Constance, elegant and cool in black and white voile, raised a brow. As she seated herself, she drawled, “How very like your sister you are, Mrs. Green. I had not realized until this moment.”
The double disparagement—of Margaret for dressing in Riva’s finery, as all the household knew, and of Riva for being as mannerless as Margaret had just shown herself—was lost on Margaret. She smiled with satisfaction. “People have always said so.”
“I should imagine they would.”
The chill tone of the other woman’s voice wiped the smile from Margaret’s face. Before she could speak, however, Noel stepped into the car behind Boots and spoke to George, and they moved away down the drive.
The old United States Mint, a building of Victorian solidity painted rust-brown, had been the site of the manufacture of United States coins from the late 1830s to the first decade of the twentieth century except for a brief hiatus during the Civil War. Afterward, it had served as a federal prison and a Coast Guard office, though in recent years it had been completely renovated and dedicated as a branch of the state museum. It was fitting that the building was sometimes available as the scene for spectacular parties and balls. In the 1840s, the mint’s superintendent had held a fancy-dress ball for his daughter’s debut there, the only social event ever to take place in a United States Mint building. It was, to Riva, a typical example of New Orleans irreverence for bureaucracy.
The interior was spacious and airy, with a grand staircase in the center tying together the three floors of exhibits. As with much else in the city, it was a curious and oddly complementary mixture of the new and the old, of bright lights and shining surfaces combined with fine, refinished old woods and excellent workmanship. Behind the building, enclosed by a stone fence, was a courtyard lighted by fairy lights strung through sheltering trees.
For the gala, formal wear for men was much in evidence. There had been a time, during the sixties and early seventies, when a tuxedo was seldom seen in the city, but in the last few years they had become necessary apparel in men’s closets again.
Perhaps as a result, or perhaps simply because this was New Orleans, the bars set up here and there were much patronized. Courtesy champagne also flowed freely. Silver chafing dishes rendered up hors d’oeuvres of shrimp and crabmeat in crisp pastry shells, crawfish, and small hot sausages in barbecue sauce, plus stuffed mushrooms and other such delicacies. There were desserts served in fluted glasses and made with chocolate and fresh strawberries and cream custard. Set among the food were ice sculptures of the wild ducks, geese, egrets, pelicans, and cranes whose migratory habitat in the marshlands of the state the gala was supposedly helping to preserve.
Music for dancing was plentiful. There was a string quartet on the third floor playing waltzes for the older or more romantic guests, a Cajun band making foot-tapping, two-stepping rhythms on the second floor, and a jazz ensemble swinging and winging it in the jazz-preservation room. One of most popular places, however, was the courtyard where the lighting was dim, the night breeze pleasant, and a modern combo played effortless cocktail music that was suitable for dancing yet did not present an insurmountable obstacle to conversation.
The group from Bonne Vie stayed together for a short while, long enough to exchange a few dances. Dante, Riva’s escort, as usual, led her out onto the floor first. They moved together easily and comfortably, if without verve; for Dante, the exercise was only an excuse for his quick, humorous comments on everything and everybody. Boots, on the other hand, didn’t have much to say, but was a surprisingly accomplished dancer for so large a man, his movements smooth and in perfect step. There was something about the way Riva’s body fit Noel’s, however, as if the two of them were designed to move in harmony, that made dancing even duty dances with him different from anyone else. More than that was the way he responded to the music, as if he had an affinity with it above the average and used it to express all the things he ordinarily kept locked inside. It was not a new discovery; she had noticed it before years ago when they had first danced together. Regardless, she had the feeling that he was unaware of the extent to which he allowed the music to become a part of him.
The Bonne Vie party separated finally. Riva strolled here and there with Dante until he was snared by a matron wanting to discuss a wedding-rehearsal party to be held in one of Lecompte’s private rooms. After being hailed by an acquaintance, Riva wandered away on her own. She carried a glass of champagne around with her, though when it was gone she replaced it with mineral water. The food laid out in such bounty enticed her, and she accepted a few samples. Often in her ramblings she paused to exchange greetings with friends and those not so friendly, and also to pose with some of the organizers of the evening for the society-page photographers from New Orleans magazine and the Times-Picayune.
After a time, she was attracted by the rich sounds and the clatter of applause coming from the jazz room. She moved in that direction. Finding a crowd congregated around the doorway, she edged her way through expertly, then worked forward to a place on one side of the gathering. From that vantage point, she had a fine view of the combo that was the main attraction.
The ensemble consisted of a trumpet and clarinet, along with piano, bass fiddle, and drums. The tune they played was a strong, sad, and brassy rendition of a jazz favorite straight from old Basin Street. The earthy, funky beat of it surrounded Riva, catching at her heart, curling in her stomach, and tingling in her feet so that she was forced to move with it.
The black trumpeter was great and the clarinetist fine, but it was the drummer who brought life to the piece. The rhythm he coaxed from the drum skins was complicated and sensuous, a double heartbeat pounding out in steady and perfect sync that increased in speed and swelled in volume by almost imperceptible degrees. With every repeat of the basic few measures of the song, the beat grew stronger, though it slipped at intervals into an oddly spaced trip-hammer stutter that added excitement. The message in the rhythm was primitive but effective, a paean to the love that is celebrated in the dark as bodies move in unrestrained pleasure toward an instant of suspended time.
