Heather Graham (12 page)

“I’m just—I’m—”

“You don’t belong here,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Well, now, excuse me, but the establishment is open to the public and—”

“You’re his wife.”

She paused, searching out the man’s face. “I’m Jon Marcel’s ex-wife, yes. Do you mind returning the favor? Just who the hell are you and why were you staring at me?”

He grinned. “Gregory Hanson. Friend of your husband’s. Ex-husband. Casual friend. Close friend of Gina L’Aveau. The girl murdered the other night. By your husband. So they say.”

Ann was pleasantly startled to realize that this man wasn’t condemning Jon without a trial—no matter what kind of evidence the papers had said that the police had against him.

“Jon didn’t kill her.”

The man arched a brow. “He told me once that you two were friends. Best friends. That’s just kind of hard to believe when a marriage splits up.”

“We just got past the bitterness.”

“That’s even harder to believe.”

Ann smiled. “Well, it’s true. Maybe we’re lucky. We have a daughter, and we have art in common to keep us together. Our marriage didn’t make it. But I know Jon, and I know that he would never murder anyone.”

“Even if he was in love with her?”

“Was he in love with her?”

“I think a lot of people were a little bit in love with her.” He indicated the bar. “Have a seat with me. You won’t look quite so much like a white nun in Harlem.”

Ann allowed him to propel her toward the bar. “What will you drink?” he asked her. “You have to drink something. When in Rome, you know.”

She glanced sideways at him. “What do women usually drink in strip joints?”

“Strip joints, Mrs. Marcel? This is a club.”

“Ah. And the women never prostitute themselves; they work as escorts, right?”

“Only when they choose,” Gregory replied blandly. “What will you drink?”

“A beer, please. And I don’t mean to be offensive to anyone.”

“I’ve taken no offense,” Gregory said, motioning to the young woman behind the bar for a drink.

“Are you—a dancer?” Ann asked.

He grinned. “Or a male escort?”

She flushed.

He pointed to the dais. “I play the trumpet. I’m one of the best in New Orleans. In the country, maybe.” He didn’t brag, and he didn’t offer any false modesty. He spoke quite matter-of-factly.

“Why aren’t you playing your trumpet?”

“I’m on break. What are you doing here?”

“Jon is in a coma.”

“Yes?”

“He can’t defend himself.”

“So you’ve come to a strip joint to defend him?”

“He didn’t kill your friend.”

“Maybe he didn’t. Shouldn’t the police be working on who did?”

“The police think that Jon is guilty.”

“Foolish men. Jon was with her, their blood is mingled, they got it on sometime during the day.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I read the papers.”

The young woman tending the bar brought Ann’s drink. She was wearing a white see-through blouse with nothing underneath. Ann couldn’t find a comfortable place to focus.

“Thanks,” she managed.

“Sure thing, hon,” the woman said, flashed a smile to Gregory, and moved on.

Gregory lifted his own glass to her. “Salute, Mrs. Marcel.”

Ann lifted her glass in return. Gregory set his glass down.

“I was in love with her,” he said softly.

“Gina?”

He nodded. “And I agree with you. Your ex-husband didn’t kill her.”

“Thanks. It’s good to have someone on my side.” She hesitated, sipping the foam off her beer. “So, who did kill her?”

Gregory shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked down at his hands, at the backs first, then, turning them over, at his palms. He had very large, powerful hands. “Gina...I hope I can say this properly. Gina sometimes made enemies because she liked people so much.”

Ann arched a brow to him.

“She liked people, she felt sorry for people. If someone needed her, she felt compelled to be there, whether she should be there or not. She—”

“She what?”

“She was seeing lots of men. Just about everybody she knew—except for me.”

“I don’t understand—”

“I was in love with Gina. I didn’t say that she was in love with me. I think she had fallen in love with your ex-husband, Mrs. Marcel; but she hadn’t managed to break off some of her previous liaisons, and I’m not sure she believed that a basically good man like Marcel could really want to marry her and give her what she honestly wanted out of life.”

“Who else was she seeing?”

“Ah!” Gregory said, leaning against the bar. “Better ask who she wasn’t seeing. That list includes me.”

Ann smiled at his attempt at humor. “Seriously, will you tell me what you know?”

