Crave

by Karen E. Taylor

  “And you’re what? Nineteen? Twenty?”

  “Twenty-two, actually,” I said, remembering the age printed on the ID Angelo had given me.

  “So that makes Deirdre . . .”

  “Much older than she seems. Yeah.”

  Betsy put her head back and laughed. “I knew it. She’s had cosmetic surgery. She’d never admit it, but I had my suspicions. No one looks that good for so long. And so when you were born she put you up for adoption?”

  “Close enough. Ms. McCain, what can you tell me about my mother?”

  “Betsy, call me Betsy. I get enough of the Ms. stuff around here to make me crazy. I haven’t really known your mother all that long, but I’ll tell you what little I do know.”

  She knew plenty, enough to fill about another two hours of conversation. Lucy had been right, this woman had no friends. She wouldn’t have latched on to me quite so tightly if she had. And she wouldn’t have pursued the one friend she used to have, my mother, with as much determination.

  The picture she painted for me was quite clear. Deirdre Griffin was beautiful, talented and rich, leading an exotic and full life, including a whirlwind courtship and marriage to a handsome man who adored her. In short, she possessed everything while I had nothing.

  And then there was the question of the mysterious deaths, one of which happened in the private apartments located off this very office. They were, Betsy maintained, just unfortunate coincidences in which my mother had accidentally become involved. “It was almost as if death followed her around,” Betsy said, a sad, understanding look on her face. “She’s had her share of hard luck, no doubt about it.”

  I tried not to laugh out loud. I wanted to jump up from my seat and scream, Of course death followed her around, you stupid woman. She’s a fucking vampire. I kept my thoughts to myself. This was fascinating stuff.

  “But,” Betsy continued, “she rose above all of it. And now she’s hopefully enjoying the sort of life she deserves. I can only think of one thing that could help complete that life. Meeting you.”

  I smiled my sweetest smile while seething inside. I’ll help complete her life, you bet your ass I will. “Thanks, Betsy. So you’ll help me find her?”

  “Of course I will. What are friends for? Besides, I happen to know exactly where she is. It’s not much of a secret.”

  She moved to her desk again and opened up a file on her computer. “Here we go,” she said after pressing a few keys. “I’ll print it out for you.”

  She went over to the printer and pulled off the sheet of paper. “It’s this awful little one-horse town in Maine. God only knows what they were thinking. But it shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  I took the paper from her, folded it up and put it into my purse.

  “Now,” she said, looking at her watch. “What do you want to do for the rest of the day? I propose a shopping trip and a nice meal.”

  “I guess so.”

  “You only guess so?” She put her hand under my chin and lifted my head up. “What kind of twenty-two-year-old girl doesn’t jump at the chance to go shopping?”

  “A twenty-two-year-old girl who has no money?”

  “Lily, sweetheart, you are the only child of Deirdre Griffin. You certainly aren’t poor. I’ll foot the bill and take it out of my payments for the business at a later date. She won’t miss it one bit; she’s good for it.”

  I thought back to all the lean years and all the hardships my life had brought upon my caretakers; the decades of just scraping by, all that moving, all those extra expenses, the way Moon would get a wounded look in her eyes just thinking about paying monthly bills. I gave a hard little laugh. “She’d better be. I’m about to develop expensive tastes.”

  Chapter 16

  Betsy McCain was true to her word. We splurged that day and she returned me to the Westwood Hotel a totally different person. She’d even rushed me into one of the fanciest salons in the city for a total makeover including hair extensions, a three-hour ordeal that cost twice as much as I’d brought with me. As a result, the woman who stared back at me from the mirror in my hotel room had long hair and wasn’t quite me. I looked like the few photos of my mother that Betsy had been able to show me. It was frightening, almost as if I had come to New York to find her, only to end up being her.

  But, I thought, as I struggled with the back zipper of the long black sheath dress Betsy had picked for me to wear at dinner, Deirdre Griffin had enjoyed life longer than any creature had a right to. It was my turn now. I slid on a pair of high-heeled sandals, sorted through the bags of clothes and found the sheer embroidered shawl we’d gotten to go with the dress. I’d never felt so elegant. And the fact that my mother would pay for it all made the emotion much sweeter. “This is just the first installment, my dear mother. There will be many more to come.”

