‘Mrs Page?’ His wide smile seemed over-bright. ‘I’m Edward Hardy, Mr Caley’s pilot. Let me take your case. Mr Caley has been delayed but he called in to say he would be here shortly. As it turns out it’s not a problem as we haven’t yet got clearance for take-off.’
Lorraine stepped inside and Edward moved ahead of her to indicate a plush leather easy-chair. He stowed her case away in a compartment at the rear of the plane, keeping up a friendly conversation.
‘If you need the bathroom it’s right here, and the bedroom is just beyond.’
She flicked him a glance but the remark was innocent.
‘If you need to wash, or do whatever ladies do. In the meantime, can I offer you a drink? We have champagne, chilled Chardonnay or a nice Merlot, if you prefer. There’s gin, whisky, Martini, or I can make up a cocktail . . . anything you want.’
Lorraine felt so self-conscious as she sat stiffly in the leather easy-chair. ‘Just iced water, please.’
A diminutive Chinese man appeared, carrying a deep basket and a large silver foil-covered tray.
‘Hi there, how you doing? Yung Sin, this is Mrs Page.’
She smiled as the little man began to lay out his many different covered dishes.
‘You like lobster, Mrs Page?’ he enquired.
‘Yes.’
‘Flown in from Maine.’ He opened a table, deftly placing on it white linen cloth and napkins, flower bowls, cutlery and cut-crystal glasses.
Lorraine drew a Vogue magazine towards her and flicked through the glossy pages. Had Anna Louise Caley sat in the same chair and read a similar magazine?’
‘Did you know Anna Louise?’ she asked as Edward refilled her glass.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You were flying the plane on February fifteenth last year?’
‘Yes, I was.’
Lorraine smiled, sipping her water. ‘Anna Louise called home?’
‘She did. We have a phone, do you need to make a call?’
‘No, thanks. How was she on the flight?’
‘I was in the cockpit.’
‘But you must have welcomed her aboard.’
‘Yeah, she was like usual, you know, cute kid, always real friendly.’
‘You’ve worked a long time for the Caleys?’
‘About eight years.’
‘So you knew Anna Louise quite well?’
Edward hesitated and then put his hands on his hips. ‘She was my employer’s daughter, ma’am, she was a nice kid but I never knew her, I never saw her outside business if that is what you mean.’
‘You are a nice-looking young man, Edward.’
‘I’m also married, Mrs Page, with a two-year-old boy. No way would I start up anything that’d jeopardize my job, my marriage, or show disrespect to Mr Caley.’
‘How did you get on with Mrs Caley?’
Edward was beginning to show his irritation at her questions. ‘Mrs Caley is one of the nicest women I know, always friendly. I know she has a few problems but that isn’t my business. When she’s aboard she’s real quiet, she’s nervous about flying. You nervous at all, Mrs Page?’
‘No.’
‘No, I didn’t think you would be.’
He was about to walk away when she slapped the magazine down.
‘Edward, a second. Don’t get lippy with me. I’m hired by the Caleys to find their daughter so I have to ask you a few questions, be they personal or not. I don’t mean to insult you but I’ve had a lot of people tell me what a cute, sweet kid Anna Louise was, when I know she was not quite so cute, not quite so innocent, and liked to be fucked.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Edward walked to the exit door.
Lorraine sighed, surprised by her own brusqueness. She looked out from the window as Caley’s limo drew up close to the plane. Edward was waiting to take Caley’s suitcase. The two men smiled warmly at one another.
Caley appeared, waved at Lorraine, and slipped his arm around Edward’s shoulders. ‘Sorry about the delay. Will we have problems with take-off?’
‘Nope, just got clearance, we can go any time.’
‘Right, let’s get going.’
Caley started for the cockpit, then turned. ‘Will you put your belt on, Mrs Page, just a precaution. I’ll be right out.’
Take-off was smooth, hardly disturbing the cutlery neatly laid out on the dining table. It was a few moments more before the plane began to climb, and Caley returned. He fixed himself a whisky, checking his watch.
