Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  Before she finished speaking, Boots appeared in the doorway leading into the hall. He came toward them with a frown on his red-tinted face. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s the matter with Erin? She looked like she was crying when she passed me downstairs, and she didn’t even say hello.”

  Margaret leaned back in her chair with a weary gesture . “ Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

  “That’s not the truth, Margaret. I heard what you said to Riva, and I know it has something to do with Erin and with Edison’s son. I want to know the problem.”

  There was something immovable about Boots. His mind might not be quick, but it was steady and sure, and once he settled on an idea he clung to it with bulldog tenacity. It seemed perfectly possible that he would stand there in that one spot in front of them forever in order to find out what he wanted to know.

  “All right, then,” his wife said, her lips tightening in exasperation. In a few clipped sentences, she told him exactly what had taken place up to the moment Erin left them.

  Boots wagged his head back and forth when she was finished. “The thing to do is to tell Erin how she stands with Josh, that he’s her half-brother.”

  “Riva doesn’t want her to know,” Margaret said sharply.

  “Erin’s a big girl, she can take it.” Her husband’s words were dogged.

  “Yes,” Riva said with a wry smile, “but can I?”

  “If it’s your reputation that’s bothering you—” Margaret began.

  “Not mine, rather Staulet Corporation’s,” Riva said. “As Edison was so prompt to point out, it will affect a lot of people besides me if the story becomes public.”

  Margaret, her face grim, got to her feet. “There’s only one thing to be done. Riva knows what it is; she’s just too proud to do it. You’ll have to excuse me now. I’ve got to take my medicine.”

  Boots showed no sign of following his wife. He stood in frowning thought until Riva spoke at last. “Would you care for coffee, Boots?”

  “What? Yes, all right,” he answered. As she poured it, he lowered himself into the chair Margaret had left. He spooned sugar into the cup and sat stirring it into the black brew, watching the swirling liquid, then pushed the cup back without tasting it. Finally he looked up at Riva.

  “She don’t mean it, you know.”

  Riva’s mind had wandered to Erin and what she was doing, where she was going in such fury, and if she was too angry to drive carefully. “What?”

  “Margaret, I mean. She don’t really expect you to do anything you think’s wrong. She’s just upset. She says things she don’t really mean when she gets in a stew like this. It’s her way.”

  He really was a good man. Riva smiled with a shade of weariness. “I know. Don’t worry about it.”

  The lines in his face eased, but he wasn’t finished. “She’s turning more and more religious nowadays. She reads her Bible a lot, and prays—why, she prays nearly an hour every night. That’s the nights she don’t drink more bourbon and Coke than’s good for her or take a few extra Valiums. She’s all mixed up in her mind. I think it’s weighing on her, everything that happened all those years ago. This thing with Josh Gallant has brought it all back.”

  “Yes, for both of us.”

  “It’s more than that, though. She—she’s never quite got over not being able to have kids of her own. She should have had five or six to fuss over and look after and keep her busy. Instead, she just has the one. I think she’s always been sort of jealous, resentful-like, that Erin was really yours. And I think, in a funny sort of way, she feels like it was a judgment on her, that if she hadn’t taken your baby away from you she might have had one herself.”

  “She did what she thought was best at the time.”

  “But it was what she wanted, not what you needed or would have liked, and she’s never forgot it. That’s why when Erin came down here, she got afraid you were taking her back again, that Erin’s head would be turned by all the stuff you could give her, all this fancy living, and that she wouldn’t be happy with us anymore.”

  “I never intended anything like that,” Riva said with a shake of her head. “I just wanted to give Erin some of the things I never had.”

  Boots nodded. “It’s some of the things Margaret never had, too. She resents that down deep. She never says anything, but I know it bothers her that she never had all the fancy clothes and jewelry and cars you’ve had over the years since you married Staulet, never got to go to all the places you’ve been, see all the things you’ve seen. She feels it.”

  “I can’t help that. I’ve offered to take her with me to Europe, and you know the two of you can use the places in Colorado or the islands any time.”

  ‘We know, but it’s not just the places. It’s the people you know and who know you, the things you can do, the whole way you live. I think sometimes she’d like to be you, at least for a little while.”

  “Oh, Boots, that can’t be right. She has so much, you and Erin and so many years of decent family life among the same people she’s known all her life. She has roots and real friends, instead of living on the surface, wondering what people are saying about her when her back is turned. She has you instead of—” She stopped abruptly. There were some things it was best not to put into words.

  “Yes, and she’s all right, most of the time, but there are days when it all eats at her.”

  Riva looked at the man across from her for a long moment. “You must love her very much to understand her so well.”

  “We’ve been married a long time,” he answered, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Yes, and it comes to me that you’ve spent a lot of that time taking care of my daughter, giving her a stable home, a good home. I’ve always been grateful, though I’ve never thanked you for it.”

  “Don’t have to thank me now, either,” he said, his voice gruff. “I feel like Erin’s my own. Always have, always will.”

  Riva smiled as she met his straight gaze. After a moment, she said, “As for Margaret, I know she’s a little snappy at times, but it doesn’t matter. She has done so much for me that I have to forgive her.”

