Bonefire of the Vanities (13 page)

8

After her investor meeting, Marjorie lunched with the Addlesons and Amaryllis. Doc’s medication appeared to have done the trick. She looked healthier than I’d ever seen her as she chatted and laughed.

Using the downtime to full advantage, Tinkie and I checked out the spa. The facilities were exquisite, including skilled massage therapists, mud baths—spacious tubs literally filled with homeopathic mud—saunas, high-end exercise equipment, hot stone treatments, facials, anything a pampered girl could desire.

Tinkie sighed. “My feet are throbbing. I’d kill for a pedicure and a little arch massage.”

“Not today.” I couldn’t shake the sensation I’d touched something dark and sinister in the spirit room. My only ghostly experiences centered on Jitty, who was a family specter. She cared for me in her own way. The voice I’d heard didn’t leave me feeling warm or fuzzy. Had Sherry Westin tapped into a malignant spirit?

“If I borrowed Marjorie’s periwinkle head wrap and robe, I could slip into that mud bath, put on her soothing mask, and no one would ever know.” Tinkie ignored my melancholy mood.

“Except that she’s in the dining room. I think Palk would snap onto the fact that there were two Mrs. Littlefields running around the compound.” As if I’d conjured him, his voice came to me, ordering the downstairs maids about their work.

Tinkie pointed to a laundry hamper filled with robes, towels, and hair wraps. “Seriously, what’s with all this color coordination? I mean, Amaryllis is yellow, Shimmer and Roger are ginger, Marjorie is periwinkle. The color theme is a little … juvenile.”

“Palk uses the colors to keep count of the linens. He’ll know instantly if anyone steals anything and where it was stolen from.”

“Sounds like one of his asinine control tactics.” Tinkie punched my arm. “Let’s grab some lunch. Otherwise we won’t have a chance to eat again until tonight.”

“No doubt.”

The staff ate in a dining room off the kitchen, where a long table had been set for lunch. I lost my appetite when I realized Palk ruled the table much as he ruled the house—with an iron fist. No talking. No pleasantries. No civility. My impulse was to devil him with constant questions, but I decided against it. I had bigger fish to fry.

Amanda shot me a few smiles, but we finished a delicious grilled tuna salad in silence, Palk at the head of the table and Yumi at the foot. The meal was served buffet style, and when it was over, we took our dishes to the sink in the kitchen.

Palk clapped his hands. “To work.” He left the kitchen.

“Asshole,” Amanda said under her breath, and several of the maids twittered and rushed to attend their duties. To my surprise, Yumi sauntered over.

“Amanda, be careful with Palk. Don’t push him in a corner by talking back to him.” Her musical accent softened the criticism in her words. Was she trying to look out for the young cook?

“Yes, ma’am.” Amanda kept her gaze on the floor.

“I don’t care what you say about Palk. But if you embarrass him in front of the staff, he’ll have to fire you.”

“I understand.” Amanda bobbed her head and hurried away. Yumi didn’t move.

“What brings you to the isolated Mississippi backwoods?” Tinkie asked.

“I need a permanent chef’s job. I prefer private service over restaurant work. I was hoping to meet some influential people here who required such services.”

Her goal was the same as Amanda’s. Maybe they had found some common ground. “Any luck so far?” I asked.

“I haven’t been here long.” She smiled. “And you? Why are you at Heart’s Desire?”

The way she asked the question made me wonder if she was on to us. Tinkie fielded a reply. “We’re both housewives. Divorced, boring life. Mrs. Littlefield has a glamorous life. We thought it would be fun to see how the other half lived, and the work is easy.”

“And is it fun?”

“No. Not really. But Mrs. Littlefield counts on us.”

“Living in her suite can’t be easy.” Yumi’s smile revealed perfect white teeth. Somewhere along the line, she’d had expensive cosmetic dental work. “No privacy. No chance to live your own life.”

“It’s only for a short time,” I said. “Besides, there’s nothing to do at Heart’s Desire. I don’t understand why the service staff stays here. Surely on their days off they could go to Jackson or even Memphis.”

“The Westins pay well. And the work isn’t hard.” She hopped up on the counter with ease. “The requirement is to stay on the premises. The Westins want to limit the local gossip about Heart’s Desire. There are worse places to work. Everyone here hopes to meet people of influence who can move our careers forward.”

