Mean Woman Blues (14 page)

Whoopee-do.

Some of them went all righteous on Hagerty, in her decorator role, saying they’d be the last to traffic in that kind of stuff. But several had taken her cell phone number, saying they’d call if they got anything that looked like what she wanted. These— who had to be either bent or out of it— were a lot more interesting. If one of them did call, the task force could get the kind of break that would solve the case.

Skip trudged through the days, wishing she could match the other officers’ enthusiasm. She called all the out-of-town antiques dealers on her list, including the ones who’d first been involved— the ones in Los Angeles who claimed they had no idea the merchandise had been stolen. Who they bought it from was a matter of record, but none of the names had rap sheets attached. (Nor true addresses or phone numbers.)

Then she got a brainstorm about a possible information gold mine— real decorators. If ever there was a group that loved to gossip, this was it. And this was her territory, a place she could go as high-profile as she pleased, and it could only help. Raised as an Uptown, private-school girl, she was the daughter of a social-climbing family that had never quite made it to “socially prominent.” But she still had plenty of contacts from McGehee’s, Valencia, Icebreakers, the Tulane chapter of Kappa Kappa Gamma, and her parents’ old neighborhood, most notably her old Kappa sister, Alison Gaillard. If Alison didn’t know every decorator in town (or where to find him), no one would. Skip’s fingers tingled as she reached for the phone. She was going to rise to this occasion after all.

“Alison? Skip Langdon.”

“Why,
Detective
Langdon. We thought you’d forgotten us here at Rumors-R-Us.” Her old gossip-buddy sounded a little hurt.

“Never! You’ll always be my favorite Deep Throat.”

Alison chortled. “Skippy, you watch your language, now.”

“It’s just that I’ve had my hands kind of full with lowlife lowlifes. Last I heard your specialty was high-life lowlifes.”

Alison’s silvery laugh trilled out. Skip had forgotten how beautiful it was— probably the most attractive thing about the woman, who’d never been Skip’s type back in college. Not that she wasn’t a real knockout in her own way, but she was just a bit too coiffed and manicured and fabulously turned out to resemble a real person. That was how they did things Uptown, which was more or less no-man’s-land to someone whose own father refused to speak to her when she became a cop.

A strange thing about Alison, though. She’d come through for Skip every time she’d been asked. She did it as selflessly as if they’d always been best friends, when in fact they’d almost been enemies, owing to a few little things like Skip’s “inappropriate attire” (jeans, as a matter of fact) at rush parties.

“Skippy, you are the
craziest
thing,” Alison said now. “I’m just an old stay-at-home mom anymore.” She paused. “On the other hand, the invention of the cell phone makes gossip-mongering easier, faster, and more efficient than ever before, and I was
always
the queen. Why, now I can gossip in the shower if I want to. And I do, Skippy. I do.”

This time Skip was the one who laughed. “You aren’t kidding, you’re the queen. You could probably solve my case on the phone.”

“You must mean that cemetery art thing. I’m just so
proud
of you, Miss Head of the Task Force.”

“Matter of fact, I do mean that. You wouldn’t happen to have seen any art around someone’s pool, would you?’

“Oh, no.” Alison’s voice was shocked. “I know a lot of people who’re missing some, though.”

“Good. So it’s a big Uptown issue. Here’s what I was thinking: If I were a thief, I might offer this stuff to decorators and see if I got any takers.”

Alison let out a little squeal. “Omigod. Patrick! Patrick Delacroix. I think he did get an offer like that. He told Susu Reynoir about it.”

Skip let out her breath in a satisfied little hiss. “Ah. Maybe I should give Patrick a call.”

Alison said, “I’m thinking here. I’m thinking. If Patrick got an offer, maybe some of the others did too. Ash Lanasa did our breakfast room. You should see it, Skippy. We have all these great metal chairs. I mean, real sculptures, like Mario Villa does. Only Mario didn’t do them; a student of one of his students—”

Skip was sure it was the most fabulous breakfast room in Orleans Parish, but right now she had other things on her mind. “Could you ask Ash if he’s heard anything?’

“She.”

“Hmm?’

“Ash is a woman. Sure I’ll ask her. Get right back to you.”

This was the way they’d worked in the past: Alison called to pave the way; Uptown, it made everything smoother.

