Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  It was hers. She would keep it.

  SEVEN

  THE YOUNG MAN CAME FROM NOWHERE. One moment Riva was leaving the Staulet Building on her way home, letting the heavy glass-and-polished-steel doors swing shut behind her as she moved toward where her car waited; the next he was blocking her way.

  Riva stepped back, bringing her briefcase up as a shield. George, already getting out of the limousine to open the door for her, broke into a run toward her.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Staulet,” the young man said quickly, “I didn’t mean to startle you. But could I speak to you a minute?”

  It was still a second before Riva recognized him: the young photographer from the political rally. She held up her hand to bring George to a halt. Her chauffeur backed off but did not return to the car, instead taking a stance with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “What do you want?” Riva asked.

  Her tone was not friendly and the look in her eyes something even less than that. While she waited for an answer, she surveyed the photographer from the top of his head with its straight black hair to the toes of his scuffed suede walking shoes. He had the kind of lanky build usually given to people who can and do eat anything they want, though his shoulders were square. His fair skin and blue eyes, with his dark hair, hinted at a touch of black Irish in his blood. The daring of the Irish was also in his makeup somewhere, for he was unintimidated by her appraisal.

  “I tried to make an appointment through your secretary, but apparently she has orders to discourage all press members. Using the name of the paper to get to people can backfire sometimes. Actually, my business was unofficial. It concerns your niece.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  A rueful smile flickered across his face. “Neither do I, exactly. She’s not the kind of girl I spend time with as a usual thing. But I’ve been looking at that picture I took Saturday and I can’t get her out of my head. I would just like a chance to get to know her.”

  “Why come to me?” There was no relenting in Riva’s manner. This was the person responsible for calling public attention to her meeting with Edison. He might really be interested in Erin; then again, he might not.

  “Meeting your niece is beginning to look like one of those impossible-quest games. I found out that she’s at Tulane, but if she has a phone number, it isn’t listed. Your staff at home and here at work won’t give it out, and they won’t say where she lives. Her mother, when I called there, jumped down my throat, accusing me of being either a paparazzo or a pervert, or both. My last hope is to throw myself on your mercy.”

  “What makes you think I’ll help you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because you seem like a reasonable lady. Besides, you might think it’s better to humor me than to leave me wondering why everybody’s so protective of your niece.”

  He was intelligent, she had to give him that. Also nervy. She could hardly fault him for the last; it was a quality she admired, in moderation. “Erin,” Riva said slowly, “is very open and trusting. She doesn’t quite realize that the world is full of people who are users.”

  “And you think I’m one?”

  “There’s that possibility.”

  He nodded. “There is, at that. I can tell you I’m not, but I don’t know that there’s any way to prove it.”

  She had expected anger, belligerence, an attempt to persuade her. She was disarmed by his agreement and impressed against her will. On closer acquaintance, he was an attractive young man—a bit unformed yet, but attractive. A young woman might find his combination of rough-edged looks and confident manner compelling, if she happened to like the dark, intense type.

  Abruptly she said, “On the other hand, Erin is certainly old enough that she doesn’t need anyone to screen her dates. I won’t give you her number, but I’ll take yours. If she’s curious enough, she can call you.”

  “If that’s the best you can do—”

  “It is.”

  He began to dig in his pockets for a pen. “I’ll take it.”

  Inside the limousine moments later, Riva sat staring down at the card on which Doug Gorsline had written his name. Should she give it to Erin or not? She could not quite think why she had said she would, except that it had seemed like a good idea to widen her niece’s circle of friends, especially her men friends. It might well be, of course, that the cure she was inviting would be worse than the complaint.

  If that were possible.

  With sudden decision, she tucked the card into her handbag. Then leaning her head back against the soft plush seat, she closed her eyes.

