison Delacroix today. He wondered if he could talk Doc into using his sedan instead of an ambulance for the return ride. Maybe, for a while, he didn’t have to remind Margaret he was crazy. Maybe, for a while, he could pretend to be normal. On a clear night in February, anything seemed possible.

  “HI, MA,” CARRIE said sleepily. “Did you just get back?” Margaret climbed up onto the old tester bed and gathered her drowsy daughter in her arms. “Sorry I woke you.”

  “I would have been u
pset if you hadn’t,” she murmured, snuggling against her. “Did you have a good time? We watched some of the parade on TV, but we couldn’t see you.”

  “Everybody in the world was in New Orleans last night. But I had a terrific time.”

  “With Cousin Wendell?” Disbelief warred with sleepiness in Carrie’s voice.

  “With a mystery man. What about you? Did you have fun with Grandmère?”

  “Not bad,” Carrie said dispassionately. “Though we had an even better time at the Fontaines. They’ve got a daughter who’s my age, and she has a horse.”

  “I didn’t know you liked horses.”

  “I didn’t know, either. But I do. I’m going over this weekend to go riding. Maybe spend the night. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine, baby.”

  “Don’t call me ‘baby,’ Ma,” Carrie said, snuggling closer and closing her eyes, letting out a deep, contented sigh. “I’m nine years old, for cripes’ sake.”

  “Sorry, kid. I’m glad to be back.”

  “I’m glad you’re back, too, Ma. And tomorrow Peter’s coming back. Then everything’ll be perfect. ‘Night, Ma.”

  “Perfect,” Margaret echoed in a hollow voice. “Good night, Carrie.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  IF WENDELL NOTICED the delicate, filigree ring on Margaret’s hand the next day, he decided not to mention it. Possibly Gertrude had warned him; possibly he didn’t even know about the legend of Alceste and Marguerite Delacroix. For whatever reason, he ignored it during their long day immured in his office in the tiny town of Delacroix Landing, just as they ignored his kiss of the night before.

  “I don’t suppose I could talk you into going out to dinner with me,” he said around four-thirty, running a hand through his wavy blond hair. “Though after New Orleans I’m sure anything we eat here will be pretty tame.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I haven’t seen enough of Carrie. I really should be getting home.” She took the papers out of the printer and set them neatly on the desk. Wendell’s office was finally getting into shape, the paperwork almost caught up, but Margaret couldn’t help noticing that he seemed to have almost no clients. The title searches she’d worked on were months overdue, the letters and appeals all concerned matters that should have been dealt with long ago. She began to wonder if, once she did get things caught up, there’d be anything new to work on, and whether Wendell was going to make any effort to find that work.