Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

She omitted little, though she glossed over her sister’s precise reason for her involvement, as promised. She did indicate something of what had just taken place in the house, however, including Edison’s self-incrimination in the death of the civil rights worker all those years ago and his glancing reference to his connections to the mafia.

  At last the story was over. There was perfect silence for the space of a breath as she stopped speaking. Then came pandemonium. The crowd surged forward, shouting, yelling questions, waving recorders and microphones as each one tried for a special quote.

  Noel looked over his shoulder and nodded. The squad of riot police, most of them sheriff’s deputies, moved in, surrounding Riva.

  For a heart-stopping instant, she thought she was under arrest, that somehow she was to be implicated in the crimes of which she had spoken, possibly at Noel’s instigation.

  Then Noel, with his arm still around her, urged her backward within the shielding circle of uniforms. The front door swung open behind them. Riva stepped inside with Noel, Erin, and the police. Abraham, with immense hauteur, slammed the door shut again, closing out the noise and bright TV lights.

  Outside, there was an immediate rush for cars and vans. Cameras were thrown into their padded bags and cables whipped in the air as they were coiled. Doors slammed and engines roared into life, then shifted as wheels spun away down the drive. In less than five minutes, the members of the press were gone. All that remained to show they had been there was the trampled grass of the front lawn and a litter of foam coffee cups, cigarette butts, and crumpled bits of paper.

  It was only when the last van and car had disappeared that the sheriff’s car carrying Edison drove away. No one was sure what the charges against him would be, whether murder or manslaughter, rape or assault or attempted assault, or even bigamy. There was no lack of possibilities to choose from, but the composition of the final indictment would be decided by the lawyers. In the meantime, the New Orleans chief of police wanted to have a personal talk with him about the drug situation in the city and surrounding suburbs.

  Boots left with Margaret shortly thereafter. Margaret could not stop crying, would not stop talking. Her husband had called a specialist in nervous disorders arising from assault and also arranged for a consultation with a second man whose area of expertise was addiction to prescription drugs. The two were waiting at Oshner’s to see them. There was a special program there for cases like Margaret’s, one that included a stay of weeks or months at a minimum-security rehabilitation center. Her husband was going to check her into it if the doctors thought it would help. She would be there if the police wanted to talk to her. And so would Boots.

  Riva had stopped short of exposing her sister’s guilt in causing the crash of Edison’s plane. It was possible Edison would accuse her himself, but it was also possible he would not since it would mean admitting a great many uncomfortable truths about Margaret’s motives in trying to kill him. What would happen with her, then, and with the airport mechanic who had been Beth’s husband, only time could tell.

  The housekeeper Liz, conscious of the requirements of hospitality, conjured up a buffet luncheon of vegetable soup, sandwiches, and plates of hors d’oeuvres along with coffee, wine, and fruit-juice spritzers. She knew none of them were hungry, she said, but it would give them something to do while they wound down from the excitement of the last hour.

  It was too hot to eat on the gallery. The food was laid out in the dining room. It gave Riva a queasy feeling to go back in there, especially when she glanced at the hole in the plaster where the shot Margaret had fired had struck. However, the discomfort lasted no more than a moment. It wasn’t rooms that caused pain, only people.

  Constance was standing alone in the room as Riva entered. The other woman turned and her gaze was narrow with appraisal as it rested on Riva, as if she were searching for flaws. She said sharply, “Where is Noel?”

  “I’m not sure,” Riva answered. “He was busy with the sheriff and his men until they left with Edison just now. I heard him say something about checking on Coralie and Pietro, in case they were disturbed by all the excitement.”

  “I must have just missed him, then,” the other woman said, “not that he need have bothered about the children. They have seen cameras and the paparazzi before; they are quite able to ignore such people, so long as no one is chasing them to take their pictures. Actually, they have been watching television, which they adore, and all the commercials have made them ravenous. I came down to see what was available for them to eat.”

  It seemed an unlikely excuse since Constance was not shy about ringing a bell or cornering a maid to get what she wanted. It had to be curiosity that had brought her downstairs. Riva waved toward the buffet. “As you can see, lunch is ready.”

  The other woman picked up a plate. “How calm you are for someone who, if I have it right from Abraham, has just been shot at in this very room.”

  “There’s not much to be gained by hysterics except attention, and I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

  “Even Noel’s attention?”

  Riva stiffened at the sarcasm shading the woman’s voice. “Noel has nothing to do with it one way or the other.”

  “I think otherwise.” The Sicilian woman’s manner was grudging as she went on. “Oh, yes, when I first came I had plans to make him jealous and to win him back. It was a matter of pride. I could not understand why he had left me, you see. Noel refused to explain, but I knew you were a part of it, so I hated you and wanted to hurt you. But I listened from the gallery upstairs just now, and I put what you said with what I know. I see now why you claim Noel’s mind above other women.”

  “Hardly that,” Riva said, uncomfortable at such plain speaking.

  “Of course that! He is a romantic man—aren’t they all? He made for you the beau geste and pretends now that all the years in exile don’t matter, but it’s a lie. Do you intend to reward him?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Constance flung up her free hand in a gesture of disgust. “Americans! Why do they not admit what they feel? Have it your own way! Keep everything to yourself as Noel does; you will make a fine pair!”