He nodded. “Well, her family were bayou folk. Mama Lili Mae, the local voodoo guru around here, was a great-aunt to her or the like; Gina loved to visit Mama Lili Mae. She grew up out on the bayou where they have a bunch of cottages. Among the kin she grew up with was a distant cousin, Jacques Morel. She was seeing him, becoming involved with his business deals now and then. Clean deals for the most part; just shady enough to make him a fair income. Let’s see, there was your husband. And...” He paused, looking upward where etched mirrors lined the high walls of the place. “And then there’s Harry Duval.”

“And he is...?”

“The fellow who owns this place. She’s had an ongoing relationship with him for a long time.” He hesitated. “There are a few others, I guess. Friends. Friends who have been more than friends.” His dark eyes touched hard upon Ann. “She had gone to see Mama Lili Mae the day she was killed. She was distressed about something she had discussed with that old voodoo witch.”

“Have you talked to her?” Ann asked anxiously.

He shook his head.

“But—”

“You don’t just call Mama Lili Mae. When I say bayou, I mean you head out into the water. That’s one of those places where AT&T hasn’t yet managed to reach out and touch someone. No phone, no lights, no anything.”

“I’d like to talk with her.”

“Would you?”

“Yes. Would you consider taking me out there?”

He studied her face, then leaned toward her, suddenly angry.

“So you want to go to the bayou? To the ’squitors and the gators, the swamp, the snakessssss...” He hissed the last.

“Yes.”

“The bayou is brutal to strangers.”

“I’ll be with you.”

This time, he didn’t get a chance to answer her. A slim brunette with huge gray eyes had come to Gregory’s other side. “Hey, I’m off now, can I drown in some Scotch with you for a while? Oh!” She noticed Ann on his other side. “Hi, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude—”

“Cindy,” Gregory interrupted. “This is the artist’s wife.”

“Ex-wife,” Ann said with a smile, offering the pretty woman a hand. “Ann Marcel.”

“Cindy McKenna. Nice to meet you. Your ex seems to be a great guy. Oh, wow, that sounds weird, doesn’t it? He’s a great guy for an alleged murderer. I mean, I—oh, God. He’s your ex, right? What are you doing here, Mrs. Marcel? That’s not what I mean—that sounds awful. I mean, this can just be such a strange place for certain people...,” her voice trailed away awkwardly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Jon is a great guy. And he didn’t do it—Jon didn’t murder anybody.”

Cindy McKenna’s eyes widened. “Did they prove him innocent somehow? Is he out?”

Ann shook her head. “No, no one has proven anything.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She looked sorry. Her eyes remained huge and round. Staring at her, Ann realized that the woman looked familiar. Then she realized why.

“Oh, you’re one of the dancers who was on stage!” Ann said.

Cindy flushed and nodded uneasily. “It’s a good living,” she said quietly.

Defensively.

“You all were—beautiful,” Ann said. “So graceful, fluid. It was beautifully choreographed.”

Cindy stared at her, then looked to Gregory. “Did you hear that?”

Ann frowned. “I meant what I said—”

“And it was really nice. So nice,” Cindy said. “I’m not accustomed to comments being so nice because most of the time, well—”

“Most of the time,” Gregory interjected dryly, “the comments on her dancing refer to T and A.”

“Tits and ass,” Cindy murmured, as if Ann might not understand.

“Well,” Ann replied, “such things can be virtues as well.”

Cindy laughed. “Jon always said that you were nice, and talented. And now...well, you’re awfully loyal as well. You must be hurting very badly for him. I wish we could help you.”

“I thought that I’d take her out to Mama Lili Mae’s tomorrow,” Gregory said.

“Out in the bayou?” Cindy said, surprised.

“Why shouldn’t I take her out there?”

“Oh—just because, well...I mean, some folks might think the whole thing was a bit silly, reading bones, sacrificing chickens and all...” She smiled again, but then her smile faded; her face seemed to become a paler shade as she looked past Ann. Ann swung quickly around on her bar stool to see what had caused that reaction in Cindy.

The man who had come to stand behind her was tall, lean, and tautly muscled, handsomely dressed in a dark casual suit with a gray knit shirt beneath. His skin was a true copper; his eyes were almost gold. He was an exotic and striking individual, compelling, arresting. He smiled slowly, assessing Ann.

“Mrs. Marcel.” His voice was low and well-modulated. “Welcome to Annabella’s.”

“You know my name.”

