by Sandra Hill
“He’s got a special room at his condo on Grand Isle,” CiCi told them, checking her notes.
“Special room?” Simone asked.
“Yeah. Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”
“Oh, boy!” Simone said. “How do you know?”
“I talked to the guy who installed the ‘dungeon,’” CiCi told them. “Wrist hooks and straps on the walls, fold-down spanking bench, X-frame cross, pulley system on the ceiling, that kind of thing.”
Holy Moly!
Sabine just arched her brows. “My husband bought me a flogger for Christmas, but that’s as far as we go.”
And people think I’ve led a wild life! “Can we can get pictures?”
“I guarantee it,” Sabine said. “I haven’t made a connection with him yet, but CiCi gave me the name of a bar he frequents on Monday nights. I’m going tonight. We’ll see if I can get him to invite me back to his place.”
“Be careful,” Simone cautioned.
“Always,” Sabine said.
“In the meantime, I do have lots of data and a few photographs of him with other women. One or two of the disgruntled ones might be willing to testify, if needed.” CiCi looked at Sabine. “Your info will be the shit icing on this boy’s downfall cake.”
Later that afternoon Simone was preparing to go to New Orleans with Gabe to look over his parents’ place and perhaps hit a few bars where Marcus Pitot was reputed to hang out. CiCi was working on background research on this case, too, and had already given them some places and people to check out.
The question was how to dress, what personality she wanted to portray as a potential swinger wife. Not blatantly sexual, in her opinion. That would be too obvious. She settled on a capped-sleeve, short, black lace dress with a sweetheart neckline, exposing only a bit of cleavage. Red stilettos with ankle straps, that she hoped made a statement; they were Jimmy Choo knock-offs, the illegality of which the cop in her conveniently ignored since they’d been a gift. Crystal chandelier earrings matching the crystal barrettes that held her hair off her face . . . hair which was a shiny mass of waves today thanks to her olive oil treatment. Very subtle make-up that gave her a natural look. Except for the red shoes, she looked demurely sexy.
She packed a small case, just in case they needed to stay overnight. Then she went downstairs to wait. She’d already sent her mother home with a protesting Scarlett in her crate. It was either that or invite her mother to stay in her apartment, which she didn’t want to do. Best to avoid precedents in that regard.
While she was waiting—everyone had already left—she was surprised to see Tante Lulu wobble in. And wobble was the correct word because the old lady was wearing high-heeled pumps . . . in a putrid pink color to match her putrid pink sundress. That was mean. The color was actually just bright pink, kind of neon-y. And actually her hair was slightly pink, too, and her lips were definitely pink. Pretty in pink, it was not. But typical for Tante Lulu, whose outrageous appearance often aimed to stun.
“I gotta pee,” Tante Lulu said right off, rushing into the office and down the hallway. When she came back a short time later, she apologized. “Sorry about that but mah bladder ain’t what it used ta be. I was outside in the car when the urge come on me.”
“You didn’t drive in yourself, did you?” Simone glanced out the window. The last time Tante Lulu had driven into town, she’d parked catty-corner in two spaces out front.
“No, I came in with Tee-John. He’s next door at the bakery buyin’ some doughnuts. I tol’ him I could make beignets better than any store-bought pastries, but he wouldn’t listen ta me. Sez his wife has a cravin’ fer cream-filled doughnuts. Tee-hee-hee!”
“Uh-oh!”
“It ain’t fer certain yet. Leastways Celine sez it ain’t certain, but I know. Thass why I’m wearin’ pink, jist ta give Celine’s ovaries a nudge. We ain’t got enough girls in our family.”
That made as much sense as eating bananas to produce a boy, which one of her Chicago friends had done after already having three girls. What she ended up with was potassium headaches and another girl. “And what’s the big event that has you all dressed up?”
“Oh, we’re gonna celebrate Etienne’s thirteenth birthday. He wanted ta eat wings at a strip bar. Talk about! We’re gonna have cake and ice cream at home, instead.” She grinned at Simone. “I wouldn’t have minded a strip club mahself, but no wings. They give me gas.”
