Sex, Love and Murder

by Sandy Semerad

  I extended my gloved hand. He caressed it and placed his left hand above my elbow. “Lilah, you look lovely tonight. I’ve always had a weakness for Southern belles,” he whispered, pulling me close.

  “Thank you Mr. Vice President, Sir,” I said, curtsying gracefully. I was surprised he recognized me behind the mask. “What makes you so sure my name is Lilah?”

  “It’s impossible to disguise your beauty, my dear.” Gable gave me the famed wink and softly kissed my lips. “Let’s talk later,” he said before moving on to greet Angela.

  I decided, then and there, Gable was the consummate flatterer and figured Kern had clued him in on my identity.

  Moments after greeting Gable, my feet started to hurt and the empty armchair in the study seemed to be calling me. I plumped down in it and slipped out of my shoes then eyed the wall-to-wall bookcase behind the mahogany desk. There were twenty-five books on George Washington and Thomas Jefferson.

  Gable walked in holding a plate of lobster, cucumber salad and raw vegetables. I noticed he was sipping a martini and talking with a beautiful brunette, probably a young starlet.

  I said, “Hello, again.”

  He sat beside me in a straight-back Louis XIV chair. The young beauty perched on a nearby ottoman. Several couples followed as if they were his king’s court.

  “Your favorite Presidents are Washington and Jefferson, right?” I asked, lapsing into my reporter’s mode.

  “They were our greatest Presidents,” Gable answered, his green eyes connecting with mine.

  “On what do you base your opinion?” I asked.

  “Washington was the commander of our American armies. He led us to liberty and victory over the British. Without Washington’s genius and leadership our great constitution may have been regarded as a mere historical document and not the backbone controlling our vast, powerful United States government.

  “And Jefferson?”

  “A myriad of reasons too many to name. As you know, Jefferson was the final author of the Declaration of Independence, our most important revolutionary document on which our Constitution is based. But I suppose President John F. Kennedy said it much better than I when he told a group of Nobel Prize winners at a White House dinner: ‘I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered together at the White House, with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone,’” Gable imitated Kennedy’s Bostonian accent.

  The room of attentive spectators laughed in acknowledgment of his flawless mimicry.

  “Any other questions?” he asked, patting my hand.

  I thought of Dan Duffy, but this was neither the time nor the place.

  “Didn’t I read or hear that you live in Florida, somewhere on the beach?” Gable asked.

  “I’m a shameless beach bum,” I answered.

  “In my next life, I hope to be a beach bum, but that’s off the record.” He smiled and most everyone in the room chuckled. I nodded, realizing he was poking fun at me.

  “In what part of Florida do you live?” Gable asked.

  “You may have heard about the Seaside community. I live in Sea Grove, a block away from Seaside on the Gulf of Mexico in Florida’s Panhandle. It’s between Destin and Panama City if you know the area.”

  “Seaside. Yes, I’ve been there: pink, yellow, blue, pastel houses, beautiful.”

  “It really is.”

  “During the campaign, I wanted to make a stop there but our pollsters said no, not enough registered voters to justify the trip, unfortunately.”

  “It’s a sparsely populated, tourist community. Most people don’t actually live or vote there as I do.”

  “One day soon, I must make a pleasure trip down your way.” He sipped his martini and stared at me.

  I wondered if that was his way of asking for an invitation.

  “I have a sad announcement to make,” he said, standing. “Tomorrow morning, the good people at Rayne Memorial Methodist have invited me to deliver what they expect to be an inspirational talk. When I asked the Reverend Howard what I should speak about, he replied, ‘God will give you the words.’ So far, God has been mute. Which means, I must rely on my own resources and isolate myself with pen in hand or, as I prefer, laptop computer. Please forgive my early exit. Thank you for coming and have a glorious time.”

  When Gable finished talking, he turned to me. “Since you have expressed an interest in my obsession with Washington and Jefferson, I must show you one of my prized possessions. He reached for my hand as if he were Mikhail Baryshnikov leading a ballerina. I allowed him to take me up to his third-floor bedroom.

