Blessed Assurance (47 page)

Ready to spit fire, Meg followed Gabe inside the ballroom. When he reached his mother—surprise, surprise—Dulcine just happened to appear beside Gabe. The band struck up a lively two-step. Did
Dulcine deem her such a weak sister? Meg strolled up boldly. “Gabriel, this is the dance I promised you.”

Dulcine tried to hide her chagrin and failed.

Looking puzzled, Mrs. St. Clair smiled. “Of course, son.”

As stiff as a tin man, Gabriel bowed and led Meg to the couples pairing up and beginning to dance.

“Don't I get a thank-you for getting you away from the persistent Dulcine?” Meg demanded as she bounced in time to the rhythm.

He grimaced. “Didn't your stepmother teach you any society manners?”

“Yes, and in addition to learning which fork to use for which course, she taught me to be honest. It's time you were honest with me and with yourself.”

“Who gave you the right to lecture me?”

“You did.”

His neck turned red. “You mean when I kissed you on the terrace?”

“Did you kiss
me
on the terrace?” Meg raised one eyebrow.

“What do you mean? Of course, I kissed you on the terrace. Who else?”

“Her name was—”

He tightened his hold on her. “Don't pry.”

“Don't lie.”

They finished the dance in silence. In the early morning hours, the Demon Rum Ball began to limp toward its end. Meg sat alone against the red-orange silk wall and slipped into the pervading ennui she'd felt since her first year in France. She hadn't talked privately with Sands yet. All evening, people had monopolized him. A swirl of white silk sat down beside her.

“Meg, may I have a word with you?” Belle said. Meg nodded. Belle wouldn't meet Meg's eyes. “Corby told me he thinks he's falling for me.”

Meg didn't feel capable of dealing with this right now, but what choice did she have? “What about you? Are you falling for him?”

“He's such a sheik, what if someone else decides to steal him
away? What if he won't wait for me?” Belle's words came out in a rush.

Had Belle's burst of independence already failed with so little cause? Meg stood up. Mrs. St. Clair had left her husband's side and headed toward the hat check.

Belle jumped up, too. “What if Corby doesn't want to marry a woman with a career?”

“I must speak to your father now, then go home.” She smiled at Belle. “Being an adult means making difficult choices on your own.” I
better take my own advice. Sands needs to know what I heard at LaRae's funeral
. Meg made her way to Sands. “I'm worried.”

“About Del?”

Mrs. St. Clair came with her dark sable evening wrap around her shoulders. “Oh! Miss Wagstaff, we were just leaving.”

“Celestia, Miss Wagstaff will come home with us. I want a few moments alone with her in my office.”

His wife hiding her surprise, the three of them started away. Soon, Meg sat beside the chauffeur. “What about Belle?”

Mrs. St. Clair replied, “Gabriel offered to bring her home soon.”

At the St. Clair home, Meg perched in the wing-back dark leather chair in front of Sands's desk. One green-shaded desk lamp lit the room, casting deep shadows. “Today has been dreadful.”

“I take it that you are referring to the funeral?”

Meg let out a dejected sigh and lowered her chin. “I went to pay my respects and Del's, but I also wanted to see who else came to the funeral.”

“Tell me, who came to LaRae's funeral you know?”

“Two other musicians who played with Del—Pete Brown and LaVerne Mason.”

“Did they speak you?”

A shiver shook Meg. “Pete passed by me and said, ‘This is all your fault.'”

Sands stared at her over his folded hands. “Go on.”

“LaVerne told me, ‘Leave town before you get us all killed.'”

“Interesting.”

Meg's temper cracked wide open. “Interesting? Now LaRae's death is on my conscience.”

“Why? You didn't put a bullet in the back of her head. Did you think this was going to be a Sunday-school picnic?”

This question shocked her. “I expected to get Del out of this and back home without more people dying.”

“Murder begets murder. Someone murdered Mitch Kennedy. Why? Someone killed LaRae. Why? I think the killer is the same or connected to both. But how?”

Sands's harsh voice unnerved her, but his words had proven true. “What should I do?”

“I don't want you going to Storyville by yourself again.” Sands's calm voice enumerated the dangers she faced. “If someone contacts you, I want you to come to me first—no matter what. I'm going to see about hiring a car and driver for you—”

She dug her nails into her palms. “Gabriel…your son, helped me buy a Cadillac and he's hired a driver.”

