The Nicci Beauvoir Collection: The Complete Nicci Beauvoir Series

by Alexandrea Weis

  Dr. Appell put her pen down on the notebook in her lap and sat back in her chair. She watched my expression for a few moments.

  “That’s quite a lot of living crammed into a few short years, Nicci. When did David first appear to you? And how many times have you seen him since?”

  “I’ve just seen him once. A few days ago, after my cousin’s wedding in the French Quarter.”

  Dr. Appell quietly contemplated me while I sat on the couch in front of her.

  “Do you think what you saw was real, Nicci?”

  Like most situations involving mental illness, there is no right answer, but a hell of a lot of wrong ones. I just hoped I could offer the answer that no longer brought my sanity into question.

  “No, he can’t be alive,” I mumbled and hung my head, hoping I sounded like I was convinced.

  “I know you would very much like for him to be,” Dr. Appell confided. “There’s nothing wrong with wishing for those that we have lost to return to us, Nicci.” She leaned in closer to me. “And there’s nothing wrong with seeing them, every now and then either,” she added with a wink.

  “Isn’t that a little like saying it’s okay to hallucinate?”

  “No, there is not one thing wrong with seeing the dead,” Dr. Appell replied. “Ghost chasers do it all the time. When we are stressed and tired we see things. Or perhaps, we long to see those that we have loved return to us again.” Dr. Appell nodded to me. “You’re not hallucinating. You know right from wrong, and you’re not on the verge of a psychotic episode. You’re a very levelheaded woman who has lost a great love. The mistake most people make is in believing that they must recover from such a loss. The truth is we never really recover. We just go on, and live our lives to the best of our abilities.”

  “So you’re saying everyone should just deal with me being the way I am?” I asked, feeling hopeful.

  “Yes,” Dr. Appell confirmed. “I do think you need time to sort some things out, and an unbiased ear might help.” She looked down at the notebook in her lap. “I would like to see you again next week, Nicci.”

  “You want me to come back? You just said I was fine…levelheaded and all?”

  “Everybody needs someone to talk to.” Her voice was once again soothing. “I suggest we talk for a while. I think you need to let everything that you have kept bottled up inside for the past three years out.”

  “I’m a writer,” I objected. “I can vent on paper.”

  “You have not been able to vent your emotions, especially those pertaining to David, have you?” She paused and put her notebook and pen down on a table beside her chair. “I read your novel, Painting Jenny. It was a very moving story, but that’s exactly what it was, Nicci, a piece of fiction. Having met you now, I can see inklings of the main character, Jenny, in you. However, there is a lot you left out of that book. I think the emotions that are holding you to David, are also keeping you from committing to Dallas.”

  I was even more confused and unsure of myself. “So what do I do?”

  “I can’t answer that question for you,” she conceded. “Perhaps I can help you to answer that question for yourself, but that is all I can do. You’re in charge of your destiny, Nicci. The road you decide to take is up to you. Just know that in the end, almost everyone chooses wisely, even though it may not feel that way at the time. Life is the journey, and not the destination. Together, I know we are going to be able to work out those rough spots, so you can get back out on the right road again. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”

  ***

  Dallas was waiting in the car when I exited the medical office building. We said little to each other on the ride home. I did not think it wise to tell him too much about my session with Dr. Appell. I knew it would only lead to another heated discussion about David. When we arrived back at the house, we found my father and Uncle Lance in the den by the bar.

  “What are you doing home so early from work, Dad?” I walked behind the bar and gave my father a peck on the cheek. “And why are you drinking at this hour?” I motioned to the glass he was holding.

  My father held up his cocktail. “I needed an early break from the office.”

  I nodded across the bar to my uncle seated on his stool. “You, on the other hand, never need an excuse to drink.”

  My uncle held up his glass to me. “I’ll drink to that.”

  I laughed at my uncle and then turned back to my father. “So what happened that made you feel like you needed to take off early today?”

