Marjorie’s waterworks came on full blast. “What kind of person am I? Everyone I ever loved hates me.”
“Pluto is simply unsettled.” Tinkie sought support from me, but I had nothing. Marjorie did have a tad of drama queen. Chasley had pegged her on that one. “All of this emotion, Marjorie. Cats are sensitive to this. If you’ll compose yourself, Pluto will settle down.”
Marjorie looked like she’d been betrayed by her best friend. A change of subject was in order. While I might not be great with sympathy and consoling, I had my eye on the case at hand. “Let’s hear the recording Chasley had. It must be something really good. He wanted it back badly.” Despite what I viewed as his heartfelt sentiments toward his mother, I didn’t trust him.
Marjorie handed me the recorder. It was tiny enough to fit into a pocket, and I wondered how long and how much ole Chasley had been snooping and recording. I clicked the machine on. Static roared for a moment, and then Tinkie was talking about Pluto. It was the conversation we’d just had.
“What is this?”
Marjorie paled. “I had it in my pocket.”
Tinkie took the device and examined it. “Marjorie, I think you recorded over what Chasley had.”
Disappointment didn’t begin to describe my feelings. “Maybe there’s something farther along.”
Tinkie pressed fast-forward, but there was nothing. Just our conversation about Pluto and then emptiness.
“I sound like such a sad sack,” Marjorie said. “How do you two stand putting up with me? I’m filled with self-pity. I promise you I’ll snap out of it.”
“That’s wonderful.” I tried to sound as if I meant it. While Marjorie had taken a step of self-discovery, she’d possibly erased a valuable clue into Chasley’s plans and motivations.
15
It was well after midnight before Pluto relaxed—along with his mistress. The cat had blood in his eyes, and he had prowled the room, yowling and looking for someone to attack. He tolerated Tinkie’s petting and cuddling, but he hissed at Marjorie and ignored me.
Another episode of high blood pressure warned me that Marjorie was on the verge of serious trouble. Common sense—which was in short supply at Heart’s Desire—indicated the need for a medical professional, but Tinkie’s soothing ministrations gained a lot more ground in destressing Marjorie than my nagging about Doc Sawyer. My partner had more than a touch of the Nightingale in her, whereas I obviously had the personality traits of a Lyme tick.
“Do you think I’ll ever manage to speak with Mariam?” Marjorie asked in a voice that sounded halfway to the grave. I had no faith Sherry Westin could pull off a rendezvous with a departed spirit. Jitty came to me because she chose to. And some would say Jitty was a figment of my imagination, a manifestation of my subconscious.
“We have to be realistic—” I started before Tinkie cut me off.
“Of course you will.” Tinkie gently removed the pill bottle Marjorie had retrieved from the bathroom. Our client had a host of herbal remedies and prescription drugs for relaxing and sleeping. “You’ve already taken a sedative. Lie down and try to rest. Tomorrow is another day, Marjorie. Sherry called up Joséphine. I’m sure Mariam will be next.”
My worry about Marjorie’s emotional stability had increased. Her moods were erratic. She was down, then hopeful, then down. Her stash of prescriptions troubled me. If I’d been quick to think, I would have shown them to Doc and asked which were safe and if any presented a risk. Yet Marjorie was a client, not my patient. Where did my responsibility end?
I paced back and forth by the windows. The night outside was black and dense. A few stars blinked through the overcast sky, but the grounds were inky.
Tinkie didn’t need to encourage the séance angle. I had no reason to believe Sherry had any talents as a medium. In fact, I had evidence to the contrary. But I needed physical proof if I hoped to convince Marjorie to leave Heart’s Desire. And with each passing moment, I knew that was the only solution.
“I feel dizzy.” Marjorie clutched Tinkie’s hand. “I think I’m dying. I’m going to die without ever speaking to my daughter.”
“You’re fine,” Tinkie assured her, though worry threaded her voice. “I gave you one of the pills Doc Sawyer left for you, to help you relax. That’s probably why you’re dizzy.” Tinkie put a cool cloth on Marjorie’s forehead. “Now take some deep breaths and remember a time when you were happy.”
