by A W Hartoin
“Mercy,” said Mickey, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That worked better than expected. Our people love you.”
This seemed like a good thing, but somehow it wasn’t. “Er…yeah,” I said.
“Let’s do it again. I’m thinking Red Rocks.” He came over, laid an extra-moist kiss on me, and was out the door in a flash. My mouth was hanging open. I was not doing that again. Yeah, it went well, but it was a fluke. Everything with me was. I couldn’t count on it and even if I could, I think my leather shrank. Either that or I swelled. Neither was good.
Maybe he’ll forget.
Mickey forgot things on a regular basis, like modeling dates for me and conference calls. He had a lot of kids and some were special needs. He was a busy guy. That’s it. Mickey would forget and I’d be safe.
Freddie popped in. “So Mickey wants you back. The band voted. You’re in. I’ll call you.”
Fan-freaking-tastic.
Chapter Two
I REACHED OVER the edge of my bed and tugged Chuck’s blanket over his chest. He rustled around for a minute but then fell back into a deep sleep with my cat, Skanky, tucked up next to him, purring like a buzz saw. Chuck’s therapist kept saying he’d come a long way in a short time, but since he was sleeping on the floor next to my bed and not in my bed, I wasn’t all that excited.
Maybe I should’ve been. He started on the sofa in the living room and gradually, over the weeks since we’d come back from Paris, he’d migrated down the hall to land next to my bed the couple of nights a week that he stayed over. Dr. Witges said that it was his way of working his way back to normalcy. I sure hoped normal was on the horizon. Since Chuck had come back from undercover, he’d gotten even more into fitness. He’d been fit before, but now his six-pack was an eight-pack. His exercising had a hint of self-hate in it. I spent some time with his partner on the case. It wasn’t normal to reveal his identity, but the department decided that in an effort to help their officers cope with what they’d seen, some rules had to be broken. I met Uppgaard’s wife and mother, too. He was having the same problems Chuck was and I gathered that the porn ring they’d infiltrated had been extreme. They’d tried to put other undercovers in the ring before, but they hadn’t been successful. They either couldn’t handle what they were seeing long enough to get the evidence they needed or they’d been made immediately. Some people can’t hide disgust. Chuck and Uppgaard could and they paid for it.
I looked at Chuck’s angular face, slightly softened with sleep and knew I really loved him. More than that, I admired him. I could handle a lot of stuff. I’d seen some hardcore abuse cases come into the hospitals I’d worked in and I’d had the nightmares that came with knowing that those things happen. The ring he’d helped to bring down was worldwide and busts were still being made months later. He’d made a difference. How many people can say that?
He stirred once again and I waited until he was quiet before I stepped over his inert body. I expected Skanky to get up for breakfast, but he stayed put and closed his eyes. He’d gotten a lot calmer when Chuck’s poodle, Pickpocket, went to boot camp for bad dogs. Since Chuck had gotten back, Pick had started chewing up stuff. At first, it was just a slipper here and there, but last week, he chewed up Chuck’s entire sofa and a toilet brush. After we were sure he’d survive, the vet said he had to go to camp for training. Skanky missed his buddy, but he stopped coughing up black, fuzzy hairballs so that was a plus.
I threw on a pair of cutoffs and a tank before daring to look at myself in the mirror. I should never go to sleep with wet hair. I was so tired after The Pageant the night before that I was willing to risk it. My risk didn’t pay off. I looked like Marilyn and Don King had a very tired baby. A hat was my only hope. I found one of Chuck’s baseball caps in the living room and managed to cram it on my head. My hair resisted and popped it off twice. I had to tighten it up so much it cut off the circulation to my frontal lobe, but it was worth it. I didn’t use my frontal all that much anyway, if you believe my parents. I made a latte with the fancy espresso machine that Chuck bought me at a police auction. It came from a bloody crime scene and was just one of the things I’d decided not to think about. The lattes that it made were truly spectacular. I just wished it’d never had blood on it.
