This was the third time Camille had relied on Gillette to “handle” a vexing political problem. Her chief rival, who threatened to unseat her in her second mayoral race, dropped dead from a heart attack only days after it was announced he was gaining on her in the polls. The police officer who tried to blackmail her with information that would have surely cost her the mayor's office, and possibly land her in federal prison, was found dead of “natural causes” a week after he boldly asked for half-a-million dollars in hush money. Each “death” . . . courtesy of Gillette and her black candle.
“I guess he was right,” Sheridan said standing over Camille as she read silently.
“Right about what?” she asked, never looking up from the paper.
“He said you would only be able to build the stadium over his dead body.”
“Don't be crude,” she snapped.
“I'm not being crude. It's the truth. He was your only real opposition. Now that he's dead, there is nothing standing between you and the stadium. It's fucking amazing,” Sheridan said, laughing out loud.
Camille threw the paper to the floor, bolted out of the bed, and angrily cinched her silk robe around her waist. “This isn't funny, Sheridan. It's horrible.”
“Since when do you care how you get what you want? It usually doesn't matter as long as you get your way.”
Sheridan was right. There was no expense too high if Camille had a goal in her sights, and usually someone other than herself paid the price.
John Spalding's death was his own fault
, she silently reasoned.
If he hadn't been such an asshole, I wouldn't have had to involve Gillette. He left me no option.
Dober Stadium was to be the crown jewel of her second term in office. It would be the accomplishment showcased while making the case for being the first female governor of the state. She could notâand had notâlet John Spalding rob her of that dream.
“Why are you being so sensitive? The dick got what he deserved. He should have known better then to mess with Camille Hardaway.”
“This isn't about me or the stadium. This is about the tragic death of a colleague.”
“Colleague, my ass. He never passed up the chance to fuck you over. And you're wrong; it
is
about you. The universe knows you want the stadium, and it also knew John Spalding was the only person who could stop it. The stars always line themselves up perfectly whenever you need them to, and this is no exception. Face it, Camille, this
is
about
you,
for
you,
and because of
you
.”
Camille looked at Sheridan coldly. “Don't ever say that again. I had nothing to do with his death.”
“I'm not saying you did it,” Sheridan said matching her icy stare. “I'm only saying it happened
because
of you. Let's face it. It's not the first time, is it?”
“What do you mean?” she snapped.
“Come on, Camille,” Sheridan said as if he knew more than he should. “The police officer who tried to blackmail you, Robert White. He had a shot at beating you if he hadn't died, and you know it. The universe has always looked out for you, and this is no exception.”
“You are being ridiculous,” she replied defensively. “I don't want to talk about this anymore.”
“You're acting as if you pushed his car onto the freeway. Don't worry, darling. I'll be your alibi,” he said with a smile and reached for her arm. “I'll swear on a stack of Bibles I was fucking you when it happened.”
Camille jerked away. “This isn't funny, Sheridan. A man is dead, and you're joking about it.”
Sheridan could see he hit a nerve. He moved in closer. “Honey, I'm sorry,” he said reaching for her again. He took her shoulders and pulled her to his chest. “You know I didn't mean it. I know you had nothing to do with his death. I was just kidding. It's tragic, and I shouldn't have made light of it. I'm sorry. That was very insensitive of me.”
Camille recalled the first meeting with Gillette Lemaitre. Her campaign manager suggested she visit this “unusual” woman who helped a couple of his clients in the past. After a month of encouraging Camille to visit Gillette, Camille finally said yes. Not because she believed in her powers, but rather to stop him from asking.
She remembered sitting at Gillette's dining-room table and scoffing at the black candle.
It's nonsense, but I'll try anything to get an edge over Robert White,
she desperately thought at the time.
The association, however, came with a price. Camille casually chalked the first death up as a “coincidence.” She dismissed the second death as an “unfortunate accident.” But now, with John Spalding, she found it hard to call it anything other than murder.
This time, it felt like she had pushed the car over the edge of the road herself, even though she was miles away and asleep in her bed at the time the car burst into flames on the deserted asphalt highway, she could almost feel the heat of the blaze while clinging to Sheridan's comforting chest. She imagined the sound of John Spalding's cries of desperation when the car crashed through the railing and almost felt the agonizing pain as the flames consumed his body.