  I wrapped the red crystal bead necklace around my wrist a couple of times and wore it as a bracelet. Betsy had been appalled that I was wearing such a “tacky” piece, and made me promise not to ruin the neckline of the designer dress with it. But I wanted it with me; it served as a reminder of why I was here. Revenge.

  I stopped in the bathroom before going to the lobby to meet Betsy, checked my makeup and hair one last time and flipped off the light. Turning to go, I stopped and turned back, deciding to try another of Angelo’s medicines. Not bothering to read the labels this time, I smelled each of them and picked out the one that was most like perfume. It gave off a sweet but musky smell, seeming to envelop me in glamour and mystery. When I looked into the mirror one last time, I felt that I was my mother. I smiled, only mildly disappointed that my teeth were still even and straight.

  Betsy took me to a restaurant called The Imperial. It was, she said, one of my mother’s favorite places. “Not her very favorite, though; she far preferred The Ballroom,” she explained in the cab. “But that wasn’t much more than a pickup joint. Your mother inherited it from the former owner, Max Hunter, but sold it to a woman she knew. It’s now a fetish bar, Dangerous Crosses or something. Lots of chains and whips and weird folks all dressed up in leather and plastic with nothing much better to do than torture each other in public.” Betsy shook her head. “I like sex as much or better than the next person, but I prefer to torture my friends in different ways.” She laughed and nudged me. “As you well know, Deirdre.”

  “What?”

  “Damn it. I meant Lily. But you are so much like her. It must be the clothes. Or maybe the perfume you’re wearing. What is it, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I just threw some on as I was walking out of the room. A friend of mine in New Orleans gave it to me.”

  “New Orleans is a wonderful city.”

  “To visit, maybe. But to live there? New Orleans is a city of death.”

  She gave me a hard glance. “It’s not just your looks, you know. You think like your mother.”

  I shrugged and turned my head to look out the cab window. We were halfway through dinner when her cell phone rang. Betsy scowled and swore and dug into her purse, flipping open the phone in annoyance. It had been a festive meal up until then, unlike any other meal I’d ever eaten. I knew that other cities I had lived in had similar restaurants, but I had never been privileged enough to dine at them. While Betsy talked to her caller, I wondered briefly what Moon would have thought about all of this, then squelched the thought. I knew well enough what she’d think, so well I could almost hear her. “Damned rich folks spending hundreds of good dollars on food that won’t do them no good and other folks are starving on the streets right in front of them.”

  “It’s just not right.” I whispered the thought for her.

  Betsy’s voice grew louder. “All of them? All of them? How can that be?”

  She paused a second. “So I’ve got a show coming up in two days and you’re telling me that every stinking model is sick? How can that be?”

  She listened for a minute more and rolled her eyes. “Stupid little bitches. Okay, fine. I
’ll be right there.”

  Clicking off the phone, she shoved it back into her purse. “I’m sorry, Lily, but I’ve got to get back to the office. Turns out that every model at the Aspen Agency is suffering from food poisoning. Bad tuna or something. What a goddamned disaster.” She stood up. “Anyway, you stay and finish the meal. I’ll sign for the bill now, but I’ll let them know that as long as you stay, you can run a tab. Will you be okay? Do you have cab fare to get back to the hotel?”

  I nodded. “I’ll be fine, Betsy.”

  She shook her head again. “I can’t believe this, I really can’t.”

  “Good luck,” I called to her as she hurried out of the restaurant.

  I picked at the food that remained on my plate, then pushed it aside. The waiter came over to remove it, refilling my wineglass before he did so. “Shall I bring the dessert cart over?”

  “No, thanks. Can you set up a tab for me at the bar? My friend said she’d cover it.”