After throwing back my second latte, I grabbed my purse and headed out the door to pay off our clothing debt. Mickey, true to his word, had transferred the payment for my performance into my account and I wanted that debt off my conscience. I owed the money to Myrtle and Millicent, my godmothers. They’d paid the designer and said I didn’t need to worry about it. But I did. It bothered me and it bothered Chuck, so I went over bright and early to relieve my burden.
The Bled Mansion was in my neighborhood, just a couple of blocks over on the swanky Hawthorne Avenue, the same street my parents lived on, thanks to my godmothers. They’d given my parents their Uncle Josiah’s house and Chuck and I were on a mission to find out why. I waved to the gate guard, Mr. Knox, and slipped into the alley behind the great houses. It was peaceful most of the time on the avenue and more so on a Sunday morning. But it’d been peaceful the morning The Klinefeld Group murdered The Girls’ chauffeur, Lester, so it didn’t soothe me the way it used to.
I punched my personal code into the security system and let myself into the garage/stable. The murderers made their escape through the stable and hid the bloody prybar they’d used under fresh hay. I loved the stable part with its warm horsey smells of leather and hay. I hated The Klinefeld Group for making it a place where I now thought of death. My mom said that would go away in time, but I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t any better at forgetting stuff than Chuck was.
But outside the stable was the rose garden, a riot of good smells and heavy blossoms. No bad memories there and I lingered, smelling the heritage roses and rows of irises.
“Hey you!” called a throaty southern voice and I jerked upright to see my New Orleans cousin, Tiny Plaskett, in the back doorway.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, making my way up the brick walk.
“I’m helping out The Girls. I’m their driver for a while. Didn’t they tell you?” Tiny moved his bulk aside so I could squeeze through the door to be enveloped in the smell of baking bread and more roses.
Tiny gave me a quick hug and his grin was infectious. I couldn’t help but grin back. He was my distant cousin, descended from my ancestor, Robard Boulard, and an octaroon lady, Josephine Plaskett. By the rules of New Orleans at the time, it was okay for Robard to be married to both my ancestor and Josephine. Tiny had confirmed the family legend and gone to work for my dad.
“No. What happened to Cory?” I asked.
“He was busted thanks to Chuck.”
An icky feeling washed over me. “Child porn?”
“Yeah. The guy is sick.”
It was hard to wrap my head around that. Cory seemed so normal, boring even. “I can’t believe he got past Dad’s screening.”
Tiny shrugged. “He was cleaner than you.”
“That’s not saying much.”
He chuckled and then bent over me with a suddenly serious look. He was six six and it took some bending. “You gotta get me outta here.”
I frowned. The Bled Mansion wasn’t exactly a tough gig. The Girls went shopping, to the cathedral, and had various charitable obligations. “They pay well. What’s the deal?”
“Oh, yeah, baby. I’m making bank, but…” he lowered his voice yet again. “They’re feeding me.”
I nodded. “That’s probably not good.” My godmothers had a warm relationship with fat, bacon fat, butter, cream, pâté, brie…all kinds of fat really.
“I gained four pounds yesterday. They’re gonna kill me.”
Tiny was dealing with his own case of PTSD. He’d served in Afghanistan and Iraq and been wounded and depressed when he got back. The VA put him on a cocktail of meds that ballooned him up and made him feel worse instead of better. Since he was on Dad’s company insurance, he’d gotten the righ
t treatment and had dropped a hundred pounds, making the shrapnel in his hip feel a lot better.
“It’s their way of loving you,” I said.
“They’re gonna give me the diabetes.”
“I’ll talk to them.”
Tiny dropped a big hand on my shoulder and nearly buckled my knees. “I already told them about my deal, but Millicent gave me this grilled cheese made with bacon, gruyere and brie. It was the best thing I ever tasted.”
“Yeah, they do that. Have you used the gym?”
“There’s a gym?”
“In the attic, but it’s nice. It’s got everything.”
“Will they mind?”
“Are you kidding? Of course, they won’t mind. Where are they?”
“Jesus save me, they in the kitchen making sourdough boules. I love me some sourdough.”