  It sometimes seemed that she was always tired. The cause wasn’t hard to find. For years she had juggled her position at the company, her duties as Cosmo’s wife and caretaker of Bonne Vie as well as their other properties, and her social obligations. There was someone to help her at every turn, someone to cook and clean, make phone calls, place orders for repairs and refurbishments, and do the physical upkeep, but in the end the responsibility was hers. That had been true even before Cosmo became ill, and it was certainly true now. She enjoyed the life she led for the most part, but there were times when the houses and cars, the antiques and fine furnishings, the domestic staff, the secretaries, and especially the vast structure of the corporation seemed intolerable burdens.

  She dreamed of being free. The urge just to get into her car and drive away was sometimes so strong that her hands itched to feel the steering wheel. She thought of going to Mexico and buying a house in some small village where she would be known as that crazy American woman who went barefooted and kept chickens like a peasant. She pictured a rough thatched hut on a beach on some Pacific island where she would lie in a hammock until the sun went down, then walk along the shore, barefoot in the sand. Crazy dreams.

  A part of the problem was Cosmo’s death. She was not over it, not really. The strain of that time, the sleepless nights, and the days of helpless watching as he slowly got on with the business of dying had taken more of a toll than she had realized at the time.

  There were many who thought she must be relieved by Cosmo’s death. They didn’t understand. It was as if some support she had not known she was using had been taken away. More than that, there were many kinds of love, and losing any form of it was cause for grief.

  Now there was this thing with Edison. The strain of it was beginning to show. She could see it and feel it.

  Riva thought George had looked at her once or twice in his rearview mirror. He was like a watchdog, endlessly alert to her moods, her needs, her safety. Often she took him for granted, but not always.

  When she felt his gaze on her once more as they turned in at the drive to Bonne Vie, she spoke without opening her eyes. “What is it, George?”

  He spoke in a low baritone. “I hate to bother you, but my old lady called earlier. She says would you have time to talk to her for a few minutes when you get home? Miss Constance has given her a whole list of things she wants cooked for her two kids, things Liz never heard of in her life. She’s willing to try most anything, but she has to have something to go by.”

  Constance. Riva had almost forgotten she was at the house. Perhaps it had been inhospitable, not to mention cowardly, to leave her alone for the day. Still, the woman was Noel’s guest. Since he had not hesitated about going into the city to work, Riva had seen no reason why she should stay at home.

  Meeting George’s anxious gaze in the rearview mirror, she said, “I’ll run down to the kitchen as soon as I change.”

  “Liz can go upstairs.”

  “That’s all right. I know she’ll be busy with dinner.”

  There had been a time when Riva had worried about the proper behavior toward servants, what they expected of her as a mistress, how she must conduct herself in order to retain the respect accorded to her initially as Cosmo’s wife. Discovering that she had no aptitude for standing on ceremony, she had decided just to be herself. To her surprise, it had served her well.

  In spite of t
he problems in the kitchen, dinner was superb. It was a light and simple meal, the kind Cosmo had liked in the heat of summer. There were chicken breasts baked with garlic and a medley of garden-fresh vegetables in salads and side dishes, plus Liz’s famous quarter-sized biscuits.

  “Where,” Constance asked halfway through the meal, “is the chicken à la d’Albufera I ordered for the children?”

  “There was some problem with a recipe,” Riva answered. “If you can furnish the cook with one, she’ll be happy to try it tomorrow.”

  “Otherwise not?”

  “So it seems.”

  Constance lifted a brow. “What kind of cook do you have?”

  “A very good one,” Riva said pleasantly, “but American and Southern and New Orleanian.”

  It was possible, perhaps, that people did not often have the last word around Constance. There was surprise in the glance her son Pietro, who was seated on Riva’s right, gave Riva from under his incredibly long lashes. She smiled at him, and a flicker of a grin quirked his mouth before he returned his attention to his food.

  For an instant there was a compressed sensation in Riva’s chest. She glanced toward where Noel sat, preoccupied, at the head of the table, though he spared a smile for his son. Noel’s son. Cosmo’s grandson. She would have to be careful or she would find herself growing attached to Pietro. That would not be wise.

