“Do you mind if I drop my jacket here and order a coffee? I’ll be happy to get you another.”
“Not at all. I take mine with lots of milk and sugar, so be sure they leave room.”
When Vaughn had gotten the coffee, he sat down and got a pen and pad out of his messenger bag. “Thanks so much for meeting with me. I am really interested in learning more about the case because I think it would make a fascinating story, and you’re the first person I’ve been able to set up a meeting with.”
Tiffany shrugged. “Sure, I don’t mind. I’m not sure I can really tell you anything new, though. I hung out with Wren sometimes after work and we hooked up a time or two, but we didn’t really talk a lot, you know?” She seemed a little uncomfortable, but mostly to Vaughn she just seemed very young and naïve.
“How long did the two of you dance together?”
“Not long; she had a different partner she worked with before me—Ryna. She wound up dead. I get creeped out about it, thinking that maybe if she hadn’t been arrested, I might have been next.” She was bobbing her knee up and down nervously. “It’s bad enough the kind of work that I do that I’ve got to watch out for creepy customers, but to have to watch out for the other girls you dance with—that’s really creepy. The thing is, she was just fun to be around. If they hadn’t found her with that other girl, I wouldn’t believe any of it.”
Vaughn nodded. “So, this seemed unusual for her, then. You didn’t see any signs of psychotic behavior or violence?”
Tiffany shook her head, “Nope. I mean she was bad ass, but so was her character, Morrigan. I know she smoked a little weed, and we all drink more than we should, but as far as I know she didn’t go for any of the harder stuff. She was one of the more together dancers in the bar, which is why I was glad to get partnered with her. Well, that and the money.”
They talked for a bit longer, and Vaughn asked her if he could come back to see her after he’d done more interviews, just in case he thought of more questions. They made sure they had each other’s numbers before he left.
Neither of them noticed Olivia Holmwood sitting a few tables away, apparently reading and taking notes for a class lecture.
Chapter Fourteen
Later that night, Olivia made her way into the Casbah, looking for the perfect spot in the back of the club. She had not been in since the fiasco with Wren, but she now had a reason for going; she was curious what the reporter was asking in the coffee shop. She looked up at the stage and saw a young dancer doing her best to get the interest of the few men in the bar. It was the slow season; most of the conventions were over and people were saving their vacation money for Mardi Gras. Locals who did not work here were not really likely to come in, especially not during the Christmas season, unless they were regulars who convinced themselves that the dancers they tipped were truly falling in love with them, or unless they were new lovers of dancers still in that jealous phase and worried their playmates would not know when it was time to draw the line in private dances. Once they sat through a shift or two, they usually figured out that the job was not romantic in the least and they lost their fear.
The dancers swapped out, and, Tiffany, the one Olivia came to see, stepped on stage. She was the complete opposite of Wren’s stage character. Whereas Wren was dark haired and brooding, with several tattoos, Tiffany was blonde and perky. Her gimmick was the old clichéd schoolgirl character, and she and Wren’s run on stage was a very lucrative one. Alone, though, Tiffany wasn’t particularly successful. There was an initial rush to see her by patrons who knew who she once danced with, but now she was just another blonde in a plaid pleated mini skirt.
She flounced around in her Mary Janes, bending over to reveal a white lace thong, blowing bubbles, and doing her best early Brittany Spears impression. When the shirt came off, though, Olivia perked up. On her right shoulder blade was a new tattoo—an exact copy of the triskele that Wren sported in the same spot. It glistened in the stage lights, seeping just enough blood through the ink to make it shine.
After the stage dance, Tiffany made the rounds. She saw Olivia and slid next to her, pressing her smooth thigh up against Olivia’s. She pouted a bit and asked if Olivia might buy her a drink. “Sure. Bring me a shot of the best bourbon they have on the bar, and I’ll drink with you.” Olivia handed her a $100 bill for the drinks and lit a cigarette. Seeing the cash, Tiffany smiled at her and then flounced up to the bar to grab the drinks. When she returned she carried two neat shots of bourbon on a tray with the change. She slid it onto the table and sat down next to her, again pressing her thigh against Olivia’s.