Without much hope, she called Patrick herself. He hadn’t even met the person who made the offer, just received some pictures through the mail with a note saying the sender would phone. He never had.

Which might be good, Skip thought, making a stab at optimism. “Call me if he does, will you?” she said.

Her phone rang as soon as she put it down.

“Skip. It’s Dee-Dee.”

Jimmy Dee almost never called her at work and he sounded deadly serious. “Skip,” he had called her, not “Venus” or “my dainty darling” or even “Margaret.” Her heart started to pound.

“Listen, I’m in a bind, and Kenny’s at a friend’s house. Can you pick him up on his way home?”

“Sure,” she squeaked, hoping her voice didn’t give her away. Ringing off, she thought that this was no way to live: terrified to hear the voice of her best friend, sure he could only be calling to report disaster, reading danger into haste and distraction.

She thought,
I’m going to find that bastard Jacomine if I have to spend twenty-four hours a day on it.

She started immediately, scribbling on the nearest yellow pad. She was putting together her game plan when Alison called back. “Bingo. Ash has a friend who has a friend who actually saw a cemetery angel in a shop. This was before anything came out in the media, of course. A client took Ash’s friend to see it. Kenny Gilbert is the friend’s name. Anyway, Kenny thought it was too Gothic for the look he was going for, so it might still be there. Ash just called him, and he remembers the store.” She gave Skip Gilbert’s number. “Happy hunting, Kappa girl.” Skip had to laugh; that was a nickname that hadn’t even applied in college. Kappa she might be but pretty much in name only.

The store was neither on Magazine nor in the French Quarter. It was a fairly new shop in the Warehouse District, also known, because of its copious galleries, as the Arts District. Skip went herself rather than send Hagerty, and there was the statue, big as life, in a prominent place on the floor. The proprietor, a Middle Eastern man, seemed barely able to speak English.
What the hell
, she thought, and played Hagerty’s role. “Hi, I’m Margaret Langdon. From Texas? I’m a decorator, and I was just thinking that angel would be perfect for this job I’m doing in Dallas. The only thing is, I really need about six of ’em. Is there any way you could get more like that one? Or even similar. They don’t have to match or anything.”

He shook his head vigorously. “No, ma’am. This one of a kind. French— come from chateau. You not find one like it anywhere.”

Ostentatiously, Skip looked at the price tag. “Fifteen thousand dollars,” she murmured and stepped back, as if assessing. “Not bad. Not a bad price at all. Are you sure you can’t get any more? My client has a
huge
estate— obscene, really— and I want to set six guardian angels at strategic spots around the perimeter. One just isn’t going to make it.”

The shopkeeper looked unhappy, a man who badly wanted the money but couldn’t deliver the goods. “I try. You come back tomorrow. I call dealer.” He shrugged. “Maybe. You never know.” Like he wanted the sale so much he’d stay up all night making angels himself.

Skip looked at her watch. “I’m sorry. I have to go back to Dallas in an hour. Can’t you call him now?”

“Sure, sure, I call now.” He got out his Rolodex and picked a card.

Bingo
, Skip thought and chose that moment to pull out her badge.

She took him down to the station, calling in Hagerty and LeDoux. The three of them spent an unlovely couple of hours terrifying the poor man, who maintained that he’d bought the angel from a friend of his brother’s known only as “Joe.” Sure enough, the Rolodex card said simply “Joe.” But it did provide a phone number, and that was enough to get an address. A Joseph D’Amico lived there.

Hagerty went out to tackle the brother, while Skip and LeDoux checked out Joe’s house. No one was home.

They decided to wait for him, and as they waited, cramped in the car, Skip thought of the people she needed to talk to: Jacomine’s sons, the currently incarcerated Daniel and the newly reinvented Isaac, whom she had once known as The White Monk; Daniel’s daughter, Lovelace; his wife, Irene (formerly known as Tourmaline), who was a missionary and probably not available; people who’d been close to him in the past.
Particularly
, she thought,
Jacomine’s ex-wife, Rosemarie.

During Skip’s last encounter with Jacomine, he’d actually had Rosemarie kidnapped and tried to force her to charter a plane for him. It occurred to Skip she might still be mad about that.