TMI. Just then, Tante Lulu seemed to notice Simone’s appearance. “Wow! Ya goin’ out on a job t’night. Ya pretendin’ ta be a hooker?”
“What? Do I look like a hooker?”
“Not a hooker ’zackly. More like one of them high-priced hall gals.”
It took Simone a second to realize that the old lady meant call girl.
“No, this is the way I dress when I go out—”
“—on a date? Ya have a date? Oh, boy! I knew the thunderbolt was workin’, but this is really fast. Is it Adam?”
Just then, who should walk in with perfect timing but . . . yep, Adam.
“Hey, darlin’, I got done early and thought I’d drop in to see if you were free for . . .” His words trailed off as he noticed Tante Lulu, and then a close second later, he noticed Simone’s appearance. “Whoa! That’s some outfit!”
“Don’t you like it?” She turned to give him a full view.
“I love it, but how did you know I was coming?”
“I didn’t. I’m on my way out of town. A job.”
His eyes surveyed her attire from head to foot and noted the overnight bag near the door. “Some job!”
She shrugged. This was what she did. He either needed to accept that . . . or not.
“I said she looked lak a hall gal, but she sez she’s goin’ on a date,” Tante Lulu told him.
“I did not say that,” Simone protested.
“Huh?” Adam said.
Just then, a car horn blew outside and they could see through the glass doors Tee-John LeDeux, handsome as always in cut-off denims and a Ragin’ Cajun T-shirt. He yelled from where he stood by the open car door, “Tante Lulu, get yer pretty little ass out here, or I’m leavin’ without you.”
“Oh, that boy!” the old lady said about her great-nephew who was not Tee, or small, at six-foot-plus, nor young at thirtysomething. On those words, she began to wobble out again, calling out over her shoulder to Adam, “Yer hope chest is finished.”
“That is just super,” he muttered.
“Whadja say?” Tante Lulu asked, just before she shut the door after herself.
“Thank you,” he muttered to the closed door. Then he just stood and shook his head for several seconds. The old lady had that effect on people. Turning back to Simone, he asked, “A date?”
“No.”
“You’re working?”
She nodded.
“Where you going?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“A cheating spouse case?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Are you going alone?”
“No.”
“Let me guess . . . you’d rather not say with whom.”
She nodded again, then added, “I wish I were free tonight, Adam.” And she meant it. He looked so good in his rumpled suit and afternoon stubble that she was tempted to cancel her trip to New Orleans and show him all the things a Cajun girl could show a mostly Cajun boy. But she was more responsible than that and just put a hand on his arm to show her sincerity.
“So do I,” he said huskily, and took that hand in his, squeezing.
Just that squeeze did something to her girl parts. “You’re not mad, are you?” she rasped out.
“No, not really.” But there was a hesitancy in his voice. “I don’t have any right to be mad. Do I? Not yet?”
“I’m not sure you’d ever have that right, Adam. This is my work. Doesn’t matter if it’s Legal Belles or as a cop. Sometimes I’ve just got to do what I’ve got to do.”
That sounded ominous, even t
o him as evidenced by his arched brows. Then he nodded his acceptance of her words, but again there was a hesitancy. “Can I call you later?”
“How about I call you, in case I’m tied up?” Oh, Lord, that sounded bad.
“Sure. He gave her a quick kiss, then glanced at her overnight bag. “You’re not taking your handcuffs with you, are you?”
“No, Adam, I’m saving those for you.”
A watched phone never rings . . .
Adam found himself waiting eagerly for Simone to call him that evening, and he didn’t like it, not one bit. Not that he objected to her doing the calling. No, it was the fact that he was waiting for the call like a nervous teenager. He even took his cell phone into the bathroom while he poured bubble bath into the tub for Maisie and sat on the closed toilet lid listening to her chatter about her day.
