Deeper Than the Grave

by Tina Whittle

  Gabriella looked me over. “You need shoes, sensible ones.”

  “What about my sneakers?”

  She shook her head. “I will find you some Dansko. That will work. Now sit.”

  She moved behind me and ran her fingers in my hair, across my scalp, gathering the tangled mess into a knot. She was a woman of many skills, Gabriella, both everyday and arcane—hairdressing and massage, tarot and herbs and astrology. And as Trey’s ex, she knew more about my boyfriend than any other woman walking the planet. I couldn’t look at her without imagining…

  “So how is he?” she said, as if she’d been reading my mind.

  “Trey? He’s good.”

  “And yet you are worried, ma chère amie. Why is that? Is it because the ninth approaches?”

  “That. Lots of stuff, actually.”

  “Ah.”

  She pinned my hair on top of my head, securing it with tiny French hairpins. She could work magic with her hands, I knew, taming both knotted muscles and snarly bedhead with her sure touch. She was sizing me up now in the mirror, her analysis as keen as Trey’s.

  “Are you certain all is well?”

  “I’m certain.”

  She curled some tendrils around my ears, met my eyes in the mirror. “We will share stories one day, you and I, over Champagne. We will talk of the mystery that is Trey Seaver, and other things. But let me tell you this much. I have never wanted to be anyone’s seul véritable amour. And Trey never wanted me to be anything I did not want to be. That is not his nature.”

  I froze, suddenly confused. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “You have been very good for him. The rest of us worry and fuss. You let him be himself, though, and that makes him happy, and that makes me happy. But listen to me…you really must tell him.”

  I blew out a breath. So that was the crux of her little speech. “I will. This isn’t a sneak-behind-his-back kind of mission. It’s just that—”

  “No, not this. This, yes, of course, but I was speaking of the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  She put her hands on my shoulders and regarded me in the mirror. “You and Trey, your outsides are so very different. He is Virgo, and you are Aries. But I have drawn your birth charts. His Venus is in Leo, as is yours. He has a fire heart, as do you, and fire calls to fire.”

  I shook my head warily. “I’m not sure—”

  “Hush hush.” She smiled and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “He already knows, of course, but it’s the telling that’s important. Now stand up. I want to see the final effect.”

  I stood. In the mirror, an efficient professional person looked back. A person who could blend. Gabriella went to her desk, a white baroque number like Marie Antoinette might have possessed, and fetched some ivory stationery from the top drawer along with a silver-lettered black card. Director’s Circle, it read.

  She tucked the card into my shirt pocket. “Go into the main entrance, the one next to the Rodin. You will pass the event on your right, in the piazza. Do not attempt to enter. Go into the lobby, show them this card, then take the skyway to the Stent Wing. Follow the staircase to the fourth floor. Face the Anish Kapoor—”

  “The what?”

  “An enormous stainless steel dish in the Contemporary collection, you cannot miss it. The service elevator is down the hall to your right. Take it to the private parking lot. A quick left and you will be in the piazza.”

  She opened one of the note cards and pressed her lips to the paper, leaving a crimson kiss. She tucked the sweet nothing into a matching envelope, then picked up a fountain pen and wrote Jean Luc on the outside. She licked the seal, closed it, and handed it to me.

  “Take this. If anyone stops you, tell them you are making a delivery to Jean Luc Dubois. Tell them you are required to make this delivery personally, that it is from Gabriella. Tell them to call Jean Luc if they are suspicious. He will vouch for you.”

  I took the card. “What exactly am I delivering?”

  She handed me a vase of flowers from her desk, two dozen white roses in an etched crystal decanter. I took the bouquet and held it as she assessed me with a critical eye. I could hide almost my entire upper body behind the voluptuous snow-white explosion.

  “There. Very professional.” She took me by the shoulders and squeezed. “Remember, head up, stomach in, feet pointed straight ahead.”

  I did as she said. She smiled brightly.

  “There. That will do very nicely.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The High Museum of Art, a stark white and gracefully impractical series of interconnected buildings, proved a challenging place to infiltrate. Designed like an enormous cylinder plopped into an even more enormous cube, with narrow white stairways looping around the periphery and white columns looming like pale tree trunks, its Stent wing was a place of dizzying confusion. Especially for someone clomping about in unfamiliar clogs with two dozen white roses blocking her view.

  I came in the lobby as instructed, through the glass crossover and up the coiling staircase, winding higher and higher as I passed the cold-eyed marble statues, the blown-glass Tiffany bowls. On the fourth floor, two employees in black sweaters chatted next to the fire extinguisher, their attention locked on a group of teenagers rollicking dangerously close to a ten-foot-tall stainless steel dish that fractured and reflected the room back upon itself in shards of light and color.

  The Anish Kapoor. I patted my back pocket for Gabriella’s note. Then I ducked into the service elevator and took it straight down to the ground floor where it opened—as promised—into the piazza’s back entrance. The service portal. I held my roses high and stepped into the scurry and bustle.

