by Sandra Hill
After Mass, Adam would have avoided Simone, but his father stopped to talk to the older woman with her, who it turned out was indeed Simone’s mother, Adelaide Daigle. From what he could overhear of their conversation, Adelaide had had knee surgery recently and was the reason for Simone coming back to Louisiana. Adelaide was also one of his father’s casino pals, along with Tante Lulu and a few other senior citizens, although Adelaide Daigle was probably only in her fifties, a little young for senior status.
Despite his usual rule, Adam was forced to introduce his daughter to Simone while his father chatted away. Not that Simone was one of his women, but still . . .
“Maisie, this is Simone LeDeux. She’s a policewoman, or she was until recently. Simone, this is my daughter, Mary Sue. We call her Maisie.”
“I saw you riding behind your father on a motorcycle one day,” Simone said, hunkering down to put herself on Maisie’s eye level. “Wow! That must be fun.”
And, no, he was not noticing her butt. Not now, in front of his daughter. Not really.
But then, he thought. Already, just like all the other women, she’s trying to get on my good side by soaping up my kid. Pathetic.
As if sensing his thoughts, she gazed up at him with a look of distaste. What was that about?
“A policewoman?” Maisie said. “Like Mariska Hargitay?”
“Yes. Just like!”
Simone was no more surprised than Adam. “You know who Mariska Hargitay is?” he asked.
“Oh, Daddy. She’s on Law & Order. PawPaw’s favorite show, next to Chopped. He sez she’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol.”
Adam put his face in his free hand, the one not holding on to Maisie’s little hand. Law & Order: Special Victims Unit wasn’t children’s fare. He would have to discuss Maisie’s TV limits with his father. Secondly, “hotter than a two dollar pistol”?
Simone was laughing at his obvious discomfort. Especially when Maisie confided to Simone, “My father thinks I’m a child.” But by then Maisie had moved on to another subject. “I like yer necklace.”
A silver oval hung from a long chain nestling in the cleavage of Simone’s blouse. Demure, suitable for church. The pale green blouse, not the cleavage.
Aaarrgh! My wandering mind again!
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Simone said. “The medal is one I got in special recognition when I rescued a little girl from drowning. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
Not if I can help it.
Maisie was looking duly impressed.
“That’s a pretty dress you’re wearing, honey. Is it from Zulily? I thought I saw something like that on the Internet.”
“Yes! I love Zulily dresses.”
“Me, too. Have you seen their mother-daughter dresses? So cute!”
Simone seemed to realize her mistake and grimaced even before Maisie revealed with a little pout, “I don’t have a mother anymore.”
“I’m so sorry.” She reached over and adjusted Maisie’s headband, tucking a few of her curls behind her tiny shell ears. An unconscious, maternal action that Adam couldn’t condemn, especially when Maisie leaned into her hand.
“Maybe you could come over to our pool today, and you could tell me about the drowning girl,” Maisie said, brightening suddenly.
Whoa, whoa, whoa! “Not today, Maisie,” Adam interjected. “I have to go into the office, and PawPaw has some friends coming over.”
The knowing look on Simone’s face annoyed the hell out of him, and he almost invited her to come, anyway. Luckily, he caught himself because just then a car tooted its horn, and he saw the skinny guy from church behind the wheel. The car had Illinois plates, and he assumed it was Simone’s.
“That’s Simone’s husband, Cletus,” he heard Adelaide telling his father.
“Ex-husband, Mom. Ex-husband,” Simone said as she stood and grabbed her mother by the arm, yanking her toward the waiting vehicle. At the last moment, she turned and waved at Maisie, “Bye-bye, honey bun.”
“She called me honey bun,” Maisie whispered to Adam in awe.
“What’s yer hurry?” Simone’s mother asked her daughter as Simone continued to frog march her toward the waiting car.
“Why is Cletus driving my car? He doesn’t even have a key.”
“Well, maybe he learned how ta jimmy a starter or somethin’ in prison. How do I know?”
