“If I don’t bring the mail back to her, she’ll fire me.” I put on my most worried expression.
From the far end of the counter, Tinkie’s yelp of pain drilled my ears, right on time. When I looked, she was on the floor, wriggling and screaming as if she’d broken her spine.
“Help! I slipped on a slick spot. Help!”
Postal workers poured out of the back and rushed around the counter to help Tinkie. The other postal patrons backed away. Tinkie was putting on quite a performance, and showing about two miles of shapely leg as she did it.
“I really need to pick up the mail.” I pressed the point, hoping Tinkie’s distraction would gain me information, at the least.
“Excuse me. I have to call a supervisor,” the clerk, whose name tag read MABLE, said.
“Mable, all I know is Sherry asked me to bring the mail. I don’t have a choice here. If I go back to her empty-handed, she’ll be furious.” Though the clerk clearly wanted to do something to help Tinkie, I kept talking. “Call her and ask. Can you do that?”
Tinkie let out a screech that made my ears ring. In the echo chamber of the post office, it was like an ice pick in my head. Several people waiting in line covered their ears and ran out of the building.
“The mail is sent to her each week. I’ve received no instructions to change anything.” Mable was done with me. “Could you step aside, ma’am? There are others waiting.”
“No, I cannot step aside. Sherry sent me for the mail, and I don’t want to get fired. Call her and ask. Can you do that? Just call and ask.”
The clerk’s face reddened. “Not my job,” she said. “If you want to get Sherry Westin’s mail, you’re going to have to bring a notarized letter telling me that. Otherwise we’ll mail it to her Friday, like we always do. Now, please step aside and let others be served.”
I pulled out a notepad. “There’s a problem here, Mable. Are you mailing everything to 113 Brady Lane? Sherry said she didn’t receive any mail last week. That’s one reason she wants me to get it now.”
She rolled her eyes. “We sent it to Layland. Like always. Now, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, Miss—”
“Layland, Mississippi?” I couldn’t believe it. Layland was a crossroads community in Sunflower County. It wasn’t half an hour from Zinnia. As far as I knew, there were five farmhouses and miles of cotton. Certainly not an organization like Heart’s Desire. Perhaps that was the appeal of the location—anything could be tucked away in the vast woods, brakes, and fields.
“Who are you?” the clerk demanded. “I’m calling the postmaster right now.”
Tinkie let out another heartrending scream as two employees helped her to her feet. Her knees buckled and she almost went down again. She would have had they not supported her. “I need an ambulance,” Tinkie cried out. “I need medical attention. My lawyer will sue this place out of existence. I slipped on a slick spot on the floor. This is a dangerous, dangerous place. I think my spine is damaged.”
She didn’t slow down to draw a breath.
“Thanks for your help, Mable.” Before she could answer, I skedaddled out of the post office and waited outside for Tinkie. In a few moments, she appeared, supported by two strong clerks. Both male. Tinkie did have a way with the menfolk, and her tight red jersey skirt and matching five-inch heels were a siren call.
“You are so big and strong. I thought for a minute I’d be crippled for life, but I’m feeling much better now.” Tinkie looked up at first one, then the other.
The people inside the post office pressed against the window, watching Tinkie. I eased down beside the car. Out of sight, out of mind.
She profusely thanked the men and let them know she was perfectly fine before she finally got in the car. When the coast was clear, I followed suit.
“What did you find out?” Tinkie asked.
“Her name is Sherry Westin, and she’s in Layland, Mississippi.”
Tinkie’s eyes widened. “That’s just around the corner from Zinnia.”
I nodded as I pulled out of the parking lot.
“Is it time for lunch and shopping?” Tinkie’s brain had jumped ahead to the next thing on her to-do list.
“First call Cece and ask if she can dig up some dirt on Sherry Westin in New Orleans and Layland, Mississippi.” Cece Dee Falcon was a fine journalist, but more important, a loyal friend. Her skills had come in handy more than once. While Cece’s family had disowned her over her sex change operation, her friends supported her in her quest to be the best she could be. Gender wasn’t part of the equation.
