Midnight in Ruby Bayou (22 page)

“Probably to chew butt.”

“Nah. He doesn't do that anymore. He's a pussycat.”

Walker stared at Faith as she walked away. “What planet is she living on?” he muttered into the phone.

“I've always been a pussycat with family,” Archer said.

“Now, it's a real shame I'm too old to adopt. I suppose I could just start calling you Pa and—”

“You're fired.”

“Ma?”

Archer gave up and laughed. “Is Faith running that hair dryer yet?”

“Just fired it up.”

“Okay. April Joy—you remember her?”

“Beautiful and deadly. Like a coral snake.”

“You remember. Kyle followed your advice and put out the word on the Internet with color photos and complete descriptions of what was missing from Timeless Dreams. Then we printed out photos from the on-line inventory you set up for Faith. We wallpapered Seattle and every West Coast jeweler with a fax.”

Walker listened to the hair dryer with one ear and his boss with the other.

“I still don't know how or where April got into the loop,” Archer continued. “She didn't say.”

Walker said something under his breath. “Did April mention a fine ruby the size of a baby's fist, or at least twenty carats?”

“No.”

“The Montegeau necklace?”

“No.”

“Well, hell. This thing has more legs and less brains than a trap full of crabs.”

Archer didn't disagree.

“What are the chances of Ivanovitch having connections in Atlantic City?” Walker asked. “You know, sort of like professional courtesy among the international brotherhood of mobsters?”

“Possible,” Archer said slowly, “but not high on my list. That kind of international summit stuff requires a more dependable hierarchy than the Russians have managed with their various
mafiyas
. They're still at the stage of clan warfare. But I'll ask April to check it out, if you want.”

“Not yet. I'd rather keep Uncle on the credit side of the Donovan ledger.”

“So would I.”

“Can Kyle get into Savannah PD's computer, and the Georgia motor vehicle licensing division, too?”

“I'm not sure I want to hear this.”

“Then put your brother on.”

“And let you corrupt him?”

“One of life's little pleasures,” Walker drawled. “That boy purely loves being corrupted.”

“Kyle,” Archer said away from the phone, “your public is calling.”

Walker gave a last look at the rearview mirror. No doubt about it. They had been followed to the restaurant. A man and a woman following a man and a woman. Even if Walker and Faith split up and went out rest-room windows, they were covered. This mixed pair of shadows were parked down the street in a beige Ford Taurus that fairly screamed,
Your tax dollars at work
.

Walker consoled himself with the idea that no one would have to call 911 if things went from sugar to shit again.

He slid his computer under his seat and went around to open Faith's door. The laptop was filling up with important information. He didn't want to lose it to Buddy Angel or to any other jerk who made his living ransacking tourist rooms.

“Really, you didn't have to come to dinner with me,” Faith said as he held open the passenger door of the Jeep.

“I get hungry around this time just like normal folks.” He looked sideways at her and saw the telltale edge of her teeth against her lower lip. He had seen the Donovan women often enough to know that there were times when the company of men wasn't appreciated. It put a real damper on girl talk.

“Don't worry. I won't hang around. I'll be at the bar, drinking sweet tea and eating shrimp and grits.”

Slowly Walker opened the restaurant door, gave a fast glance around, and saw nothing immediately suspicious. Lots of smoke from the bar. Lots of noise. Stepping aside, he politely gestured Faith into the room.

“How did you know La Cucina had a bar?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the wave of smoke.

“I called and asked. Do you see Mel?”

Before Faith could answer, a slender brunette in navy-blue maternity clothes and medium heels rushed toward them.

The woman seemed out of place in this southern setting. Even in pregnancy she had a tanned, outdoorsy look. Her dress was midcalf, the conservative South's answer to women wearing pants. She was several inches shorter than Faith and wore a three-carat Burmese ruby as an engagement ring. Against the wide, beaten gold of the engagement band, the stone glowed on her finger like molten blood.

Mel wrapped Faith in a big hug that was returned with enthusiasm. The silver-blue of Faith's eyes gleamed with pleasure and a faint sheen of tears.

“My God, it's been years!” Mel said, smiling widely. Her accent was California rather than Georgia. She held Faith at arm's length. “Let me look at you. You haven't changed a bit. Still as slim and pretty as ever. Seattle must be full of blind men if none of them have snagged you.”

“Can't see for the rain,” Faith said wryly.

Mel rolled her big, dark eyes like the actress she once had studied to be. “Well, that explains it.” She turned to Walker and held out her hand. “Hi, I'm Mel Montegeau, or I will be in a couple of days, anyway. And if you're hoping to get a word in edgewise tonight, you're out of luck. It's been much too long since I've talked to Faith.”

“A pleasure,” he said, shaking her hand gently. “Call me Walker. I've been around Faith and Honor long enough to know a country boy like me doesn't have a chance once they get to talking. I'm fixin' to sit at the bar until y'all are done talked out.”

Faith heard the South rolling thick through Walker's voice and wondered if he wanted Mel to think he was a Low Country working stiff. Perhaps his accent thickened with exposure to live oaks and magnolias.

“You're a family friend?” Mel asked.

“I know the Donovans one and all,” Walker drawled. He smiled almost shyly and leaned on his cane. “I'm helping Faith run her little jewelry show at the expo, watching customers and such so that she can do the real work. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I'll be among the smokers.”

“Nonsense,” Mel said. “We'll tell the maitre d' to set a third plate at the table.”

“Thank you, ma'am, but it wouldn't be right. Y'all would feel funny talking about growing babies and such, and listening to you would make me feel like my collar was too tight.”