“Most of New Orleans will know your name. There was a picture of you in the paper.”

“Ah. And you, sir—”

“Ann Marcel, Harry Duval. The owner of Annabella’s.” Gregory performed the necessary introductions.

“All of us here are deeply disturbed by the events of late, you understand.” Harry Duval’s words were saved from triteness by the incredible degree of charm behind them.

“Of course,” Ann said. “If you’d rather I not be here—”

“On the contrary, we’re delighted to have you here. Your ex-husband spoke of you frequently, with great warmth and enthusiasm. There were not many people he trusted with his vision when he first broached the ladies and me with his intent to paint them. We’re disturbed, Mrs. Marcel, because none of us can accept what has happened. Gina was quite precious to us all; she is lost. We cannot believe what is said of Jon Marcel, but then...”

“He didn’t do it,” Ann said.

Duval’s brow went up, much as Cindy’s had done earlier when Ann had made her statement of faith.

“Have the police learned something new, Mrs. Marcel?”

Was there a little anxiety in his voice? As if he might be
afraid
that Jon could be innocent? Cindy had jumped on her quickly as well. Maybe, no matter how much they all said they liked Jon, they wanted him to be guilty.

Because that meant that the killer was caught; that no one else was in danger.

And that no one else was guilty.

She shook her head slowly, watching Harry Duval. “The police are going on their knowledge of their evidence; I’m going on my knowledge of Jon.”

“He is a lucky man to have you. It is a...rare relationship, is it not?”

“I don’t think that friendship is so rare.”

“Why did you come here?” Duval demanded flatly.

“I—the paintings,” she said quickly. “I wanted to see what had so influenced Jon to create such wonderful art. Now I know, the dancing was beautiful.”

“Yes, my musicians are the best; my dancers are the most talented. Few people understand that such dancing can be like everything else in life, some exquisite, some for the gutter.” He laughed suddenly, golden eyes sizzling. “Not that I pretend we don’t wish to be seductive, to touch the senses, to titillate, arouse...we do. But the human body is beautiful, and can be a beautiful tool, and as you will note by the many different people sitting in here, sensuality belongs to all walks of life.”

“It’s an extraordinary place,” Ann told him.

He winked at her. “And I insist you are an extraordinary woman, entering into such a den of harlots and thieves to protect your friend!” He motioned to the bartender. “A round on the house, please?” He studied Ann, smiling. “I wish that you had come here for a job, Mrs. Marcel. I believe that you would make an incredible dancer.”

“You could, you know,” Cindy said.

Ann smiled, shaking her head. “I’m too old, too uncoordinated, too everything.”

“Too wrong,” Cindy advised. “I could teach you a dozen basic moves in two hours. Want to try sometime?”

“I—I—”

“Too exotic for you, Mrs. Marcel?” Harry Duval inched closer to her, gold eyes seeming to bathe her in a strange, compelling fire. He moved like a cat, subtle, sure. He was stalking her, she thought.

“Mr. Duval, I believe I’m past the time when I might have learned—”

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Marcel, we never pass the time when we are intrigued by what is achingly erotic, stimulating, compelling...just as we never lose the capacity to love, the desire to love.”

Cindy laughed. “What he’s trying to say, I think, is that we do want to be sexy, don’t we? Most women want to be sexy to at least one man.”

“Well, we’ll see,” Ann murmured. She was startled to feel as if her fingers were on fire. Duval had lifted her hand into his own.

“Just so long as you do come back, Mrs. Marcel. Perhaps as an artist, then, with paints, if you do not wish to use your own body in what truly is an art form. Come back with your paints. Take up where your ex-husband left off. Excuse me,” he said suddenly, “I see a friend with whom I must speak.”

He was looking at a man who had just come in, who stood in the entryway watching the dancers now on stage. The band was playing something with a jungle beat, and a redhead in a scanty leopard costume was sliding up and down against one of the poles. The man, however, was much more intriguing, especially to an artist, than the woman alone on the stage. He was tall; he wore Versace as if he were born to it, with an absolute casual elegance. He was a white man with slick dark hair and the fine features of an old European aristocrat. He was handsome, yet something about him made Ann think of the term “gigolo.”

“Jacques Moret,” Gregory murmured against Ann’s ear. “Gina’s lover beginning to circle...” He sat back, staring at someone who had come around from behind Ann.