  “She knows that, too, and she depends on it. I’m just afraid she might depend on it once too often.”

  She searched his round, honest face, noting its deep color, the sheen of perspiration on his upper lip, the strain in his eyes. It had cost him a great deal to speak so openly about his wife. That he had made the effort was important. Slowly it came to her that his concern was for the possibility that Margaret would push her into doing something she had no wish to do, just as she had years before.

  She gave a slow nod. “I’ll remember,” she said, “but don’t fret. I won’t do anything I don’t want to.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But the trouble is why you might decide you want to do it.”

  To that Riva made no answer, for there was none.

  Noel left Bonne Vie early. It was cowardice, he knew, but he didn’t feel up to making small talk over the breakfast table, had no wish whatever to see Riva so soon after what had happened the night before.

  He had lost it there for a moment.

  She had looked so untouchable in her shimmering cream evening gown, had been so untouchable for him for so long, that seeing her in Edison Gallant’s arms even for a second had been intolerable. It was as if she had been sullied in some way, and the fact that she didn’t seem to realize it herself, might even have invited it, had been maddening.

  More than that, he had wanted to make her as aware of him as she was of the other man. He might have succeeded too well. Riva had an acute sense about people.

  God, but he hadn’t felt such a sense of living on the edge since his first week as a military adviser in Vietnam. It had been what he needed then, when his father had kicked him out of the nest for the sake of the child bride they both wanted, and he had been so wrapped up in pain and disillusionment that it had scarcely mattered whether he lived or died. Or so he told himself. H
e had found out how much it mattered when he heard the first shell scream past overhead. Self-pity and the petty defiance that had made him join the marines instead of accepting his dismissal to the backwater of the Paris office had given way to a healthy rage. The rage had stayed with him. It helped to be mad as hell when people were trying to kill you. Half of the heroics for which they had pinned medals on him later had been because he refused to step aside anymore. He had done that once and left behind everything that mattered to him. He never intended to do it again.

  Noel enjoyed driving himself, enjoyed the powerful purr of the twelve-cylinder engine under the hood of the BMW 750 IL, enjoyed leaning into the curves of the Great River Road that ran alongside the Mississippi. It was in his nature to be in control; whether that was an advantage or a fault he neither knew nor cared. A great many executives these days were concerned with security, hiring bodyguards and installing devices in their cars to foil kidnappers. Even George, whether Riva realized it or not, had had training in protecting his passenger, not to mention his hitch in the military with heavy-duty survival practice in Nam also. Noel, however, preferred to rely on the superior engine of his car, the licensed handgun in the BMW’s glove compartment, and himself.

  The feel of Riva in his arms came back to him in a wave of heat. It had been a long time since he had held a woman, an eon since the last time he had held Riva. He had known how it would be, and he had been right. Forbidden sweets. He had felt twenty-one years old again and still in the midst of a raging Oedipus tragedy. Or had it been a farce? It was difficult, at this distance in time, to tell.

  Regardless, the taste and scent of her lingered in his mind. They were a part of him, as familiar as his own. He had conjured them up on a thousand sleepless nights, creating of them a warm and breathing image that crept into his bed beside him, all grace and tender caring, naked and endlessly accommodating. It had helped. Yet the reality had the power to make him doubt his sanity. Even now, thinking about it, he felt as if he were being consumed by fire from the inside. To keep the pain from showing required all his strength, all his energy.

  “Take care of Riva.”

  He gripped the steering wheel in a stranglehold as those words filtered into his mind. His father had dared to say them to him as he lay dying. His father had held his arm with the last of his failing strength and looked at him with hope and despair and, yes, with love, and given him that command. Noel wished he knew what it had meant. Was it a sacred trust or, at long last, permission?

  Noel didn’t need permission, had never needed it. What he needed, then and now, was absolution.

  He would take care of Riva.

  Noel did not normally go to meetings of civic clubs. He had been approached about joining several on his return to New Orleans but had declined. He was not an organization person and had lost touch with the concept of civic betterment while in Europe. His call to a friend about the chamber of commerce luncheon he was going to attend today, then, had more to do with the guest speaker than his interest in the group’s undoubted accomplishments. The speaker was Edison Gallant.

  A few hours later, Noel sat watching and listening to the man, evaluating his appearance and his words with what he hoped was detached judgment. There was a façade of strength there, a good speaking voice, flashy good looks based on the tried-and-true Kennedy style—albeit with a Southern accent—and a doctrine of active leadership and spending cuts to bolster the state’s economy. But there was no real substance. In addition, there was tension in the man’s movements and in the lines of his face that suggested that he was not as confident as he appeared.

  What Gallant had to say was well received, however, and when the luncheon was over, his well-wishers crowded around to tell him so. It was some time before Noel could speak to him. After a perfunctory compliment on his talk, Noel requested a few minutes of his time.

  Wariness crept onto Edison’s face. “Is it important?”

  “It could be.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I have no way of knowing what you consider important. I was under the impression that campaign contributions were always of interest to candidates.”

