“An active part?”
“A certain amount of time in Royal Street. And…Celina, I’m going to be taking over Errol’s place. More or less. I’m hoping that if we get you more help you’ll agree to take some of the routine things off my plate. I’m not a man who enjoys public appearances, although I will make them when you consider them necessary.” And from the way she was looking at him, he doubted there would be many of those.
She sat down again, this time on the cane chair he’d vacated, and scrutinized the room from the old Aubusson carpet that had belonged to his grandmother on his mother’s side to the green-painted wooden ceiling fan that wobbled on its rod. He supposed you’d call the decor ancient and modern and the color scheme mud, but he liked it. Celina’s sleek presentation didn’t fit here, but then, neither did Celina.
“Are you goin’ to give me any thoughts on what I just told you?” he asked.
“When I can stop my brain from going in circles I’ll give it a shot.”
“Fair enough. Any estimates on how long that might take?”
“Look.” She fastened him with a hard stare. “This isn’t easy for either of us. You’ve just dropped a whole new concept on me. I’m used to being pretty much autonomous. I don’t want to… no, that would sound like some sort of ultimatum. I hate ultimatums. Do you honestly think we could work together?”
“I think we’re going to try.”
“Why?”
“Why are we going to try to work together? You already said—”
“No. Why are you going to do this at all? You’ve got your fingers in a lot of pies. And this isn’t exactly your kind of thing, is it?”
Jack began to wish he did keep some hard liquor around. “First of all, you don’t have any idea how many pies I’ve got my fingers in—as you put it. Secondly, how the…how do you know what is or isn’t my kind of thing?”
She had the grace to color. “Tell me how it’s going to work. You can’t blame me for wondering.”
“I don’t blame you. You’re going to do exactly what you’re already doing. Solicitin’ donations, layin’ on functions. Plus, you’re going to help me orchestrate the other end of things—with the recipients. By the way, I have no objection to continuing the arrangement you have with your parents.”
“Errol had the arrangements.” She looked at the floor again. “I’m not going to lie to you. He did it for me. But it does work very well, so, thank you.”
“Do you think we can work along the lines I’ve set out?”
“This is going to sound wild, but I don’t think it’s the business I’m most worried about.”
This ought to be good.
She played with the wineglass a little longer, then set it down. “I can’t imagine working with you, Jack. I’d be lying if I said anything else, but I owe it to Errol to keep what he started afloat, and I think you want that too. So we’ll work it out.”
“Good. There isn’t a security system in the house, is there?”
She blanched again. “No. Errol didn’t believe in things like that.”
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow. You might want to go to your parents’ place at night until it’s installed.”
“Going home to Mama isn’t something I do. I’ll stay where I am.”
“Suit yourself.” But he didn’t like the idea of her being alone over there. Antoine didn’t live on the premises. “The police are goin’ to be all over the place in the daytime.”
“I know. I don’t care.”
He knew when to quit. “Okay, but if you find you aren’t comfortable, don’t stay just to be hardheaded.”
That earned him a ladylike snort. “Doesn’t gambling draw some unpleasant types?” she said.
He laughed and sat on the edge of his desk. “Where did that come from?”
She crossed her legs and jiggled the free toe. “I don’t know. I’m so muddled up by what’s happened. I wish the police would get back to us. What do you suppose they meant by ‘what actually killed him’?”
“I think our trusty NOPD likes to dramatize itself. Beyond that, I don’t know. It makes perfect sense to me that Errol died of a heart attack. He wasn’t up to the kind of—”
“Don’t. I can’t imagine…I don’t want to think about it.”
“No.” But she had known that Errol had supposedly beaten addiction problems. “What did Errol do with his spare time? Any idea?”
“Not a lot except go to church.”
Jack almost dropped his wineglass. “What did you say?”
“Church. He was very devout. He went several evenings a week. And on weekends too. He didn’t say a whole lot because he realized I’m private about that sort of thing, but he’d occasionally say he hoped I was taking care of my spiritual life, things like that.”
