Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  A muscle flexed in his jaw and he turned his dark gaze on her. “There was a time when sarcasm didn’t suit you.”

  “Meaning that now it does?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe it always did.”

  Riva opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She was stunned by the dark reflection of pain she thought she saw in his eyes. A hard knot gathered, aching, in her throat.

  An instant later, the moment was gone, and all that was left was embarrassment. Riva looked away. They were nearing the tents. For something to say to break the tense silence, she asked, “I don’t suppose you know which way Dante went?”

  “No.” The answer was not cordial.

  “I’ll have to find him since I came with him.”

  He gave a curt nod. “I’ll see you back at the house, then.”

  As he strode away, Riva stood watching the stretch of his long legs and the dynamic way he carried himself, as if there were reserves of strength inside him that were seldom called upon, strength unneeded in the business world in which he moved. He was an intensely private man, one difficult to know, though he was acknowledged by many as a strong ally. It was a pity he could not be hers.

  Old lovers, like old friends, made dangerous enemies.

  TWO

  THERE WERE NO GATES CLOSING OFF the drive at Bonne Vie, no guardhouse, no security guard on duty. The only sentinels, in fact, were the oaks, the row of huge live oaks so ancient some had branches the size of tree trunks trailing heavily to the ground, acting as supports. The stately trees marched in a straight line toward the house, their inner limbs arching over the gravel drive with the loftiness of a cathedral roof so that the fine old house appeared like an altar at the end. The historic structure was protected by its isolation and possibly by the awe it inspired. Bonne Vie was one of the most famous antebellum plantation homes in the South, its setting and beautifully proportioned façade instantly recognizable from a thousand book covers and picture-postcard views.

  Cosmo would never hear of fortifying the place against theft and vandalism or even the curiosity seekers who sometimes came up the drive. Bonne Vie, he had said, was neither an armed camp nor a prison; it was his home, no more and no less. Riva had done nothing to change matters since his death. It helped, of course, that there was a small army of yard boys, houseboys, maids, a cook, and a chauffeur always about, each with a traditional attachment to the place and the Staulet family. No intrusion went unseen or uninvestigated. There had never been any trouble.

  Dante Romoli swung his Alfa Romeo in on the drive and sent it purring toward the front of the house. Twenty yards from the front steps, he steered to the left into the parking area on that side and drew up beside the three or four other vehicles already there. He climbed out and moved around to the door on Riva’s side.

  The powerful sports car had made short work of the fifty or so miles between the town where the rally had been held and Bonne Vie, but still Riva was stiff, probably from sheer tension, as she allowed Dante to draw her to her feet. She gave him a smile that held both thanks and apology. She had not been good company on the drive; her thoughts had been too busy elsewhere.

  “You’ll stay, won’t you?” she asked. “I can offer you a late lunch to make up for the one you missed. With Erin’s crowd entrenched, it might be nice if there’s someone else around who’s over thirty.”

  Dante did not hesitate. “You know me, I try never to miss a meal.”

  It was a joke of sorts between them, one of many. They went back a long way together, to the sixties and a greasy kitchen behind a famous French Quarter restaurant and also to a sleazy topless bar on Bourbon Street, to a time when they had both been on their own, both down but not out.

  Dante’s preoccupation with food had begun then. Given his continued closeness to it, to its preparation, to its taste and the infinite variety of its possible flavor combinations, he should have been as big as a whale. He did worry at times about his love handles, but he was trim enough, even with the compact build of his Cajun-French and Italian heritage. He pretended to fight a hard battle to stay in shape, with racquetball and tennis and a two-mile run every morning, but the truth was that he had a metabolism and business schedule that allowed him to eat as he pleased without gaining more than the odd pound or two.

