White Hot (27 page)

H
e was waiting for her in his pickup outside the main entrance of the hospital. Leaning across the seat, he opened the passenger door, and she got in. He didn’t mention Alicia Paulik or ask what had transpired after he left. “I was serious about dinner,” he said. “I skipped lunch. Would you like to go with me, or not?”

It wasn’t the most gracious invitation she’d ever received, but she accepted it. She was hungry, but her hunger could have been assuaged with a stop at a fast-food restaurant’s drive-through. Her curiosity, however, couldn’t be satisfied with a quick fix. The questions arising from what had happened in the hospital could be answered only by Beck, and getting him to address them might require some time.

They said little as he navigated his way through traffic back down Canal Street and then into the French Quarter. He parked in a public garage, and from there they set out on foot along Royal Street.

After they had strolled for a couple of blocks, passing several eateries from which wafted mouthwatering aromas, Sayre asked, “Do we have a specific destination?”

“I know a place.”

The sun was low enough to cast long shadows of the buildings and create welcome shade, but the narrow street shimmered with heat captured throughout the day. It radiated off the pastel plaster walls of the ancient buildings and up from the uneven brick banquette.

Beck had left his suit jacket behind. He still had on his necktie, but it was loosely knotted beneath his open shirt collar. Sayre, who was wearing the black dress she’d worn to Danny’s funeral, wished for shoes with heels more suitable for walking.

Conversation was kept to a minimum. They lingered at one corner for several minutes, listening to a solo saxophonist before continuing on. They were approached by a roving clown in a frizzy pink wig and polka-dot britches but declined to have their faces painted by him. A group of intoxicated young men eddied around them. One was brave enough to address a lewd overture to Sayre, but when he noticed Beck and interpreted his expression, his boozy grin, along with his courage, vanished and he hastened to catch up with his buddies.

The shops and galleries on Royal Street tended to be upscale. They boasted European antiques, estate jewelry, paintings, and sculptures for the most discerning collectors. One shop sold souvenirs, but the merchandise was several steps up from the ordinary junk found in the T-shirt shops on Bourbon Street.

Beck and Sayre walked past the store; then he stopped and retraced his steps to go inside. “Be right back,” he said over his shoulder.

Sayre wandered back to the display window to admire an array of Mardi Gras masks. They were decorated with faux jewels, spangles, lace, and lavish plumes. Some were ferocious, others exquisitely beautiful.

Beck came out of the shop carrying a strand of white pearl beads interspersed with smaller beads in metallic green, gold, and purple. “That dress is great, but it reminds me of the funeral. I thought this might help.” He draped the strand around Sayre’s neck, lifted her hair over it, then adjusted it to the neckline of her dress. “There. Better.”

“Traditionally a man doesn’t give a woman beads until she does something to earn them.”

His fingertips lingered on the beads before he slowly withdrew his hands. “The evening’s not over yet.” Their gazes held until a group of laughing people bumped their way past on the narrow banquette. Beck started them on their way again.

She never would have found the place, nor would anyone else who didn’t know it was there. The side street on which it was located was no more than an alley with a drainage gully running down its center. There was no sign to indicate a place of business. Beck stopped at an ivy-draped iron gate and worked his hand through the foliage to press a bell.

Through a concealed speaker, a disembodied voice said,
“Oui?”

“It’s Beck Merchant.”

The gate unlocked with an audible click. Beck ushered her through, then carefully latched it behind them. They followed a narrow exterior corridor that opened into a courtyard enclosed by lichen-covered brick walls. Ferns the size of Volkswagens were suspended by chains from the branches of a live oak tree that embraced the entire enclosure.

Flowering plants peeked out from beneath gargantuan philodendrons and elephant ears. The twisted trunk of a wisteria vine, now in full leaf, had climbed the wall of the adjacent building and spread across the tile roof.

Beck directed her upstairs.

Sayre, entranced, went ahead of him up a circular staircase that led to a balcony with a railing of iron fretwork. Ceiling fans circulated, causing gas flames to flicker inside the hurricane lamps affixed to the exterior wall. At intervals along the length of the balcony, hibiscus shrubs grew out of china pots. The bright blooms were as gaily colored as parasols, and nearly as large.