Tinkie made the call, and when Cece was on the line, she revealed what we’d discovered. As I drove down the crowded one-way streets of the French Quarter, Tinkie waited. At last she spoke. “Bert Steele, a photographer for the Times-Picayune. Perfect. Thanks, Cece. We’ll give him a call.”
There was another moment of silence as Tinkie listened. “Okay, keep looking if you have any free time.”
She closed her phone and turned to me. “Nothing on the Westins in Mississippi. There’s plenty about New Orleans. Cece would only say they were an interesting mother–daughter team and she gave me Bert Steele’s number to ask him to meet us for lunch today. He knows more about the Westins than anyone else, she said. It’s serendipitous because he just called her this morning about some photos for the Black and Orange Ball she organizes each year. Bert always photographs the models.”
I drove slowly along Canal Street, taking in the sounds and smells of the South’s most cosmopolitan city. New Orleans was a mixture of dozens of cultures. Hurricane Katrina had wrecked her, but she was rising from the ashes. I made a turn and stayed within the region of the Vieux Carré while Tinkie dialed Bert Steele.
When he answered, she explained our friendship with Cece and our quest. In no time at all, Bert agreed to meet us for lunch at one o’clock at Napoleon House, a New Orleans landmark on Chartres Street.
By the time I found a parking spot and we walked to the restaurant, Bert was waiting for us. Apparently he’d talked with Cece, because he recognized us. His dark glasses and spiked hair had a certain distinctive air, as did his rolled-up shirtsleeves. I might have pegged him for a jazz musician, but the camera case beside his chair and a Nikon with a telephoto lens on the table were dead giveaways.
Tinkie ordered a round of Pimm’s cups and po’boy sandwiches. Our table was beside an open window, and I caught the unique clatter of New Orleans—the laughter of pedestrians racing along the sidewalks, the honking horns of traffic, the clip-clop of a carriage horse, and the cry of the hot dog vendors.
Bert got right to the point. “What’s your interest in Sherry Westin?”
“I’m not sure I’m really interested in her,” I said. “A friend is worried about someone she knows. She thinks this Sherry might be pulling a scam.”
He nodded, but his expression was noncommittal. “What kind of scam?”
I told him about the letter, signed by Sherry.
“You don’t look surprised,” Tinkie pointed out.
“Brandy Westin is synonymous with the word scam, but that’s not true of her daughter, Sherry. I always figured Sherry for a pretty good gal.” A finger traced the condensation on his glass.
“What do you know about Brandy?” I asked.
“She’d fleece the pope if she had a chance, and do it with a smile.”
“But not the daughter?” Tinkie pressed the point. “She’s been under her mama’s tutelage for a long time now. Everyone can be corrupted, given enough time and the right incentive.”
Bert sipped his drink. “Been a long time since I had a Pimm’s cup.”
“Me, too. Perfect for a hot September day.” Bert had drawn a line separating mother and daughter. For whatever reason, he didn’t mind showing his negative feelings for Brandy Westin, but Sherry was a different matter. “So what do you know about the elder Westin?”
Bert frowned. “Brandy ran a high-class brothel in New Orleans for a number of years.�
��
That was unexpected news, and I didn’t bother to try hiding my shock. “I thought she was a medium. Talked to the spirits.”
“That’s Sherry. She had nothing to do with the whorehouse. It’s impossible to tell, but she seems to have a real gift, a connection to the other side. Brandy is the businesswoman. Her business was pleasuring men, and she had a stable full of beautiful young ladies who knew exactly how to do it. When Brandy evacuated New Orleans, she probably had a stash of at least three million.”
“Wait a minute!” I held up a hand. The names just struck me. “Her name is Sherry and her mother’s name is Brandy?”
Bert dropped his gaze to the table. “Brandy Alexander and Sherry la Crème. Some people should be hanged for the monikers they stick on their kids.”
“Totally uncouth,” Tinkie said. “If she had a child, it would be called what, Merlot Bordeaux or Gin Sapphire?”
