“As you can see, she’s just as beautiful,” he said pointing to her photograph on the front page of the newspaper. “She’s smart. I read somewhere her IQ is in the top 2 percentile of the world, and she’s powerful, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s something else.”
“Ruthless?” Danny asked.
“I’m sure. Everyone has to sell their soul when they reach a certain level in politics. But that’s not it.”
“Evil?”
“Why do you say that?” Gideon asked curiously.
“I’ll be honest with you. I get the same chill when I see her on television as I did when I saw Samantha. There is something evil about her.”
Gideon sat with the towel draped over one shoulder. He paused for a moment to consider Danny’s disturbing opinion. “I thought it was just me,” he finally said. “I agree, there is something evil lurking behind those beautiful eyes, and I want to know what it is.”
Danny looked silently into the distance. He saw Parker, his scruffy grey cat, patrolling the perimeter of the yard searching for his next furry victim.
Gideon felt Danny’s concern. He reached across the table, took his hand, and said, “Don’t worry. It’s not the same, Danny. I don’t think the mayor is a cold-blooded killer like Samantha.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right, I don’t, but I can’t imagine anyone more evil than Samantha,” Gideon said, taking his first sip of the now lukewarm coffee.
“Let someone else investigate her. Why is it your responsibility to expose her secrets?” Danny asked, almost pleading.
“I can’t pass this one up. There’s talk about a possible run for governor. I asked last night, but she was evasive. Promised I would be the first reporter to know if she decides to run. I want in on the ground floor of that story. The first black governor of California and the first woman. If there are skeletons, I want to be the one to find them.”
Danny saw firsthand how unrelenting Gideon became when he worked on an important story. He watched Gideon doggedly pursue Samantha Cleaveland until he backed her into a corner, and it almost cost both their lives. Fortunately, someone killed Samantha before she had the opportunity to kill them.
“I know I won’t be able to talk you out of this, so I’m not going to try. Just please be careful. I love you, and I don’t want to lose you,” Danny said softly.
“You’re never going to lose me,” Gideon said assuredly. “We may be paranoid about Camille, but considering all we went through with Samantha, it’s understandable.”
“Maybe,” Danny said pausing. “But all the same, I wish you would speak to Hattie first.”
“Hattie?” Gideon said. “Why Hattie?”
“Because if Camille Hardaway is up to something, Hattie will be the first to know about it,” Danny said firmly. “And if she’s as bad as Samantha, you’re going to need Hattie on your side.”
“I’m not going to run, and that is final!” Jean-Luc Fantoché shouted. “What concern is it of yours? I love you and provide for you. Nothing more should matter. The rest you need not trouble yourself with.”
“It does trouble me,” Juliette countered passionately.
“I have bought your family’s freedom. Is that not enough to satisfy you?” he asked angrily.
“No, it is not enough,” she snapped. “Have you forgotten, many of my friends are still slaves? An entire race of humans are owned by other human beings in this country. Their lives are not their own. Does it not trouble you? Is your spirit not tormented in the knowledge that people are at this very moment laboring in fields of tobacco, cotton, and sugar under the cruel hand of an overseer?
“You understand the plight of the Negro,” she continued pleadingly. “You are a caring and kind man. As governor, you can help to put an end to the inhumanity that has plagued this state and this country for far too long. For those reasons alone, it does indeed concern me.”
Fantoché stung from the impact of her words. “Yes, it does trouble me,” he said remorsefully. “But don’t you understand? I cannot win. Thaddeus Barrière has declared his candidacy. He is by far more qualified and better known throughout the state than I. Public humiliation would surely follow if I dared enter my name beside such a formidable opponent.”
“Thaddeus Barrière will not win,” Juliette said definitively.
“That is nonsense,” he replied dismissively. “You know not of what you speak, ma belle ange. He will be the next governor.”
Juliette turned her back to Fantoché and walked to the fireplace with the single black candle at the center of the mantelpiece in her sights. “He will not win,” she repeated resolutely. “There are powerful forces in this country who will see him dead before allowing him to set one foot in the governor’s mansion.”
“Dead?” he scoffed. “Why? Who are these forces of whom you speak?”
Juliette reached for a box of wooden matches resting on the hearth. “The forces I speak of prefer to remain in the shadows. But trust my words. They have decided Thaddeus Barrière will never be governor of Louisiana. He has made his position clear on the topic of slavery and stated he will never support the emancipation of slaves.”
Fantoché studied her back intently. “These do not sound like the kind of men you should be consorting with,” he said with concern. “The world of politics is no place for a woman of your delicate beauty.”
Juliette ignored his words and struck the match. The sulfurous flare enveloped her in a burst of light.
“Juliette,” he continued, “I implore you to distance yourself from these men.”
“I cannot do that,” she replied calmly. “Les roues ont été mis en mouvement. It is too late.”
“Too late for what?” he asked anxiously.
Juliette extended her arm and lit the black candle. The wick crackled briefly, then settled into a slow, lingering burn. When she turned to face him, the tension in her demeanor had vanished. She looked at him with adoring eyes and said, “Do you love me as deeply as you say?”
