Prosecco Pink (13 page)

While we waited for the hostess, my eyes were drawn to a white bust of Napoleon sitting unimperially atop the cash register in the center of the hand-carved wooden bar. He seemed to be looking down his nose at the patrons, as though disgusted that his likeness wasn't somewhere more befitting of an emperor. "Why is this place called Napoleon House, anyway?"

"Because this used to be a house, and the original owner invited Napoleon to live here during his exile," Veronica replied, scanning the clientele. "But he wasn't able to escape from the island of Saint Helena."

"Why would he even want to?" I loved New Orleans and all, but if I had to be exiled, I'd root for the beach over the swamp or the banks of the Mississippi any damn day.

Ignoring my question, Veronica nodded toward a fifty-something female sitting alone in the corner. "Do you think that's her?"

"Let's go find out."

As we weaved our way through the rustic tables and chairs, the woman's head snapped up from her menu. Her tight, graying brown bun didn't move a millimeter, but the chains on either side of her black horn-rimmed reading glasses swung back and forth like jump ropes. "I'm glad you two showed up."

"Of course," I said as Veronica and I sat down. Ruth's familiarity was becoming a little off-putting, to put it mildly.

"I got here a little early, so I ordered us some appetizers and waters." She removed her glasses and let them hang from the chain around her long neck. "They make a good gumbo, and if you're in the mood for a cocktail, this place is famous for its Pimm's cup."

I uttered a silent thank you to the gumbo gods but looked with longing at the bottles lining the bar. "We don't drink on the clock."

"Personally, I never touch the stuff," she said as a waiter arrived with our waters and what looked like an iced tea garnished with cucumber for Ruth.

I had to question why a woman who didn't drink would ask Veronica and me to meet her at one of the most famous bars in America, not to mention work in a place that produced liquor-flavored lip gloss.

"But given what I've been through at Lickalicious Lips," Ruth continued, "I thought a nip of Pimm's would do me good." She took the glass from the waiter and lifted it in a salute. "It's made from herbs, you know."

Question answered
, I thought.

The waiter pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. "You all ready to order?"

"Oh, we don't have time to eat," Veronica announced to my utter shock and disappointment. She glanced in my direction. "I just remembered that I have to meet a client at a restaurant near the office at twelve fifteen."

I narrowed my eyes. Veronica never forgot an appointment, especially when it came to business. I was starting to get annoyed with her secrecy—and with the fact that it was the second time that day I'd had to give up gumbo. And now meatballs too.

Ruth waved her hand at the waiter. "I'm good with the appetizers." Then she tapped her glass with a neatly trimmed nail. "But I'll be needing another one of these."

He shoved the pad and pen into his apron, took our menus, and stalked away.

Veronica turned to Ruth. "What can you tell us about the relationship between Ivanna and Adam?"

She pressed her thin lips into an even thinner line. "Well, to start with, they were having an affair."

Veronica and I exchanged a look.

I was surprised Adam had neglected to mention that not-so-insignificant detail. "Are you sure about that?"

"I'd say so, after catching them in the act on the table in the lab."

What was up with sex on the table?
I thought, my mind flashing regrettably to my parents.

"Plus, some mornings when I got to work early, I'd see him slinking down the stairs from her apartment." She gave us a knowing look. "In the same clothes he'd worn the day before."

I nodded. It sounded like the walk of shame—not that I had any personal experience with that or anything. "Was he in love with her?"

Ruth sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. "I'm not sure the man knows what love is. But he worshipped the ground she walked on. He used to follow her around like a puppy dog, until they started fighting, that is."

Veronica leaned forward. "Did you ever witness any of their arguments?"

She snorted and reached for her drink. "They were hard to miss. In the two weeks before she died they fought every day."

"Did the fights ever become physical?" Veronica pressed.

"Not that I saw. But it wouldn't surprise me if they had."

"What did they fight about?" I asked.

