A Dangerous Dance

by Pauline Baird Jones

  He started pacing again, trying to get ahead of the unsettled feelings Emma's memory always brought in its train. With an inner shake of the head, he cleared back the memories of what had been, homing in on the now. And Dorothy. Emma's daughter.

  Odd he couldn't remember much about her from ten years ago. He did recall wondering how she could be Emma's offspring, she was so unlike her mother. He'd lost interest at that point, all his attention on stopping Magus's drive for the governor's mansion.

  He walked back to his computer, sat down and pulled up the company website where Dorothy's picture was posted. Now he could see that Dorothy had the look of her mother, though distilled and thinned by her Wizard blood. They both had titian hair and violet eyes, but he thought Emma had had the purer profile. And the fuller figure. How had he missed the similarities ten years ago?

  He grabbed the file of newspaper clippings about Magus and flipped through them until he found one with Dorothy standing just behind him. Even in the flatness of black and white, Magus overshadowed her, rendering her almost invisible.

  He shut the file. Well, she'd been young then, very young. Decidedly a fish out of water in Magus's hectic and very public life. She appeared to have overcome that past. She'd managed Magus's companies well, earned her place on the various boards. Did that make her Magus's daughter or Emma's?

  He needed to see her in the flesh to answer the question. Only then would he know how to deal with the threat she posed to the protege he hoped to place in the mansion in Baton Rouge.

  But was that his only interest? Was it possible that he'd find the mother in the daughter? It was an intriguing thought. Could the past live again? Emma had desired him. They'd only had the one night, but what a night it had been. Was it possible that satisfaction could be achieved again? If daughter were like mother, perhaps his long wait was over?

  Unless...

  Emma left Magus around three months from their affair. What if Dorothy were his daughter? Was it possible? He'd never wanted a child but, if he and Emma had made a child together, she might be interesting to him. If he saw her could he tell?

  In any case, his sources told him that Bubba Joe and Bozo were both going to see her in Oz. Did they fear her or the past, he wondered? Or both?

  He frowned. Obviously he hadn't looked into the past thoroughly enough ten years ago when Dorothy made her first appearance on the scene. It wasn't like him to be so inattentive when secrets were his preferred currency. Who, he wondered, had the most to hide from that time?

  * * * *

  Number two on Dorothy's list of suspects was waiting for her when her hour on Remy's three-hour show ended.

  Bozo Luc. Bozo was not his given name. That was Gaspar. It was also not an insult. In the bayou country it meant “nice guy.” It was the Yankees who turned the original meaning into a clown or buffoon. Bozo was charming, but not nice, nor was he a buffoon, though he wasn't above playing one when it suited him. He was a small, dark man, with intense eyes and a thick smile that both repelled and attracted. He'd wed, bed and buried three wives. Rumor had it he was looking for number four. Unlike Bubba Joe, he'd inherited his power base from his daddy. The Lucs had been milling around the bayou practically since it was settled, or so the story went. Though they'd begun as fishermen, they'd inevitably diversified into oil and gas. According to Magus's file, Bozo wasn't so much into the accumulation of power as he was a believer in his divine right to rule. The end result might be the same as Bubba Joe's if he managed to get into the governor's mansion, but his motivation was different. Magus always focused on motivation, when dealing with people.

  When Bozo grabbed her hands, he first held them tightly, and then pulled her close, not touching, just studying her face with an intensity that was unsettling.

  He could be looking at her as a possible new wife, she supposed, but surely she was a bit old for his taste, which seemed to trend younger with each marriage. She'd have thought she was too much of an outsider for the Lucs? Of course, he wouldn't be the first old family suitor to overlook the mongrel background of a potential spouse, but he didn't really need her money or Magus's name. He probably owned the votes in the lower parishes.

  “Chere', you look...” Words apparently failed him, so he threw his arms wide, while still managing to hold onto her hands, before shrugging elegantly. He had enough French in him to get away with both the grand gestures and the affectations. There was, however, an odd discontinuity between his actions and the look in his eyes as he continued to study her. A slight, very slight frown between his eyes seemed to indicate he was either displeased or puzzled.

