"Cece didn't aspire to any such thing, because at the time, a transsexual would never be allowed to become a top fashion model." That was a cold fact. "Does Ellisea frequent the Rainbow Boutique?" I asked. "It's a tattoo parlor on Chalmette Street."
"I have no idea what Ellisea does when I'm out of town. If you're asking if she has tattoos, the answer is no." He took a deep breath. "I have a flight to catch. Please don't come back to this house, Ms. Delaney. I won't be here, and as I told you earlier, it upsets my wife. I think it's best for all accounts if that doesn't happen."
He was asking, not threatening me. "Unless I have specific business with Ellisea, I'll stay away from here—if you'll give me your private phone number in Washington." It was a fair trade in my book.
He pulled a notepad from his pocket, wrote the number, and handed it to me.
"Senator, why don't you and Ellisea have children?" I asked. Most politicians knew the value of the family package when it came to marketing.
"Neither of us ever wanted a child. We were both focused on our careers," he said. He abruptly walked away. I turned to watch him and caught the flutter of a kitchen curtain. It was just a quick glimpse, but it looked like Ellisea. And it looked like someone had beaten the bloody hell out of her.
26
Hamilton had left a message for me at my hotel room, inviting me to dinner. I left him a message accepting with great eagerness. I pondered the cultural implications of dining with a man. Why is it that dating centers around food? Or at least the pretense of food. Hamilton and I might not eat, but food was the offering.
Then again, with Hamilton, food could be a very sensual experience. Was the proffering of food in a dating scene just the teasing of one of the senses—taste? With other senses to be sated soon thereafter? Or was it part of providing by the male? "I be he-man and bring food"?
With a grin I remembered one time Tinkie had dated a man from across the river. He was a bad boy with a cute ass, a wicked grin, and a big motorcycle. It was a brief affair, though, when dinner turned out to be a bag of chips and a six-pack of beer. Tinkie was highly insulted. A man just had to work a little harder than that if he wanted to keep the attention of a Daddy's Girl.
"Heck, I didn't expect caviar," Tinkie had said at the time, "but I thought he might go to the trouble of setting the table or maybe frying up some catfish. It was just that he didn't think enough of me to make any effort at all."
Her point was well taken. Perhaps food was the Daddy's Girl limbo pole—how low would he go? How much effort was he willing to put into the relationship? It wasn't a matter of pocketbook but of preparation. Once again I was forced to admit that DG training might have a grain of merit.
It had been a long day, so I took a shower, changed clothes, and headed for the Center. To my surprise, the place was empty when I got there. Or almost empty. Doreen was alone in her office, looking over what appeared to be a radio script.
"For the new audiotapes," she said, pushing the script aside. "Since I didn't go to Zinnia that day, we started on them. It's going to take several days to finish."
"Did Tinkie talk to Kiley Crenshaw?"
"It's Kiley Welford now. Kiley Rogers-Crenshaw-Grant-McAtie-Welford," Doreen said. "Tinkie did talk to her, and Tinkie advised me against giving her a dime. She said Kiley was white trash."
I couldn't help my smile. Kiley would get on Tinkie's last nerve. "Tinkie's an acute judge of character. Sometimes, Doreen, a sleeping dog is best left alone." What was this? Had I fallen into Aunt LouLane's cedar trunk of old truths and adages? Next I'd be talking about the four-mile trek to school in the snow without shoes.
"I guess I wanted to find my brother. Giving him the money was just an excuse. I wanted him." She pushed her dark hair off her forehead. "The money doesn't matter. I'd give it all to Kiley."
"Sometimes giving people money is the worst thing you can do for them."
Doreen looked up and laughed. "The root of all evil."
I shrugged. "Sometimes money allows people to indulge their worst traits."
"Tinkie said something to the same effect, as to how Kiley was the kind of person who would quit her job, buy cigarettes, beer, and sit on the sofa and watch the Jerry Springer show all day long if I gave her the money."
"Well, Tinkie was just more specific than I was."
"You two are quite a team," Doreen said.
We were, and I intended to keep it that way. "Doreen, please don't discourage Tinkie from going to her doctor."
