Fat Tuesday (2 page)

Seven men and five women filed into the jury box. Seven men and five women had voted unanimously that Wayne Bardo was not guilty of the shooting death of Detective Sergeant Kevin Stuart.

It was what Burke Basile had expected, but it was harder to accept than he'd imagined, and he had imagined that it would be impossible.

Despite the judge's instructions, spectators failed to restrain or conceal their reactions. Nancy Stuart uttered a sharp cry, then crumpled.

Her parents shielded her from the lights of the video cameras and the rapacious reporters who swarmed her.

The judge thanked the jury and dismissed them, then, as soon as court was loudly and formally adjourned, the ineffectual prosecutor quickly stuffed his blank legal pad into his new-looking attache case and walked up the center aisle as though it had just been announced that the building was on fire. He avoided making eye contact with Burke and Pat.

Burke mentally captioned the expression on his face: It's not my fault.

You win some, you lose some. No matter what, the paycheck comes on Friday, so get over it.

"Asshole," Burke muttered.

Predictably, there was jubilation at the defense table and the judge had given up trying to control it. Pinkie Duvall was waxing eloquent into the media microphones. Wayne Bardo was shifting from one Bally loafer to the other, looking complacently bored as he shot his cuffs.

His stone-studded cuff links glittered in the TV lights.

Burke noted that his olive-complexioned forehead wasn't even damp. The son of a bitch had known he had this rap licked, just as he'd beaten all the others.

Pat, acting as spokesman for the N.O.P.D since the incident involved his division, was busy fending off reporters and their questions.

Burke kept Bardo and Duvall in his sights as they triumphantly worked their way through the crowd of reporters toward the exit. They dodged no microphones or cameras. Indeed, Duvall cultivated and relished publicity, so he basked in the spotlight. Unlike the prosecutor, they were in no hurry to leave and in fact loitered to receive the accolades of supporters.

Nor did they avoid making eye contact with Burke Basile.

On the contrary, each slowed down when he reached the end of the row where Burke stood, right hand flexing and releasing at his side.

Each made a point of looking Burke straight in the eye.

Wayne Bardo even went so far as to lean forward and whisper a hateful, but indefensible fact."I didn't shoot that cop, Basile. You did."

"Me?"

She turned and pushed a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her gloved hand."Hi. I wasn't expecting you."

Pinkie Duvall strode down the aisle of the greenhouse and took her in his arms, kissing her hard."I won."

She returned his smile."So I gathered." '"Another acquittal."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you, but this one was hardly a challenge." His expansive grin belied his humility.

"A less brilliant lawyer would have been challenged."

Pleased by her praise, his grin widened."I'm going to the office to make a few calls, but when I come back I'll be bringing the party with me. Roman had everyone on standby. In fact, I noticed the catering vans arriving when I came in."

Their butler, Roman, and the entire household staff had been on alert since the trial began. The parties Pinkie hosted to celebrate his legal victories contributed to his notoriety as much as the flashy diamond ring he wore on the small finger of his right hand, from which he'd derived his nickname.

His post-trial bashes were as much anticipated as the trials themselves and were well documented in the media. Sometimes Remy suspected jurors of voting for an acquittal just so they could experience firsthand one of Pinkie Duvall's famous fetes.

"Is there anything I can do?" Of course there wasn't, and she knew that before asking.

"Just show up looking as gorgeous as always," he told her, sliding his hands down her back and giving her another kiss. After releasing her, he wiped at the smear of dirt on her forehead."What are you doing out here, anyway? You know I don't like a lot of traffic in here."

"There hasn't been a lot of traffic. Only me. I brought a fern from the house because it didn't look healthy and I thought it could use some TLC. Don't worry, I didn't touch anything I shouldn't."

The greenhouse was Pinkie's domain. Horticulture was his hobby, but he took it seriously and was as much a stickler for neatness and precision in the greenhouse as in his law practice and in every other area of his life.

