by Kris Calvert
“But you are? Right?” Bea Winter wasn’t letting go of her question.
I looked to the lace up boots on her feet and furrowed my brow. “Do you need shoes? What size do you wear?”
Turning away, I began looking at the various designer shoe boxes above my head. Part of me wanted to choose a tall four-inch heel, just to see how she handled the switch from pistol-packing-bitch to come-fuck-me pump. I wasn’t a southerner like my best friend Samantha, but I’d learned a lot from her and killing with kindness was an art form best exhibited with a dazzling smile and impeccable grace.
“I wear a seven,” Bea replied.
I turned and gave her my best surprised look. “How lucky is that? Me too.”
“I don’t want anything too tall,” Bea said. “It’s not—it’s not my style.”
Hooking a pair of three inch heels in my fingers, I held them up for her like a prize on display. “I thought the whole point was to mimic my style.”
Bea looked to the floor, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her fatigue colored jeans. “Of course.”
“You know what? You’re going to need a hat.”
Using the step stool inside the closet, I reached for a hat box on the top shelf. I’d purchased a black wide brim at Goorin Brothers on Magazine Street, but never had the occasion to wear it. The round box was cumbersome and I stood on the tips of my toes, rocking the stool to reach it.
Losing my balance, I grabbed the gold cording to the hat box and fell backwards onto the carpeted floor of the closet with a thud. “Shit!”
Bea rushed to the doorway. “Holy hell! What happened?”
Staring at the crystal lights in the massive room that was our closet, I pushed the other two hat boxes I’d brought down with me off my chest and started laughing.
“Mrs. Xanthus? Are you okay?”
I sat up, scooting my butt to the nearest chaise lounge in the center of the floor, placing the hat box on the fluffy cushions. “I’m fine and for the love of all that’s holy, please call me Polly.”
She rushed to my side. I waved her off. “Don’t even try to help me. I deserved it.”
“I’m sorry?” Bea stiffened.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I handed her the hat box. “Here. You’ll need this. Wear sunglasses. No one will even miss me at the funeral.” Staring at each other, I began to laugh.
“Mrs. Xanthus—I mean Polly—I didn’t mean to upset you. It wasn’t my intention.”
“Yeah?” I replied. “Well, for a moment there, it was mine. I don’t like discussing my parents—especially with people I don’t know.”
She scratched her jaw and nodded in contrition, the very high heels still in her hands.
“And I can get you lower heels. I wouldn’t wear those to a funeral either.”
Bea finally cracked a smile. She was pretty. I was petty. I gave her my hand to shake. “Let’s start over. I’m Polly Xanthus. Please call me Polly. It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Isabella Winter. Bea.” She shook my hand. “It’s nice to meet you too. And I’m sorry I’m barging in on your life.”
Bea pulled me off the floor with her one hand, her bicep flexing across her white t-shirt.
“You’re not barging in. We’re asking you to be here—to put your lives on the line. I’m just—frazzled,” I replied, handing her a shorter pair of black heels.
She nodded. “I’m sorry I asked about your parents. I knew the answer to the question. I’ve read your file. Standard procedure. I…” Bea seemed to search for her words. “I work with a bunch of dicks—literally and figuratively. That’s not an excuse, and I’m sorry.”
I raised my left eyebrow. “So we’re even.”
“Even.”
I showed Bea the door and began walking that way. “Polly.”
“Yeah.”
“Intuition is a powerful thing. Sometimes the guys miss things that are damned important. If you think something isn’t right and no one is listening to you—even your husband—come to me. Okay?”
I couldn’t control the smile that erupted from the corner of my mouth. I appreciated her offer, more than she’d ever know. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Bea and I carried her new wardrobe down the grand staircase. The least I could do was help her get it all to the pool house. “You’re welcome to use one of the guest rooms upstairs to get ready tomorrow,” I offered. “I don’t know how much privacy you have out there with the men.”