  My father glanced uneasily about the room. “Just a bad day at the office.” He nodded at Dallas. “The usual for you?”

  Dallas took the stool next to my uncle. “Yes, Bill, thanks.”

  My uncle looked over at me and put his drink down on the bar. “So, Nic, how was the shrink?”

  “Lance!” my father shouted. “Could you please show some self-restraint? What happened between Nicci and the therapist is her business.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Uncle Lance shrugged at his brother. “You called me to come over here so that when they got home we could find out about the session with the shrink.” Uncle Lance picked up his drink. “Why go through all the song and dance. Just ask the kid how it went? You’re dying to know, Billy. That’s the real reason why you poured yourself the damned whiskey in the first place.”

  I stared at my father. “Is this true?”

  He faced me. “I have been worried about you and, yes, I did want to know how your session went. I didn’t want you to feel forced to tell me. I wanted you to volunteer the information.” He reached for a clean old-fashioned glass from a rack behind the bar.

  I gestured to my uncle. “That’s why you called in the Grand Inquisitor to grill me, so you wouldn’t have to do it?”

  My retrieved a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka. “Lance is here for support. I was hoping for a more silent form of support, but since the subject is out in the open…how did it go?”

  “I liked her,” I voiced, and waited for Dallas to make his inevitable retort. He never said a word.

  “Well, you do seem a bit happier,” my father commented. He poured out a measure of vodka in the old-fashioned glass and looked over at Dallas. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think that woman helped her,” he replied.

  “You weren’t there. She was supportive. I think she did help me,” I maintained.

  My father added some soda and ice to the vodka. “Why don’t you think she helped Nicci?” He set Dallas’s cocktail on the bar.

  Dallas snatched up his drink. “She just listened to Nicci talk.”

  “I thought that was the point of going to see a therapist,” I challenged.

  Uncle Lance turned to me. “What did you talk about?”

  “David,” Dallas coldly complained, and then he took a long sip from his cocktail.

  “Oh, I see.” My father folded his arms over his chest while Dallas downed half the contents of his drink. “Is that what’s bothering you? What were you expecting the therapist would do for Nicci?”

  Dallas banged his glass down on the bar. “I just thought she would help us…I mean, help Nicci, deal with our current issues…not her old ones.”

  “Welcome to the world of psychology,” Uncle Lance cracked, and then slapped Dallas on the back. “Where the past can, and usually does, jump up and bite you in the ass.” Uncle Lance peered over at me. “So what did the shrinkette suggest? Lobotomy or pills?”

  I smirked at my uncle. “Very funny.” I reached for a clean old-fashioned glass and walked down the bar to the small refrigerator located beside the sink. “She wants to see me again Monday morning at nine,” I told him, as I took the orange juice out of the refrigerator.

  “I guess that means we will be hanging around here for another week,” Dallas reasoned, picking up his drink again. “While you work on resolving your past. Whatever in the hell that’s supposed to mean?”

  “What?” I stared at Dallas. “I thought you were going back to
Connecticut without me.” I slammed the orange juice down on the bar.

  “Look, Dallas,” my father jumped in. “If you want to stay and help Nicci out, I say you stay.”

  “He can’t stay!” Uncle Lance clamored. “He has to get back to Connecticut to finish building my boat!”

  “Jesus, Lance, would you stop thinking about yourself, for one damn moment, and think about Nicci. We need to be here for her.”

  “I am thinking about Nicci,” Uncle Lance argued. “I’m always thinking about Nicci. It just happens that, at this particular moment, I’m thinking about the seventy-five thousand dollars I gave the boat builder here.” He pointed to Dallas.

  “I’ll write you a check,” my father quipped.

  The ringing of my cell phone from my purse by the stairs distracted everyone.

  “Excuse me, boys. I’d better get that. It could be my publisher.” I quickly exited the den.

  I made my way down the hall to the grand walnut staircase. Pulling the ringing phone from my purse, I casually checked the number on the caller ID. Only “private number,” flashed back at me.