Afterward, he watched a Charlotte’s Web video with his little Mini-Me for about the fiftieth time. It was her favorite, next to The Little Mermaid. Then they made some jewelry with colored rubber bands. After that, he tucked Maisie into bed and promised to take her to Jungle Gardens on Avery Island sometime this summer. She’d heard about the place from a girl down the street. He’d been there on a field trip as a kid, but then it was to see the huge salt dome and tour the Tabasco factory.
His dad, who was watching Iron Chef in the den, gave him an update on the party that was turning into a massive bayou bash and giving him a rash. Really! His father’s arms and legs, visible in white undershirt and Bermuda shorts, were covered with calamine lotion. But it was probably from working in his garden near some poisonous weed.
Distractedly, because he was fixated on the stupid show, his father related that René LeDeux had been there this afternoon, at Tante Lulu’s urging. “He checked out our exterior electrical outlets to see if they’re capable of handling his band’s equipment and lighting.”
“Lighting? Why do we need lighting? I thought this was a daytime pool party.”
His father shrugged. “It might run into the evening.”
Adam groaned. He was starting to feel a little itchy, too.
“Another thing. René asked if we want him to bring one of those wooden platform things, and I told him to ask you.”
“What? This is getting totally out of hand. Why can’t we just have some kind of stereo music? Why the hell does this house have a sound system if we’re not going to use it, anyway? And since when does a five-year-old’s party need live music?”
His father shrugged. “It’s your party, too.”
“Since when?”
“You’re arguin’ with the choir, boy. Tell it to Tante Lulu.”
No way was he risking any excuse for the old biddy to bring some lamebrain hope chest over here. “Why can’t you? I’m not the one making all these plans.”
“Me complain to that sweet woman? Not a chance. We’re pals since she joined our casino gang. I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“And I would?”
“If the shoe fits.”
“I’m beginning to think that impromptu parties are much better. We never should have told Maisie she could plan a party two months in advance. All that time is not good for party planning. Didn’t they tell you two yahoos about that on the show that gave you this crapola idea to begin with? Who the hell needs a theme party?”
“Yahoos? Now you’re callin’ your daughter a yahoo.”
“I’m callin’ you a yahoo, and Maisie a yahoo sidekick.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Mr. Comedian! How come you’re so antsy tonight? Maybe you need to visit one of your girlfriends.”
“Dad! Are you suggesting sex to calm my nerves?”
“Always worked for me.”
“Dad!” he repeated.
“With your mother.”
TMI! Time to change the subject, or come back to the subject. “I’m afraid to ask, but just how big is this party by now?”
“Fifty.”
“Aaarrgh!” Adam got up and decided to take a shower. His father didn’t even notice his leaving, so engrossed was he once again in the show where some guy was making trout ice cream.
By eleven o’clock Adam was ready for bed and decided to give Simone another half hour before hitting the sack. He picked up a Grisham thriller he’d been reading off and on for a month and then half reclined on the bed against a couple of propped pillows. After an hour of not flipping even one page, he gave up, slamming the book down and turning off the light. “To hell with it!” he muttered, arranging the pillows flat on the mattress under his head. “Where are you, Simone?”
As he dozed off, second thoughts crept in. Maybe this dating crap wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Or maybe he was just becoming cracked.
The perks of working overtime . . .
After stopping off at the house on the outskirts of New Orleans where they would be staying, Simone and Gabe ate a quick dinner at a French Quarter bistro, then headed for the wine bar frequented by Marcus Pitot. By slipping a twenty dollar bill to the hostess at the Grapes of Wrath, Gabe managed to get them seated within viewing distance of the table where their target had made reservations. She and Gabe were calling themselves Dr. Lawrence and Diane Storm, using Gabe’s actual surname in case Pitot should check the ownership of the house where they were staying, which was in his parents’ name.
Gabe was looking very business professional—i.e., physician newly arrived in town—in a gray suit by Hugo Boss with a crisp white shirt and black tie. His hair had been dyed blond, or maybe that was his natural color, and although longish, it was combed off his face neatly. His face was tanned, giving the appearance of a man with money enough to get out on the links or his sailboat on the weekends.