Her shoulders quivered slightly in Sheridan's arms.
“Honey, you're shaking,” Sheridan said, pulling her closer. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”
It
was
murder, and she could no longer deny the blood of these three men was on her hands. Whether she believed in Gillette's powers was irrelevant now. Three lives had been extinguished because of Gillette Lemaitre's black candle.
The black candle,
she thought, still cradled in Sheridan's arms.
“I'm fine,” she said pulling away. “It's just a little upsetting.”
“Of course it is, and I was being an asshole.”
“No, it's me. I'm being overly sensitive,” she said walking toward the bedroom door.
“Where are you going?” he asked curiously.
“I have to make a call in the study.”
“Call from here.”
“My notes are downstairs.”
Camille left the room and moved hastily down the stairs, looking over her shoulder to ensure Sheridan had not followed as she entered her study.
The light of the candle flashed before her eyes. Her emotions seemed amplified in the confines of the quiet paneled room. The earthy smell of fear mingled with the intoxicating scent of power in her head; power over life and destiny, power to design her future any way she chose. The world seemed limitless. Anything she desired could become reality under the glow of the mysterious candle.
Chapter 4
“There's no doubt she's going to make it happen now that John Spalding is dead.” Sheridan spoke on the telephone in his office on the fifteenth floor in the heart of the Financial District. The plaque on the door read “K
EY
C
ORP
D
EVELOPMENT
.”
KeyCorp Development owned five shopping malls in Los Angeles County, six 1,000-plus unit apartment complexes, 180,000 square feet of commercial space downtown, and would soon add to its portfolio, 110 acres of prime beachfront property in Playa del Rey.
Sheridan quietly set up the company during Camille's first year in office. He was the sole owner under the alias Michael Kenigrant. His 200 employees had never met the mysterious Mr. Kenigrant. The company was now worth $460 million-plus, most of which was made on deals involving city hall insider information. Camille was unaware of the corporation's existence or the vast fortune her husband had amassed during her tenure as mayor. She had no idea he used confidential information innocently passed over candlelit dinners or in the back of her limousine and occasionally just as his erect member was preparing to enter her trembling flesh.
“Tell me what you know, Brandon,” Sheridan said into the telephone.
Brandon Birdsong was the only person who knew the identity of Michael Kenigrant. Brandon was Sheridan's seven-figure-a-year front man. He spoke on behalf of the reclusive “Mr. Kenigrant,” oversaw the day-to-day operations of KeyCorp Development, and protected, with his life, the identity of the corporation's owner.
“Gloria Vandercliff,” Brandon said in his usual succinct and efficient tone. “She's an eccentric heiress who lives in Bel Air. Never married and no children. Hasn't been off her estate in over twenty years. Inherited the Playa del Rey property, along with an estate estimated to be in the billions, from her father, a Mr. Cecil Vandercliff. The senior Vandercliff made his money in real estate and iron.” Brandon took a breath and continued reciting the exhaustively researched dossier on the eccentric Miss Vandercliff. “She is a huge baseball fan and particularly of the Los Angeles Dobermans. Camille's people have already been in touch with her, and she's willing to sell the property to the city for the astoundingly low amount of 120 millâ”
“I know that already,” Sheridan said, interrupting Brandon. “I need to meet her before any deals are made with the city. Set it up,” he snapped.
“It won't be easy. She never leaves the house and rarely has anyone in. She's pretty batty from what I hear.”
“I don't give a fuck how crazy she is. I need you to get me a meeting with her.”
“Sheridan,” Brandon said cautiously, “are you sure you want to touch this one? The construction of Dober Stadium is going to be watched by everyone. It's going to be one of the largest sports arenas in the world and one of the most expensive development projects the city has ever taken on. The media is going to scrutinize every aspect of this deal. If it ever comes out you owned the property and sold it to your wife, you also run the risk of it coming out you are Kenigrant and have made millions using information you've gathered from Camille. Not only could you lose everything, but you'd also probably face jail time for corruption. In addition, no one will believe your wife didn't know you owned the land. Even if she's able to talk her way out of it, her career would be left in tatters, and, of course, she could never run for governor.”
“Don't you think I've already considered all that,” Sheridan said angrily. “I stand to make at least 100 million on this deal, and there's no way I'm going to pass it up. She's in too deep now with the stadium plans. There's no way the city can back out now. She'll have no choice but to pay KeyCorp Development whatever price we name. Believe me, Camille's a tough girl. She can take care of herself.”
