“Oh my God,” Mary Whitten said. “They’ve stolen the cross that the sisters brought from France on that first trip in 1727. It’s the sisters’ most prized possession.”
The Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone had a real merry-go-round in the middle of the room. A round, garish confection that rotated slowly, the bar supplies and bartender were located in the middle of this affair. The room was filling up fast with a combination of local businessmen and tourists too shy to start out their drinking at Pat O’Brien’s over on Bourbon Street. Mary and Heaven rushed in. They were meeting Mary’s husband and they were late.
The crisis at the convent had taken time, what with the police and the archdiocesan people, who had offices at the convent, all hovering and asking the committee members questions they couldn’t answer, like what time had they gone outside to the inner courtyard, had they heard any strange noises, and stuff like that. For every question there had been multiple answers from the ladies:
“We were outside for at least thirty minutes.”
“It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes we were in the garden.” “I thought I heard something.”
“You couldn’t hear yourself think what with all the expert opinions in that room.”
“Well, you know, Amelia Hart did show up uninvited to the meeting with trouble on her mind. Maybe she …”
Heaven herself tried not to jump in the middle of a police investigation as she would if she were in Kansas City. She felt Amelia certainly wouldn’t feel bad about defacing the convent property on moral grounds. But why would she come in and let them know she was gunning for them if she’d just tossed paint around on the other side of the entry hall? And where was the cross? Certainly not with her in that meeting. She could have hired an accomplice to do the dirty work, but Heaven thought she was smarter than that. And not quite so twisted.
A man Heaven vaguely remembered as Truely Whitten stood up as they crossed the dimly lit barroom. He had been sitting with two men, one of whom was red-faced with anger. As Truely stood up and buttoned his jacket, he offered his hand to the angry man, who jumped out of his chair, ignored the hand, and went out of the bar into the hotel, away from Mary and Heaven.
They arrived at the table just in time to hear the second man saying, “This isn’t a joke, old man,” as he also walked away. Truely opened his mouth to say something to the retreating figure, then started when he finally noticed the two women standing next to him. Heaven had imagined he’d noticed them and had stood up in greeting, but judging by his look of surprise that turned on a dime to a fabulous grin, that was not the case. It was the grin of a Southern male, an aren’t-I-something-and-I-know-I-am-cause-my-momma-told-me-so grin. It was also a good acting job.
“Dear lord, Mary Beth, you scared the bejesus out of me. Where in the hell have you been, sugar?” Along with this playful rebuke Mary (Beth?) received a kiss on her cheek. Then he turned to Heaven. “I guess it’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen you, Heaven. You were married to that uniform manufacturer. Welcome to New Orleans, darlin’. Sit down right here.”
As they took the two seats warmed up by the departed men, Mary asked about them. “Wasn’t that Leon Davis?”
“Yes, sugar.”
“Who was that with him?”
“His plant manager. They spotted me sitting here all by my lonesome and made a beeline over to give me grief.”
“Who’s Leon Davis?” Heaven asked, realizing it sounded nosy.
Mary sniffed. “He owns the other coffee company. He’s always trying to get Truely to sell him ours.”
“Now, Mary Beth, you know I don’t pay him a bit of attention. He’s like an old jaybird, fussin’ around.”
Heaven blanched. He must call her Mary Beth all the time.
Truely just grinned that grin and signaled to the waitress. “Martinis all right?”
Heaven nodded. “Remind me I can only have one, even if I’m not driving. I get into trouble if I have more than one. Bombay up with an olive and a twist, please.”
Truely tapped his empty martini glass to indicate more of the same and Mary ordered hers, “Absolut Citron up, please, with a twist. Oh, make it a Cosmopolitan, what the hell,” and shook her finger at her husband. “Wait till we tell you what happened over at the convent. You won’t believe it. But first, just tell me why Leon’s man was saying it wasn’t a joke and Leon himself looked like he was about to blow a gasket?”
“Mary Beth, you know how it is. He thinks if he throws enough zeros behind his offer, I’ll say yes. My daddy would roll over in his grave. His litt’l ol’ manager thought he could lean on me. It was nothing. Now what could have happened over at the convent to get you two so wound up? You both are hummin’ close to warp speed. By the way, the excitement sure makes your eyes pretty, Heaven. Green, aren’t they?”