“Z!” Tristan shouted, taking long deliberate strides from the kitchen into the main parlor. It was the first time I’d seen any sense of emotion in his face.
Coming to his side, Tristan spoke over Leo’s shoulder, burning a hole into the floor with his eyes. Leo’s shoulders dropped and Tristan walked away.
“Fuck!” With one sweep, Leo cleared everything from his desk, throwing it into the floor. Rage filled his red face. The security team took a step back as a hush fell over the room. I hurried to his side, taking his flexed arm in my hand.
“Leo, look at me.” He was trembling with fury as our eyes locked.
“He’s dead,” Leo hissed. “He’s dead and it’s my fault.”
18
LEO
The red numbers of the alarm clock stared at me like beady eyes. I’d laid in bed all night listening to Polly breathe. I wasn’t able to sleep at all. In the corner was the black suit she’d picked out for me to wear to Oscar’s funeral this morning at ten. A brass band would march from the church to Lafayette Cemetery Number Three playing Oscar’s favorite hymn, Nearer My God to Thee. Not far from Jackson House, Lafayette Number Three was tucked away off Esplanade Avenue. My grandparents and parents were all buried there. After Oscar’s entombment the band would break into When the Saints Go Marching In. It was sure to be an occasion as my loyal friend and confidant Oscar Wilson was loved by many. He’d outlived most of his friends, but the younger crowd he ran with would show to—as they say in the Big Easy—cut Oscar’s body loose.
Polly rolled into me, nuzzling her face into my shoulder and her hand across my chest. I knew she was upset—upset over last night. Upset she had a body double. Upset she wasn’t going to the funeral.
I dipped my face to breathe her in. Her cheeks were flushed, her blonde hair entwined in her hand above her head. Just being near her soothed the agitation in my body—in my mind. Overwhelmed, I felt love, guilt, pain. It seemed everywhere I went, destruction followed. I’d had a chance to let Polly go two years ago when I discovered who she really was—when I knew she was Margaret Hyde and not Polly Benson. I could’ve walked away then—kept her out of harm’s way. But I couldn’t keep her in the dark. She was too damn smart for that. She was too damn smart for me. Now here we are, right back where we started it seemed.
“Have you been awake all night?”
My gaze slid over my wife’s beautiful face, focusing on her brown eyes. She batted her lashes and purred, rubbing her open hand across my chest. Every touch from her was a gift—a silent promise that although we were two people, we shared one soul. She wrecked me from the moment I saw her and I’d never recovered. It was why I couldn’t quit her. Why I chased after her. Why I would go to the ends of the earth and gladly to my deathbed to protect her—to love her.
“Leo?”
I raised her delicate hand to my lips, kissing each finger one by one.
Lifting her head, she propped herself up on her elbow. “Talk to me.”
I didn’t have words.
“Leo.”
“Yes, cher,” I mumbled.
“I think we should talk about it.”
I threw back the covers and rolled out of bed. Naked, I pulled on the sweatpants I’d left in the floor last night and strolled to the first set of French doors. Opening up, I stepped out on the balcony and into the cool morning mist. Below was one of the guards, I knew his name was Tiger, but I hadn’t had a chance to have much of a one on one with him. He and another guard, HD, took the night shifts and slept during the da
y.
Tiger acknowledged my presence with a single nod. I stared beyond the grounds of Jackson House and into the pink light creeping over the horizon. I could feel her before she said anything, her arms around my bare waist.
“Talk to me, Leo.”
Turning into her, I leaned down and brushed my lips across her cheek. I didn’t want to talk. “I need a shower. It’s gonna be a hell of a day.”
Breaking her embrace, I walked to the bathroom and turned on the water. I lost the sweatpants, stepping into the sting of a cold shower. Balling my hands into fists, I gently pounded the cool marble above my head, leaning my body into the glass that separated me from the rest of the world and the problems I had caused. “Fuck.” The whispered word rolled off my lips, water spewing from my mouth.