  There was good reason for his fascination with food. He was now the owner of Lecompte’s Restaurant, an establishment fully as well-known and respected for its fine cuisine as Commander’s Palace and one with even deeper roots in New Orleans history. It had been a going concern since 1843, the scene of many a famous dinner and infamous scandal in the rich period before the Civil War when cotton was king and afterward during the Gay Nineties. The original owners had sold it in the mid-twentieth century and it had passed from hand to hand until Dante, who had worked there as a busboy, had bought it ten years before.

  Owning Lecompte’s had been the culmination of a dream. He had restored the place with love and meticulous care, returning the decor to its original look of a Paris bistro. He had then hired a renowned chef and set about making the place pay. Money was important to Dante, though it was more the making of it than having it. It was his heavy investment in a chain of spicy fried-chicken eateries, one known for the quality of its product, that had given him the chance to own Lecompte’s. He never forgot it was fried chicken that had made him a restaurateur, and certainly never apologized for it.

  Nor was Dante content with having reached his main goal. He had recently opened a new restaurant and nightspot out on Lake Pontchartrain where the younger crowd was being drawn as much by the finely prepared seafood as by the high-decibel rock music and innovative lighting.

  Bonne Vie, as always, seemed to welcome Riva home. There was something about it that fostered comfort and contentment, like a gracious friend who makes no judgments, no demands. It was neoclassical in style, with plastered walls painted a soft peach-pink. Massive in appearance, it measured seventy feet square, with two and a half stories plus a belvedere and upper and lower galleries, or balconies, on all four sides. It was supported by a total of twenty-eight Doric columns reaching from the ground to the roof line. However, to Riva, its size was not intimidating but protecting.

  The rooms inside were spacious, with high ceilings edged with lacelike crown moldings and furnishings that were a mixture of Staulet antiques and modern overstuffed pieces to soften the formality. Regardless of its scale, there were only eight main rooms, four upstairs and four downstairs, along with a few smaller ones that had been turned into dressing rooms and baths. A wide hallway bisected the house on both floors. Downstairs, the hall swept in wide-open and commodious welcome to the French doors at the rear. The curved stairway with its mahogany railing rose from the back of the hallway on the right, while through the French doors was the brick-floored lower back gallery. This porchlike area was furnished with pastel-cushioned chairs of wrought iron placed around glass-topped tables and great urns holding arching ferns or pink geraniums underplanted with variegated ivy. A pair of wide brick steps descended to the brick terrace, which, in turn, stretched to the swimming pool. Beyond the pool were the spreading grounds set with trees like an English park, grounds that sloped down to the ornamental pond that was centered with a small island holding a folly, or oversized gazebo, built like a small Roman temple.

  The white marble-lined pool with its standing rank of columns at the far end always reminded Riva of the Roman pool in the movie set of The Great Gatsby. It was not quite so large and there were clumps of palms here and there adding a tropical note; still, the effect was of slightly pretentious classical splendor. Nonetheless, if you had to have a pool attached to an antebellum mansion, a better style would be difficult to find. Cosmo, who had built the pool for Riva when he learned how much she enjoyed swimming, had only followed the neoclassical tastes of the nineteenth-century planters.

  The sound of raised voices and the splash of water drew Riva and Dante through the house and out tow
ard the pool. The college-age bunch was in possession, diving and splashing in the deep end and toasting themselves on towels spread out around the edges. The smells of chlorine and coconut-pineapple-scented suntan oil hung in the air, along with the aroma of food. There was a buffet table to one side on which were set platters of thinly sliced roast beef and ham, a huge pot of gumbo, and bowls of potato salad, macaroni salad, green salad, and assorted fruit. To accompany this were three kinds of homemade bread and four kinds of pie and cake. Cold drinks, wine coolers, wine, and beer were embedded in crushed ice in a copper barrel to one side.

  Erin, with the help of the kitchen staff, had made good use of her headstart in reaching the house. In the time she had spent at Bonne Vie, she had grown accustomed to the style of living it represented. Riva could not help but be glad, even as she prayed she wasn’t spoiling her niece.

  Catching sight of Erin across the pool, sitting on the edge, Riva waved a greeting.

