Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  “I did that.” George shook his head. “But I must be losing my grip, letting those two yo-yos sneak up on me that way.”

  “Somehow it’s the last thing you expect,” Riva said.

  “I don’t know, Noel here told me just a couple of days ago to start carrying that pistol. I should have been on my guard.”

  Noel could sense Riva’s gaze as she turned her head to look at him. He kept his attention on George. “Is that blood on your sleeve? Why, in God’s name, didn’t you say you were hit? Come on in the house so we can look at it and see if we need to get you to the hospital.”

  “I’ve had worse than this in my eye,” George said in disparagement as they turned toward the house. “My old lady can patch me up.”

  “Maybe so, but we still have to report this business—unless you called on the car phone.”

  “That I did,” George said, “on the way in. I hope the police get those bastards—pardon the language, Miss Riva.”

  Noel frowned as he walked. “It goes against the grain to let them get away.”

  “Yeah, but it don’t pay to argue with an Uzi, even if they was amateurs,” George answered.

  The front door was standing open. Abraham must have heard their approach and alerted the house. As they neared, Liz came running out, still wearing her apron. Constance, Margaret, and Boots were right behind her and a pair of housemaids were on their heels. Hands reached out to them, drawing them inside. Exclamations and questions rose in a babble. Pietro’s voice was a shrill treble as he ran here and there among the adults. “Was it the terrorists?” he shouted in excitement. “Did they bomb my papa’s car?” Constance quieted him, murmuring in Italian. Then came the distant keening of a siren, approaching fast.

  The sheriff’s car sat on the drive at Bonne Vie with its red lights flashing and its radio emitting static and occasional garbled calls for the best part of an hour. The parish sheriff, Cajun born, with a body like a beer keg and a mind used to convoluted thinking from figuring out his degree of kinship to nearly everyone in a fifty-mile radius, took statements while at the same time laughing and talking, sipping coffee and eating one of Liz’s fried apple pies.

  Noel wasn’t fooled. The man was shrewd and he was less than satisfied with the possible reason they gave for the attack. The careless-sounding questions thrown out about this detail and that were designed to uncover the secret the sheriff sensed behind the façade of their good-mannered cooperation.

  It was, of course, a game that could be played by more than one. There were few masks so effective as that of gracious courtesy. Noel watched Riva with appreciation as she smiled and answered questions, poured coffee and suggested second helpings of the pies. There was little to show that less than an hour before she had been in fear for her life. She had washed the blood from her face and hands and applied a Band-Aid or two, changed into a loose robe of cream-colored silk, and brushed her hair. She was a little pale, and there were a few livid scratches on one temple and cheek made by flying safety glass, but otherwise she might have been presiding over a ladies’ social. Even George was doing his best imitation of militarily correct respect. For himself, Noel, like the others, was being as obstructive as he could manage though with the best manners possible.

  “None of you ever saw these two guys before?” the sheriff asked.

  “Never.” Riva did not even look up from her coffee cup as she drank.

  “Not me,” George said.

  “No.” Noel did not elaborate.

  “And you’re satisfied it was your common, everyday kidnapping attempt, with the big idea being ransom?”

  Noel met the sheriff’s gaze without evasion. “It must have been.”

  “You have to admit,” the lawman said with a shade of asperity, “that it didn’t seem to make too much difference how banged up their victim might be, I mean, that limo’s like a sieve.”

  Noel narrowed his eyes slightly as he considered the sheriff. “I can only suppose they lost their heads when they met with resistance—unless you have another idea?”

  The lawman wasn’t ready to meet a direct challenge. “Beats me. I’m just saying it’s funny. Now, let’s see. You say there just happened to be a pistol in the limo?” the sheriff asked the chauffeur.

  “That’s right, sir,” George said.

  The chauffeur was lying to protect him, Noel thought. The reason was probably because George knew there was no real explanation for why the gun was in the car except a hunch, and sheriffs weren’t any happier with weapons concealed for no reason than they were about unexplained murder attempts. No doubt George thought it would call for less explanation if it could be made to sound as if the weapon had been there for some time. However, he could not be allowed to get into trouble over it.

  “As a matter of fact,” Noel said, “I asked him to carry it.”

  “Noel asked him to carry the gun,” Riva said, “but actually it was my idea. There were a few weeks just after Cosmo’s death when I felt nervous about the long drive back and forth to work every day. You understand, I’m sure. I’m told widows often go through spells like that. Really, I had forgotten the thing was there. I think we had all forgotten it.”

  Noel, interrupted in his aim, sat back and watched the ploy going forward with silent admiration. It was plain that Riva was shamelessly using Cosmo’s name and her widowhood for their sympathy value in glossing over the presence of the weapon. That the sheriff recognized the tactic could be seen in the skeptical look on his face, but it was also obvious that the man had no intention of risking the embarrassment of trying to prove it. Nor was he ready to charge so prominent a person as the widowed Madame Staulet with the misdemeanor when she had just escaped an attempt on her life.