  What he concluded, he kept to himself. Did he have some other motive for approaching her and what could it be? Dorothy gently reclaimed her hands and used them to direct him toward seating. Like Bubba Joe, he chose the throne.

  “What brings you to Oz?” Dorothy couldn't quite bring herself to call him Bozo. In her head, she knew it wasn't an insult, but it was hard to go against her upbringing. Her mother had been inflexible on the subject of good manners in the presence of friend or foe.

  “You surely aren't going to back that blow hard, Mistral, are you chere'? Your papa must be rolling over in his crypt.” His Cajun diction was perfect for sounding mournful and disappointed and he looked like a father facing a child who had disillusioned him. Or maybe a priest trying to call a lost soul to repentance? The priest analogy would have worked better without the hint of decadence in his dark eyes. “Come out with me tonight and we'll talk about it. For your papa's sake.”

  “She's going to the Zoo-to-Do with me,” Remy said dryly from the doorway. Over Bozo's head, his amused gaze met hers. By the time Bozo turned to face him, Remy's face was coolly respectful, however.

  “Indeed.” Bozo's dark brows arched in inoffensive astonishment. He was clearly wondering what on earth Dorothy saw in Remy. His dark, mournful gaze turned her direction again. “As Magus's oldest, and closest friend, chere', I stand by to offer you counsel during this difficult time.”

  His tone implied that she desperately needed it. And that he was the only one who could give it.

  And where were you during that “difficult time” after Magus was shot, she wondered, but didn't ask. Bozo would only consider it bad manners. And so would her mother, for that matter. She could almost hear Bozo telling her that the past was the past. Are you unable to forgive, chere'? She didn't need another huge helping of reproach from his dark gaze.

  Remy pulled her hand through his arm, facing Bozo firmly and pointedly by her side. “And what would you advise her to do, sir?”

  Bozo didn't seem happy at being addressed as a sir. Magus had noted in the file that Bozo thought he was young at heart and that made him young in appearance. Yeah, right.

  Their gazes clashed, bringing something dangerous into the room. It was a reminder to her of the power Bozo wielded because of his birth and by choice. Dorothy had kept him on the list, because of the file, but now he'd earned his right to be there.

  As if he sensed her sudden discomfort, he smiled amiably, charmingly. “So you think to take us all on, do you Mistral?”

  Remy shrugged. “I've been taking you on since I got my first job.”

  “But now the mosquito aspires to become the bug spray. Change isn't as easy as you think it will be. The old ways work for Louisiana.”

  “But not that well for her people. And they are...expensive.”

  “The best things always are.”

  “We'll have to agree to disagree on that, Luc.”

  “Interesting election in New Orleans,” Dorothy said, “Makes one think change can happen.”

  “Funny things happen when real people vote,” Remy added, his tone lightly mocking. “It's almost a revolution.”

  “A cold, fresh wind of change,” Dorothy added, even knowing it wasn't wise.

  Bozo's dark eyes flashed a warning...and amusement. It was an odd combo and only he could have pulled it off.

  “You are still very young, c
here',” he said, with an almost gentle smile, before his gaze shifted back to Remy. Amusement faded, leaving only warning. “If you aspire to the Wizard's shoes, you'd best be careful, Mistral. Louisiana isn't known for its cold winds, just its hot passions.”

  Dorothy had read somewhere that politics were the business of Louisiana. She'd thought it absurd then, but she didn't anymore. Like Mardi Gras, it was considered great fun, but still a very, very serious business.

  Not unlike the governor's race, where it seemed two of the three top suspects were jockeying for first place on her suspect list. The level of aggression in the room bumped up another notch as the two men squared off, like two dogs with only one bone. It was time to diffuse it. She'd found out what she needed to know. Bozo deserved her suspicions.

  “You've come a long way. Can I get you something, sir?” she asked.

  Bozo shook his head, stepping toward them, to once again capture the hand not held by Remy. “I had no idea you were so like your father, chere'. You're much too charming to suffer Magus's fate. Please, be careful.”

