Priceless (19 page)

“OK, Charlie, what do you fancy? Standards?”

She nodded. “Your mom used to play me old jazz discs all the time. Nina Simone. Dinah Washington. Julie London. More recent stuff, too. Diana Krall, stuff like that.”

“My mom is a traditionalist, that’s for sure.” He played the opening to “Girl Talk,” a bluesy standard made famous by Julie London. “Let’s hear it, baby.”

Suddenly, Charlotte wanted to sing. She thought of her mom, holding her so tenderly, her voice as much an expression of love as anything could be. She began to sing. It was a lighthearted tune, with lyrics that are basically about gossip, and it took on new meaning now that people were talking about her. She gave it a sarcastic edge, drawing out the words, bending the notes, and
Jackson matched her interpretation easily.

He was surprised. At the nightclub, she’d done a great job with the blues, but she was handling this lighter song just as well. That a skinny little girl from Manhattan could produce as full and rounded a sound as this was simply proof that God enjoyed music as much as the next man.

“OK, let’s see how well she educated you.”

He switched songs, but she kept pace. He moved through several jazz standards: “Love for Sale,” “Summertime,” “How High the Moon,” and she made each one her own, revealing and reveling in her wide range. He sneaked a glance at her, swinging gently next to him, her eyes closed, an expression of real happiness on her face. He smiled himself to see her and joined in with some harmonies. Then he started playing some newer stuff, some Norah Jones, even some Fiona Apple. She knew it all and simply added more or less edge to her voice as the song required.

After nearly an hour, Jackson suddenly stopped and got to his feet. “Hey, do you want to learn something new? I have something I wrote that I’ve been doing at occasional gigs, but I want to hear you do it.”

He almost ran down the hall, and she leaned against the piano and grinned. It was wonderful to sing, wonderful to be with another musician, and even though she was still a little nervous with Jackson, she realized how good a pianist he was. In many ways, it was like making love, learning each other’s styles, feeling out what worked and what didn’t, anticipating what would make your partner smile. He was back, and she put those naughty thoughts out of her head and turned her attention to the music.

AFTER A COUPLE
of hours, Charlotte headed back to the hotel to meet Scarsford. When she spotted him, he looked just about ready to murder someone. He grabbed her by the arm in the hotel lobby and bent his head to her ear.

“Don’t say anything, just follow me to the elevator, OK?”

She nodded and waited until the doors closed. Then she pulled her arm free and turned to frown at him. His fingers had left marks on her soft skin, and she rubbed them angrily.

“What the fuck, Tarzan?”

Scarsford watched the floor numbers tick by. “We’re being watched. Or, rather, you’re being watched, and I’m along for the ride.”

“You’re talking crap. Of course I’m being watched—you’re watching me.”

He shook his head impatiently, rushing off the elevator and striding toward his room. She had to quicken her pace to keep up, her heels catching on the carpet. Damn Louboutins.

“You’re all over the Web. Someone’s following you, and if it isn’t your phone stalker, then it won’t be long before he works out where you are and follows you down here.”

Charlotte dropped her bag on the bed and came to stand next to Scarsford, who was clicking keys on his computer. He straightened and stepped back.

“See?”

She bent to look and sucked in her breath.
Holy shit.

At
www.charlottewilliamssucks.com
, there were pictures of her from yesterday. Under the headline “Charlotte Williams Turns Tricks in the Big Easy,” there was a shot of her and Scarsford entering the hotel lobby, and the words underneath were even less flattering than the headline.

“Now that Charlotte Williams has to do without Daddy’s millions—which weren’t his in the first place—she’s reverted to type and is selling the only thing she owns, her own ass. I guess there wasn’t anyone left in New York she hadn’t slept with already, so she ran off to New Orleans to ply her trade. I guess once you’ve been fucked by Katrina, it’s easy to get blown by Charlotte!”

Below that was another shot, of her and Jackson standing at the restaurant. The caption to this one was insulting to both of them.

“Good to know Charlotte is an equal opportunity whore—she’ll take money from anyone, black or white.”

And finally, there was a shot of her and Kat entering the nightclub two nights before, all dressed up. It was actually a great photo; she and Kat both looked gorgeous and were laughing and happy. The caption was cruel.

“Looks like Charlotte found another friend to ruin. Here local rich girl Kat Karraby gets all slutted up for a night on the streets. Watch out, Kat, you’re hanging with the wrong crowd now.”

Tears stung Charlotte’s eyes. “That’s so unfair. Who’s doing it? Are they allowed to say those things about me?”

Scarsford was grim. “He just signs himself ‘The Bitch Watcher,’ and the site is registered anonymously through one of the big URL houses.” He shrugged. “It’ll be hard to get a warrant to find out the registered owner—he or she isn’t doing anything illegal.”

Charlotte sank onto the chair. “But isn’t it libel or something?”

“No. It’s free speech. The online world is still pretty much the Wild West, and any good lawyer would argue that this person
is just expressing a personal opinion. Besides, it would take months to get this to court, and in the meantime, they’ll just keep posting.”

He was gazing down at the streets below, thronged with tourists, all carrying cameras, cell phones, tiny video cameras. A thousand prying eyes per block.

“Unfortunately, we have another problem, or at least I do. When my bosses see that photo of us together, they’ll probably take me off the case.”

Charlotte felt her stomach sink. “Why? You could just have been questioning me, right?”

