by Mary Ellis
The moment Ashley walked into the house, he’d realized he was in love with Nicki. Not intrigued with or smitten by…but in love with. He wanted her by his side at the funeral and no one else. Allowing Ashley to sit with the family portended a long, stressful afternoon. Not just for him, but also for Nicki if he could get her there. Ashley’s machinations always spelled trouble. Hunter punched in Nicki’s number and started to leave yet another message on her voice mail.
But before he had a chance to plead his case for her to return his calls, Nate walked through the front door with his cousin on his heels. She wore no Chanel suit and veiled hat, no designer shoes or perfect coiffure. Nicki looked sad, a little scared, and…wonderful. Her gaze swept the room filled with mourners, paused on Clotilde and Ashley with glasses lifted in tribute to Grandmère, and finally landed on him. Hunter practically trampled his Aunt Donna trying to reach her side.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry to hear about your Mamaw.”
As Hunter accepted her shy hug and Nate’s handshake and heartfelt condolences, he felt the walls closing in around him. It was only people approaching: Ethan to accept sympathy from his best friend; Aunt Donna to say hello to Nicki; his mother to make the acquaintance of Nicolette—something he should have taken care of already; and Ashley to wreak mischief. All the times he should have taken a stand, all his missed opportunities to do the right thing, crowded in around him like specters.
Hunter felt doomed and that there was never a man more deserving of the gallows.
THIRTY-THREE
On the day of Helene Galen’s funeral a light drizzle was falling from gray, overcast skies. Thankfully, Nicki had remembered her umbrella as she squeezed into a tight parking spot on Bienville, a street several blocks from the church. True to form, she stepped out of her car into a puddle.
Hunter had asked her to meet him that morning to ride in the limousine, but she’d declined. Just as she’d refused to stay for lunch at Ethan and Cora’s home two days ago. Hunter had looked disappointed and upset. Perhaps he wasn’t accustomed to being told no by an employee, but at that moment Nicki didn’t care.
She had been in Baton Rouge transferring evidence to the federal prosecutor assigned to his case when Nate called with the news. Despite road construction, traffic snarls, and faulty air-conditioning in her car, she returned to New Orleans as soon as possible. Her heart broke for Hunter, knowing how much her Mamaw meant to her. Nate explained that the Galens would receive family and friends in the Chestnut Street mansion. So Nicki expected to see expensively dressed people talking in low voices and sipping bottled water or coffee. The shell-shocked family would try their best to welcome a throng of mourners.
But Nicki hadn’t expected to see Ashley in the comforting embrace of Hunter’s mother. So much for them breaking up. When she and Nate walked into the living room, all eyes fixed on her as though she’d sprouted a second head. Only one girlfriend per person per funeral, and Ashley had beaten her to the punch. Again.
Looking genuinely happy to see her, Hunter had wrapped his arms tightly around her. Then she ruined the moment by referring to the Grand Dame of New Orleans society as his Mamaw, loud enough for everyone to hear. Nicki didn’t need her gun to shoot herself in the foot. All she had to do was open her mouth and talk.
Ashley whispered something to Mrs. Galen that Nicki was unable to lip read.
A little girl asked her mother what a “Mamaw” was.
Nicki wanted to slink out the door.
Now as she hurried up the steps of St. Louis Cathedral, which had anchored Jackson Square for centuries, she was regretting her decision to attend the funeral. She would never fit into Hunter’s world no matter how much she wanted to. When they were alone together, her dreams carried her away. She loved him and felt real affection from him in return. But today in this magnificent church, Nicki knew she could never take Ashley’s place in his life. Some chasms were impossible to cross.
Nicki breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted her cousin. “Good morning,” she whispered as she slipped next to him in the pew.
“Hey, Nicki. How ya doing?” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You look downright conservative.”
“Thank you, I think,” she said softly, smoothing wrinkles from her black linen skirt. The boxy jacket with silk tank top felt appropriate without going over the top. Or at least that’s what she hoped. And her black wedge heels made her almost as tall as her arch nemesis, who sat up in the third row next to Chloe’s fiancé. Ashley was wearing a chic sheath dress with that blasted pillbox hat. Nicki’s unkind thoughts—in church, no less—made her bite her lip and heave a big inward sigh.
