In a Heartbeat (17 page)

“Never heard of it. But then, I can’t think many have. Hainsville doesn’t exactly sound like a metropolis.”

“That it ain’t, ma’am,” Theo agreed.

“Well then, I am Dorothea Jefferson Duval, kin to the famous president on my mother’s side of the family. And to the Creole Duvals on my father’s side.”

“Is that so, ma’am. Mrs. Duval.” Theo was polite, but he was itching to get back to his breakfast.

“Mademoiselle,”
she corrected him sharply. “That is
Mademoiselle Jefferson Duval
. Remember that, Theo Rogan.”

“Oh, Ah will, ma’am, Mam’zelle Jefferson Duval,” he agreed hastily.

“Finish your breakfast,” she instructed, taking a sip of her coffee again. “And then we shall talk.”

I slept in the conservatory every night after
that,
Ed remembered.
And every morning, MamzelleJefferson Duval would show up with the
old carriage with the bread and butter and hot
coffee. I stopped asking her how she got it, and
where she spent her time, and where she slept at
night. She never talked about herself over our
shared breakfasts, but she did ask a lot of questions. I was more surprised than she when I
found myself telling her about Mitch and the
murder of my family. About how ashamed I was
that I had not tried to save them. And how
much I had wanted to kill my brother.

Holding the tumbler, newly replenished with bourbon, in both her small, blue-veined hands, Mamzelle Dorothea took another sip. Her pale, penetrating eyes met Camelia’s. “So I asked, ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’ And do you know what he replied?
‘Then Ah would have had blood on my
hands too,’
he said.
‘My ma would not have
wanted that.’

“I told him it was a rational answer, and then I asked him, ‘And what exactly do you propose to do with the life that was spared you?’ ”

Her hand holding the empty glass shook as she placed it carefully back on the stained antique table. “ ‘I want to become someone,’ he told me. ‘A real person.’ And I thought to myself, And I am the one who can help you do just that.”

She leaned back against the cushion, her skull-like face fading into the shadows until it seemed she was almost not there. A ghost from Ed’s past, Mel thought.

“I’m tired,” Mamzelle Dorothea murmured. “Tomorrow is another day. Come back and see me then. . . .”

She was already sleeping when they crept out of the room, leaving her with the scent of gardenias and the tinkling fountain, and her dreams of a once-glorious past.

Camelia closed the heavy door soundlessly behind him. You learned the ropes quickly in a place like this, he thought.

As they strode down the steps to the car, Camelia stole a quick glance at Mel. She had not uttered a word during Mamzelle’s story, never interrupted, never shed a tear. But he could see the tension in the stiffness of her back, in her tightly curled fists, the stern line of her mouth.

He slid an arm around her shoulder. “You gonna cry, or what?”

She turned to look at him, then she shook her head. A weary smile curved her lips. “Poor Ed,” she whispered. “That poor boy. How did he ever survive?”

“He wouldn’t have. Not without Mamzelle Dorothea.”

“Thank God, and thank her,” Mel said softly. But, like Mamzelle’s, her heart ached for the boy who had become the man she loved.

38

Back in the rented convertible, Mel was driving while Camelia sat back with his eyes closed.

“Remember, I’m a cop,” he said, opening his eyes. “I could cite you for doing double the speed limit.”

Mel slammed her foot on the brake. Dropping back to a modest fifty, she flashed him that wide smile. “Sorry, Detective. Somehow I figured I was with a friend.”

Their eyes met. “You know you are.”

She nodded, looking quickly away, but she was smiling.

Camelia stared straight ahead through the windshield. It was the closest he could come to telling her he was in love with her. It was ridiculous, he knew. And they surely looked ridiculous, the odd couple—she so tall and blonde, he shorter and dark. The tough Sicilian cop and the daffy southern belle by way of California. He sighed. She was such a touchy-feely woman; she linked her arm with his when they walked down the street; held his hand at the dinner table as he talked to her; lay her head on his shoulder when she was tired and he was driving them home.

And he envied a dying man because she loved him.

“Thanks for the Tylenol Flu,” Mel said. “I’m feeling better.”

