Bonefire of the Vanities (4 page)

When he answered, she explained our friendship with Cece and our quest. In no time at all, Bert agreed to meet us for lunch at one o’clock at Napoleon House, a New Orleans landmark on Chartres Street.

By the time I found a parking spot and we walked to the restaurant, Bert was waiting for us. Apparently he’d talked with Cece, because he recognized us. His dark glasses and spiked hair had a certain distinctive air, as did his rolled-up shirtsleeves. I might have pegged him for a jazz musician, but the camera case beside his chair and a Nikon with a telephoto lens on the table were dead giveaways.

Tinkie ordered a round of Pimm’s cups and po’boy sandwiches. Our table was beside an open window, and I caught the unique clatter of New Orleans—the laughter of pedestrians racing along the sidewalks, the honking horns of traffic, the clip-clop of a carriage horse, and the cry of the hot dog vendors.

Bert got right to the point. “What’s your interest in Sherry Westin?”

“I’m not sure I’m really interested in her,” I said. “A friend is worried about someone she knows. She thinks this Sherry might be pulling a scam.”

He nodded, but his expression was noncommittal. “What kind of scam?”

I told him about the letter, signed by Sherry.

“You don’t look surprised,” Tinkie pointed out.

“Brandy Westin is synonymous with the word
scam,
but that’s not true of her daughter, Sherry. I always figured Sherry for a pretty good gal.” A finger traced the condensation on his glass.

“What do you know about Brandy?” I asked.

“She’d fleece the pope if she had a chance, and do it with a smile.”

“But not the daughter?” Tinkie pressed the point. “She’s been under her mama’s tutelage for a long time now. Everyone can be corrupted, given enough time and the right incentive.”

Bert sipped his drink. “Been a long time since I had a Pimm’s cup.”

“Me, too. Perfect for a hot September day.” Bert had drawn a line separating mother and daughter. For whatever reason, he didn’t mind showing his negative feelings for Brandy Westin, but Sherry was a different matter. “So what do you know about the elder Westin?”

Bert frowned. “Brandy ran a high-class brothel in New Orleans for a number of years.”

That was unexpected news, and I didn’t bother to try hiding my shock. “I thought she was a medium. Talked to the spirits.”

“That’s Sherry. She had nothing to do with the whorehouse. It’s impossible to tell, but she seems to have a real gift, a connection to the other side. Brandy is the
business
woman. Her business was pleasuring men, and she had a stable full of beautiful young ladies who knew exactly how to do it. When Brandy evacuated New Orleans, she probably had a stash of at least three million.”

“Wait a minute!” I held up a hand. The names just struck me. “Her name is Sherry and her mother’s name is Brandy?”

Bert dropped his gaze to the table. “Brandy Alexander and Sherry la Crème. Some people should be hanged for the monikers they stick on their kids.”

“Totally uncouth,” Tinkie said. “If she had a child, it would be called what, Merlot Bordeaux or Gin Sapphire?”

Bert’s grin was slightly crooked, giving him a rakish air. “Don’t think just because Brandy and Sherry play on the desires of their clients, they’re stupid. They’re clever women. Sherry is shy and on the innocent side. Brandy is accomplished with solid connections to the New Orleans political and financial world. She’s like a shark, silent but always swimming looking for her next meal.”

“Why would the Westins leave a profitable business in New Orleans and move to the rural stretches of Mississippi?” I asked.

“One word: Katrina. That bitch sent half the city packing. It’s hard to sell pleasure when people are worried about day-to-day survival. If you ask me, they left at the right time. The economy’s gone to shit now. Discretionary income, even for CEOs and lobbyists, is being watched more closely. Tabloid journalism.” He arched an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t object to selling a photo of a holier-than-thou lawmaker coming out of a whorehouse. The fat cats used to frequent the Pleasure Zone openly. Now they’re more discreet, and afraid of being caught indulging their appetites. They stirred the religious fanatics up to fever pitch and now they’ve lost control of them.”

“Maybe Sherry looked into the future and saw the handwriting on the wall,” I posed.

“Whatever happened, they left at the right time. I’d wondered where they went. The Mississippi Delta. Not surprising. There’s money in the Delta. Sherry can smell big money like a bloodhound on a scent.”

