by Gred Herren
He’s just a mean old man.
“I don’t think they’ll be too shocked. Mom and Dad pretty much have made sure they’re unshockable anymore. Besides”—Storm took a deep breath—“you’d be surprised how cool they are.” He saw the look on my face and grinned. “I know, I know, we’ve been raised to think both sets of grandparents are rigid and intolerant and unashamed capitalists and made their money on the backs of the workers and on and on and on—but think about it for a minute, Scotty. Have they ever turned their backs on Mom and Dad? Ever?” He grinned. “Who do you think used to always bail them out before I got admitted to the bar?”
“Well, maybe you’re right.” I didn’t think he was, but I wasn’t in the mood to argue. They’d turned their backs on me, after all. These were the people who had cut off my trust fund when I had dropped out of college. Well, the Bradley grandparents had cut me off from my trust from their side of the family, too, but Dad swore it was Papa Diderot’s idea. The Bradley side of the family was also conservative, but not quite as hard-line as the Diderots. Yeah, Storm, they’d be thrilled to know my drug dealer had been murdered right after I’d been there. It might even get them to give me access to the trusts again—right around the time pigs sprouted wings and started flying.
Sometimes he can be a bit of an idiot.
“So stop worrying.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got to get running. Marguerite’s parents are expecting us in a couple of hours for brunch, and you have no idea what a bitch my mother-in-law is when people are late. Well, she’s always a bitch, but when you give her a reason . . .” He whistled and shuddered. “Can you two handle Aunt Sylvia?”
I swallowed. “I-I guess.” It couldn’t be any worse than having Christmas dinner with Papa Diderot.
“Great. Give me a call on my cell after you talk to her.” Storm stood up and stretched. “Any interruption at Marguerite’s parents will be more than welcome, believe me.”
I walked him to the door. “Thanks, Stormy.”
He gave me a hug. Blech—he did smell of stale sweat and liquor. “Don’t worry about anything, Scotty. You handled yourself right with the cops. And Frank—”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve gotta understand—for a twenty-year veteran of the FBI, our family and the way we live has got to be a little rough on him.” He winked at me. “I mean, come on, Mom and Dad break the law on a daily basis.”
“Yeah.”
He gave me a big bear hug. He’s an awful tease, but I couldn’t have asked for a better brother. I watched him walk down the stairs, then shut the door.
“I’m going to get cleaned up, and you should put on some clothes if we’re going over there,” Colin said as he walked into my bathroom. I nodded and started digging through my closet, finally settling on a black pair of jeans and a red sweater while the shower ran. I sat down on the edge of the bed as another tiny wave of the Ecstasy washed over me. Damn, it was good stuff, and it was going to waste. I’d wanted to come home and have sex with the boys while we were still feeling it a bit. And now? Now I had to tell a family friend her husband was dead.
I walked out into the living room and got my cards out. I sat down on the floor in front of the coffee table. I lit a white candle, said a quiet prayer to the Goddess as I held the deck in both hands, shuffled the cards, and then laid them out in the Tree of Life reading. As I turned each card over, there was no mistaking their meaning.
Danger.
Death, with possibly more death to come.
Long-hidden secrets coming to light.
A long journey already undertaken, the result still unknown.
Proceed with caution.
I stared at them for a moment, hoping the meaning would change, that I’d possibly read them wrong. I sighed and got up for a glass of water. I was still dehydrated, and as I was finishing my second glass, I heard the computer ding from the living room.
I walked over to the desk. Colin hadn’t signed off-line, and someone had sent me a message. I suppressed a bit of a grin when I recognized David’s screen name, then remembered Frank had gone storming over there. Please, let David have been home alone, I prayed as I sat down in my chair.
BUTCHTOP40: Scotty, are you there?
SCOTTYNOLA: Yes.
BUTCHTOP40: What the hell is going on? Frank’s sleeping on my couch, and boy was he pissed!
SCOTTYNOLA: Long story—too long to go into on-line. Sorry. I’ll call you later.