"I wouldn't do that, Sarah Booth."
"Do I have your word?"
She hesitated. "Yes, you do. I would never hurt Tinkie." She started to say something else, but instead she just looked into my eyes. "Tinkie said you went to talk to Oren."
I let the topic of Tinkie go and moved on to the real reason I'd come to see her. "Oren Weaver claims he once healed people."
"He did."
"He lost his power?" I made a hocus-pocus motion with my hands. "Just like that?"
"More like he turned his back on it."
"Do you really believe that?" Now that I'd had time to escape the power of Oren's personality and the persuasion of his words, I'd begun to doubt what he said about Myra. I had to hand it to him, though, he had the power of oration and a great deal of personal charisma.
"Oren did heal his wife. Truly. And some others. Then he got caught up in his own image. He began to believe he was special, and his gift deserted him."
"And you think he can get it back?"
"Spirit is capable of anything, Sarah Booth."
I really wasn't in the mood for a sermon. "I spoke with Pearline." I told her what I'd learned, moving hesitantly around Pearline's visit to Oren's tent revival, but Doreen wasn't shocked or angry at Pearline's attempts to take Rebekah for healing. "She loved my baby. She did what she thought was right." And futile, I could have pointed out, but didn't. "If Oren Weaver's fingerprints are explained away like this, we're back at square one. Yours and Pearline's are the only other prints on the bottle."
Driving through the crowded streets of the French Quarter like a native—which meant using the sidewalk when necessary— I dialed Tinkie's room. I had thirty minutes to get ready for dinner with Hamilton, and Tinkie wasn't answering in her room or on her cell phone. Which meant she was probably in bed with Oscar. I had to admit that Tinkie managed to keep her priorities in order. She'd never let Oscar feel as if he didn't matter. There was a lesson to be learned there, too.
I parked in the garage and buzzed through the Monteleone lobby. My foot was almost in the elevator when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
"Ms. Delaney?"
I turned to face a young, bleached blonde with a bad perm, angry brown eyes, and a tight, cropped T-shirt that exposed a pierced navel above faded and torn jeans.
"I'm Kiley," she said. "I've come for my money."
Great. Just great. I looked around the lobby and realized that everyone was watching us. I had little choice.
"Come up to my room and we'll talk. I have an engagement in half an hour and I can't be late."
She stepped into the elevator with me. She didn't say a word as we made it to my floor and walked to my room.
"Must be nice to stay in a ritzy hotel," she said, pushing a frizz of hair behind her ear.
I decided that niceties would be wasted. "Doreen doesn't owe you anything, Kiley. She didn't owe Adam. She was going to share with him because she wanted an excuse to get to know her brother."
"She wouldn't have liked him very much," Kiley said, pulling a cigarette from her purse. She lit up. "I figured she'd try to back out. That's why I came here. She owes me. I had Adam's baby. I ought to get something for that." A look of pure distaste passed over her face, and I felt a pang of fear for the child. Kiley was a mother from hell. She didn't even try to pretend that she cared for her child.
"Doreen doesn't owe you a penny." I went into the bathroom and began to draw a bath. I'd give her another five minutes, and then she was goin
g out the door.
"I'll get a lawyer."
"Get a dozen. Lillith, Doreen and Adam's mother, left the money to Doreen. There is no mention of another child. While you may not like this, there isn't a single legal thing you can do about it."
"Doreen's this big healer, talking about spirit and God, but it all just boils down to money." Her smile was knowing and cruel. "It's always just about money. Adam scooted in that church every time the doors opened. He nodded and bowed and scraped to the people he wanted to impress, but it was all just part of his act. You should have seen him when he wasn't with them. He laughed at them. He thought he was smarter than they were." Her eyes were hard as chipped rock. "He hated God."
Kiley was vicious. She wasn't going to get what she wanted, so she was going to try and tarnish Doreen's memory of the brother she'd never even met. It was a pitiful stab at revenge.
"I don't intend on repeating any of this to Doreen."
