“Yeah, Boots. We have family connections already, you and I. That makes Erin and Josh what? Fifth, sixth cousins? There’s no harm in that.”
“It’s too close for my liking. Anything is too close.”
He leaned toward her. “Well, get this straight. I’m not doing a damn thing to break up whatever fun Josh may be having with his little cousin. If he’s giving it to her, fine, more power to him. It proves he’s my son. And I don’t give a shit how big you think you are or how much weight you think you swing. If you value your sweet ass, you’ll be mighty careful what you say about me and who you say it to. Play games with me, lady, and you’ll get hurt. Or dead.”
Riva stood up with grace and dropped her napkin onto the table. “What a way you have with words,” she said with cool irony as she turned from him, “and with women. Oh, yes, you’re a real lady-killer.”
“Riva,” Edison said in strangled tones. “Riva!”
She did not look back as she walked away. He sounded furious or frightened. She heard the clatter of silverware as he pushed violently from the table, getting to his feet. He was coming after her.
That he would actually pursue her through a public restaurant was unbelievable. She increased her speed just short of breaking into a run and wove among the tables. She heard Edison’s footfalls, his muttered apologies as if he had stumbled against a diner. Ahead of her were the stairs. She hurried down them and emerged in the lower room filled with people enjoying sumptuous lunches. There were probably friends and acquaintances among them, but she did not pause to look as she made her way toward the entrance door.
The maître d’ was at the reservations desk. Riva signaled to him in breathless haste. “I’m sorry, but I have to go, a small emergency. Mr. Gallant will take care of the check.”
The man nodded with aplomb, as if it was quite usual for a woman of Riva’s standing to run pell-mell from the establishment. Then he moved to intercept Edison.
Riva pushed through the heavy front door and out onto the sidewalk. Her driver, George, did not fail her. He was waiting in the limousine at the curb on the cross street opposite the restaurant. When he saw her emerge, he put the limousine in gear and swept toward her through the intersection, swinging to a halt with a flourish. She opened the door and stepped inside. The limousine pulled away, away from Edison standing under the marquee of Commander’s with his napkin still in his hand and the maître d’ holding one arm.
Her escape, leaving the leading Democratic candidate for governor behind her looking foolish, should have been a triumph. Instead it felt like a mistake.
SIX
TO ALL APPEARANCES, ANNE GALLANT WAS shopping for antiques. She wandered in and out of the shops along Royal Street, crossed over to Chartres, then doubled back and came up Royal once more. She picked up pieces of porcelain and silver and put them down again, trailed her fingers over satinwood and ebony tabletops, and listened with a smile of bemused appreciation to the mellow chime of a clock that had kept the hours in the private rooms of Louis Quinze. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, unless it was a piece of jewelry, traditional sop to the feelings of injured wives. What she was doing was waiting for adventure.
It was a game she played with a “what if” scenario. What if she should be kidnapped and put on a ship making for some foreign port? What if a mafia don should come along and scoop her up in his black limousine? What if a door in a wall should open and a handsome man in the costume of a hundred and fifty years ago pulled her into one of those hidden courtyards and into the past?
It was purest fantasy, of course. She didn’t expect anything to happen to her. Why should it? It never had. And even if it did, she knew very well she was too uptight, too much aware of the consequences, to enjoy it.
Regardless, there was nowhere quite so satisfactory for her private game as the New Orleans French Quarter. So much that was dangerous and mysterious had happened in this place once known as Sin City, also the Town Care Forgot, and lately, the Big Easy. “Let the good times roll” was as much a philosophy as a slogan in New Orleans. It seemed that anything was possible there.
Edison didn’t approve of her explorations alone, though she thought it was less concern for her safety than for what unsavory situation she might get herself mixed up in. She thought that he did not actually forbid the outings because he was sometimes just as happy to get her out of the way.