  He sounded like he actually cared.

  “If you know something about that, I'd be most grateful if you'd tell me.”

  “Let the past alone, chere'.” His tone was deadly serious. He kissed her hand, then lowered it to rest on Remy's bent arm and stepped back. He glanced around, as if remembering something about the room. If must have been a good memory, because it softened his gaze again.

  A most unwelcome thought pushed its way into her mind. Had Bozo and her mother... She tried to bury the crazy thought, but it was hard to do while looking into Bozo's eyes. This room had never been her father's domain.

  “Do you remember my mother?”

  His brows arched. “But of course. You are somewhat like her, but not enough, chere'. She knew when she was in over her head and strategically withdrew from the game.”

  With a last warning smile, he turned and padded out of the room, leaving Dorothy with the wry feeling that any frightening had been one way. She gave an involuntary shiver.

  Remy looked at her sharply. She gave him an over bright smile. “What's a Zoo-to-Do?”

  * * * *

  Vonda Vance was an innocuous woman, in look and in deed. She'd never aspired to notorious. It had been thrust on her, beginning that day Verrol walked into her library. She still wondered what he'd seen in her. Criminals and killers chose bimbos, not librarians, didn't they?

  She was, she thought, the anti-bimbo. Flat-chested and no-hipped, with coloring so bland she was a virtual chameleon—able to blend into any wall with ease. There was something, an almost mystical quality about her lack of color. Occasionally she'd seek out shading in a makeover, but within minutes of application, her make-up would fade away. Bright colored clothes didn't fade, but they did make her look more pale and insipid. She made up for her lack of exterior adornment by having a lush interior life. Until Verrol came along, it was the most interesting part of her life.

  Verrol's eyes seemed to have been gifted with the ability to see the unseen. Perhaps that is what had made him so good at killing. Well, that and his own ability to disappear into the background. Of course, she'd had no idea of his side line as a killer when she married him. She'd been easy to fool, so trusting and willing to be blind to any irregularities that would help her maintain the illusion theirs was a normal life. He went to work like any other husband. She'd thought he was a researcher for a lobbyist. He always seemed to know a lot about what was going on, the insider stuff that didn't make it into the newspapers. It was exciting, enticing, and in the end, an alternate way to escape the dull reality of her existence.

  When he was arrested at the rally after shooting Magus Merlinn, with a gun in his hand, it had been much easier to look back and see the clues that what she'd believed about Verrol had never tracked with reality. Until that point, she'd considered herself a competent observer of the passing scene and rather a hand with a mystery. It was still hard to realize that her imaginative life had been more real than her outer life.

  It would have been so much easier to denounce and renounce him, but she'd married him for better or worse, though knowledge hadn't killed love. She hadn't expected that. So she'd dutifully made that once a month trip to visit him within the grim confines of Angola. It hadn't been entirely without interest. The museum was quite fascinating and there were no illusions about the reality of prison life. There she knew exactly what she was dealing with.

  By keeping her mind on how different the criminal world was from her own, she was mostly able to keep the aching loneliness for Verrol at bay. She'd always had a disciplined mind. Life had required it of her. But nothing in her life had prepared her for desire, for the wonder of curving her bony body into Verrol's spare one, or the sweet security that came from being hugged by him.

  On some level, she knew her world was hopelessly out of phase, as if she'd been caught between two dimensions and was unable to live completely in either one. Logically, she was sure there had to be a way back to her own life, but her heart, even after ten years without Verrol, remained uncooperative. And now he was gone. Dead.

  Because he'd been absent for the last ten years, it was hard to process the permanence of this new reality. How easy it would be to pretend it was just a nightmare from which she'd soon awaken. He was still in prison, shuffling through afternoon exercise or in the library writing his weekly letter to her, filled with promises that they'd soon be together again.