  Erin called out, “Where are your swimsuits? Aren’t you two coming in?”

  “Maybe later,” Riva replied. “First we need sustenance.”

  “Noel wouldn’t come in, either. He had to leave as soon as he got here, something to do with a call from the airport.”

  “The airport?”

  Erin shrugged with insouciance as she adjusted the bright pink bikini that just covered her generous curves. “That’s all he said.”

  Riva nodded, then handed a plate to Dante before taking one herself and pointing out what she wanted from the buffet to the maid who stood behind it. Noel, her erstwhile stepson, came and went as he pleased with little explanation; they could count themselves lucky to have been told as much as they had this time. If he missed his lunch, it was no concern of hers.

  It was as she took a seat at one of the gallery tables that Riva noticed the young man who surged with strong strokes through the glinting aquamarine water of the pool. He made for Erin and pulled himself up on the marble edge to sit beside her. He raked his fingers through his hair, slicking the water off his sandy-blond head as he laughed down at Riva’s niece.

  Riva was still in the act of unfolding her napkin. The young man was Josh Gallant.

  She should have known. He and Erin had been together at the rally. Even if Erin had not wanted Josh at Bonne Vie, she was too well schooled in manners to have left him out of her invitation. The smile Riva’s niece gave him, however, made it plain that he was more than just welcome.

  Something really must be done. It must.

  “Anything wrong?” Dante asked as he dropped into a chair beside Riva.

  She gave him a distracted smile. “No, nothing. Did you try the raspberries? They were delicious at breakfast.”

  He answered her question with a nod. “I’ve been experimenting with this Hungarian dessert made with sponge cake soaked in rum and then covered with layers of vanilla custard, raspberries, and cream sprinkled with almonds. You don’t see raspberries that much here, but they’re cheap and plentiful along the Washington coast this time of year. And this torte, you should taste it, chère!”

  He went on, speaking of other Hungarian tortes rich with chocolate and hazelnuts or walnuts and cream that the chef at Lecompte’s had been trying. Tortes, Dante said, were going to be the next dessert fad. Riva let his words wash over her as she returned her attention to her niece and Edison’s son in the pool. They were swimming now, circling each other so that their bodies glided together in the shifting, sparkling water. It reminded her, achingly, of another pool, another summer.

  “Which one of you is the little air force wife, all deserted and lonesome?”

  Those had been Edison’s first words that day at the pool.

  The water hole they called a pool was actually a wooded pond, spring-fed and overhung with maples, beeches, and pin oaks. It was located behind the Benson house where Riva, known then as Rebecca, lived with her widowed mother and her sisters Margaret and Beth, though it belonged to their next-door neighbor. It was a favorite hangout that hot summer of ‘63, mainly because the town swimming pool was closed.

  Civil rights was a sore issue that year, with marches and demonstrations on Main Street and before the local school-board office. There was a strong push for integration of all public facilities, from the schools and the local buses to the public restrooms at the courthouse and the municipal pool. People were particularly at odds about the pool. There was a much newer and nicer one in the black section of town. Why, in the name of heaven, the blacks wanted to come over to the white pool where the cracks were patched with tar and the foot bath looked like a locker-room toilet was something the whites could not understand.

  The reasons were there, of course, but they didn’t seem to matter in the heat of the conflict. There were agitators in the black section of town, known as the Quarters. Northern liberals full of idealism and liberal ideas were fomenting changes they didn’t understand and whose consequences they were going to leave in the laps of white Southerners. Feelings were running so high, especially between the redneck boys who felt they had been pushed around enough and the militant blacks who were tired of backing down, that the town fathers had decided it was better to close the white pool rather than risk a drowning when some fool tried to integrate it.

  The upshot was that during the torrid days of that summer the white kids could run the no less dangerous risk of integrating the blacks’ pool, or chance drowning in the local creeks and ponds. So they congregated at the pond behind the Benson place, two miles south of town.