BUTCHTOP40: Isn’t it always? I’m not alone here . . . and I don’t mean Frank.
SCOTTYNOLA: Sorry about that. Cute boy?
BUTCHTOP40: Oh, yeah, complete spinner. And a pig. Just the way I like ’em.
SCOTTYNOLA: You go, boy!
BUTCHTOP40: Everything OK?
I stared at the blinking cursor for a minute before typing: Not right now, but hopefully soon . . .
“Spinner?” Colin said from over my shoulder. “What the hell’s a spinner?”
“A spinner is a little guy. It means someone you’re strong enough to sit on your dick and then spin him around—you know, like a top?” I used my hands to demonstrate giving someone a spin. “Hence, spinner.” I logged off and shut the computer down. “David really likes little guys.”
Colin laughed and kissed the top of my head. “You really are something, you know? Spinners!” He rubbed the top of my head. “Is that what I am?”
“Hardly.” I grinned back up at him. “I can’t lift you. You might be short, but you’re not a spinner.”
“Hmmm—but I can lift you. Maybe we can try that later on?” He winked at me. “See if I can spin you?”
“Works for me.”
He laughed again. “Okay, come on, Scotty, we’d better get moving.”
Colin’s black Jaguar convertible was parked in a secure pay lot about a block away from the apartment. Since he’d moved to town, I’d tried to convince him to get a less expensive car—a Jag convertible is just begging to be broken into or stolen—but he loved his car and wasn’t willing to get rid of it. I couldn’t blame him; it was an absolutely spectacular car. I’d never really understood why or how people could get so attached to their cars until I’d first laid eyes on this one. It had an amazing security system Colin had designed himself, and he claimed the windows were unbreakable. The stereo system was state of the art, and there were all kinds of toggles and switches and things on the dashboard; I had no idea what they were for. If Colin had told me the thing could get airborne I would have believed him. I had no idea how fast it could really go, but one afternoon Colin and I had driven out to Bay St. Louis and on the highway he’d gotten it up to over 120 miles per hour. The engine hadn’t even strained. I had a feeling Colin had revamped the car a lot—he’s incredible with engines—and that it was a one-of-a-kind car you couldn’t just buy at your local Jaguar dealership. David salivated every time he saw it. I have to admit I loved the car myself. It didn’t run—it purred. And Colin shifted gears so smoothly you barely even noticed it. And for glamour, you can’t beat riding around town in a black Jag convertible. The soft leather seats caressed your skin and were so soft they seemed to contour to your body. He kept it spotless, and the interior still smelled brand new. He’d offered, on more than one occasion, to let me drive it, but I hate driving.
Besides, with my luck, I’d wreck the damn thing.
Somehow, as cool as Colin is, I didn’t think he’d be too cool about that.
The debris of the Saturday parades was littered everywhere as we headed Uptown. The sun had come out from behind the clouds, and it was going to be a stunningly beautiful day for parade watching. Apparently, the rain was long gone, thank the Goddess. Beads hung from the streetcar wires, the huge old trees along St. Charles, and telephone poles, reflecting the sun into hundreds of colored strings of light. There were already mobs of people settled on the neutral ground and along the sidewalk on the other side of the street, waiting for the afternoon parades to start rolling and the good times to start again. I
caught a whiff of charcoal and my stomach growled. Should probably eat something soon, I thought as the car shot up the avenue. One of the most important things to remember about taking Ecstasy is you always have to eat something. It cuts your appetite, and if you don’t think about it you’ll forget all about food, which isn’t a good thing—especially if you’ve been dancing all night long. You have to put more food in for energy or else you’ll be totally exhausted.
Colin parked the car in front of Aunt Sylvia’s house. The yard was immaculately manicured, with bougainvillea growing up the walls of the house itself. It was a big old Victorian with a porch running around the length of the house and a tower in one corner peaking into what had always reminded me of a pointy witch’s cap. There were massive oaks towering alongside the driveway, and in one corner of the porch a swing hung. I’d spent a lot of time in that swing when I was growing up. I swallowed as Colin turned off the engine. He leaned over and gave me a big kiss. “Let’s go, babe.”