  He pointed to a nine-foot mahogany grandfather clock with a golden eagle on top. Inside the clock’s face, Washington’s image was clearly visible.

  “Impressive,” I said. “How old is it?”

  “I’m sorry to say I don’t know. It was a gift.”

  “The eagle is spectacular. Is it real gold?”

  “Yes. That I do know. The combination of Washington and the eagle is especially apropos, don’t you think, since the bald eagle was chosen in the late seventeen hundreds as a symbol of America’s freedom?” Gable placed his hand on the door jam next to the large clock and casually supported his body. It was a familiar posture I’d seen in many of his movies. He was staring at me innocently, yet in a seductive manner, as if I were one of his leading ladies.

  “I’ve always wondered why an eagle was chosen as our national bird,” I said.

  “Benjamin Franklin wondered as well.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “He would have preferred the turkey. Franklin believed the bald eagle to be a bird of bad moral character like those among men who live by robbing. The eagle, Franklin said, is generally poor and often very lousy. The turkey he believed to be a much more respectable bird, and a true original native of America.”

  “Why do you suppose we’re so enamored by this bird of prey?” I asked.

  Gable’s eyelids appeared heavy, sleepy, and for a moment, I thought I saw the eagle in John Gable. “He has the ability to soar above life’s refuse. Yet, seeing it with a keen eye, he must swoop down and clean it up.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  The Vice President, then smiled in a different way, sincere as if he and I were just two normal people talking. I felt comfortable with him and thought I’d take this opportunity to ask him about Dan Duffy. “This may not be the right time but I’d like to ask you about someone.”

  Gable said nothing but he leaned forward, eager to hear what I had to say.

  I told him about Dan’s accident and the letters I found. “For some reason he was trying to contact you.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear he was injured. How is he?”

  “Improving, but he’s still in intensive care at Charity Hospital.”

  “I must call him. I worked for his father many years ago. And young Duffy wrote to me recently. For some reason, he never accepted his father’s suicide. I’m sorry, Lilah, that you were in the path of his misfortune.” Gable reached over and lightly gripped my upper arm, his fingers brushing my left breast.” Coincidence sometimes has a lengthy reach.”

  I shivered slightly, feeling the vast loneliness of this charming, powerful man. “I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you for sharing your memorabilia and entertaining us in your beautiful home.”

  Gable’s eyes looked sad, almost bewildered.

  “If the night appears too long or the morning comes too quickly, you are welcome to stay in one of my guest rooms,” he offered.

  “I appreciate your invitation, but I promised Billy Joe Harris I’d have his daughter home before midnight. He’ll never forgive me if I don’t.”

  Gable kissed my gloved hand. “Good night, Lilah. We’ll see each other again soon, I hope.”

  As I walked downstairs eleven chimes echoed through the house as I spotted Melissa beside the food table chatting with a tall, dark man dressed as an American
Indian.

  I asked her to wait there while I tried to find Angela, but it took me a while. She and Javier were in the study watching an Eddie Murphy movie.

  I told them we needed to be on our way, then I remembered I’d promised a worried Billy Joe he could call me. However, I’d checked my purse and cell-phone with the Secret Service agents.

  Thinking Kern could help get my things back, I searched the crowd and eventually located him in one of the bedrooms talking to another young man. He led me to a locked storage area where I found my bag and called Billy Joe to tell him we’d be on our way soon, but when I reached the hallway, I was stopped. “Buenas noches, guapa.” It was Rubio. If he hadn’t spoken to me I wouldn’t have recognized him in the white mask and form fitting costume with bell-bottom pants and high-collared cape.

  “Un baile,” he said, sliding his arm around me, pulling me across the floor.

  “Not tonight,” I said, trying to push him away.

  Rubio refused to budge. He grasped my head, then passionately kissed me. His strong grip felt like an iron brace.

  McIntoch shoved his arm between us, breaking Rubio’s grasp. “Hey, don’t do that. You drunk or something?”

