Thigh High

by Christina Dodd

  “I don’t eat doughnuts.” He sounded impatient. Abrupt.

  She raised her eyebrows at him, and allowed her tone to grow softer, slower, more Southern. “Bless your heart, Mr. Mac. They’re not doughnuts. They’re beignets.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Try them and find out,” she said.

  He examined the two women, Melissa with her hands resting on her belly, and Nessa wearing a slight, fake smile. Something about them must have penetrated his thick Yankee hide, because he growled, actually growled in annoyance, and popped a piece in his mouth.

  He choked.

  “Be careful with that powdered sugar, Mr. Mac,” Melissa advised.

  He caught his breath and chewed.

  Beignets were nothing more than deep-fried pastry dough covered with powdered sugar…. And nothing less than heaven. He finished one still-warm beignet and started on another.

  Nessa lifted three fingers at the cook behind the counter, and more dough went in the fryer. The second batch landed on the table while he was licking his fingers.

  He looked up at Nessa. “All right. They’re wonderful. Satisfied?”

  “We like to feed our men.” Nessa was still drawling out the accent. “We find that makes them almost civilized.”

  “I am always almost civilized,” he answered.

  Melissa covered her laugh with her hand.

  “Now that I’ve been handled…I was handled, was I not?” he asked. “I’d like to hear the rest of Mrs. Rosewell’s story.”

  Melissa wiped the smile from her face. Cleared her throat. “Mr. Dewy Debutante stepped up to my window, laid his beaded evening bag on the counter, opened the clasp, and pulled out a deposit slip, and I thought, Oh, good. I’ll glance at his name and refresh my memory. So I was chatting with him.”

  “What did you say?” Jeremiah ate another beignet, but more slowly.

  “Something like, Wonderful costume. Big night for all of us. Are you going to a party tonight? You know, the usual.” Melissa and Nessa nodded at each other. “He didn’t say anything, but I thought he was smiling.”

  “Why did you think that?” Jeremiah asked.

  “His eyes were sort of twinkling.” Melissa seemed to remember that he wanted the details, and she added, “Blue eyes. They were both white guys.”

  “According to the experts who have studied the tapes, both were white guys, neither were more than six feet,” Jeremiah confirmed.

  “He pushed the deposit slip at me. It was one of ours, and I looked for a name, but there wasn’t one, and instead of numbers, there was this message printed on it. Big type, easy to read. My first thought when I saw that it said, “‘Dear Miss Melissa,’” was that I’d been right, this guy did know me, and I still didn’t know him.” Melissa continued to hold the cup, but now her hand trembled.

  Nessa started to comfort her, but Jeremiah caught her eye and shook his head.

  “What did the note say?” His voice was smooth, unobtrusive.

  “Dear Miss Melissa,” she recited, “That particular shade of peacock blue you’re wearing today compliments your beautiful brown eyes and the warmth of your skin. The blouse in the window of Chere’s on Madison Street would look marvelous on you—get it and your Mr. Rosewell will be unable to take his eyes off you. He has been very lonely since his wife died, but with a little nudge, he could count himself a lucky man to court such a sweet girl as you.”

  “You were Melissa Jude then.” His words seemed innocuous, but both women clearly heard the accusation.

  “Yes, but I swear, Brad and I hadn’t dated or talked or anything. There was no reason for those guys to think—”

  “And yet, here you are, married to Mr. Rosewell,” Jeremiah said.

  “I liked him. Sure I did. He’s a good man. But he was the bank manager. I was a teller. He hadn’t noticed me. Or at least, I hadn’t thought so.” Melissa put a hand to her cheek. “But as soon as he realized I’d been robbed, he was there for me. He made them send me to the hospital—”

  “You were shot?” Nessa hadn’t remembered that.

  “No, but when I flung myself on the floor, I cracked my head on the desk. I was bleeding, the cops were yelling at me, and Brad yelled back at them.”

  “So the police thought you were in on the robbery,” Jeremiah said.