Heaven had to smile. It was a classic and expert example of flattery and bald-faced lying combined into charming Southern cocktail conversation. Truely had blonde hair flecked with gray and a lick of it fell over his forehead. What a charming scoundrel.
Mary thought about calling him on such obvious bullshit, but she let it slide, cocking her head at him as if to say, “We’ll talk about this later.” She wondered what he and Leon had really been talking about. It could be something totally unimportant. Truely sometimes just lied to stay in practice. She knew that about him. But now she wanted to tell him about the missing cross.
Pear Honey
8 cups pears suitable for cooking, (or as my son recommends, any pears off an old pear tree)
6 cups sugar
1 ½ cups crushed pineapple (optional)
Cook pears with sugar on low heat until the mixture looks clear and begins to thicken, about 1 1/2 hours. Add the pineapple and cook 10-15 minutes longer. Seal in hot, sterilized jars, and process in boiling water bath. If you don’t want to put up in jars, use within the week.
Three
Heaven found the kitchen. “Damn, Mary, I almost had to call 911 to get help finding the coffeepot. This house is big.”
Mary Whitten smiled. “But isn’t that a great ol’ suite up there?” she said as she poured Heaven a cup of coffee. “And it’s only the third floor.”
“Where are we? I didn’t pay attention last night.”
“Audubon Place. It’s hot shit, as far as an Uptown address goes.” Mary patted a chair for Heaven next to her at a big wooden table positioned in a bay window in Mary’s gigantic kitchen. A black woman in a uniform was working over at the sink. At least two more staff members came and went while Heaven and Mary ate breakfast.
“What’s in here?” Heaven opened a linen napkin folded in a basket.
“Biscuits, of course. And there’s some sausage that our butler makes himself. It’s spicy.”
Heaven put a biscuit on her plate and pulled it open. Then she reached for the preserves. “Pear honey?” she asked.
‘You got it,” Mary answered as she bit off a corner of her own biscuit.
Heaven finished building a biscuit sandwich by slathering the pear honey on one half of the biscuit and plopping a round of sausage on the other. She closed it up and bit in, a little moan escaping her full mouth. “Delicious. So, how much time do we have?”
“What do you mean?”
Heaven looked up at a beautiful antique railroad clock on the wall. “How much time before you have to go to work?”
“I’ve got a deposition this afternoon, so I want to go in by nine, nine thirty. Why?”
“Good. That gives me an hour to grill you. Where’s Truely?”
“Already gone. He said to tell you he made reservations for us at Bayona tonight. Had to use your name to get us in. He was very impressed. New Orleanians choose their friends by who has more pull at Galatoire’s.”
Heaven started at the top of her list of things to quiz Mary about. “So, what’s with the Mary Beth thing?”
“Well, it is my middle name. Truely at first just called me that as a tease. Then I noticed
he would introduce me as Mary Beth, said it would help me fit in better. My mother-in-law, God rest her selfish soul, never said my first name until we added the Beth. Mary was too Presbyterian for her, I guess.”
“So, in court, do they call you Mary Beth?”
“No, Miz Mary Beth, or Mary Beth, honey,” she said with a straight face. Then giggling at Heaven’s consternation, she added, “I’m pulling your leg. It helps me in court to go by both names. Every one of the good old boys goes by three names, usually all three suitable for last names.”
“What’s Truely’s?”
“Truely, with an E for some reason, Fortier Whitten. His mother was from a real Creole family, the Fortiers. His daddy was a carpetbagger, which any Uptown lady will tell you about Truely if she gets a chance.”
“Sounds like a senator. So, do I call you Mary Beth from now on?”
Mary shrugged her shoulders. “If it seems too weird, don’t sweat it. I’ll know who you’re talking to.”
“Let’s try it. So, Mary Beth, how’s the coffee business?”
“New Orleans is now the biggest coffee-importing city in this country. Twenty-seven point eight percent of all the beans that come in come in here. And Truely does most of that importing.”
“Well, something must be going right, because this is a great house full of beautiful antiques. Do you like living in New Orleans?”