“Next time you invite me to church, let me know that Cletus will be there, too.”
Adam just shook his head. Another dodged bullet.
“I like her, Daddy.”
Get over it, sweetheart. I certainly will!
But then his father, the traitor, said, “We ought to have a pool party sometime. We never did have a housewarming.”
Adam wasn’t sure if his father was looking at Adelaide Daigle or Simone LeDeux as he made the remark, or whether he was picturing the older woman or the younger in a bikini. Either was equally alarming to Adam.
“Yippee!” Maisie said. “Can we, Daddy? Can we? Me and PawPaw been talkin’ about havin’ a housewarming fer a long time.”
He doubted if his daughter even knew what a housewarming was. But it looked like he was going to be forced to host a party.
That’s what happened when a sinner went to church.
If that wasn’t bad enough, Tante Lulu came stepping down the church steps on the arm of Father Bernard. She called out, “Yoo-hoo! Just the person I wanted to see.”
To Adam’s dismay, he realized that she was looking at him. The few people remaining in the parking lot, including his father, Maisie, and some lagging parishioners, all turned to stare at him.
“Ya gotta come over ta mah cottage real soon,” she told him. “I have a hope chest fer you.”
Adam groaned, knowing what that meant. The old lady, who was a self-proclaimed matchmaker extraordinaire, made hope chests for all the men in her family and a few close male friends.
“Uh, I’m real busy these days, Ms. Rivard,” he said, deliberately not using her Tante prefix to put some distance between them. A wasted effort.
“Doan ya be Mzz-in’ me. I’m Tante, and ya know it. An’ fergit about busy. Ya cain’t be too busy fer love.” She glanced at the departing car that held Mrs. Daigle, Simone, and the husband or ex-husband or whatever he was. Then she looked at Adam. “I hear thunder. Do ya hear thunder, too, boy? Ya better ’cause me and St. Jude’re smellin’ ozone in the air, a sure sign of the thunderbolts ta come.”
“The only thing I smell is trouble,” he muttered under his breath.
On the way home, thunder struck, and rain pounded on the roof of his Lexus, rat-a-tat-a-tat, like bullets from an AK-47 (or a celestial weapon). It was just a coincidence.
Ooey, gooey, for sure . . .
The open house for Legal Belles was an invitation-only event for friends and businesses they might deal with and persons or agencies in a position to make referrals. Like surveillance equipment companies, social workers, police, doctors, and, yes, lawyers. And the news media.
Tomorrow, they would be officially opened for business, and already they had six clients who’d insisted on signing up for services, including a mother who was certain her thirteen-year-old daughter was having sex . . . with a teacher! She didn’t want to make accusations until she had proof. (Um? Nighttime tutoring in math?) There were also two Vietnamese women who came in personally to schedule an appointment for next week, but wouldn’t say why.
The open house was being held in the late afternoon so that people could come before heading home for the day and not be fearful of having a glass of wine, or two, before going back to work.
Hosting the party were Simone and Helene, helped by their secretary, divorcée Barbara Rae Ozelet (aka The Barracuda, taken from her name, BArbara RAe, as well as her take-no-prisoners attitude, despite her petite appearance), and Simone’s mother, Adelaide, who was still the temporary receptionist and digging in her heels over any replacement. BaRa, her dark hair cut into a short bob, wore a white sheat
h dress and four-inch white high heels, but she still only came to Simone’s shoulder.
Legal Belles now had seven part-time “undercover” agents or contract employees, as well, none of whom were present today, for obvious reasons. Their association with a Cheaters-type agency needed to be private, or they would be ineffective in catching people engaged in bad deeds. And, actually, that secrecy was necessary for all their investigative work, not just cheaters.
Adelaide had shimmied herself into another Spanx outfit, a jade-green, sleeveless jumpsuit, with bands of white down both sides, giving her a surprisingly shapely figure. Simone might have to try some Spanx herself. Or not. That might give the impression she was trying to attract male attention, which she was not. Especially after Adam Lanier’s obvious horror at the possibility of being paired with her when they’d met after church last Sunday. She didn’t have to be a super sleuth to recognize that if he’d had his choice, he would have avoided talking to her at all. Why? She wasn’t sure. Whatever the reason, it hadn’t been flattering. Not that she’d wanted to talk with him, either.
