by Meryl Sawyer
“There’s not much to tell. It happened long ago when Clay and I were freshmen at Tulane while Phoebe was enrolled at Old Miss.”
“University of Mississippi, the training ground for Mardi Gras queens.” He smiled slightly as he spoke. No doubt, he took the quest to be chosen Mardi Gras queen as another joke, but she knew it was deadly serious.
“True, a number of queens have been debutantes in their junior year at Old Miss.” She lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “Other Southern schools have had their fair share of Mardi Gras queens. Since each krewe has a queen, there are plenty of opportunities.”
“Max tells me only one krewe counts, Orion.”
“It’s for social climbers.” She couldn’t resist saying, “You should join the Barkus krewe, assuming you like dogs.”
“I have a golden retriever. Name’s Benson.” His eyes narrowed, suggesting he thought she was putting him on. “There’s a krewe for dogs?”
“You bet. They have a motto: ‘Cats, while welcome, will not be provided with security.’ Benson would love it, but you’d have to get him a special costume. Like the people in Mardi Gras parades, the dogs go all out for their Mardi Paws parade.”
He chuckled. “I take it you weren’t after the crown.”
Alyssa put down her muffuletta and wiped the olive dressing off her fingers, saying, “Are you kidding? I wasn’t in their league.”
She didn’t add that this had been drummed into her head from the time she’d come to live with the LeCroix family. Phoebe’s mother, Hattie, kept telling Alyssa that she wasn’t debutante material. She wasn’t as pretty as Phoebe, and she didn’t have Phoebe’s social connections, Hattie had claimed.
“It takes lots of money and time to be a debutante. I had neither. My parents were killed when I was seven. My aunt and uncle took me in, but I made my own way without much help from Hattie or Gordon LeCroix.”
The expression on his face never changed, but he seemed to be gazing at her more intently. Stick to the facts. “I worked after school and studied hard. I was awarded an academic scholarship to Tulane. That’s where I got to know Clay.”
“You must have known him before. The families are old friends.”
“Of course, I’d seen him over the years, but the LeCroixs’ parties were always large.” She didn’t add that the family treated her more like a servant than a relative. She was usually in the kitchen during their parties or conveniently away at church camp. “Clay knew Phoebe much better because they went to the same private school while I attended the public school near the house. We didn’t become friendly until we began taking prep courses the summer before we entered Tulane.”
She carefully modulated her voice, keeping it level, disguising any of the latent anguish she still harbored. Clay was a man you had to release by degrees. It didn’t happen overnight. His grip had been too tight to throw off easily. Even now, she felt … something—and hated herself for it.
“You got to know Clay better,” Jake prompted, and she realized it had been several seconds since she’d spoken.
“Yes. We started dating that summer. Everything was great,” she said, then wondered if it had ever been as marvelous as her foolish heart had believed. “By Thanksgiving, Clay was talking about marriage, but we had to wait until we finished school.”
“Why wait if you both were so much in love?” There was an undercurrent to his voice, and she suspected Jake found it hard to believe Clay had planned to marry her.
“He knew his parents wouldn’t approve. We wanted to wait until we could support ourselves,” she replied, and he gazed at her as if he expected to hear more.
“Where was Phoebe?”
“She was in town a lot that fall, which wasn’t surprising. The girls on the deb circuit are often chosen to be part of the queen’s court, so they come to the city frequently for parties. What stunned everyone was Phoebe’s finding the gold bean in her slice of cake.”
“Sounds like some dentist planned to get rich.”
“It’s tradition. The Orion krewe has a very formal party. The deb who finds a golden bean in her slice of cake is the krewe’s queen. What surprised everyone was that Phoebe was so young, a college freshman. Most queens are juniors in college and seasoned on the Mardi Gras circuit. Many have been on the court and really know the ropes.”
“Why was Phoebe chosen in her freshman year?”