Fantoché was relieved the intensity in her voice had dissipated and was replaced with irresistible sensuality accentuated by the glow of the candle. “I have no words to express the depth of my love for you,” he said rushing to her. “I love you more than any man has ever loved a woman. You are the reason I exist.”
Juliette stopped him at arm’s length. “Then you will do as I say,” she said calmly. “If not, I will leave this house at this very moment, taking with me only the clothes on my back and never trouble you again.”
Fantoché looked at her questioningly. “You can’t mean that.”
His words hung between them. Juliette only responded with the cold stare of jade eyes.
A wave of panic rose from his boots and quickly filled his entire body. “Do not do this to me, Juliette. You know I cannot live without you. Why do you torture me with such cruel threats?”
Again, there was no response.
Fantoché felt his knees weaken. He feared they would collapse under the immense weight he felt pressing down on him. His breath became short and losing consciousness became almost inevitable. His stomach threatened to spew the meal of escargot, foie gras, and sole meunière Juliette’s servants had just served them. But for him, dying in a pool of vomit at the feet of Juliette Dupree would be preferable to facing the prospect of living without her.
“I will take my life if you leave me,” he said with a depth of sincerity only at the dispose of a truly desperate man.
“Then your choices are either to die or become governor. Tell me now, monsieur, which do you choose?” she asked coldly.
Juliette was so close, but he couldn’t touch her. He could smell the entrancing aroma of her perfume and feel the warmth of her body, but her eyes held him helplessly at bay. The light from the candle on the mantle appeared blisteringly bright, or was it his imagination?
“You have not told me who these men are,” he said, unable to conceal his weakness.
&
nbsp; “Their identity is unimportant. Never ask me again,” she commanded.
The balance of power shifted at that moment. Despite his wealth, social status, and privilege that accompanied his pink skin, Juliette had always been in control, but now he knew it as well.
“You would allow me to die?” he asked with the last ounce of his resistance.
“It is not my decision, but yours.”
“Then I understand, mon chéri Juliette,” he said at the moment of collapse. “For you, I will be governor.”
With her eyes alone, Juliette then gave Jean-Luc Fantoché permission to taste the sweetness of her cheek under the glow of the black candle.
It was after 3:00 in the morning. The streets of downtown Los Angeles were empty. A full moon shed unwelcomed light on homeless men huddled in doorways and fishnet stockings worn by prostitutes offering ten-dollar blowjobs to anyone who passed within twenty feet of their corners.
Camille guided the black Escalade into a working-class neighborhood in Watts. The pride of community and homeownership was evident in the well-tended lawns and the two cars in every driveway. The Watts Riots of 1965 left the area with the reputation of being crime ridden and depressed, but clearly, the residents knew otherwise.
She stopped in front of a white house on Grape Street that stood out from the others on the block. Cement lions with paws clawing at the air sat on each side of a white wrought iron gate. Gold-painted acorn finials topped each fence post, and bursts of flowers on trellises were anchored in brightly glazed pots throughout the yard. Electric pink trim outlined the windows, roof, and front door. The Creole roots of the inhabitant were apparent to all who passed the neat little house.
Camille looked to her left, then right, and checked the rearview mirror before exiting the car. It would be impossible for her to explain her presence in this part of town, in front of this peculiar house, at this hour of the night.
The moon followed her as she opened the gate and made her way hurriedly up the whitewashed walkway. The door slowly glided open before she could ring the doorbell.
No one stood in the threshold to welcome Camille. Instead, she heard a voice in the distance call out, “Come in, Camille, I’ll be right out.”
Camille was accustomed to such theatrics as doors opening by themselves, the occasional flickering of the lights, or the always perfectly timed “Squawk!” of the blue and gold Macaw named Louie Armstrong in the birdcage hanging in the corner of the dining room. Her favorite was the black candle that would light and extinguish itself at least once during her periodic visits.
Camille entered the house and closed the door quickly behind her. The smell of burning incense assaulted her nose as she hung her coat on the rack in the entry hall. The interior of the house was much like the exterior. Framed pictures of New Orleans’s scenic points of interest, Bible verses stitched in needlepoint, and faded black-and-white photographs of long-since-dead ancestors hung on the yellowing floral wallpaper. The chairs and couch were guarded by plastic covers and finely crocheted doilies. The furniture was a mix of 1950s tables and chairs, and antiques that would fetch jaw-dropping appraisals on the Antiques Roadshow.
Just as Camille was preparing to sit in her usual seat, Madame Gillette Lemaitre entered the room from the kitchen.
“Honey, I had a taste for collard greens,” she said wiping her hands on an apron cinched around her waist. “Sit down, sit down,” she said summoning the Southern manners she learned at the knees of her mother and grandmother. “Would you like to try them? No pork at all. My doctor said I can only use smoked turkey now. Not quite the same but still does the trick.”
Gillette was a sturdy woman in her sixties. She moved with the steady determination of a person half her age. Her lovely bone structure and virtually wrinkle-free skin and jade-green eyes were gifts from her Louisianan ancestors. Most assumed she was forty-five or, forty-six at the most, but her grandmother’s Bible held the secret of her true age within the hallowed confines of its weathered pages.
