Blessed Assurance (40 page)

Del never could leave anything alone. She pursed her lips. “He's the man you're supposed to have robbed and…”

“And killed?” he supplied. “Yes, the four of us should have just left, but he was holding back our last two weeks' pay. We couldn't leave without it. So I asked him for it. We had words.”

The last three words were spoken with deadly emphasis. Meg cringed inwardly.
Oh, Del, the crusader and defender. Couldn't you for once have avoided confrontation?

“What happened then?”

“In the early hours of the next morning, the police broke down my door, found cash and a gun under my bed, and arrested me.” He looked down. “Somebody must have put something in my last drink. When the police questioned me…it was like swimming up from deep water.”

An awful dread sparked in Meg's middle. “You were drugged and someone planted the evidence in your room while you slept?”

“That or they planted it before I got there, but I didn't notice. I remember being really tired when I got to my room and fell asleep immediately.”

Meg gazed at him. If Del had it right, someone had set him up. Ice slid through her veins. How could she tell him she hadn't even found him a lawyer? And what if she couldn't get a lawyer? She needed more information. Maybe a good private investigator could help. Too often in the past, Del had tried to protect her from the truth. He didn't want her to worry about him and he might hold back facts she needed now for the same reason.

She looked at him narrowly. She'd try to get enough out of him now to get an investigator started with. “Who were you playing with?”

“Tommy Willis, LaVerne Mason, Pete Brown. Why?”

“Where were you playing?”

“A hole-in-the-wall in Storyville.”

“Storyville?” she asked.

“Yes, it was the district for legal prostitution before the war. But
the police don't make much of an effort, even now, to stop it if the girls stay in Storyville. It's where all the clubs are.”

Recalling the prostitute in court the day before, Meg nodded. “What's the club's name?”

“Penny Candy…” He paused to give her a worried look. “Meg, you stay out of there.”

“Del, I need to talk to people—”

He cut her off: “Meg, I don't even want you here in New Orleans.”

“What?”

“Get me a lawyer and then get out of this town.” His words struck her as fatalistic, not like Del at all.

“Why do you say that, Del?”

“Just get someone to represent me, then go home.”

“I won't leave until you're free.” She stared at him.

He scowled. “Meg, I know the Wagstaff is a family of reformers. But this is New Orleans. It's a dirty city. Just give me a fighting chance. That's all I can hope for.”

His plea struck a raw nerve. How could she tell him that so far she hadn't even gotten him that fighting chance? “Del—”

“And this city won't tolerate anyone who crosses the color line. Do you understand me?”

She gripped the edge of the rough table. She'd already crossed that line when she'd walked to this table. “They all seem to buy my story that I'm concerned because you're the grandson of my old nurse. It's true—”

“If you show too much concern for me, it will get you into trouble.” His voice became rough. “I mean it.”

All through their life together, their contrasting colors had perplexed Meg. Why did the surface of their skin make such a vast difference to people? No answer had ever satisfied her. “We've dealt with this our whole lives, Del. We can't let it separate us now.”

“You're alone. I can't protect you.”

This sounded like the Del she knew. “I can take care of myself. I got through a war, if you recall.”

He gave her grim smile. “Both of us know it was by the skin of our teeth.”

“That's the only way anyone comes through a war.” She lifted her chin bravely.

The deputy's nasal voice cut through the buzz of voices. “Time's up. Everyone, stay seated. I'll dismiss you table by table.”

Meg suddenly felt close to tears. They'd only had minutes together. The deputy started tapping visitors one by one signaling them to leave.

“I'll come tomorrow,” she said. Surely she'd have a lawyer by then. She'd call her father. Maybe he'd found some link to an attorney here.

“No, don't. Coming every day is too much. I'll see you in court with my lawyer.”

Meg felt the tap on her shoulder.

“Ma'am, stand up, fold your hands together, and walk to the door.”

She wanted to drag Del from his chair and make a run for it. But she obeyed. Leaving Del in this dreadful place squeezed her heart, making it hard to breathe. Again, she couldn't bring herself to pray. Why had God made the world this way? Her white skin and her family's money always protected her, but Del always stood defenseless before the world. Now neither their money nor influence could shield him.
Del, I won't leave you to face this alone. What do I care what these people think?

As Del watched Meg go, he wondered if he should have whispered what he feared had caused all this. A feeling of impotence gripped him. Helpless to protect her, he knew, unfortunately, that she could be depended upon to stir up the delta muck.
Meg, be careful. Please.

 

Feeling like an empty shell, Meg stepped out of the cab and walked up to Cousin Emilie's door for the cocktail party. Tonight the large
house was ablaze with lights. Laughter and the hum of voices greeted Meg as she let the footman take her cape. The butler showed her to the door of the drawing room where people in evening dress stood talking to one another.