New Orleans did have a reputation for seaminess, particularly the French Quarter. There were side streets she avoided in daylight and would not have ventured down at night for the world. The fact was that she liked the faint feeling of risk. Not that she ever felt it on the main streets such as Chartres, Royal, and Bourbon; there were too many tourists and police patrols for that.
She loved the Quarter: the smells of cooking seafood and caramelizing sugar from its many restaurants; the sour tang of mustard from the carts of hot-dog vendors; the whiff of greenery and flowers from hidden courtyards; and the scents of old books, antiques, potpourri, incense, and love oil from the varied shops. And always the smell of the river, that gentle overlay of damp and mud. The contrasts of the Quarter were fascinating: the fern-hung balconies railed with lacelike wrought iron crowded against run-down joints where practically nude men and women danced on the tables; the luxury hotels standing beside dim and dingy bars dedicated to the preservation of jazz; the pristine walls of an old convent or cathedral not so far away from a neon-decorated hole-in-the-wall selling sex toys.
New Orleans, it seemed to Anne, was alive in a way so few places dared to be. It was like an elderly woman who has lived not too wisely but well enough to have interesting memories; who sometimes dressed herself up for company, but if everything was not quite perfect, if her lace was a little torn or her shoes grubby, she gave it not a thought. She took her pleasures as they came, saw they came often, and expected others to do the same. She was as she was. People could like her or leave her alone. It was, perhaps more than anything else, that lack of self-consciousness that brought Anne back again and again. She had so little of it herself that it was limitlessly seductive.
In her ramblings, she passed by the old beveled-glass and mahogany doors of Lecompte’s, Dante Romoli’s restaurant. She and Edison had eaten there before on their trips to the city, and it had always been an occasion to remember. The restaurants of New Orleans, of course, were second only to those of Paris in that combination of zestful appreciation for food and the consummate formal service that is gratifying to some but intimidating to many. Lecompte’s was among the best of them.
Anne saw Dante on the sidewalk across the street a few minutes later. He was just going into what appeared to be a television station, as unlikely as such a place seemed there among the tourist shops and historical-research collections. She was proud that she had recognized him after only being introduced once. She had always been terrible at putting names and faces together, a bad trait in a politician’s wife. Her success now was most likely because she had been thinking about him.
A display of antique jewelry in the window of a shop across the street caught her eye. She waited on the curb for a bus and a tourist buggy to pass, then walked over to inspect it. There were some interesting pieces in the window, but most were of the Art Nouveau period, and her special interest was Victorian garnets and jet.
She had started to turn away when, just down from where she stood, Dante Romoli emerged. Someone inside the television building was still shouting after him. He turned back to answer with his hand on the open door.
“I still say you’d be a natural,” the man inside called. “Nobody in New Orleans knows as much as you do about food.”
Dante shook his head. “My Cajun accent can’t hold a candle to Justin Wilson’s, and Paul Prudhomme has me beat hands-down for size. Besides, I’m a restaurateur, not a chef!”
“With your looks, you could put ‘em both off the air with sheer sex appeal. And I know you can cook because I’ve heard about the fancy omelets you whip
up for the sweet young things who stay for breakfast. You could always do one of those.”
“Sure I could, if you bring your cameras to my apartment,” Dante bantered.
“You mean it? We can come and film?”
“The devil, no! I don’t go in for that kinky stuff.”
There was the sound of a curse without heat. Dante grinned as he let the door close and swung away.
Anne saw that he was going to come toward her. With a moment to collect herself, she summoned her most gracious smile. She meant to nod in greeting and pass on by, as with any chance encounter. Instead, she met his dark eyes, alight with laughter and friendliness, and came to an abrupt halt.
“Mrs. Gallant,” he said as he neared, “good morning.
“How are you?” She offered her hand since there seemed nothing else to do. She thought for a moment he was going to lift it to his lips and was aware of a slight disappointment when he merely tipped his head in a Gallic gesture nicely combining respect and appreciation.