Sands's eyebrows lifted. “Who?”

“Jack Bishop. Have you heard of him?”

“Of course. He's one of the men I hire as a bodyguard for my clients.”

Meg recoiled as though she'd been slapped. “Why do you need bodyguards for your clients?”

“Because I sometimes represent unpopular people or ones other people wish to silence.”

“Like Del?”
Like me?
She swallowed and found her mouth dry.

He nodded. “I'm not afraid of standing out in the crowd. I have the feeling you aren't either.”

Numbly, Meg nodded. “You think that I may be a target, then?” She had rejected this before, but now she forced herself to believe it.

“I think it is safer if we assume that.”

Safer?
She'd felt safer on the Western Front.

Mrs. St. Clair tapped on the door, then opened it. “Sands, it's really time you were resting. I'm sure Miss Wagstaff—”

“You're right, Celestia, but I'm inviting Miss Wagstaff to spend tonight in our guest room. I don't want her out in a car this late.”

Celestia nodded. “Of course, she's most welcome. Sands, I will send your man in. Miss Wagstaff, if you will follow me, I will take you to a guest room.”

The lady's easy agreement helped Meg accept. She wanted to refuse, but the thought that both Gabriel and his father believed she needed a bodyguard had sobered her.

As Meg followed Mrs. St. Clair upstairs, she turned this fact over in her mind—even though Gabriel was the prosecution, he had decided she needed a bodyguard. Did he know something that she didn't?

Outside home, Gabe noted the light on in his father's office. Was Meg in there now? “Here you are, sis. See you in the morning.” Belle pouted. He reached across and pushed open her door.

She got out and closed the door behind herself. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” she teased him.

“This younger generation,” he answered in kind. Sliding the car into gear, he headed back to town. He'd seen Meg leave the ball with his parents, so she should be safe. And in the morning, Jack Bishop would be on the job.

Tonight, Gabe wanted to have a look at Storyville for himself and do a little fishing. He'd recognized one unwelcome face at the funeral. Had the man merely been an acquaintance of the dead girl or more? Gabe needed new information. And maybe some Basin Street jazz would settle his nerves.

He parked his car on Canal under a streetlamp. From under his seat, he drew out a pistol, cool and heavy in his palm, and slipped it into his evening jacket pocket. Stepping out of his car, he set his shiny black top hat on his head at a jaunty angle. Unless someone recognized him as the parish attorney, he'd just be another
bon vivant
ending a Carnival evening with jazz. He only walked a half block before he was approached by a young black woman wearing a very short purple dress.

“Want some comp'ny, gent?”

He wanted to say no, but experience had taught him that if he didn't have a woman on his arm, he would have to turn down many more such offers. “I'm in the mood for jazz. What about you?”

“It's your nickel,” she replied.

They walked down the way to Rampart Street into one of the clubs and he seated her at a table by the back wall. A six-piece jazz band played “Tiger Rag.” Gabe ordered gin for two. “What's your name?”

“Philly.” She downed her drink in one swallow.

Deciding to take a chance on finding what he really needed, Gabe pushed his glass toward her. “Philly, you look like a smart gal.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “You need a smart gal?”

He nodded. “Less than a week and it's prohibition. Who's going to have liquor? That's what I need to know.”

“You and everybody else.” She set her elbows on the table, which wobbled at her touch.

“Mario Vincent?” Gabe named one of the notorious powers behind much of the crime in Storyville.

Philly eyed him nervously. “I don't know him, sir.”

Gabe leaned forward, so he wouldn't be overheard. “Maybe you know someone who knows him.”

“Maybe. How much you be willin' to pay?” She sized him up with her eyes.

Gabe took a ten dollar bill out of his pocket. Philly reached for it. Gabe held on to it. “Come back with a man who knows Mario and I'll give you the ten.”

“What if he busy?”

“Then you won't get this bill.”

Philly downed the second gin and left him.

Gabe settled his chair back against the wall and listened to “Canal Street Blues.” Tonight, he might gain nothing new or he might get lucky. He rested his hand on the gun in his pocket and remembered that Paul's telegram still remained there, too.
I should have told Meg.