He took a moment now to survey proudly the rows of plants he had cultivated. Few of his friends, and even fewer of his enemies, knew that among Pinkie Duvall's other passions were his orchids, in which he specialized.

Extreme measures were taken to maintain the delicate balance of the environment inside the greenhouse. There was even a special enclosure within the greenhouse to house the equipment that monitored and controlled the climate. He'd done an exhaustive study of the topic and attended the World Orchid Congress every three years. He knew the precise light, humidity, and temperature conditions in which each particular group flourished. Cattleyas, laelias, cymbidiums, oncidiums Pinkie nurtured them with the attention of a neonatal I.C.U nurse, providing each with proper potting, drainage, and aeration.

In return, he expected his plants to be exemplary and extraordinary.

As though they didn't want to disappoint their master, they were.

Ordinarily. But now he frowned as he moved toward a grouping of plants labeled Oncidium varicosum. The stalks were heavy with blossoms, although they weren't as profuse as some of their neighbors'."I've been pampering these nonas for weeks. What's the matter with them?

This is a very poor showing."

"Maybe they haven't had time to " "They've had plenty of time."

"Sometimes when " "They're inferior plants. That's all there is to it." Pinkie calmly picked up one of the pots and dropped it to the floor. It broke upon impact with the stone tiles, creating a mess of fern root, shattered crockery, and bent pedicels. Another soon joined the first. "Pinkie, don't!" ' Remy crouched down and cradled one of the tender plants in her hand.

"Leave it alone," he said with detachment, even as he sent another of the plants to its doom. He didn't spare a single one. Soon the entire group lay in shambles on the tiles. He stepped on one of the stalks and ground the blossoms beneath his heel."They were ruining the appearance of the greenhouse."

Remy, upset over the waste, began scooping up the plants. Pinkie said, "Don't bother with that. I'll send one of the gardeners in to clean up."

He left with her promise that she would leave soon and start getting dressed for the party, but she didn't leave immediately. Instead, she stayed to sweep up the debris herself, being careful to put away everything she had used and leaving the greenhouse in pristine condition.

The pavestone path leading to the house meandered through the lawn.

Carefully tended flower beds were sheltered by a canopy of moss-draped live oaks. The trees had been there for centuries before the house was built, the original building dated back to the early nineteenth century.

Remy entered through one of the back doors and took the rear stairs, avoiding the kitchen, butler's pantry, and dining room, where she could hear the caterer issuing terse orders to her corps of assistants.

By the time Pinkie and his guests began arriving, everything would be ready, and the food and beverage service would be seam less.

Remy barely had allowed herself enough time to dress, but preparations had been made to speed up the process. A maid had already drawn her bath and was there awaiting further instructions. Together they discussed what Remy would wear and, after having laid everything out, the maid left her alone to bathe, which she did quickly, knowing that she would need extra time with her hair and makeup. Pinkie expected her to look her best for his parties.

Fifty minutes later, she was putting on the finishing touches at her vanity table when she heard him enter the master suite."Is that you?"

"It sure as hell better not be anyone else."

Leaving her dressing room, she joined him in the bedroom and thanked him when he whistled appreciatively."Can I fix you a "Please." He began removing his clothes.

By the time she'd poured him a scotch, he was down to his skin. At fifty-five, Pinkie was impressively fit. He kept his body hard and compact with rigorous daily workouts and deep muscle massages by a masseur he kept on retainer. He was proud of the physique he'd maintained despite his fondness for exceptional wines and New Orleans' notable cuisine, including its famous desserts like bread pudding with whiskey sauce and creamy pralines chock-full of pecans.

Kissing Remy's cheek, he took the highball glass she offered and sipped the expensive scotch."I brought you a present, and you've exercised enormous restraint by not mentioning it, although I know you saw it."

"I thought you should choose the time to give it to me," she said demurely."Besides, how was I to know it was for me?"

Chuckling, he handed her the gift-wrapped box.

"What's the occasion?"

"I don't need an occasion to give my beautiful wife a gift."

She untied the black satin bow and carefully removed the gold foil paper. Again Pinkie laughed softly."What?" she asked.