Ruth sucked down half of her Pimm's cup. "Adam had a taste for gin. He'd been coming into work hung over more and more often, and she confronted him every time. The day before she died, she told him to sober up or get out."

I thought about Adam's disheveled appearance. I'd attributed it to grief, but now that Ruth mentioned it, he could have had a hangover.

"Did he stop drinking?" Veronica asked.

"Nope." She tossed back the rest of her drink and raised her glass to the waiter, signaling the second round.

All Ruth's imbibing was making me thirsty, so I took an unsatisfying sip of my water. "Do you think Ivanna would've fired him?"

She laughed. "That and have him blacklisted too. She made it clear that he was replaceable. And Ivanna was tough. You messed with her business, and she let everyone who mattered know about it. She would've ruined him in the cosmetics industry, and he knew that."

"What can you tell us about the coral-pink lip gloss?" I asked, toying with my table knife.

"Well, I don't know what Ivanna was doing with it at the plantation, if that's what you mean. But I wasn't surprised to hear she had it with her."

I looked up. "Why not?"

The age lines around Ruth's mouth deepened. "There was something weird going on with that lip gloss. I know Ivanna was mad that Adam couldn't get the color right, but it was like she was obsessed with it or something." She stared off into the distance and then shook her head. "All I can tell you was that there was a tension between the two of them over that lip gloss, and it was so thick you could have cut it with a knife."

I dropped the offending utensil. "Do you believe he could have killed her?"

Ruth smirked. "I think all humans are capable of murder, don't you?"

"I don't know," I said with a shrug. "There's a big difference between being capable and actually carrying it out."

"Maybe." She stirred her ice cubes with her straw, searching for one last sip. "But given Adam's recent downward spiral, I wouldn't put it past him."

The waiter returned with Ruth's drink. 

"It's getting late," Veronica said. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"Yes." She grabbed the Pimm's cup from the waiter's hand. "Keep an eye on Adam Geyer. He's involved in this somehow. You mark my words."

"We'll do that." Veronica rose to her feet. "We really appreciate the information, Ruth."

"And the appetizers we didn't get to have," I said as I stood up and cast a hungry, hateful look in Veronica's direction.

"You let me know if you need anything else," Ruth said before she set to work draining her second drink.

"There is one more thing," I said. "Did Ivanna ever mention a pink diamond?"

Ruth stopped in mid sip. "I can't say she ever did."

As I followed Veronica to the exit, I thought about how Ruth had described Ivanna as
obsessed
with the lip gloss. Why was this particular shade so important to her? And what about Adam? Was his so-called
worship
of Ivanna an obsession? If so, then her criticism could have been a catalyst for violence. Of course, this was all supposition. But Adam's lies and omissions were raising lots of red flags where his innocence was concerned.

*  *  *

I dropped Veronica off in front of our office at five after twelve. I briefly considered following her to the alleged client meeting to see what I would find out. But then I decided to go straight to Oleander Place. I didn't need a repeat of what happened the last time I fancied myself a spy.

The subject of spying reminded me that I hadn't seen Bradley since he'd returned from his trip. I thought about stopping by the bank to see if he was free for a quick bite, and then I got an idea. If he'd already gone to lunch, that meant I had a forty-five-minute window of opportunity to do some investigating at the bank. I took a left turn and headed toward Canal Street. The plantation could wait another hour.

As I drove, I ran through my plan of attack. I needed to find out two things—Pauline's employment history, so I could do a little digging into her past, and the location of the security room. I didn't know how I was going to do it, but I had to get my hands on a copy of the video files for the days the money went missing from Corinne's drawer.

When I pulled up in front of the bank, I backed into a thirty-minute customer service zone and turned on my hazard lights. I rationalized that I was a) a bank customer in need of service, and b) in an extremely hazardous situation—especially if Bradley or Pauline learned what I was up to.

I exited the car and strolled casually into the lobby, where I saw Pauline hard at work on one of her essential bank tasks—writing on a poster board with a glitter pen. I took a deep breath and approached her desk.