"You think I'm just trash. Well, let me tell you, when Joshua was born, I took care of him. Adam wouldn't touch him. He wouldn't even look at him. I fed that baby and rocked him and changed him and took him to his doctor appointments. Adam wouldn't even go in his room. If the truth were known, I think Adam killed himself deliberately to get away from me and our baby. So you can wipe that superior look off your face, Ms. Delaney. You don't know a thing about me. Don't judge me until you've walked in my shoes."
She stubbed the cigarette out and walked to the door. "This ain't over. I'll get my share of that money, just you wait and see."
She slammed the door behind her, leaving a lingering trace of smoke.
I'D just finished my bath when my phone rang. As tempting as it was not to answer it, I did.
"Dahling," Cece's voice purred over the line, "I wish I were still in New Orleans."
I thought of Ellisea and was glad that Cece had gone home. "What's shaking?" I asked as I dried my toes.
"I need a favor."
"Sure." I was so deep into Cece that it didn't really matter what she asked, I would do it.
"Remember that tattoo parlor I got thrown out of?"
"I remember you talking about the Rainbow Boutique."
"I need you to go there tomorrow and scope it out."
"Is there any particular design you're interested in? Maybe an American flag? Or a heart?"
"So funny I forgot to laugh," Cece said drolly. "I've been thinking. Those guys were terrified. Why? So what if Ellisea has the lower half of her body covered in dragons? Why should they be concerned? Why should they be afraid?"
Cece had a legitimate point, I just didn't know where it might lead, or why. "The best thing would be for you to let this Ellisea thing go," I said. "You got to emcee the charity auction. You won. Let it go."
There was a long pause. "I didn't ask you for advice," Cece said, and I could tell I'd stung her feelings. "I just needed you to do something for me. Forget it."
"Wait a minute. I'll go over there and check it out," I said. "It's no trouble."
"My gut tells me something is very wrong here," Cece said. "I'd do it myself, but I have to go to Memphis in the morning for the Harvest Hunt Ball. The Vice President will be the special guest."
"Goody, goody," I said. I wasn't impressed with the politician or the event.
"Just go there and check it out. And call me."
"Will do," I said, checking the time. I could see the black jeans and red-and-black silk jacket I intended to wear, but the phone cord wasn't long enough to let me touch them.
"Tell Hamilton I said hello," she said with a smug tone in her voice.
"Good-bye, Cece," I said, hanging up and dashing for my clothes.
I was standing outside the hotel when Hamilton drove up in the vintage Caddy convertible he'd rented. It was black with a dove-gray interior, and it looked bad. Behind the wheel, he looked like some kind of modern-day European count.
"I thought we might hit some of the New Orleans nightlife," he said as I got in the front seat. "Maybe find some little club for dinner and dancing, and then see who's playing at Tippatino's."
"I hope it's the blues," I said, feeling a rush of anticipation at the thought of dancing down and dirty with Hamilton. In his black T-shirt and jacket, with his black hair pulled back in a queue, he was the epitome of dark and seductive.
The night was brisk, and Hamilton handed me his leather jacket out of the backseat of the car. I held my hair to keep it from whipping in my face as we headed out of the city, across Lake Pontchartrain, and toward the bayous and marshes that made up the fringes of New Orleans. These were small pockets of old neighborhoods where subdivisions hadn't totally eradicated all of the ethnic roots.
"We're going to Mai's," he said. "Cajun cooking and a house band."
"Perfect." And it was. It was a small shack set up on pilings on the lake. We went inside and ordered dirty martinis and found a small table in a dark bar while we waited for a seat in the dining room. The band was loud, sweaty, and zydeco. I could feel the beat of the music getting into my blood. I was ready to party, and the Devil could take care of tomorrow.
We ate grouper topped with a crawfish sauce that was the best I'd ever tasted. Blooming onions, fried dill pickles, hot peppers stuffed with cheese, and martinis. Hamilton's eyes were on me, sometimes with a look I didn't understand, but always with pleasure.
When we left Mai's, I was feeling no pain. We drove back across the lake to Tippatino's, just in time to make it in the front door before Marva White walked out onstage. My God, the place was rocking.