  Riva was prevented from answering by the approach of footsteps. It was Dante who appeared in the doorway, and he was not alone. With him was Anne Gallant.

  No one spoke for long seconds until Riva, from years of habit at playing hostess, greeted them. “I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been here?”

  It was Dante who answered, his voice grim. “We just got here. We saw the start of the news conference on the waiting-room monitor and came as quickly as we could, but it seems we missed the party.”

  “I’m afraid so.” Riva looked from one to the other, noting their pale faces, as if they had not slept during the night, and also the solidarity of the front they presented as they stood shoulder to shoulder.

  “Indeed, yes,” Constance said, her gaze sharp on the couple also. “The police have already taken the lady’s husband away. Aren’t you lucky?”

  “He isn’t my husband, and never was,” Anne said with a lift of her chin.

  Riva said, “You…heard what I had to say, then?”

  “We listened on the car radio as we drove here,” Anne replied, “but I figured out that Edison and I weren’t married days ago, as soon as Dante told me of the ceremony Edison went through with you. My son was born nine months after my so-called marriage, you see, and I knew that Erin was older by almost a year, which meant that the marriage to you had to have come first. Mine, then, was invalid. It was…quite a shock.”

  “A convenient one,” Constance suggested. “You could have your Colorado fling without guilt, could you not?”

  Anne exchanged a brief private glance with Dante, then looked away again with color high on her cheekbones. “Not entirely without guilt,” she said, “but certainly without regret.”

  Constance made a small, dismissive gesture with one shoulder. Turning towar
d Dante, she gave him a sultry, carefully calculated smile. “Coralie and Pietro have missed you. I was just going upstairs to take them some food. Wouldn’t you like to come and visit a while?”

  “Sorry, I can’t just now,” he said with firm impenitence. “Tell them I said hello.”

  The smile faded and Constance turned abruptly toward the buffet. “I doubt I will have the time. I must begin packing,”

  “You aren’t leaving?” Riva asked. “Noel has hardly had a chance to see the children.”

  “That isn’t my fault, but I suppose they can stay. Noel can bring them to Paris at the end of the summer.”

  “That’s…very generous of you.” Riva watched the other woman as she began to pile the plate she held with food in a swift, haphazard fashion.

  “Not at all,” came the prompt reply. “I have had an invitation to join a lengthy cruise to the islands of Micronesia. I had not been certain I wanted to go. Now I am. Isn’t it marvelous?” Constance, the plates filled, swung to face them. She gave them a long, cool stare, then left the room without a word.

  Dante hardly waited for the woman to get out of hearing before he reverted to the subject at the forefront of his mind. “About Edison, Riva, do you have any idea where they were taking him?”

  “Not really. To the courthouse, I suppose.”

  He frowned, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t suppose there’s much we could do, even if we showed up there.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Anne said. “I don’t like leaving Josh for too long, and I doubt Edison will expect me to come and hold his hand. I believe the best thing to do would be to notify his lawyer about what has happened, then go back to the hospital.”

  “Whatever you think’s best,” Dante agreed.

  Anne turned to Riva. “May I use your phone?”

  She told her to use the one in the library and tried to insist that Anne come back and eat something, or at least have a cup of coffee, when she was done. Anne nodded with a vague smile, then went away.

  “You might have called me,” Dante said to Riva when they were alone.

  “There was nothing you could have done.”

  “I could have been with you.”

  She gave him a tired smile. “I suppose I should have let you know what was happening. You could have warned Anne.”

  “Touché.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. You have a right to be with whomever you please.”

  He shook his head. “I guess I would have been here, would have known, anyway, except that I was embarrassed. I ruined everything, didn’t I?”

  “No, not really. I never had the right to question where you were or with whom.”

  “You could have had it any time, if you had wanted it. I wanted you to have it. It could even be why I took Anne to the mountains, to make you question it. It didn’t work, did it?” He turned back to her, his eyes dark.

  “I was jealous, if that’s what you wanted, I suppose because she wasn’t your usual bit of fluff, brainless and just over the age of consent. She was someone who could take my place.”

  “You may have been hurt, but not jealous. It was friendship you thought you were losing instead of love. The truth is, as hard as we tried, we never quite made it.”

  She met his gaze for a long moment, her own somber. “No, I guess we never did.”

  “But we’ll always be friends, you know, no matter what happens,” he went on, reaching to take her hand in his warm grasp. “We go back too far to change now.”

  Friends. It was the traditional vow of a lover on the point of departing. The best thing she could do would be to let him go. After all, she had never meant to hold him. She smiled, looking up through the veil of warm tears that came so easily these last few days. She wiped them with a quick gesture. “Yes, we will.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and leaned to kiss his cheek.

  A few minutes later, Anne returned, then she and Dante left the house. Riva saw them out, standing on the gallery to watch them drive away. Finally she turned back into the house.

