Cold Blood (48 page)

The unease remained as she got ready to go to bed. The telephone’s ringing made her physically jump, but she didn’t answer. When it stopped she called down to reception; the call had been from Robert Caley. She closed her eyes and felt it again, the warm rush of feeling she’d had when he had kissed her again, told her that he was leaving his wife. She was falling in love with him, and it scared her. She couldn’t help remember-

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ing the pornographic magazine, the Valentine cards she had found in Anna Louise’s bedroom, all from Caley using the nickname Polar. Who had taken the diaries, if there were any, from Anna Louise’s polar bears? He had said none had ever been found. But he knew their hiding place, so he knew that if Tilda Brown had a diary it would have been hidden in the same place. Round and round in her mind went all her suspicions until she felt like weeping from tiredness.

“Please don’t let it be him,”

she whispered.

CHAPTER

I/I

I

i

I Rooney had had to wait for more than an hour as the printers

\j took away the shreds of newspaper wrapped around the voodoo doll. It was almost eight when evenrJfrly a small crumpled man with ink stains on his hands and apron emer^d from a back room, holding a full sheet.

“You know there is a price for this?”

Rooney nodded.

“How much?”

“Well, I’ve had to go back into the files and double-check the photographs for yousay, fifteen bucks.”

Rooney smiled, he’d expected to be asked for a lot more.

“Sure, that sounds fair to me.”

He took out his wallet and laid out fifteen dollars. The printer pocketed it, and gave a furtive look around; he had, as he’d said, gone through a lot of back issues, but it was on his employer’s time.

“Okay, this newspaper issue was out on February fifteenth last year, ‘cause of the casino pictures and the”

Rooney interrupted, taking the sheet.

“That’s all I wanted to know, thanks.”

He stood outside the printer’s, folding the single sheet of last year’s paper into a small square. The evening was hot and clammy, and he was sweating all over, so he trudged down the street until he saw the streetcar, and stepped up inside. He sat on the bench seat close to the entrance, hoping for a bit of a breeze, but the air was hot and sticky. He ran his finger around his collar, not sure if it was the heat that was getting to him or the fact that he had made up his mind to propose to Rosie.

Shaved and showered, he tapped on her door. She opened it, wearing a big bath towel around her plump body.

“How did it go?”

“Well, it was the date we all wanted, Feb. fifteenth last year. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

She stepped aside, drawing up her towel.

“I just had a shower.”

He sat on the edge of one of the many beds in her room, waiting as she dressed in the bathroom. He told himself he was a lonely old fool, and tried to make himself back out of what he wanted to ask Rosie.

“You divorced?”

he blurted out as she returned.

She looked surprised.

“Yes, I told you, years ago. Why?”

He took a deep breath.

“No reason,”

he said grumpily, unfolding the newspaper printout and passing it to her.

“That’s a lie, there is a reason.”

She was looking at the doublefolded center piece.

“What?”

“You want to get hitched to me, Rosie?”

“You bet I do.”

“What?”

She sat next to him and took his big hand.

“I said yes, I do …”

“Shit, you do?”

“Yes … you worried about that?”

“Hell no, that’s what I wanted you to say.”

There was a moment of silence and they slowly looked into each other’s face.

“So, we’re engaged?”

she asked coyly.

“Yeah, I guess we are,”

he said flatly. It had all gone as he had hoped, but a fraction too fast.

“We’d better tell Lorraine,”

Rosie said, and he hesitated.

“Maybe don’t rush it, wait until we both get used to the idea, okay?”

She nodded, smiling.

“I meant about the newspaper article, Bill!”

Lorraine was deeply asleep when Rooney called to tell her the newspaper date coincided with the day Anna Louise had arrived in New Orleans. She refused to go and dine with them, saying she needed a good night’s rest. It

LYNDA LA PLAMTE

was after nine and she couldn’t get back to sleep for a long time. She thought about going to see Robert Caley but decided against it. Instead she tossed and titrned, pushing him from her mind, going over what had happened during the daywith the exception of her lapse back into drunkenness.