Hamilton and I took to the dance floor and joined the throng of dancers. It took me a moment to realize that I knew the man dancing beside me. Aaron Neville gave me a smile. It was a night to remember, in more ways than one.
It was nearly three in the morning when Hamilton swept me into the car and back to his apartment. For all the liquor we'd both drunk, we were remarkably sober. He pulled me against his body as we drove, and I found it natural and right. In the long night of drinking and dancing, the edges had been worn off Hamilton. Not edges that he projected, but those that I had perceived. He was no longer a distant fantasy who marched through my dreams and lived in Europe. He was a man, and he was beside me, and he felt good.
Inside his apartment, I turned into his arms and offered my lips for the kiss I'd waited for all evening. He kissed me, but it was slow and tender.
That strange look was in his eyes again when I looked up at him.
"Sarah Booth, will you come back to Paris with me? Just for a visit. You can stay a weekend or a week, as long or as short as you'd like."
I would have followed him into Hades at that moment. "I'd love to visit Paris. To be with you."
"Say you'll come."
"When I finish my case."
He smiled. "I never doubted otherwise. But after that, you'll at least visit me? I'll arrange the ticket whenever you say so."
"Why?" I asked.
"I want you to see what my life is. I want you to have a real chance to know who I am as a person. Tonight I realized something. I want you in my life."
My heart began to flutter. "I am in your life."
"As a fantasy, as the woman who lives across an ocean, a private investigator with green eyes and lacy black underwear."
So I was a fantasy for him also. It was maybe the best compliment I'd ever been paid.
"I want you to know where I live and the people I work with. The streets I walk and where I have coffee. I want you to know me in the way that a woman knows her man."
Hamilton knew many of those things about me. I was living a lifestyle he'd left behind, but it was one he knew. I truthfully had no clue what his life in Paris might be like. In my imagination I saw the Eiffel Tower, small cafes, petite women with poodles. It would be fun to see what it was really like. And it would be a big step to see who Hamilton was in the world he'd chosen to live in.
"I'd love to," I said, meaning it. "Paris in December. It sounds romantic."
; "It will be," he said, gathering me in his arms. "I promise." He began to kiss me, and images of Paris fled before the sensations he aroused in me. It was, indeed, a night to remember.
27
Hamilton had business in Baton Rouge for the day, and though he left me with the tenderest of kisses, I could tell something was up with his work. There were the finest worry lines around his eyes. I held his strong shoulders and kissed his face, wishing to make the worry go away. If only we could stay within the walls of his apartment for two or three days, without interruption. We'd moved to a plane where there were real possibilities for us, not just midnight fantasies. We needed time together, but we didn't have that luxury. Lives hung in the balance for him, and Doreen's future hung in mine. His last look was one of longing as he closed the door.
Tinkie answered her phone in a lazy purr. Oscar was having room service send up breakfast. Though Tinkie volunteered to do whatever I needed, I urged her to relax, sample the pleasures of breakfast in bed, and wait until noon before worrying about anything.
I had two choices before me on this Tuesday morning: LeMont or taking care of Cece's errand. I chose the latter. I still wasn't certain what game LeMont was playing with me, but my intuition told me to avoid him.
The tattoo shop was exactly where Cece said it would be, and it looked just as she'd described it. It was a shotgun-style structure that used to be someone's home. Now, like the houses around it, it was zoned commercial.
The front door opened on a living room that fed into what had once been a dining room that led to one or two bedrooms and then on to the kitchen. The bathroom would be an add-on, the caboose of indoor plumbing.
The bell jangled over the door as I walked in, aware immediately that the first two rooms were empty. I kept walking, but I had the feeling that someone was waiting to pounce on me.
The tattoos were colorful, and I remembered my high school desire for one. I was glad Aunt LouLane had forbidden it. I'd wanted a butterfly on my shoulder. Chances are, it would still look good enough—my skin wasn't sagging yet—but it would certainly detract from such a dress as the one Mollie had created for me. Tattoos, after the age of thirty, become a symbol of foolish youth rather than cool.
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