Suddenly the massive pipe organ began Pachebel’s Canon and the assembled parishioners respectfully quieted their chatter. An ornately carved white casket was wheeled up the aisle behind a troupe of clergymen bearing sacred items to be used during the Mass. Members of the Galen family followed the procession with solemn faces.
Hunter walked beside his sister, who looked weak from grief. As the processional passed her pew, Hunter stopped and reached for her hand. “Sit with me, please, O’lette. I would like that very much.”
How could she decline? How could she do anything but concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other before her knees buckled?
When they reached the front of the church holding hands, Ethan and Cora entered the pew first. Hunter guided Chloe to sit on his left and pulled Nicki in on his right. Nicki held her breath in case the skies opened to rain down fire and brimstone. She wasn’t Roman Catholic and was sitting in the first pew. Yet nothing disastrous—or miraculous—happened as a soloist began to sing and the priest said the Mass of Christian burial.
During the next hour, Mrs. Etienne Galen, Sr. was eulogized by several friends, New Orleans civic leaders, her eldest son, and finally by Jeanette Peteriere. The elderly woman walked to the podium on the arm of a young woman. Her gait was painfully slow, but she held her chin high.
At the pulpit, Jeanette glanced over the assemblage before speaking clearly into the microphone: “Helene Galen was a fine lady. She treated everyone fairly and lived by the golden rule. Do what’s right even if you think nobody’s watchin’, because God is watching. He gonna take care of us, one way or the other. We’ll be okay if we all remember that. Helene told me once that whichever of us gets to heaven first, they gotta dust, wash the windows, and make the roux for gumbo.” Jeanette turned her focus toward the ornate ceiling high overhead. “Well, Helene, I suggest you get busy. I’ll be there before you know it.”
If there had been a dry eye in the house, there wasn’t now. She dabbed her damp face with a handkerchief and returned to her pew even less steady than before. Tears cascaded down the pretty face of her caregiver too. Nicki, who barely knew the older woman, tightened her grip on Hunter’s hand and cried with everyone else. Seeing the man she cared about in pain left a hollowness in her chest. After the rites of Communion and prayers for the dead to comfort those who mourn, the priest issued his parting benediction.
Hunter and his family trailed the casket from the sanctuary to the waiting hearse, and Nicki ducked down a hallway to find the ladies’ room. She needed a moment to fix her face and straighten out her thinking. Everything was happening too fast and she understood none of it. What was she doing sitting with the family in the box seats? She was merely an employee on the payroll. But hearing Hunter utter the words, “Sit with me, please, O’lette,” had made her feel special, valued…maybe even loved.
“Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you had run off to.”
Nicki pivoted to meet the cool blue gaze of the oh-so-sophisticated Ashley. “Hello, Miss Menard.”
“Ashley, please. Considering that we have so much in common, we should be on a first name basis.” Her smile revealed sparkling white teeth, but the gesture contained no warmth. “I’m curious as to what you’re doing here.” Ashley spoke without animosity, as though
casually inquiring about the weather.
“I beg your pardon?” Nicki asked, but she didn’t wait for a response. “I’m here because Hunter asked me to come.” Defensiveness lifted her voice a full octave.
Ashley perused Nicki from her shoes to the top of her head, slowly and deliberately, intending to intimidate. “I’m sure he did. He’s fascinated with you. Maybe because you’re so unusual. Rather like the three-legged stray that followed him home from college one day. Goodness, that dog had a bad case of fleas! I couldn’t believe Hunter took him in.” Ashley bent toward the mirror to touch up her flawless makeup.
Nicki had had enough of the evil debutant. She’d had a bellyful of Ashley-clones her whole life. “I’m no homeless pet. Hunter hired me to do a job and that’s what I’m doing. If he has grown to respect me and we’ve become friends, that’s none of your business.” She sucked in a gulp of air, not sure where her backbone had come from. “The last I heard, you two were broken up.”