I turned my body into the stream when I saw her walk into the room, flipping on the lights and making me face my demons in the light of day.
“Sweetheart?”
I tried to ignore her calling out to me. I couldn’t. “Yes?”
“I wish I could go with you today.”
I wiped the soap from my eyes and saw her standing in the open door of the walk-in shower. It was just last night I’d begged her to join me. This morning, I needed to be alone. I nodded, soaping up my face to shave.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
I shook my head.
“Do you want me to leave you alone?”
My lips thinned and I gazed at her, letting out a labored sigh. As much as she wanted to help me, I didn’t want to talk about what the Balivinos had done. The young life they’d wasted because of me.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said. “I’m going to get dressed and get out of your way. I can shower when you leave for the funeral with Bea.”
I gave her a single nod.
She shut the bathroom door behind her, leaving me with my guilt. I rinsed and turned off the water. Going through the motions, the events of last night haunted me. I stared at the vacant spot where the bear skin rug used to lay. I’d never know if Balivino and his sons saw its absence as an indication I was still alive. At this point it didn’t matter. They’d committed murder. Now it was on my head.
I dressed quickly in the black three piece pinstripe suit. Pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I stared at my reflection and pulled at the French cuffs of my shirt, adjusting my opal cufflinks. The suit was in perfect condition, my shoes the same—shined to a high sheen. Oscar had always seen to every detail for me—even to attend his own funeral.
I walked into the closet, stepping over containers. The entire room had been boxed and bagged to keep the sawdust away. From the back I spied cardboard boxes marked with my name, my father’s name, even Kostas’. Venturing deeper, I thought about Polly’s theory. Pulling the box with my grandfather’s name from the bottom of the stack, I yanked the packing tape from the top, peeling it away. Dust flew everywhere and I coughed. Obviously no one had opened this in a long time. I’d never seen it before which made me believe it was crammed deep into the recesses of the old room.
Squatting on the floor, I opened the cardboard flaps. Inside I found old photographs, black books and a couple of fountain pens inlaid with pearl. Digging deeper, I found two green boxes with gold trim. Inside the first, a set of shirt studs and mother of pearl cufflinks glistened in the lights above. Made for a tuxedo, I smiled, thinking of my grandfather. He loved to dress up for special occasions. I remembered as a boy wanting a tuxedo like his for all the parties in Jackson House—all the parties where I was sequestered in my room.
Setting the studs and cufflinks aside, I opened the second box and found a tiny key.
“What the hell?”
Holding it in my grip, I dug deeper in the box, looking for something to unlock. At the very bottom was a black leather diary dated 1935 with the initials KX in the lower right corner. A white string was crisscrossed and tied around the front and back cover, but the leather strap that held the hardware and small padlock to the front of the diary was fully intact.
Slipping the tiny key into the lock, it opened, the string still holding it firmly together.
“Leo!”
Polly called to me.
“Yeah.”
“They’re all waiting on you.”
I tucked the diary into the front pocket of my suit coat, slipping the key into my pocket. I felt like Kostas was calling out to me from beyond—on today of all days.
I hurried downstairs, knowing Liz would try to feed me. I wasn’t hungry. There were too many other things to worry with this morning before food or even coffee. I turned the corner into the main parlor and found the team waiting. There wasn’t much chitchat this morning. No one was up for it.
Hawk stood in the corner, a clipboard in his hand with the comings and goings of his team. “Is the car ready?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is Ms. Winter ready?”
From behind, I heard her call out. “Yes, sir.”
Turning, I found her looking different than before. Gone were the fatigues and boots, the t-shirt and gun holster. Bea Winter looked like a woman—a beautiful woman. She wasn’t my Polly, but she was certainly wearing her clothes. I gave her a nod. “I think you’ll pass just fine for Mrs. X.”
Bea donned a black wide brimmed hat, pulling it over her eyes. “Even better,” I said.