They were greeted by a dapper man in a tuxedo. He clasped Beck’s hands between his own. He spoke rapid French, but Sayre understood enough to know that he was exceedingly glad Beck had come. Beck introduced her. The man’s compliments were effusive to the point of embarrassing her. He kissed her on both cheeks.

Beck said, “It’s presumptuous to show up without a reservation.”

The maître d’ shushed his apology and assured him that there would always be a table for him.

Beck asked if they could be served drinks on the balcony before going inside for dinner. “Champagne, please.”

“
Certainement.
I guarantee your privacy,” he said, bobbing his eyebrows at Sayre. “Take your time. Enjoy.” He snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared through a set of open French doors to take the order of champagne.

Beck motioned her toward a bistro table at the far end of the balcony. He held one of the dainty chairs for her, then sat in the other across from her. “Maybe I should have consulted you before asking to stay outside.”

“I welcome it actually.”

“Not too hot for you?”

“I like the heat.”

“I remember.”

Something about the way he said it, the way he was looking at her, made her heart knock lightly against her ribs. Changing the tenor of the conversation, she commented on his knowledge of French.

“My major required a foreign language.”

He hadn’t learned to be fluent in a university classroom, but his laconic reply indicated to her that his being bilingual was no big deal.

There one second and gone the next, the waiter appeared with a serving tray on which were two champagne flutes. Another waiter placed a wine cooler near their table. He poured from the opened bottle of champagne, then replaced the bottle in the ice and melted into the shadows along the balcony.

Beck raised his glass and clinked it softly against hers. “What are we drinking to?” she asked.

“Your departure.”

“Oh?”

“Get the hell out of here, Sayre. Go back to your life in San Francisco before you get hurt.”

“I got hurt.”

“You had your heart broken over a high school romance. That was kids’ play compared to what could happen to you now.”

“Little do you know, Beck.”

“Then tell me.”

She shook her head. “What happened is between Huff and me. I left and swore I would never come back.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Yes, here I am.”

“Why?”

She debated with herself for maybe thirty seconds before she said, “Danny called me.”

His surprise was evident. “When?”

“The Friday before he died.” She told him about the calls she had declined to take. “For the rest of my life, I’ll chide myself for refusing to talk to him.”

“I assume he didn’t leave a message.”

“No, but I doubt he was merely homesick to talk to me. I think he was calling for some fundamental reason, and I can’t resume my life until I know—with a degree of certainty—what that reason was.”

“It could have been anything, Sayre,” he said softly.

“It could have been. Believe me, my conscience has tried to persuade me that it was inconsequential, a what’s-new-in-your-life? call. But knowing what I do about the working conditions in the plant, and the ambiguity surrounding Iverson’s disappearance, and Chris’s recent quarrel with Danny, a more accurate guess would be that it was about something important.”

She looked at him and sighed. “Beck, my family is corrupt if not lethal. They can’t continue to destroy lives and livelihoods with impunity. Somebody must stop them. I was furious with you for taking me off that airplane, but I thank you for it now. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d returned without some hard answers to difficult questions.”

He tried one last argument. “What about your business? Won’t it suffer while you’re away?”

“I might lose some potential clients who are in a hurry, but the majority will postpone their projects and wait for me to get back. In any case, I can’t return to my life there knowing that I didn’t at least try to right the terrible wrongs here.”

Looking down at the bubbles rising in her glass, she said thoughtfully, “Chris wants me out of the picture. I wonder why. His eagerness for me to leave raises speculation that makes it impossible for me to go.” She looked again at Beck. “I’m staying.”

He seemed to accept that he couldn’t talk her out of her involvement. Sighing with resignation, he nodded at the crystal flute. “Drink up. No sense in wasting France’s best.”

After taking a sip, she said, “Is the champagne part of your seduction strategy?”

His eyebrow arched. “Would you rather I just cut to the chase? Our host would accommodate us with a room.” Lowering his voice, he added, “And it would be my pleasure to accommodate you.”

“So you could rush back to Huff, mission accomplished?”