“How did you manage to escape?” he asked when they had exchanged the usual courtesies. “I thought your whole time campaigning was spent speaking at club luncheons and shaking hands outside mills and plants.”
“Somebody made a terrible mistake, I’m sure, but I had a free morning.” Her smile was warmer than it might have been. His ready understanding of her feelings gave her a distinct and unusual feeling of rapport. There was also the unwavering intensity of his dark gaze, which made her feel that she had his whole attention.
“Are you just strolling?” he asked. “Or were you going somewhere in particular?”
“Oh, I was just looking, mostly at antiques. There are so many lovely old things along here.” Anne made a vague gesture up and down the street.
“I’d be glad to help you find anything, if I can. I have a fair knowledge of who carries what in the shops.”
“I was looking at jewelry,” she said, then, compelled by a need to seem more serious in her pursuit of antiquities, added, “also a chair, maybe a rocker in wicker.”
Dante frowned. “The jewelry is easy, but the chair may be a problem. Wicker rockers weren’t known for lasting. But I know this little place over on Magazine that might have one.”
“Really?” She had no thought of going, but having introduced the rocker, she had to sound interested.
“My car’s just around the corner. I’ll run you over there.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let you go to the trouble, Mr. Romoli, though it was kind of you to offer. If you’ll just give me directions—”
“Call me Dante. And it’s no trouble, chère. No trouble at all.”
Before she knew it, Anne was being handed into a low-slung red Alfa Romeo. It crossed her mind as they pulled out into the street from the parking garage that she was being criminally stupid, getting into a car with a strange man. She could just imagine what Edison would have to say about it. She wasn’t sure how it had come about, really, but she wasn’t afraid. Dante Romoli inspired confidence with his easygoing manners and courtesy. That it might be an act was possible, but she didn’t think so. Anyway, he was a friend of Riva Staulet’s, wasn’t he? He had to be respectable.
She could not be sure, however, that he was being so helpful without a purpose. She had developed an instinct over the years about people who wanted something. She didn’t like to think that Dante was trying to use her to get to her husband; still, she knew it was possible. But that was all right. Now that she was with him, there was something she wanted from him, too. Perhaps it had been there, at the back of her mind, from the moment she saw him.
She wished she was dressed a little nicer. Her blue denim skirt worn with a red tank top under a chambray shirt was fine for the warm day, but even the red-banded straw hat she wore with the outfit failed to make it dressy enough to match Dante’s white silk shirt and perfectly cut gray slacks. His tie and suit jacket lay on the backseat of the car and his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows; still, his appearance had the daunting elegance lent by European tailoring.
It was silly to be worrying about such things, of course. In a moment Dante Romoli would drop her off in front of an antique store, then go about his business. Since it was unlikely anyone would see them together, it made no difference how she looked.
It was as much to fill the silence between them as to take advantage of the opportunity that had been presented to her that Anne spoke. “Riva Staulet is an unusual woman. Have you known her long?”
Dante sent her a glance edged with speculation. “Quite a while, but not as long as your husband, I think.”
“Oh, you’re wrong. Edison only met her this weekend.”
“Sorry, my mistake.”
There was something in his voice that disturbed her. Anne said, “It seems odd that our path has never crossed hers. I mean, we must have attended some of the same events, such as charity balls, parties in Baton Rouge, inaugural balls at the governor’s mansion, and so on.”
“That’s the way things happen,” Dante said with wry acceptance. “From now on, you won’t be able to move for tripping over each other. Or me, for that matter.”
“That will be nice.”
He sent her a look bright with amusement. “Spoken like the polite candidate’s wife.”
“No, no, I mean it,” Anne protested, then, as he laughed out loud, realized she was being teased. It was a novel sensation. It had been a long time since anyone, other than her son Josh, of course, had been interested enough in what she thought and felt to tease her.