  “Already taken care of, Miss. You can go over any time you’d like. And enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  “Thanks.” I stood up, stretched and smoothed the tight dress over my hips, wishing I had worn my jeans. Then again, I thought, as I caught the admiring gaze of a few of the men in the room, no one ever looked at me that way while I was wearing jeans.

  As I sauntered to the bar, I felt their eyes follow me. Is this the way my mother acquired her victims? Did she lure them with sex and beauty? I ran my tongue over my teeth, wondering how it would feel to be her, to choose anyone I wanted, to drain them of their lifeblood and leave them for dead. Who would I pick for the night?

  I found myself a small table in a shadowy corner of the bar area, sat with my back to the wall to better observe the people. The waiter came over and I ordered more of the red wine we’d been drinking at dinner. He disappeared for a second, then returned with a full glass. “This is all taken care of, Miss,” he said as he set it in front of me.

  “Thanks.” After he left, I continued the game of choosing a victim for the night. So many people, so much blood to be had.

  No, not that one, I thought, avoiding the stare of a man at the end of the bar, he’s too obviously influential. He’d be missed and that would not be good for me. But he was handsome, older than me, physically at least. I’d have said he was dintinguished, but that conjured up images of gray-haired, cigar-smoking old gentlemen in waistcoats. He certainly wasn’t one of those. And there’d been something about his eyes. I glanced back to the end of the bar and he was gone.

  Well, I thought, we didn’t want him anyway. Pick someone else.

  The trick was, I supposed, to find someone healthy and robust, but not too beautiful. How would I do it? Call them over to my table and share a drink or two with them? “Hi,” I would say, “my name is Deirdre and you look like you need a friend. Join me?” I would turn the full force of my power on them and they wouldn’t refuse. And we would talk and laugh and become friendly. Then I would take them home and drain them dry.

  I shook my head. “This is really lame, Lily,” I said to myself. “And it isn’t getting you anywhere.” I drank my glass of wine in one gulp and got up from the table, bending over to pick up my purse and my shawl from the other chair.

  “Leaving so soon, Miss Williams?”

  I jumped, I hadn’t heard anyone come up on me. Turning around, I came face-to-face again with my benefactor from the Westwood Hotel. “Hi. It’s Mr. Adams, isn’t it?”

  He smiled. “Yes, how nice of you to remember. And don’t you look lovely, all dressed up? Surely you can stay for a little while longer and brighten up an old man’s evening.”

  I blushed. “Well, I guess I could stay. I was just leaving because I was bored.”

  “We can’t have that, now, can we? Come join me at my table. And call me Claude, there’s no need to be formal.” He took the shawl from my hand, wrapped it around my shoulders and tucked my hand into his arm. “That’s a lovely perfume, by the way. Where did you get it?”

  “A friend of mine in New Orleans gave it to me.”

  “Ah. And what does this friend of yours in New Orleans do for a living?”

  “Why, he’s . . .” I hesitated. What did Angelo do? “He’s a bokor.”

  “Indeed. I could have guessed that. And based on the results, a fairly good one. So, did he tell you what this particular scent could do?”

  I blushed again. “There’s a label, but to be honest, I didn’t read it. I picked this one because I thought it smelled different.”

  “Different. Yes. You have a discerning nose. I suspect you have good instincts. Still, you should give your friend a little advice my mother once gave me.”

  “And what’s that?”

  He put his head back and laughed. “ ‘Voodoo don’t pay the bills.’ So I took her advice, came to this city and made my fortune. Now come with me, my dear. There’s someone at my table who wishes to meet you.”

  We crossed the room, my hand still tucked into his arm. I felt the eyes of most of the people there follow us; I suppose we looked a fascinating couple. Claude was so very large, so very powerful, and I was so small next to him. And yet, I was not without power. Gone was the girl from New Orleans; she was a woman now, and one who could choose to be anyone she wished. And tonight I chose to be Deirdre Griffin.

  The man who sat at the table did not glance up at our approach. He was, I judged, in his mid-forties, with dark hair only just faintly salted with gray. A full glass of red wine sat in front of him, untouched and unnoticed. Except for the fact that he was tracing circles on the surface of the table with his forefinger, I’d have taken him for a statue, a wax figure: elegant and cleverly designed, but completely without life. My companion touched him gently on the shoulder.