He still hadn’t turned around. “Alone? At night? At my hotel? At the very least it’s bad judgment, and at worst, it’s collusion with a suspect.”

“And what are we supposed to be colluding about?”

“Money. What if you secretly know where all the millions are hidden and we’re sleeping together and are planning to share the money?” Now he turned, and his face was as hard and cold as she’d ever seen. “I could lose my job, and even if I don’t, I’ve endangered the investigation and given your father’s lawyer something to bring up in court to distract the jury.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t know where any money is. I don’t even know if there is any money. For all I know, he’s been giving it away.”

Scarsford laughed suddenly. “You’re amazing, you know that? You’re living in a dream world. What, you think he’s been feeding orphans and widows with the money?”

She shook her head, getting angry. “No, clearly. But he could easily have been paying for the apartment and everything else with just his salary. He made millions every year.”

Scarsford just snorted, and Charlotte eventually gave up and walked away.

Sunday morning had stretched into afternoon, but the atmosphere at the Karraby restaurant was timeless. Just walking in made Charlotte feel better, and when she saw Kat sitting with her dad, she broke into a wide smile.
Fuck the world, let them say what they want.

Kat and her dad looked happy to see her, and when she sat down it became clear that they had been talking about her.

David Karraby leaned back and pointed his finger at her. “You know what it is, Charlotte Williams? You’re in a piece of trouble right now, and it seems to be a Karraby trait to attract trouble.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Karraby. I thought I’d left it behind in New York, but I guess the world is a smaller place than I thought.”

Kat laughed. “We’re not in the middle of nowhere, you know. We’ve even heard of the Internet down here.”

Charlotte blushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like that. Speaking of the Internet, I don’t suppose you saw the stuff online? I’m really sorry, Kat.”

They both frowned, and Charlotte bit her lip. Kat pulled out her laptop, and Charlotte silently navigated them to the offending Web site. Kat went pale when she saw herself online and pushed the laptop over to her dad.

There was a pause as David Karraby read the page, and a
small line appeared between his brows. He looked at his daughter.

“Well, honey, it’s up to you. I can fire her, and you can walk away if you like.”

Kat was shocked. “Daddy! How can you even suggest such a thing?”

Charlotte’s stomach was turning, and tears came to her eyes.

Surprisingly, David Karraby laughed. Loudly. “I’m joking, honey. The Karrabys aren’t cowards. It’s online, it’s out there, and probably by now, many people we know have seen it. So what? A little gossip never hurt anyone, particularly in New Orleans.” His voice dropped a little. “You know that already, sugar.” He turned to Charlotte. “Look here, young lady. I don’t want my guests disturbed by photographers or other bullshit like that, so if you want to keep working, you can work in the kitchen for a while, OK? Same money, same hours, different level of privacy.”

Charlotte was enormously relieved. “That would be great, Mr. Karraby. Thank you so much.”

“I don’t suppose you speak French, do you?”

She nodded. “I do, actually.”

He sucked in his breath. “Oh, Lord. Well, bring some cotton wool to work, then; otherwise, your ears might burn right off.”

AFTER DAVID KARRABY
had left them alone, Charlotte asked Kat what her dad had meant. “He said you already knew about
scandal—what was that about?”

Kat sighed, and signaled for more coffee.

“Well, as you might have noticed, I have a particular sense of fashion.”

Charlotte smiled at her. Today Kat was wearing a ’70s outfit—a cream pantsuit with a dark brown ribbed wife beater underneath, a thin orange man’s tie loose around her neck. Ali McGraw with red hair.

“Now, New Orleans is a place of wild music and wild women and all that jazz, well, particularly jazz, but high school is high school, right? The girls wore the right kind of shoes, the right kind of pants, the right kind of whatever. I couldn’t have cared less about what was current. All I cared about was what I liked, and they didn’t like that at all.” She stirred her coffee. “I wasn’t completely alone, I had some other freaks to hang out with, but you know, high school can be hell.” She looked up. “Right?”

Charlotte nodded, but she knew the truth. She had been one of those girls. Policing everyone else. Leading the pack. Looking down on kids who didn’t have the right phone, the right car, the right labels. She was too ashamed to admit it to Kat, though.

“They couldn’t physically touch me, because my daddy knows everyone, and the Karrabys are powerful people in the city. But they could ignore me and whisper about me, and they did that in spades. There were weeks at school when I didn’t hear a friendly word, or any word, from anyone at all. It was as if I was utterly invisible. Well, not even, because the kids would all move away from me as I walked down the hall, but
no one smiled or waved or even looked at me. It was agony. Anyway, it all came to a head at the prom, in true movie style. I went alone, because no one was brave enough to ask me to go with them.” She raised her eyebrows. “Anyway, they were all in fluffy, flouncy prom dresses, and I wasn’t, and it was totally miserable.”

“What were you wearing?”

“Floor-length 1973 Halston. Goddess style. Fiery red.”

“Nice.”

“I thought so. Anyway, they all cut me dead, and then I came home and swallowed a bottle of my mother’s sleeping pills.”

The sounds of the café receded. Charlotte gazed at her new friend in horror. “Oh, my God, what happened?”

Kat shrugged. “A surprising thing. My sister Jane came in to talk to me. You know, I mentioned her before, she was the Mardi Gras queen, blah blah. She’s always fit in, always had loads of friends, all that stuff. She and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but you know, there’s four years between us, which is a lot when you’re a teenager, right? She was already in college at this point, having made it out of high school alive.”