“Yeah, okay.” I got out of the car and headed up the walk. With a sigh, I pressed the doorbell. Through the wavy glass alongside the oak door, I saw someone approaching, and then it swung open.
Everything went dizzy for a minute and thoughts rushed through my still slightly addled brain. I can’t be hallucinating. Ecstasy doesn’t make you see things. But my reality was somehow altered. Maybe the Goddess is sending me a vision or something. But I knew that what I was seeing wasn’t fantasy, wasn’t a vision, but in some weird alternate universe was real, even though I knew it couldn’t be. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. I felt my legs start to buckle.
I reached out and put my hand against the door frame to keep from falling over. I heard Colin climbing the steps behind me. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I stood there, stupidly, trying to form words.
Finally, I got a grip on myself and heard myself say, “Misha?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Queen of Pentacles
a rich and charitable woman
Whatever else people can say about my parents, one thing they did instill in their children was manners. I knew it was incredibly rude just to stand there on the porch staring at him, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound stupid. We stood there staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke.
“I’m sorry, but do we know each other?” He was smiling at me with a slightly puzzled look on his face. His grayish blue eyes looked from me to Colin and then back again. He was wearing a freshly pressed white button-down shirt tucked into baggy gray wool slacks. The haircut was the same, the face was the same, the build was the same, but there was something different.
The voice was different. As I stood there, trying to think of something, anything, to say rather than just gawk like an idiot with my mouth open, I realized that was what was off. There was a very faint trace of an accent, but not nearly as thick and heavy as I was used to hearing from him. And the tone was slightly different too. The Misha I knew had a deeper, almost thicker-sounding voice. This Misha spoke clearly, with a slightly higher pitch to his voice. Then I began to notice other, subtler differences. The chin was maybe a little sharper, the dimples a little deeper in his cheeks, the skin smoother and softer, and the nose a little crooked, almost like it had been broken once and not set completely right. And he stood differently. The Misha I knew kind of slumped as though trying to hide his size. This Misha stood fully erect, with his shoulders up and back.
“I-I don’t think we do, after all,” I finally managed to get out. But I couldn’t stop staring at him. A voice called from down the hallway, “Who is it, Misha?”
That voice I immediately recognized as Aunt Sylvia’s. She came through a doorway off the hall and smiled at me. “Why, Scotty! Darling, what are you doing here?” she asked as she put her hands on her hips. She looked genuinely delighted to see me.
There was no way of telling her age from just looking at her. The skin on her face was wrinkle free and tight, although her eyelids were far too smooth and a little sunken—a telltale sign of having had work done. But other than that, you wouldn’t be able to tell. Her platinum hair hung down to her shoulders, which were encased in a pink cashmere sweater. Her oval-shaped green eyes opened wide in greeting, and her red painted lips spread in a smile. She was wearing a pair of black slacks, and diamonds glittered at her ears, her neck, and her fingers. She walked toward me and extended her right hand with its perfectly manicured nails. “And this must be . . . Colin? Am I right?” She smiled. “Frank’s the taller one, right?” She winked at me. “Sophie’s told me all about your arrangement. Somehow I always knew you’d never settle down with just one man.”
Oh, great! My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Next, she’d be showing Colin pictures of me when I was a baby or something. Why do older people love to embarrass younger ones?
“Yes.” Colin smoothly stepped past Misha into the foyer and extended his own right hand. “Colin Cioni. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Overton.”
“Scotty, I don’t believe you’ve met my husband.” She gave me a quick hug, pressing her cheek against mine. She smelled of an expensive perfume. “Misha, this is Scotty, Sophie’s grandson. I just had lunch with your grandmother the other day, Scotty.”