I patted his beefy shoulder. “Get thee to the gym.”
Tiny headed off and I went in search of my godmothers. The Bled Mansion had no shortage of rooms. I passed through five before I got to the breakfast room, connected to the kitchen. It was a surprisingly cozy room for a mansion and inexplicably oval. The left side curved into the garden and was completely covered in windows. The right side had built-ins crammed with two sets of Limoges breakfast dishes and an Italian marble fireplace. Above the creamy swirls of yellow and pink was a painting of Stella Bled Lawrence. A rough wooden frame surrounded the primitive painting, making it wholly out of place in the elegant room with its white cabinetry and rich fabrics. The painting had been in that spot for my entire life, but it never failed to stop me. Stella’s expression haunted me as it did everyone who saw it. But the breakfast room was a family room and few had seen it. My mom avoided the room because of Stella. She said the painting made her think of things she’d rather not know.
I stopped beside the table and looked up into Stella’s agonized eyes, understanding exactly what Mom meant. Stella was gaunt. Her collar bones jutted out, looking as though they might split her pale skin at any moment. Her rough grey coat lay open, revealing a shapeless, dirty dress with a sagging neckline that showed her chest with its bones all outlined. A bulbous hat with a small bill was pulled down low on her forehead and highlighted her glittering blue eyes. Limp brown curls framed her face and drew attention to the bruises around her bow-shaped lips.
One thing about Stella stood out more than anything else. She held a flower in her dirty, rough hands, a beautiful blossom. Stella had been painted roughly, as if the paint was angry at forming her image, but the flower, now it was exquisite.
That day, it was Stella’s face, not her flower that drew me in. She was probably twenty at the time it was painted. The world was at war and she was smack dab in the middle of the storm. The crazy thing was that she chose to be there. She chose that pain. I couldn’t imagine it and she reminded me of the Sorkine family. Chuck and I had uncovered their apartment in Paris. It had been abandoned in 1938 and remained like a time capsule, an intact moment with tea cups on the table and clothes in the wardrobe. I had my cyber sleuths, Spidermonkey in the US and Novak in Paris, trying to find out what happened to them. So far, nothing had turned up, but we all knew. Our new friend, Monsieur Masson, the old apartment manager, was working on it through his friends in the Jewish community. Jews on the eve of the holocaust. It didn’t look good for the Sorkines.
“Mercy?” Millicent’s soft voice popped me out of my musings.
“Oh, hi.” I blinked back tears before facing her.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked, her faded blue eyes worried, but she was the picture of elegance with her dove grey sweater set and starched white apron.
“Just thinking about Stella. Where was she when this was painted?”
“Why do you ask?”
There was a hint of suspicion in my godmother’s voice. I hadn’t heard that since I was seventeen and trying to figure out if the mansion would be empty of all adults on the night of Homecoming so I could throw a party. It wasn’t and I didn’t, probably because I wasn’t exactly subtle. I thought I’d learned a lot since then. Maybe not.
“Er…she’s so…sad.”
“You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately.”
“Have I?” That sounded weak, even to me.
Millicent came around the table, put a gentle arm around me, and pulled me to her thin body. “You shouldn’t think so much about the past. Some mysteries should not be solved.”
I looked into her eyes. They were sharp and knowing. I had the strangest impression that she knew what I was up to. I didn’t see how. I’d kept my snooping into The Klinefeld Group quiet and I’d found out plenty, but not nearly enough.
I hugged her and laughed. “I don’t think my dad would agree with that.”
“Your father knows the value of a good secret.”
“He’ll have to educate me.”
That was met with silence and I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Or maybe you can educate me,” I said.
One of her super-thin brows shot up. “You’re rather world-wise in my opinion.”
“A bit, but I’m no florist. What kind of flower is Stella holding? It’s really beautiful.”
Millicent’s shoulders relaxed. “She’s holding an Arbutus. They are lovely and unusual.”
“Lots of flowers have a meaning. Does the Arbutus have one?”