Alyssa shrugged. “I have no idea. I guess, Hattie—that’s Phoebe’s mother—persuaded her husband to use his influence as captain of the krewe.” She hesitated before making any derogatory remarks about krewes or the men’s clubs. Most businessmen in the city belonged to one. “Are you in a club?”
“Nah. I’m a lone wolf. My father belongs to the Mayfair Club. I could join, but I’m not interested.”
She considered what he’d said and had a difficult time imagining Jake with a father in the elitist Mayfair Club. Clay was a different story. He came from a long line of New Orleans aristocrats who had founded such clubs. Jake seemed to be his own man unlike Clay, whose life had been dictated by his family and their place in society.
“Clay’s father forced him to escort Phoebe to most of the functions after she was chosen queen.”
Jake asked, “What about the king?”
“He’s an older man who’s usually married. He’s selected for his service to the community.” She could see that Jake hadn’t paid much attention to Mardi Gras, despite having lived in New Orleans for years. Alyssa doubted that she would have either, if she hadn’t been raised with Hattie grooming Phoebe to become queen and constantly reminiscing about her own reign as Mardi Gras queen.
“The king and queen ride the float together and make public appearances, but there are lots of times when the queen needs a younger escort.”
“I get the idea.”
“Mardi Gras fell early in March that year. A month after it was over, Clay and Phoebe announced their engagement. They had a May wedding.”
“That’s fast for a society wedding. Do you think they fooled anyone?”
Only me. I was a fool for ever thinking Clay loved me. “If you have enough money, everyone pretends you’re not pregnant when you go down the aisle.”
“What did you do?”
She could have told him about the nights she’d walked along the levee, gazing at the muddy Mississippi and longing for Clay, but she kept to the facts. “I worked two jobs and attended classes.”
“Didn’t Clay ever explain or apologize?”
She dodged the question. There wasn’t any reason to discuss the ridiculous excuse Clay had given her for marrying Phoebe. “I was living on campus then. I minded my own business and stayed away from them.”
He considered what she’d told him for a moment, then asked, “What happened the night the baby disappeared?”
“My roommate gave me a message from Clay late on the night the baby was born. He asked me to come to the hospital. I almost didn’t but … I went.”
“Did Clay meet you there?”
“No. It was after midnight. There wasn’t anyone around except the babies in the nursery. I waited a few minutes, thinking Clay would come.”
“You didn’t see anyone?”
“Just the nurse who showed me to the nursery.”
“How long were you there?”
“Five minutes, maybe less. I decided someone was playing a cruel joke on me. I realized Clay wouldn’t have made the call.” She didn’t tell him how she’d stared at the small infant, wishing he were her baby. She’d run out of the hospital, holding back tears. By the time she reached the parking lot, the unshed tears blinded her. Deep sobs racked her insides, and she allowed herself to cry.
“What did you do?”
“The worst thing I could have done. I had my roommate’s car. I drove out to Le Petit Bayou and sat there, watching the fireflies until dawn.”
“That’s a pretty desolate area of the bayou. I take it no one saw you there.”
“Right.
It left me without an alibi.” She looked directly into his dark, assessing eyes. “It also gave credence to Phoebe’s accusation that I’d tossed the infant to the alligators.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched.”
“You’d be surprised how many people believe that’s what happened. Ravelle fanned the flames every day in her “Around Town” column. Of course, she’s a close friend of Hattie LeCroix.” A prickle of unease made her ask, “Is she still writing for the Sun?”
“Ravelle’s moved to Channel Seven.”
“Great.” Alyssa was prepared to face the past, but she hadn’t counted on the gossip columnist still being around. “Back then, Ravelle badgered everyone in the press until the police dragged the bayou. The Duvalls hired a slew of private investigators, but the baby had vanished without a trace.”
She pushed her unfinished sandwich aside. “Many people believed alligators had eaten the child. As soon as I arrived in Italy, I borrowed the money from Aunt Thee to hire my own investigator. He didn’t uncover anything new.”