“It’s a little late for greens,” Camille said as she sat on the couch.
“You know how that is. When you get a hunger for something there’s no point in putting it off,” Gillette said sitting in the chair directly in front of Camille. “Besides, when you live to be my age, there’s no reason in denying yourself whatever gives you pleasure because soon enough, you’ll be six feet under.”
Camille heard a loud, “Squawk!” from the dining room as if Louie were saying “Amen!” to Gillette’s most recent pearl of wisdom.
“What’s on your mind, child?” Gillette said looking deeply into Camille’s eyes. “I can see something’s troubling you.”
Over the years, Camille learned it was useless to hide anything from the woman who sat in front of her. She was like an open book to Gillette and deception could prove to be costly.
“You’ve read about the new Dober Stadium,” Camille launched in.
“Yes, yes,” Gillette said clapping her hands once. “It’s beautiful. I hope you can get me a ticket. I would love to see it before I die. When is it going to be done?”
“That’s the problem. It might not be approved by the Planning Commission,” she said mournfully. “The chair, John Spalding, is opposed to it and has vowed to stop it from being built anywhere in the city.”
“I saw pictures in the paper, and it’s something else. Looks like a flying saucer landed right in the middle of a field. What kind of fool wouldn’t want a stadium that beautiful in Los Angeles?”
“The kind of fool who would do anything to make me look bad. I’ll be known as the mayor who failed if he’s able to stop this project; I would never live it down.”
“And if it’s built?”
“If I get it built, then the sky’s the limit. I can—”
Gillette raised her hand to stop Camille. “Never mind. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. We can only deal with one stadium at a time. Now, what is it you want from me?”
“You know what I want,” Camille answered as if irritated by the question. “The same thing you did to the others. I want him stopped. I want him out of the way.”
Gillette leaned back in the cushioned chair. The plastic covering burped and squeaked as she settled in. “You’re sure that’s the only way? Have you talked to him? Turn on the Hardaway charm,” she said with a mimicking smile.
“I’ve tried reasoning with him, but he’s irrational. He only wants to see me fail.”
Gillette was silent for a few moments. Her eyes closed tight and lips pursed in deep contemplation. Camille stared at her intently and silently prayed she would come to the same conclusion.
Then she finally spoke. “This is the third time, Camille,” Gillette said wearily with her eyes trained on the mayor. “You know this takes a lot out of me.”
“I know it does, but I’ve tried everything, and this is the only option I have left. I’m desperate.”
The smell of bubbling collard greens, garlic, and onions competed with the burning incense. Camille did not take her eyes off Gillette.
“What do you want done?” Gillette finally asked.
“I don’t care. Just stop him,” Camille said barely containing her desperation. “Heart attack, brain tumor, sex scandal. I don’t care. Just stop him. And it’s got to happen soon. We’re starting negotiations with the property owner tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I know just the thing,” Gillette said reverting to her most grandmotherly tone.
“I don’t want to know the details,” Camille blurted. “I can’t be involved.”
Gillette laughed gently and said, “That’s the beauty of the spirit world, baby. No one you can see is involved except the victim.”
“Good.”
“I’ll start on it right away,” the old woman said scooting forward in the chair. “Here’s what I need. A picture of the Mr. Spalding. Something, anything, with his original signature on it. Do you have anything personal that ever belonged to him?”
Camille thought for a minute. “He gave me a baseball signed by Willie Mays that was part of his sports memorabilia collection.”
Gillette laughed loudly. “Perfect! A symbol of the very thing he’s trying to destroy.”
The old woman stood. Her years were now more apparent as she struggled to her feet and walked to the mantle over the fireplace. She stood near the candle and said, “Bring everything here tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Camille replied humbly. “Anything else?”
“There is one more thing,” Gillette said walking toward the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t want to try my greens? Smells like they’re almost done.”
Chapter 3
Sheridan Hardaway drove the silver Mercedes up Sunset Boulevard past Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, mammoth billboards of busty blonds, and a string of trendy restaurants. He maneuvered the car through a labyrinth of tour buses, taxicabs, and jaywalking tourists. The glitter and grit of Hollywood soon gave way to a serene palm-lined stretch of Beverly Hills.
Sheridan turned onto a nondescript side street tucked between a thicket of trees and blooming lavender jacaranda. A lush green canopy covered the narrow road. He could see the signature pink building just ahead. The Beverly Hills Hotel, despite its notoriety, still served as the discrete meeting spot for movie mogul power meetings, celebrity getaways, and clandestine assignations. It was the official no-tell motel for the rich and infamous.
Sheridan stopped the car in the arch of the circular driveway. A red-vested valet who looked like the next Hollywood heartthrob trotted to the car and opened the door. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said with a dazzling capped smile. “Welcome to the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
Sheridan did not reply.
“Do you have luggage to check, sir?” the well-trained man continued. “I would be happy to take them in for you.”
“No bags. Just here for a meeting,” Sheridan said, already feeling he had revealed too much.
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