Bert’s grin was slightly crooked, giving him a rakish air. “Don’t think just because Brandy and Sherry play on the desires of their clients, they’re stupid. They’re clever women. Sherry is shy and on the innocent side. Brandy is accomplished with solid connections to the New Orleans political and financial world. She’s like a shark, silent but always swimming looking for her next meal.”
“Why would the Westins leave a profitable business in New Orleans and move to the rural stretches of Mississippi?” I asked.
“One word: Katrina. That bitch sent half the city packing. It’s hard to sell pleasure when people are worried about day-to-day survival. If you ask me, they left at the right time. The economy’s gone to shit now. Discretionary income, even for CEOs and lobbyists, is being watched more closely. Tabloid journalism.” He arched an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t object to selling a photo of a holier-than-thou lawmaker coming out of a whorehouse. The fat cats used to frequent the Pleasure Zone openly. Now they’re more discreet, and afraid of being caught indulging their appetites. They stirred the religious fanatics up to fever pitch and now they’ve lost control of them.”
“Maybe Sherry looked into the future and saw the handwriting on the wall,” I posed.
“Whatever happened, they left at the right time. I’d wondered where they went. The Mississippi Delta. Not surprising. There’s money in the Delta. Sherry can smell big money like a bloodhound on a scent.”
“Did you ever hear rumors of séances, spirit sessions?” I didn’t care how much money Brandy had taken from men who had to pay to get laid.
Bert didn’t answer immediately. “Yeah. There was talk. The mayor used to go to the Pleasure Zone and he always claimed it was for a séance.” He grinned. “Séance, blow job, whatever.”
“You’re pretty blasé about a mayor participating in either.”
“It’s the Big Sleazy. Sex and ghosts have always been the stock-in-trade of this city. Throw in a little voodoo, Catholicism, swamp creatures, music, and corrupt politicians and you have a heady brew. The Westins ran a clean house. No complaints. Brandy might be a con, but she only conned people who wanted it. She epitomizes the word greedy, but there was never a single complaint filed against her or the Pleasure Zone.”
His gaze lost its sharp focus for a few seconds. “Sherry, though. She was different. Something spiritual about her. I saw her a couple of times in Jackson Square, coming out of the cathedral. We chatted, and she seemed … haunted. And sad.” He shrugged it off. “I must be getting soft. So what are you investigating?”
“The Westins have moved up around Sunflower County. They may be up to their old tricks—” I grinned at my wit. “—but we have only rumors and gossip so far.” If we had a big story about whorehouse madams setting up a séance business in Sunflower County, it was Cece’s to break.
He pulled a card from his pocket. “Give me a ring if Cece needs photos. I’d love to work with her on a story, and this sounds like it could be big headlines. And if you run across Sherry, give her my numbers. I always felt if she could escape her mother, she could have a good life with someone who cared about her.”
I put his card in my billfold and we settled down for a pleasant lunch. Bert had worked the French Quarter for over twenty years, and he was a wealth of great stories and fun facts. When Tinkie mentioned lingerie shopping, he knew exactly the place to send her.
“Fran’s Loft.” He winked at Tinkie. “And it’s not a block from the building where Brandy ran the Pleasure Zone. Real nice couple bought the place. They’re renovating. You should drive by and check it out.”
“Thanks.” A shopping trip would appease Tinkie’s need for something frilly and give me a chance to poke around. New Orleans was a hard place to keep secrets. I wondered what Sherry’s neighbors remembered about her establishment.
He gave us the address in an upscale district, and when we finished lunch, we left the Quarter and entered an area where original New Orleans settlers had built their homes. At the lingerie shop, while Tinkie wallowed in the joy of silk and lace and titillation, I walked the block to find what had once been the Pleasure Zone.
The building was a surprise. I’d expected a seedy, rambling old place with a dreary front and sad windows. Instead I discovered a triple-tiered Renaissance palazzo. Each floor had balconies all around, and the three-acre lot, which included a cluster of old oaks, exuded graciousness. A high privacy fence kept the backyard from prying eyes, but the front was planted with azaleas, oleanders, and marching rows of delicate spider lilies. Those were heritage stock plants, and they complemented the structure perfectly.
