Now Let's Talk of Graves (28 page)

“Say
shazam,
man!”

Harry and Lavert slapped hands. Then the giant man lowered himself, and they bumped knees, hips, and elbows. Just the way Lavert had showed Harry, trying to teach him to be a brother, back at Grambling in the good old days.

Twenty-Two

THE NEXT MORNING Sam and Kitty were drinking coffee outside on the patio under a banana tree.

“How long did it take you to get Zoe to sleep?” asked Kitty.

“About an hour and a half. It took a while just to get her to stop screaming. I thought about pouring a bunch of Ma Elise's good cognac down her, but, well, you know that's against my religion.”

“So what'd you use?”

“A little wormwood oil, pinch of wallbreaker powder.”

Kitty laughed. “You called G.T.”

“Hell, I figured, when in Rome—I got her on her beeper. She was over here in a flash.”

“She brought her traveling voudou kit with her?”

“Guess she carries it in her ambulance. She was out here sprinkling oil in a circle around that tree”—Sam pointed to a flowering pink mimosa—“muttering about sending hexes back to their maker.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Then she was up with Zoe, who was still carrying on like a banshee, dusting her and the room with—she said it was wallbreaker powder, would make Zoe peaceful.”

“Did it?”

“Well, at least she stopped screaming. Then G.T. got us all three sitting in the middle of the floor, rubbing a couple of candles with oil. A dragon-blood candle to ward off Billy Jack's evil. And a double-cross candle to throw a hex back on him—to be precise.”

“Precision is real important in voudou, God knows.” Kitty lit another Picayune.

“Go ahead, smirk. But I'll tell you what. You'd been sitting here with Zoe, having a screaming hissy fit after that son of a gun ordered her up a deep-fried rat, you'd have been grateful for some magic.”

“And I am. I am.” Kitty reached over and patted Sam on the knee. “But the idea of you and G.T. doing all that—” Then her tone grew grim. “But you are right about that bastard. I'd like to deep-fry
him.
Why would anyone
do
such a thing?”

“Darlin', I'm afraid he could have done lots worse. In any case, he kept talking about her ratting on him. It could be something totally unrelated or could be he got wind of Harry looking for him.” Then she added under her breath, “Not that Harry found him.”

“How
is
Harry working out? Or have you got him so nervous he can't hunt?”

Sam studied her manicure for a long count. “I don't know about that. But I have succeeded in making him so mad, he told me to go screw myself.”

“Lordy, lordy, you always have had such a way with men.”

“I think it's my Betty Boop routine.”

“Well, hell. But wait.” Kitty sat up straighter. “Let's look at it another way. If you've made him that mad, maybe he'll throw in the towel. Call off the chase. Tench Young'll give Zoe the insurance money.”

Sam's mouth turned down. “I wouldn't count on that. If anything, Harry's probably working overtime to prove something,
anything,
to save Tench's money.”

Kitty slumped back into the deep yellow cushion of the wrought iron chair. “Way to go, friend. I knew asking you to come help was the right thing.”

“Don't get cute with me. I've been up to a trick or two myself.” Then she told Kitty about the visit with the amazing Nadine.

“So you think she's the one? That she and Church were lovers?”

“I'm sure leaning in that direction. Though, still, if they were, what does that prove? Nothing.”

“I can't imagine the preacher woman
killing
anyone. I mean, let's say Church had dumped her.”

“I can't either. Though I can see why Church wouldn't want to bring her home to Ma Elise.”

“Are you kidding? Ma Elise's one of her biggest fans.”

“But would she want her for a daughter-in-law? Granddaughter-in-law?”

“I don't know that Ma Elise would have cared.”

“What about Church's friends?”

“Now, that's another matter. They'd have cut him dead for sure. I mean, can you see Sister Nadine twirling around the floor of the Comus ball with her tambourine?”

“I'm telling you, Kit, that's all for show. The woman may have some humble roots, but you'd fall over dead at her sophistication. And I told you about her drug centers, and what she said about Zoe—about Church coming to her, looking for help for Zoe?”

Kitty shook her head. “Weird. It's all so weird.”

“I know.” They sat quietly for a bit, sipping, smoking. Then Sam said, “Listen, something else I've been meaning to ask you. Tell me about Church's money.”

“What about it?”

“Do you know how much he had?”

“Not exactly. His lawyer's still working that out. Plus, with this business about the insurance—”

“Was Church in some kind of financial difficulty? I seem to remember, that night in the Sazerac, Tench Young teasing him about the cost of Zoe's coming out, of Carnival—”

“That's all it was, a joke. Church—well, one of the things he liked best about being an eye surgeon was it meant that he didn't have to depend on family money to be comfortable. Which is just as well, considering that the Lee fortune is sort of petering out.”

Sam gazed out at three gardeners puttering on the immaculate grounds. Then she looked back at Kitty. Oh yeah?

“Don't judge by them. You know we still pay slave wages down here. Ain't nothing ever what it seems.”

Sam smiled. In her business, she had reason to know that more than most. “And how about his practice? Must have been a slowdown after the business with Mr. Leander.”

“I don't think so. But then, Church would never say if there was.”

“Do you mind if I talk to his lawyer about this?”

“Be my guest. Though I doubt you'll get very far with him. Preston Peacock's about as closemouthed a member of that particular species as I've ever seen.”

“Peacocks?”

“No. Lawyers.”

Then another notion bubbled to the surface. “Kit, do Nadine and Church's ex, Madeline, have anything in common?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know. It just occurred to me to ask.”