“I don't doubt that,” Brandon said with a hint of sarcasm. “But remember, this all hinges on whether you're able to convince Vandercliff to sell to you instead of the city.”
“Don't worry,” Sheridan said confidently. “I know these dizzy old money types. Stroke their egos, maybe do a little Stepin Fetchit. Let them think they're superior to you. By then, they're so drunk with power they'll do anything you want them to.”
There was silence on the line. Sheridan sensed the revulsion from Brandon oozing through the receiver but quickly dismissed it as the reaction of a weak inferior whose sole job was to do his bidding and implement his commands.
“What name shall I make the appointment in?” Brandon asked, afraid of what the answer would be.
There was a brief silence before Sheridan responded. “Sheridan Hardaway,” he finally answered.
Brandon released an audible gasp before he spoke. “Why take the risk now?” was his immediate reply.
“Because the payoff is worth the risk. I don't trust anyoneânot even youâto handle this.”
“Sheridan, you've made millions on this setup with Camille. I don't understand why you're willing to risk it all for this one deal.”
“I thought you knew me better than that, Brandon.” Sheridan stood from his desk and walked to the bank of windows. The city below seemed to bubble and pop at his feet. A jumble of high-rise towers dotted the horizon like buoys afloat at sea. “I'm a gambler,” he continued. “The greater the risk, the greater the return, and that fucking turns me on. I've got a hard-on just thinking about it.”
“Your erection aside,” Brandon replied dismissively, “the expression âmoth to flame' comes to mind. But, it's your marriage, your fortune, and your funeral. Just remember the people you employ, including me. I've got a kid in college and two more coming up behind him. I don't get as turned on by risk as you do.”
“Don't worry, Brandon,” Sheridan said confidently. “I got this. Trust me.”
Â
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Amadeus moved anxiously from one side of his perch to the other, following Juliette Dupree as she walked past his cage to the fireplace. The boned corset her maid had cinched tightly around her waist while she clung to the bedpost gave her the perfectly unnatural hourglass form. Her blue satin dress was sprinkled with finely embroidered flowers of yellows, pinks, and greens on the bodice. Layers upon layers of heavy petticoats and crinoline caused the skirt to blossom into an enormous bell over silk mules crafted especially for her delicate feet.
Amadeus remained silent for fear of disturbing her concentration as she passed. Juliette stood in front of the fireplace and looked lovingly to the black candle at the center of the mantel. The wick sputtered and sparked at the sight of her, but did not light.
“Ah,” she said delightfully, “you have anticipated my intent.”
Juliette gently picked up the candle, moved to the dining-room table, and placed it directly in front of the chair at the head. The candle joined the other items placed there earlier.
The first was a lock of Thaddeus Barrière's hair given to her by Black Dahlia. Dahlia was the young beautiful slave charged with washing Barrière's clothes, cleaning his private sleeping chamber, and grooming his head of unruly brown hair. Dahlia had been raped and abused by Barrière from the day she set foot on his plantation. The state of Louisiana, however, did not consider it rape, as she was merely property with which he could do as he pleased. He also generously shared the sweetness of her flower with his houseguests, associates with whom he desired to gain favor, and even traveling salesmen.
Juliette would often allow Dahlia to try on the numerous gowns, gloves, and hats filling her closets and bureaus. She would spritz Dahlia with French perfume from crystal atomizers and hang glittering diamonds, rubies, and emeralds from her ears, neck, and wrists.
“Miss Juliette,” Dahlia would say posing in front of the mirror, “you is the luckiest colored woman in da whole wide world. And far more prettier than any sadity white woman I eva did lay eyes on.”
On the day Dahlia handed Juliette the lock of hair wrapped in a cloth napkin, she avoided eye contact and said, “I don't wan'na know what you aim on do'n wit' it, but whateva it tis, I hope it be terrible bad, ma'am. Terrible bad.”
The second item on the table was a bill containing the signature of Thaddeus Barrière written in blue ink.
Juliette received the paper from Rufus Taylor. Rufus was a slave on loan from a plantation in Minton, Louisiana. His skills as a tailor were given to the owner of the local fine apparel shop in exchange for suits the plantation owner received but did not have the ready cash to pay for.