“I’ve been here eighteen years so I guess if I didn’t I would have left by now. It grows on you, that’s for sure.”
“That’s not the most enthusiastic endorsement for a marriage I’ve heard. Is there a problem?”
Mary smiled and got up. “Oh, God, no. I fell for that goofball twenty years ago and I haven’t fallen out. But these Southern families are so complicated. And the town is too. I spent ten years feeling like an outsider and I became terrified when the day came I didn’t feel like an outsider anymore. It’s a club I’m not sure I want to belong to.”
“The Groucho Marx Syndrome,” Heaven said with a grin. “I’ve been there myself.”
The phone rang and Mary grabbed it. She waved it at Heaven and put it down. “It’s for you. I’m going up to put my lawyer face on.”
Heaven wondered who was calling her. She hoped something terrible hadn’t happened at home. “This is Heaven.”
“Heaven, this is Nancy Blair. I wonder if you’re free for lunch today, or does Mary have you all booked up?”
“I’m free, Nancy. Wasn’t that an ordeal yesterday?”
“Welcome to New Orleans, Heaven. How about Antoine’s at one?”
“It’s a date,” she said and hung up.
She poured another cup of coffee and walked around the first floor, touching the lovely finish of a table or admiring a porcelain figure or a bronze bust. It really was quite a collection. Heaven thought about the full-time uniformed staff around to keep all this stuff clean. She herself had house cleaners, a team of jovial lesbians. Was it the fact that all of Mary’s employees were African-American that made Heaven uncomfortable? Was it their uniforms? Mary came down the stairs and found Heaven in the living room.
“This place is full of good shit.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Who was on the phone?”
“Nancy Blair wanting to have lunch.”
“Oh, dear, how fun. I’m sorry I’ve got this deposition or I’d butt in.”
“Give me the twenty-five words or less on Nancy Blair, will you?” Heaven asked.
“She made tons of money selling sex to those who could afford it, invested her money well, bought herself a seat on a couple of boards, and then got religion. She gave lots of money to the sisters for their school because in the old days they would let her girls’ children go to the academy on the cheap. They parade her out like their own little Mary Magdalene.”
“Whoa. Do I sense some cynicism?”
Mary picked up her briefcase by the front door. “Everybody, I’m leaving. Take care of Heaven,” she yelled to the air. She turned to her friend and patted her arm. “Cynicism is as Southern as pecan pie, Heaven. I’ll see you later.”
Heaven was following the meeter/greeter/seater from the front desk through the labyrinth that was Antoine’s. Since its birth in 1840, Antoine’s has kept the secrets of the powerful of New Orleans. Private dining room waiters hurried through the hall, one with a Baked Alaska ready to be set on fire at the last possible moment. As hokey as it was, Heaven loved every minute, wondering what the kitchens were like, how many walk-in coolers they had, how many people on the payroll. When they arrived at Nancy Blair’s table, Heaven smiled. “I see you chose the spot with your back to the wall, not the door. Hello, Nancy.”
Nancy Blair was wearing a red suit today, as fine in its detail as the navy one had been the day before. She had on dark glasses and white kid gloves. “Pardon me for not getting up, Heaven. I’m creaky. Oh, yes, you always want to be able to keep an eye on the door, and know where the back door is too.”
Heaven laughed and sat down on Nancy’s right side. “Where do you get all these fabulous suits?”
“Paris,” Nancy answered. “Thank God Karl Lagerfield took over Chanel, not one of those knuckleheads from England that can’t sew a seam. Tailored suits have been my trademark for years, Heaven. They always made a good impression in court.”
“Did you have to go often?”
“Depending on the mayor or the police chief at the time. I think thirty-three arrests in a year was my record. But many of my colleagues were arrested hundreds of times in a year. I spent my bribe money wisely. Are you shocked?”
Heaven blushed. She had been thinking about her own brush with the law. “No. I was a lawyer, but I did something stupid years ago and lost my ability to practice. I’m no saint. And you know what? Life does go on.”
“And the bills still have to be paid, don’t they? I ordered us a nice bottle of white Burgundy, a Puligny-Montrachet, if that’s all right with you. They have a good French wine list here.”