  Rubio turned and rushed downstairs.

  “Lilah, I apologize. He’s strange. I’ll inform the Vice President of his behavior.”

  “No harm done. You’re probably right, he’s drunk. I’m surprised to see him here.”

  “You know that guy?” McIntoch asked.

  “I danced with him one night at Lotta Love’s club. I suppose it’s the same man. Is his name Rubio?”

  “That’s him.”

  “He certainly gets around, first Lotta Love’s club and now this party.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The stretch limo pulled up in front of Melissa’s five minutes before her curfew. Billy Joe was waiting for us under the stars. It was a glorious night, the air crisp and cool. As Melissa, Fernando and Javier hopped out of the limo Billy Joe walked over.

  “Y’all are welcome to spend the night.”

  “Very tempting,” Kern said patting Billy Joe’s face playfully.

  “No offense, buddy, but I wasn’t talking to you,” Billy Joe said, kindly.

  Imitating a woman’s voice, McIntoch said, “I’m heartbroken, you chocolate dream.” I realized then that the Vice President’s special assistant was more than a little tipsy.

  I laughed. Melissa kissed Fernando behind Billy Joe’s back and Angela waved at Javier who jumped into Fernando’s car parked next to the curb.

  “Like Kern said, it’s very tempting but we didn’t bring our clothes and tomorrow I have that interview with Lotta Love so we’d better head on back. Thanks for inviting us though,” I said.

  As the driver pulled away I remembered Jay’s invitation to stop by the Green Door.

  Angela somehow read my thoughts. “Mama, you told that Jay guy you’d stop in to see him. I’m sure Kern wouldn’t mind dropping us off there,” Angela paused. “Where did you say it is?”

  “The Green Door on Bourbon,” I answered.

  “If you’d like us to take you there, we can wait,” McIntoch offered.

  “No, Kern, I don’t want to inconvenience you. I know you’re needed back at the party,” I said.

  Angela nudged my arm. “They can drop us off, and we can take a taxi back to the Belle. Or I’m sure Jay wouldn’t mind taking us.” She made smooching noises.

  “Stop acting silly, Angela.”

  “My wish is your command, ladies,” McIntoch said, laughing at Angela’s antics.

  My daughter then spoke in a snooty voice. “On, James, to the Green Door.”

  “The Green Door it is,” McIntoch said.

  In no time, the limo driver approached Bourbon Street from Conti. He pulled next to the corner where a line of people extended beyond the Green Door’s lime-colored awning into the street.

  “Sardine packed. Might not get in.” McIntoch said.

  “We have a reserved table,” I said, handing the driver a twenty-dollar tip.

  “No need to Ma’am.”

  “I insist,” I said, stuffing the bill in his pocket.

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling sheepishly.

  McIntoch walked with us toward the club and led the way inside, then gave our names to the doorman, a gangly black man, almost seven feet tall, who motioned for us to follow him.

  McIntoch said good-bye after he was confident the doorman would look after us. Angela and I somehow managed to swish our wide dresses through the crammed club to a corner table near the stage.

  I looked up at Jay who was singing and playing New Orleans Ladies. He looked tan and handsome in a blue western shirt with a doeskin leather vest and snug-fitting jeans. A mural in back of him featured white and black piano keys and a caricature of his profile. Jay seemed unaware of everything but the music. I noticed how gracefully his fingers rippled across the keyboard as he sang.

  The other band members smiled out at the eclectically-clothed crowd, who were trying to dance when there was no room to move.

  “Take us for a ride, Alonzo,” Jay called out to the guitarist who transformed his six-string Fender Strat into a high-pitched flute. Jay glanced at the table where Angela and I sat. He flashed a surprised smile, then lifted his hand from the keyboard to wave.

  “Is that Jay?” Angela yelled above the music.

  I nodded.

  “He’s cool, Mama.”

  As the song ended and before the audience stopped cheering, Jay announced into his mike: “This is for Lilah.” His eyes beamed at me.