Her eyes shifted to the left. “Not that I’m aware of.”
She was lying. My godmother was lying to me. What was it with that flower, other than it was totally out of place on the canvas?
“So…was she in prison during the war?”
“Mercy, my dear, why would it matter now? It was all so long ago.”
“The past is never far away. You taught me that. This house taught me that.”
“Perhaps I’ve told you too much.”
You haven’t, but that won’t stop me.
“So was Stella in prison?” I asked.
My other godmother, Myrtle, walked through the door and sized me up quickly. “Yes, we think so, but it was never confirmed. Her record is sealed.” She patted her elegant French twist and waved me toward the door. “You’re just in time.”
Oh, no.
“For what?”
“We finished our sourdough and now we’re laminating dough. Tiny has never had fresh Kouign-amann.”
“Shocking,” I said.
Myrtle walked over, handed me an apron, and said, “For that, you get to beat the butter.”
“Er…I’m really just here to pay you back for the Paris clothes.” I pulled the check out of my purse and tried to hand it to Millicent.
She didn’t budge. “That isn’t necessary. You performed admirably in Paris. You should have a reward.”
“I need to pay for those clothes.” I slipped the check into her sweater pocket.
“It really isn’t necessary, my dear,” said Myrtle.
“It is for me.”
“Very well and now it’s time to bake.”
I bit my lip and then said, “Well…I—”
“You went to mass last night, so I assume you have nothing to do this fine Sunday morning,” said Millicent, giving me the stink eye. I knew going to Saturday night mass was going to come back and bite me in the butt. The Girls had convinced me that I needed to pray for Chuck regularly and we decided to go on Saturday so I could sleep in on Sunday. I should’ve just prayed at home. God knows where I live.
“I’m kinda tired. I was up late last night…working.”
“We know,” said Millicent.
I listened for disapproval in her tone, but there wasn’t any. The Girls tended to approve of me, unlike my parents, who viewed me with suspicion on the best of days. I wasn’t a lazy, good-for-nothing teenager anymore. Get over it already.
“How do you know?” I asked. The Girls had connections but not with the rock world.
“Mr. Grasset’s grandson does publicity for The Pageant. He told us you’d be performing with th
at band,” said Myrtle. “Did the show, how do they say it? Sell out?”
“Um, yeah. Did you see any pictures?”
“No.”
Thank goodness.
“So what are you making? Kouign-amann? Let’s get to it. My biceps could use a workout. But first, I want to know where Stella was in prison. How’d she get out or for that matter, how’d she get in?”
Myrtle kissed my cheeks, little kisses the French way. “You are your father’s daughter.”
“I thought you liked that about me.”
She sighed and shot a glance at Millicent, who was nervously smoothing her starched apron. The thing didn’t have a single wrinkle. It wouldn’t dare. “We can’t tell you, dear.”
Can’t or won’t?
“We don’t know,” said Myrtle. “Stella…the war…”
“It would be an interesting story to know,” I said carefully.
Millicent smiled. “It would. Now, let’s get to our butter before it gets warm.”
Groan.
“How far are you into the recipe?” I asked.
“We just started,” said Millicent, heading out the door to the kitchen.
Fan-freaking-tastic. It was going to be four hours. I’d never get back.
Myrtle took my hand. “I want to hear more about Paris. You haven’t told us how dear Monsieur Barre is.”
“Of course.” I steered her to the door and stashed my purse on a chair when she looked away. With a glance at Stella’s emaciated face, I followed Myrtle to get my French rolling pin, a gift for my sixth birthday. That was the year my godmothers decided that I was old enough to learn how to make croissants. After the third batch, I tried to convince them that I didn’t like croissants or anything else made out of that crazy dough, not croissants, escargot pastries, nothing. I was willing to live without it forever and a day. Myrtle and Millicent laughed and said that making croissants was good for my character, that I would learn tenacity, something they weren’t crazy about when it came to the Stella stuff. Served them right. It took me years to want croissants again. I felt guilty for eating something in two minutes flat that took hours to accomplish.