  She'd never known where he found his optimism. He'd chosen a bad time to commit murder. The country was big on accountability. The jury had given him life without possibility of parole, hardly breaking a sweat in the process. She didn't blame them. She used to be them until Verrol. How could they know what they hadn't experienced? How could they know that he was more than a murderer? How could they know that knowledge didn't necessarily kill love? Or was it just need she felt because she knew that no one would ever see her like he did, that she'd never again have love in her life?

  Verrol's lawyer, Clinton Barnes, had been kind when he brought her the news. The people at the library had tried to be kind, though no one had any idea what the proper number of days off were for the death of a husband who was a killer. And they couldn't understand that she wasn't relieved he was dead, that for her it wasn't over yet. Beyond the loneliness were the funeral and another painful period of media attention, followed by a future stretching out into an endlessly bleak landscape.

  If only there was more she could do than just bury Verrol. As if her brain had been waiting for that thought, it directed her gaze to the letter Barnes had brought her.

  “Verrol wanted you to have this if anything happened to him in prison,” he'd said, his dark gaze both worried and curious as he handed it over.

  Since he'd brought the letter, it had sat on her desk, unopened. She wasn't ready to deal with what might be in it. What if it answered the question everyone had wanted to know for ten years? Did she want to know who hired Verrol to kill Magus Merlinn? What good would it do now? If he'd told back when it first happened, it would have mitigated his sentence some. She'd begged him to talk, but he'd just shaken his head and told her not to worry. He was owed money and freedom and both would come in time. Yeah, that plan worked out well.

  “I'd rather have had the last ten years, Verrol,” she told the empty room. She picked up the letter, because it was almost all she had left of him. It was possible the letter was just a last good-bye or maybe an explanation of how and why he'd become a killer. He knew her well enough to know she'd want to understand. It was a way for her to find closure.

  And if it was about who hired him? She looked into the deep, dark places of her heart and found a longing for the person who hired Verrol to be punished. She wasn't proud of it, but in the dark of many a night, she'd railed against the unfairness of how things had played out. Why should that person have been able to continue living and loving while she slept alone for ten, long years? And now, not content wit
h taking her past, her future had also been taken away.

  Sometimes she wished she'd never met Verrol, but how could she regret the things she'd learned? Even with the pain of it, at least she'd lived life, not just read about it in books. No, she didn't regret meeting Verrol. She only regretted losing him and who she'd thought he was.

  Tentatively, she picked up a letter opener. Once she opened it, there would be no going back. She wasn't the kind of person who could know something and not act on it, even without her personal feelings in the mix. For good or ill, this would change her life in some way. For a moment, she teetered on the edge, but in the end, how could she not open it? It was Verrol's last communication with her.

  She inserted the point under the envelope and pushed it along the closed edge. The paper crackled with age as she pulled it free and unfolded it.

  At first, all she could see was that it was in his handwriting, just like all the other letters she'd received from Angola, only on nicer paper. So he'd written it before prison, possibly before he was even arrested? Tears swam across her view, blurring the words that followed, “My dearest Vonda..."

  Dear, but not dear enough. Oh Verrol. If only...

  Resolutely she wiped the tears and pushed back the regrets. She made herself focus on the words and not their dear shape and style. At the end, she began again. It was clever, the way he'd diverted attention away from the real clue.

  And he'd given her one more chance to decide whether she'd go forward or back. How well he knew her and how much she missed feeling understood and known. She rubbed her forehead as longing tried to overwhelm her. Somehow, some way, she needed to stop living in the past. If that meant confronting it, then so be it.

  And Verrol's mama? No one had known her connection to Verrol then, or apparently, now. Interesting that Verrol had chosen her to be his answer-keeper. She studied the words again. Had he left something at the library as a false clue? It would be just like him. He'd had a puckish sense of humor.

  With a wry grin, she sat down. If she was brutally honest, and she always tried to be, she'd admit she was intrigued by both the answers and the money. How could she not be, she thought, looking around her dreary, lonesome apartment? She wouldn't, she couldn't take the money, but she was tempted. May God forgive her, she was tempted. Had Verrol known she would be? Or had he just hoped she'd reach out and take the freedom he was offering her?