Laughing, Mel looked at Faith, silently asking her if she agreed that Walker should eat alone.

“If you get bored watching Sports Center, give a holler,” Faith said to Walker.

“Yes, ma'am, I'll do that.”

“Walker,” Faith said sweetly, “if you ‘ma'am' either one of us one more time, I'm going to beat you over the head with your cane.”

“Whatever you say. Sugar.”

Mel snickered and watched while Walker made his way, limping, through the crowded room to the bar. “Is it permanent?”

“Walker?” Faith asked, startled.

“The limp.”

“A recent accident.”

“Good. That is one prime hunk of man. Hate to think of anything spoiling all that smooth and easy muscle.”

“Down, girl. You're married. And expecting.”

“Doesn't affect the vision.” Mel hooked her arm through Faith's and headed for the small table. “Is Kyle as handsome as ever?”

“Yes. The proud father of twins—boy and girl—and husband of a woman who can sometimes beat him in karate.”

“You're just saying that to make me cry. I had the worst crush on him when I was a freshman.”

“So did every girl who saw him. Unless they saw Lawe, Justin, or Archer first.”

“Nobody is better-looking than Kyle.”

“If you like blonds.”

“What's not to like?” Mel pulled in her chair and leaned across the table confidentially. “Or is it that soft-drawling, dark-haired southern boy at the bar who made you switch to brunettes?”

Faith thought about explaining Walker—employee, not boyfriend. Then she thought of the endless follow-up questions. “I'm off men since Tony,” she said, taking the easy way out.

“Tony?”

“My ex-fiancé.”

“Whoa. It
has
been too long. I've been so wrapped up in the Montegeau family saga that I've let everything else go.”

“No,” Faith countered quietly. “It's my fault. Tony didn't like it when I had friends he didn't know. So I gradually stopped having friends. He probably would have resented my family, but he was hoping to do business with them.”

“Possessive, you say?” Mel smiled at the hostess, who handed them menus.

“Very.”

“Glad you dumped him. I bet he wore tank tops that showed off his muscles.”

“How did you know?”

“In the South we call them wife-beater shirts.”

Faith buried her face in the menu. Mel had made a joke, but it was too much like a good guess. Faith didn't want anyone to know why she had ended her affair with Tony, because if anyone else knew, word would get back to her brothers. When that happened, there would be more trouble than a loser like Tony was worth.

“Any recommendations?” she asked Mel tightly.

“It's all fantastic. And I could eat all of it. God, I'm never going to be a size eight again.”

“Good for you. Men like women with some curves.”

“Easy for you to say. You can eat anything you want.”

“I could if I wanted my butt to drag on the floor,” Faith retorted. “Only my StairMaster knows what I go through over an extra piece of pizza. Now, if those inches would only go on top, I'd eat pizza three times a day. With ice cream.”

“You're making me drool. Since I stopped throwing up, eating a pizza sundae is one of my secret dreams.”

Faith threw back her head and laughed. She had forgotten just how much she enjoyed Mel. The realization reminded her of how much she had let slip away because of Tony. Looking back at her eagerness to please him was both frightening and sickening.

Silently she repeated the mantra she had spoken as she lay on the floor of Tony's apartment, her ears ringing from his casual blow.
It's over. Finished. Done. It never should have been. It's over. Finished. Done.

But the experience hadn't been a total loss. She had learned an important lesson. She would never again make the mistake of giving a man that kind of control over her life.

“So what's this about the Montegeau family saga?” Faith asked, turning the conversation away from herself.

“Ohmygod, the Montegeaus,” Mel said, leaning over the table confidentially. “It's so southern.”

“Seems reasonable. This is the South, after all. Are we talking Erskine Caldwell southern or Tennessee Williams southern?”

“And the difference would be?”

“Poor trash versus rich trash.”

Before Mel could answer, their server came. The slender young man looked good in his tuxedo. He put down a saucer of olive oil, grated Parmesan cheese into it, and ground fresh pepper on top. Then he repeated his litany of specials, pasta, fish, and meat, and withdrew.

Faith dipped in a bit of bread and made a humming sound of surprised approval. She was still occupied with the tastes and her conversation with her friend when the front door of the restaurant opened and another couple entered.

The hostess started to turn them away, but then the man said something that must have changed her mind. She surveyed the dining room, then signaled the busboy and instructed him to set up a table. It was a tiny table. It had to be in order to fit into the space immediately adjacent to the table that had been reserved for Faith and Mel.

Walker watched the whole transaction from the corner of his eyes. He had expected to see money change hands. It had. But it had been preceded by a leather folder holding a badge. The move had been smooth, discreet.

He was certain the FBI had just joined them for dinner at La Cucina.

F
aith laughed, then shook her head slightly when the server offered her more wine. “The Montegeau founding father was a pirate?” she said to Mel. “You're kidding. That's definitely not Tennessee Williams.”

“Oh, I don't know. You'd be amazed how much old money came from tainted wells.” Mel eyed the bread and olive oil hungrily, thought of her merciless scale at home, and took a sip of mineral water instead. “Anyway, Jacques ‘Black Jack' Montegeau was a straight-out brigand. No special privateering license from a queen or king, no political overtones or undertones, just full-on rape and pillage. If he could run down your ship, you belonged to him. Mostly he took the valuables and killed the passengers, unless they were worth ransoming.”

“Wow. Talk about a black sheep. I thought the Donovans were doing well with their Scots outlaws, witches, horse thieves, and men who shot first, last, and always.”