Thigh High (4 page)

Nessa shot Georgia the one-fingered salute, then walked through the French Quarter to the distinguished old bank on Chartres Street. At eight thirty, she climbed the steps and tapped on the glass door.

Their uniformed guard let her in, and the blast of air-conditioning felt like heaven. “Good morning, Miss Dahl.”

“Morning, Eric.” The old-fashioned lobby gleamed with marble floors and polished wood counters, and glittered with Mardi Gras tinsel hanging from the lights and masks decorating the walls.

She put her purse away in the locked drawer in her desk, the one that sat against the wall in the lobby—the one she would soon be leaving behind forever—then made her way behind the counter to the vault. She punched her code into the electronic panel, and the round steel door silently opened.

Last Friday, she had checked the amounts in the tellers' cash drawers and put the totals into individual bank bags. She placed the bags on the shelves and the drawers on the table. Today, soon, the armored car would come and take most of the cash, the bank would open, and the banking cycle would begin again.

Now Nessa took the stacks of bills off the shelves, counted them, then filled the drawers for the tellers. Stacking the drawers, she hefted them in her arms and marched out to the counter. One by one, she distributed them, waited until the teller counted and confirmed the amounts, and glanced at the clock.

Eight fifty a.m. The system of checks and balances took a while, but with that one mistake she'd made seven years ago, she had proven how necessary it was to take the time and do it properly.

Five women and one man stood waiting at their stations. Each one wore a costume that represented a period in New Orleans history. The older tellers, Julia, Donna, and Mary, had been through this bank promotion the year before. Julia and Donna wore gowns from the roaring twenties. Mary wore a nineteenth-century serving maid's black-and-white costume. Jeffrey wore the formal suit of a Southern planter, grew his sideburns down his cheeks, and greatly enjoyed the irony of his attire; Jeffrey was black. Those four looked cool and comfortable.

Lisa and Carol, new to the bank, young and attractive, had both opted for glamorous costumes from the old South. They were now paying for their vanity in misery and discomfort.

“Hey, Carol, how's it going?” Nessa asked the most pitiful-looking teller, a slender Cajun with large, doe-brown eyes, a glorious fall of glossy brown hair, and a low-cut, lacy gown with a massive antebellum hoop skirt.

“Scarlett O'Hara my ass. This corset is killing me.” Carol grabbed her waist and tugged. “No air-conditioning, all these petticoats—how could those poor women stand these things?”

“That's why they fainted so much,” Julia said.

“And had the vapors.” Carol watched Julia with envious eyes.

“You'd have the vapors, too, if your waist was cinched so tight you couldn't pass gas.” Donna, old enough to be everyone's grandmother and frank to a fault, grinned at Carol's expression of horror.

“Makes you long for the good old days, doesn't it?” Mary checked her supply of hand disinfectant.

“Not me,” Jeffrey said.

“Me, neither.” Dainty, tanned Lisa shook her head, and the lacy widow's cap perched atop her curls slid sideways.

“Here, honey, let me.” While Lisa squirmed, Donna briskly took the pins out of her hair, rearranged the cap, and stuck it back on.

“What about you, Nessa?” Lisa asked. “You're not dressed up at all.”

“Here.” Eric hustled over with a couple of strings of beads. “Better get them on before the Stephabeast sees you. You know how she is.”

The others concealed grins at the nickname and waited for Nessa to reprimand Eric. With her stiff-necked demands and her grim surveillance, Stephanie had earned their enmity.

Instead Nessa cranked her neck toward the open door of Stephanie's corner office. “She's here already?” Stephanie usually didn't arrive until a minute before the bank opened. Or a minute after.

“Oh, she's here.” Eric did the Frankenstein walk. “With a stick up her behind. But that means good news for you, right, Miss Dahl?”

Nessa supposed Stephanie's secretary had spread the news about Nessa's new office. She showed everyone her crossed fingers.

“We hope you get that promotion this time, Miss Dahl,” Julia said.

The others nodded.

“I know not to get my hopes up.” Yet Nessa invariably got her hopes up. She couldn't help it. She was the kind of optimist who not only saw the glass half-full, but knew it was lead crystal.

