by Mary Ellis
“Because you didn’t know him very well, darling. You were blind to that side of him.”
The potatoes stuck to the roof of his mouth. Hunter tried to wash them down with wine but nearly choked. “Did you make any sweet tea?” Following an affirmative nod, he went to the refrigerator for a glass. “I would love to know how you were able to form this opinion. Apparently, the guy I had known for years was able to delude me with no difficulty.”
Ashley finished chewing and swallowed. Then she sipped wine and wiped her mouth on the napkin. Finally, she focused her attention on him. Everything about her seemed precisely orchestrated, even the moisture welling in the corners of her luminous eyes. “Oh, Hunter, let’s not spoil the evening—our first dinner as an engaged couple. I so wanted tonight to be special.” A tear slipped from beneath her lashes. “I would rather not reveal the truth about your friend.” Her tone turned particularly sorrowful.
Hunter gulped his iced tea and set down the glass. “You have my full attention. I think it’s time I know what you know about my business partner.”
Ashley was acting as though this were a dramatic performance. At any moment, a director might step from the wings and yell cut. “Please don’t be upset, but James was no gentleman.” She refilled her wineglass from the bottle, something she never did on her own.
If Hunter didn’t have a splitting headache from the hot sun in the bayou, if his best friend wouldn’t soon be moldering in his crypt in Metairie Cemetery, if someone hadn’t tried to harm Nicki yesterday, he may have found her choice of words laughable. “Not many men are these days, Ashley. Would you stop being so cryptic and just say what’s on your mind?”
Apparently she didn’t like his directness. Her pert nose turned up and her eyes narrowed. “Your noble frat brother found something out about me—something I’m not proud of—and he tormented me endlessly about it. He wouldn’t let me forget a mistake I made after college. He threw it in my face every chance he got just to embarrass me.” Her haughty tone dropped to the barest whisper by the end of the sentence. She lowered her head and stared at her flowery skirt.
Silence spun out between them. Street sounds ebbed, the music usually audible from Bourbon Street fading to an occasional drumbeat. This was the last thing he expected from sweet Miss Louisiana.
“Hunter, please say something. You’re frightening me.” Ashley peered up, her face awash with misery.
He rose, walked to her side of the table, and then pulled out a chair next to hers. “Tell me your secret. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re making this into.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders.
After an exaggerated sigh, she began. “Three of my sorority sisters and I spent the summer after graduation in Atlanta at a condo that Megan’s parents owned. We wanted to have some fun after four boring years of college and before we settled into careers and got married. Everything we were expected to do.” She took a swallow of wine.
“You met James in Atlanta?”
“No, I never actually ran into him, but somehow he found out how we entertained ourselves that summer.” She glanced at his face. “And James never let me forget my foolishness.”
Hunter grew irritated with her evasiveness. Why couldn’t she just spit it out, even if she and her friends had been paid assassins for the mob? But he had a feeling their cottage industry involved her considerable feminine charms rather than firearms. “What exactly did you do that summer?”
“I…we worked for an exclusive Buckhead escort service, catering to international businessmen.” A note of pride etched her words.
“You were a hooker, Ashley?” He tried not to sound shocked and judgmental but failed. This was his fiancée, a former homecoming queen, runner-up to Miss Louisiana, and Daddy’s little girl. A bad taste rose in his mouth from the pit of his stomach.
“No, not a prostitute! Some escort services provide escorts, plain and simple. Travelers, usually older men, wish to dine with attractive women who can make conversation for a few hours of companionship while they are far from home.”
Only Ashley Menard could make her first career sound like Atlanta’s Welcome Wagon for lonely businessmen. He swallowed his anger along with the bile in his throat. “So you were paid to have dinner and make polite conversation?”
“Yes, that’s right. It wasn’t sexual. We were paid three hundred dollars to eat at fabulous restaurants and be…nice to them.”
“It sounds dangerous. You could have been raped or killed. Then someone with diplomatic immunity could have gotten on the next plane home.” Hunter fought to control his temper, not wishing to admit what he thought about her vocation.