Even so, Simone dressed in her favorite outfit today. A short-sleeved, scoop-necked white dress with a knee-length, A-line skirt, cinched in at the waist with a wide, black belt. Completing the picture were strappy black stilettos. Her dark brown hair was twisted into a neat French braid, and large pearl stud earrings were her only jewelry. The heels put her head above most of the women and half the men in attendance. A power play.
Helene waved, beckoning her from across the room where she was talking to a reporter from a New Orleans TV station. Simone declined with a quick shake of her head. Let Helene handle the media. She did it so well. And she looked good today, too, in her usual business suit with a flair . . . this time, a lavender one with a skirt that ended mid-thigh.
While Simone and Helene networked, Adelaide and BaRa manned the refreshment/drinks table where small finger foods and wines were being served. They’d considered offering more hard liquor or even beer, but decided against it. People had to be extra careful today. The person supplying booze, even at a private party (not just a bar) could be held liable in DUI accidents, along with the drunken driver.
In any case, they’d started more than an hour ago, and should be done in another hour or so. At any one time, there were thirty people circulating through the offices, some leaving, some arriving, so that in the end Helene had predicted they would have about fifty people. A good number! And most had taken brochures or business cards with them.
Just then, Simone sensed someone standing behind her. Close. She recognized the light musky cologne before she felt the whisper of breath against her ear, “Are you going to show me around?”
It was Adam Lanier, of course. A late arrival.
She turned.
Adam had clearly come directly from his office, or the courthouse. His brown-and-beige tie had been loosened over a crisp white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, tucked into dark brown, belted suit pants. A not-unattractive (darn it!), late-day stubble shadowed his jaw. He was probably a two-times-a-day shaver when he had nighttime activities on his agenda, none of which she was envisioning. Nope. None. (In any case, wide shoulders, narrow waist and hips. Long legs. Duly noted!)
“Adam. Welcome to Legal Belles,” she squeaked out.
“Sorry I’m late. I know Luc was here earlier, but I couldn’t get away until now.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“Well, yes, actually I did,” he said enigmatically. (Enigmatic being another word for Cajun male magnetism in her personal dictionary, when accompanied by smoldering brown eyes.)
Glancing around, he remarked, “Wow! What a transformation! I saw this office when it was still an insurance agency. Pretty much drab gray all over the place.”
Legal Belles’ premises were actually quite lovely now, not just utilitarian as Simone had originally envisioned. “We have Rachel LeDeux, Remy’s wife, to thank for all this. She’s a feng shui decorator. Look at those original paintings on the walls. We could never have afforded the extra expense, but Rachel talked some local artists into lending them to us.” Simone was babbling but didn’t seem to be able to control her nervous tongue.
“They do add a touch of class,” Adam agreed. “I especially like that one that looks like a bunch of wet vaginas.”
“Adam! Those are calla lilies with dew on them.”
“Oh.” He winked at her, having known what they were all along, apparently. “Well, you can’t tell me this Tabriz carpet is a loaner, or cheap, either.” He glanced down at the rug they both stood on in the lobby. “My wife inherited one from her family worth twenty thou.”
He mentioned his wife casually, not with any particular affection, or grief. But maybe she was putting too much importance on that.
The oriental carpet did add a pop of muted color (gold and burgundy and ivory) as a contrast to the pale green paint Simone had chosen for the walls in that weeks-ago meeting with Ed.
“More like two hundred dollars. If you look a little closer, you’ll see the worn spots and a honking big hole under the magnolia tree in that humongous jardinière, which, incidentally, has a crack in the bottom. Rachel found them both in an antiques shop.”
