Ciji Ware (59 page)

“Need any help?” Amadora called from the wings.

“No… thanks,” she replied, gazing around the empty auditorium. She tried to smile at the woman who had become like a sister during the summer of rehearsals and endless strategy meetings. “Want to have lunch tomorrow and do a postmortem after Bailey and I put the profits in the bank?” She desperately needed a friend to talk to.

“No can do,” Amadora said smugly. “I have a hot date flying in from California for the week. I have to get my beauty sleep. How about Tuesday, next?”

Daphne nodded, pleased for her friend, though by this time, her spirits were lower than an alligator’s belly.

Goddamn
it!
she thought, her temper advancing beyond its slow boil. What kind of co-chair of a charity event turns up missing in action?

Easy
, she silently answered her own question.
An
absolute
rat,
that’s who.

Chapter 25

Daphne had just eased the harp case into the back of the Jeep when she spotted Sim in the parking lot. He was standing next to a nondescript late-model car, conversing once again with none other than his former wife.

Daphne slammed the tailgate with a vengeance and marched toward the driver’s side of her car with murder in mind. Meanwhile, out of the corner of her eye, she watched Francesca pat Sim familiarly on his shoulder in a farewell gesture. The lawyer from San Francisco climbed into her rented car and drove off.

Daphne jumped into the Jeep’s driver’s seat and angrily turned on the ignition. She had thrust the gear into reverse when Sim rapped smartly on the window.

“Hey, angel girl, where’re you going in such a hurry?”

Angel
girl? Who did he think he was kidding?

Daphne stared straight ahead through the windshield for a moment, composed herself, then turned to look at Sim. Slowly, she lowered the window.

“Bluff House,” she said without elaboration.

“You were great and the show was fabulous,” he said. However, Daphne sensed a strange remoteness in his manner that was a toned-down version of what she currently felt toward
him.

“Thanks,” she said brusquely. “Look, I’ve got to get back to help Maddy with the cast party. Where were you all day, Mr. Co-chairman? Or should I say all
week
?”

Sim glanced across the emptying parking lot. “I’ll follow you in my car. We can talk when we get there, though I can’t stay long.” Daphne arched an eyebrow and waited without making a reply. Sim hesitated a moment longer, and then volunteered, “I apologize for not getting here in time to put up my photographs in the lobby tonight.”

“We could have used your help,” Daphne said, barely civil.

“And the reason I can’t stay at Maddy’s party is that I have to get up at the crack of dawn to meet a birder friend of Bailey’s. He’s going to take me to a spot on the Trace where he claims he sighted a bunch of ivory-billed woodpeckers. The bird is presumed extinct, so it’s worth checking out. Plus my editor’s been bugging me to submit all the photographs for the Audubon project by the end of the month, so I’m feeling behind the eight ball.”

Daphne thought Sim’s explanation was too long and too detailed and completely unresponsive to her original question. Her rat detector kicked into high gear, yet she merely shrugged. If she uttered a single word, she’d say something she’d regret.

He leaned through the open car window and bussed her on the cheek. Daphne tried to smile, hoping that he would seize this moment alone to explain further, but Sim only gazed at her for a long moment before he asked, “Are you okay?”

She debated her answer, then shook her head.

“Absolutely not.”

“And that’s because…”

A bleakness swept over her that was dangerously reminiscent of the week following Sim’s return from the Amazon. “Call me crazy or simply a jealous fool, Sim, but inquiring minds want to know. Were you ever planning to tell me why you dropped off the radar screen this week—of all weeks—and why you showed up two minutes after the curtain rose tonight? Were you going to at least give me a
hint
why your ex-wife and my ex-fiancé were given house seats—which we could have
sold
, for God’s sake—and why you and Francesca had your heads together just now?”

“You
do
sound jealous,” Sim said, a small smile pulling at the comer of his mouth.

“I think I am,” she admitted soberly.

“Well, believe me, don’t give
that
issue another thought.”

“So, what’s with the big powwow?”

“Can’t tell you… yet.”

“Or
won’t
tell me,” she retorted before she had time to censor herself.

Just
when
you
thought
it
was
safe
to
go
back
into
the
water
, she reflected grimly.

Sim looked at her a long time before speaking. “Believe me, Francesca Hayes only has business on the brain.”

She remembered the way Jack Ebert had flatly denied her accusation about his affair with Cindy Lou Mallory in precisely such carefully parsed phrases of half-truths and omissions that added up to the Big Lie. When she’d confronted Rafe about his peccadilloes, he’d merely scoffed and advised her to consult a psychiatrist for her paranoia.

“Then why not just tell me what’s going on?” she asked shortly. “We hit this bump once before, remember? Just level with me, Sim. Why this sudden friendliness with the enemy camp?”

“I can’t discuss it,” he replied tersely, “and frankly, it’s not helpful to see the other side as the ‘enemy.’” Daphne could tell that Sim, too, was running short on patience. “And by the way, this conversation is starting to feel like the third degree.”

“One last question, then,” Daphne retorted, “and then, believe
me
, I’m on my way. How come this is happening? I just put my all into a cause—mostly because
you
asked me to—and because of Bailey and Maddy, and then you, the co-chair of this event—the guy who said he’d have my back—go AWOL.” Sim flinched, almost as if she’d slapped him across the face. Profoundly disturbed by the direction of this exchange, she pleaded, “Look, why can’t we just be straight with each other? Tell me what’s going on, or tell me to get lost. I don’t do well with guessing games.”

“I’m in the middle of something,” he revealed reluctantly.

“In the middle of
what
?” she asked, exasperated. “What are you
talking
about? At least tell me if it’s personal or professional?”