Polly walked in looking fresh faced. She was the only person in the room with even a hint of a smile. “Good morning, everyone.”
“Good morning.” It was a mismatched reply from the group stepping on each other’s words.
“Look what I found outside,” she said.
Everyone turned and eyed Tristan in a suit and tie.
“Jesus, man,” Snacks mumbled. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Tristan didn’t utter a word—didn’t smile, didn’t flinch. He didn’t give a shit. Bea Winter did. I caught her staring. It was brief—but enough that I’d noticed. If the rest of the team had caught it, they would’ve given her holy hell.
I double checked the magazine, loaded my gun and concealed it in the shoulder harness under my suit coat. Polly watched me. We exchanged a glance and I forced a smile. Giving me a wink, she was the strength I needed to make it through today without killing someone. She knew it and I knew it.
“Is everyone armed?”
Bea recoiled, the brim of her hat flopping to one side. “Seriously?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” I replied. “Are you armed?”
“Sir.” Hawk jumped in to defend her. Today wasn’t the day to fuck with me.
“What, Hawk?” I asked, glaring at him.
“My people are always armed, sir.”
I turned to Tristan. I knew he was packing. The guy slept with a gun under his pillow. He nodded.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s roll out.”
“Leo?” Polly called to me from across the room.
The crew dissipated from the parlor—security back to their posts, Tristan and Bea made their way through the back of Jackson House toward the waiting cars. I didn’t respond, but walked to Polly.
“Be careful.”
I pulled her close and felt her body relax in my arms. The mere smell of her skin put me right with the world. I couldn’t forget who I was or why we were here but Polly was worried. She had every right to be. “I’ll be home soon, cher. You have my word.”
“Good. I don’t like another Mrs. Xanthus on your arm—even if she is a fake one.”
As Polly stepped away from me, a single tear fell to her cheek. I brushed it away and kissed her lips. “There’s only one Mrs. Xanthus and she’s the love of my life, the light of my soul.”
Polly nodded through a hooded gaze.
“Promise me you won’t leave Jackson House,” I begged. “Not today.”
Polly crossed her heart with two fingers, then held them in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
“I love you, cher,” I said with a quick kiss as I walked away.
“I love you. And Leo?”
“Yes?”
“Jackson House is just that—a house. Home is wherever we are together. And I can do me and you anywhere, as long as it’s me and you.”
I paused and tried to swallow the lump from my throat. “Toi et moi.”
The area surrounding the mausoleum for Oscar at Lafayette Cemetery Number Three was filled with the few friends and family members that still remained. Hank, his only living grandson wasn’t in attendance. Oscar’s casket was to be placed next to his daughter’s, their family mausoleum small compared to the Xanthus monstrosity a mere fifty feet away. I’d always guessed that my grandfather had purchased Oscar’s family resting place, now standing so close to my own parents and grandparents, I knew it was true.
The service had been short and elegant, Oscar’s long time minister giving a beautiful tribute to his life—with his family and mine. I stayed in the back, really hiding more than attending, Bea at my side, her face mostly obscured by Polly’s hat.
Out in the sun, I was wearing my shades and staying as close to the back of the crowd as possible. Not one of Oscar’s friends spoke to me, even though I recognized a few of them. I guess when people think you’re dead, they don’t expect to see you again—even in a haunted cemetery in New Orleans.
When the interment was complete, the jazz band kicked into high gear and the recessional began. Oscar would’ve liked it very much. I couldn’t help but smile.
Waiting until they’d cleared the area, I caught Tristan in my peripheral vision and took Bea by the hand to walk her back to the limo waiting in the distance. Whatever I thought today would bring, I was certainly wrong.
We walked the paved lane in front of the mausoleums and I paused in front of the Xanthus family monument. The carved stone was exquisite. Over the entrance was the Xanthus name. To the left, seven angels. To the right, a Bible verse: Then I looked and heard the voice of many angels, numbering thousands upon thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand. Revelation 5:11.