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, my dear Nicci,” Simon La Roy’s high-pitched voice came pouring from the phone. “So glad I caught you.”

  “Simon?” Every muscle in my body tightened.

  “I was wondering if you were free, Nicci?” Simon purred. “It’s time to go over that little job I discussed with you. Are you still interested?”

  Was I still interested? I thought of all that I had learned about David’s death. I still had more questions than answers. If I was going to uncover the truth about what really happened to David, I was going to need Simon La Roy’s help. I knew Simon well enough to realize that he would never consider helping me, unless I gave him something he desperately needed.

  “Yes, Simon, I’m interested,” I asserted.

  “Very good. I’m at the Royal Orleans in the French Quarter. Suite 1056. Come in one hour. And Nicci, come alone.” He hung up without another word.

  Simon La Roy was in New Orleans. Something big had to be up, to make the little man leave his high-rise luxury apartment in New York City. A ripple of curiosity coursed through my body. I put my cell phone in my purse and turned to head back to the den. What was I to tell Dallas and my father? I couldn’t stomach any more confrontations with Dallas, or worried glances from my father. Perhaps it was best not to say anything. Whatever lay ahead for me, I could not let anyone know of my intentions. I took a breath and strolled confidently toward the den. I didn’t need anyone to protect me anymore. I could take care of myself.

  Chapter Six

  “Well, my dear Nicci.” Simon La Roy leaned against his silver handled cane while dipping his head to me. “It has been too long.” He took my hand in his and gave it a firm squeeze.

  Dressed in an expensive dark blue suit, the short, gray-haired man welcomed me into his four-bedroom suite with a flourish of his hand.

  I took in the richly decorated living room. “I must admit, I’m surprised to find you in New Orleans, Simon.”

  “I travel when required by the job. In this particular instance, I needed to be here to evaluate the situation firsthand.” Simon turned from me and faced a pair of chairs upholstered in a gold fleur-de-lis design. He motioned for me to take the chair next to his. “Sit.”

  Leaning on his cane, he eased himself into his chair. As Simon made himself comfortable, he let out a long breath. I walked over to the chair next to his and sat down. His small, dark eyes followed my every move.

  “I’m rather surprised you agreed to meet with me. From everything I was told, you and Dallas are very happy together.”

  I had dealt enough with Simon La Roy in the past, to know when I was being baited. He was looking for a weakness in my armor. I was not going to let him find even the smallest crack.

  “We are happy together,” I confirmed, meeting his stern gaze. “My relationship with Dallas has got nothing to do with why I’m here. I’m a writer, Simon, and I need experiences to inspire my creativity.”

  “How eloquently put.” Simon eyed the silver handle on his cane, resting against his chair. “So I am to be your library of experiences, if you will.”

  I nodded. “Exactly. Your tempting offer intrigued me. I always thought working for you would be exciting. It would give me the opportunity to break away from my mundane existence in Connecticut.”

  Simon shook his head. “I must admit, I find your disclosure rather unbelievable. I never figured you to be the kind of woman who wanted a life filled with intrigue. You always struck me more as the stay at home type; living a safe life with a good man at your side while pursuing your career as a writer.”

  I raised my head proudly. “What makes you think you know me at all, Simon? People are probably the most unpredictable element on the face of the planet. As unstable as nitroglycerin and—”

  “Just as explosive,” Simon added, finishing my words for me. “All right, Nicci. The fact of the matter is….” He rose from his chair, leaning heavily on his cane. “I have a particular situation for which you would be extremely well suited.” He slowly walked to an oak desk in the corner of the living room. The top was littered with papers and what looked like a small pile of manila folders. “I have a client that has asked for help with a little problem,” Simon explained, as he picked up one of the manila folders. “Over the past few months, several forgeries have made their way onto the art market. No one can actually prove these paintings are fakes, but the works have been unknown prior to now. The artist died a few years ago, making the actual authenticity difficult to prove. These forgeries have all been traced back to one local dealer. A man named Gregory Caston.” He came over to my side and handed me the folder.

