Priceless (12 page)

Charlotte was a little bit stunned. She and Clara had gone to school together and moved in the same circles, but they had never been close. Her closer friends had either not called her at all or had gone on TV, the way Emily had.

“Uh … that’s very nice of you, Clara, but I doubt your parents would like the daughter of a suspected felon staying in their guest room. Or a horde of paparazzi outside at all hours.” Even all the way up there, they could hear the baying of the hounds.

Clara smiled. “My mother told me to tell you not to let the bastards get you down.” She giggled. “I think it shocked her to say the word, to be honest, but she was brave about it. Our family doesn’t like the press, you know.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Why not? I see your parents in the society pages all the time.”

Clara shrugged. “It’s older than us. I think it must be on account of the whores.”

There was a pause.

“What horse?”

“Not horse. Whores. Prostitutes. You know, women of easy virtue.”

Charlotte laughed. “I know what a whore is, Clara, I’ve just lost the thread of the conversation.”

An investigator was pulling books off the shelves and riffling their pages, apparently looking for very thin bars of gold bullion.

Clara looked at her and dropped her voice. “All our money was made a long time ago, right?” She turned up her palms and grinned. “The Ackermans brought a shipload of women from
Holland and set up a floating brothel in New York Harbor. We did very well. So well that we repeated the pattern in harbors all over the eastern seaboard. It was the first recorded example of an offshore corporation.” She laughed. “We’re tax dodgers from way back.”

Charlotte was shocked. “How is it possible that no one knows this?”

“Lots of people do know it, so I always assume everyone does. Apparently, my great-great-great-grandfather wanted to run for office back in the day, and the newspapers of the time made a big fuss about the whores, and he couldn’t run. We’ve never forgiven the press, so we’re totally on your side.”

Charlotte was touched. “Even if my dad is guilty?”

Clara nodded. “Yes, why not? You didn’t do anything. Everyone makes mistakes.” She grinned. “Besides, have you looked in the mirror lately? You look terrible. It’s just as well no one is inviting you anywhere.”

Charlotte laughed despite herself. She went over and sat next to Clara, giving her a hug. “You are the only person who has come to see me, did you know that?” Clara shook her head. “I cannot tell you how much it means to me. I was really starting to feel alone.”

Clara squeezed her hand. “Well, you’re not. And you’re welcome to come and stay with us if you need to. We have a lovely guest suite, and we’ll take very good care of you.”

“I know. But I’ve decided to get out of Dodge for a while instead.”

Charlotte told Clara her plan to go to New Orleans. Clara remembered Miss Millie, of course, and understood that part.

“But why go now? Surely you’re safer here? I mean, no one knows you in New Orleans.”

“And that,” Charlotte said, smiling, “is exactly the point.”

SCARSFORD WAS MORE
blunt. “You’re insane.”

Charlotte had gone to catch a cab to the airport just as Scarsford was pulling up.

She turned to look out the window. He had offered to drive her, apparently so he could talk her out of leaving.

“We can protect you here. Someone punched out your lights, remember?”

“Of course I remember. I’ve got a big fat swollen nose, OK?”

“New Orleans is a wild town. I’ve been there.”

“For Mardi Gras, I presume. Did you show everyone your tits?”

He made a face at her. “Seriously, you can’t leave town. You’re under investigation.”

“Actually, I can definitely leave town, and I’m not under investigation.”

She was confident on this point, because she’d spent an hour on the phone with Arthur Bedford. He’d tried to talk her out of leaving, too, but she’d been firm. He’d also taken the last of her money, more or less, in payment for his legal services for her father. She still owed him the gross domestic product of a small nation, but she was sure he would manage to protect at least his own fee from the ravages of the government. Lawyers and accountants had a way of making sure they got paid, even if no
one else did. Now she had a little less than five thousand dollars in her purse, and they weren’t going to let her fly for free.

Strangely, it was exhilarating. But now Scarsford was raining on her parade.

He made a frustrated noise. “You could get hurt there.”

“I got punched here. I can’t live my life in fear, Mr. Scarsford. My dad is going to be in jail here for a while waiting to get sentenced, and every time I see him, it upsets me a little bit more. I need some time to think things through.”

“Where will you stay?”

“With friends.”

“You have friends here.”

She sighed. “Look, Mr. Scarsford, I’m going to New Orleans. I’m going to get myself together and work out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.”

They pulled up at the terminal and got out, Scarsford showing his badge to the cop on the curb. He offered to carry her bag, but she shook her head. Time to carry her own shit.

He stayed with her all the way to security.

“Charlotte …” She turned and smiled at him. “Please be careful.”

“I will, Mr. Scarsford.”

“Please call me Jim.”

“OK, Jim.”

She stretched up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. He could smell her light perfume, cucumbers and lemons, and for a moment, her body brushed his. He watched as she put her suitcase on the conveyor belt, stepping out of her shoes, unclipping her watch, removing her jewelry. As the first gray plastic tray rattled into the X-ray machine, she suddenly remembered something
and reached for another. She pulled a necklace from around her neck and dropped it into the tray. He saw it and frowned.

“Good-bye for now, Jim. I’ll be back for sentencing, and my mobile number is the same.” She smiled a brilliant smile at him, turning and making her way through the scanner.