The drummer was Noel.
There was concentration in his face and close accord between him and the other players. But there was also bright laughter in his gray eyes, the measure of his pure enjoyment for the free-flowing release of the music. Riva, watching in amazement, felt his reckless joy. It was in the intense vibration of the sound, in the quickening tempo and the precision of his movements that stemmed from sheer creative instinct, but most of all it was in the fact that, for this moment, he was totally unconscious of who and where he was.
She had no idea how Noel had come to be part of the entertainment or how long it had been going on. She was bemused by this side of him that she had thought dead since a stormy afternoon on an island. Still, there arose in her as she watched the fear that her presence would destroy the joy for Noel. Why should it not? Hadn’t it always done so before?
With slow care, she faded back into the crowd, retreating, threading her way toward the door. She kept her gaze on Noel as she went, but he did not look up. She was glad when she could no longer see him for the press of bodies, for it meant that he could no longer catch sight of her.
She was back out in the central hall when the jazz piece rose toward a throbbing crescendo. The sound followed her, rich and turbulent with trumpet notes of mind-stopping, nerve-stretching purity supported by the rising and defiantly blending strength of the other instruments. And then suddenly, in a triumphant burst of strident melody and a thunderous drumbeat of finality, the music ended. The last note was, for some reason Riva could not quite explain, a relief.
The mint’s courtyard offered coolness and relative quiet. Riva began to make her way there. Dante caught up with her near the outside door and, discovering where she was headed, promised to join her there in a few minutes with fresh glasses of champagne.
Outside, Riva found a seat on the low retaining wall that bounded one side of the flag
ged area and sat watching the dancers. There were other people nearby, but not so close that she felt compelled to talk. It was good to have a moment’s respite.
She could see Margaret and Boots among the couples swaying under the trees. They looked good together, her sister and her husband, even a bit sophisticated, with Boots in his black tuxedo and the multicolored beads on the dress Margaret wore glittering as they caught the light from the tiny bulbs strung overhead.
The music ended and the band called a five-minute break. Margaret and Boots left the floor. Margaret said something to her husband, and he nodded and left, most likely in search of the bar. Riva’s sister stood alone in the shadows to one side of the fountain, her back to Riva.
Riva saw a man detach himself from a group near the door and circle around the fairy-lighted trees and chattering groups of people. It was Edison, and for a moment she thought he had seen her there in the night dimness. It was Margaret, however, who was his goal. He approached her from behind. As he drew near, he reached out his hand and cupped one cheek of her buttocks in a quick, thrusting grasp.
Margaret gave a small scream. She spun around, stumbling backward. Edison looked stunned for a moment when he saw her face. Nevertheless, he recovered in an instant, apologizing.
“I’m sorry. It was a mistake. That dress—I thought…that is, I didn’t mean anything. I just stumbled, nearly fell.”
Margaret blinked and glanced around her. When she saw no one paying any attention to the small incident, she relaxed, moving closer. “Edison,” she said, “Edison Gallant. Don’t you know me?”
It was Edison’s turn to glance around. Looking back again, he said, “Should I?”
“I’m Margaret, Riva’s sister. You thought I was her, didn’t you, because she was in all the papers in this dress last Mardi Gras.”
“Not at all.”
“Oh, no, you thought it was your wife.” The words were archly playful.
“I told you, I stumbled,” Edison muttered, his voice barely audible.
Margaret laughed with a high-pitched, breathless sound. “Riva’s here somewhere, if you want to talk to her.”
“Why should I want to do that?”
“I thought there was something you wanted from her.”
Edison looked at Margaret, letting his gaze travel slowly over her body until a flush appeared on her cheeks. “Maybe,” he said in a low, suggestive tone as his gaze returned to hers, “I should take it up with you.”
Margaret’s eyes widened as she gasped. An intrigued look crossed her face. It was easy to see that she was tempted, yet held in check by fear and prudence. Her gaze moved beyond Edison’s shoulder and she saw Riva. “I—I don’t think so. My sister is over there, behind you.”
Edison turned to look over his shoulder. With no more than a nod, he moved away from Margaret, walking toward where Riva sat. He was scowling as he came to a halt. “I suppose you saw that?”
“I suppose I did.”
“I hope you had a good laugh.”
“It had its amusing moments.”
“Shit,” he said under his breath. He stared past her into the darkness.
It was interesting that it mattered so much to him that he had looked foolish. It was a sign of the size of his ego, of course, but it also made him more human.
He cocked his head as he slowly swung back to her. “You haven’t run away yet. I’m surprised.”
“I wasn’t running away from you yesterday, just leaving an unpleasant situation.” Riva kept her voice even and coolly neutral.
“Whatever it was, I’m glad you’re still here. We need to talk.”
“I thought we made our positions clear enough.”
“There are a few details that escape me. Could we go somewhere?”