  It was, perhaps, unfair of them to expect action and protection from the authorities under the circumstances, Noel thought. However, under ordinary circumstances, they were upstanding citizens, respectable and law-abiding members of the community, full supporters of law and order. It was just that there were some matters that were private, some the law did not have to know about fully in order to do its job.

  It might have been instructive, Noel felt, if he could have joined with the sheriff in ferreting out the reason behind this attempt; he was actually no closer to understanding it than the other man. Another time, he might have been tempted to use this opportunity to force Riva’s confidence. But not now, not after she had come so close to being killed.

  Erin arrived in the midst of the interrogation. She was not alone. With her was Doug Gorsline. Noel had nothing against the young man, but he could have wished him at the devil then. This was no place for a photographer with newshound instincts.

  Doug was right in the middle of it, however, trailing along behind Erin, who pushed into the dining room where they were all sitting around the table. It was the signal for Margaret and the others to crowd in also, breaking up what had been a fairly private discussion until that moment.

  Erin’s opinions on the supposed kidnap attempt were partisan and vocal. That anybody could attempt to injure her Aunt Riva was shocking. The two men should be hunted down like animals. She couldn’t figure out what the sheriff was doing wasting his time at Bonne Vie when he should be out chasing the criminals. She wanted to jump in her car that very minute and go hiking down the road to find them herself. It was Doug who persuaded her that it would be useless. He was more intent on hearing the details of the event under discussion.

  He wasn’t the only one. Margaret exclaimed and shuddered and wondered aloud why the sheriff didn’t do something at once. Boots went on and on about the damage to the two cars, the probable repair bill for one and the replacement bill for the other, and his doleful satisfaction that some insurance company would have to pay. Constance made a few comparisons to events in Italy and Sicily, seeming to take pleasure in the fact that such things could happen in America, land of the cowboy law officers with their white hats.

  There was so much pressure put on the poor sheriff
that the man finally called his office. What he had to report was not popular. Though he had been called less than two minutes after the attack was broken off, no trace had been found of the two men in the sedan. They seemed to have vanished.

  The kidnapping attempt, then, if that’s what it was, gave every sign of being a carefully timed operation, with contingency plans in case of mishaps. No doubt the sedan would show up abandoned on a New Orleans back street or shopping-mall parking lot in a day or two, or else would disappear into some junkyard to be torn down and sold piece by piece into Mexico and Central America.

  It was while those gathered were coming to this conclusion that Noel noticed Riva’s cup rattle in its saucer as she put it down. She immediately stilled it, but her grip on the fine china was white. He straightened from where he stood leaning against the wall after giving up his chair to Margaret. “This should be about enough, don’t you think, Sheriff? It doesn’t seem likely there’s much else to be gained by discussion.”

  “It does seem that way,” the lawman agreed in dry tones.

  “Then I believe it’s time Riva, and George as well, were allowed a little peace and quiet. I’m sure they’re ready for it.”

  “All I ask,” the sheriff said in an attempt to regain some semblance of control, “is that all of you remain nearby, in case something comes up on this deal.”

  “I thought it was the bad guys who were told not to leave town,” George said.

  “Speaking of which,” Riva said with a trace of amusement, “does this mean I shouldn’t go to Colorado for the weekend?”

  The sheriff ignored George as he got to his feet. “Not exactly, ma’am, just that I sure wish you wouldn’t.”

  “You could always reach me at our cabin there. I had already made plans—”

  “I doubt you’re going to feel much like it in the morning. Unless I miss my guess, ma’am, you’re more shook up than you know. Whoever it is you’re supposed to meet will understand.”

  “It might be best if you kept close to the house, period,” Noel told her with a shade of irritation. “Or at least that you don’t go anywhere alone for a few days. It’s possible whoever was after you could try again.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” she answered lightly, “but I wasn’t alone this time; George was there.”

  Noel shook his head. “I think you know what I mean.”

  “He’s right, too,” the sheriff said. “No use asking for trouble. It would be a pure shame if you wound up in a ditch somewhere.”

  Riva said no more. There was a sudden rush of concern for her and George, as if they were invalids. Margaret escorted Riva out of the room, murmuring something about seeing she got right in the bed. Liz took George away, though he was saying something about a stiff drink to go with his stiff arm. The others dispersed. Noel saw the sheriff out to his car, then stood on the drive until the red glow of the official vehicle’s taillights had disappeared and the sound of the engine had died away.

  He looked up at the sky. The misting rain had stopped and an uneasy wind had taken its place. From far off somewhere in the night there came the dull boom of thunder. Lightning blinked on the tree-crowded horizon. Behind the house, down near the ornamental pond, a bullfrog croaked and peeper frogs warned of more rain.

  Noel stood for a moment looking up at the sky, then his gaze fell on the limousine and his own car still sitting in the drive. They needed to be put away, especially the limo with its back glass out. He felt in his pocket for the keys to the BMW. They were there. The keys to the other vehicle were in the ignition since George had intended to return to it later.

  Noel attended to the cars, then closed the garage doors. The frogs were still calling down by the lake. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he strolled in that direction. He wasn’t ready to go inside. There were bound to be more questions, more discussion. He’d had enough of that.