  Constance reclaimed Riva’s attention. “Where is your friend Dante? I expected him to join us this evening.”

  There was something in the other woman’s voice that made Riva look at her more closely. Constance was wearing a dress of flowing red silk with a surplice bodice that revealed a great deal of her warm Mediterranean tan and made a setting for her barbaric gold necklace. Her makeup could not be called ostentatious, but it was perhaps a little too much for a family dinner.

  “You will see him tomorrow night, I expect. There is to be a benefit gala that I hope you will attend as my guest, and I’m sure Dante will be on hand. But most evenings he prefers to keep an eye on things at his restaurants.”

  “Restaurants?”

  Riva explained about Lecompte’s and Dante’s other establishment on the lake.

  “How fascinating, particularly this one of the more informal atmosphere. Perhaps I will visit it while I’m here, to be able to say what it’s like when I return to Paris.”

  There was more than a hint of patronization in the other woman’s tone, but Riva ignored it. “I’m not sure you’ll care for it. It’s directed toward a different crowd from what you must be used to, the college crowd. The food is excellent, but the music is on the loud side.”

  “I adore loud music.”

  “You must do as you like, then. You’re welcome to take one of the cars, or George can drive you.”

  “What? Do you not wish to go? I would never leave so attractive a man to fend for himself night after night, particularly among beautiful and well-dressed women.”

  Riva shrugged. “Dante can take care of himself. Besides, most of those beautifully dressed women you mentioned have a man with them to fend off Dante.”

  “He’s a ladies’ man, then? He plays the field?”

  “You might say so, when he has the time.”

  “And you don’t mind?”

  “It’s no concern of mine.”

  Constance stared at her with a frown between her brows. Riva glanced from the woman to Noel, attracted by the abrupt movement he made as he reached for his water glass. He looked at her over the rim and in his face was both concentrated interest and irony.

  Riva turned to Pietro, asking what he and his sister had done that day. She was regaled with the tale of a squirrel they had chased up and down the front lawn and of the ices flavored with strawberries that Liz had made for them and they had eaten in the kitchen. Tomorrow they were to go to the zoo; Papa had promised.

  Riva looked down the table at Noel once more. A smile hovered at one corner of his mouth as he watched his children, but he made no comment. His amusement faded as he caught her glance.

  “What about you?” he said. “How did your meeting go?”

  He was speaking of her luncheon with Edison. She wondered if he had already heard of how she had fled from Commander’s Palace with Edison on her heels. It wouldn’t surprise her; New Orleans was, in some ways, a provincial town. In the business community everyone of importance knew almost everyone else, and the unusual attracted talk as surely as sugar water drew hummingbirds.

  “It was…instructive,” she answered finally.

  “I take it you discovered that your interests and Gallant’s didn’t coincide.”

  He did know. And if the hard light in his gray eyes was anything to go by, she was going to have to find some explanation for him. Constance was interested also, for she had straightened in her seat and was looking from her former husband to Riva with her head tilted to one side.

  Before Riva could frame an answer, however, the doorbell rang. The sound was grating, strident, as if the old-fashioned mechanism had been given an impatient twist.

  The door was opened by a maid since Abraham was serving at the table. They heard the murmur of her greeting. Then a higher-pitched, demanding voice could be heard.

  “Where is my sister? I have to see her at once. At once, do you hear!”

  It was Margaret. Riva got to her feet, dropping her napkin on the table. By the time she reached the dining-room door, Margaret was halfway down the hall. Behind her was Boots, bulking large and red-faced in the dimness and carrying a suitcase.

  “Riva, there you are,” her older sister began at once. “I had to come. I swear, my heart hasn’t stopped throbbing from the moment that man called. The very idea! I gave him a piece of my mind, then when Boots came home from work I met him at the door with my bag all packed. I’ve got to go down there, I told him. That’s all there is to it, I’ve got to go.”