  She met Erin in the hall. Anne had not only called Edison’s lawyer, she had also checked in at the hospital and Erin had been on hand to hear the report. Josh was awake and coherent. The doctors still weren’t sure he would keep his arm, but the chances looked good; the patient was grumbling and demanding something to eat besides the bouillon and crackers he had been offered. And he was demanding to see Erin.

  Erin was ready to go to the hospital. Sometime in the next day or two, maybe even tonight, she and Anne together would choose the time to tell Josh he had a half-sister. Doug had offered to drive Erin, if her mother didn’t need her. Was it all right?

  Riva watched Erin go off down the walk with the young photographer. Her mother, she had said. Erin thought of her already as her mother. She was Erin’s mother.

  Riva smiled, then shook her head as she heard Doug and her daughter arguing as they left the house over whether they were or were not going to stop for a pizza on the way to the hospital, who was going to pay for it, and whether they would take a piece to Josh.

  The resilience of youth was wonderful. It had taken Erin a little while to accept Josh as a half-brother, but it seemed the process was nearly complete. There had been a sly suggestion from her daughter that there might be a threesome going backpacking in Colorado the next summer, Erin, Doug, and Josh. Riva had given her daughter a fierce hug and sent her on her way. There would be time enough to worry about Colorado later.

  Right now, at this moment, she must pretend to eat the snack Liz had prepared, then find some way of making her final farewells to Bonne Vie, to Abraham and George and Liz and the others, and, yes, to Noel. She hoped she could manage it with dignity and a minimum of tears.

  She didn’t belong. She never had.

  It was funny, but she still felt as if she belonged.

  She and Noel arrived at the buffet table at the same time. They were alone. Everyone had scattered. She and Noel picked up plates and silverware. They both headed for a dish of mushrooms broiled in bacon strips at the same time, then he stepped back, letting her go ahead.

  It was her first opportunity to speak to Noel alone. Until this moment, he had been so busy with the authorities, with fielding calls from the Staulet office and from local dignitaries who had heard rumors, that there had been no time. Quickly, before she could lose her courage, she said, “May I talk to you in a few minutes?”

  He gave her a direct, unsmiling look. “Of course, any time you like.”

  “Maybe in the library? There are a few problems we have to work out privately.”

  “Are you sure you feel up to it?”

  “I’m sure; the sooner the better.”

  “What’s wrong with now, then, while we eat?”

  “Not a thing,” she said, her voice hollow as she spooned mushrooms onto her plate.

  They carried their food into the library. It was the most private room in the house, insulated not only by the empty hall, the outside gallery, and the master bedroom that surrounded it, but also by the heavy bookcases of mahogany and glass that lined the walls. The silence was profound, as Riva and Noel ate their small sandwiches of ham and fresh tomatoes, their chicken and Andouille sausage gumbo, cold boiled shrimp, crabmeat au gratin, and broiled mushrooms. The only sound was the clink of silverware against china.

  Eating a meal with the man you love was supposed to be a sensual experience, one approached with immense appetite. The idea was wryly amusing. Riva had never found anything sexy about it, and certainly didn’t now. Her throat was so tight she could hardly swallow, and the food, spicy and seasoned to perfection, had no more taste in her mouth than a vending-machine snack. She finally gave up all pretense and sat back, sipping a glass of orange juice and seltzer.

  She was searching her mind for a way to begin what she had to say when Noel threw down his napkin, drank the last of his wine, then spoke. />
  “Will you marry me?”

  She stared at him blankly. She understood the words, but her mind refused to accept them or to respond. She recalled a fleeting memory of another proposal made while she ate. Proposals at meal times, and surprise tactics, seemed to run in the family.

  “I mean, after you are free of Gallant, of course,” he went on. “I heard what he said in the dining room.”

  The words Noel had just spoken, their meaning, and the reason behind them in association with the information he had just given her, coalesced in her brain.

  “No!” she answered him with astringency.

  “What do you mean? I did hear him say you were still his wife.”

  She sat forward, putting her glass on her tray. “I mean, no, I won’t marry you. Oh, it’s very noble of you to ask, but it’s impossible.”

  “I see nothing impossible about it.” His voice took on a tinge of anger and his fingers on his wineglass stem were so white-knuckled that it seemed a miracle the crystal did not break.

  “I won’t be married out of charity or because you think I somehow deserve it after all these years.”

  “What do you intend to do, just walk away from everything you’ve worked for, everything you built with my father? Oh, yes, I admit it was your doing in large part. My father was an intelligent man, but he was too conservative, too satisfied with small pleasures and small gains to have brought Staulet Corporation this far alone. By the same token, it’s unlikely you could have done it without his backing, his support. You built something together that is strong and enduring. You can’t leave it now.”

  “I have to,” she cried. “I have no right to it.”

  “You have every right, just not the legal title. I can give you that, then everything will be as it was. Why, in God’s name, won’t you let me?”

  She rose to her feet and walked away to the window. Over her shoulder, she said, “What right do I have here? It’s all been a lie, all these long years.”

  “You thought you were married. Cosmo thought you were married, had every intention that you should be his wife. The ceremony the two of you went through was, I think, the only religious rite you ever celebrated. You were, in his eyes and those of the church, his wife.”