  Getting into the white tent was a snap—all I had to do was keep up with the streaming tide of waitstaff. Inside, the tent buzzed with conversation so effervescent it practically bubbled, and I knew that Chelsea was somewhere in that froth of color and laughter. I also knew that she was protected by a boundary of velvet ropes and discerning eyes. The guests knew it too. They realized they were on display, and they expected to be—like all precious art—defended from the sticky fingers of the riffraff.

  I kept a brisk pace, using the flowers as cover. Memories flooded my brain, and I tried hard to ignore them. The spring dance. The winter formal. The inevitable lectures that resulted when I violated some protocol of daintiness and womanhood. The main area smelled like hair spray and perfume, but close to the buffet table, I caught the scent of fresh bread, the salty tang of prosciutto. My stomach growled, and I pressed a hand to it.

  Across the room, in the VIP corner, the Amberdecker sisters held court. Evie wore a lady-like suit—navy, with white piping—but as I watched, she discreetly turned her wrist and checked her watch. Eager to get back to work. I put down the flowers, picked up a tray of sparkling wine, and made for Chelsea, who stood as far away from her sister as she could get and still be in the VIP area.

  She was impossible to miss, dazzling in a cobalt halter dress, her shoulders glowing with an Aspen tan. Her honey-colored bob rippled with expert highlights, showcasing brilliant blue eyes and softening her assertive jawline. She was an Amberdecker, all right, to the manor—and the manner—born.

  I stepped behind her. “Excuse me, Ms. Amberdecker?”

  She looked my way, her smile polite. “Yes?”

  “We need to talk.”

  The wariness solidified into annoyance. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of the family. And unless you want me to start blabbing the name Lucius Dufrene over the place, you need to head to the ladies’ room—by yourself—where we can talk without being disturbed.”

  She glared, hard, the softness evaporating. “What do you want?”

  “I want to do this discreetly.”

  She put two and two together, made her decision. “I’ll
be there in five minutes.”

  “Make it two. And if anybody besides you comes for me, I start talking, and don’t think for a second—”

  “I heard you!!” she hissed, then turned away.

  I’d been dismissed. I waited ten seconds to make sure I wasn’t being beset by bodyguards, then I collected my roses, straightened my shoulders, and went into the restroom to wait for her.

  ***

  I’d been perched on the edge of the marble vanity for barely sixty seconds when Chelsea blew in like a petite hurricane. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Tai Randolph.”

  She made a face. “Evie put you up to this, didn’t she? Well, you tell her to go back and dig in the dirt some more, I am not asking Jeremy for any more money! She’s on her own with that damn exhibit!”

  “Evie? No. This isn’t about her at all.”

  Chelsea put her hands on her hips. “You’ve got five seconds to explain before I call—”

  “Your fiancé, I know the drill. And he’ll have some nicely dressed men with hardware on their belts come and escort me out. Then he’ll threaten to take every penny I own. He’ll ruin me.” I sighed. “Been there, done that, got the restraining order. But see, here’s the thing. I can’t call fancy lawyers. The only real weapon I have is my mouth. And I am not afraid to use it.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “You don’t. But you will have to talk to the police. Who will be calling once they learn your little secret, which they will. Lucius Dufrene’s life is about to be an open book, and your part in it is bound to come out. The part before he got skeletonized on your family’s property, I mean.”

  Her lip twitched, and the color drained from her face. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Regardless, without an explanation, you’re looking like Grade A Prime suspect material. So you can explain to me, and I can explain to them, or you can—”

  She put a hand to her mouth, pressing hard, shaking suddenly. “I didn’t…I never…”

  I snatched a stool from the vanity and shoved it behind her. She collapsed on it, her complexion greenish. I’d suffered enough hangovers to recognize the signs of imminent upchuckery, so I reached behind me and grabbed the wastebasket. She snatched it away from me and heaved her brunch into it.

  “Goddammit,” she hissed, then shoved her face inside and retched some more. I let her get it out. Finally she stopped heaving and put the wastebasket on the floor. I snatched up a handful of paper towels, wet them, and handed them to her without a word.

  She accepted them just as silently, then turned on the stool and faced the vanity mirror. She wiped her mouth, then pulled a travel toothbrush and a mini tube of toothpaste from her purse. I noticed the bracelet—turquoise and silver beads with one large bead pressed tight against the pulse point of her wrist—and realized this was no hangover she was battling.

  “That bracelet not working?” I said.

  She leaned forward, patting her cheeks with the wet paper. Didn’t reply.

  I gestured to her wrists. “I used to work on a dive boat, so I recognize a motion sickness bracelet when I see one. The terrycloth bands work the best, but I guess those would clash with your outfit.”

  She swished a mouthful of water in her mouth, then spat it in the sink. Kept her eyes on her reflection.

  “How far along?” I said.

