Thigh High (11 page)

Calista sounded as if she believed it. And maybe she did, especially since Nessa showed no signs of leaving. “Maybe she's afraid.”

“Of course she's afraid. When a child loses both her parents at a young age, it's not a blow from which she can easily recover, and Nessa is—was always—a sensitive child.”

He lifted his eyebrows, a silent command for Calista to go on.

She stared back, not a bit cowed.

“I didn't know any of that,” he said. “You could tell me.”

“That depends. What's your interest in Nessa?”

In astonishment, he realized he was being interrogated. Interrogated by an eighty-year-old woman about his intentions for her niece.

Had he fallen into a time warp?

No. He'd arrived in New Orleans.

“I met her this morning. She's smart. She's attractive.”

“You kissed her.”

He would not discuss his inexplicable passion for Nessa with anyone. “If I did, it is my business and hers. But not yours. Not Miss Hestia's. Not Miss Maddy's or the caterer's or the mugger's. Just Nessa's and mine.”

“You know where to draw the line.” Calista studied him. “You'll do.”

The doorbell rang.

“The guests are arriving!” she said.

“Tell me about Nessa,” he insisted.

“Ah, but I know where to draw the line, too. If you want to know about Nessa, you'll have to ask her. “Calista smiled, hooked her hand in his arm, and started toward the foyer. “Mr. Mac, I understand you dance.”

Throughout the ground floor, guests in the Dahl House, resplendent in costumes and masks, held filled plates and half-filled glasses. Music from the ballroom wove its way through the crowd, animating them in conversation, dance and laughter.

As Nessa made her entrance at the top of the curving stairway, cries of delight greeted her.

“Brava, darling, brava.” Daniel tossed his boa around his neck and clapped in appreciation. “You look dashing!”

Nessa smiled mechanically. She knew she looked dashing, the image of a World War II movie star in her red jacket with her matching red skirt, and a hat with a great spiked feather. She wore her hair up, seams in the back of her hose, basic red pumps, and shoulder pads. Huge shoulder pads. She'd scavenged in the attics of the Dahl House for this outfit, altered the skirt and the jacket, and searched the Internet for the hose. She'd spent a year, ever since last year's party, planning her entrance—and she didn't even glance in the mirror as she descended the curving staircase. All that occupied her mind was Jeremiah.

Where was he? What was he doing? Was this Yankee, at the most traditional carnival party, holding his own with the people of her city?

“As always, Ionessa, the Dahl girls have outdone themselves.” Nessa's sophomore science teacher kissed her cheek. “Do you know my bride, Angelina?”

Nessa shook hands with the twenty-two-year-old he'd married. “I've heard so much about you.” About how, when Mr. LeJeune inherited a small fortune from his aunt, Angelina had broken up a four-kid marriage.

“Yeah, a lot of people say that.” Angelina took a deep breath and her impressive breasts quivered beneath her low-cut, sequined gown.

Nessa wanted to cover her eyes and yell,
I've been blinded!
Instead, as Mr. LeJeune handed her a half case of wine, she said, “We'll enjoy these.” She handed the wine to a passing caterer. “Have a good time.”

“Laissez les bons temps rouler!”
Angelina tripped off toward the ballroom, Mr. LeJeune on her heels.

And Nessa still hadn't caught sight of Jeremiah. She started for the ballroom when Maddy caught her. “Child, you look grand. Look at that! That idiot Gauthier Lavache is spiking the punch bowl! As if it wasn't flammable enough!” She plowed fiercely through the crowd.

Nessa felt sorry for the unfortunate Gauthier Lavache.

“Hey, chère.” Ernie Rippon stood before her in his police uniform. “I can only stay for a few minutes. They called me back in to help with crowd control down in the Vieux Carre.”

“Go pick out a pretty girl and dance one dance.”

“I can't. The only pretty girl is standing here greeting her guests.” He grinned at her with all his old-guy charm.

“You are so sweet.” She shoved his shoulder, then kissed his cheek. “You be careful out there tonight, Ernie.”

“Always.” He headed for the dining room.

Debbie Voytilla circled the foyer, looking worried. “Nessa, I haven't seen Ryan. Have you?”

“I just came down.” Nessa glanced around, but not because she cared about Ryan. She wanted to see Jeremiah. “Is Skeeter here?”

“I haven't seen him, either.”

“Then I suppose they're still playing. The tips must be good tonight.”

Debbie floated across the floor, a wonder of lingerie in chiffon and feathers, toward the clump of people blocking the door to the ballroom. “I wonder what's going on in here.”