  “Victor”—it seemed to me Claude said the name with more deference than affection—“this is the lovely Lily Williams, a fair flower traveled here from my former hometown. Miss Williams, this is Victor Lange, a very old and dear friend.”

  Victor Lange’s gaze lifted from the table where he had been watching the tracing of his finger. He was the man I had seen at the end of the bar. But his eyes were empty now, with no spark of life or thought, barely focusing on my face. Then they widened ever so slightly, studying me in great detail. I remembered something Betsy had said in the cab on the drive here—about my mother’s eyes and how one could fall into them. Victor had eyes like that. When he smiled at me, I took in a small gasp of air. And I knew what he was.

  He stood up gracefully and pulled out the chair next to him. “Sit here, Miss Lily Williams, and let us get better acquainted. My dear friend Mr. Adams will go to the bar and get us some of the good wine, won’t he? None of this slop they brought me earlier.” Victor picked up the untouched glass and handed it to him. Their eyes met, and for a moment or two there was silence.

  Claude cleared his throat, looking nervous for the first time since I’d met him. He seemed to shrink in on himself, and gave a small nod. “Well, I suppose I could. I wouldn’t be away for too long.”

  Victor waved his hand. “Stay away as long as you need to, friend.” Sarcasm dripped heavily from that last word. “And Miss”—he looked at me and winked—“ah, Williams and I will be here when you get back.”

  “I don’t know,” Claude hesitated. “I’m not supposed to . . .”

  “Go.”

  It was just one word, one very little word, but uttered with such command that Claude turned instantly and walked away.

  “Sit,” Victor said to me, in much the same tone of voice, and I sat. “Now”—he seated himself next to me—“now we can talk for a little while without supervision. They keep me under a very tight watch, did you know? They think I’m not right.”

  “Not right?”

  “Not right as in damaged in the head. And I suppose it is true. I have times when I am not myself. But just the sight of you brings me back.” He reached over and touched my hand. “Deirdre.”

  I jumped, almost as
much from the coldness of his skin as from the name. He didn’t seem to notice. “Why are you here, Deirdre? Under a different name? Are you in trouble?”

  I wanted to laugh out loud. He thought I was my mother. What an amazing bit of luck. And what couldn’t I learn from this man.

  I played along. “Yes, Victor, I’m in trouble.”

  He smiled again, not a pleasant smile. “And you have come to me for help. How ironic. Where is Mitch?”

  “Mitch is not here.”

  “Ah, I see. I never liked him much anyway. For what it’s worth, I always thought you were better off with Max.” His eyes glazed over a bit, losing some of the life and depth they’d had. “Max,” he said in a whisper, “then Ron. So many others. All dead. You have caused me much grief, Deirdre. But, for Max’s sake and the love he bore you, I will help you. Stay until Claude leaves again.” His eyes spotted the large form crossing the bar with a bottle and glasses. “We will go someplace private and you can tell me your story.”

  Chapter 17

  I was in over my head, I knew. Way over my head. Although Victor might not have had all his faculties, he certainly had enough to be a real threat to me. If I’d been smart, I’d have turned and run back to New Orleans. But I’d become obsessed with learning as much about my mother as possible, and Victor Lange certainly had more information than Betsy McCain. Even if he’d been the devil himself, I’d still have gone with him.

  A plan began to form in my mind. It was vague and shadowy, an outline only, with none of the substance filled in, but it was a plan. If I could convince her friends that I was her, then I could take her life away from her. And leave her with nothing, the way she’d left me.

  Claude returned with the bottle of wine and showed it to Victor. “Perfect,” he exclaimed. “You’ll like this, my dear. It’s the best wine the cellar of The Imperial has to offer.” He held the bottle out to me so that I could read the label. As Lily, I knew only that it wasn’t Mad Dog 20/20. As Deirdre, though, I had to concur with Victor’s pronouncement and nodded. “Very nice indeed. Thank you, Claude.”