She got up, feeling restless, and began to pace the room. She came to the conclusion that only one person could have hated Tilda Brown enough, and that person was Anna Louise Caley. But how in the hell could she prove it without either of them being alive? And Tilda Brown’s suicide must not be given priority over tracing Anna Louise, unless they were linked. And Lorraine intuitively knew that they were … but how?

She wanted a drink and searched around the room for any bottle that Rosie might have overlooked, still convincing herself that she was in control, and that the problem had been caused by the bourbon at Fryer’s bar, not the diluted vodka she had been drinking all day. She knew, though, that she was going to have to be a lot smarter, as Rosie and Rooney would be watching her every move. She couldn’t call down to reception for a bottle, as she was sure that Rosie had found out about that, perhaps had even warned them not to send anything up to her room, and she didn’t have the energy to leave it.

She didn’t realize that energy had nothing to do with it; but she was moving into another phase of the addictionthat of fear. She was afraid of leaving the hotel room, afraid effacing Rosie and Rooney, and her confidence in her ability to analyze the case wa^iyavering badly. The more she sorted through her notes, running over dpails, the less confident she became, not knowing what the next move should be. It was later, when the sweats began, that Lorraine knew she needed something to get her back on her feet. She called down to ask the receptionist to see if her driver, Frangois, was outside the hotel, and if so, to have him directed to her room.

It was over half an hour before Frangois was tracked down, and by the time he had seen Lorraine, agreed to buy her a bottle of vodka and brought it back to her, more than an hour had passed. She called down then to reception for a six-pack of Coke, assembling everything she needed, but didn’t open the bottle immediately. Just knowing it was there was enough: she’d be all right now.

But still sleep eluded her as she continued to turn the case over in her mind for hours, and she eventually fell asleep planning to see Ruby Corbello first thing next day. In the morning, she told herself, everything would be all right again.

Robert Caley left the city that night and drove up the coast to a casino in Gulfport, Mississippi, where he and Dulay had often played in the private rooms. High-stakes gamblers rarely bothered with the riverboat casinos in New Orleans, but once the casino in which he would now be a partner was open, all that would change. A lot of things were going to change for him now. By nine-thirty he had lost more than ten thousand dollars, but that didn’t matter now: he was going to be rich. There was no limit to demand for gambling, and he knew he would never have to worry about money again. Dulay came in after ten o’clock, and it felt good to see him smile warmly, falsely, a cigar clamped in his mouth. Even Dulay had not succeeded in cutting him out in the cold because the leases that had been such a liability had turned out to be his salvation.

“Hey, Robert, how are you doing?”

Caley smiled.

“Fine, I’m doing fine.”

“Well, looks like we’re both in the money … after the announcement, I mean.”

Even Dulay’s polished manner betrayed a trace of awkwardness.

“We’re all on the same side nowthe way it ought to be, hey Robert?”

Caley smiled; the man was a snake. There was no reason why the Doubloons group should have been cut in on the deal, but, clearly, pushing the Governor’s golf cart was a useful skill. Still, it felt good to come out a winner, and he was sure, very sure, that at long last he had played with a full deck.

“Yes, Lloyd,”

he said with equally false graciousness.

“It seems like we are. You’ll excuse me now, I was just on my way out.”

He checked his watch, wondering if Lorraine had called. He wanted to see her, wanted her to know and to celebrate with him. He drove back to New Orleans, thinking of the new world they would share. He wanted her tonight, because it was all going to be different nowhe was dependent on no one, he was free. He had been trapped for years, caught in Elizabeth Caley’s secret nightmares, but that was over. Besides, they were nightmares he had never understood or cared to find out about.

Caley called Lorraine but was told she wasn’t taking any calls, so he left a message to say he had returned to his hotel and had arranged for her usual suite to be waiting. He called again at midnight, but the message was the sameMrs. Page was not to be disturbed. He let the receiver fall back onto the cradle, confused. He would wait for her to come to him, he would make no further calls.