"Most women tear into packages with unbridled greed."

"I like to savor a gift."

He stroked her cheek."Because you didn't receive many when you were a little girl."

"Not until you came along."

Inside the gift wrap was a black velvet jewelry box, and inside that, lying on white satin, was a platinum chain on which was suspended an emerald-cut aquamarine, surrounded by baguette diamonds.

"It's beautiful," Remy whispered.

"It caught my fancy because the stone is the same color as your eyes."

Setting his drink on the nightstand, he lifted the pendant from the box and turned her around."I think you can dispense with this for one night," he said as he unfastened the cross she always wore. He replaced it with the new pendant, then propelled her toward the eighteenth-century cheval glass that had once dominated the Parisian boudoir of a doomed French noblewoman.

Critically, he assessed her reflection from over her shoulder.

"Nice, but not yet perfect. This dress looks wrong now. Black would be much better. Something low-cut, so the stone lies directly against your skin."

He unzipped her dress and pushed it off her shoulders. Then he unhooked her brassiere, and pulled it away. With the stone now nestling in her cleavage, Remy averted her eyes from the mirror and crossed her arms over her chest. Pinkie turned her to face him and pushed her arms aside. As he gazed at her, his eyes turned dark. His breath rushed over her skin.

"I knew it," he said in a rough voice."That's the perfect setting for that stone."

He pulled her toward the bed, ignoring her mild protests."Pinkie, I'm already dressed."

"That's what bidets are for." He pushed her back onto the pillows, then followed her down.

Always potent, Pinkie's sex drive was never as strong as following a successful trial. This evening he was particularly urgent. It was over in a matter of minutes. Remy still had on her shoes and stockings but her hair and makeup had suffered his aggressive lovemaking. He rolled off her and reached for his drink, finishing it as he left the bed.

Whistling softly, he crossed the bedroom and went into his separate dressing area.

Remy turned onto her side and stacked her hands beneath her cheek.

She dreaded beginning the dressing procedure all over again. In fact, given a choice, she would go to sleep where she lay and skip the party altogether. She had started out the day feeling tired, and the lethargy was still weighing her down. However, the last thing she wanted was for Pinkie to notice her lack of energy, which she'd been hiding from him for weeks.

She forced herself to get up. She was filling her tub with another bath when he emerged from his dressing room, freshly showered and shaved, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit. He looked at her with surprise."I thought you'd be ready."

She raised her hands helplessly."It's easier to start over than try and repair. Besides, I don't like using a bidet."

He pulled her close and gave her a teasing kiss."Maybe I left you in that convent school a semester too long. You developed some awfully prissy habits."

"You don't mind if I'm a little late making an appearance, do you?"

He gave her fanny a pat, then released her."You'll be ravishing and well worth the wait." At the door, he added, "Remember to wear something sexy, black, and low-cut."

Remy lingered in her second bath. Downstairs, she could hear the musicians tuning their instruments. Before long, the guests would start to arrive. Until the wee hours, they would gorge themselves on rich food and strong drink. There would be music, laughter, dancing, flirtation, and talk, talk, talk.

Just the thought of it made her sigh wearily. Would anyone notice if the mistress of the house decided to stay in her room and skip the party?

Pinkie would.

To commemorate his courtroom victory, he'd bought her another beautiful piece of jewelry to add to a collection that was embarrassingly considerable. He would be offended to know how much she dreaded attending his celebration or how little value she placed on his gift.

But deriving any real joy from his generosity was impossible, because his lovely and expensive gifts were poor substitutes for all that he denied her.

With her head still resting on the rim of her tub, she turned to look toward the dressing table, where the new treasure lay in its satin-lined box. The beauty of this particular stone escaped her. It radiated no warmth and, indeed, looked cold to the touch. Rather than shooting off sparks of fire, the facets glittered with an icy light.

It called to mind winter, not summer. It didn't make her feel happy and fulfilled, but hollow and empty.

Silently, Pinkie Duvall's wife began to cry.