She gave him an ironic glance. “If you mean leave the mint, no.”
“You don’t leave a man much room to maneuver, do you? Funny, I don’t remember you being that way.”
“Don’t you?”
“As a matter of fact,” he answered, his voice dropping lower, “I don’t remember the two of us having problems at all. You were always ready to do whatever I wanted.”
“The way I remember it, you were too wrapped up in what you wanted to care whether I was ready or not.”
“God, you were sweet, the most delectable little piece of—”
“Do continue,” she invited with a bright smile. “I’m sure your constituents attending this gala will be most entertained.”
“You know, I like feisty women. They turn me on.”
“Need I say that was not my intention?”
He ignored her comment. “Women who just cry or sulk are a bore. You excite me.”
He was, she noticed, keeping his voice down. She looked over his shoulder, scanning the crowd. In a deliberate change of subject, she said, “I wonder where Dante can have gotten to. He has been gone long enough to bring champagne from Paris.”
“The friend you were with at the rally? I saw him with a hot-looking foreign number when I was making the rounds just now. He was teaching her how to do the Cajun waltz.”
“Was he? That was nice of him.” Dante must have come across Constance. Since Noel’s wife knew so few people, he would have felt obligated to spend a few minutes with her.
“Jealous?” he asked.
Riva merely smiled.
“I’d offer to bring you a drink, but I’m afraid you would disappear. Though if you’d like to go in search of the bar, and incidentally see what your friend is up to, I’ll be glad to go with you.”
It would be better than sitting there with Edison standing over her. Besides, since the music had stopped out here, the crowd was beginning to thin out, gravitating toward the tuneful whine of the Cajun fiddles inside. Margaret had gone with them. It seemed a bit too much like being deserted for comfort.
“All right,” Riva said.
As she started to rise, Edison extended his hand. To accept his offer of help was natural, no matter how little she needed it. His fingers closed on hers, then tightened, dragging her upward. The sudden surge was unexpected. Off balance, Riva fell against him. He caught her to his chest with one hand on her breast and the other clamped around her waist.
“There now, that’s where you belong,” he said in satisfied tones.
“Let me go!” Riva spoke through set teeth as she braced her hands against his chest. She was aware of a curious glance or two cast in their direction but thought the light was too dim for anyone to know who they were. To struggle would be the surest way to draw attention.
Edison sighed, then released his hold. As she stepped back, he tilted his head, giving her a rueful grin. “I did it again, didn’t I? Everything I do around you seems wrong. I guess I’m just nervous. Finding you again has thrown me for a loop.”
She didn’t trust his smile or his humble words. It was galling that he could think she would. “You might try treating me as you would any other business acquaintance. That’s all we are.”
“But not all I’d like to be, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby. I’m nobody’s baby, particularly yours, and haven’t been for a long time.”
He reached to take her hand. “Look, I made a mistake yesterday. What you said was so unexpected that I didn’t know how to answer, didn’t think about what I was saying. Please don’t hold it against me. Let’s start over, have a nice long talk somewhere about old times. I’m sure we can work this problem out.”
His voice was deep and sincere, honeyed with charm. She had to admire his acting ability and even to wonder if it was really all acting. She tried to ease her hand free, but he would not release it. “There’s nothing to talk about, nothing to work out. I’ve told you what I want. I can’t—I won’t—settle for anything less.”
“Don’t be so unreasonable. My son is important to my image as a family man. I need him to stay close.”
She pulled her fingers from his clasp with a quick jerk. “Then go campaign somewhere else be
sides the New Orleans area.”
“There’s a big block of voters here—the biggest in the state—besides which you’re here.”
“My being here has nothing to do with it,” she said in sharp tones. “As a matter of fact, I think it’s the height of stupidity for you to be talking to me here in this place. Aren’t you afraid some photographer will come along and take a picture or that people will talk?”
“My wife’s here somewhere, she’ll cover for me. Besides, I can always claim we were discussing contributions.”
The way he said the last word was infinitely suggestive. Riva’s lips tightened. “If you won’t consider your best interests, then I will have to consider mine.”
She swung away from him. He caught her arm, then let go abruptly as he looked beyond her. Riva turned her head. Noel was approaching across the flagstones, ducking under a tree limb gilded with lights, which made silver-blue gleams in the dark waves of his hair. In his hand was a glass of champagne.
“I hate to interrupt your discussion,” Noel said as he drew near, “but Romoli sent this with his apologies.” He handed Riva the drink, scanning her face at the same time. He glanced at Edison with a short nod of greeting before turning back to Riva.
She accepted the glass of wine he offered with an automatic murmur of thanks. Noel’s assessing glance made her feel oddly shaken. Somehow she had never noticed how dynamic he was, not just physically but inside himself. That strength was armored in politeness, but it was unquestionably there. It could be that the characteristic was pointed up by the contrast to Edison, but it was still a revelation. It was apparently a night for revelations.
Noel went on. “I’m also to tell you that we are going on to Romoli’s place out on the lake. Constance, it seems, is hungry for something more than nibbles, and nowhere else will do.”
Crimes of Passion Page 119