Amanda returned with a stack of dishes from the staff dining room and started loading the dishwasher. Yumi leaned forward. “If you have influence with Amanda, talk to her. She has a terrible attitude. She’s an adequate chef, but she doesn’t understand her place.” She jumped to the floor and left the kitchen.

As soon as Yumi was gone, Amanda signaled us to the sink. “I just heard new guests are coming today. Two women. Country music singers. Maybe they’ll be my ticket out of here.”

“I hope so, Amanda.” I encouraged her with a smile.

The luncheon in the dining hall was also breaking up and the staff went into high gear. Tinkie and I carried Marjorie’s dishes to the kitchen—her appetite was greatly improved, notching my concern for her down a little more.

As I picked up the crystal, I heard a familiar voice in the parlor. “Dahling! I’m here to interview the wonderful Westin ladies.”

I didn’t have to see her to know that Cece Dee Falcon had arrived. God bless Doc, he made a fine messenger.

“I haven’t been informed of any newspaper interviews.” Palk huffed as if an elephant were stepping on his toes. “The Westins would never consent to speak with you.”

“But of course they did, dahling,” Cece said, concluding with a confident laugh. “For the
Zinnia Dispatch
. I spoke with Sherry Westin before lunch. She realizes she can either talk with me or I’ll dig up what I can from their past.” Cece had a way of closing on the nut of the issue.

Cece was the society editor at the local newspaper in Zinnia, but she was so much more. Had she chosen to leave the Delta, she could have been the head honcho at any news agency. She had a nose for dirt, and in the process of getting the facts, she took no prisoners. Her beat was society, but she was a fine investigative reporter with connections all over the Southeast.

She’d been born Cecil, but her inner woman had refused to be held back. Cece gave up her masculinity—and her place as heir to the Falcon fortune—but gained so much more. She was her own person and one of the best friends anyone could have.

Tinkie took Marjorie up to her room for a rest, and I peeked around the corner to find Palk backed against the wall in the foyer. Cece swept past him. She wore a tailored suit in muted teal and strappy Manolos. Perched on her head was a wide-brimmed sun hat that cast a shadow over her eyes but revealed her lips, colored a fantastic peach. She carried a briefcase that matched her shoes. Cece was styling.

Thank god Jitty wasn’t around or she would compare me to the fashion goddess and I would never hear the end of it.

“Today is not a good day. New guests are arriving.” Palk sniped at Cece’s heels, and she totally ignored him.

She entered the dining room, her gaze sweeping over the busy staff, including me. There wasn’t a hint that she recognized me. Dang! She was cool as a cucumber.

“Where are Brandy and Sherry?” she asked.

“They’re busy.” Palk tried to regain control of the situation, but it was a lost cause.

“Perhaps they should un-busy. Tell them I’m here for the interview.”

“Madam, you can’t barge in here demanding an interview and think people will give way to you. The Westins are very busy. I’ll be happy to make an appointment for you in the future.”

Cece pointed to her watch. “I have an appointment. Sherry Westin has agreed to an interview. I drove nearly an hour to get here. I’m not coming back. I’ll be happy to go to press with what I find with a little digging.” She lifted her chin. “Such as the fact they ran a brothel in New Orleans.”

Palk blanched. “Please come with me to the parlor. You can wait there while I find Ms. Brandy.”

“Find Sherry. If she’s about to communicate with the dead, I have a few questions for my grandfather. He was one of the meanest men to ever walk the face of the earth and I’ve always wanted to know why he was such a bastard.”

“I’ll get you some refreshments.” Palk was all conciliatory. He led Cece toward the front parlor.

Somehow, I had to eavesdrop on this interview, but if Palk caught me, I’d be neck-deep in hot water. I hid behind the parlor door as Palk settled Cece into a beautiful Victorian chair. Spying on them through a crack in the door, I had to admit that Cece looked like a queen.

“I’ll have a maid bring you some iced tea, and I’ll find Mrs. Westin,” Palk said. Before he could finish his sentence, the doorbell rang again.

“Oh, dear me.” He was actually flustered. He all but wrung his hands as he told Cece to wait while he hurried to the door.

“Well, lookie there, a butler,” a female voice said. “Now, this is exactly the high-class place my letter promised. I’m Gretchen Waller and this here is my songwriting partner and a fine singer, Miss Lola Monee. We’re here because we have special talents and the world needs our help.”