After a moment, Marjorie spoke. “I’ve had moments of happiness with a man, but nothing as deep or satisfying as the spring before Mariam drowned. The winter hadn’t been too cold or wet. New Orleans was alive with exciting people. Artists, actors, folks drawn to Mardi Gras and my husband’s import/export business were frequent guests in our home. Mariam had conquered her shyness around strangers, and she could charm the most sophisticated of my husband’s clientele. I was so proud of her. You should have seen her. She played the piano and could carry on a conversation in Spanish or French. She was amazing.”
I was tempted to ask her what Chasley did that spring—his exclusion was almost painful to me. I didn’t ask the question because I feared upsetting Marjorie, and to what effect? The past was done and gone. Chasley was who he was, and making Marjorie feel responsible would serve no good for either of them.
“I’m sleepy,” Marjorie whispered, and she inhaled once deeply and her eyelids fluttered closed.
“Thank goodness,” Tinkie said softly. “Judging from the dizziness and red face, her blood pressure must have been nearly two hundred. I gave her the medication but it scared me when she got dizzy. That shouldn’t have happened.”
“Come out onto the balcony,” I urged her.
“Why?”
“I need to tell you something.” What did she think, that I wanted to practice the lines of Romeo and Juliet for amateur talent night?
When at last we stood beneath the star-spangled sky, I told her of the ghost I’d seen during the séance. A ghost that Sherry wasn’t aware had entered Heart’s Desire. Though I knew it was Jitty, I didn’t share that. I wanted Tinkie to understand Sherry Westin was a fraud.
“I didn’t see a ghost,” Tinkie said. She examined me with a certain amount of awe. “No one else did, either.”
“Perhaps that’s a clue.” I couldn’t completely stop the sarcasm. “Sherry claims to be a medium. She’s supposed to be sensitive to entities. I find it troubling she wasn’t even aware a spirit was in the room.”
Tinkie didn’t smile. “Why do you see the spirits and I don’t?”
“You had your eyes closed.”
“And you didn’t!”
“No, I didn’t. I wanted to watch Sherry, to see if anyone entered the room. I thought maybe Palk was manipulating events. The Westins keep the place so dark, Palk or someone else could have tricked everyone.”
Tinkie’s face dropped into stubborn lines. “I don’t think Joséphine was a trick.”
The problem was I couldn’t be certain. It appeared to be the first real manifestation of an entity, and she looked and behaved a lot like Jitty. Some things troubled me, though. “Would the mistress and wife of Napoléon Bonaparte speak English?”
“Wouldn’t a spirit be able to converse in any language? I mean, spirits aren’t bound by the rules we live by. Maybe all spirits are multilingual.”
I’d ask Jitty, but who knew if she’d tell me the truth. Jitty revealed only what she chose to and at the exact moment she felt like it.
“Don’t you think it was a little convenient—the spirit Shimmer Addleson wanted to hear from appeared? Seriously, that’s pretty amazing. And keep in mind, Joséphine is long dead. How can we check to see if her mannerisms are accurate? We don’t have the means to verify if this apparition mimicked Joséphine accurately or not.”
Tinkie’s mulish expression softened. “True. I’ve looked up historical figures before, and the pictures are often very different. Painters didn’t capture the real person. They created a flattering likeness.”
Sh
e caught my point perfectly. “And Mariam hasn’t made an appearance. Mariam is an entity Marjorie would know instantly. It would be harder to fake Mariam than it would Joséphine.”
Comprehension lit Tinkie’s expression. “I understand what you’re saying. There aren’t any videos of the real Joséphine, and certainly no one alive today can describe her. I looked at several paintings of her when Oscar and I honeymooned in Paris. She looked so different in each one.”
“Exactly. And consider Marjorie has been waiting a while for a visitation from Mariam, which hasn’t occurred. I think the Westins are doing their research to try to create an apparition as near to Mariam as they can. But it’s taking them time to compile the images. Hence the arrival of Chasley. He could feed them accurate details. Tinkie, I think Chasley and the Westins have gone to great lengths to conjure up the ghost of Marjorie’s daughter. This is all aimed toward manipulating Marjorie.”