The Grapes of Wrath was a cozy basement establishment where a jazz trio played in a back corner, but the music was soft, allowing people to talk. Around the room singles and couples sat on bar stools at high tables, and on low couches and comfy chairs arranged in conversation pits.
Simone and Gabe sank down into one of the sofas and, after checking the menu, ordered the “house special of the day,” which was a cabernet sauvignon costing twenty dollars a glass. The bill for Mrs. Pitot was getting bigger and bigger.
They leaned back on the soft leather and chatted between sips of the wine, which was delicious.
“What does your girlfriend think about this work you’re doing?”
“Livia knows I work for Legal Belles, but she doesn’t know about this case precisely. I know how important secrecy is to you.”
“Would she mind?”
“Nah. Liv’s so happy that I was willing to move here that she wouldn’t care if I was hooking. Just kidding.”
“Is it a serious relationship?”
“Oh, yeah. When she graduates, we’ll move back to L.A. and once we’re both on our feet financially, we’ll make it legal. Hey, maybe when this is all over, Saffron can give me some leads on TV work. I’m not too proud to do soaps.”
“The Old and the Dutiful.” She laughed. “You never know.”
“And you? Anyone special in your life?”
She wasn’t sure what she would have answered because just then Marcus Pitot walked in. With a woman. Who was not his wife.
Gabe held his cell phone in front of his face pretending to read a text. Instead, he took a photo of Pitot with the woman. Not that a photo with a woman was important to this case; Saffron had plenty of those. What was needed was evidence linking Pitot to a sex club and “unusual” sexual activities . . . the types of things he wouldn’t want made public. In other words, infidelity, okay; whips and chains, not so okay.
“That’s Caroline Bannon, Pitot’s latest mistress,” Simone told Gabe. “Used to be a call girl. Now she’s Pitot’s exclusively.”
“She is hot.”
“Yeah, and about half his age. It’s amazing what money can buy.”
“Meow,” Gabe said.
“Fact of life. Sex sells. Men buy.”
“And women don’t?”
/> By the grin on his face, Simone could see that Gabe was teasing, and she laughed.
Which caught Pitot’s attention for a moment, and he glanced their way. He was sixty-one years old but looked fifty, with a receding salt-and-pepper hairline but taut skin that might be due to a facelift. If she hadn’t been aware of his proclivities, she would have said he was an attractive man. Except for his eyes which were icy steel. Mean eyes.
Gabe moved closer to her, and the two of them played their roles then. Feeding each other bits of the finger foods provided with the wine—cheese straws, glazed pecans, and mini tapas. Touching each other often, his fingers trailing down her bare arm, her hand resting on his sleeve, and then his thigh. Exchanging knowing gazes, even the occasional small kiss.
At one point, Gabe frowned at her and pinched her arm, hard, murmuring a bunch of gibberish intermixed with words like pretend, argument, you’ll like it, and friggin’ yes! One of the words he spoke, sotto voce but loud enough to carry was ménage. When she flinched away from him, he drew her back forcibly and murmured more angry whispers at her. Finally, she nodded, and he leaned down to kiss the bruised arm.
She wasn’t sure if Pitot was watching or overheard anything they’d said, but they sensed his scrutiny as he passed by. The man was clearly a regular customer. He and his “date” circulated, talking to various people, but then they made for the nearby conversation pit that had been reserved for them and where two other couples clearly waited for them. Were these other members of the sex club?
When Pitot went to the men’s room, Simone headed toward the ladies’ room just as he was exiting. She bumped into him, putting her hands on his chest, then apologized profusely. “Sorry, I’m such a klutz. It’s these shoes.” She stuck out one of her stilettos, along with a long length of bare leg, for Pitot’s perusal.
He steadied her with hands on both her arms and studied her.
She let him, then patted her chest in a fluttery fashion—just making sure he noticed that she had a bosom, ha, ha, ha—and said, “Forgive me. I’ve had a little too much to drink.”