“Seriously,” Dante said, “it will be a pleasure to see more of you and your husband, though I doubt campaigning will leave much time for socializing.” As she smiled in agreement, he went on, “Your husband’s chances of winning seem good.”
“Yes.”
“Contributions are critical up to the last minute, I know, but I expect his campaign chest is in good shape, considering the number of his supporters.”
“I suppose so, though there’s always room for more.”
“I can’t think what he could do for a company like Staulet Corporation in return, though.”
“Nor can I,” Anne answered in firm tones. “Or what Staulet Corporation can expect.”
They had stopped for a red light. They looked at each other across the width of the car. A smile started in Dante’s eyes, and Anne felt one slowly curving her own mouth. They laughed at exactly the same time.
The light turned green, and Dante set the Alfa Romeo in motion again. “All right. I won’t pump you about your husband if you won’t pump me about Riva.”
“I can assure you it would do no good. I don’t know anything. I must say that I admire your loyalty to Mrs. Staulet.”
“You stonewalled pretty well yourself.”
“I’m sorry; it becomes second nature.”
“No need to apologize, chère. It’s really no business of mine what took place between the two of them.”
“Mrs. Staulet didn’t—”
“No, she didn’t say, beyond the fact that they would be having lunch today, and I suppose she would have if she had wanted me to know. It’s just that—well, I was there at the rally, and I’m as curious as the next person.”
“I know what you mean. Edison didn’t care to discuss it, either.” Unconsciously, Anne massaged her left wrist and the bruise that marred the pale skin there. Dante followed that gesture for a brief instant before he looked away.
“I’m sure it’s just business,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.
“No doubt,” she agreed, also without inflection, then changed the subject.
They spoke of the state economy, the hotel where she and Edison were staying, conventions, and the world’s fair held in the city a few years back. They were still talking when they reached the shop on Magazine, so Dante parked his car and went inside with her. They wrangled in a friendly fashion over the merits of the Victorian furniture she liked—which she called solid and beautifully carved and he lab
eled overweight and over-ornamented—and the early French Louisiana country pieces he preferred—which he said had elegant simplicity and she insisted were too plain.
Anne watched the man with her. She watched the way he touched the woods and the velvet and silk coverings of the pieces of furniture they passed, as if they were alive. When he turned his head, she stared at the way his hair lay in thick crisp waves against his scalp and the neat, flat shape of his ears. She studied the openness of his face and looked for the sudden leap of laughter in his eyes. It was addictive, she discovered. She could not stop looking at him.
They found a wicker rocker, but, thankfully, it needed too much repair for Anne to consider buying it. In the search, however, she came across a bronze cherub with vine leaves in his hair and his arms full of grapes, like a young bacchanal. It was a lifesize garden statue from some old garden and only semi-restored so that much of the verdigris remained. She loved the little bronze boy on sight.
It was Dante who bargained with the store owner for a considerable discount, then carried the paper-wrapped statue out to the car and laid it with care on the backseat. Naturally it was impossible, after that, to refuse his invitation to lunch.
Since Anne vetoed anywhere fancy, they went back to the Quarter to Ralph and Kacoo’s, where they ordered plates of crawfish, which was in season.
And they talked some more, covering every subject under the sun. The crawfish set Dante off about his Cajun heritage. With a little prodding, he told her about what it was like to grow up in the midst of dozens of uncles, aunts, and cousins and among the rivers, canals, and lakes; about fishing, hunting, and trapping when he could find the time; about dancing at weddings on Saturday nights and going to mass on Sunday mornings. His mother, he said, had not been able to speak English until she started going to school, and it always deserted her when she was angry. When she had died, his father, an Italian with ties to the vegetable stalls in the French Market, had moved back to New Orleans. It was at the French Market, where the great chefs came personally to pick out the freshest fruits and vegetables for their menus, that Dante had begun to be interested in food. That, and working as a busboy at the old Lecompte’s after his father was killed in a brawl.
Crimes of Passion Page 113