  I took the folder and opened it.

  “He deals in modern art and antiques. He has been an art lover all of his life and takes a great deal of pride in his unscathed reputation,” Simon went on. “Mr. Caston comes from money, has been well-educated, appreciates the finer things in life, and is an astute business man. His grandfather started a steel company that is now run by his older brother, Ted. Gregory Caston has galleries in New York, Dallas, and one right here in New Orleans.”

  Inside the folder there was nothing but a few photographs. The first one that caught my eye was of a tall, older man in his mid-fifties with brown hair, deep-set brown eyes, and a delicate, almost aquiline, profile.

  I glimpsed up from the picture. “How fortuitous for both of us that Mr. Caston has a gallery in my hometown.”

  Simon returned to his chair. “Mr. Caston is also a huge fan of David’s work. He’s known for his fondness for everything Jenny. Suffice it to say the man is obsessed with…well, you.”

  “Now I can see why you thought I was well suited for this caper.” I glanced back down at the collection of photographs. In one photo, there was a slender, auburn-haired woman on Gregory Caston’s arm. The woman bore a striking resemblance to me.

  I pointed to the woman in the photograph. “Who’s the girl?”

  “Your rival for Mr. Caston’s affection. Her name is Jenny Ryan.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Jenny? You’re joking?”

  “I told you, Mr. Caston has an affinity for all things related to David’s Jenny. This one is a common party girl who has distracted the man for some time, obviously because of her resemblance to you. I am sure, once he meets the real Jenny, that relationship will quickly end.”

  I replaced the pictures inside of the folder. “What is it I’m supposed to do?”

  “Become acquainted with Mr. Caston and learn how he gets his forgeries. I will need physical proof of his illegal activities: photos, receipts, addresses, and the names of all those who supply him with his forged paintings. Once you have enough to bring about a conviction, return everything to me. I will hand it over to my client.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Who is your client? A jealous rival of Mr. Caston’s?”

  He bowed his h
ead, trying to hide a devious grin. “Mr. Caston has many jealous rivals in the art and business world. Yours truly, included.” He lowered his voice, sounding more cruel than angry. “The man and I have a rather sordid history, which has a great deal to do with why I took this job. The client has a vested interest in making sure none of these forgeries make it to the open market.”

  “Because they would drive down the price of the legitimate paintings?”

  He nodded, lifting his beady eyes to me. “That, and the client was a very good friend of the artist. David had a great many friends. All of whom want to see these forgeries quickly shut down at the source.”

  A wave of understanding surged through me. “You knew I would not be able to resist getting involved because of David. I should have realized that there was more to this than just my being David’s Jenny.”

  Simon La Roy’s dark eyes never wavered. “I knew you would be motivated to work with me out of your devotion to preserve David’s legacy. I must admit, you would be the one person Gregory Caston would never suspect of deception. Making your introduction into his private circle, an outright necessity.”

  “Am I expected to sleep with this man to get his secrets?” I questioned, watching Simon’s face for the slightest hint of his plans.

  Simon raised his gray eyebrows warily. “Sleeping with a man does not guarantee you will get his secrets, Nicci. Mr. Caston is a notorious playboy and women are merely disposable pleasures to him. To get close to him, you will need to utilize a different kind of strategy.” He paused and smiled. “When I first started out in this business, I was an actor on the Broadway stage. I watched men like Gregory Caston, as they bedded one pretty girl after another without the slightest bit of remorse. I learned from such experiences that a woman needs more than just her looks to gain a man’s confidence. My best female specialists know how to use their brains, and their bodies, to get a man to reveal his secrets. You must do the same.”

  I looked once more to the folder on my lap. “If I do this job for you Simon, would you be willing to do something for me? Sort of like an exchange of information. I get what you need, and then you get me what I need.”