“Was it the pills, or Mamzelle Dorothea’s story that made you feel good?” She threw him a smile and he added, “Okay, okay. Do I say I’m sorry now? For suspecting that Ed might be Mitch?”

“You do. Unless you still want to see which way the cards will fall,” she quoted him, mischievously.

“So, I apologize. But let me remind you, we still do not have the full picture on Ed Vincent, a.k.a. Theo Rogan.”

“We do not. But as Mamzelle Dorothea said, tomorrow is another day.”

They were driving north now, through countryside, on a narrow road Mel knew only too well. Strange, she thought, how much shorter the drive seemed than on that long, fateful night, when the wind had tossed trees around like matchsticks and the ocean had flung its roaring power over the land.

She braked as they came to the bridge, letting the engine idle as she stared once again at the place where she had thought she would die. The bridge had been repaired now, and the sea glittered below it, a benign silvery blue. She felt Camelia’s hand on her shoulder, turned and met his eyes.

“It’s over now, Mel,” he said gently. “There’s no need to fear this place again.”

But inwardly she was still quaking. It wasn’t until she got to the other side and her breath came out in a great whoosh that she realized she had been holding it in. She drove on, up the rough lane, through the trees, to the beach house. She switched off the engine and put the car into park, and they sat there, silently contemplating Ed’s private retreat, basking in the mild sunshine.

“Kinda nice,” Camelia said finally. He got out and walked up the steps onto the porch. “Yeah, nice,” he said approvingly. He was mentally upgrading his image of Ed Vincent the bigshot– richman–developer. This place was low-key comfortable, more like a fishing cabin than a palace in the Hamptons, which is what he would have expected.

Mel loped up the steps. She stood next to him, peering through the windows. She grabbed his arm. “This is it. This is the room where the body was. And the safe is over there behind the painting—the landscape of a log cabin in the forest.”

“Ed’s cabin,” Camelia guessed, and Mel realized it was probably true. Ed had not forgotten his old home, and where he came from, even after all these years and all his success.

“Let’s go inside,” she said.

Camelia guessed she wanted to put her fears to rest by facing them. “I’m a cop,” he said. “I don’t break into other folks’ houses. At least, not without a warrant.”

“Well, I’m the owner’s lover. And I can break into his house anytime I want.” She grinned. “Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Do you have a key?”

She shook her head and he sighed as he walked back along the porch and checked the door. The lock was ancient, even a child could have jimmied it. It took him about five seconds with a gold Visa card.

“My oh my, honey.” Mel watched admiringly. “Anybody would think you did this for a living.”

He flung open the door and they stood on the threshold, peeking in like a couple of petty thieves, afraid of being caught.

“It’s not nice to invade somebody’s house like this,” Camelia said uneasily. But Mel was already walking past him into the lofty room that overlooked the ocean. He saw her pause outside the door on the right, saw her square her shoulders, take a deep breath before she flung it open.

Sunlight flooded the room she had seen only for a few terrible seconds before the lights went out. There was the place where the dead man had sprawled across the carpet in the vivid pool of blood and an ugly yellow spatter of brains and flesh and bloodstained dollar bills. Now there was just an immaculate antique Oriental rug in a blurred pattern of blues and reds. The book-lined walls were free of dust, and the only sign of neglect was the wilting scarlet begonia on the windowsill.

Mel’s heart slowed down and she took a cautious step inside the library. Then another, and another. It was okay, she told herself, everything was okay, there was no need to be afraid anymore. This was Ed’s room; these were his books; his desk stood under the window, the pens he used were stored in that small seashell-studded box. How sweet, she thought vaguely, that he had that little seashell box, when he could have the best desk set from Dunhill or Marc Cross. But that was Ed.

She heard Camelia behind her, and she pointed out the place where the body had lain, showed him where the wall safe was.

Camelia took it all in, but there was nothing for him to learn here. The beach house had been cleaned thoroughly and also gone over by the local police, as well as Ed’s P.I. His interest was academic at this point.

He took her hand, walked out of the library, and closed the door firmly behind them. “Just look at that view.” He headed for the row of tall French windows, opened one up, and led her outside.

