Masquerade (44 page)

"You
assume
he hit him, but you don't know that for a fact, do you?" Gabe said.
 

"Of course not."

"That's what I thought." He walked over and sat down beside her again, fitting his palm to hers and linking their fingers together. "Look ... let us handle it from here. Stop trying to be a one-sister show."

She managed a smile of sorts and nodded, but she had to know. "What are you going to do?"

"To start with," Marc inserted, "you've given us the leverage we need to force a resignation from Buchanan. We can have him packed and gone before the day's over. Which will leave us free to negotiate a settlement with the insurance company."

"Wait a minute." Remy turned to her father and Gabe. "You aren't going to let them get away with it, are you?"

"You think we should file charges against them," Gabe guessed.

"Don't you?"

"In principle, yes. In reality, it would be a waste of time." He held her hand a little tighter, not letting her pull away. "It's a white-collar crime. There'd be a lot of headlines, a lot of scandal, but the chances of either one of them ever going to jail are slim to none."

"As much as I hate to admit it, Gabe is right," her father declared with a heavy sigh. "And then too, we can't overlook the fact that the Crescent Line would be drawn into any charge of insurance fraud. We would end up being a defendant—and we'd be found guilty."

"That kind of notoriety wouldn't be good for anyone," Marc put in. "There's nothing this town loves more than a scandal. It's something like what happens at the scene of an accident, with people driving by slowly, wanting to see how much blood there is and to watch somebody writhe and twist in pain so they can feel alive."

"But what about Charlie?" Remy protested.

"We'll look into that," Gabe said in reassurance. "But I'll be honest, Remy. The mere fact that he agreed to get some information for you isn't sufficient cause to file a murder charge against anyone, not without some corroborating evidence. A bruise isn't enough, especially when the coroner reached the conclusion that he was struck by an object in the water. A defense attorney wouldn't have to be F. Lee Bailey to get a man off with that kind of testimony. I'm sorry, but—"

"—that's the way it is," she finished the sentence for him, pulling her hand free of his entwining fingers and pushing the teacup onto the glass-topped coffee table, then rising to her feet in barely controlled agitation.

"I'm afraid it is."

"Remy, I have the feeling you're blaming yourself for this man's death," her father said gently as she moved toward the windowed wall, a confection of white wood and glass. "You're thinking he'd still be alive if you hadn't asked him to help you. But that's something none of us can know. Whether his death was an accident or a deliberate act, you're not responsible."

She wanted to challenge that, but instead she just stared at the shafts of sunlight piercing the canopy of an oak to shine in a broken pattern on the rosebush skeletons in her mother's prize garden. "And Maitland, what are you going to do about him?" She wrapped both arms around her middle. Not because her ribs were hurting, but because she felt vaguely sick.

There was a lengthy pause before Marc responded to her question. "Maitland ... is a slightly different situation. However, he does live—and work—within our community. There are certain
subtle
pressures that can be brought to bear. We can promise you that, Remy."

"We know how to handle this problem," her father asserted. "You've done more than enough. It's our turn now."

"Of course." She turned from the window, avoiding their eyes. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go to my room. I feel like I've been living in these clothes. I need to change."

"You look tired, darling," her mother observed. "This has been such an ordeal for you. Would you like me to have Nattie bring a lunch tray to your room? I'm sure you'd like to rest."

"Yes, thank you," she murmured absently, and she left the room, sickened by her silence and by the token objections she'd raised to their plans to hush up this whole messy affair very quickly and very quietly. It was wrong, she knew that—even though common sense told her they were right. Even if Cole and Maitland were tried and convicted of fraud—after lengthy delays, postponements, and appeals—they'd probably get off with a suspended sentence and probation. And the insurance company would still look to the Crescent Line for restitution, and possibly even damages. All that scandal, all that publicity—for what? A slap on the hand.

Her family was merely following a common business practice by dealing with the problem themselves, in their own way. But she was going along with them for a much more selfish reason: she didn't want to see Cole punished. She was glad there was another way to handle it, a way that wouldn't dirty his name and brand him a criminal.