For the next hour, Heaven and Nancy enjoyed good food and wine and each other’s company. Heaven was fascinated with the matter-of-fact way that Nancy told racy tales of her life as a landlady, as she called it.
“You know, Nancy, I realize that there must have been some great landladies in Kansas City. It was a wide-open town for a few years in the twenties and thirties. Yet, I’ve never heard any of the stories.”
“They dead now, child,” Nancy said with the first tinge of nostalgia Heaven had detected. “I’m just lucky I lived in a town that couldn’t survive without the likes of me. I have a professor from New Orleans U. who’s writing a book of my life. She comes over four times a week and I talk into a tape recorder. Says it will make a movie, for sure.”
“But you didn’t ask me to lunch to rehash old war stories did you, Nancy? You don’t seem the type that lives in the past.”
Nancy went right to the point. “Heaven, I’m fond of the Sisters of the Holy Trinity. I don’t like what happened yesterday, not one bit. Of course, it’s easy to pin it on that little bitch, Amelia Hart. But really, she’s no fool. Why would she come in and make a stink if she’d set up the snatch of the cross and all the other?”
“I’m sure the police will—”
“Bull,” Nancy broke in. “The police may come up with a couple of black kids they say did it, but it won’t lead us to the cross, or the slick behind all this.”
Heaven wondered if she had a sign on her back that read “Meddling Redhead for Hire. Works Free.” ‘You know, Nancy, I’m going home tomorrow and I won’t be back for a month. I don’t know how much help I can be.”
Nancy Blair’s eyes narrowed and she signaled for the check. ‘You’re an outsider, Heaven, and that gives you an advantage. Just keep your eyes and ears open. You never know where that cross might pop up. And I’ve got a bad feeling that this wasn’t an isolated incident.”
Heaven’s wheels were turning. “I guess it wouldn’t kill me to go over to the convent and see a pho
to of the cross. I didn’t really pay attention to it yesterday when I arrived.”
Nancy Blair didn’t even have to present a credit card. She just signed the check and started gathering up her things to leave. The white kid gloves went back on. She was thinking out loud. “No matter what I said earlier, I wouldn’t rule out Amelia Hart. She carries a heavy chip on her shoulder, Heaven. Chips make you stupid.”
Heaven stood and gave the older woman a hug. “Thanks for sharing your history and for lunch. That fish in the parchment paper was just as good as the press on it said it would be.”
Nancy slipped her arm around Heaven’s waist for a moment suddenly very sexy for a little old lady, then released the younger woman. She must have been a pistol in her day, Heaven thought. “I’m sneaking out the side door, where all the sinners come and go.” She handed Heaven a calling card with just her name and a phone number; heavy ivory paper, deep engraving. “Here’s my card if you need to get in touch with me. I’ll see you next month.” She turned and. out of nowhere, two managers appeared and swept her away. Heaven hadn’t noticed them hovering or anything. Pretty attentive service.
Heaven walked down Bourbon to Ursulines and then over to Chartres, where the convent was located. She let the French Quarter take over her senses for a few minutes, loving the sights and sounds. It was almost three and leisurely lunches were running into afternoon cocktails. The bars along the Bourbon strip weren’t full but they sure weren’t empty either. Farther down Bourbon, the gay bars were opening the wooden French doors that allowed the late-night crowd to spill out on the street. The sidewalks had been hosed down and hadn’t received their nightly dose of regurgitated Hurricane cocktails yet. Azaleas were blooming everywhere on second-story balconies. The place was maddening, with all the hidden courtyards, the indication of lives being lived behind closed doors in these ancient buildings that looked like a good wind would blow them all over. Heaven loved it.
Suddenly, a garage door flush to the street opened and a silver Porsche almost ran over Heaven, sticking its sleek nose out on the sidewalk. She jerked to attention abruptly brought back to earth from her flights of fancy. She shot an angry look at the driver, a very distinguished man with silver hair. He gave her a bemused glance and turned his car out onto Ursulines. While the automatic door slowly came down, Heaven caught glimpses of banana trees and flowering bushes in pots, and a wrought-iron table and chairs set on a brick terrace.
Red Beans and Vice Page 3