They took off their jackets, and Camelia loosened his silver-gray necktie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. They stood for a few minutes, just breathing in gusts of the fresh ocean breeze, lifting their faces to the sun. “Like day-trippers at Jones Beach,” he said.

The Grand Banks 38 Europa was moored at the private dock to the right of the house, with a flight of wooden steps leading down to it. Camelia was a boat man, though he had never owned one, and he thought this was a very fine toy for a man to possess. For the second time that day, he envied Ed Vincent.

He walked down the steps to the deep mooring and stepped onto the immaculate teak deck. No fiberglass here; this was a proper craft, old but beautifully restored. The varnish was perfect, though the kelly-green canvas bridge cover had been ripped to shreds in the hurricane. He took a peek at the new engine, complete with Walker Airseps and a silencing package. It was powerful. He thought it probably cruised at a top of fourteen knots.

Mel jumped down beside him. She walked slowly along the deck, ran her hand along the teak rail, which somehow she just knew Ed had polished himself. There was a single stateroom forward, with a tapered island bed and an oversized hanging locker. In the tiny, narrow galley were an electric cooktop, a microwave, and a Gruernet refrigeration box with a teak cover.

This was a man’s boat, no fuss, no frills, no decor, and immaculate as an operating theater. She edged up to the bow and leaned her arms on the rail, staring into the green depths. Her mind was back in New York, in that hospital room with the uniformed cop outside, guarding a dying man. Tears slid uncontrollably down her face, plopping into the still water, and she rested her head on the rail, letting emotion wash over her.

After a while, Camelia found her there. He stood awkwardly to one side. Her sobs shook her slender body, but for the life of him he could not find the right words of comfort.

“There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been said, Mel,” he told her finally. “Nothing to do that isn’t already being done.”

She nodded. “I know.” Her voice was muffled and he went to stand next to her at the rail. He wanted to hold her, just the way he had that first day he had met her. Only now he knew her, and the ache for her was different.

Something caught his eye. Something drifting, pulling on the anchor chain. He leaned over the rail, peering at the shape, just visible under the shifting water.

He searched around for a grappling iron, found one in the locker, and hurried back. He leaned over the side, maneuvering until he hooked it. He was sweating; it was a dead weight and he couldn’t lift it. Somehow it had hooked onto the anchor chain.

He let go of it. “Mel, honey,” he said, and, God bless her, she lifted her head and gave him a watery smile.

“I told you that ‘honey’ thing was catching,” she said with a hiccup.

“Baby,” he changed it firmly, “why don’t you go and take a nice little siesta on one of those comfy loungers back at the house.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Why?”

He sighed, but he guessed he would have to tell her sometime. “I think we may have found something of interest on the boat. I’m gonna call the local sheriff, have him come out here.”

She hung over the rail. “I don’t see anything.”

“Something’s caught on the anchor chain. I need help to get it up.”

Her eyes rounded with alarm. “You don’t think . . . ?”

“I don’t know what I think. Meantime, go and make yourself a cup of tea or whatever southern belles do when they are not wanted around.”

“Chamomile tea,” she said, mopping her red eyes with a tired-looking Kleenex. He offered her his handkerchief.

“
Déjà
vu
all over again.” Still sniffing, she managed a grin, remembering when she had guessed he was married because of the clean handkerchief he always carried. “But don’t think you’re getting rid of me so easily, Detective Camelia. I’m staying right here until we find out what’s in the water.”

“You might not like it,” he warned.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Mel walked back along the deck. She took a seat in the shade while Camelia called the local cops. He came back, sat next to her. “They’ll be here in ten,” he said, and they sat silently, looking out at the ocean. Waiting.

39

The Sheriff’s Department was efficient. They brought a diver with them, plus enormous grappling irons, steel cutters, and a couple of burly deputies. They shook hands, said they were glad to meet them, and got to work.

Banished to the terrace, Mel watched the diver slip over the side, then disappear under the water. In no time at all, he popped back up again.

“It’s some kind of cooler,” she heard him say. “Except somebody went to the trouble of wrapping a load of heavy chain around it. Fucker weighs a ton.”