‘Flight’s just over three hours. We’ll eat in about an hour, is that all right for you?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘I hope you like lobster?’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’ He smiled and picked up his briefcase. He sat opposite her and selected some papers from his case. Lorraine continued to flick through the magazines, aware of his presence, aware of him seemingly paying her no attention. It unnerved her.
‘You can smoke if you want,’ he said quietly.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, I just need to read through these, sorry.’
‘Don’t apologize, I’m grateful for the ride. Thank you.’
He didn’t answer, becoming intent on his papers. As he worked, he eased off his jacket, tossing it aside. He then unbuttoned his collarless shirt, one, two, three buttons, still intent on reading, and undid first one cuff, then the other, rolling the sleeves midway up his forearm.
Caley fixed himself two more drinks, checked in with Edward, then sat in another area of the plane and used the telephone for almost three-quarters of an hour, his back to Lorraine. She listened, even though he kept his voice low. The calls were to business partners, Phyllis, the hospital to discuss Elizabeth’s condition, his staff in New Orleans, and a lengthy conversation with Mark, his assistant, and Margaret. He listened, swore under his breath, sighed a lot, and then got up to refill his glass. He paused at her side.
‘Do you want a refill?’
‘Nope, I’m fine.’
He smiled, but she could see his mind was elsewhere so she continued to look at another magazine. By now they all seemed to have the same model wearing similar dresses. She didn’t look up when he sat opposite her again.
‘I like your suit.’
She looked up and blushed. ‘It’s new.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Only if you are. If you have to continue working, please, go ahead.’
He didn’t. Instead he offered her his hand and led her to the table, drew out a thick padded leather seat for her and lit the candles.
During the meal, they hardly spoke. When they finished, he prepared coffee as she returned to her seat. She didn’t know if it was the air in the cabin or the churning of her stomach, but she was finding it hard to breathe because she wanted him to touch her. It was driving her crazy, it was all she could think about, and it physically hurt, the wanting.
‘I need to use the bathroom.’
He pointed to the end of the cabin, a cigar clenched in his teeth as he poured their coffee and then opened a bottle of brandy for himself. Lorraine pressed the door closed and gasped. Not until she had run some water and patted her face did she feel calmer. Her hands were shaking and she felt like a sixteen-year-old, scared to walk out and see him, scared he’d know what she was feeling.
She knew the bedroom was next door, even had a moment of fantasy that she would walk out and he would be waiting for her. What would she do if he was? It was madness. She flushed the toilet, telling herself to get it together. She caught her reflection in the vanity mirror above the small washbasin – her cheeks were flushed from the cold water, and her mascara had smudged. She spat on a tissue and wiped beneath her eyes. ‘Suit might look good but you look a mess,’ she told her reflection, forcing herself to open the door and walk out.
Her coffee was on the table, but there was no Robert Caley. She looked towards the closed bedroom door: had he gone in there? Was he, as she
had just fantasized, waiting for her?
Edward opened the cockpit door. ‘Will you put your belt on, Mrs Page, we’ll be landing in ten minutes.’
She nodded, pulling up the seat-belt strap as Edward popped his head round the door again. ‘Just so you won’t panic, Mr Caley is not landing the plane, says he’s had too much to drink. He’s finishing up some work, be out when we land.’
Lorraine noticed the briefcase had gone and she shut her eyes with relief; just not having him close made her calmer.
Caley was lying on the bed, the cigar in his hand. He’d had too much to drink, he knew it, but he couldn’t handle the fact that he wanted Lorraine; it was making him feel like an inadequate teenager. He imagined her walking in and, without needing to say a word, lying down beside him. He could feel the slow downward spiral of the plane matching the churning in the pit of his stomach. He had to force himself to straighten out. He checked his watch, got up and shaved, then put on a clean shirt.
Caley rejoined Lorraine as the undercarriage lowered. He snapped on his safety belt, placing the briefcase he hadn’t opened at his side. Lorraine stared out of the dark window.