If she’d told him Errol had taken up mud wrestling, Jack couldn’t have been more bewildered.
“He must have mentioned it to you,” she said.
Jack shook his head slowly. “Not a word. Where did he go? A church here in the Quarter?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t ask and he never said. He was always gone a long time, though, I think. Or he was when I noticed.”
“Well, different strokes, as they say. If it brought him some peace, I’m glad. There were a lot of years when he didn’t have any.”
Celina smoothed her dress over her thighs.
At first Jack watched with detached interest, then he dropped the detached bit. She really had gorgeous legs, and they went on and on. He wondered if she deliberately let her simple little pump fall free of her heel when she pointed her jiggling toe. Somehow he doubted it. She was just naturally sexy.
She fiddled with a seam in her dress, glanced at him, fiddled some more.
“Is there anything else on your mind?” he asked, and wished she’d say something she wasn’t likely to say, such as how much she wished he could stay in Royal Street until the alarm system was in. What a dreamer he was.
Celina continued to pluck at the seam.
“You’re going to make a hole in that,” he said when he couldn’t stand the wait any longer.
“Did Errol make his payments to you in cash? For the house?”
Jack felt blank. “Payments? Oh, no. They were an automatic bank payment.”
“Probably from his personal account?”
“Of course.”
“I see.”
Jack crossed and recrossed his feet—and waited.
“I had to pay some bills today.” she said. “I went through Errol’s in basket and just picked out what was due.”
“You can sign checks?”
She shook her head. “I was going to pay them myself, then get the money back.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll pay them until I can get your name on an account. Okay?”
“Mmm. Yes, thank you.” She picked up her big purse and produced a business-sized book of checks. “I thought I ought to take a look at this—just to see where we are. Here.” She handed it to him. “It’s the business account.”
Jack stopped himself from saying that was obvious. He turned pages but didn’t see anything that struck him as unusual.
“Oh,” she said, delving into the bag again, “you need this. The last statement.”
He took it from her and scanned the several sheets of check numbers and amounts, then looked at the balances and said, “Wow”
“Uh-huh. What do you think it means?”
“It means a great deal of money has been coming in, but in the last three weeks, even more money went out. This is overdrawn.”
She got up and stood beside him, and leaned around him to look at the. checkbook. “See this? And this? And this? Those wouldn’t equal house payment amounts, would they?”
“No. I’ve already told you that money didn’t come out of this account.”
“They’re for cash.” She pointed to a deposit entered in the checkbook register. “I made all the deposits. This one never happened.”
“Maybe Errol thought it did.”
“I guess. But why? He never made deposits to this account himself, and I’m the one who balances the statement. I think he hoped to make it right before I saw it.”
Jack felt queasy. “I see your point.”
“I’ve tried everything I can think of, and there’s nothing that would have called for that kind of expense. And if there had been, it wouldn’t have been paid out in cash.”
Jack looked into her face, at her eyes, then at her mouth, then he returned his attention to the checkbook. “Would you know if this had ever happened before?”
“I would now. I’ve checked back through several years of canceled checks. Nothing bigger than a few hundred for petty cash.”
“In other words, Errol needed cash and didn’t have enough in his personal account.”
“I don’t see how he could have,” Celina said. “He took only bare living expenses out of the foundation. I had to beg him to buy socks or a new shirt. He didn’t care about those things.”
He used to care about those things—and a lot more. “Any ideas?” he asked her. “Hunches? Anything? We’re desperate here, aren’t we?”
“I can only think he hoped he could pay it back before he ever had to explain it to anyone. Although he didn’t actually deal with incoming funds or deposits, he was in charge of the money. He was the only one who could write checks—except you, of course, and you didn’t play an active part in this. Jack, you know Errol was an honest man.”
“Yes, I do know.”