  My heart almost jumped out of my chest.

  “Yesterday I had the blues...” Jay sang. I remembered it from our dinner together. Angela nudged me, then stared wide-eyed at Jay.

  We both watched, mesmerized, until the song ended and a black-haired woman in a tube dress requested When The Saints Go Marching In. Jay signaled to the drummer, who started the roll off, then the trumpet player blared out the melody as second-line dancers circled the room. Angela joined them, unaware her gown was being trampled upon. A waitress brought me a tall drink with a mint sprig hanging over the top.

  “I didn’t order this.” I said, loudly, hoping she could hear me. “What is it?”

  “Mint julep,” she said, then pointed to an unfamiliar man at the bar, dressed in a grey business suit. “He said he knew you’d like it.”

  “Tell him just because I’m Southern doesn’t mean I like Mint Juleps.”

  “I’ll tell him. But you might as well enjoy it and have a new experience. It’s already paid for along with my tip.” The waitress left the drink and the table.

  I looked up at Jay again, while sipping the strong mix of liquors. He smiled when our eyes met and my heart lunged again.

  There were several repeats of Saints, until Jay finally ended the song and took a break. He jumped down from the bandstand, then walked toward me. My head was whirling at that moment from the alcohol and excitement. Jay turned a chair around and straddled it.

  “Great to see you tonight,” he said, touching my face and softly kissing my lips. “That’s quite an outfit.” He rubbed his eyes, and I figured they were irritated from the smoky air.

  “I’m a Southern Belle,” I said, demurely holding out my skirt.

  “That I already know.” He squeezed my hand, then tapped the mint sprig hanging from my glass. “You look beautiful, as always. What are you drinking?”

  “A mint julep, or at least that’s what the waitress told me. Some man at the bar ordered it because he assumes Southern ladies drink Mint Juleps.”

  Jay laughed. “Could I get you something else?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve had too much to drink and eat already tonight.”

  “How was your party?” He looked up at my top-knot before searching my face.

  “Quite interesting. It turned out to be a gathering hosted by the Vice President.” I looked into Jay’s blue eyes and felt an electric surge.

/>   Jay folded his left arm around the back of the turned chair. “Man, that’s something. Did you talk with him?”

  “I did. And told him about Dan’s accident. He said he planned to contact Dan in the hospital. He also said your friend had written to him.”

  “What about?”

  “He only told me what you’ve already said, that Dan never understood nor accepted his father’s suicide.”

  Angela returned to the table and sat next to me. I reached over and touched her arm.

  “Jay, this is my daughter Angela.”

  Jay shook her hand. “Nice to meet you in person, Angela.”

  “This place is cool. See that guy over there?” Angela pointed over Jay’s shoulder. “He thinks you’re the best entertainer in New Orleans.”

  Jay turned in the direction of Angela’s point.

  “Must be my Dad.”

  “He said his name is Charles,” Angela paused trying to remember, “Charles Fontaine.”

  “Good ole Charlie. I’ll have to thank him for his charitable compliment.”

  As Phil Phillips crooned Sea Of Love from the juke box Jay squeezed my hand again.

  He whispered in my ear. “I’d love to dance with you, Baby, but it’s so damn crowded in here. You’ll get crushed.” He turned to include Angela. “I don’t like shoving, pushing crowds.”

  She cocked her head at him. “It’s crowded because they dig you and the band. You should be happy.”

  “For a musician, I’m a strange dude. I love to play music. And it’s how I make my living. But I dislike crowds of people and smoke-filled rooms. I prefer quiet evenings.” Jay slipped his arm around me.

  Angela pursed her lips and stared at his hand, resting on my shoulder.

  I thought she was probably thinking of her father, and our relationship. “Jay, it’s been a long night and I have an early day tomorrow.” I glanced at my watch. “Gosh, it’s already morning. And we need to be getting back. I’m glad we had a chance to stop in and see you. Thanks for reserving this table and for your lovely, special request. You sing and play beautifully.” I was beginning to sound mechanical.