Kitty shook her head slowly, then reached for another cigarette. “No, I can't think that they would.”

Kitty had hesitated just a tad too long—like she always did when she was lying. Or avoiding the truth. But it would do Sam no good to call her hand. She'd simply have to be more creative. Then she remembered that Kitty had still said nothing about Leander's canceling the malpractice suit against Church's estate. She asked if Kitty had returned Leander's call.

“I haven't. I
hate
that old bastard.”

“Better talk to him, girl. He's got something mighty interesting to say to you.”

“I could learn to hate you too.”

“Not a chance. Listen, now, before I forget about it, I think you ought to have some kind of surveillance put on the house and a tail on Zoe.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I'm not. She said this Billy Jack is a wacko. I'd believe it after what I saw last night. I'd hate for us to be sorry we didn't later.”

“Jesus. Do you really think it's that serious?”

“I'm telling you, Yes. Listen, I'll call Harry—no, I guess I won't. You know anybody does this sort of thing?”

Kitty blinked her big blue eyes.

“Okay. Don't worry. I'll call around. I'll handle it.”

“What am I going to tell Ma Elise?”

“Tell her the truth,” said the old lady as she stepped onto the brick patio with her cane.

Twenty-Three

MARIETTA DUCHAMPS DUPREE leaned back in her chair under a yellow-and-white umbrella, signaled to Howard for another couple of glasses of iced tea, ran her tongue across her top lip, tasting the sweat, and grinned across the table at Chéri.

Lordy, lordy, her life was good.

And here she was scandalizing the Club—one of her very favorite things to do.

Just a couple of minutes ago Bunny Crabtree and Sugar Rockwell had strolled by on their way out to the courts, where Marietta and Chéri had just finished a ferocious match—with protracted volleys so long and low and carefully placed that when one of them finally came to the net, the other moaned softly.

Now, damp and exhausted, they sprawled in chairs at the side of the pool. Bunny and Sugar had stopped for a minute.

“I see you've brought your guest again, Marietta,” Bunny had purred, then turned to Chéri. “I'm sorry, darlin', I don't remember your name.”

“Nor I yours.” Chéri grinned, taking that opportunity to reach for a towel and blot beads of perspiration on her chest—her beautiful, freckle-strewn chest, the sight of which made Bunny feel like a boy.

Chéri knew that.

Chéri knew everything there was to know about both female and male psychology and any combination you could imagine thereof. Chéri may not have darkened the door of a classroom after she'd finished high school over in Thibodeaux, where her father, when he wasn't shrimping, was a volunteer fireman, but where human nature was concerned, she had a Ph.D.

“Now, I think you hurt that girl's feelings,” Marietta said after Bunny and Sugar flounced off. “She's not gonna speak to me at the Orleans Club luncheon next week.”

Chéri grinned again. Fiddled with the straw in her iced tea. Made her mouth a pretty pout around it. She knew Marietta loved her little pout, especially when she was just playing.

“Now tell me what it was you were so excited about on the phone when I couldn't talk,” Chéri said.

Marietta sat up straight, took a quick peek around. This goddamn club had such ears, it might as well be wired for sound. “Sally Jean called me, she was just all to pieces. She said this gangster had come into Maynard's office,
threatening
him.”

“Gangster? Honey, what you think she meant, gangster? That Sally Jean, she's an old lady, she don't know what the word means.”

“She does too. Sally Jean is very smart. She's a little flighty, but you would be, too, if you had to put up with what she—”

“Yeah? Then how come half the time she's got her wig on sideways like it was a doily she just stuck up there on top of her head?”

“Chéri, you're making me mad, honey.”

“Good. I like it when you're mad. You wanta go home, get in bed, talk about it?”

Marietta paused for a minute, as if she were considering it. But she wasn't really—not till after they'd spent some time in the steam bath. Watching the ladies slide glances at Chéri naked and glistening like a freshly washed nectarine was her all-time favorite brand of foreplay, and she wouldn't be rushed.

“Now, you want to hear what Sally Jean said or not?”

“Of course I do. Thank you, Howard.” Chéri smiled.

Howard nodded as he dropped off another couple of glasses of iced tea. He shook his head, kept his grin to himself. That Miz Dupree knew how to tell a whole club Go fuck yourself without saying a word. Wuddn't she something?

“What I really want to know, May-retta”—which was how Chéri said her girlfriend's name when she was being silly, which was the way most people pronounced it anyway—“is if you're saying Joey went and hit on Maynard?”

“Honey baby, that is
not
what I'm saying. I know it wasn't Joey, not unless he's taken to wearing cowboy boots.”

Chéri hooted. And once she got started, she couldn't stop, peals of laughter bursting out of her like Marietta had goosed her. “Can you see Joey in cowboy boots?”

“Not hardly. Not less Gucci's doing 'em.”

“Oh, God.” Wiping her eyes. “So what did this cowboy gangster want?”

“Sally Jean said it sounded like he was torturing Maynard's tailor. The little man was screaming to beat the band. Said he was a real redneck.”

“The gangster.”

“Yes, darlin'. Not the tailor. Said his name was Jimbo.”

“Well, I'll be damned.”

“You know this boy?” Marietta's eyes narrowed. “Honey, what you holding out on me?”

“Not a damn thing. Is he tall? Got long legs?”

“Sounds right. Sally Jean was so hysterical—”

“I bet it's that sucker I saw in the Pelican that afternoon with Maynard—he was flirting with me. You 'member me telling you about that?”