“Maybe I should invite Rachel over to look at the house I bought six months ago. My dad and I just moved everything in from his place and mine with no particular plan, other than couch–living room, bed frame–bedroom, pots and pans–kitchen. We’re still looking for stuff in boxes out in the garage.”
“I’m sure she’d be happy to help.”
“I don’t want any fancy designer place. Done that, not interested in a repeat.”
Another reference to his deceased wife . . . in a less than loving way? Hmm. “Rachel would give you whatever kind of design you wanted, or make suggestions that you could take . . . or not.”
He nodded, then pointed to the hallway. “The tour?” he prodded.
She led him into her office, of which she was especially proud, even though most of it had been Rachel’s doing again. A low, red velvet sofa before a wooden coffee table, which sat on another carpet that was only about six-by-eight, but stunning. This time it was a much-worn, hand-woven, Cajun carpet from a hundred years ago, depicting what appeared to be the scales of silvery fish on a sea of blue waves. Very unusual and not the kind of thing Simone would have ever picked for herself in a store.
“This is what I call an office!” Adam said, surprise in his eyes. “Rachel again?”
“Mostly,” she conceded.
He continued to look around and touch various pieces, like the leather recliner, also in red, that sat before the double window overlooking the small patio out back, which could be accessed only from the kitchen. The separate stair access to the second-floor apartment led from the patio, but now Simone would have to park out front and walk around the side of the building, or enter from inside the office. No hardship, considering the results. There was also a comfy easy chair upholstered in a red-and-black check pattern with a matching footstool.
The metal desk that had been in the office was gone, replaced with a modern, egg-shaped, Lucite desk with a surprisingly comfortable Lucite office chair. Adam sat down in it and leaned back until it almost tipped over. Then he crossed his legs and rested his ankles on the desk. “Cool!” he concluded.
In front of the desk were two vintage chairs with wooden arms and backs, but buttery yellow leather cushions.
“All of these colors should have been garish, but instead they make for a cozy, inviting office space, one that should be comforting to a client, inviting confidences, don’t you think?” Again, she was babbling. She bit her bottom lip to stifle her nervousness.
“Absolutely.”
There was even an old, refinished sailor’s chest in one corner, with an assortment of books and toys for the client who may have been forced to bring a child along for the consultation. Adam stood and walked over to pick up an American Girl doll and said, “My daughter ha
s one just like this.”
Unlike his tone when he mentioned his wife, his voice and his eyes lit up at mention of his daughter. In all her years with police work, Simone had developed a talent for the reveals a perp (or any person, for that matter) made with a mere break in the voice. Voice language was as important as body language.
Adam was now studying some photographs on the wall of Simone in police uniform, and some framed diplomas (college and law enforcement), there was also a landscape painting of Bayou Black, a gift from Tante Lulu done by one of her great nieces. It even included the old lady’s pet gator, Useless.
He pointed at the one picture where Simone stood in a flak jacket and rifle following some terrorist training exercise. “I saw that photo on the Internet.”
“You just happened to see a picture of me on the Internet?”
“I Googled you the minute you left our law offices two weeks ago.”
“You did?” She didn’t have to put a hand to her face to know it was flaming hot.
“Of course. And don’t tell me that you didn’t do the same for me.”
She wasn’t about to deny a fact which was obvious. “So, what did you learn about me? Other than my police background?”
“That you get around a lot.”
She sat down in one of the visitors’ chairs in front of the desk. Now her face was heated with consternation, not embarrassment.
Sensing her consternation, he said, “You’ve been married at least three times.”
“And you think that connotes ‘getting around a lot’? Like a slut?”
“I didn’t use that word.”
“You implied it.”
“Like I told you the other day, I don’t do sharing.”
“And you think I do?”
“The guy at church . . .”
“My ex-husband . . . for more than ten years.”
“I heard he’s living in that trailer with you and your mother.”
“With my mother. I moved out, into the apartment upstairs, the day he moved in.” At the puzzled expression on his face, she explained, “My mother is old-school Catholic. She doesn’t believe in divorce. So she thinks I’m still married to Cletus.”