  She kept ignoring me. I understood. I also knew that she’d completely misunderstood my threat about her “little secret” and I felt a pang of guilt.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t care if you got knocked up or not, and neither do the police. None of my, or their, business. Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone caring in this day and age, but whatever. Like I said, your business. I do need to know about Lucius, though. So tell me what I need to know, I’ll leave, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “We were screwing,” she said, pulling a tiny pot of foundation from her purse. “He worked on Richard’s crew one summer. I was bored. He was hot. What else do you need to know?”

  “Any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you?”

  She glared at me. “Why would I kill him?”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “What? Hell no!” She returned her attention to the mirror. “You want to find out who killed him, you gotta find somebody who cared. And I didn’t.” She turned in the seat and looked at me. “Didn’t care when we were doing it, didn’t care when he left. Found a replacement in two seconds flat.”

  “Rich, good-looking girls always can.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Your mama and sister and fiancé cool with this?”

  She glared again.

  “Ah. They don’t know.”

  She blinked at me, and for a second I thought I saw tears. Or maybe a flash of real emotion. And then I understood. She was, after all, throwing up in a trash can, her purse tricked out like a morning sickness field kit. There was a wedding coming up, a hastily assembled one, and there didn’t have to be. If there was one thing a rich woman could get in Atlanta, it was a discreet way out of her particular difficulty.

  I lowered my voice. “You either really do love him, or you really love his money. I can’t tell which.”

  She ignored me. She had the mascara wand out, her eyes dry now. “I had no reason to kill Lucius. No one in my family did. He didn’t matter that way.”

  “So you and his girlfriend didn’t have a fight?”

  “Cat? And me?” She made a noise of disgust, pulled out her lipstick. “That chick is batshit. She texted me once, called me a whore. I told her that if she tried to contact me again, I’d have put her away, like straightjacket put away. I was not interested in her redneck drama. If you’re looking for somebody who hated Lucius, talk to that dumbass with the skateboard and the stupid tattoo.”

  “You mean Fishbone?”

  Chelsea applied an expert layer of berry-colored lipstick, her eyes on the mirror. “Yeah, him. He and Lucius were always fighting, drugs and money, money and drugs.”

  “Fighting arguing or fighting fighting?”

  “Both.”

  “About what?”

  “Mostly that Lucius had ditched him for a smarter, better partner. Some guy he met online.”

  “Do you think Fishbone could have killed him over that?”

  She shrugged, pursed her lips in the mirror. “Don’t know, don’t—”

  “Don’t care, right. Got it.”

  She popped the cap back on the lipstick and slipped it in her purse. She stood, then stepped around me and headed for the door, dismissing me as easily as she had Lucius and Cat and Fishbone. We were all the same to her—redneck trash. He’d been good for a quick roll or two, but I was merely an inconvenient obstacle.

  She paused at the door. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you will pay. I will hurt you where you live. I promise you.”

  And in that second, as the words hit me right between the eyes, Chelsea Amberdecker looked exactly like her mother.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  A misty fog shrouded Stone Mountain’s summit, almost obscuring the Confederate generals carved into its side. During the summer, the park filled up with stroller-pushing mommies in running gear, buff guys taking the stepped trail up to the top. But this day, with a cloudy sky and temps barely above freezing, I had the giant hunk of quartz and granite mostly to myself.

  I huddled under a pine at the base of the rock, the perfect vantage point for scoping out the parking lot and the handful of skateboarders gathered in its far corner. The pavement attracted only the hardcore this winter afternoon, but not one of them was Fishbone. I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to avoid impaling myself on a yucca plant. I wished I’d brought coffee. I wished I had warmer gloves. I wished—r />
  “Have you found what you’re looking for?”

  I whirled around. Trey stood behind me, his trench coat buttoned tight against the bladed air.

  I glared at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  Across the park, one of the teens popped his board at the top of the stairs and rode the handrail down like a surfer taking a wave. The wheels guttered and rumbled, a monotone growl.

  I crossed my arms. “So you’re stalking me now?”

  “This isn’t stalking. I’m standing right beside you.”

  “You’re supposed to be working.”

  “I was working, but then I went by your shop at one—”

  I smacked my forehead. “Oh shit! I forgot.”

  “—and you weren’t there. Which was not in itself alarming, so I went ahead with the new monitor installation, but then I received a call from Gabriella—”

  “Damn it! She ratted me out, didn’t she?”

  Trey shot me a sharp look. “No. She was calling because the Lost and Found department at the High Museum called her because someone found your cell phone in the restroom, and since hers was the last number you’d dialed—”

  “Oh hell!” I patted down my pockets. “My phone’s gone!”

  Trey pulled it from his pocket. “Gabriella called Jean Luc, who said that he had not seen you. So I told Gabriella I would pick up your phone—which I did—and activate the tracking on your car—which I did—which is why I am standing here right beside you, which is not stalking.”

  He handed me my phone. Sure enough, the screen showed a GPS map of Stone Mountain, my Camaro a blinking red light. I’d wondered how effective the system was back when Trey had had it installed around Christmastime. Now I knew.