They toasted and Tiffany threw her shot back. Olivia, however, merely took a sip and continued to smoke her cigarette. “Your tattoo. Is it new?”
“Yeah. It’s a project I’m working on, and I got it earlier today. Do you like it?”
Olivia’s response was to slide her finger over the tattoo, barely touching the inked skin, sliding the finger through the imperceptible sheen of blood. “Yes, I like it very much. Do you know what the symbol is?” She felt goose bumps forming on Tiffany’s back as she traced the fresh wound again. She brought the finger to her lips—sweat salt, the faintest metallic tang of blood, and traces of perfume. The taste is how she would remember Tiffany.
“Nope. I think it looks pretty cool, but I’m not sure if it has any meaning. I’m working on my stage image. I’m getting another one soon and some piercings. I’m kind of scared of the piercing needle, though.” Olivia noticed her eyeballing the second shot of bourbon. She pushed it toward the dancer, who downed it. She suggested another round and Tiffany picked up tray and headed back to the bar. When she returned, Olivia told her of the meaning of her tattoo.
“You really should know that it does have significance.” Olivia lit another cigarette and offered Tiffany one. “Quite simply, though, you can look at this as a symbol of things in threes, just like the Trinity. You do know the Trinity, yes?”
Tiffany was quite proud to acknowledge she did—both in culinary and religious terms. Olivia was amazed by how innocent she seemed, despite her profession. Perhaps naïve was a better word. Maybe even ditzy.
“Then you kind of get it. The three legs of the triskele can represent the body, mind, and spirit. Some people even use it as a new way of representing the Christian Trinity. I’ve seen it in church windows throughout the world. In Celtic mythology, it is often the symbol of Manannan Mac Lir, the sea deity who is also in charge of regeneration; he’s the one who is the gatekeeper between the world of the living and the dead, guiding the souls of the dead to the Otherworlds. He’s rumored to have had three legs and to have traveled on them like a wheel, hence the association to the symbol. The triskelion can also signify eternity.” She smiled a little wistfully. “So, you see it has meaning as well as being, as you said, ‘cool looking.’” She stubbed out her cigarette. “I think I’ve known someone with a tattoo like that before. She worked here, didn’t she?”
“Oh, yeah—that’s the project I’m working on. She used to be my dance partner. She was really good on stage. I can’t believe that she killed all those people.” Tiffany’s eyes sparkled and Olivia could see tears on the very edge of spilling out. “I’m sorry; I have been a bit off my game today—you’re the second person to ask me about her today.”
Olivia smiled. This was going to be so easy. “Oh? Who else asked?”
Tiffany shrugged. “Just this reporter guy. He is working on a book or something, and I’m the first person he talked to.” Olivia could tell that the girl thought that made her special somehow—important. “I didn’t really have much to tell him, other than I never saw anything that indicated she was capable of that kind of thing. It’s scary to think that she could do that. But, I never made so much money as when I danced with her.” The thought of money seemed to steady her. “I’m hoping that if I can take on her stage character that maybe I can start getting some more business.”
Olivia counted out the change on the tray. T
here was still a good sixty dollars there. She handed it to Tiffany. “Why don’t we go in back and you can show me some of the moves you’re working on. I knew the dancer you are talking about; in fact, I am very familiar with her. More so, I suspect, than you are.”
Tiffany stood and grabbed Olivia’s hand, drawing her into the back room where lap dances were typically given. Especially when giving dances to female clients, it was better to take them back here if it wasn’t full, rather than run the risk of non-tippers crowding around and getting unruly.
She felt timid with this customer in a way that was unusual. She didn’t feel scared, exactly, but Olivia possessed a coolness on the surface while obviously smoldering underneath. Other women who paid for dances from Tiffany in the backroom were often either there with their bridesmaids for a crazy girl’s night, or they were with their husbands who were hoping to inspire a three-way. In both of those scenarios, the women were not really watching and participating. They tended to look past her, to giggle uncomfortably, or to spend the entire time watching their husbands or boyfriends, or joking about the whole thing with their girlfriends.