“If this setup is a sham, the Westins could get the ghostly Mariam to suggest or demand anything from Marjorie. If the Westins and Chasley are working together, they’ll use Mariam’s image to gain his bidding.”
Tinkie was nobody’s fool. “Exactly my fear.”
“Marjorie has to leave Heart’s Desire,” Tinkie said. “Chasley had pawed all through her things. What’s he looking for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe her will?”
“Do you really think he’ll call animal control?”
I wondered myself if he would follow through. “He’s capable. If he does, though, I’ll call Coleman and have him arrested.”
“That won’t help Pluto. He clawed Chasley’s back pretty badly.”
“And Chasley was trespassing. Pluto is a trained guard cat. He didn’t do anything a security dog wouldn’t have done.” I had figured this all out. Sweetie Pie and Roscoe had given me plenty of practice in creative ways around the law for criminally intentioned critters.
Relief swept the furrows away from Tinkie’s brow. “So how can we forestall this?”
“The video we found of Mariam … it had to be staged. Either the Westins have the most phenomenal luck in the world, or they have confederates in this scheme. Think how we got the DVD. Bert Steele.”
“He’s an old friend of Cece’s.” Tinkie was appalled that I would suggest one of Cece’s buddies.
“He also knew a lot about the Westins and pointed us to the person who gave us the video. He had to be behind that video. But why?”
Tinkie concurred. “Of all the lingerie shops in New Orleans, Bert directed me to that out-of-the-way little shop. It was completely lovely, and I found exactly what I needed to turn Oscar’s thoughts away from controlling me to pleasuring me, but he sent us to the neighborhood where the Pleasure Zone used to be.”
“I thought he sent us there because of the Pleasure Zone. Because he knew we might want to see it. But now … it was mighty convenient that we got our hands on the video. And Cece thinks Bert may be in love with Sherry.” I went over each point.
“Love will make a fool out of a man.”
“I want to go down and explore the small parlor where we had the séance and the basement.”
Tinkie showed her doubt. “You need sleep, Sarah Booth. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll come up with something that runs Palk and everyone else out of the house.”
I was exhausted. I felt so tired, I didn’t even argue with her. As I crawled under the sheets, I was smiling. Whatever Tinkie came up with, it was bound to be a doozy.
Pluto traversed my legs on his pile-driver kitty paws and traveled up my abdomen to flop on top of my chest with a deep purr. His weight was somehow comforting. Listening to the deep rumble of his purr, I relaxed as sleep chased me into the darkness.
* * *
A downstairs maid brought up a carafe of coffee and three fine china cups, plates, and croissants with homemade scuppernong jelly. I wondered if Palk was aware the other household help had decided to treat Tinkie and me as human beings rather than furniture.
Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t had a real meal since arriving at Heart’s Desire. We’d managed a few sandwiches and things from the kitchen, but no one had made the smallest effort to be sure Tinkie and I had food. One more reason to book it out of Heart’s Desire as soon as possible.
“Marjorie, what are your plans for today?” Tinkie asked.
“Palk must bring a phone. I’m calling my solicitor to visit me here. I’m revoking my prior will and completely redoing it.”
“You’re disinheriting Pluto?” Her moods were like the wind.
“Of course not. I’m appointing Tinkie as my administrator.
“And Chasley?” I asked.
“I don’t trust him.” She popped the last bite of buttered croissant into her mouth. “If he calls animal control, I won’t leave him so much as a penny. As it is, I may institute a payout formula. If he does this, he’ll get that amount, et cetera, et cetera.”
I wasn’t shocked. Marjorie had grown up in an environment where money was used as both the carrot and the stick. Behavior modification with incremental payments. If she wrote it in the will properly, it would keep Chasley on a leash for the rest of his life.
A noise outside caught my attention, and I went to the balcony and leaned out far enough to gain a glimpse of the front. An elegant Rolls pulled up in the circular drive. A spit-and-polish driver walked around the car to assist a passenger. There was something familiar about the driver. I tiptoed and stretched for a better view.
A tall blond man with broad shoulders and a tailor-made suit stepped out of the backseat into the sunshine. Sunlight glistened on his oiled hair. Very European. Another victim for the Westins. And a damned handsome one to boot.