  “I wasn’t,” Melissa answered him fiercely. “Once the contents of that note were released, I was humiliated. Can you imagine…well, no, you can’t.” She turned to Nessa. “Can you imagine having a secret crush and having the whole city find out about it? Do you know Chere sent me that blouse, then released the information to the press? It was a nightmare. Every time Brad said anything to me, every time I glanced his way, every time I wore a blue blouse, everybody grinned and nudged each other. We barely looked at each other for the next year. God.” She put her hands over her eyes.

  “What happened?” Nessa asked.

  “The second robbery.” Nessa didn’t remember, but clearly Melissa recalled every bitter detail. “The gossip had died down, then the next year, the Beaded Bandits struck again at a different bank. That changed things. There was another note to another teller giving fashion advice and demanding money. They got away again, but it was much more exciting—the police caught a guy wearing one of the gowns, the news reported that one of the Bandits was caught. It turned out the guy had an alibi—he’d been drinking in Norton’s all day, was too drunk to have committed the crime, and he told the police he’d found the costume in a Dumpster behind House of Blues. They checked, and the other costume was in there. When all that happened, I couldn’t take it anymore. I quit to go back to college.” Melissa smiled. “That night, the doorbell rang, I opened the door, and there was Brad. He asked if I gave a damn about the gossip. I said no, and we went out.” Her eyes were clear as she looked at Jeremiah. “That’s all.”

  Nessa knew Brad Rosewell. She liked him and Melissa. She had attended their wedding. But for the first time, she realized what the note meant. “So you liked Mr. Rosewell. You hadn’t told him. You hadn’t told anyone?”

  “No one,” Melissa agreed.

  “How did the Beaded Bandits know?” Nessa asked.

  Jeremiah’s face looked hard, unyielding, like one of the masks he deplored. “They timed everything perfectly. They came during the busiest time of the week, when everyone was distracted and wanted to go home. They wore costumes that both disguised them and, during Mardi Gras, attracted no attention. They deliberately picked Melissa and used her secret to slow her reaction time. Everything about the robbery proves they coolly plotted each move—and they observed Melissa enough to know what she believed was secret. Everyone in New Orleans seems to be under the impression, because the thieves don’t steal large amounts and they write adorable little notes, that they are spontaneous. They are not.” For one second, his mask cracked.

  He was coldly furious. He took these robberies personally.

  Interesting. Nessa wouldn’t have thought an insurance investigator would care so much.

  “Mrs. Rosewell, tell Miss Dahl what else the note said,” he prompted.

  “Please, without making a fuss, deposit $1,192.45 in small bills in the bag,” Melissa recited.

  “I vaguely remember hearing that is the most money taken,” Nessa said.

  “The amount of money demanded has not escalated. In fact, the other robberies were for less.” Mac’s frustration sounded like ground glass.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I was so stunned. I didn’t think to hit the alarm button.” Melissa pushed the coffee away. “I didn’t do anything, just stood there. Mr. Debutante reached into his purse. He pulled out a tiny silver pistol and he pointed it at me. I just…I thought…I still stood there, and the guy said, ‘Now.’”

  Fascinated, Nessa hitched her chair forward. “What did his voice sound like?”

  “Low. Husky.”

  “Accent?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Sir, you have an accent,” Melissa snappe
d.

  Nessa smothered a grin.

  Jeremiah said nothing, waiting patiently for the young women to get back on track.

  “I didn’t notice an accent,” Melissa said, “but I was scared. No one realized what was going on. The line was as long as ever. The other cashiers were busy. Cooper, our security guard, was dealing with the usual cranks who had arrived too late to get in, turning them away at the door. The other transvestite…the other transvestite held a much larger pistol in the folds of her skirt. His skirt. The skirt. Mr. Debutante said, ‘Don’t push the silent alarm. Don’t make me shoot you. Just put the money in my bag.’ I knew if he shot me at this range, even with that tiny pistol, I would die. I didn’t want to die. So I put the deposit slip in the machine, typed in $1,192.45, popped open my drawer, and pulled a handful of hundreds out.” She gripped the edge of the table. “The guy told me to count it out exactly. Didn’t want more, didn’t want less. I was counting, ‘One hundred, two hundred…’ And all the while I kept thinking that the silent alarm button was right there by my knee, and if I scooted over a little, I could set it off. It was like he knew what I was thinking. He made a tiny circle with the pistol and said, ‘Don’t do it.’” She stopped, gasping.