“Meg, honey!” her hostess greeted her warmly.

Cousin Emilie led her around, introducing her to people who were dressed for the after-cocktails opera. Silks, velvets, satins glowed in the light of the electric sconces. The men looked like stuffed penguins in their black-and-white tuxes. Among these, there must be lawyers and there must be at least one attorney in New Orleans who would represent Del. One of these people might know him.

Across the room, Meg glimpsed Dulcine in a rose jersey dress tight at the waist, then flowing to the floor. Dulcine was flirting with two successful-looking men, but Meg noted that Dulcine's glance darted back to the doorway often. Was she looking for Gabriel St. Clair?

“Good evenin', Miss Wagstaff.”

Turning, Meg found the senior St. Clair in his wheelchair. “The same to you, sir.”

“Who did you find to represent that young jazz musician?”

Loud laughter made her bend over to answer him. “I talked to over a dozen attorneys today and no one was interested.” She tried to keep her voice unperturbed. Not easy to do.

St. Clair spoke: “My son has arrived.”

Meg nodded, observing Dulcine turn away as though masking her obvious interest in the young lawyer.

When Gabe approached his father, Meg offered him her hand.

“Miss Wagstaff.” He shook her hand.

She murmured a polite nothing and drifted away from them.

“Miss Wagstaff, please let me know whom you engage in your friend's case,” Sands St. Clair said after her.

For the next half hour, she went from group to group chatting. In each group, she let it be known she was seeking a lawyer for a friend. Finally, Meg had made it around the room. Not one person
had taken the bait, though two of the men had been identified to her as lawyers. What else could she do? Glum, Meg walked the hallway to the room where ladies could freshen themselves. Stepping inside, she found Belle St. Clair weeping in front of the mirrored vanity. “My dear, what's wrong?” Meg asked.

“No…thing,” the girl stammered.

Meg shook her head.

Belle's pretty face crumpled. “I want to die.”

For one moment, Meg flirted with the idea of offering to summon Belle's mother. With Del in jeopardy, she had enough on her mind. But she squashed this selfishness. If any girl needed a friend, Mrs. St. Clair's daughter did. Meg took both Belle's soft hands. “Whatever has happened to you?” Belle's tears flowed down her flushed cheeks. “Someone else might come in.” This last phrase appeared to reach Belle. She breathed deeply.

Meg dabbed the girl's pretty face dry. But Belle still showed telltale signs of tears—reddened eyes and a pink nose. Within minutes, Meg thanked Emilie's butler as he closed the door, leaving them alone in a cozy den. Meg sat down by the fireplace where low, orange flames flickered, warming them against the damp delta chill. Belle sat opposite her. “Now, what has upset you?”

“I'm a thankless daughter.” Belle twisted her damp hankie.

Meg suppressed a chuckle. “What caused your mother to say that?”

“I don't want a season.” Even weeping, with her raven black hair
coiled at her nape and perfect olive skin, Belle made an attractive picture in an elegant white satin dress.

Meg answered in a light tone, afraid of fostering more tears, “I went to Europe instead.” Suddenly Meg pondered the anxiety her parents must have experienced when permitting her to travel, alone, to another continent in time of war. “Tell me what you would rather be doing.”

“I'd rather stay in high school.” Belle stared at the toes of her white satin slippers.

“Why can't you?”

“Because,” Belle explained with an earnest expression, “women in my mother's family
always
have a season at seventeen, and make a brilliant marriage—”

This repressive attitude fit what she'd seen of Belle's mother. “Why don't you have your season next year after you've graduated?”

“I told you—”

Meg held up one hand. “I want you to explain to me
why
what other women in your family have done
in the past
has anything to do with you.”

Belle stared at her as though Meg spoke a foreign language.

“I wouldn't suggest you disobey your parents if you were planning to…say…elope with someone unsuitable. But what is unreasonable about your wanting to graduate from high school?”

Belle blinked. “Mother says men don't want overly educated women for wives.”

Meg gave a crack of laughter. “This is the twentieth century. I plan to attend law school this fall. That certainly won't put off the kind of man I intend to wed.”

Belle fussed with the folds in her skirt, shimmering pale in the low light. “I want to go to Newcomb College here in New Orleans.”

Meg wondered why any mother would object to such innocuous plans. But she had been raised by progressive parents who'd assumed she'd have a career, an attitude still advanced for 1920. “Go on.”

“Then I'd like to train to be a nurse.” Belle stared at Meg, half-defiant, half-scared.

“Why not?”

Belle blurted out, “Mother absolutely forbid me even to think of such an unladylike idea.”

Meg smiled at the foolishness of that instruction. “What does your father say?”