Taylor had numerous unpleasant encounters at the shop with Thaddeus Barrière. The most memorable of which happened on the day Barrière came in to complain about a button missing from a suit he'd sent to the shop for alterations.
Rufus was unfortunate enough to be alone in the shop when he arrived.
“Where is you master, nigger,” Barrière stormed into the shop barking.
“He'll be back shortly, sir. May I hep you?” Rufus answered sheepishly.
“The day a nigger can help me is the day I put a bullet through my brain.”
Barrière tossed the suit in question at Rufus's face causing it to wrap around his head like a shroud. “Did you work on my suit, nigger?”
“Yes, sir. Is they some sort a problem needs fixin'?”
“The problem is, you filthy animal, a button is missing. A button I especially ordered from London, and you stole it!”
“No, sir. I would nev'a steal from you, sir. On my grave, sir, never,” Rufus replied.
“Don't talk back to me, boy,” Barrière snapped.
The venomous words were followed by Barrière spitting in Rufus's face. “I'll see you whipped for this, boy,” Barrière shouted and stormed out of the shop.
Rufus was indeed viciously whipped by the furious shopkeeper and, upon being sent back to the plantation in Minton, whipped again by his master whose outstanding debt to the tailor was not fully paid.
But before he was sent away from New Orleans, he gave Juliette the bill containing Thaddeus Barrière's signature. The same bill for the alterations to the suit with the missing button.
“I don't know what'ya plan on doin' wit' it,” Rufus said quietly passing the bill to Juliette across the counter in the shop, “but I hope it's somethin' awful bad, Ms. Juliette. Awful bad.”
The third item on the table was a miniature portrait of Thaddeus Barrière. Juliette received the little painting from the artist, Chauncey Lafayette. Chauncey was a classically trained French painter who made his living traveling from town to town with his wife Simone, painting portraits of wealthy residents. Simone was as black as the night and as beautiful as a sunset over Lake Charles.
Barrière commissioned Chauncey to paint his portrait. Simone accompanied him to the plantation as his assistant. The couple was greeted at the door by Barrière, who, upon laying eyes on Simone said, “That black bitch is not setting foot in my house.”
“But, monsieur,” Chauncey said through a thick French accent, “this is Simone, my assistant. You will not know she is even here.”
“Get off my porch,” Barrière yelled at a frightened Simone. “You come in,” he snapped to Chauncey, “but send your nigger out back with the other darkies.”
Lafayette spent the next four hours in the home painting a preening and disagreeable Barrière. “You ain't from round these parts, being a foreigner and all. You don't bring strange niggers into decent folk's houses in Louisiana.”
When Lafayette completed the painting, he showed it to Barrière hoping to be paid quickly and leave the horrible man in his past. But upon seeing the portrait Barrière shouted, “It doesn't look like me at all. You trying to humiliate me, boy? You've made me look like a fat cow.”
“But, sir,” Lafayette protested, “it is unmistakably you. I took no liberties.”
“Pack up your things and your nigger and get off my property,” Barrière yelled. “I'll see to it you never work in New Orleans again.”
The next day Chauncey and Simone arrived at Juliette's home, as scheduled by Jean-Luc Fantoché, to paint her portrait. She greeted them each with a kiss on the cheek.
“Accueillir,
Mr. et Mme. Lafayette,” she said ushering them into her home.
The afternoon was filled with laughter. Juliette posed gracefully for the life-sized portrait while Simone and Chauncey delighted in her generous hospitality. As Chauncey put the final strokes on the painting of the beautiful woman, Juliette noticed the miniature of Thaddeus Barrière peeking from their art supply portmanteau.
“Who is that? He is not a very pleasant-looking man,” Juliette asked, already knowing the answer.
“That is Thaddeus Barrière,” Chauncey answered. “The unpleasantness of the painting does not nearly capture the ugliness of his soul. He is by far the vilest man I have ever met.”
Chauncey recounted the humiliating experience. “And then he refused to pay me. I spit on his grave.”
Barrière delivered himself to Juliette without the need for any manipulations on her part.
“He sounds horrible,” she looked to the distraught Simone and said, “I am so sorry, mon précieux bijou. Do not trouble yourself needlessly. He will receive exactly what he deserves sooner than you imagine.”