“Long enough to know they’re good people. Everyone in town is jealous because they have money and an estate and they can do what they want and tell the busybodies to kiss their asses.”
“And they do that regularly, I’ll bet.”
Kissie gave me an appreciative look. “You can respect that, can’t you?”
“Indeed I can. Sucking up to those who consider themselves high society has never been one of my favorite pastimes.”
She indicated a rattan chair that had seen better days. “Want some green tea?”
Tinkie enjoyed the tea leaf, but I was coffee 100 percent of the way. “I just have a few questions and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Shoot.” She dropped onto the sofa. “I’ve got a gig tonight at King’s Tavern, and I need to practice a few of my songs.”
“Do you write your own material?”
“Most of the time. I cover a few artists I like. Rosanne Cash. Lucinda Williams. They have some fine songs. Mostly I write my own, though.”
“That’s a tough business.”
“It’s not for sissies, but nothing worth having ever comes easy.”
Words to live by. “You know the Levert necklace is missing,” I said. She nodded and I continued. “Monica and Eleanor hired me and my partner to report to the insurance company on the theft of the necklace. We’ve done our report and found no cause for Langley Insurance not to honor the policy.”
Kissie clapped. “That’s good news. I was afraid they’d try to stiff Monica and Eleanor.”
“Mr. Nesbitt was justifiably concerned the theft was … staged.”
“Yeah, any excuse not to pay up. Ask the folks down on the coast what happened after Katrina. Like they staged a hurricane.”
I didn’t want to debate the pros and cons of insurance companies. “The good news is, we believe Langley Insurance will cut a check very soon.”
“I’ll bet Monica and Eleanor are chilling champagne right now. Hey, maybe they’ll come to my gig tonight. Sometimes they do, to show support for me. They’re really cool.”
It was clear Kissie had no clue Monica was missing and being held for ransom. That answered my most pressing concern. I didn’t believe Kissie was responsible, but her past history had proven she sometimes hung out with unsavory characters.
“Kissie, have you noticed strangers around Briarcliff, or anyone asking questions about the estate or the Levert sisters?”
She took a deep breath. “You think my boyfriend is involved in the theft of the necklace, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t accusing anyone.”
She picked at a string on her jeans. “I don’t have much taste in men. I’ll admit that. But I’d never do anything to hurt Eleanor or Monica. They’ve been like family to me.”
Sometimes family committed the most grievous of sins, but I didn’t go there. “Do you think your boyfriend could be involved?”
“No way. I’d kill him myself, and he knows it. Marty’s selfish and full of himself, but he’s not a thief. Music is his thing. He’d step on someone to get ahead, but he wouldn’t steal from them.”
“Does Marty have a last name?”
“Marty Herman.” She rolled her eyes. “He goes by Marty Diamond. Herman doesn’t sound like much of a country music name.”
“Do you perform solo?” I asked.
She hesitated, and in that split second I saw a young woman who was not as self-assured as she pretended to be. “Most of the time I do, though sometimes I like to play with Marty.”
“Does he write, too?”
“No. He sings my stuff. He’s got a more commercial voice. He’s going up to Nashville this fall and take my songs with him.”
“You aren’t going?”
She pushed up from the sofa. “Naw. I tried that once and it didn’t work out so well for me. Marty can go and try his hand. He’s a real ambitious man, and he knows how to talk with the star-makers. I’d just be a hindrance if he had to worry about me. What matters is that he takes my songs. He says I have a couple that some of the big stars might want to cover. Besides, I got responsibilities at Briarcliff.”
If looks weren’t deceiving, Kissie was an honest young woman with integrity. She also had somewhere to be. She’d checked her watch at least twice.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm the Levert sisters?”
“They piss off everyone, but it’s all social stuff. Nothing big.” She picked up her guitar. “Listen, I have to practice. Marty said there might be a record producer in the audience tonight.”
I stood. “Thanks, Kissie. I have a friend coming into town tonight. Maybe we’ll catch your act.”