The phone rang in the hall, and the slap of Tilly’s shoes brought a startled expression to Celina’s blue eyes.
“That’s Tilly,” Jack explained. “She looks after us—keeps us on the straight and narrow. There isn’t a phone in here.”
Tilly’s tightly curled gray hair and florid face appeared around the edge of the door. “This is not good for an impressionable child, Mr. Charbonnet. All this upheaval when she should be quiet.”
“Thank you, Tilly. I take it the call’s for me?”
“Who else would it be for? Certainly no one would call me in the middle of the night.”
“It isn’t the middle of the night.”
Jack excused himself to Celina and went to the phone, leaving his study door open. “This is Jack Charbonnet.”
Detective O’Leary identified himself and kept his remarks short, so short that Jack found himself staring at the receiver after the other man had hung up.
He remembered Celina in his study and walked slowly back.
She said, “What is it?” and made an involuntary move toward him.
Jack took hold of her outstretched hands and held them tightly. He closed his eyes but couldn’t shut out the picture of Errol on his bathroom floor.
Celina’s hands trembled. He pulled her into his arms, rested his chin on top of her head, and held her tightly. She held him right back.
“Tell me what they said,” she whispered.
“Somebody set it up,” he told her quietly. “The whole scene. Dead men don’t climb out of bathtubs. The autopsy showed Errol drowned.”
Seven
The detective—Celina thought Jack had called him O’Leary—hadn’t actually said they were calling Errol’s death a murder. Couldn’t he have slipped under the water, then struggled out and…
Errol had drowned. Someone had drowned him, then tried to make it look like something else killed him. He had, in fact, had a heart attack, but the coroner had been adamant—according to this O’Leary—that it hadn’t been his heart that precipitated Errol’s death.
Jack’s embrace hadn’t surprised her until she’d left him and had time to think about it. He wasn’t the kind of man she associated with spontaneous kindness, but evidently she was wrong. She didn’t know how long they had stood there, just holding each other, but the effect had been more disquieting than calming. He was a strong man in every way, a man with a heady ability to make a woman feel very much a woman—and like it.
The analysis was a waste of time. She doubted she’d spend more time wrapped in Jack Charbonnet’s arms.
The cab she’d taken from Chartres Street dropped her in the driveway of the Lamar house. She paid the driver and he gave her a card with a number to call when she was ready to go home. She’d have liked to go then, but her mother would already be watching for her and worrying. How embarrassing it was when Celina, who had once been a part-time member of Wilson Lamar’s campaign force, failed to show up on time, showed up many hours late, in fact. Mama and Daddy were turning their connections into cash again by smoothing Wilson Lamar’s path to the old money New Orleans set. They needed and expected Celina’s support.
She loathed the prospect of seeing Wilson.
Small white lights trembled in the oaks lining the drive. More lights outlined the two galleries along the front of the house. And from the volume of laughter and music issuing through the open front door, enough liquor had flowed to make it unlikely anyone would either notice her arrival, or care if she was or was not there. Except for Mama. And Wilson. Wilson noticed everything.
The first word Celina heard clearly when she entered the Lamars’ elegant foyer was her own name. Someone screamed her name, and a sudden surge toward her made her consider retreat.
She stood her ground while drunken partygoers swarmed about her.
“Where have you been, Celina?” Mama’s voice was always easily recognized. “We’ve been waiting for you for hours. There was no answer at your apartment.”
“You aren’t going to stay in that grizzly place, are you,” Mrs. Sabina Lovelace asked, her thin-bridged nose very red. Mrs. Lovelace, of the timber Lovelaces, was a close friend of Mama and Daddy’s. Many people here were their close friends.
“What grizzly place would that be?” Celina asked, deliberately widening her eyes.
“Why”—Sabina Lovelace’s voice dropped—”the Royal Street place, of course. How could you even think of sleeping there. They say it takes the dead a while to vacate, if you know what I mean.”