  It was mostly boys of high-school age and those a little older who were allowed to go swimming. Creek and pond water was always murky from stirred mud and the dark sap of trees; there were underwater snags, sudden drop-offs in the mud bottom, and no lifeguards. You had to be a decent swimmer to survive the hazards, one of the main ones being the unsupervised horseplay. Younger boys were too inexperienced to go alone, and older ones were, for the most part, hard at work. As for the girls, the pond was isolated, which allowed opportunities for all sorts of improper behavior that had nothing to do with horseplay. Most mothers refused to permit their daughters to go.

  The Benson girls’ mother, however, could usually be talked into anything. Mrs. Benson had little strength to argue. The reason was her heart, which had been weak for years. Most of her days were spent lying on the couch watching the one television station that serviced their area while swatting at flies and trying to breathe the hot air that the attic fan pulled through the half-opened windows. Her three daughters did all the cooking and cleaning, washing and ironing. They bought the groceries, paid the bills, and saw that their mother took her medicine. They felt they were able to take care of themselves and entitled to any diversion that was offered after their hard work.

  Beth, the oldest, was their leader. She was a married woman of nineteen, therefore experienced with men, or at least one man. Her young husband Jimmy was in the air force, some kind of specialist in electronics, and he had been stationed in the Philippines for over a year. Beth wrote to him on Mondays and Thursdays and seldom thought of him during the rest of the week. She had a lush shape and a wicked twinkle in her brown eyes. She liked to have fun, to go places with music and laughter, and she liked to swim.

  The boys at the pond whistled and yelled as the three sisters came down the hill that June day. The girls made quite a picture with their sun-streaked blond hair, long tanned legs, and brief swimsuits worn under their dead father’s old shirts. None of them were underdeveloped. Though far from looking like triplets—Beth was tallest, Margaret more stocky and plagued with the Benson hips that broadened at the top, while Rebecca had smaller bones that gave her a svelte, streamlined look—they were still amazingly alike in face shape, coloring, and movements.

  Their reactions to the blatant appreciation of their audience were different. Beth laughed, calling a happy greeting. Margaret, two years younger than her older sister and never comfortable with her body, blushed tomato-red. Rebecca, just fifteen, managed an uneas
y grin as she stood straighter.

  They hung their shirts and the towels they carried on a tree limb and waded into the water. It was like a tepid bath, with cooler currents washing about their thighs as they moved in deeper. They paddled about, trying not to stir the mud any more than was necessary, giggling a little among themselves, and flinching away from the delicate, tickling nibble of fish.

  They pretended not to be aware of the boys, though they missed nothing of the fancy swimming strokes, the diving from the crude wooden platform built on a tree, and all the rest of the general showing-off for their benefit. Nor were they surprised when a couple of boys approached a few minutes later.

  Edison had asked his question about the deserted air force wife as he raked his fingers through his hair to slick it back, spraying water droplets onto his broad shoulders that glistened in the sunlight falling through the trees. He stood before them with water lapping about his chest, a young man exuding confidence and bold appeal, one more than just handsome and well aware of it. At his elbow was Boots Green, a slow-moving, slow-talking boy with the coppery coloring of his ancient Indian heritage, one known for his solid dependability and his nickname, which came from his clodhopper footwear.

  “That would be me,” Beth answered Edison. She looked him over as frankly as he looked at her, then slowly licked the water from her lips.

  Edison’s grin was brash. “Then your lonesome days are over.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know it.”

  The three girls knew who the newcomer was, just as they had known he was at the pond. Everybody in town, certainly every girl of marriageable age, knew that the Bensons’ next-door neighbor, old man Gallant, had his nephew staying with him. The nephew was a college man no less, studying law at Tulane. He lived in south Louisiana and drove a sharp white Chevy convertible. It was the same convertible that the Benson sisters had seen from their kitchen window as it bumped along the log road behind their frame house, the road that led down to the pond. He was the main reason they were there.