“Did you ever hear rumors of séances, spirit sessions?” I didn’t care how much money Brandy had taken from men who had to pay to get laid.

Bert didn’t answer immediately. “Yeah. There was talk. The mayor used to go to the Pleasure Zone and he always claimed it was for a séance.” He grinned. “Séance, blow job, whatever.”

“You’re pretty blasé about a mayor participating in either.”

“It’s the Big Sleazy. Sex and ghosts have always been the stock-in-trade of this city. Throw in a little voodoo, Catholicism, swamp creatures, music, and corrupt politicians and you have a heady brew. The Westins ran a clean house. No complaints. Brandy might be a con, but she only conned people who wanted it. She epitomizes the word
greedy,
but there was never a single complaint filed against her or the Pleasure Zone.”

His gaze lost its sharp focus for a few seconds. “Sherry, though. She was different. Something spiritual about her. I saw her a couple of times in Jackson Square, coming out of the cathedral. We chatted, and she seemed … haunted. And sad.” He shrugged it off. “I must be getting soft. So what are you investigating?”

“The Westins have moved up around Sunflower County. They may be up to their old tricks—” I grinned at my wit. “—but we have only rumors and gossip so far.” If we had a big story about whorehouse madams setting up a séance business in Sunflower County, it was Cece’s to break.

He pulled a card from his pocket. “Give me a ring if Cece needs photos. I’d love to work with her on a story, and this sounds like it could be big headlines. And if you run across Sherry, give her my numbers. I always felt if she could escape her mother, she could have a good life with someone who cared about her.”

I put his card in my billfold and we settled down for a pleasant lunch. Bert had worked the French Quarter for over twenty years, and he was a wealth of great stories and fun facts. When Tinkie mentioned lingerie shopping, he knew exactly the place to send her.

“Fran’s Loft.” He winked at Tinkie. “And it’s not a block from the building where Brandy ran the Pleasure Zone. Real nice couple bought the place. They’re renovating. You should drive by and check it out.”

“Thanks.” A shopping trip would appease Tinkie’s need for something frilly and give me a chance to poke around. New Orleans was a hard place to keep secrets. I wondered what Sherry’s neighbors remembered about her establishment.

He gave us the address in an upscale district, and when we finished lunch, we left the Quarter and entered an area where original New Orleans settlers had built their homes. At the lingerie shop, while Tinkie wallowed in the joy of silk and lace and titillation, I walked the block to find what had once been the Pleasure Zone.

The building was a surprise. I’d expected a seedy, rambling old place with a dreary front and sad windows. Instead I discovered a triple-tiered Renaissance palazzo. Each floor had balconies all around, and the three-acre lot, which included a cluster of old oaks, exuded graciousness. A high privacy fence kept the backyard from prying eyes, but the front was planted with azaleas, oleanders, and marching rows of delicate spider lilies. Those were heritage stock plants, and they complemented the structure perfectly.

The house was getting a face-lift. Workers on ladders repaired and painted the stucco. An electric drill whined as new shutters went up. Another crew was installing a front porch swing. The old pleasure palace would soon be a home.

A woman in her sixties came out of the house carrying two giant black trash bags. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt and gave me a smile. “May I help you?” She dropped the rattling bags onto the sidewalk. A seam split and several DVD cases, a hairbrush, some plastic dishes, and old disposable food containers slithered onto the walk.

It was a delicate moment. She was obviously hot and annoyed. “I’m curious about your home,” I said.

Her laughter was unexpected. “The sordid history, you mean. That’s exactly why we bought it. My husband’s a writer. I’m shocked people still remember the Pleasure Zone. These old buildings have seen a lot of incarnations.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you, but would it be possible to ask one or two questions?”

“Is it the old history or the more contemporary history that interests you?” A furrow appeared between her eyebrows. “I know only a few anecdotal tales. My husband has researched the property. You should speak to him. I doubt I’d be any help at all.”

“Did you ever meet the Westins?” I asked, hoping to engage her in conversation before she decided not to speak with me at all.

“No, they were long gone when we bought the house, but rumors die hard in New Orleans. I find the history mildly curious, but most people don’t know how to react when I tell them I live in a former whorehouse. Rather startling to my friends and relatives. I don’t want to be rude, but I have crews waiting for me to instruct them.”