 

The next morning at nine before anyone else had come down, Meg left the St. Clair home without breakfast. It was broad daylight and she couldn't face trying to make small talk. The St. Clair chauffeur drove her to her hotel.

At the desk, Meg picked up her key and mail and walked upstairs in the quiet hotel to her room. Halfway up the steps, she heard heart-stopping shrieks coming from above. Her heart racing, she hurried up the last few steps and found a black maid outside the door to Meg's room screaming, “
Gris-gris, Gris-gris!
”

Doors on both sides of the hall were thrown open. People leaned out to see what was happening. The desk clerk rushed up behind Meg. “Stop this screaming at once, or you'll lose your job!”

The screaming stopped, but she pointed her finger to the floor in front of the doorway to Meg's room. “
Gris-gris
.”

On the floor, white salt had been spilled to make the sign of a cross. In the center of the cross sat a short white candle on a dish which obviously had burned out hours before. At the end of each point of the cross lay a nickel. Meg stooped to brush the salt away.

“Don't!” The clerk pulled her back.

“Voodoo!” The black maid shook her head. “Voodoo!”

Stunned, Meg repeated, “Voodoo? What are you talking about?”

“Black magic,” the desk clerk replied. “Our colored people believe in it.”

Meg pulled herself from his tight grip. She noted that he—the white desk clerk—also didn't want her to disturb the
gris-gris
.

The maid warned, “You cross
gris-gris
you get real bad luck.”

Casting about in her memory for an adequate reply to this demented assault, she stared down at the salt cross, the stubby white candle. Leave it to evil to use religious symbols and pervert them. A quiet voice, her father's, began reciting the truths she'd been taught as a child—
You are the salt of the earth. If salt loses its saltiness, can it be made salty again? No, it is good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled under foot. If any man loves me, he must take up his cross and follow me
. And a candle, an ancient symbol of prayer. How dare someone corrupt that which drew one closer to the divine? She grappled with her outrage, trying to find a course of action.

No one went back in his room. No one spoke. Everyone stared at Meg and the voodoo symbol.

Meg closed her eyes.
Father, what should I do
? She couldn't differentiate in her own heart—was she praying to God or appealing to her own father. In this moment, they'd become entwined in her heart. A battle raged around her. She could almost hear demons shrieking.

Meg voiced the words that had come: “As the archangel Michael said to Satan, the Lord rebuke you.” Meg stooped and picked up the candle and dish, the four nickels, then with one wave of her arm swept aside the salt, obliterating the sign of the cross. The black maid gasped and crossed herself.

Rising, Meg unlocked her door, stepped across the scattered salt, entering her room. Then she turned and faced the horrified witnesses. “Greater is He who is in me than he that is in the world.” She closed her door. The murmur of disturbed voices filtered in from the hallway.

She walked to her bed and let herself down. She'd heard of voodoo long ago from Fleur Bower. People paid a voodoo priestess for these powerful hexes against enemies. Who had paid for her
gris-gris
?

A polite tapping on her door roused Meg from her thoughts. “Meg? This is Gabe. Will you come out?”

She shook herself, rose, and opened the door. “Gabriel?” The foolish desire to throw herself into his arms surprised her. Gabriel's gaze searched her eyes. Their acquaintance so fresh, so conflicted had led somehow into a special intimacy. Gabriel was enemy, friend, the man who last night had bruised her lips with a kiss.

She shifted her attention to a black man with a barrel chest standing behind Gabriel. “Is this Mr. Bishop?”

Jack gave her a wide smile. “Please call me Jack, Miss Wagstaff.”

“Very well, Jack.” She struggled to keep her voice light. “I understand you're going to be my driver.” She paused to give Gabriel a significant look. “And my bodyguard.”

“So my father told you?” Gabriel said.

Jack let out a sudden wordless exclamation, then pointed down to the rug. “Is that salt?”

“Yes, someone had a
gris-gris
waiting for me when I came home this morning.” Her pulse jerked awake, but Meg watched for Gabriel's reaction.

“That is bad,” Jack pronounced.

“Someone is taking pains to make me feel distinctly unwelcome,” Meg pressed Gabriel.

Gabriel couldn't seem to stop glaring and frowning at the remains of the
gris-gris.
Finally, he shook his head. “I never expected anything like this.”