The sheriff handed him the steel cutters and he dived back down. Mel waited expectantly for him to emerge, but this time he took forever. She could see Camelia pacing the deck, hands behind his back, looking as out of place in this seascape as a dandelion in Times Square. The wind ruffled his sleek dark hair and she smiled. Camelia was a hunk, though he probably didn’t even know it. But she’d bet Claudia did. And Claudia, she thought, was a very lucky woman.

Finally, the diver surfaced, struggling with a couple of lengths of heavy, rusted chain. The burly officers leaned over, grabbed them from him, and then with the grappling irons maneuvered the box to the surface.

Camelia was on his knees, getting his immaculate dark-gray pants wet even though he knew the seawater would ruin them, helping to manhandle the still-weighty box over the bow and onto the deck.

The men stood looking at it. A blue plastic cooler, stained with rust and sealed with waterproof yellow electrical tape.

They ripped off the tape and eased off the lid. “God,” Mel heard Camelia gasp, and they all took a quick step back, hands over their noses.

“For Chrissakes, put the lid back on,” the sheriff choked, getting on the phone and immediately summoning the coroner’s wagon.

“Yeah, it’s a body all right,” Mel heard him say. “But whose, or even what, is hard to say. At this stage, it could be a dead dog for all we can tell.”

Camelia made his way back up the wooden steps toward Mel. She reached out for him. “This isn’t real,” she whispered, horrified. “This doesn’t happen to nice women like me. This is a nightmare and it’s getting worse.”

Camelia slid his arms around her. He could feel the softness of her against his chest, feel the tremors that shook her body, smell her faint floral perfume. “There’ll be an autopsy,” he said. “It’s impossible to know, at this moment, who it is, but I’ll bet it was the body in the library.”

“Hooray for Agatha Christie,” she muttered in his ear. “Now all we have to do is find that darned butler.”

He let go of her, reluctantly. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, handing her her leather jacket. “I’m a man in need of fresher air than this, as well as a stiff drink.”

She linked her arm through his as they hurried back to the car. This time he drove. At the single-lane bridge they encountered the arriving coroner’s wagon as well as a squad car with the police photographer, and they waited for them to cross before continuing.

“They’ll need to talk to you later,” Camelia told her, and she nodded.

“Just as long as they don’t think I did it,” she added wearily.

Unlike Hainsville, there was a reality to Charleston. It was a piece of history: gracious, elegant, genteel. And the Omni at Charleston Place was a rather grand hotel, lording it over historic downtown, with marble floors and glittering chandeliers. It had a pretty good bar, too, which was, Camelia thought, where they seemed to spend a lot of time together these days.

“You gonna end up like Mamzelle Dorothea?” he asked with a grin, as Mel hooked herself onto a stool and ordered a cosmopolitan—with Grey Goose vodka from France, please, if they had it. And of course they did.

“I doubt Mamzelle Dorothea ever had an afternoon like this to drive her to drink. My guess is she got there all by her tiny little self.” Mel swirled the sliver of lime into the pretty pink cocktail. “She’s obviously a lady. She lived in one of these grand mansions, before she blew all the money on booze.”

“Happens to the best,” he said, sipping the single malt that was almost exactly the color of her eyes. And why the hell couldn’t he forget that? He took a gulp and ordered another, promising himself to switch to clear, colorless vodka tomorrow. Today, though, he had seen enough to turn any strong man’s stomach, and the whiskey warmed his vitals in a very positive way. He stole a glance at Mel out of the corner of his eye.

“You doin’ anything special tonight, lady?”

She turned to him, thinking about it. He held his breath. Looking into her eyes was like watching a slot machine in Vegas, waiting for those matching cherries.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I was thinking of just soaking in a tub, then maybe a bowl of grits. . . .”

His face dropped and she laughed. “Just kidding. Nope, I am a woman alone tonight. Whaddya have in mind?”

“Dinner? No greasy spoon, though. Somewhere nice, suitable for a southern lady.”

She laughed again, that pleasing tinkling sound that he was beginning to associate with southern women. “You must be mixing me up with Mamzelle Dorothea,” she said. “She’s the southern lady.”

“Yeah, and she’s not about to let you forget it. See the way she dealt with Rhianna Fairland? Like the countess with the peon.”