  Edison pursed his lips. “I have an adequate campaign chest; I might even say more than adequate.”

  Noel inclined his head, though he was aware of some small surprise. “If you have more than enough, then I won’t waste your time or mine.”

  “Hold on,” Edison said. “What is it you want to talk about that involves money?”

  “A matter of mutual interest, I believe the phrase goes.”

  Edison gave a snort of laughter. “I can always use a man of your influence in my corner. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  A half hour later, the two of them were sitting in the coffee shop of the hotel where the meeting had been held. They had it to themselves except for a crew of two in pink uniforms who were cleaning away the remains of the buffet and salad bar.

  “You mentioned a contribution,” Edison said when they had ordered coffee and the waitress had gone away to fetch it.

  Noel sat back in his chair. The lack of finesse in the question was both annoying and gratifying, annoying because of the obvious attempt at pressure, gratifying because he had, after watching Edison, expected nothing else.

  “I thought you had enough?”

  “I’ve reconsidered. There’s always room for more, especially if we’re going to talk a deal.”

  “There is that possibility,” Noel answered.

  “How much?”

  Noel met the politician’s gaze squarely. “How much do you need?”

  “Anything short of illegal,” Edison said with a short laugh.

  “Why stop there?”

  The smile faded from Edison’s face. He leaned across the table. “I’m in no mood for beating around the bush. What is it you want?”

  Noel picked up the spoon he had unrolled from his napkin. He drew a circle on the table with its tip. He put it down again. Finally he said, “Information.”

  “About what?”

  “Your association with Riva Staulet.”

  Edison grinned and sat back in his chair. “I should have known.”

  “Should you?” Noel sat without moving a muscle.

  “You’re out to get the bitch, too.”

  “I remind you that you are speaking of my dead father’s wife, and I don’t appreciate the term you just used. I take it as an insult to his name and to mine.”

  “God, I thought that shit went out with the Civil War.”

  “Your mistake.”

  “What the hell is this, then? You want to screw her out of your old man’s fortune but without damaging her precious name?”

  “I’m more interested in what you want with her.”

  “I want to screw her, period, if you must know.”

  “And what does she want?” Noel’s voice was hard.

  “God knows. I never did.”

  Noel studied him. “I don’t think that’s quite the truth.”

  “About as much as you’ve given me,” Edison said with a tight laugh.

  “Yes,” Noel said softly, “but then you don’t have anything I want.”

  “I thought I did. Information.”

  “Something I can always get elsewhere, though it may take longer.”

  Uneasiness crossed Edison’s face as he met Noel’s hard gray gaze. He waved a hand. “Never mind. You have a lot better chance to get back at the bitch than I do, and more power to you. How you go about it is no skin off my nose. What do you want to know?”

  ELEVEN

  RIVA WATCHED FROM HER CHAIR IN THE shadows of the upper front gallery of Bonne Vie as Doug Gorsline arrived. It was midafternoon and Erin had returned perhaps a half hour before, in plenty of time for her appointment. One of the girl’s many good qualities was that she remembered her obligations. She had avoided both Riva and Margaret, however, by taking over the entertainment of Noel’s children from the nursemaid who had
been found for them, one of George and Liz’s granddaughters. Erin was out back in the pool with Coralie and Pietro, refereeing the water fights between the two and keeping the little imps more or less in the shady end to prevent sunstroke.

  The photographer got out of his car and stood staring up at the house for long moments. Bonne Vie had that effect on some people, a combination of awe and nostalgia with a shading of envy. It gave Riva a better feeling toward him that he was susceptible to past grandeur, no matter how dedicated he might be to recording the present.

  Doug Gorsline moved up the walk and disappeared under the gallery. A moment later, the doorbell rang. Riva waited a short time after she heard him being admitted, then rose and walked into the house and through the upstairs hallway to the back gallery.

  She had never liked gambling, no matter how well calculated the risk. The palms of her hands were sweating and her stomach churned. Fanciful images ran through her mind, tilting her lips in a mirthless smile. She could not decide whether she was the spider who had invited the fly to enter or the grandmother with the wolf inside the door.

  This was her daughter’s life that she was attempting to manage. The idea made her feel guilty and manipulative. She had the best of intentions, but that did not really count. She had always felt it was wrong to interfere deliberately in other people’s lives. There were times when it could not be helped, but it should never be on purpose, for a person’s own gain. Her only gain in this case was peace of mind; still, the principle was the same.

  She hoped, quite simply, that Doug Gorsline would be able to supplant Josh Gallant in Erin’s affections. He was articulate, intelligent, and good-looking, and he had the kind of persistence that might appeal to a young woman. More than that, he was obviously smitten.

  Or else he was an excellent actor, in which case his instincts as a newspaperman could be extremely dangerous.

  From the upper back gallery it was possible to see beyond the pool, from the row of columns at the far end to the sweep of lawn set with ancient trees, which led down to the ornamental pond. The glare of the afternoon sun shone silver-white on the templelike folly in the middle of the reed-edged body of still water. Even from the gallery the huge, calm Buddha housed inside could be seen glinting in the interior dimness.