Ashley shook her silky mane of hair. “We carried a device for security. All we had to do was push a button if the gentleman got fresh. An alarm would sound and the authorities would be alerted.”
“You describe these customers as gentlemen, but you excluded James from the category because he found out about it?”
“Oh, darling. I know how tacky this whole thing sounds. I’m truly mortified by my behavior.” Several tears ran down her perfect complexion. “We were so ashamed by the end of summer we took a pledge never to reveal what we did to anyone. My friends are all wives and mothers now; one’s even a pediatrician. Everyone regrets working for that service. It was just a lark—an easy way to make money. We were young and didn’t think how it could damage a girl’s reputation.” Ashley reached for his hand, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I would do anything to erase that summer, to change the past, but I can’t.” Her composure faltered as she collapsed into uncontrollable tears. “Can you…ever forgive me?”
What could he say? The mental picture of her batting her eyelashes while hanging on to every word from some lecherous man filled Hunter’s mind. A wave of fury and jealousy stiffened his spine and bunched his hands into fists. But all this had happened a long time before he met her, when she had been young and foolish.
He didn’t exactly savor every action during his youth either.
If he loved her, it was for better or for worse.
If he loved her, he had to forgive her. Isn’t that what he’d been taught at Cathedral Academy?
Hunter stared at his fiancée, feeling pity along with estrangement, compassion but also detachment. It felt as if he’d woken up with a total stranger without a clue as to how he got there. He cleared his throat and said, “Of course, I forgive you. You made a mistake. Everyone make mistakes while growing up.”
“Thank you, Hunter.” Ashley threw her arms around his neck. “Promise me you’ll never bring up this horrible subject. I couldn’t bear to ever talk about it again.” Her hug cut off his oxygen.
“I promise. It’s already forgotten.” It was a stupid thing to say, but a better reply eluded him.
“And you won’t say anything to my father?” Ashley leaned back to study his face. Her makeup was streaked. “Daddy would kill me if he knew what I had done.”
“Your father loves you.”
“I know that, but he’s old fashioned. He would never understand.”
He had to agree with her there. Philip would track down every former client and wring their necks for sullying his only daughter’s virtue. “I promise I won’t say anything to him.”
Ashley exhaled a great breath of air, visibly relaxing before his eyes. “Let’s forget this silly dinner.” She carried their plates to the sink. “I couldn’t eat another bite. Let’s go to the yacht with a bottle of cabernet and take the boat out to watch the moon rise. We need to forget all this unpleasantness. I’ll go wash my face and freshen my makeup.” She picked up her purse and headed for the bathroom.
There was no more mention of James Nowak or his role in her secret past. The matter had been swept under the rug like a dust bunny. Hunter exhaled a weary sigh of frustration. The last thing he wanted to do was fight traffic all the way to the marina while consoling Ashley in her current state. But he had no beli
evable excuse at hand to get out of it.
They would go sailing after red wine, sweet tea, and bad takeout food, along with the bombshell he was marrying a former call girl. His stomach churned with indigestion already. With any luck, he would be swept overboard or die of seasickness.
TWENTY-TWO
Nicki finished her morning exercises and then jogged down to the row of mailboxes at the entrance to the trailer park. Unfortunately, Christine’s mailman only seemed to deliver flyers, catalogs, and final-notice bills. No cards or letters for her from Natchez…and no license to carry a firearm. She’d scored high marks on the exam, and the background check wouldn’t have found skeletons in her closet. Yet by the time her permit arrived, everyone else would be using laser guns.
After checking email, she decided to google the deceased James Nowak. Perhaps sifting through the man’s past would yield a clue to his murder. All Hunter’s records had revealed was that most of his clients had motive. Almost all who had portfolios under his control had lost a ton of money. If churning a client’s portfolio for personal gain created killers, Nicki’s list of suspects stretched three pages long.
“Someone may think you’re close to finding James’s killer.”