"Forgive me, Charlie," she whispered as she climbed the mahogany stairs to her room.

 

A breeze, chill and sharp, blew strongly through the open French doors onto the second-floor gallery. Remy hesitated, then set the tray bearing the remains of her lunch on the low table by the love-seat and walked over to close them. As she drew them together, a car pulled up out front and a man charged out of the driver's-side door.

Cole. Remy froze for an instant, staring as he swept toward the house with long, rigid strides. What was he doing here? The wide gallery quickly blocked him from view, and Remy turned, hearing the squeal of brakes from a second car as she started across the room, leaving the French doors partially closed and the lunch tray on the table.

The clangorous pounding of the brass knocker shattered the quiet of the house, and Remy broke into a running walk, reaching the top of the stairs just as Nattie arrived at the front door. Nattie barely had a chance to open it before Cole shoved his way inside.

"Where the hell is she? I want to see her— now!" His voice was like a distant and ominous roll of thunder.

"Cole—" Remy stopped halfway down the steps, stunned by the anger in his expression when he swung toward her, his jaw clenched, all the muscles in his face contracted, making him appear even more gaunt-cheeked and hard-edged.

As Cole moved toward the staircase, Marc charged through the door, looking all flustered and upset. He grabbed at Cole's arm. "Buchanan, I told you—"

"And I told
you
I wanted to hear her say it." Cole shook off his restraining hand and continued to the foot of the stairs, fixing his silver-black stare on her. "I want to hear it from you."

"What are you talking about?" Remy glanced uncertainly at her uncle.

"He doesn't believe—"

"Don't you put words in her mouth," Cole snapped. "Let it come from her."

"You mean—" she began.

"Tell me what you told them," he demanded, pushing the words through his teeth.

She closed her eyes for an instant, then opened them to meet his gaze, hurting for him and for herself. "I'm sorry, Cole, but I saw you with Maitland that night on the dock when you were loading the tanker with water."

"That's a goddamned lie!"

She flinched at the rage in his voice even as her uncle spoke, reminding him, "Buchanan, you've already admitted you were there with Maitland."

"Yes, dammit, I was, but—"

"Cole, stop," Remy protested. "Don't make this any harder than it already is."

He turned back to her, harshly demanding, "Was it hard this morning? You said you loved me. And was I supposed to believe that?"

"It's the truth. I do love you—"

"Save it for one of your Uptown friends," he said harshly. "Someone used to a woman saying she loves him in one breath and then stabbing him in the back in the next." He pivoted to face Marc. "You wanted my resignation—now you've got it. Tell Mrs. Franks to clean out my desk and drop my things by the apartment."

"Cole, wait." Remy started after him as he crossed to the door, but Marc caught her.

"Let him go, Remy." The door slammed shut. "It's better this way."

 

 

 

 

28

 

 

Mardi Gras night, and the interior of the Municipal Auditorium had been transformed into a splendorous setting worthy of the ball considered by many to be
the
social event of the year. Gleaming, swagged, and valanced draperies formed an elaborate backdrop for the dais of the ball's god-ruler and his court. Overhead, chandeliers glittered, the prisms dripping from their many tiers catching and reflecting the light. And below, a dazzling white carpet covered the floor of the dais, spilled down its steps, and spread over the entire stage. A stage that was now empty—the expectancy in the air growing.

Remy sat in the special "call-out" section near the dance floor, reserved for ladies, wives, mothers, friends, and debutantes of the members of the Mistick Krewe of Comus. She wore her hair piled atop her head in soft, smooth waves. Layers of artfully applied makeup completely concealed her bruises and created a kind of mask of calm composure, a mask that she was certain would crack if she smiled—though that was hardly a concern, since she found nothing to smile about.

She turned her head to catch something her mother said, the long multistrands of emerald and blue beads of her earrings brushing the shoulder of her long-sleeved top, which was covered with teal-blue sequins. Sibylle's remark didn't require a reply, and Remy made none as she turned back to watch the opening of the gala event.