“I suspect our Mamzelle is a toughie with a heart of gold,” Mel said, then added, “She had to be something special for Ed to love her.”

“He picks all the best women,” Camelia said softly. Then, to cover his embarrassment, he ordered another drink. “More for you?”

She shook her head, slid off the barstool. “Maybe I’ll just go take that long soak in the tub. Make myself presentable for you.”

He took her in: the white stretchy T-shirt, short black skirt, the old leather jacket slung over her shoulders . . . he would have taken her any which way. “You look just fine to me,” he said longingly, and heard her laugh as she strode, chin up, blonde bangs bouncing, out of the bar.

It wasn’t easy to get a reservation at 82 Queen, but Camelia had heard it was the best, so he pulled a bit of rank and the concierge came through. He had been waiting in the hotel lobby for half an hour now, anxious not to be late, eager for every moment of this night. He didn’t know what to anticipate, he surely wasn’t planning anything. He would just let things take their natural course.

Mel erupted from the elevator, late and, as always, in a hurry. As she strode toward him across the marble lobby, Camelia swore that every man’s head turned to watch her. She moved, molten as hot maple syrup, confident and unaware of the sensation she was causing in the black stretchy bandage-dress and towering heels. She was an out-of-this-world experience, a golden girl; he had never known anyone like her, never seen anyone like her. He got to his feet, shaking his head.

“You look stunning.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips.

“Why, Detective Camelia, thank you.” She laughed. “It must be this dress,” she said, running her hands over the curves and tugging at the hem.

He shifted his eyes hastily from her long, bare, sunkissed legs. Jesus, he was getting to be a romantic in his old age, thinking of legs as “sunkissed.” And he a forty-six-year-old married man with four kids. And on top of it, he was a cop and she was . . . He had forgotten exactly what Melba was in relation to this case, except she was here to help him find out about Ed Vincent’s past. But the one thing he did know for sure, she was head over heels for Vincent.

He straightened his tie, smoothed back his hair in that familiar gesture she found so movie-star and which made her giggle, then offered her his arm. Still laughing, she linked him, and they drifted together onto the street and into a cab. Camelia could have sworn he was walking on air.

82 Queen was mobbed; people milled in the entry, sipping drinks and waiting for tables, and there was a buzz of conversation and laughter. But Camelia and Mel were shown immediately to the charming redbrick courtyard, and seated at a candlelit table under a trellis of wisteria and roses.

“Ed would love this,” Mel said, half to herself, as she looked around.

“He probably knows it well.” Camelia took the menu offered by the waiter. “After all, it’s his hometown.”

“His
adopted
hometown. And thank the Lord for that,” Mel added.

He didn’t ask what she wanted to drink but instead ordered a bottle of champagne. But he did consult her on what she liked. She chose the Perrier Jouet Fleur de Champagne Rosé, because she loved the pink color as much as the taste.

“Champagne is so . . . celebratory, I guess is the right word,” she said, giving him that ear-to-ear again. “And this is Riley’s favorite.”

“
Riley
has a favorite champagne? At seven years old?”

She laughed. “Sure she does. I always give her a taste. That way, I figure curiosity won’t kill her later, at puberty when the pressure’s on. All she gets is a taste, nothing more. She’s rather keen on caviar too. Beluga by choice, though Sevruga is acceptable.” Mel laughed again. “That was Ed. I could never afford caviar. And anyhow,” she added, remembering what champagne cost, “we’re splitting this bill, Marco Camelia. You can’t afford champagne on a cop’s salary.”

“And you can’t afford champagne driving a moving van.”

They laughed together, and once again she reached over and took his hand. “Y’know what? I really like you,” she said. “I mean, I hated you at first, I thought that you thought you were Al Pacino in a cop movie and I was the blonde suspect who you just knew had done the dirty deed.”

“Oh?” He grinned. “And what do you think now?”

“I think . . .” She contemplated him, taking in his jutting cheekbones, his firm jaw, the severe lines of his mouth, and ending up at his eyes. Deep, dark, soft brown eyes that were gazing into hers with a slightly bemused expression. “I think that you are my hero,” she whispered. “You are the man who is going to find Ed’s shooter. I owe you an enormous debt of gratitude, Marco Camelia.”