What a joke that was. Hunter’s words had made her feel guilty about cashing her first paycheck, but that was about to change. Nicki refilled her coffee cup and studied the Internet’s first reference on Nowak. By the time she finished, she would know him better than the back of her hand.
Hours later Nicki’s back hurt, her eyes were watering, and her neck had developed a painful crick. But James Nowak’s life had opened before her in all its excessive glory. He had one DUI, three civil judgments against him involving back rent, an unpaid store charge, and an IRS lien that was subsequently discharged by a third party. Not exactly the credentials she would want in a financial advisor, but with only one hundred forty-two dollars in her checking account, she needn’t worry. More enlightening was the pile of negative information about the company Nowak interned with after college.
The résumé of Wellert Securities read like a how-to manual of corporate greed and corruption for the 1990s: multiple security violations, imposed sanctions stemming from alleged insider trading, and accounting malfeasance. Even the vice squad had raided a company party for pandering. Apparently, the brokers invited a group of working girls to a bash who definitely weren’t from the clerical pool.
Tsk, tsk. Atlanta must be a great place to be young, rich, and male. James Nowak had lived on the edge, but since two years ago he remained on the right side of the law. Maybe he wheeled-and-dealed, but after partnering with Hunter, he hadn’t gotten as much as a speeding ticket with his shiny green Corvette. Until recently, that is. Something had changed. And someone hated him enough to shoot him.
Hearing Christine’s car under the kitchen window, Nicki closed down her laptop and packed up her notes. Her roommate loved to read over her shoulder and ask endless questions no matter how many times she cited client confidentiality. Nicki appreciated Christine’s generosity, but constant updates on TV shows and magazine exposés were growing tiresome. After greeting her friend, Nicki grabbed a Coke and her laptop, and headed for the door.
“Leaving already?” asked Christine. “I thought we could send out for pizza.”
“I’ll take a rain check. Gotta pick up my new tire and get the spare back in the trunk.” Nicki didn’t mention that Hunter had insisted on buying the tire. He considered the flat his assistant’s fault. Nicki considered it evidence of her gullibility. But Christine would consider it proof of Hunter’s attraction for her. Whichever conclusion you drew, if she never set foot in the Cajun parishes again, it was fine with her.
Once her new tire was installed, Nicki left the repair shop with more time on her hands than she had anticipated. She contemplated another stroll through the French Quarter. A streetcar ride to the campuses of Tulane and Loyola? Maybe a group tour of the Garden District that included the famous Lafayette Cemetery? She had been so mad the night of Hunter’s party that she’d missed the area’s extraordinary architecture.
Unfortunately, Nicki was a creature of habit, or maybe a moth drawn helplessly to flame, but nothing could tamp down her frisson of anticipation as she headed to Hunter’s apartment. The man affected her in dangerous ways. Everything about him intrigued her. Their backgrounds and lifestyles couldn’t be more different. He drank Dom Perignon; she drank sweetened sun tea. He visited Paris for bachelor parties and skied in Zurich every winter. Her sole trip away from home was the Nascar races in Talladega with her Papaw. Was that it? She was curious about a life unlike hers? Too bad his fiancée out-matched her in every category.
Nicki squeezed her car next to his in the alley, tugged her hair loose from its ponytail, and rang the bell. She tried not to hold her breath.
Hunter opened the door in ripped jeans and a faded T-shirt. He gave her a thin smile. “Come in, Nicolette. I would appreciate some diversion.” Deep creases ringed his eyes, while his previously glowing tan had faded to a dull pallor.
“You look terrible, boss. What happened?” She didn’t add that even on bad days he still looked handsome. Nicki set her bag on the foyer table and pulled out her laptop.
“Didn’t sleep well last night. What have you found out?” He loomed over her shoulder while she searched for the correct program. Although similar to her roommate’s habit, Hunter’s aftershave smelled much better than Christine’s perfume.