  The small temple of the folly was a pale gleam in the darkness of the pond. It served as a destination since he had no other. When he reached it, he moved inside and leaned against the Buddha. The bronze was as warm as living flesh, still holding the heat of the day. It made the ancient statue seem like a friendly presence there in the dark. He put his own hand on the hand of the Buddha where it rested on the bronze knee, then stood looking at the house, staring at the lighted upstairs windows that were rectangles of glowing yellow above the darkened lower floor.

  He knew which room was Riva’s, the room she had moved to when his father became so ill and the nurses began to stay with him around the clock. The drapes were drawn in that room. As he watched, the lights went off. He thought about her taking off her robe, sliding into bed, spreading her hair over the pillow.

  He swore.

  Noel deliberately switched his thoughts to his son, to Pietro’s loud demands to know if the terrorists had bombed his papa’s car. It was ironic that such a thing should happen while Constance and the children were here since he had always maintained that his part of the world was safe from such terrorist-type threats. Both Pietro and Coralie, to his eyes, were much better now than when they had come; they had lost much of their European city pallor, and their manners were freer and more natural. Just yesterday, Coralie had been rolling out pie crusts in the kitchen with Liz without caring about the flour on her nose or scattered down the front of her dress.

  What a shame it was that Constance could not have kept both children in the house and away from the bullet-riddled car. For that matter, what a crazy world it was where a six-year-old boy knew about bullets and bombs and terrorists. He would have to talk to Pietro about it, make him understand how rarely attacks such as this happened, and that he, the boy himself, was safe. Or was he? Had the world gone mad?

  No, there was a reason for the attack on Riva. He would swear it had something to do with the business with Gallant, could guess at the reasons, though there was something in the violence of it that left him puzzled and afraid for her. He wished she would trust him, confide in him, but he supposed that was asking too much. He was left with the role of watching and waiting. It was not one he enjoyed.

  A figure appeared on the upper gallery of the house. It was pale and luminous, ghostlike, as it drifted up and down. Noel stood still, his gaze intent. After a moment, the wavering shape disappeared. Within a few seconds, however, it materialized on the lower gallery and emerged under the live oak trees and palms around the swimming pool. Insubstantial yet purposeful, it moved toward the lake.

  It was Riva. She still had on her robe of cream silk. The material was light enough to flutter in the gusts of damp wind. As she neared, she called, “I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, but people who want solitude should not wear white shirts in the dark.”

  “How did you know I wasn’t Boots?”

  “I know where Boots is; he’s drinking again on the upper gallery.”

  “But not wearing off-white. I saw you up there. You looked like a ghost.”

  “Probably the source of half the ghost stories in the world, some woman running around in her nightclothes and afraid to admit to anything so embarrassing.”

  “Could be,” he agreed. “Anyway, I wasn’t after solitude so much as quiet.”

  “I won’t make much noise then, or at least not for long. It’s just that I saw you down here and realized that I never even said thank you for what you did this afternoon.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Oh, I know that. I won’t dwell on it, but I am grateful. I’m rather fond of living, and I might have been killed.”

  “Since I feel that that would have caused a definite decrease in the quality of life here, you’re very welcome.”

  “Good, I’m glad we got that settled,” she said.

  He waited for her to go on, hoping she would say something about the reasons for the attack, hoping against hope that she would trust him with her fears about it, her thoughts and suspicions. When she did not, anger stirred. He shifted his position. “Don’t you think I deser
ve to know why?”

  Her voice was low when she at last answered. “What makes you think I know?”

  “I understand about secrets. I’ve kept enough of them.”

  He thought she sent him a flashing glance in the dimness. There was an intrigued note in her voice as she said, “Have you?”

  It was a moment before he answered. “I used to come out here when I was little. The Buddha was my friend. I told him everything. My mother thought it was cute. My father thought it unmanly, that I had my head too far in the clouds. I was maybe eight, nine, not much older than Pietro.”

  “I don’t suppose the Buddha had much to say.”

  “No, but he didn’t tell anybody anything, either. He was never shocked, and he never scolded.”

  “People aren’t often like that.”

  “No, which is why I still come to see him.”

  “He’s very old. I suppose he’s heard a lot, seen a lot, in his time.”

  She spoke almost at random, as if her mind were on something else. He could sympathize. The wind brought her scent to him, one compounded of fresh-laundered cotton, delicate perfume, and her own sense-quickening female fragrance. He answered, “I suppose.”

  “There’s something I could tell him.”

  “Is there?” It was what he had wanted. Regardless, gaining her confidence did not seem so important when she was so near.

  “Actually, it isn’t my secret, but one Cosmo told me.”

  Noel’s brows drew together. He wished he could see her face, but even in the darkness her head was turned away from him. “What is it?”

  “Cosmo told me he lied to you, told you I was encouraging you years ago on the island, coming on to you in order to make trouble between you and him; that I wanted to separate you so that I could have the Staulet fortune for myself.”

  “He did tell me that, yes.”

  “Did you know that he also told me you were stringing me along in order to make trouble between me and him, to get rid of me?”