What would you expect, Gabriel? A knife blade in my back like Del or a bullet in the head like LaRae?

“Who got rid of the
gris-gris
for you?” Jack asked.

“I did.” Meg answered.

Looking impressed, Jack studied her. “I hear from Mr. Gabriel that you got a lot of bad luck already, Miss.”

Meg shrugged.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “You should call my father. He'll want to know right away.”

And my own father, too
. Meg passed a hand over her forehead, disturbing her bangs. “I was just so shocked. I couldn't think straight.”
She went to the phone at her bedside and asked the operator to dial the St. Clair home.

Mr. Sands had been driven into town.

“Then Jack and I will take you over to pick up your Cadillac,” Gabriel offered briskly.

She scanned his face. His jaw had hardened and a vein along his neck bulged.

“Can you wait downstairs?” Motioning to herself, she continued in a humorous tone, “I don't usually pick up a car in evening dress.” She wouldn't give in to the flutter in her pulse. She'd faced an earthquake, then a war. Now New Orleans, even with its voodoo, wouldn't conquer Del or her.

“We'll wait downstairs.” Gabriel closed the door.

Within the hour, Meg walked outside and joined Jack and Gabriel at the curb. The dark St. Clair family sedan was parked there as well.

Sands rolled down his window. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Certainly.
That
for black magic.” Meg snapped her fingers.

Sands motioned to Jack. “Miss Wagstaff has an appointment at one thirty
P.M
. today at the jail. Stay with her at all times.”

With mixed emotions, Meg wanted to see Del and reassure him, but she didn't want to have to answer any questions about LaRae. She was glad to have Jack's protection, but his presence announced her inability to protect herself.

Gabriel took her hand. “Jack will take excellent care of you.”

Her skin tingled at his touch—disturbing.
We have business to settle between us, Gabriel. I haven't forgotten last night.

She released his hand, wishing she could bind him to her. Sooner than she wished, they would sit on opposing sides in a courtroom. She had no hold on Gabriel St. Clair, but as he strode away, the strand that connected her to him pulled taut and strained.

Later, Meg walked beside Jack down the corridor to the visiting room at the jail, footsteps echoing in the heavy silence. She couldn't believe all that had happened since her arrival in this town. Who
was friend? Who was foe? At the end of this, would she and Del crawl out of the pitiless New Orleans maze into the daylight—safe once again?

The police officer unlocked the door of the almost empty visitor's room. Meg sat down across from Dell. She folded her own hands in her lap to keep herself from reaching for Del's.

With arms folded, Jack waited just inside the door. She forced herself to say, “I'm sorry LaRae is dead.”

“The same could happen to you.”

She pressed a hand to her trembling lips while inside she collapsed in a heap, moaning her guilt and regret. “I'm afraid it's all my fault.”

“Your fault?
I'm
the one who came to New Orleans.
I'm
the one who fought with Kennedy.
I'm
the one who made her a target—and you.” So thin and drawn, he fidgeted in his chair, still moving stiffly.

What solace could she give him? Had they endured France for this?

Del stared down at the scarred tabletop. “I want you to leave New Orleans—”

“No. Your trial begins in days.”

“Do you want me to have your death on my conscience, too?” he growled.

“I have my own car and bodyguard now. I have my gun. I will not leave you.”

Del folded his hands and pressed his fist to his mouth, masking how close he was to breaking down.

She lowered her voice, “We made a promise once. Do you remember?”

Del stared into her eyes. “I release you from your promise.”

Love for Del and faith in his love for her propelled her toward tears. Her voice came out gruffly: “That's not possible. The promises we made that day were for life.”

 

The first floor of Hotel Grunenwald had been reserved for the gala celebration of the election of the new governor, John M. Parker. Standing in the hotel's lobby, Meg let Jack take her wrap to the hat-check. She waited until he returned, then she, dressed in one of her raven black Parisienne designs topped with a lavish red fox collar, sauntered into the packed room.

A band on the right of a stage blasted an ear-ringing arrangement of “Dixie.” Overhead, red, white, and blue streamers looped and crisscrossed between the chandeliers.

Standing amid laughter and boisterous shouting, backslapping, Meg didn't feel festive. Behind her, Jack took a place against one wall, his hands folded. His constant presence plucked her tense nerves. All day Meg had looked over her shoulder, hunted.