“Oh, it’s
very
personal,” he declared without hesitation.

“Oh,” she said, feeling utterly deflated and shut out by his cryptic response. “I see. Well… that’s a real conversation stopper.”

Sim gazed at her with a troubled expression. “For the moment, I have to leave it at that, Daphne. I’m sorry.”

They locked glances, neither of them speaking for several moments. Finally Daphne broke the silence. “You ‘have to leave it at that,’” she quoted him, “and I have to leave, period. In case you’ve forgotten, Maddy has a house full of people who all worked hard to make ‘For the Birds’ a success and she could use a hand.”

She realized she sounded peevish and manipulative, but she didn’t care anymore. Sim had let her down in the crunch. He had let
them
down.

Sim reached out and touched her forearm that rested on the ledge of the driver’s window. “There are two important things going on right now. I have to see them through.”

“Is that code for ‘I need some space’?” she snapped.

“No. It means I need some time.”

Daphne affected a shrug. “Whatever,” she replied coolly. She felt, suddenly, as if she’d donned a coat of steel armor. She reached up and adjusted her rearview mirror. There was no need for Sim to explain that he was heading out of town—whether to track the ivory-billed woodpecker, like he’d said, or for a rendezvous with Francesca. Either way, he was abandoning the “Birds” benefit… and her. She struggled for composure. “Gotta go,” she said finally. “You take care in the woods, y’hear? There are some dangerous snakes out there.”

Not waiting for a reply, Daphne swiftly backed out of her parking space and headed for home as the lyrics of “The Wind Beneath My Wings” echoed hollowly in her heart.

***

Every window at Bluff House was aglow and Maddy’s downstairs rooms were filled with celebrating cast members and benefit volunteers. Althea met Daphne at the front door with a grin that turned to concern when she saw her friend was unaccompanied.

“Where’s Sim?”

“Has an early day tomorrow.”

“But he’s the co-chair of this thing,” Althea protested.

“You’re telling
me
!”

Althea shook her head. “I dunno, girl… you sure can pick ’em.”

“Don’t say that,” Daphne retorted, suddenly near tears. She felt like beating someone to a bloody pulp. Either that, or she’d run upstairs and cry for a week.

“Hey, baby,” Althea crooned, pulling her friend into the powder room off the foyer and shutting the door. “I’m sorry I said that, honey, but, boy, I am
pissed
at Sim!”

“So am I. There’s something going on that I don’t understand,” Daphne added bleakly, “and I don’t know if it makes Sim a rat or a hero.”

Althea’s generous lips compressed into a straight line. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we? But, if he’s a rat, he’s gonna hear ’bout it from me, big time!” she threatened, giving her friend a hug.

“We’ll sic your brothers on him,” Daphne said through a watery smile.

“You betcha!” Althea’s expression suddenly brightened. “Oh! Guess who came up from New Orleans to catch our act tonight?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Daphne said, reaching for a tissue to dab her eyes. She pulled a brush from her purse and whipped it through her curly hair. In the bathroom mirror, her eyes looked dead and her complexion sallow.

“Chappy Barrone!”

“Who?”

“Only the main bookin’ agent for the New Orleans Jazz Fest, that’s who!”

Daphne turned away from the mirror to gaze at Althea with amazement.

“You’re kidding? He drove all the way up here to see the show?”

“To see the
Aphrodite
Jazz
Ensemble
,” she corrected emphatically.

“Holy cow! What did he think?”

“He thought we were pretty sensational. Wants us to come down to New Orleans to talk to ‘his people,’ he told me just before you got here!” Althea declared triumphantly.

Daphne gave her friend a high-five. “Way to
go
, girl!”

“Now, doesn’t that cheer you up?”

“It does,” Daphne lied. “It really does.”

Of course it didn’t, and she knew she’d cry later.

***

The next morning, Maddy tiptoed into the room at the top of the house. Daphne lay awake, glumly staring at the ceiling while she replayed last night’s unhappy scene in the auditorium’s parking lot.

“Daphne, dear… am I disturbin’ you?”

With difficulty, Daphne summoned a smile, and said, “No. I’ve sort of got my eyes open. ’Morning, Maddy. Was that the phone?”

“Yes. It’s a Libby Girard from the Farrell Funeral Home.”

Alarmed by the thought that someone from a funeral home was calling early Sunday morning, Daphne grabbed her dressing gown and dashed into her office in the next room.

“Yes?” she said into the receiver, feeling her pulse quicken.

“Miz Duvallon? I’m Libby Girard, from Farrell’s. I apologize for callin’ you so early on a Sunday, but I was afraid that the Ebert-Petrella people would get to you first and sign you up exclusively.”

“I doubt that,” Daphne said dryly.

“Well, they might try,” Libby said in a rush. “You see, I used to work there.”

“Look, Miss Girard,” Daphne said firmly, “I really don’t—”

“And I
hated
it,” she interrupted. “Uncle René got me to move all the way up here from New Orleans, but I should’ve known I couldn’t work for that creep.”

“Could you possibly be referring to Jack?” Daphne asked, faintly amused.

“Yes,” Libby exclaimed. “I was at your weddin’ and I shoulda
known
better than to think I could manage a funeral home if
he
was goin’ t’be involved. Well, anyhow, I read in the
Natchez
Democrat
a while back that your poor cousin, Miz Whitaker, got her roof damaged in that
non
tornado, as the Chamber of Commerce likes to call the storm that blew through here. And then a friend at the Anruss Salon told me you were so darlin’ to pay to repair it y’self. So, now that I’m over at Farrell’s, I’d been thinkin’ to give you a call and see if I could hire you to play at funerals here, figurin’ you’d had that big repair expense, and all.”