Olivia was different. As Tiffany danced for her, she could see that Olivia was very closely watching the way her muscles moved beneath her skin, that she saw every undulation, heard every catch of her breath, and that she also made eye contact, which was a rarity. It was the only time that Tiffany could remember being aroused by the act of dancing for someone at work. Dancing with Wren was exciting, but she reasoned that part of that was because they were both dancing and Wren seemed so dark and dangerous. Tiffany often participated in trysts with other dancers. But with customers, she’d always felt that it was simply business. Olivia wasn’t pierced and tattooed like Wren, and she wasn’t even touching her, but Tiffany felt that same way she did when she was with Wren on stage at work, or on the dance floor at The Ruby, or in her bed, waiting for some satisfaction instead of teasing.
Chapter Fifteen
Liz could see the tour guide and a small group outside the house again when she woke up. Deanie had agreed to open the bar; she even went home early last night, which was a rarity for her. Before she started working at the bar, Deanie was always the customer Sandy ran out during the short break between closing and reopening she used to restock the bar and wipe things down.
“Kirby, they are back again. What the hell? Why aren’t they home doing whatever it is they do on New Year’s Day?”
Kirby was already at work with his New Year’s ritual. She could hear him working on skimming the fat off the ham hock stock he’d made for today to cook the peas in. He’d gotten plenty of greens together, and Hoppin’ John was underway. She stomped back into her room and grabbed some clothes and headed to the shower. After a bit of Voodoo possession followed by a huge party and too many drinks, she needed to wash off a few layers of grime and exhaustion. She found herself humming bits of the songs that Vivienne’s companions sang the day before.
After a good scrubbing and some coffee, she felt ready to face the day. It was past lunch when she headed to The Ruby. She thought of the night before and sleepwalking to wake in Washington Square Park, and she thought of the young man on the bench. Despite having washed her hair twice, she thought she could still smell that spicy, earthy sandalwood smell in it. It must be her imagination, or maybe she was near someone at the party wearing too much cologne. She walked by the park on her way to The Ruby and the bench was empty.
As she made her way to the edge of the Quarter and to Jackson Square, she marveled at how even though it was only a few hours before that the big parties in the city ended that the cleanup was done. There were even a few card readers and artists on the square, mostly just visiting with each other. Most of the tourists that provided their main business were still sleeping it off.
Jason was one of the artists out today; he drew caricatures with blazing speed. While he made money doing pencil portraits of large headed tourists with exaggerated yard dog daiquiri glasses in their hands, or wrestling giant crawfish, or draped in Mardi Gras beads, on weekends and holidays he taught art classes at one of the charter elementary schools during the week. He was actually a good artist, but he could make more money with his parlor tricks than he could by bringing his canvases to the Square. He learned a long time ago that most tourists were looking to spend money on themselves—even pictures of themselves, no matter how silly.
“Hey! Liz!” He jogged over to catch up with her and hugged her. “I had no idea you were back.”
She nodded. “Yes, I came back a few days ago. It’s a long story, but I’m back at The Ruby. You should come by and have a drink on the house later if you’re not too busy. I’ll fill you in.”
Deanie had a fresh pot of coffee waiting for Liz when she got there. She’d been cleaning up from the party, and as Liz walked past the spot where Vivienne had drawn the Vévé and performed the ritual the day before, she could see no trace of the cornmeal that the previous night’s revelers had scattered, as Deanie had first swept up and then mopped over this morning. Later, Kirby would bring her cornbread for lunch with the peas he’d simmered all morning. She smiled at the ritual versatility of simple cornmeal. She took her bag into the office and laid it on the small sofa. On her desk she saw a new sketchpad. Kirby really thought of everything. She ran her hand over the first blank, smooth page. She made herself a pledge to start working in the new sketch pad today, but first, she wanted to check on the bar.