“A baby just can’t disappear like that and not leave a single clue.”
“That’s what happened. It’s heartbreaking to think about where little Patrick might be now. Is he happy?” Despite her best effort, her voice betrayed her inner emotions. “Is he healthy? Have people loved him the way every child deserves to be loved?”
A beat of silence. “You’re assuming the baby survived.”
“Why would anyone want to kill a helpless baby?”
His eyes were intense and troubled. “Remember the nurse on duty that night?”
“You mean Gracie Harper. What about her?”
“She was murdered earlier today.”
“Really?” She tried to think clearly but couldn’t. Her mind kept replaying a television interview with a very young nurse. The memory was a decade old, but the nurse saying Alyssa had been the last one seen with the infant still sent her stomach into a backflip. “That’s terrible.”
Despite the horrible memories, Alyssa had never blamed Gracie Harper. The woman had told the truth—as she’d seen it. She wondered about the nurse’s family, imagining their shock, their grief. She knew firsthand how devastating it was to suddenly find yourself without a mother. “Did she have children?”
“No. She was divorced.” His gaze cut away instead of remaining linked with hers.
“What are you trying to tell me, Jake?”
His eyes swung back to her, even more intense than they had been. “We routinely use a private investigator to vet every employee. Rueben Sanchez looked into the disappearance of the Duvalls’ baby. He questioned the nurse, and later she contacted him and wanted to meet him in private to discuss the case again. Before she could see him, Gracie Harper was shot.”
Alyssa huddled in her chair, offering no response. Could the nurse have had information that would have cleared her name? She’d had her hopes raised only to be dashed too many times to count since the baby vanished. Someone must know something, but no one had talked. Now the nurse was dead.
“Do the police have—”
“They don’t have a single solid lead. We don’t even know if it has anything to do with the case.”
Alyssa thought a moment. “Why now? Why kill her after all this time?”
“Sanchez thinks it’s because he’s asking questions. He used to be a top FBI agent. He’s not afraid to dig for answers.”
A warning voice whispered in her head. “You know, I love New Orleans, but it’s a city with more than its share of corruption. I’ve long suspected that the authorities didn’t properly investigate the case.”
He nodded slowly. “Sanchez will find out the truth, I’m sure.”
“It’s almost twelve years now. A long time. Witnesses move, forget—”
“Die.” His voice became even more serious. “I want you to be extra cautious. We don’t know what we’re up against or who they might target next.”
“You think my life is in danger?”
“I don’t know. Anything’s possible. Be very careful.”
CHAPTER 7
It was nearly midnight before Alyssa finished talking with Jake and drove to the parking garage near the town house Aunt Thee had leased. She locked the rental car and hurried down the narrow passageway between buildings. A dank smell like a musty cellar filled the walkway, which was dimly lit by brass sconces at either end.
Luckily, the town house had come with two parking spaces, a luxury in the French Quarter, which had been built almost two centuries earlier.
Luckily.
The word took on an ominous note.
“Maybe, I’m overreacting,” she whispered to herself.
Still, she wondered how Aunt Thee had managed to do the impossible—find a vacant town house with a two-car garage nearby. Was it truly luck or had Clay Duvall covertly managed to arrange for accommodations?
Not only was the area a tourist mecca, but rentals, from small converted slave quarters to large town houses complete with courtyards and fountains, were impossible to find. Many apartment buildings had waiting lists, and it often took years for an opening to become available.
“What is Clay up to?” she asked herself once again.
Alyssa hadn’t been totally honest with Jake. Clay had telephoned her when she had been living in Italy, insisting he still loved her, but it had been several years since she’d heard from him. She’d refused to take his calls, and finally he stopped. What kind of man claimed to love you, then got your cousin pregnant?
She came to the end of the passageway and looked around before crossing the narrow street, the key to the town house gate in one hand. The French Quarter was beloved by tourists and residents—and thieves. The deeply shadowed street in the quieter end of the district was deserted except for a stray alley cat foraging for a late-night snack.