On the Western Front, she had lived in danger from bombardment, pestilence, fear, and despair. But this present sense of pervading, active evil weighed her down, stretched her nerves. Underlying all this, her unfinished conversation with Gabriel St. Clair at the Demon Rum party nipped at the edges of her mind. Though adversaries, the two of them had drawn closer and dearer. Gabriel sought to convict her dearest friend. But she needed Gabriel to push away the emptiness that lingered in her after France, threatening to drain the life from her. With Gabriel, she could talk about what was central in her mind, her heart.

And he needed her. He denied it, but that didn't change his need.

The band halted midnote, then sped up the tempo to double time. Everyone around Meg began applauding and whistling. The noise of the crowd and the band deafened her. Finally, broad gestures from men on the stage quieted the gathering. The winning candidate stepped to the front and began to address his supporters.

Meg scanned the crowd for Gabriel. At last, she glimpsed him slipping through the crowd toward her. This realization uncapped a delirious joy.
I shouldn't feel this way.
She moved forward, her eyes
tracking his erratic, but steady progress toward her. Acquaintances interrupted him as he made his way to her. Tonight, perhaps he would tell her what had happened to him, to his heart in France. Tonight, perhaps he would kiss
her
and not a memory. Just a yard from her, a man tugged Gabriel back toward the stage.

Frustration shredding her, Meg balled her fists.
Gabe, no.
But Gabriel stood talking to Parker. With a sigh, Meg wended her way to one of the tables and sat down. Mrs. St. Clair walked up. “May I join you, Miss Wagstaff?”

Meg's heart sank.

Sitting down, Mrs. St. Clair worried her lower lip. “I hope you won't think me forward, but I would like to discuss my son with you.”

Meg was dumbfounded. “Do you think you should?”

“Yes, I overheard something a few days ago that has given me much food for thought.” The woman pursed her lips. “I have not liked your modern ways, but I am trying to understand why you have had such a startling effect on my family.”

“I wasn't aware that I have had any effect—” Meg stopped. Perhaps Mrs. St. Clair had a point. Meg hadn't intended to have any effect, but…She frowned.

“I am sorry if you feel I have purposely tried to change your daughter's direction in life—” Meg halted, then conceded, “Very well. What do you want to tell me about Gabriel?”

“I've wanted Gabriel to marry Dulcine.” The lady stirred her tea silently.

The image of Gabriel waltzing with Dulcine the night before stung once more. Meg flared. “All New Orleans knows that.”

Mrs. St. Clair looked tempted to snap back, but she merely took a deep breath. “When Gabriel returned from the war, I could tell he'd suffered terribly there, not just from his wounds, but from some deep emotional…shock.”

“Is that why you told him not to talk about the war?” Meg couldn't seem to stop herself from attacking this woman.

“I never said that.” The woman looked honestly surprised. “What are you talking about?”

Meg smothered her irritation. She had been judgmental and evidently wrong, too. “I'm sorry. Go on please.”

“I thought if he would marry, a wife would be able to help him heal. She could…comfort him in a way I couldn't.”

Meg hadn't been able to see past this woman's very obvious matchmaking ploys to the motivation behind them.

“Anyway, I knew Dulcine was interested in Gabriel even before the war. Gabriel showed a preference for her…” Mrs. St. Clair fell silent.

“I didn't come to New Orleans to fall in love and marry, Mrs. St. Clair.”

“Love rarely comes when we plan for it.”

These unexpected words kicked Meg in the stomach.

“Meg, I never thought to find love at a Y-canteen.” Colin cradled her head in both his hands. “Marry me.”

“What do you want from me?” Meg whispered.

“I don't want you to tempt Gabriel and destroy Dulcine's chances, only to leave him—”

“Be at ease.” Meg rose and walked away. She couldn't take any more.
I just want to get out alive with Del
.

On her way out, Gabriel met her. “Why were you talking with my mother?”

“She was just being polite.” His gaze on her brought an awareness of him, an aching to nestle close.

“I need to talk to you—alone.” Gabe took her arm, hustling her toward the exit. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Dulcine glaring at her. “Gabriel, do you think—”

“Don't stop now. We're going.”

His urgent tone sliced through her. “Where? What's happened?”