I’d listened to plenty of country accents in my day, but Gretchen Waller was country with a healthy dash of cornpone. I hadn’t heard such dialect since
Hee Haw
went off the air.

“Miss Waller, Miss Monee, welcome to Heart’s Desire. Please come in. I’ll send the help to collect your luggage. The Rose Suite is all ready for you. Let me show you where it is so you can refresh yourselves.”

They trudged up the stairs behind Palk, and I sprinted into the room for a word with Cece.

“Lord, that man might break in two if he limbered up a little,” Cece said. “I’ll bet you and Tinkie are making his life a living hell.”

“We’re trying!” I hugged her tight.

She pulled a manila envelope from her briefcase. “This is delicious! I don’t know what’s really going on here at Heart’s Desire, but I’ll damn well figure it out. I smell a Pulitzer in my future.”

“Did you get anything on the Addlesons and Amaryllis?”

“It’s in the report. The Addlesons are very wealthy. Amaryllis is a cipher. Sherry and Brandy have progressed from madams in a brothel to hobnobbing with some of the wealthiest people in the nation. It’s a damn dazzling performance.”

“Sherry Westin may be dangerous. She has real hypnotic power.” I wasn’t speaking lightly. “Cece, your friend Bert Steele, is he reliable?”

Cece frowned. “Bert’s a good guy and extremely talented, but it’s odd how he was on my mind because he’d just called me about the Black and Orange Ball. I didn’t think about it at first, but he sent you guys to the neighborhood of the Pleasure Zone, where you stumbled on videos conveniently put out on the curb. On those DVDs was an image that may or may not be Marjorie’s drowned daughter. That’s a lot of happenstance. I need a face-to-face with Bert.”

Hearing the string of coincidences from Cece’s lips gave me pause. “You think Bert is involved somehow?” Had Tinkie and I been played from the get-go?

“I won’t blacken a good man’s name without evidence, but let me say I’m investigating it. Long ago, there was talk Bert had fallen in love with Sherry. I heard he had a prize-winning photo of something at the Pleasure Zone, and he never turned it in. To protect Sherry.”

“What kind of photo?”

She shook her head. “Rumors were rampant. Sherry and a presidential candidate, Sherry and a dead man. It could have been anything in between. But while the details changed, the gossip that Bert gave up a major career moment because he had feelings for Sherry never died down.”

“Did you get anything on the woman who bought the Pleasure Zone?” She’d seemed so friendly. Maybe a little too friendly to a stranger. I’d bought into it without giving it a thought.

“Her name is Annabelle Ralston, retired banking official. She’s married to a mystery writer, John Defrane. From California. They lived for five years in Los Angeles, where he consulted on a TV show, and returned to New Orleans about four years ago. Pretty humdrum on the surface, but I’ll keep looking.”

“Is there any way to tell if Sherry is a real medium or not?”

Cece hesitated. “What I found was conflicting information. More than a few people honestly believe she helped them by contacting dead friends and relatives. The stories were truly spooky, Sarah Booth.”

“Could they have been planted by the Westin women?”

“There’s the rub. There’s no way to verify any of it. The reports are what people allegedly ‘saw,’ but there are no photographs, no videos. No proof. Speaking of videos, I asked a guy over at Ole Miss to examine the DVD Tammy showed me. My film expert said the image
could have been
manipulated by someone who knew what he was doing. But he pointed out it could also be real. He simply couldn’t tell.”

Palk’s footsteps descended the stairs. I scooted back to my hiding spot with the manila envelope clutched to my chest.

“I apologize for the interruption. Mrs. Westin will be with you shortly,” Palk said. “Sherry can’t join you. She has a migraine and is indisposed.”

In other words, she was hiding out in the Westins’ third-floor lair. Sherry spent most of her time there while Brandy ran the show.

Within a few moments, Brandy was seated across from Cece. My journalist friend played it soft and casual, chatting here and there, circling and circling in a fashion that lulled Brandy. By the time Cece got to the meat of the interview, I was shifting from foot to foot.

“Tell me about your past, Mrs. Westin,” she said. “Let’s start with Mr. Westin. Where might he be?”

Brandy’s laugh rang with the sound of a good-time woman with no complaints. “I ran that bastard off the minute I found out I was pregnant.”

“So Westin is a married name?”

“It is not. It’s my name. I grew up in the Jackson area. Don’t bother looking for grubs under rocks there. Everyone in my family is dead. Natural causes.”