She brightened. “Great. I go on at nine. Just for a couple of sets.”
“Country?”
“Kind of folksy blues and country all mixed together,” she said.
“My friend is a journalist. If she likes what she hears, maybe she’ll do a story.”
I thought her face would split with a wide smile. “Thank you so much, Ms. Delaney. Good press is hard to come by, and every little bit helps. I’ll call Monica and Eleanor and see if they want to come, too.”
I didn’t dissuade her. Eleanor would handle the invitation, and tonight, when Cece was there to ask interview questions, I hoped to learn more about Marty and possibly catch a glimpse of him. Kissie wasn’t aware of Monica’s disappearance, but that didn’t mean that someone she knew, like the star-hungry Marty Diamond, wasn’t involved.
8
The pleasures of shopping have always been lost on me, but I cowboyed up and went to a lovely little shop only a few blocks from the hotel to buy a blouse for my night out with Cece.
Juking requires a physical look as well as a pair of rotating hips. Months had passed since my friends and I ventured to Sunflower County’s hot blues club, Playin’ the Bones, but I hadn’t forgotten how to dress for good times.
Cece and I were due for a bit of mischief, and while I was engaged to Graf and had the rock to prove it, Cece was footloose and fancy free. It would be fun to find her a man to date. Let me add that when Cece’s fancy gets to shaking, anything can happen.
When she arrived a little after six, I was dressed in a black, curve-hugging top with several interesting cutouts on the chest and back. I’d never really understood buying clothes with holes in them, but the blouse was half-price and it hugged all the right places.
“Graf would have you arrested in that, dahling,” Cece said as she air-kissed both my cheeks.
“You’re just jealous.” She looked stunning herself in cowboy boots with red and turquoise insets, black jeans, and a red silk shirt that caught each movement in a soft shimmer of fabric.
Cece had once been Cecil Falcon, heir to the vast Falcon estate of land and a lineage dating back to the 1700s and the Mayflower. She’d thrown it all over to follow her biological destiny and surgically altered herself to conform to the female trapped inside. Her decision had cost her plenty—her inheritance, her family, and a cushy life. There’s something to be said, though, for being your own person. Cece was that—and one of the best friends in the universe.
“I am jealous,” I countered. “Your hips.” I put a hand on either side of her waist. “No matter how thin I get, my hips will never look like yours in a pair of jeans.”
“But you have other assets, dahling.” Cece gave me a knowing look. “Graf has agreed to write a tell-all book describing those attributes in great detail as soon as he’s famous.”
I ignored the threat, because I knew Graf wasn’t the kiss-and-tell kind of guy. When she was done teasing me, I told her about Kissie McClain. Cece agreed King’s Tavern, though it was in the heart of downtown Natchez and not Under-the-Hill, was a good destination for dinner and entertainment. But first, we headed down the steep slope that was the bank of the Mississippi to a cluster of bars and eateries at the edge of the river. This was the current incarnation of Natchez-Under-the-Hill, a place with a reputation for wild fun. We parked a
nd walked along the main street.
“This is pretty tame compared to what it used to be,” Cece said as we passed bars, cafés, and restaurants lit with neon. Loud music poured out onto the summer evening. “Before the War of Northern Aggression, this was a hotbed of river pirates, thieves, conmen, and prostitutes. It’s a bit upscale now.”
She was right. Laughter rang out as a group of young people jostled out of a bar and onto the street. They linked arms and moved toward another nightspot. If there was danger about, they were oblivious to it.
“Not much criminal activity here,” I agreed.
“It depends on what you consider criminal.” Don Cipriano stepped out of the darkness. Once again he wore only black, making his figure hard to distinguish from the dense shadows cast by the building he stood beside.
“Oh, my,” Cece said, faking a timid spirit, “it’s the dark lord himself. I must say, sir, you’ve captured the essence of the tormented Byronic hero perfectly.” She gave a genteel opera clap.
“A woman of literary pursuits.” He stepped forward, grasped her hand, and brought it to his lips. Even Cece, who was well prepared for his gothic charm, was momentarily flustered.