She went back out to visit with Deanie. She realized that she didn’t really know her very well despite the fact that Deanie had been a bit of a regular at the bar ever since moving to New Orleans from whatever small town in Louisiana she was from. In the past, she always seemed mousy to Liz; she was the kind of girl who always fawned over the women at the bar who were the meanest and who treated her poorly. She had been especially obsessed with Wren. In contrast to the old Deanie, the new one looked happy and even younger, less beaten down than before. It didn’t take long for Liz to discover what led to the difference.
“So, after Kirby spent like two weeks just sitting here drinking and watching the flow in and out of customers, he made me come sit with him. Kirby bought me a lot of drinks that night, and he asked me something no one else ever bothered to ask. He looked at me and said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I was just drunk enough that I stopped to think about it.” She wiped down the bar and poured them both another cup of coffee. “So, after I got him to explain what he saw as wrong, he told me a bit about his time in California and how he still feels like a schmuck.”
Liz hadn’t heard that story yet. Kirby had not been willing to tell her and Alex why the relationship fell apart, but from what Deanie told her, he’d been chasing someone unworthy of his time. “So, he declared that I was going to go through schmuck rehab by hanging out with him and Mike. Since there was no hope that I’d get lucky with either one of them, I stopped acting like an idiot. And, I’ve actually started seeing somebody, and she doesn’t just hang out in bars being mean to other girls.”
Kirby had worked another of his miracles, apparently with Mike’s help. He was like the lesbian matchmaker and fixer. She’d have to start calling him the lesbian whisperer, Liz decided.
Deanie kept talking, filling in Liz’s gaps. By their third round of coffee, Liz learned that before coming to New Orleans, Deanie worked in the service industry for quite awhile and that Kirby made a wise investment by hiring her to manage. She had some book-keeping experience and was dealing cards at Harrah’s during the day before he hired her. She was glad to be out of the casino, and Liz felt like she would make a great employee. By the time she sent Deanie home, she felt a bit bad about having never gotten to know her before and looked forward to working with her.
Jason came in after Deanie took off. He brought a friend with him, a young woman dressed in a get up that would have made Stevie Nicks jealous, it seemed made of many scarves and the broomstick skirt was so full. Liz saw her eyeballing her from the other s
ide of the bar and decided to introduce herself.
“Hi. I’m Liz Camp. Welcome to The Ruby.” She stuck out her hand. “What can I get you to drink? First round is on the house for the both of you.”
The girl stupidly gaped at her, slack-jawed. “Hi! I’m Georgette. I’ve wanted to meet you. Aren’t you the same Liz Camp whose girlfriend was killed recently?”
“Yes. Now, would you like a drink?” Liz’s irritation was clear. “This isn’t an exhibition of the grieving widow. It’s a bar.”
“I’m sorry; it’s just that Jason didn’t warn me, and I have so wanted to meet you. I’ll have a 7 & 7?” Her face was red and she looked close to tears. “Honestly, I really didn’t mean to be rude. It slipped out before I could stop it.”
Liz turned and started making the drinks. Jason suggested they move to a table, but Liz asked them to stay at the bar. “This is something I’m going to have to get used to, I guess.”
“I’d love to do a reading for you sometime. I feel like you’re an old soul.” Liz was glad her back was turned to Georgette and that you can’t really hear someone rolling their eyes.
“Maybe some other time, Georgette.”
Liz hoped that Georgette would take the clue, but she just couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I’ve been on that tour, you know. The one that goes by your house. It comes by here, too.”
Suddenly, Liz was interested in learning more. “Really? It comes by here?” Jason was uncomfortable, but Liz didn’t care. It was his fault for bringing the twit in. “When? Do they just stand outside?”
“No, when I took the tour, we all came in for a drink. The tours are really small, usually, and the guide tells folks to not mention the tour when they are inside the bar. She says it is better if we get the real ambiance.” She took a sip of her drink. “I assumed she just didn’t want to give the bar a cut of the tour profits.” She reached into her bag and took out a brochure. “Here, you can keep this one. I don’t need it.”
Brigitte's Cross (The Olivia Chronicles) Page 9