* * *

Dressing for dinner on a random Thursday night, Karen Wright was hearing things she couldn’t believe, things that excited and terrified her, made her go wet between the legs. Her husband’s words, the plan he was unfolding, the daring idea he was sharing with her for the first time, actually excited her sexually, made her dizzy, head all muzzy. She’d never in her life felt such a sensation as she felt now, just kind of standing in her walk-in closet, trying to pick out something to wear.

“David.” She felt as if she were going to faint. “David, come here.” She took his hand and held it to her crotch, so he could feel the impression he was having on her. She wanted him to understand how deeply moved she was, how completely, one hundred percent behind him she was. To her surprise, he snapped at her. “For God’s sake, Karen, not now.”

He hadn’t gotten it. “No, I didn’t want to… I just wanted you to…” She couldn’t think of a way to express it. He selected a tie and left the closet. She had an inkling of what was going on here: He thought she was trying to seduce him for some ulterior purpose; he was slightly suspicious of her lately.

They were going to dinner at the home of her Uncle Guy, known to most of his fellow citizens as State Senator Guy McLean. He and David wanted to get to know each other. Just a family thing, Karen had thought, until a few minutes ago, when David unveiled his plan, a plan to change the world in a far, far bigger way than Karen would ever have dared dream. He’d told her her role, what he expected from her tonight and why, and what it could lead to. She was still dizzy from it as she stood there trying to figure out what to wear. For Uncle Guy, and especially for Aunt Carol Ann, nothing too sexy or young or hip. A white linen pantsuit should do it, with a long white scarf. And the diamond earrings David had given her for her birthday.

Hair up or down? She usually wore it down for relatives, thinking it made her look more innocent, less a target of derision. But in view of what she knew now, up. Definitely. Sophisticated. In command. That was who she was from now on.

Guy and Carol Ann lived in Turtle Creek, the fanciest section of Dallas. Before her disgrace, Karen had been there many times, but David never had. It would be her job to be his guide.

Knowing Uncle Guy, she’d told her husband to wear a suit, but knowing David, there was really no need. It was the sort of thing he’d do anyway. Her husband was very formal, very much of the old school, much like her father and uncles.

Carol Ann met them in a black silk flowing pantsuit— a lot fancier than even Karen had counted on. She was wearing her hair up as well.
Power do of the evening
, Karen thought.

“Karen, sweetie, how nice to see you.” Her aunt gave her a cursory kiss. “And David. We’re
so
pleased to finally get a chance to sit down and really get to know you. We’ve been so looking forward to it, ever since the wedding.”

“I have as well, Carol Ann. I sure have. It’s an honor for me.” He was handsome in his well-cut suit and well-cut hair. Karen felt a burst of wifely pride.

The men poured themselves some bourbon, while the ladies indulged in a little white wine. Karen had to talk to Carol Ann the whole cocktail hour, which pretty much bored her, but it was good practice. If things turned out as David dared to hope, she’d be spending a lot of time talking to the wives of powerful men.

She asked politely after Carol Ann’s children— her own cousins, Dennis, Kevin, and Beth— and Carol Ann asked about Karen’s life, which so far in her marriage had consisted mostly of working with contractors and decorators, and one other thing— something close to her heart— the foundation she and David had planned out together. She had an office already and a phone number, but that was about it. She hadn’t yet told more than a handful of people about it. “I’m ready to move on,” she heard herself saying.

Carol Ann raised an eyebrow. “Move on? Are you thinking of going back to school?”

“Well, some day. Some day, when the kids are old enough, I’d love to go back to school.”

Carol Ann sat back, as if suddenly gratified. “Ah. Kids.”

Karen smiled at her. “’Course I have to hatch some first. That’s what I want to move on to— that and…” She took a deep breath. Okay, she was going to tell Carol Ann about
her
plan, one she’d had for a long time. “…that and the foundation I’m starting. Right Woman, it’s going to be called. The idea is to do some of the things the show does, on a broader scale, for women like me. I mean, women in the kind of trouble I was in when I met David.”

“Ah.” Carol Ann sounded supremely uninterested.

Karen was suddenly self-conscious. “We’d… uh… provide loans, services, maybe, uh, child care. For, uh, women. Maybe other stuff; it’s still in the planning stages.”

“I see.”

“You seem skeptical.” At the very least.

“I was just wondering, how will you fund it?”