“Give it up, Don. We’re onto your game.” I kept a safe distance. Even knowing he was a lying fake, I was still affected by his presence. The man had sex appeal oozing from his pores.
“Don Cipriano Viedma,” Cece said. She’d regained her composure. “Character in The Plumed Serpent. A general in the Mexican army but not Spanish, as most officers were. He was of Indian extraction. A man doomed by his own beliefs, yet one with the sexual powers to subdue even the strongest woman. Willing surrender, I believe, is what Lawrence was writing about.”
“Astute as well as beautiful,” he said, completely unruffled by the fact we’d blown his cover. In fact, he was amused.
“So if you aren’t Don Cipriano, who are you?” I asked. “Not a New Orleans antique shop owner.”
“No, that was a fabrication. I’m Barclay Levert.”
He was full of surprises. And lies. “Eleanor told me there’s only one Levert here. Millicent Gentry, a cousin.”
“Eleanor doesn’t know about me.”
“So you’re a big secret? A wild branch on the Levert family tree.” I didn’t believe it for a moment. He looked like the Gypsy he claimed to be, not a Levert. “You were born to play that role.”
“Other than my name and the tiny fabrication about an antique shop in New Orleans, I’ve told you the truth.”
“If you truly were a Levert, I daresay Eleanor and Monica would know about you.”
“Perhaps not Eleanor.” He walked slowly around us. “But I’m a Levert. My mother gave me nothing, not even her family name, before she abandoned me. But my father knew who she was. He told me before he died.”
I remembered the story he’d spun to me. “Your mother, an aristocrat, no doubt, abandoned you in the arms of your noble, Gypsy father who raised you single-handedly and against all odds. Right?” I hadn’t believed it the first time and I certainly didn’t believe him now. Cece looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, but Don Cipriano, aka Barclay Levert, only arched an eyebrow.
“All true,” he said. “Monica could tell you the truth, if she would. But she won’t. She never will. I’d bet she’s never even told her sister about me.”
“Wait a minute.” I studied him in the dim light. There was the same smooth forehead, the widely spaced dark eyes, the full lips and straight nose. His skin tone was olive where the Levert sisters were pale as English roses. If he favored his father’s Gypsy heritage, it was possible. “Who is your mother?”
“Monica.”
“Impossible.”
“Not at all. Monica was sailing along the Florida coast. I believe the boat belonged to one of her Palm Beach conquests. At twenty, she had many, many wealthy lovers. Anyway, she docked in a small inlet near Tarpon Springs. My father was a sponge diver. With this olive skin and black hair, he could pass for Greek. They met, Monica stayed for nearly a year with him. Then she left, without ever telling him her true name.”
He cocked his head in a careless gesture. “Lucky for me, my father checked the boat registration, tracked it back to the man Monica borrowed it from, and figured out who the mother of his son was. But she wanted nothing to do with either of us. When she left, she desired no reminder of the year she’d spent with my father and her son. Not a pretty story, but true.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said so hotly Cece put a hand on my arm to restrain me. “You’re a liar.”
“That I am.” His open enjoyment of my outrage made me want to slap him. “But I’m not lying about this. Monica Levert is my mother. I’d say ask her, but she’ll lie. You’re left with only my word—and my total willingness to submit to a DNA test.”
Monica couldn’t answer his accusation, and I wondered if he knew this. “Eleanor has no idea you exist?”
“I doubt Monica shared that particular bit of history. At the time, I believe Eleanor was in Italy with her own sexual pursuits. They’re both narcissistic women, but of the two, I prefer Eleanor. She has more human qualities. My mother would probably have eaten me for breakfast had my father not intervened.”
“Very interesting that you turn up now, just when a valuable necklace has been stolen.” Cece joined the fray. “How long have you been in town?”
“Three weeks.”
“But you—” I started.