Misha smiled and gripped my hand in his, squeezing and shaking it at the same time. His big hand swallowed mine completely, and his grip could break bones with very little effort. “It’s very nice to meet you, Scotty. Your grandmother is a fine lady.”
“Yeah.” I shook my head and glanced over at Colin, my look clearly signaling help.
Maybe we’d slipped into an alternate universe or something.
“Won’t you come into the drawing room?” Aunt Sylvia said. “We were just about to have mimosas. Won’t you please join us?” She hooked an arm through one of Colin’s and led him down the hall. “I was just telling Sophie the other day at lunch how much I was looking forward to meeting you and Frank, Colin. . . .” They went into the room she’d just come out of and her voice trailed off.
“You really don’t know me, do you?” I said to Misha. I shook my head again. There were differences, all right, but at the same time, I couldn’t get it out of my head that this was the same guy I’d bought sixteen hits of Ecstasy from the night before.
“No.” He shook his head and gestured in the direction of the drawing room. “Please come into the drawing room.” I followed him down the hall, watching his butt in the gray slacks. They were built almost exactly the same, but I was right. This Misha walked more erectly than the one I knew.
There were two of them.
Or had been.
“Do you have a brother?” I asked quietly as we entered the drawing room. “I mean, the resemblance is uncanny.”
Misha and Sylvia exchanged a glance, and then Sylvia said, “Have a seat, Scotty, and have a mimosa. Darling, will you serve?” Her voice was like velvet—but there was steel underneath. She was watching me, and I got the sense she knew this wasn’t a social call; but she was a lady and she was going to treat it as such. It’s hard to escape your breeding.
I kept watching Misha as he filled four flutes with champagne and then added some orange juice, apparently just for color, judging from the ratios. I sat down in a gold wingback chair and Aunt Sylvia sat down on a green and gold brocade couch. It was a big room, filled with tastefully selected antiques and a number of Audubon prints on the walls. Misha distributed the drinks before sitting next to Sylvia on the couch and crossing his legs. Colin was sitting across from me in a matching wingback chair, and we were facing the two of them across a mahogany coffee table shined to a mirror’s surface. Colin made a face as I lifted my glass to my mouth, resisting the urge to down the whole thing in one swallow. Poor thing, he’d only been living in New Orleans for a few months; he hadn’t adapted to social drinking in the morning yet. He took a little sip out of his glass and then set it down on a coaster.
“I have a twin brother,
yes,” Misha said haltingly, looking at Sylvia. “But I haven’t seen Sasha in over a year. What is this about? Why are you asking about him?” Sylvia took one of his hands in hers and patted it. “Has Sasha . . . has he done something bad?”
“There really isn’t an easy way to do this,” Colin said. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your brother is dead.” His tone was soft and sympathetic.
“What?” Misha’s eyes opened wider, and he looked from me back to Colin then back to me again. He shook his head. His voice shook when he spoke again. “That’s not possible. It can’t be.”
“What is this about, Scotty?” Sylvia turned to me, still patting Misha’s hand, his large hand dwarfing her little one. The diamond on her ring finger glinted in the sun streaming through the French doors that led out to the verandah. Her hands were completely steady—steel beneath velvet.
I took a deep breath. I was starting to feel really tired. The Sevres clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten o’clock. “Last night, a guy who looks an awful lot like your husband was shot in a house on Burgundy Street between eight and ten o’clock. I knew him as Misha.” I gulped down the rest of my mimosa. “I stopped by to see him last night, and this morning the police came by to question me. That’s how I know.”
“But . . . I don’t really understand,” Sylvia said slowly, looking from me to Colin. “This just doesn’t make any sense.”
“It can’t be,” Misha said, shaking his head. “It can’t be Sasha. It’s not possible.”
“He looked enough like you to be your twin,” I said. Misha just kept shaking his head, not accepting it.
“Sasha,” Sylvia said quietly, “I thought Sasha was in Houston.”
“He’s supposed to be.” Misha rubbed his eyes. “This doesn’t make any sense.”