“I’ve been checking Nowak’s background, trying to come at this from another angle.” Nicki moved into the living room but stopped short. Every piece of furniture had been pushed away from the walls, the rugs had been rolled up and stood on end, and a tiny, ebony-skinned woman was zealously dustmopping the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”
The woman arched an eyebrow and switched off the sweeper. “Who are you?”
“Nicolette Price, ma’am. I’m Mr. Galen’s private investigator.” Smiling warmly, Nicki offered her hand.
“Nicki, this is Mrs. Peteriere,” said Hunter. “Our beloved Jeanette is Grandmère’s friend and former housekeeper.”
While shaking Nicki’s hand, the woman glared at Hunter. “Former? What do you mean by that, young man? I haven’t been fired.” Before Hunter could answer, she turned her attention back to Nicki. “Do you know Monsieur Nathan Price?”
“I do. He’s my cousin and mentor.”
Mrs. Peteriere shook her tiny head. “He’s a worthless bum and a bad influence on people’s behavior.”
“Yes, ma’am. I totally agree. He was a thorn in my foot while growing up.”
A smile spread across Jeanette’s deeply lined face. “You should pick a new mentor, O’lette.” Her grin widened, revealing one prominent gold tooth.
It took Nicki a moment to realize that the word Jeanette had just used was her shortening “Nicolette.” She thought it was lovely and smiled in return. “I’ll put that on my to-do list, ma’am.”
Hunter cleared his throat. “Thank you, Jeanette. Nicki, why don’t we work in the kitchen? Jeanette has already finished in there. She insists on cleaning my apartment once a month, even though I take care of things on a regular basis.”
“Harrumph. Men never move anything. They would dust around an elephant rather than ask him to move.”
Hunter held open the swinging doors. “Before you report me to the labor authorities, Jeanette is officially retired and collects a pension in addition to medical benefits. Yet nothing will stop her. Someday she will rise from her eternal rest on All Saint’s Day to whitewash her own crypt. But we love her and she loves us.”
The elderly housekeeper snickered as she went back to her work.
“Your family is lucky to have her,” Nicki said as the door swung shut.
“That we are, Nicolette. That we are.” Hunter gazed straight into her eyes as he replied. He had a way of doing that that caused the bottom to fall from her stomach.
“May I have some
thing to drink?”
“Of course. I have iced tea, soft drinks, and hemlock juice.” He took down two glasses from the cupboard, along with an amber bottle of something homemade.
“I’ll take a diet soda if you have one. That looks dangerous, whatever it is.”
Hunter peered at the tiny lettering on the label. “It’s supposed to be sassafras tea that Jeanette made, but I’m afraid to try it.” He placed the bottle on the windowsill and pulled two cans of Diet Coke from the refrigerator. His every movement was slow and deliberate.
“What is wrong with you, Hunter?”
“I have a lot on my mind.” He stretched his neck from side to side. “Tell me what you uncovered about James.”
“He had troubles with the IRS, SEC, and the local police. And he worked for an unusual firm during his internship in Atlanta. Hookers were regularly invited to their business meetings. I wonder what they did with the female brokers while this was happening. Send them out on a beer run?”
Hunter stared at her, his fingers tightening around the can enough to dent the aluminum. “That company was a sexist pack of good old boys that didn’t hire women brokers back then.” A muscle jumped in his neck. “You read about hookers being arrested at Wellert Securities?”
“Yep. Police reports are public record. Sounds like a different way of doing business than what would be acceptable at Galen-Nowak Investments.”
He slouched onto a kitchen chair, looking desolate.
“Hunter, you shouldn’t take it so hard. I mean, it was bad, yes, but—”
“I learned things about Ashley yesterday that I didn’t like. I can’t seem to think about anything else.”
The apartment suddenly turned quiet. No vacuum sounds emanated from the other room, no noise from boisterous tourists filtered through the window. Even the wall clock failed to tick.
Nicki desperately wanted to ask: What did Ashley do? What did she say? Will you still marry her?
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said softly instead. “The course of true love never runs straight…or something like that.”