“You’re here doing a job?” Ashley’s voice grew shrill. “What kind of detective carries no gun? In case you haven’t noticed, New Orleans is a dangerous place these days.”
Nicki wasn’t about to explain she was licensed to work, just not to carry a firearm yet. What was happening here had nothing to do with licenses or gun permits. This was about staking territories and making a claim on another human being. Nicki shouldered her purse and tried to step past the woman.
“You just smelled his money, didn’t you, Miss Backwoods Mississippi? You took one look at his nice apartment and unlimited trips to Walmart flashed through your head. You might get four new tires for your Escort and fill your shopping cart at the dollar store.” Her thick drawl dripped with scorn.
Nicki’s fingers froze on the doorknob as she turned to face her tormentor. “Oh, I’m the gold digger? I’ve taken nothing from Hunter other than the paycheck I earn. Maybe you’re the one trying to marry the gravy train.”
“Do I look hard up to you, Miss Price?” Color rose up Ashley’s neck into her pale cheeks. “I don’t need to marry money. My daddy’s loaded, and I’m his only child. In the meantime, I own four hair salons that keep me in all the designer clothes I can wear.” Her eyes narrowed like a feral cat’s. “I love Hunter, so I’ll bide my time. Sooner or later he’ll go back to saving whales and the environment instead of poor people he feels sorry for.”
Despite her upbringing to turn the other cheek, Nicki wanted to slap Ashley or at least push her down like children on a playground, but her stomach turned queasy as an image of her mother scrimping between disability checks came to mind. Any possible clever retorts evaporated.
Ashley swooped in for the kill. “Keep your distance from Hunter, Nicki. You’ll only end up making a fool of yourself. Did you really think you could play in his league? You’ll embarrass him in front of his family, friends, and business associates.” She resumed her primping before the mirror, but added in a kinder, gentler tone, “Hunter is too much of a gentleman to tell you.”
Nicki left the room without responding and pushed past ladies milling in the narrow hallway. She could still hear subdued voices in the foyer as mourners filed out of the cathedral. Not wishing to run into Hunter with her face streaky with tears, she hurried in the opposite direction. Down two more corridors and up one short flight of stairs, she emerged outdoors on a side street, away from the heavy scent of magnolias clogging her senses. Nicki glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was following her and then circled the block to where she’d left her car. At the moment, she didn’t care that Hunter had asked her to ride with him or about any of the other responsibilities she was shirking.
Ashley was right about a few things. She didn’t belong in Hunter’s rarefied world. She had deluded herself that class could be learned like strategy in a game of chess. Ashley had it…and she never would. Nicki started the car, rolled down the windows, and breathed in the thick, humid air. A group of college-aged girls walked past, talking animatedly about their evening plans. Nicki would go back to Christine’s trailer, open a Diet Coke, and eat an entire bag of salt-and-vinegar chips. Isn’t that what women do when they are whipped?
Except when they had a job to do as a professional private investigator. She’d turned over proof to the investigators that Hunter had been duped in the fraud with James’s second set of books and the handwriting expert’s evaluation, but she was no closer to finding the real killer than on day one. And didn’t murderers love to go to funerals? Pulling into traffic, she headed toward Lafayette Cemetery in the Garden District, where the priest had indicated final interment would be made. The salt-and-vinegar chips with a cola chaser would have to wait.
Funeral processions with police escorts arrived ahead of those fighting traffic and red lights. The family was already encircled about the Galen family crypt when Nicki joined them. With his head down, Hunter stood close to Ethan with tiny Chloe sandwiched between them. Clotilde looked pinched and pale on the arm of the family lawyer. Aaron, the kindly FBI agent and Chloe’s fiancée, stood in the second row, while Ashley was practically imprinted on Hunter’s jacket. The rest of the crowd had squeezed behind them into a very limited space.
“You just gonna stand there and glare at that woman?”
The unexpected voice behind her caused Nicki to jump. She turned to find that Jeanette had also arrived tardily, cemeteries not easy ground for the elderly to maneuver.
“You startled me, Mrs. Peteriere.” Nicki murmured. “For a moment I thought I had irritated a restless spirit.”