"He's at lunch," she proclaimed without even looking up at me.

"Thanks." I needed to get her talking, so I asked, "What are you making?"

Pauline looked up at me, her gold earrings swaying. "A poster for the children's fundraiser. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work."

My eyes zeroed in on her earlobes. Those dangles were triangles!
Damn you and that Three of Cups card
, I fumed. But I kept it together and said, "I've been meaning to ask you about the perfume you're always wearing. What kind is it?"

"Pure Poison by Dior," she replied, resuming her drawing.

If ever there was a scent that captured Pauline's essence that was the one
, I thought. "Well, I just love it."

She put her glitter pen down and leaned back in her chair. "What do you want?"

"Nothing. Just trying to be nice." I had to bite the tip of my tongue to stop myself from adding,
You should try it sometime.

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm busy right now, okay?"

I noticed that she had several rows of pictures of herself on her desk (not that she was self-absorbed or anything). This was my chance to bring up her work. "Wow! Is that you?" I gushed, picking up a photo. "You look like a model."

She sighed. "That because I
was
a model. In New York."

"Oh, I thought Bradley said you worked at a bank there. What was it called?" I asked, trying to conjure up a fake bank name in hopes that she would correct me. All I could think of was the unfortunately named, "Brokeman Bank."

"Brehman," she grunted as she added more glitter to the poster.

I felt a little rush. It wasn't her complete job history, but it was a start.

Pauline stared up at me with a scowl. "Listen, I don't have time chit chat. I've got to finish this before lunch."

"Yeah, that's an important poster," I said, unable to resist one tiny jab. "I've got to go make a deposit, anyway."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for sharing."

I smiled as sweetly as my tense facial muscles would allow and then headed over to Corinne's teller window. As I waited in line behind a customer, I took a deposit slip and pen from a nearby table and wrote,
Pretend like I'm making a deposit in case Pauline is watching
.

"Next," Corinne called.

I walked up to the window and slid the deposit slip toward her to make it look legitimate.

Corinne read the slip and nodded.

Looking down at the counter, I asked in a low voice, "Are employee resumes kept on file here at the bank?"

She typed something on her keyboard. "If zey are, zey would be in ze employee files in ze left-hand drawer of Mr. Hartmann's desk."

"Last question, where is the computer with the security video files?"

Corinne tore off my copy of the deposit slip. As she handed it to me, she pointed over my shoulder.

I turned and followed her finger to an unmarked door next to Bradley's office—just in time to see Pauline pull her keys from her purse and head to the exit. "Thanks," I said brightly. "See you next time."

She flashed a nervous smile. "You're welcome. Have a nice day."

I put the deposit slip in my bag and glanced at a clock in the lobby. It was twelve thirty, which meant that I had at least twenty minutes before Bradley returned. With my heart in my throat, I walked to his office. When I reached the door, I entered as though I belonged there. I
was
his girlfriend, after all.

Once inside I hurried to his desk and pulled open the left-hand drawer. Sure enough, there were files with the names of employees on them. In the back of the drawer was a label that read "Pauline Violette." I pulled the papers from inside the file and began flipping through them. Insurance information, an annual review, confirmation of a raise (that I was sure she didn't deserve). Then I found it. Pauline's resume.

I shoved the other papers back into the file and sat in Bradley's chair. His desk pad calendar caught my eye. Out of curiosity, I checked to see whether he wrote down our dates. I saw red—both literally and figuratively—when I realized that "Date with Franki," which he'd penciled in for yesterday, had been scratched out with red ink and replaced with "Video Conference" in a decidedly feminine handwriting.

"One of these days I'll cross you out, Pauline," I muttered as I began scanning the list of her previous employers with renewed determination. If her résumé was accurate, which was questionable, she'd worked for two banks from 2010 to 2011 and then from 2011 to 2012. For 2013, she had listed her freelance modeling work.
Because that's so pertinent to the world of banking
, I thought.

"I'll be right with you, Rich," Bradley's voice boomed from outside the door.