‘I put the candles out.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
He straightened a magazine on the table between them as the plane made a good smooth landing. ‘Good pilot,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, but neither of them looked at the other.
The stretch limo was waiting outside the private Lakefront airport, and beyond the tarmac the dark waters of the huge salt lake stretched as far as Lorraine could see. As Caley helped her into the car, he asked her where she was staying. She sat as far away from him as possible, opening her purse to check Rosie’s notes. The St Marie Guest House. The chauffeur waited until Caley gave him instructions to drive directly to his hotel.
‘It is the hotel we stayed at the night Anna Louise went missing. I’ve booked both suites again as I thought perhaps you would want to question the staff.’
Lorraine nodded, and Caley turned towards the window, seemingly staring at the bulk of an old, garishly painted paddle-steamer, now refitted as a floating gaming palace, brilliantly lit and emblazoned with a huge casino sign. The competition? Lorraine wondered.
‘If you want you can use Anna’s suite . . .’
Lorraine told herself she was being insane, one minute afraid to be close to him, the next wanting to accept a suite in the same hotel. He stared out of the window, asking himself what the fuck he thought he was playing at, one moment avoiding her, the next asking her to sleep in the adjoining suite. If Elizabeth knew she would scream blue murder, always wary about any scandal that might smudge her fame in her home town.
‘Maybe not,’ he said softly. ‘Sorry, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, it’s just . . .’
‘Just what, Mr Caley?’
He turned and faced her as the chauffeur swung on to the Interstate to cross town; the houses, all with their Southern shutters and verandas and many already sporting Carnival decorations, seemed small and huddled together in the darkness, and the city cramped, spaceless after the sprawl of LA.
‘It’s a connecting suite,’ he said with embarrassment.
‘Yes, you said.’ Her heart was thudding and she knew she should refuse the offer. Instead she gave a tiny laugh, trying to make a joke of it. ‘You afraid I’ll sneak up on you in the middle of the night?’
There was a long, strained pause and he never took his eyes off her. ‘I am not afraid of what you would do, Mrs Page, it’s what I would do, or might not be able to stop myself doing.’
There was another strained pause. She inched her hand across the seat towards him. She couldn’t speak, and when she felt the touch of his hand on hers she felt as if she would explode. They had left the highway now and were approaching the old French Quarter, and Lorraine was glad of the excuse to look away, pretending to be absorbed in observing the historic streets. Only a few blocks away were the high, modern towers of a business district like any in America, but here was an atmosphere unlike anything Lorraine had encountered before, half village, half cosmopolitan, Babylonian city.
The buildings at first seemed low and unimpressive, flat-roofed, two-storey town houses for the most part, their plaster fronts painted within a narrow range of muted shades that had once been bright – ochre, putty, ashes-of-roses, mustard. All had long, elegant shuttered windows and door frames, often picked out in a contrasting deep green, but most distinctive was the iron-work, as fantastically wrought as spun sugar, with which balconies, galleries, walks and window-boxes were all lavishly decorated. In its heyday the place must have been something to see, Lorraine thought, but now the fading paint, peeling woodwork and untended hanging baskets and jardinières were noticeable even at night.
Caley grimaced slightly as the crowds became thicker and the buildings more and more festooned with the purple, gold and green of Carnival flags, masks and streamers, and they slowed almost to walking pace to avoid the pedestrians of every age and nationality who thronged the streets. ‘Sorry. There’s only a couple of blocks of this – it’s tourist gulch down here, I’m afraid.’