He shook his head. “Not yet, you don’t, Zelda—Melba Merrydew. I haven’t found him yet. Besides,” he shrugged, “I’m only a cop doing his job. I’m nobody’s hero.”

“Oh yes you are,” she said. And she got up, walked around the table, and planted a kiss full on his mouth.

It was, Camelia decided shakily, more potent than the bottle of champagne. “Jesus, what d’ya have to go and do that for?” He put a hand to his lips, stunned. “You were all over me, like kudzu.”

She plunked back down in the chair opposite, laughing. “Because, my dear Marco, I love you. I love you for being an honest man, for being a dedicated man, for being a tenderhearted man. And for being my friend.”

The waiter poured the champagne and Camelia picked up his glass. “I’ll drink to that,” he said, shaken. But there was no way he could tell her what he felt about her.

“Friends.” Mel lifted her glass, touched his, and they drank. She sighed happily, secure in the knowledge that Ed, though still in a coma, seemed to be holding his own. “No better, no worse” was what the doctor had told her.

“And here’s to Ed,” Camelia said, and again they clinked glasses. “To his speedy recovery. And,” he added, “may all your dreams come true.”

Mel’s eyes filmed with tears that she would not allow to spill over. “Thank you,” she said simply. And then she went ahead and ordered she-crab soup laced with sherry, and barbecued shrimp, and grits dappled with cheddar cheese and scallions. She persuaded him to try the oysters stuffed with crab and the grilled Georgia lamb chops served with a golden pear chutney.

“So I can taste yours, too,” she added hungrily. Then, “Oh, bother,” she remembered, “I can’t eat in this dress.”

“I thought it expanded.” He eyed her curves doubtfully.

“Well, maybe it does.” She beamed at him again. “Gosh darn it, I’m surely gonna give it a try.”

He hadn’t realized she was a foodie. All he had ever seen her eat—and that reluctantly—were bacon and eggs and bagels. But when it came to real food, this girl could tuck it away. He grinned at her enthusiasm as she ooh’d and ahh’d her way through the soup, stealing a couple of his oysters, just to taste, and rolling her eyes to heaven.

“I thought you lived on Power Bars and Diet Coke.” He was laughing at her, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“So I do. But not when somebody else is doing the cooking. And this, Camelia my man, is
good
cooking.” She glanced up. “So, tell me more about yourself.”

“All I can tell you is, my story is not nearly as romantic as Ed’s.”

She shuddered. “His sounded like a version of hell, to me.”

“It was, but it’s the stuff of romance novels. Poor guy makes good against all odds. I never thought it really worked out like that in real life. My grandfather wasn’t so lucky. He came to the U.S. from Sicily, got a job in a hat factory— everyone wore hats in those days. He shared a room with another Sicilian, saved what he could. Then his roommate said he had a family emergency. My grandfather lent him all he had. Every cent. He never saw him again. And he never trusted another Sicilian.

“It took a few years, but eventually he was able to send for my grandmother. They lived in a one-room apartment in a tenement on the Lower East Side. She worked too, helped out in the local store, cleaned other folks’ houses, looked after other folks’ kids . . . did what she could. Until she got a baby of her own. A boy. My father, Ottavio Camelia.” He paused as she speared a barbecued shrimp, then offered it to him.

“Go on, try it,” she urged, holding out the fork dripping with sauce, “you’ll never have another one as good as this.”

He took the fork, tasted. The faint tang of her lipstick overlaid the shrimp and he held on to the memory of it.

“More,” she urged. “Tell me more. About your father.”

He shrugged. “Not much to tell. He was a studious kid, finished high school, but, like a lot of others, there was no chance of college, he had to get out there and earn some money. He held down a dozen jobs over the years. Then he became a cop. He married a beautiful Italian girl, Carmela.” He grinned. “Who then had to live with the unfortunate name of Carmela Camelia for the rest of her days. They had three kids, myself and two daughters. Bought a little house in the Bronx, managed to raise us, put us through school, pay for a couple of fancy Italian weddings.” He shrugged again. “I joined the force.”