  Scooting over, Jeremiah put his arm around Melissa. “Take deep breaths. It’s over. You did the right thing. You’re alive, and you’re helping with the investigation. When you get scared, think of that.”

  “I have nightmares sometimes,” Melissa admitted.

  “Revenge will cure your nightmares. I promise.”

  Nessa almost jumped when he smiled into Melissa’s face.

  Wow. He could turn on the magic. And…sweet? Yeah. Maybe sweet.

  Melissa visibly calmed. “I would like revenge.” She smiled a little and straightened. “This is when it got really weird.”

  “As opposed to being robbed by well-dressed transvestites.” Jeremiah was still smiling.

  “Right. I said to Mr. Debutante, ‘I really need this job.’ And Mr. Debutante said, ‘You need to finish college.’ He sounded stern, like my mother. I finished counting out the cash, put it in an envelope, and shoved it across the counter. He took the money, said, ‘You don’t want to work as a teller your whole life. You might run into someone like me again.’ When he said, ‘Now step back from the window,’ he glanced behind him, so I pushed the silent alarm, screamed, and threw myself on the floor.” Melissa glanced over Nessa’s shoulder. “Brad!”

  “Are you done questioning my wife?” Brad Rosewell spoke from behind Nessa.

  She heard the anxiety hidden behind the hostility in his tone, and as she turned, she said lightly, “Almost done. I don’t think we’ve taxed her too much. Have you met Mr. Mac?”

  Jeremiah rose and the two men shook hands, measuring each other.

  They were, in one way, almost identical. Both were tall, distinguished-looking men in dark suits, white shirts, red ties. Both sported an air of authority, but there the resemblance ended.

  Brad Rosewell looked like a bank manager, a man who understood numbers and who worked well with employees and customers.

  Jeremiah Mac looked like a thug in a designer suit.

  “Mrs. Rosewell has been very helpful,” Jeremiah said. “Won’t you sit down while we finish up?”

  Brad slid a chair close to his wife and took her hand.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Really.”

  Brad didn’t relax, but leaned toward Jeremiah. “I want you to understand, I want those Beaded Bandits caught. At the same time, I hate rehashing that day. I almost lost my job, and worse, I almost lost Melissa.”

  “What do you mean, you almost lost your job?” Nessa asked.

  Mac sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “That night, I got a phone call from Mr. MacNaught. That guy is psychotic about losing money. I mean, he’s a banker, we’re all psychotic about money, but he was over the edge. He pounded on me, asked me all kinds of questions.” Melissa rubbed Brad’s arm as he talked. “I know he’d already received the security tape from the bank, so I don’t know what he thought he could find out, but I thought for sure he was going to fire me.”

  “Because your bank got robbed?” Nessa was incredulous.

  “‘The buck stops here,’ he said.” Brad blotted his forehead with a napkin. “Every Mardi Gras, I think, Please don’t let them hit my bank again.”

  “Mr. MacNaught sent me to find the culprits, so with your wife’s help, you don’t need to worry anymore.” Sitting in the shadowy coffee shop, Jeremiah looked like a stone carving.

  “Thank you, sir.” Brad Rosewell stood and shook Jeremiah’s hand again. “I’m glad to hear that.” Putting his hand under Melissa’s arm, he hoisted her to her feet. “Come on, honey, I’ll take you home.”

  Jeremiah got to his feet also. “One more question, Mrs. Rosewell. Is there other information you want to pass on? Anything at all?”

  She took a breath. Looked at her husband. At Jeremiah’s stern face. And shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

  Seven

  The noise, scents, and appearance of the New Orleans streets spilled into the cramped lobby of the NOPD. Accents of every kind assaulted Mac’s ears—French, Italian, Spanish, and Cajun. People smelled of sweat, perfume, and beer. They wore elaborate costumes. They wore masks. One guy wore tennis shoes and nothing else. A woman cried because her pocket had been picked. Another cried because she’d been caught picking pockets. A line of a dozen people stood waiting to talk to a frazzled-looking police officer. Policemen moved among the crowd, coercing, comforting, cajoling.

  “They need a bigger building,” Mac said.