In the ancient tradition of the Old World
bals masques
, it began with a glittering processional led by last year's court in evening dress, followed by the members of the exclusive Carnival club in their beaded and plumed costumes. Remy sat through the mimed welcome by the hooded captain and managed to appear interested when this year's debutantes, in de rigueur white gowns, were presented.

During the tableau that followed, she absently played with the clunky jeweled pendants on the gold chain belt she wore around the waist of her emerald-colored taffeta skirt, then forced herself again to pay attention to the introduction of important guests to the masked god-ruler Comus, seated on the ornately gilded dais with his queen.

At the conclusion of it, the "call-out" dances began. Remy sat through the first one while her mother danced with her father and Gabe danced with his date for the evening. Her name was called for the second, and she took to the floor to dance with her father, her sequined top concealing her tightly girdled ribs. Her brother partnered her on the third. Then it was back to her chair. Shortly after that, the general dancing began—restricted to the krewe and their ladies only, of course.

She watched the swirl of taffeta, satin, chiffon, and silk, beaded, bangled, and rhinestoned in coral, saffron, azure, plum, turquoise, and naturally, white, and longed to hear the band strike up "If Ever I Cease to Love," the official song of Mardi Gras, which signaled the meeting of Rex and Comus—and the end of the ball, a song played slowly and oh so very seriously. Thinking of it, the lyrics sprang into her mind:

 

If ever I cease to love,
 

May sheepsheads grow on apple trees
 

May the moon be turned into green cheese
 

May oysters have legs and cows lay eggs
 

If ever I cease to love. . . .

 

This time she couldn't summon a smile at the incredible, forgettable lyrics.

She contained a sigh and sipped at the white wine Gabe had brought her, surrounded by music, laughter, and the susurration of gay voices. What was she doing here? she thought, then wryly wondered how she could have forgotten. Her family had insisted that she attend—to maintain appearances.

In the space of time between Rex's arrival by riverboat on the previous evening, Lundi Gras, and the Zulu parade on Mardi Gras morning, word had gotten out: Cole Buchanan had been ousted as president of the Crescent Line, the very man who had formed a liaison with Remy Jardin that had shown every indication of becoming a permanent one. If she failed to attend the ball, only one possible conclusion could be drawn by the family's very important friends: there was a severe split in the family over the decision.

Surely by now "appearances" had been satisfied. She'd been seen by everyone who mattered. Was it necessary to maintain this charade to the end? What difference could it possibly make if she went home early?

She left her seat and went in search of Gabe or her father—not to
ask
them, but to
tell
them she was leaving. Neither was on the dance floor, or among the chatting clusters at the edges. Remy guessed immediately where the two of them were—at the backstage bar, talking business, power, and politics in between comparing golfing, football, and hunting notes with some of their colleagues. An invitation to have a drink at the backstage bar was a privilege offered to few, but at the moment, Remy didn't even give a damn that it was off-limits to her sex. She was tired of their secretive, cliquish, little-boy rules and this endless concern for appearances.

She was stopped at the entrance by a krewe member. "Sorry, no one's allowed back here."

Remy had half a notion to point out that he was back there, but she said instead, "I need to speak to my father, Frazier Jardin. It's urgent."

He hesitated, then drawled, "All right, but you wait here, Miss Jardin."

At another time, in a more puckish mood, she might have followed him, but tonight Remy simply wanted to get out of there. As she started to turn away, she caught sight of Gabe backstage. She nearly called out to him, but then she saw the man with him—Carl Maitland. She dropped the wineglass and covered her mouth with her hand, smothering a cry of shock as she backed up a step.

It had been Gabe with Maitland that night! Gabe, not Cole. She remembered now that she'd seen Cole with Maitland earlier—in the daylight. That had to be why the image of them together had been so sharp, so clear. But that night it had been Gabe. Gabe. How could she have gotten it so mixed up? Suddenly she could almost hear the French psychiatrist saying that her memory could return chronologically or . . . out of sequence, in random bits that made no sense.