The house was getting a face-lift. Workers on ladders repaired and painted the stucco. An electric drill whined as new shutters went up. Another crew was installing a front porch swing. The old pleasure palace would soon be a home.
A woman in her sixties came out of the house carrying two giant black trash bags. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt and gave me a smile. “May I help you?” She dropped the rattling bags onto the sidewalk. A seam split and several DVD cases, a hairbrush, some plastic dishes, and old disposable food containers slithered onto the walk.
It was a delicate moment. She was obviously hot and annoyed. “I’m curious about your home,” I said.
Her laughter was unexpected. “The sordid history, you mean. That’s exactly why we bought it. My husband’s a writer. I’m shocked people still remember the Pleasure Zone. These old buildings have seen a lot of incarnations.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you, but would it be possible to ask one or two questions?”
“Is it the old history or the more contemporary history that interests you?” A furrow appeared between her eyebrows. “I know only a few anecdotal tales. My husband has researched the property. You should speak to him. I doubt I’d be any help at all.”
“Did you ever meet the Westins?” I asked, hoping to engage her in conversation before she decided not to speak with me at all.
“No, they were long gone when we bought the house, but rumors die hard in New Orleans. I find the history mildly curious, but most people don’t know how to react when I tell them I live in a former whorehouse. Rather startling to my friends and relatives. I don’t want to be rude, but I have crews waiting for me to instruct them.”
“I understand.” I pulled a business card from my purse. “Sarah Booth Delaney. Would you mind if I telephoned you? If I have more questions.”
She hesitated. “I really can’t help you, I’m afraid.” She turned toward the house and tripped on one of the trash bags. A half-dozen DVD cases skittered along the cement. “Dammit,” she said.
“I’ll pick those up for you,” I volunteered.
“I wouldn’t touch them without gloves. We bought the property as is, and we’ve been hauling out trash bags full of junk each week. There are all kinds of interesting nooks and crannies in the house, and every single one was filled with crap I have to cart away.” She kicked them back into a pile, stepped over the bags, and walked briskly across the lawn to the house.
I bent to the task of gathering the DVDs. I couldn’t stop myself from checking out the labels as I returned them to the trash bag. There were dates, and then a sequence of symbols and male names written in a clear, feminine hand. Code for something? I couldn’t say what, but the possibilities danced in my head like sugarplums.
Once the DVDs were restacked, I stood up. A curtain fluttered in the second floor, as though the owner of the house was watching me. I turned down the sidewalk in the direction I’d parked the car.
I was almost at the lingerie store when Tinkie, buried in boxes and bags, saw me. “Sarah Booth! I just found the cutest stuff! Oscar will go nuts. I’ll have him chasing me like a … well, like a man.” She threw her purchases in the backseat and I did a U-turn in the road and drove back toward the old whorehouse.
“I’m going to stop at the curb. Jump out and snag those garbage bags on the sidewalk,” I said to Tinkie.
“We’re picking up trash now?” Tinkie’s face said distasteful.
“They’re old videos. Homemade stuff. From the Westins.”
Her attitude changed. “Sex tapes? Can we have them?”
“I didn’t ask, but they’re trash. Snatch them and let’s head home.” I stopped at the curb.
In a flash, Tinkie was out of the car. With some effort, she hefted the big black bags into the backseat. “How many recordings are there?” she asked as she climbed into the seat and slammed her door.
“A lot. Let’s hope there’s something useful on them.”
3
Tinkie and I drove straight to Madam Tomeeka’s clapboard cottage on the outskirts of Zinnia. I was happy to see the roads in this section of town, known as the Grove, were paved. Two years ago they were dirt. Historically, the Grove’s residents had been neglected, but recently, road improvements, sidewalks, and city plumbing had been put in. And not a single one of the beautiful oaks that gave the section its name had been sacrificed. The citizens of the neighborhood had held vigil to protect the trees. Progress was great, but shade trees were more important.
Bonefire of the Vanities Page 3