Be very careful. Jake’s warning echoed in her ears. Tomorrow she was going to buy one of those tiny cans of pepper spray designed to be attached to a key ring. She should get a cell phone, too. She unlocked the massive wooden doors and slipped into the cobbled carriageway that led into a spacious courtyard.
A magnolia tree graced the center of the area near a marble fountain of Venus. During the day, potted palms provided shade for the groupings of wrought iron furniture. The fountain had shut off, signaling it was now past midnight, but the low voltage lighting was on a photoelectric cell. It was light sensitive and stayed on until dawn, casting a soft glow on the bisque-colored walls.
Still spooked, Alyssa checked the deep shadows, but saw nothing. Someone would have to scale the nine foot walls to get into the courtyard. Not likely, she assured herself. Even if they made it, the doors to the main house were locked.
Above the deserted courtyard lace-like wrought iron enclosed a gallery supported from below by pillars of matching ironwork. Lush ferns grew in enormous baskets hanging from the eaves. More flowers cascaded from clay pots attached to the grillwork.
Using the antique skeleton key, she opened the French doors into the house, then took the stairs to the second floor, where the bedrooms were located. Seeing light filtering down the hallway, she walked toward the south wing where Aunt Thee had her rooms. As usual, Aunt Thee was having trouble sleeping and was in bed reading.
“I’m home,” Alyssa called softly. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” Aunt Thee replied, and Alyssa rounded the corner. “You’re working too hard,” scolded her aunt, the minute she saw her.
“Me? You’ve been working nonstop.” Alyssa bent down to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “Everything’s unpacked and put away.”
“The team from Merry Maids did it all. You may want to rearrange your things, but at least they’re out of boxes.”
“Thanks. I’m sure it’s fine.” Alyssa sat on the edge of the bed and thought again how frail Aunt Thee appeared. They’d celebrated her seventy-fifth birthday with friends in the dining room of the Savoy Hotel in Florence, and she’d seemed a little tired then.
Obviously, the move had taken its toll. Alyssa had planned on telling her about the nurse’s death, but decided it could wait.
“Is something the matter?” Aunt Thee asked.
They had always been honest with each other from the moment Alyssa had placed a very desperate call to her father’s older sister right after she’d been arrested for abducting the baby. Even though Aunt Thee had visited Alyssa only a few times since her parents had died, Thee had flown immediately to New Orleans and hired the best attorney to represent Alyssa. As it turned out, the police didn’t have enough evidence to hold Alyssa, but Aunt Thee’s presence and her unwavering support had helped her through the crisis.
“Clay Duvall is a minor partner in TriTech,” she replied.
“No! You’re joking!”
“Worse, he engineered the deal to buy my company.”
“Why?” Aunt Thee’s brow knit into tight furrows.
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him in years.”
Aunt Thee’s mouth formed a thin-lipped smile. “He’s still in love with you.”
Alyssa shook her head. “He never loved me. I was just … convenient.”
Aunt Thee covered Alyssa’s hand with her own. “Phoebe trapped him into marrying her. He loved you then, he loves you now.”
A slight quaver in Thee’s voice seemed to reflect her exhaustion. Alyssa didn’t want to upset her by resurrecting the difference of agreement that they’d had for years. The older woman stubbornly insisted on accepting Clay’s explanation that he’d made love to Phoebe, believing he was with Alyssa. No matter how much she had wanted to believe it—at the time—Alyssa wasn’t stupid. Nor did she believe Phoebe had become pregnant after just one encounter.
“Why now?” Alyssa asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Of course, it does. Clay knew contacting you directly wouldn’t work. You’ve become successful, less approachable, but if you’re here, you’ll meet face-to-face. Then he’ll have a chance.”
“You’re forgetting he’s married. Not that I’d want him even if he were free.”
“Are you sure?”