“I checked into the Eola yesterday. Before that…” His eyes sparked with devilment. “I had other accommodations.” He’d applied his many sexual talents and earned a place in someone’s bed. Even a fool could see that Barclay Levert, or whoever he might be, worked on women. Cece might label him a Byronic hero, but I knew him for exactly what he was—a bad boy. He exuded the charm, the heartache, the promise of “I can be fixed if only you’ll love me enough.” Total hogwash.
“Why are you here, in Natchez?” I asked.
“To claim my birthright.”
“By means fair or foul?” Cece asked.
I wanted to stomp her foot. Her phrasing was archaic, as though we lived in the nineteenth century. She was still caught up in the Heathcliff thing.
“By whatever means necessary.” His chuckle was as soft as a touch, and as intimate. “You would do the same. Both of you. The facts of my birth were beyond my control. My father would have married Monica. He loved her. When she disappeared one day without even a note, he ultimately honored her desire to be rid of us. He sought her out once and was rebuffed, and after that he never tried to involve her in our lives, never asked for help for my clothes or food or education. He was an honorable man.”
“But you are not,” I said.
“No. I am not.” He moved toward me so swiftly I didn’t have time to react. He grasped my arms and pulled me so that my face was only an inch from his lips. His very sensual lips. “I am not honorable, I am angry. Furious. My father died in pain, without medical care, because we couldn’t afford it. Monica has all the money in the world, and my father couldn’t afford good doctors.” He held me tightly and leaned so close I could feel the pressure of his words on my face. “I am angry, and I have every right to be.” He let me go so suddenly I almost fell. It was as if he’d melted my bones.
Cece’s arm wrapped around my waist to support me. “I’m sorry for all you’ve lost,” she said, “but that isn’t Monica’s responsibility. You’re a little old for child support now.”
“I’m her son. I didn’t ask to be born. What does she owe me?”
Cece sighed. “First you have to prove you’re related. DNA can do that. Have you had a test?”
The streetlight shimmered in his wavy hair as he nodded. “I don’t have any of Monica’s DNA and I don’t know how to get any.”
“A court can order a test,” Cece said.
“I hoped Monica would give it willingly. I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to ask.”
“That’s convenient,” I said as
endless possibilities came to mind. Barclay’s revelations had thrown the case into a totally new light. What if he’d abducted Monica for a DNA sample and was holding her until the results came back?
“I’d hoped once she met me, she’d want to know me.” He paused a beat. “Or perhaps you could get a DNA sample for me. Hair from a brush, a toothbrush. You have access to the house and everything in it.”
“I don’t steal from my clients,” I said hotly.
“Not even for the sake of justice?”
His question stopped me. In my heart of hearts, I did believe Monica owed him something—if she was truly his mother. People shouldn’t run around dropping babies like sacks of laundry and leaving them behind. There was a duty to a child, an obligation that went something to the effect that if a life was brought into the world, the people responsible for creating the baby also had responsibility for caring for him or her. If Barclay was telling the truth, Monica had violated him in a way many people never recover from.
“And why should I believe you?” I countered.
“It’s easy enough to determine the truth,” he said. “I’d be a fool to lie about it and then come here in search of DNA evidence.”
“He has a point.” Cece’s gaze moved from his dimple to his broad shoulders. It wasn’t hard to guess what thoughts were flying around in her head; I could almost hear the “boom, chicka, boom” sound track for a bad 70s porn flick. I used my hip to nudge her back to reality.
“He does have a point,” she insisted, irritated that I’d interrupted her fantasy.
“Following the family tradition of legally changing my name, I am indeed a Levert. I have a right to my inheritance.” The anger was building again. Barclay Levert had a lot of issues and a short fuse. Was he capable of violence? I couldn’t say for certain.
My theories on how inherited wealth ruined most kids would be of no interest to Barclay. He wanted what was his, and he had yet to come to the realization that what he most desired—his mother’s love—could never be demanded or legally awarded in a court of law. Monica had cheated him greatly, and it could never be redressed. For that, I could find pity for him. Cece, who’d undergone a similar emotional battering by her unaccepting family, would relate even more.
Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 9