Lorraine knew he too was making small-talk to try to conceal the tension between them, and glanced up at the street sign as they took a left: Bourbon. Farther down the block she could see the neon naked girls and triple X signs of the strip clubs, and every store front they passed seemed to be a jazz bar, a restaurant, or a gift emporium full of tacky T-shirts, mugs, figurines, Carnival masks and Cajun cowboy hats by the score. Music and the smell of spiced food were everywhere, spilling from doorways and sometimes from broad galleries above; everywhere people were eating, drinking, singing, begging, the young guys staring and calling after the girls, tourist ladies in their seventies holding tight to their purses and their companions’ arms. But all were out in the night and the Quarter: the raw life of the place hit Lorraine like a shot of liquor, and suddenly it didn’t seem quite so fading and unimpressive. On the sidewalk a young black kid of ten or twelve tap-danced effortlessly, expertly in a pair of trainers with metalled heels and toes. He had a wide, ingratiating smile pasted to the lower half of his face, but Lorraine caught the age and the knowing in his eyes, and suddenly she felt the power of the past. This place had seen a lot of human foibles, she reckoned: there was nothing that couldn’t happen here.
They picked up speed again as they drove on and the streets became quieter and the goods for sale changed to jewellery, art and antiques, displayed in smarter shops closed at this hour of the evening.
‘We’re almost at the hotel, Mr Caley,’ the chauffeur said as they turned into a block as perfectly preserved as a museum, and Lorraine moved her hand away. They pulled up outside an exquisite three-storey town house with broad galleries and iron-work as delicate and elaborate as the lace of a ball-gown: there was nothing to indicate that this was a hotel, but when the chauffeur rang at a pair of high double doors, a smartly suited young man appeared and greeted Caley warmly by name.
He led them through an arched porte cochère into a lantern-lit, paved courtyard, and Lorraine knew she was entering a world apart from the tacky burlesque of the tourist traps, one where every aspect of her surroundings had been carefully designed to leave no sense unsoothed, unrefreshed. The trees exhaled an intense, herb-sweet scent, strange at first, then delicious, revivifying, while in the background the sound of two fountains was just audible, and an array of ferns, palms, citrus trees and vines grew lushly and seemingly at will around the courtyard’s borders and balconies. Lorraine knew at a glance, however, that this sweet neglect was an effect achieved at considerable cost in terms of both time and money: the balance of wildness and cultivation was as perfect as a note in music.
The young man ushered them into a small, graciously appointed office and an interminable time seemed to pass while Caley exchanged pleasantries first with him, then with the still more courteous and urbane general manager before their bags were taken by the bell-boy. Lorr
aine noted wryly that the South, though perhaps in slightly reduced circumstances, still moved at her own grand old lady’s pace.
‘Lieutenant Page will want to ask your staff a few questions,’ Caley said as the manager at last motioned them towards the elevator.
‘Anything myself and my staff can do to assist in any way, you only have to ask.’
The bell-boy was waiting at the elevator, a dainty cage of mirrors and gilding. Despite the confined space, Lorraine and Robert Caley remained well apart and said nothing to one another. When they reached the third floor, Caley took his keys from the boy, walking ahead.
‘Show Lieutenant Page to her suite, if you would,’ he said without a backward glance.
‘Yes, sir. You follow me, ma’am?’ Lorraine was shown to a plain white door: the hotel was clearly too exclusive for room numbers, or even names. Further along the corridor Caley’s suite door closed.
‘Enjoy your stay, ma’am.’
‘Thank you.’
Alone, Lorraine glanced around the suite: the sitting room was large and airy, lit by a heavy crystal chandelier, and again Lorraine knew that the day-bed, the magnificent fireplace and mirrors, and the figured rugs, as soft and fine to the touch as a cat’s ear, were genuine antiques, not the ostentatious reproductions favoured by anything approaching an expensive hotel she had encountered in the past.
Beyond was the bedroom; an embroidered half-canopy hung from a corona above the double bed, and a separate bathing and dressing area was screened from the balcony by muslin-draped French doors. Lorraine opened them and stepped out, noting a narrow spiral staircase, presumably the fire-escape, trailing vines and plumbago, which gave access to the balcony below and then the ground. She wondered half-heartedly if Anna Louise Caley had left that way. If she had, no one would have seen her leave unless they’d been in the courtyard.
She unpacked, hung up her new clothes, wondering if she should contact Rosie and the others now, but then knew that if she did she might have some explaining to do. She went into the bathroom, set her few cosmetics out on the imposing marble washstand and ran herself a hot, deep bath.
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