A line creased Belle's forehead. “When I ask him about things, he always says, ‘What does your mother say?'”

Meg frowned. “Why not try? Your father seems to be intelligent and reasonable.”
Unlike your mother.

Staring at the fireplace, Belle said, “What if he says no, too?”

Meg stood up. She had pressing goals to accomplish tonight. “Tell him everything—high school, college, and nurse's training. He'll take you more seriously if you let him know all your ambitions.”

Belle grumbled, “No one takes me seriously.”

“That means you have some work to do.” Unfortunately, Meg suspected Belle's older brother would be no ally to his young sister. Not Mr. Antebellum.

Belle rose, smiling uncertainly. “May I sit with you at the opera?”

“I'm not attending the opera tonight.” This delay prodded Meg to action. “I'm going to a club, Penny Candy.” Meg slipped out her white gold compact and studied her reflection. She fluffed her bangs and freshened her scarlet lip rouge.

Wordlessly Belle requested Meg's compact and examined herself, frowned, then handed it back. “I've never heard of it.”

Meg slipped the compact into her black beaded bag. “Let me know what your father says.”

“I will and thank you.”

Meg smiled and went off to bid her hostess good night.

 

Storyville differed from Emilie's cocktail party as hell differed from heaven. In the hip pocket of the French Quarter, Storyville reminded Meg of the notorious Barbary Coast. Black prostitutes dressed in skimpy bits of shiny red or blue lingered at each
streetlamp. From the cab, Meg shivered with vague fear. “This is the place, driver.”

“Miss, are you sure this be where y'all want to go?”

She handed him a silver half-dollar. If Del's life didn't depend on it, she would never come to a club like this unescorted. But she had no choice. “Yes.”

“I see swells come down y'here after society parties, but ladies don't come without no gentlemum.” He took the half-dollar and handed her change.

“I won't be staying long. Keep the change.”

“Thank you, Miss. I'll stay in de area and come back around a few times.”

“Fine, but don't feel compelled to pass up fares for me. So far the nicest people I've met in New Orleans are the cabbies.”

The man chuckled and thanked her again. Meg clutched her purse as she got out. She couldn't let anyone snatch it tonight, not with what she had in it.

Inside Penny Candy, rich jazz enveloped Meg, making her blood spring to life. She strolled past the club bouncer, letting her eyes adjust to the dark interior. In a haze of cigarette smoke, candles on each table glowed as points of light. On a tiny jammed dance floor, couples, many in the latest evening dress, danced the new fox-trot. Three black musicians, a pianist, coronet player, and saxophonist, blasted out the lively rhythm Del had taught Meg to love.

She chose a small empty table and perched on a hard café chair. A waiter stepped to her side. “What will it be, lady?”

A card on the table announced: “No cover. Minimum: three drinks.” She didn't want to order a drink, but to sit in the chair she had to pay for at least three. “Bourbon.” He nodded and left. She eased back. Soon the waiter set a short glass of amber liquid in front of her. She paid him, then motioned him to lean closer. “When the musicians take a break, I'd like to thank them with a round of drinks.” This ploy would let her speak to them without rousing suspicion. He nodded and left.

Meg slid her glass aside. Eyes shut, she allowed the music to take
her back to the little clubs on the Left Bank. Jazz's syncopated beat and spirited songs overpowered war-torn France's pervasive misery. Listening to ragtime let one forget….

Colin took her hand, then kissed it. “I don't know why you've come all this way, my dear. But I'm so glad you did.”
Meg straightened up, her heart racing. The memory had been vivid, undiluted by time. She'd felt his caress.

She nearly reached for the glass of bourbon. No. She'd seen too many soldiers in France try drowning pain in alcohol only to sink into utter disintegration. She'd no time for her private sorrow. Del's life depended on her.

The song ended; couples drifted from the dance floor. Meg clapped, adding her praise to the noisy applause. Meg's waiter delivered a tray of drinks to the band, then gestured toward Meg. Her pulse beating a rapid six-eight rhythm, she approached the musicians.

“Thank you, Miss,” the saxophonist said amid the raucous voices.

“Don't mention it.” She raised her voice, “I'm Meg Wagstaff, Del Dubois's friend.”

Guardedly, all three introduced themselves: Tommy the saxophonist, LaVerne the horn player, and Pete on the piano. Their eyes kept sliding away from hers.

“Del gave me your names. Perhaps you could give me more information about what happened.”

No one replied. She noticed, from the corner of her eye, a young black woman, wearing a stylish red dress and standing alone, staring at her.

The unmoved silence of the three musicians irked Meg. Perhaps reminding them that Del had been willing to stick his neck out for them might prompt them to help. “Del explained you four had intended to go up north together.”