“No, O’lette. These folks are all asleep in Jesus. Nobody restless. This is my granddaughter, Renee.” Jeanette nudged the lovely young woman with high cheekbones and caramel skin next to her. After Nicki shook hands with her, Jeanette bobbed her head toward the street. “You go on back to the car and sit in air-conditioning. You don’t need to stand around in this heat.”
When Renee protested, Jeanette held up a thin, blue-veined hand. “Do as I say, Renny. Don’t sass me. I’ll hang on to Miss Price’s arm on the way back. She gotta be here anyway ’cause she’s working.” Jeanette drew away from her granddaughter and grabbed hold of Nicki’s jacket.
“Of course you can,” Nicki whispered. “Would you like to lean against this crypt? The stone feels cool.”
“Go on,” Jeanette demanded. With a shake of her head, Renee started down the path toward the gate. Jeanette grabbed Nicki’s arm and hissed in a low voice, “Don’t be leaning on nobody’s tomb unless you knew them and know they would want you to.”
Despite everything, Nicki couldn’t help smiling a little as she straightened and wrapped her arm around the elderly woman’s waist. They found an obscure spot to stand behind the last row next to a crypt in serious disrepair. While the priest read from Scripture, led the assembled group in prayer, and offered his final blessings, Nicki felt Jeanette sag against her side. The woman’s face was damp, but she neither sobbed nor sniffled. Despite the beautiful day in the cemetery, despite the comforting words from the priest, and despite the fact Hunter paid no attention to Ashley, Nicki couldn’t stop staring at the silky blond head of her rival.
“Why do you let that skinny gal get under your skin?”
The housekeeper’s words were nothing more than breath beneath Nicki’s ear. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I…I don’t.” The lie sounded lame even to her.
“What do you care what she says or if she don’t like you? You still worried ’bout the number of Valentines inside your shoebox? You still hopin’ to be invited to the popular gal’s sleepover?” Jeanette huffed. “You don’t like her. She don’t like you. So what? That’s life.”
Nicki glanced around to make sure no one was listening as she suppressed another smile. She remembered the grammar school shoebox all too well—lifting the lid to see if her stack of Valentines was on par with everyone else’s.
“Ashley doesn’t even know me.” Nicki lowered her mouth to Jeanette’s ear.
“She doesn’t like me because my family’s from Red Haw instead of Prytania Street. And I didn’t go to a fancy private school in a starched white blouse every day.”
Jeanette whispered while they were supposed to be offering personal prayers for the deceased. “Your daddy never got asked to join the country club?”
Nicki waited until the priest concluded and the funeral director instructed mourners where to go for the luncheon. “My daddy never owned a suit and tie, let alone a set of golf clubs. He spent most of his free time drinking with his cronies. That’s pretty much what killed him, by the way.” Nicki was shocked at how callously she described him.
“You bothered that you got nobody to send a Hallmark card to on Father’s Day?”
Nicki tried to gauge if Jeanette was being sarcastic, but her aged face was the picture of sincerity. “Nah. I’m over that.”
“You still mad because your ma was stupid enough to marry him?”
That hit a tender nerve. “Maybe she wasn’t stupid at all. Maybe she just wanted to be a mother and didn’t have tons of options knocking on her door.”
Jeanette’s black eyes sparkled. “So you love your mama despite her messing up.”
Nicki glanced around at the mourners. People were placing roses one at a time on the crypt’s steps. “Of course I love her. Before she got sick, my mother worked sixty hours a week to help me get through college. Now she’s on government assistance and can’t even afford clothes from the Goodwill store.”
“Do you think she’s proud of you?”
“I guess so.”
“Don’t sound like you had it so bad, O’lette.”
Nicki stared at the stream of expensively dressed mourners taking their sweet time to lay down one flower. “I grew up living with my Mamaw and Papaw in a cabin with an outdoor well, a generator for electricity, no phone, and a wringer washer on the back porch. In a world of wireless Internet and cell phones, they still collect rainwater in a barrel to wash clothes. Their chickens scratch around in the dirt. When hens stop laying eggs, into the stew pot they go.” Nicki paused uncomfortably.