Early the following morning, before Rosie and Rooney had even come down to breakfast, Lorraine had left the hotel. She had got herself dressed and out with just a couple of shots of vodka and half a pot of coffee: she’d been shaking badly and had a hell of a hangover, but at least she was able to get out of the room. She sat in the parked car, looking out of the window at the Corbellos’ house.

“Wait here, Frangois.”

She knocked three times before the door was opened.

“Hi, I’m looking for Ruby Corbello.”

The young girl was wearing a barely decent slip dress and rubber flipflops.

“You from the festival organization?”

“No, but I need to speak to her, and if necessary I can pay.”

Lorraine took out a twenty-dollar bill.

“She’s getting her picture took for a magazine this afternoon. She’s not seeing nobody unless it’s press.”

“I’m a reporter,”

Lorraine lied.

“She’s in the back room.”

The girl skidded past Lorraine, snatching the bill, leaving the door wide open.

“Ruby? Ruby?”

Lorraine called out.

“Who wants her?”

came a high-pitched voice. %

“I’m from the Mardi Gras press organization,”

Lorraine called.

Ruby Corbello had a sheet wrapped around her when she came slowly down the narrow staircase. She was stunningl^eautiful.

“Who are you?”

^

“My name is Lorraine Page, can I speak to you?”

Ruby glided down the last steps and hung on to the newel post, suddenly kittenish.

“I don’t want mah picture took until I got makeup on.”

Lorraine looked at the room off the hallway.

“Can we talk?”

Ruby nodded, gathering the sheet around herself.

“Sure, but no photographs until I’m wearing my gown.”

She indicated the old worn sofa, and posed beside it. The torn sheet could have been draped by Yves Saint Laurent; anything on this girl would have looked classy.

Lorraine opened her notebook.

“You used to work for Mr. and Mrs. Brown as their maid?”

“Uh-huh, yes I did, but I don’t no more, that is all behind me now.”

Lorraine smiled.

“Tell me about Tilda Brown.”

“Miss Brown?”

Ruby asked, irritated.

COLD BLODD

“Why did you leave the Browns’ employment, Ruby?”

Ruby’s perfect face puckered.

“Why you wanna know? They been saying things about me, huh?”

Lorraine sighed.

“Well, in a way, and if I am to do this profile of you for the newspapers”

“I didn’t get fired or nothin’ like that, I left. I walked out because that young woman was crazy and I wanted me a proper career.”

“You mean Tilda?”

“Uh-huh, she was always jabberin’ at me and she made my life a misery, because she believed she was so high-and-mighty. But she wasn’t that high or that mighty. I know that, I know all about Miss Tilda Brown.”

“Do you know she committed suicide?”

“Uh-huh, I know.”

“Why do you think she killed herself?”

Ruby shrugged, and perched on the edge of a chair.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know Anna Louise Caley?”

“Mmm, I met her, and they was as alike as two peas in a pod, she was another Miss High-and-Mighty.”

“Did she come here?”

Ruby threw back her pretty head and laughed.

“Lordy, no, those white girls wouldn’t dare come here.”

“Did Mrs. Caley come here?”

Ruby drew back.

“What? You joking me? The famous Elizabeth Caley come here? No way, ma’am.”

Lorraine chewed her lip, wondering how she should play it. Ruby tossed her thick hair over her shoulder, as if ready for a movie camera.

“I was told you were fired from the Browns’ residence for stealing.”

“What?”

She jumped up and danced around, asking over and over who had said that about her. Then she stood in front of Lorraine and pushed her face close.

“Who dare say that about me?”

“I can’t tell you, Ruby, but I have to ask everything because if we are going to put you on the front page of the newspaper, we have to be sure that there can be no repercussions. You are one of the queens in this year’s Mardi Gras, and the whole of America will be watching.”

Ruby slumped into a chair.

“I done nothing wrong, nothing at all, and it was by accident anyway ‘cause she was cheekin’ me.”

“What was?”

“That I found it.”

“Found what?”

“Tilda’s diary. It was in this silly toy she had on her pillow, you know, a bear. I felt something inside it, so I looked.”

I

Lorraine felt her knees tremble as she leaned forward.

“You have Tilda Brown’s diary?”

“Hell no, I don’t have it.”