“Sayre, you can’t think that I considered his proposition as anything but ridiculous.”

She smiled ruefully. “Chris delighted in telling me that Huff was trying to pawn me off again. He delivered it as the coup de grâce of his campaign to get me out of town.”

A waiter appeared with a platter of complimentary appetizers. Beck said, “Can we forget all that long enough to enjoy our dinner?” When she nodded, he motioned for her to help herself to the appetizers. She bit into a pastry shell that virtually dissolved on her tongue.

“What’s the filling?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s delicious.”

He tried one of the same and agreed. “Gruyère? Spinach?”

“Beck, at the hospital—”

“Minced onion,” he said, still analyzing the filling in the pastry.

“The first card Alicia Paulik took from that envelope was from you. You heard her reaction.”

He put the remainder of the canapé in his mouth and dusted his hands. “Scrumptious. I believe I’ll have another.” But as he reached toward the tray, Sayre stayed his hand and forced him to look at her.

“The check you sent them was extremely generous.”

“That’s relative, isn’t it? How generous is generous? Huff suggested that we—as he put it—‘sweeten the pot.’ ”

“Huff had nothing to do with that gift. It wasn’t a company check. It was drawn on your personal account.”

He removed the bottle from the wine cooler and poured each of them more champagne.

“Mrs. Paulik was overcome by your generosity,” Sayre went on. “But it also left her conflicted. She was almost angry at you for making her feel so bad about the spitting incident. She deeply regretted it and wanted to apologize.”

“She doesn’t owe me an apology.”

“She owes you her gratitude.”

“I don’t want that either.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Be thinking about what you want to eat. I recommend the oysters Bienville.”

“Beck, dammit, answer me.”

“Okay,” he said brusquely. “Maybe I’m trying to buy myself a clean conscience. Does that make you think better of me, or worse?” He signaled a waiter and spoke to him in quiet French. The waiter disappeared inside and returned shortly with soft leather folders containing handwritten menus.

Sayre left hers unopened on the table. “Monday afternoon, why did you tip off Chris about Calvin McGraw? Did you think it would be fun to watch my reaction?”

He laid down his menu and looked her in the eye. “No, Sayre. But I thought it would be interesting to watch Chris’s.”

“Chris’s?”

Beck placed his forearms on the table and leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them. “Chris and Huff have been nervous over your talking to the former jurors. I’ve been asking myself why. Why didn’t they scratch their heads in bewilderment and chuckle over your cockamamie notions? Why not leave you to make an ass of yourself? Why not let you play yourself out until you gave up and went back to San Francisco? That’s what one would expect them to do.”

Catching his drift, she said, “Unless they had something to hide.”

“Unless they had something to hide.” He looked down at the menu and toyed with the tassel at the end of the silk cord that divided the sheets inside. “I let you be embarrassed because I wanted to see what Chris would do if Calvin McGraw had been having a good day and giving a credible, lucid account of what took place during Chris’s trial, like you said he’d done that morning.”

“You believed me, didn’t you?”

Raising his head, he looked across at her for a long time before saying anything. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Pair a strand of cheap Mardi Gras beads with haute couture and make it look so damn perfect. When I looked up at you just now…despite all this crap we’re talking about, I’m thinking, Jesus, she’s gorgeous.”

Self-consciously, she touched the strand of imitation pearls lying on her chest. “You didn’t answer my question. Did you believe what I told you about Calvin McGraw?”

He sighed and sat back. “If I believe that, I’m one step away from believing that Chris killed Gene Iverson and disposed of the body where no one would ever find it.”

“He learned from Huff’s mistake,” she said quietly.

“What mistake?”

“Chris was a witness to Sonnie Hallser’s murder.”

His eyes focused sharply on hers. “What?”

“Chris waylaid me when I returned to my motel room last night. We talked about more than just Huff’s design for you and me.” She recounted for him their conversation, specifically regarding Hallser’s death. “He argued that I was too young to remember it, that I had merged two separate memories. But that’s not true, Beck. I know I’m right. Chris sneaked out of the house that night and walked to the plant to surprise Huff.