He stood there, motionless, and watched her gather her belongings. She didn’t look back; she’d already forgotten him. What was wrong? Why was he feeling angry?

And then suddenly, he realized what he’d seen dropping into the tray. A zip drive. Just like the one they’d taken from Jacob’s office. No wonder she’d been happy! She was getting away with evidence.

He stepped forward, but the TSA guard held up his hand. Scarsford started to reach for his badge but stopped.

She’d swindled him, just as her dad had swindled everyone else. So pretty, so charming, so vulnerable. But apparently capable
of taking valuable evidence and walking off with it. Having the balls to kiss him as she did so.

You fool, Jim. You total fucking idiot
. He turned on his heel, white-hot anger clearing his brain wonderfully.
Time to get back on the case, Charlotte. I’ll be seeing you sooner than you think.

It turned out that flying coach wasn’t much fun. No hot towels. No complimentary alcohol. No handsome movie actors in the seat next to you. No ensuing Mile-High Club experience. Charlotte smiled to herself as she looked out the window. That had been just the one time, to be fair. You couldn’t expect an airline to come up trumps every time. The old lady sitting next to her continued to empty her purse into the seat pocket in front of her. Magazines, check. Mints, check. Book of word searches, check.

The old lady turned to her. “Young lady, might I use your pocket? Mine is full and I need somewhere to put my water bottle.”

Charlotte smiled and nodded. Unfortunately, the old lady took this to mean that they were BFFs, and by the time the plane began to bank down over Louis Armstrong Airport, Charlotte knew all about Maude’s three daughters, her bunions, her flatulence, and, surprisingly enough, her secret love of opera. Maude had been happy to talk about farting at great length and volume, but she dropped her voice for the Wagner.

Charlotte had been to New Orleans before, once, for Mardi Gras, but she’d been with a group of friends and hadn’t really been paying attention. For the first time, she noticed there was
jazz playing over the airport address system and paused to look at a huge mural of jazz musicians on the way out. She liked jazz well enough but couldn’t help associating it with older people, a previous time.

She waited in line for a cab, another new experience. What did people do when it rained? The weather was mild, warmer than New York. She folded her heavy coat over her arm, wishing she had someone to hand it to.

Like every other city she’d visited, New Orleans had built its airport where there was room—the middle of nowhere. Getting to the city involved driving through some pretty desolate areas, and the effects of Hurricane Katrina were still clearly seen. She frowned. It had been years; surely someone could have cleaned up all this mess by now?

Miss Millie’s house, however, was immaculate. The older parts of the city, those built on higher ground, had survived Katrina more or less intact, but Millie’s house was especially neat. She remembered Millie telling her about it.

“My grandma bought our house for twenty dollars at the turn of the century, back when that was a lot. She and my granddad cleaned it up and worked on it every spare moment they had. It’s a shotgun house. Do you know what that is?”

Charlotte had shaken her head, and Millie had laughed.

“What does that fancy school teach you, anyway? A shotgun is a house that has all the rooms in a row, one behind the other. They said you could fire a shotgun in the front door and hit someone out back.”

Now, looking up at the beautiful house, its Victorian gingerbread trim painted a soft yellow, its wooden shutters a pale blue, Charlotte paused. Was this an enormous mistake? She sighed,
squared her shoulders, and knocked.

Nothing. Silence.

The cab had already pulled away, and the warm night air was thick but empty. Distant music, maybe a footstep or two, a sudden laugh somewhere close making her jump. But from the house in front of her, nothing.

“Looking for someone, boo?”

She whirled around, and for a moment, time stood still as she gazed at the woman who had been the closest thing to a mother she’d ever known. She’d taught her to ride a bike. Encouraged her to take singing lessons. Explained the facts of life when she got her first period. Held her hand waiting to cross the street. All of these images and memories crowded in, a rush of childhood emotions. It had been horrible, to be honest, losing her mom, and Millie had been the rock she’d clung to as the storm raged around her. And here she was, tossed out by another storm.

“Miss Millie!”

“Charlotte!” Millie’s face lit up, and it was such a relief for someone to be pleased to see her that Charlotte felt a lump in her throat. Both of them were a little tearful as they hugged, Miss Millie as much with surprise as anything else.

Millie hugged her tightly. “I hoped you’d come to see me, baby. I’m so glad you did.”

As Charlotte pulled back to smile at her friend, she noticed for the first time the tall, handsome young man standing just a little way away. Miss Millie followed her gaze.

“Y’all lost your tongue, Jackson? This here is Miss Charlotte Williams.”

“I gathered that.” He inclined his head maybe half an inch, unsmiling.

There was a pause, and then Millie laughed. “Ignore him, boo. He’s just cranky.” She fished for keys in her purse and opened the door. “I’m so glad we came home just now, so you didn’t wander off.” She looked over her shoulder. “I was praying you’d come down, but I didn’t want to pressure you. I know how independent you are.”

Charlotte followed her into the house, suddenly aware of how tired she was, how tightly she’d been holding on. Was
independent
another way of saying
alone
? The events of the last several days filled her head, and a half-sob escaped her.

Miss Millie turned just as Charlotte went pale and calmly said, “Catch her, Jackson,” as the young woman crumpled and fell.