“Who is it?” Tinkie asked.
“I have no idea, but he’s a fine example of man flesh.” Jitty would be circling like a vulture.
Tinkie joined me on the balcony. “He is indeed. And the chauffeur isn’t bad, either.”
“I’ll say one thing for Heart’s Desire, they have a host of handsome men on the premises.”
“The compound is filling up. Hard to believe so many people fall victim to their egos. Want to examine the new residents?” Tinkie asked.
“Nothing would please me more.”
I had no doubts Marjorie would gain access to a phone and call a lawyer, but before she did anything else, she had a financial meeting with the Westins and the other guests. With any luck at all, they’d be busy until lunchtime.
I snatched up the breakfast remains and Tinkie and I marched toward the kitchen. As soon as we’d deposited the dishes, we shot out the back and angled to the front of the house.
Palk was unloading several expensive leather bags from the Rolls as the handsome blond looked on. There was something about him.…
“Who is that?” Tinkie whispered.
“A singer?” I couldn’t place him, but I knew I’d seen him.
“No, not a singer. Maybe a writer.”
I could almost put my finger on who he was. The chauffeur moved around the car to help Palk with the bags. I couldn’t believe it. “Those are Harold’s riding boots. And that’s … Graf!”
“And Oscar!” Tinkie was in awe.
Indeed. My fiancé had arrived at Heart’s Desire and I could see he was putting his acting talents to great use. He’d come as a wealthy patron of the Westin women. And Oscar had come as his chauffeur and manservant.
I controlled the laughter that welled up and wanted to spill out. Of all things. Graf had decided to show me he accepted my detective work by joining me on a case. He was a man who understood the power of action over words. If I could have levitated, I would have flown across the yard and into his arms.
“Get over there right now and at least let him see you! You can’t talk to him, but let him know you want to. What are you waiting for?” Tinkie asked.
“What about Oscar?”
“Deal with Graf. Oscar and I’ll have plenty of time.”
I didn’t wai
t for her to change her mind. I had to fight the urge to run, but I walked to Graf like a heat-seeking missile. My fiancé had come home to Mississippi to show his love for me. He hadn’t called or written; he’d boarded a jet and flown. And he was at Heart’s Desire. For me. No girl could ask for more support. All the things I wanted to tell him ran through my head as I made sure he saw me before I entered the foyer as if I had business to attend to.
The front door burst open behind me, and Oscar, resplendent in his chauffeur uniform, preceded Graf into the foyer. “Mr. Desmond Graf has arrived,” Oscar announced as he clicked his booted heels together in the best demonstration of obsequiousness I’d ever seen. He bowed so low, I could see that Tinkie had really limbered up his spine in the last few weeks.
When Graf entered, I was smitten anew by his incredible good looks and presence. The bleached-blond hair complemented his California tan. He gave me a quick wink and then let his gaze sweep past me as Palk loomed up beside me.
“Mr. Graf, your room is ready. Have your man put your bags in the Lotus Suite, and then I’ll show him his room in the servants’ quarters.” Palk turned to me. “Miss Booth, what are you doing in the foyer? Your place is with your mistress. Servants are not allowed to wander the house.”
Graf’s fists clenched, and I saw the fire spark in his eyes. Good! Before this adventure was over, Palk would be knocked off his high horse.
“Sorry, Mr. Palk. Mrs. Littlefield sent me to book a spa session.” I desperately wanted to touch Graf, to hug him and kiss him and do the little things he loved. Now was not the time. If I lip-locked a guest, Palk would stroke out. Then again, there was an upside to that scenario. I had to remind myself to hold back. Graf now resided in the Lotus Suite. Tonight, I would join him there, and my single ambition was to set the sheets on fire.
Palk snapped his fingers in my face. “Wake up, Miss Booth. Perhaps you should tend to your duties and quit gawking at our guests. Mr. Graf is not a dessert.”
“Oh, I beg to differ.” My gaze met Graf’s and he winked again. Oscar, who stood at attention, rolled his eyes.
Bonefire of the Vanities Page 20