Celina let her eyes get even rounder. “Vacate? You mean Errol Petrie?”
“Well, Ι surely do. He’s the only one who died there recently, isn’t he? And they say violent deaths are the worst. The poor, dear departed has been violated and can’t rest while he or she is watching and waiting for justice to be done.”
Celina smiled suddenly, brilliantly, and said, “Why, Mrs. Lovelace, I thank you. I’ll feel so comforted knowing Errol is still there with me.”
The woman moaned and turned to Celina’s mother. “Bitsy, you poor thing, I think your girl is unbalanced. Must be because of the shock. You need to get her to a good therapist, and soon. I’ll call you with the name of mine in the morning. I need another drink.”
Questions burst from all sides. Who had been the first to see Errol after he died? Who had been the last to see him before he died? What had he looked like when he was dead? Did the police think it was murder? Was it true that Errol had been involved in a sex orgy and that he passed out from…you know? Did he hit his head on the floor because he slipped? They always said most fatal accidents happened at home. And it was murder, wasn’t it?
“Let the poor girl be.” Wilson Lamar’s voice boomed over the rest. “She’s had a terrible day, I’m sure. Thank you for makin’ yourself come, Celina. I take it as a personal compliment and a sign of your commitment to my senate bid. What will you have to drink?”
She didn’t want anything, not if it came from Wilson, but she forced a smile and said, “I’ll take a cranberry juice and tonic, please.” Her breath always shortened around the man. Why couldn’t her parents see that he was slime and wanted people only for what he could get out of them?
Wilson snapped his fingers and sent a waiter sliding through the throng to get the drink.
Sally Lamar appeared at her husband’s side, her long, reddish hair caught up at each side with a diamond comb. More diamonds glittered at her ears. A soft face. Rou
nded cheekbones and jaw, a full mouth colored pale pink and moistly shiny, ingenuous brown eyes that managed to appear liquid and innocent at all times. Sally was a perfect compliment to her tall, fit husband. Wilson’s blond good looks, his easy smile, usually drew attention away from a vaguely supercilious light in his intelligent eyes. The most stunning couple in the county, that was what was said about the Lamars. Sally’s sequined shift was the color of Irish coffee and set little reflections dancing off her smooth white skin. Matching pumps with very high heels drew attention to beautiful legs shown to advantage all the way to mid-thigh.
Celina detested both of them.
“You do know how to draw attention to yourself, honey,” Sally said to Celina. “All over the television screen all day.”
“Oh, Sally, you couldn’t even see her face,” Mama said, not looking at the other woman. “And they just kept repeating the same footage. You know how those things go.”
“No, I don’t, thank goodness,” Sally said sharply. “Unless I’m at my husband’s side—which is my job and my pleasure—Ι manage to keep myself out of the limelight. We can only hope Celina’s attachment to Wilson’s campaign won’t draw any negative attention.”
For her mother’s sake, Celina didn’t remind the gathered company that she was no longer involved in helping with Wilson’s senate bid. “Well,” she said with forced cheer, “you all look as if you’re having a time of it. Nice music, Sally, and the house looks gorgeous.”
Sally simpered, and hung on Wilson’s arm. “My daddy was famous for giving the best parties in the parish. Some said the best parties in Louisiana. I guess I inherited his talent.”
“I guess you did, sugar,” Wilson said, patting her hands while he took subtle advantage of the moment to release himself from her. “Here’s your drink, Celina. It’s hot in here. Let’s find a couple of seats outside and you can catch me up on everythin’ that’s been happenin’ to you. Old friends shouldn’t lose touch.”
Celina’s skin crawled. Goose bumps shot out on her bare arms.
“There you are, little pet.” Dear, ineffectual Daddy tottered up to Celina and dropped a liquor-laced kiss on her cheek. “You are lookin’ lovely, as always, my child. You make your daddy proud. I worried about you today. All that unpleasantness. You ought to come home to your mother and me.”
French Quarter Page 7