“I understand.” I pulled a business card from my purse. “Sarah Booth Delaney. Would you mind if I telephoned you? If I have more questions.”

She hesitated. “I really can’t help you, I’m afraid.” She turned toward the house and tripped on one of the trash bags. A half-dozen DVD cases skittered along the cement. “Dammit,” she said.

“I’ll pick those up for you,” I volunteered.

“I wouldn’t touch them without gloves. We bought the property as is, and we’ve been hauling out trash bags full of junk each week. There are all kinds of interesting nooks and crannies in the house, and every single one was filled with crap I have to cart away.” She kicked them back into a pile, stepped over the bags, and walked briskly across the lawn to the house.

I bent to the task of gathering the DVDs. I couldn’t stop myself from checking out the labels as I returned them to the trash bag. There were dates, and then a sequence of symbols and male names written in a clear, feminine hand. Code for something? I couldn’t say what, but the possibilities danced in my head like sugarplums.

Once the DVDs were restacked, I stood up. A curtain fluttered in the second floor, as though the owner of the house was watching me. I turned down the sidewalk in the direction I’d parked the car.

I was almost at the lingerie store when Tinkie, buried in boxes and bags, saw me. “Sarah Booth! I just found the cutest stuff! Oscar will go nuts. I’ll have him chasing me like a … well, like a man.” She threw her purchases in the backseat and I did a U-turn in the road and drove back toward the old whorehouse.

“I’m going to stop at the curb. Jump out and snag those garbage bags on the sidewalk,” I said to Tinkie.

“We’re picking up trash now?” Tinkie’s face said
distasteful
.

“They’re old videos. Homemade stuff. From the Westins.”

Her attitude changed. “Sex tapes? Can we have them?”

“I didn’t ask, but they’re trash. Snatch them and let’s head home.” I stopped at the curb.

In a flash, Tinkie was out of the car. With some effort, she hefted the big black bags into the backseat. “How many recordings are there?” she asked as she climbed into the seat and slammed her door.

“A lot. Let’s hope there’s something useful on them.”

3

Tinkie and I drove straight to Madam Tomeeka’s clapboard cottage on the outskirts of Zinnia. I was happy to see the roads in this section of town, known as the Grove, were paved. Two years ago they were dirt. Historically, the Grove’s residents had been neglected, but recently, road improvements, sidewalks, and city plumbing had been put in. And not a single one of the beautiful oaks that gave the section its name had been sacrificed. The citizens of the neighborhood had held vigil to protect the trees. Progress was great, but shade trees were more important.

“Now that we sort of know the location of Heart’s Desire, maybe Tammy can stop worrying about Mrs. Littlefield,” Tinkie said as I pulled into the grassless front yard and parked beside a line of old, gnarled cedars.

Tinkie got out of the car, hitching down her skirt as we walked to the front door.

Tammy met us on a cloud of mouthwatering smells wafting from her kitchen.

“Fried chicken?” I swallowed and managed not to drool on myself.

“Yes, indeed. With okra and tomatoes, corn bread, and mashed potatoes with gravy. I thought you might be hungry.”

Millie Roberts, our friend and frequent source of gossip and rumor who ran a café in town, was the best cook I knew, but Tammy could give her a run for her money when it came to down-home Southern fare. “Lead me to it,” I said.

“Sarah Booth, you ate your po’boy and half of mine at lunch. Are you truly hungry?” Tinkie was shocked at my appetite.

“I wasn’t, until I caught the scent of fried chicken. Don’t get between me and Tammy’s cooking, Tinkie.”

Tammy led the way to her kitchen, where the table was set and the food was steaming hot on it. Sighing, Tinkie settled onto a chair. “It does smell good. Can I take a plate to Oscar?”

“Already dished one up for you.” Tammy pointed to the counter, where a plate piled high with food sat covered by plastic wrap.

As I wolfed down a pan-fried breast and big helpings of everything else, I told Tammy about our adventures in New Orleans.

I pushed back my plate. My pants were so tight, I almost couldn’t breathe, but if I didn’t stand up, I’d eat more. “Let’s check those recordings before I explode.”

“If these are sex tapes the Westins made…” Tammy didn’t finish the thought. “These people are very smart, Sarah Booth. This could be more dangerous than I thought. We need to rethink your involvement in this. It could be blackmail or porn. I don’t like the turn this has taken.”