With a glance at the clock, Nessa moved behind the counter and paced the line of tellers. “It's one minute to nine. Do you need anything? Are you ready?”

“We're ready.” Mary squared her shoulders.

“Another day in paradise,” Donna said.

“All we have to do is get through today, and we have the party at the Dahl House tonight.” Jeffrey smiled.

Nessa glanced toward the door and saw the tall, narrow figure of a man dressed in a rumpled black suit. His gaze darted from one teller to the other, the tip of his long nose fogging the glass. “Mr. Miller's waiting for us to open.”

The tellers groaned.

“After that, the day can't get worse,” Mary said cheerfully.

“You're just saying that because he won't come to you,” Carol said.

“Nope, he sure won't. He's one of those guys who loves to fall into that trap of yours.” Mary nodded at Carol's cleavage.

“It's nine.” Nessa signaled Eric. “Open the doors.”

Eric did as he was told.

As always, the line of customers waiting for the bank to open was long, and as always on Friday, Mr. Miller led the way. He disappeared into the men's room, coming out with a roll of toilet paper beneath his arm.

Carol flashed a smile and some cleavage at the first man in line, and she was busy when Mr. Miller stepped forward.

He headed for Julia, who muttered, “Guess I drew the short straw.”

“Good morning.” Mr. Miller claimed to be a minister, was inevitably friendly, and perfectly polite. He should have been the ideal customer, but in a disagreeable ritual, he unwound a strip of toilet paper and used it to thoroughly wipe his nose before counting out his money and making his deposit.

Julia took him in her stride, waiting until he had left the bank to use the disinfectant to clean her hands and her counter. Then she welcomed the next customer, and they were off on another day at the bank.

But this wasn't a normal day.

Today Nessa moved on with her life.

“Ionessa!” The high-pitched shriek from Stephanie's office made even the customers flinch.

Nessa passed Stephanie's secretary, who muttered, “Take the promotion, but don't get your fingers close to her mouth. Those big teeth can snap right through bone.”

As Nessa entered, Stephanie made a show of shuffling papers. She was thirty-one, the valedictorian of her class in Tulane, of medium height and weight, well groomed and, as Daniel said, beige. Her hair was a dirty blond, she never wore bright colors, and even her eyes were an indeterminate hazel. She attended business breakfasts at Toastmasters and bored everyone silly. She dated, but only on Saturday night and only if the guy took her somewhere she could be seen. She kept her desk clean of photos and used her e-mail for official bank communications. She was dedicated to her career, the perfect middle manager.

“I got a phone call last week from the big man himself.” Stephanie lifted her gaze and glared. “Yes, Ionessa, it's true. Mr. MacNaught himself called me. He's taking a personal interest in catching the Beaded Bandits.”

“The CEO of Premier Central is concerned with Beaded Bandits?” Had Stephanie cracked under the pressure of running the bank? For the past three years, Mr. MacNaught had made the “I'm the richest, nanner, nanner,” list in
Fortune
magazine. “Don't they steal a thousand dollars or less? Why would he care about such an insignificant amount?”

And why were they discussing this now?

“He has a reputation for despising thieves, and it would seem that that's true.” Stephanie crumpled the paper she held, then, seeing Nessa's gaze on her clawed fingers, made an effort to straighten them and the paper. “He's sending an insurance investigator to track down the thieves and arrest them.”

“Okay.” Nessa was still floundering. Why was Stephanie telling her this stuff? “What does he think an insurance investigator is going to be able to do?”

“He's not impressed with the NOPD's work on this case, and thinks this guy who's coming in will light a fire under their collective lazy asses.”

“Hm.” Nessa knew most of the police department personally. They visited at the Dahl House. She took care of their banking needs. She doubted that some stiff-necked Yankee was going to help by stomping into the police department and demanding they investigate his way.

“He ordered that I prepare him an office here in the bank—“

Shock sent a jolt down Nessa's spine. She snapped to attention.

“—and get him someone who knew the city and the officials well to ease this guy's way. I offered myself—I grew up here, I went to school here, I know everybody—but
no.
He already had someone in mind.”