  “What man is this?”

  “That photographer, the worm who dared to put that vile picture in the paper!”

  “Oh, I see.” Riva put her arm around Margaret, half in a hug of greeting and half to keep her from barging into the dining room. “Hello, Boots. Have you two eaten?”

  Margaret gave a harsh laugh. “Eaten? How can I eat when my child’s welfare is at stake? We didn’t stop for anything, not even to use the restroom!”

  “Then why don’t you come upstairs now? We can talk, and a place can be set at the table for Boots. I’m sure he’s hungry, even if you’re not.”

  “He’s always hungry,” Margaret said with a shade of bitterness. “I’m not made that way. Things upset me so I can’t eat a bite.”

  “Maybe you would like a cup of coffee?” Riva directed the other woman toward the stairs. Her sister’s face was pale, making the fine lines of age stand out in stark relief. Her hair, cut short and tightly curled as if to hide the liberal streaking of gray, looked as if she had not combed it since she got up that morning. Her casual cotton pants and shirt were the same kinds of things she wore around the house, which was odd. Margaret usually made an effort to dress well when she came to Bonne Vie. It appeared that, for all the melodrama of her entrance, she was genuinely distraught.

  “No coffee, not with my nerves in this state. But a glass of tea would be nice. With lemon and lots of ice.”

  Riva had tried before to point out that tea had the same effect as coffee, but Margaret could never be brought to believe it. They mounted the stairs with Boots panting along behind them. The maid had offered to take the suitcase Margaret’s husband carried, but he had refused. When they reached the bedroom he and Margaret always used on their visits, he dumped his burden on a rack with petit-point holding straps. Muttering something about unloading the rest of their things from the car, he left the room.

  “Oh, Riva,” Margaret said, walking to the bed and dropping down to sit on its side. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw that picture. I had heard Erin talk about this Josh, but until I saw him with his arm around her, it neve
r dawned on me…I was shocked, that’s what I was, shocked! I’ve been trying to keep up my spirits, but my heart has been misgiving me all day. It’s God’s punishment, that’s what it is. It’s His punishment for what we did all those years ago!”

  Riva stared at her sister. Punishment. The word echoed in her mind. That night, all those years ago, the night she had eloped with Edison, she had been afraid of God’s wrath. Then, all those years ago, it had been a very real fear.

  What she had done with Edison in the backseat of his car was wicked, or so the preacher had said in church. It was fornication, carnal knowledge, the forbidden fruit discovered by Adam and Eve. Rebecca, huddling against Edison’s side, was fairly sure she knew why it was forbidden. Anything so powerful must be a great distraction from godliness, though most preachers, so far as she could see, were against it on general principle.

  The exact degree of wickedness was confusing. Since there was no commandment against it, it must not be a sin exactly. Still, the preacher had said it would be punished and he must know. The only way to make things right was to marry Edison. But if she ran away with him, the shock when her mother heard of it might kill her. Edison could say what he wanted, but she knew her mother wouldn’t be happy. If anything happened it would be her fault, and that would be a terrible punishment, indeed.

  Why had she done it? Why had she let Edison make love to her? She hadn’t intended to at all. She had just felt so sorry for him, and she had been taught to help those who were in pain. He was young and handsome and experienced in a way that made her vaguely uncomfortable. It had been exhilarating to have someone so sophisticated paying attention to her. Somewhere in the midst of her compassion, her own lack of experience and her new, surprising reactions had betrayed her. It had seemed impossible to draw back, and then it was too late.

  She had expected the pain, she had read enough confession magazines to know about that. Still, somehow she had expected there to be more to it. There had been the faintest intimation of pleasure, a hint of relief, and then it was over. Edison had enjoyed it, or so he had said, though he had had all the labor and had groaned more as if he were in agony. She was left feeling messy and sticky and on edge. And afraid.