LaVerne, a serious-looking man, spoke up, “Del's a great guy. We told him we'd hitchhike north or ride the rails. Not to make a big deal—”

“It wasn't fair to hold up our wages, but Mitch would have paid us eventually,” Tommy who had a round, boyish face added.

The slender girl edged toward Meg. “Do you have any idea of who might have set Del up? Did Mitch have any enemies?” Meg itched to shake them.
Help me. What are you holding back and why?

“Everyone's got enemies, Miss,” LaVerne said. “We don't know nothin' about what happened to Mitch or why Del had the cash and gun in his room—”

“Good evenin'.” A tall man in evening dress drew alongside Meg. Near the end of her rail journey, Meg had glimpsed alligators slither in and out of the swamps or bayous near New Orleans. This man moved like an alligator sliding into the water to watch and wait for prey. He smiled at her. “May I help you?”

Meg gave him a measuring look. Who was he? How to repel him? “I was just complimenting the band.” The slender black girl in red stared harder at Meg now.

“I'm happy you're pleased, Miss.” He turned to the musicians. “You boys, finish those drinks. Your break is up.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Corelli,” Pete, the thinnest of the three musicians, spoke for the first time. The others obeyed the man.

Meg hid her irritation under a coy smile. “Yes, I'm ready to hear some more great jazz.” Trying to look unconcerned, she sauntered toward her table.

“Miss Wagstaff,” Corelli called after her.

He knew her name? Or had he just overhead her say it to the band? Uncertain, she ignored him and sat down at her table again.

“Miss Wagstaff,” he repeated.

She looked up at him. Who was he? And why did she interest him? “Were you speaking to me?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't know anyone here knew my name.” She fixed him with an unwavering gaze. What explanation would he give?

He gave her a reassuring smile like a French merchant about to
cheat her. “A lady as beautiful as you”—he kissed his finger tips—“can't remain anonymous long.”

She nodded coolly, but his manner sent a zigzag of gooseflesh up her spine. What did he want? The black girl in the red dress was still eyeing Meg warily. Corelli sat at Meg's table.

She bit back, “Who invited you to sit down?” She needed information and to keep this man from thinking she was a threat. She'd simper like a helpless female and see what developed. Her timing lagged a bit, but she managed to give him a sweeter-than-sugar smile. “How kind of you to join me.”
Do you know anything important, Mr. Smooth-as-Snake-Skin?
His presence made her nerves jump. “You know who I am, then?”

“You're that Yankee woman who came to hire a lawyer for Del DuBois.”

His knowing this proved he hadn't merely overheard her giving her name. Evidently she'd been under observation. By whom? What would a helpless female say to this? She sobered her face. “You must be upset over losing Mitch Kennedy,” she made her voice sympathetic. He frowned at her. Good. She'd thrown him a curve ball. She ran her finger tip around the smooth rim of her bourbon glass. “Del was saddened by Mr. Kennedy's death as well.”

“His murder, don't you mean?” He lifted one eyebrow.

Meg went on in a sensitive tone, “How long had you and Mr. Kennedy been partners?”

Corelli surged forward on his chair. “Kennedy and I were never partners.”

She'd nicked him. “Oh? You're only the manager, then?”

He glared, his chin jutting forward. “I am the
new
owner.”

She let her mouth open. “I hadn't realized probate moved that swiftly in Louisiana.”

“I didn't have to bother with probate.” Something else had caught his notice, distracted him. “Mitch sold to me before he died.”

“That made everything so much…easier for you, didn't it?” Meg slipped in.

“You've got that right.” Corelli shot his cuffs and straightened his
black tie. Someone at the bar had his attention now. Corelli rose. “You'll excuse me please.”

Toying with her glass of Bourbon, Meg observed her unwanted companion speaking to a short bald man at the bar. The short man lifted his hand. Even in low light, the diamond solitaire on his pinkie finger flashed. Both he and Corelli glanced in her direction. As though unaware, she kept her attention on the band, now playing, “Bunch O Blues.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Meg observed the young woman in the red dress pause again along the nearby wall. Meg wondered if she should make some motion toward the woman. Who was she and why did she seem to want to talk to Meg? The black girl's face widened with shock. She turned swiftly away—

A hand clamped hard on Meg's shoulder.

Meg jumped and reached into her purse.

“You are a complete idiot.” Gabriel, still in evening attire, sat in the chair opposite her.

Jolted quickly from fear to anger, Meg felt ill. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to ask you the same question,” he snapped belligerently.

She sent him a withering glare. This was just what she didn't need—to be seen with the parish attorney. “I'm not accountable to you. Go away. You're spoiling my enjoyment of the jazz.”

“You spoiled my enjoyment of the opera. At the intermission, Belle asked me where Penny Candy was—that you had gone there instead of the opera—”