The newly cleaned office. The orders to get ready to move. The aunts were right. None of this was about Nessa and her promotion. This was about Mr. MacNaught's insurance investigator. Nessa's lips were stiff as she said, “Mr. MacNaught wants me.”

“Of course he wants
you
. Somehow word of your charm and your connections got all the way up to Philadelphia, and Mr. MacNaught demands that
you
assist his man.” The rancor and jealousy that marred Stephanie's personality burned like acid in her tone. “I don't understand why
you're
always the one who gets the commendations, why
you're
always the one the customers write glowing letters about.
I'm
the manager. If it weren't for
me
—”

Nessa lifted her eyebrows.

Stephanie snapped her lips shut. Not even she had the nerve to claim the bank ran smoothly because of her.

“What am I supposed to do for this insurance investigator?” Nessa spoke carefully, keeping her tone even, allowing none of her frustration to seep through. Stephanie would enjoy it far too much.

“Get him coffee. Take notes. The usual things a secretary does for her boss.” Stephanie smirked. “You've been demoted to a secretary.”

“I believe they're called administrative assistants now.” Then, because Stephanie had so clearly wanted to show off for MacNaught's man, Nessa added, “I hope to do a good enough job to call myself to Mr. MacNaught's attention.”

Nessa's shot must have struck home, for Stephanie crumpled the paper again, and this time she didn't bother to straighten it out. Her pale eyes narrowed. She must have seen a crack in Nessa's disciplined coolness, for she exclaimed, “Poor Ionessa! Did you think that office was for you?”

Stephanie had the knack of hitting where it hurt, but in a battle of wits, Nessa carried the greater ammunition. “I assume you'll be taking my place in customer service?”

Stephanie hated helping the clients with loans and investments, and the clients reciprocated. “Yes, of course I will be,” she snapped. “There's no one else qualified.”

And whose fault is that?
Nessa wanted to ask. Stephanie wouldn't promote anyone else for fear that person would overshadow her.

The phone rang. Stephanie picked it up, spoke briefly, then hung up and told Nessa, “He's on his way.”

Nessa came to her feet. “Does he have a name?”

“Jeremiah Mac.” Stephanie leaned back in her chair. “I imagine he's an old fart, don't you? After all, he's an insurance investigator, and that's nothing more than a glorified accountant.”

“I've never dated an insurance investigator or an accountant, so I wouldn't know.
Are
they all old farts?” Nessa waited for the delicate moment when the insult sank in, then as Stephanie's lips lifted in a snarl, she walked out of the office.

She dusted her fingertips together. She adjusted the lapels on her jacket. She smiled evilly.

Stephabeast, indeed.

 

Stephanie picked up the vase behind her desk, weighed it in her hand, then reluctantly put it down again. No matter how much she wanted to throw it against the wall, she would not. It was the bank's. Now, if it were Ionessa's…

She didn't understand why everybody liked Nessa so much. Everybody talked about her—how nice she was and how good to her aunts and how efficient she was….

Yeah, well, she was none too smart, or she would have realized how Stephanie had used her. Seven years ago, they'd both started at the bank as assistant managers. Nessa had realized they were in competition for the top spot—after all, she was no dummy—but she was a soft touch. One of the tellers had given her a sob story about a sick kid, Nessa had let her leave without counting her drawer, and five hundred dollars had walked out with her.

The mistake of a lifetime. Stephanie had secured the position of bank manager, and right away she got an e-mail from Mr. MacNaught himself.
Keep an eye on Ionessa Dahl.

That was all it took. Stephanie had done just that. She'd kept an eye on Ionessa when she improved the efficiency of the tellers, and Stephanie took credit for the idea. She'd kept an eye on Ionessa when she secured accounts from some of the most influential people in New Orleans, and Stephanie took credit for the jump in savings. She'd kept an eye on Ionessa when she provided the most home loans of any officer in Premier Central history, and Stephanie took credit for every one.

Mr. MacNaught had a reputation as a real son of a bitch who stomped on people without even noticing the crunch of their bones beneath his boots.