  Nessa snorted. “They’re lucky to have this. Since the hurricane, most of the fire departments are working out of trailers.

  “Now, here’s what we’re going to do.” Nessa slid her sunglasses off her nose and hung them on the V of her blouse. “I’m going to get you in to talk to the chief of police. Chief Cutter’s been involved in the investigation, and he’s taken a lot of heat for not making any arrests.”

  “I would hope so.” Mac removed his sunglasses and placed them in the sunglass case in the left inner pocket of his suit jacket, and used the excuse to look at Nessa.

  He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she was prettier in person than on the video, with more charisma and a soft, warm voice that made his libido race like a Chevy 427. She reminded Mac of sex performed in the sunshine, of passion before a roaring fire, of love…. Pure, glorious, everlasting love.

  She continued, “So you can ask questions, but when you do, smile. You can talk to whoever you want, but if I nudge you or kick you or step on your foot, you smile.”

  “Right. Smile,” he repeated.

  She could make any man lose his head, and Mac figured she did—once a year without fail.

  She didn’t suspect him of being anything but what he said, a guy investigating the Beaded Bandits, and she gave him her complete assistance. Why wouldn’t she? Being in control of the investigator gave her the illusion of being in control of the investigation.

  “I’m sure we could have gotten more information out of Melissa Rosewell if you hadn’t been standing there with that big ol’ stone face.”

  “Mrs. Rosewell was very helpful,” he answered austerely.

  Austere was a good description for him, he felt, especially in New Orleans during the wild celebration that was Mardi Gras.

  “But she didn’t give us that last juicy little detail because you made her feel dumb,” Nessa lectured.

  “All right. I got it. I’ll smile!” Nessa was irritating, like a mosquito buzzing around his head—but he also thought she was right. Melissa Rosewell had had something else to tell them, and between her husband and Mac, she’d faltered.

  “Practice your smile on me,” she suggested.

  He manipulated his lips in that unfamiliar upward tilt.

  She studied him quizzically. “Maybe you’ll get better with practice.”

&n
bsp; This was their last stop of the day. So far, they’d visited every bank that had suffered a robbery, met the managers, met the tellers, and eaten lunch. Now Mac followed her through the lobby to the long line that led to the desk sergeant.

  Officer Ernie Rippon stood behind bulletproof glass. He looked ready for retirement, and more than that, he looked as if he’d heard every story and believed none of them. His sagging, bulldog face sagely observed every person who stepped up. He handed out forms, gave directions, and called for assistance with quiet efficiency.

  But when Mac and Nessa reached the front of the line, Nessa smiled at him as if he were her best friend. Of course. “Ernie, you are looking debonair today.”

  Ernie glared, then laughed. “Yeah, chère, I look debonair today. You can’t find a more debonair officer on the force. But that’s because”—he glared again from bloodshot eyes—“it’s Mardi Gras!”

  “Are the tourists crazier than normal?” she asked sympathetically.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” Ernie observed Mac in one sweeping glance. “You pick yourself up a tourist? Because I have to tell you, Miss Dahl, he’s a big one.”

  “I didn’t pick him up. He was given to me.” She injected amusement and friendship in her tone. “This is Mr. Jeremiah Mac. Through no fault of his own, he is an insurance investigator.”

  Mac nodded a greeting.

  “Welcome to our fair city, Mr. Mac.” Ernie might be world weary, but he was courteous. “Are you here to celebrate or investigate?”

  “He’s here to investigate,” Nessa said firmly.

  “Let the man talk,” Ernie said.

  “No, he’s not allowed.” She put her hand on Mac’s arm as if holding him back. “Also through no fault of his own, he’s a Yankee.”

  Ernie laughed until he coughed, a smoker’s hack that sounded as if he were bringing up a lung. “I do not kill Yankees for less than a misdemeanor.”

  Nessa laughed, too, and dug her heel into Mac’s instep.

  Mac smiled.

  “Mr. Mac wishes to see the tapes and transcripts of the Mardi Gras robberies,” Nessa said.

  “Now?” Ernie’s wide eyes bulged. “Miss Dahl, Chief Cutter hasn’t got time now. After Easter, he can—”