Nessa's fertile imagination immediately conjured a multitude of scenarios, all of them involving Jeremiah, all of them involving some kind of strife. She elbowed her way through the throng to the front—and stopped short at the sight that met her eyes. “I don't believe it,” she whispered.

“Believe it,” Aunt Hestia said.

Jeremiah and Aunt Calista glided smoothly across the polished wood of the Dahl House ballroom floor, their waltz perfectly in sync with the music provided by the jazz quartet. They were beautiful together, the elderly woman in flapper outfit and the tall, rugged, scarred man in the white pirate shirt.

The other dancing couples had moved aside to give them room. The walls were packed, and the double doors that opened to the outside held a crowd.

“Who is that gorgeous man?” Georgia's gaze was plastered on the dancing couple.

“Jeremiah Mac. Insurance inspector for the bank. Investigating the Mardi Gras Robberies.” Nessa took a breath. “I'm his assistant.”

Georgia turned on her like a furious wolverine. “His
assistant?
You had this fabulous beast of a man this morning and you didn't tell me?”

By Georgia's slight sway and the slur of her speech, Nessa judged that her friend had already celebrated with one too many glasses of punch. Nessa only wished
she'd
had time to soften the edges of reality with a good, stiff drink, but patching up Jeremiah…and kissing him…had made her late for the party. Now she yearned for a milk punch or a mimosa or a hurricane…. Or that she was in Jeremiah's arms as he smoothly led
her
through the waltz.

“I didn't know him this morning,” Nessa told Georgia.

“Can I have him?” Georgia asked.

“No. If you don't want Antoine, then you most certainly do not deserve Jeremiah.” Nessa's gaze returned to the dance floor, to the couple swirling in glorious unison.

“My God. He already got to you.” Georgia flung her arm around Nessa's neck. “He already got to you!”

“Would you lower your voice?” Nessa hissed.

Aunt Hestia moved closer. “How did he do it?”

“He didn't do anything,” Nessa said.

“You're looking flustered, Ionessa Dahl, and nothing flusters you. So what did he do that got to you?” Georgia insisted.

Nessa backed out of the crowd, around the corner, and into the living room, where a few people had found chairs and sat quietly to eat.

Nessa's great-aunt and best friend followed close behind, their gazes focused on her.

When she was sure they were private, Nessa quietly admitted, “He kissed me.”

“Tongues?” Aunt Hestia asked.

“For the love of God…” Nessa began.

Aunt Hestia lifted her eyebrows.

Nessa surrendered. “All right. Yes. Tongues.”

“Glory hallelujah!” Aunt Hestia lifted her arms in praise.

“Fast mover. And with
you.
I'm impressed. It's been so long since you've been kissed you've got dust on your lips.” Georgia looked closely at Nessa. “Yep. Now all the dust has turned stardust in your eyes.”

“Shut up.” But Nessa laughed.

“I want to hear every last detail, and I'm not leaving your side until—” Aunt Hestia stopped in midsentence.

They heard applause from inside the ballroom.

“I want the next dance. But I'll be back. Don't say a word without me.” She decamped so fast, Nessa and Georgia grinned.

Then Nessa sobered and confided, “He's good with a kiss, Georgia, but there's something about him that makes me uneasy. He's intense and scary, and I think he's dangerous.”

“Good. You've spent too many hours dating safe guys and leaving them because they bore you to death—or not dating at all.”

“That's not true.” At a look from Georgia, Nessa reminded her, “I've also dated my fair share of madmen.”

“You do attract them, don't you?” Georgia chuckled.

“And why are
you
picking on
me?
You're here alone, too.”

An officer of the NOPD with a rugged, lived-in face and sad, hound-dog eyes walked past the door of the library and stopped. Antoine Valteau. He and Georgia exchanged a long look.

Then he strolled on, and Georgia flinched. “Coon-ass,” she muttered.

Nessa watched, and ached for her friend. “He's a good man.”

“In case it's escaped your notice, he's Cajun. I'm black. That doesn't work. Not ever.”

“I tell you, Georgia, he's not a boy who's afraid of a little controversy. He knows what he's getting into when he gets you. He wants
you.
”

Georgia took a good, long drink from an almost empty glass. “Did that look he gave me give you the impression he still wants me?”

“No, he looks like he's mad at you.
How
many times have you rejected him?”

Significantly, Georgia dodged the question. “My parents would kill me.”

“They'd come around.” Nessa jostled Georgia. “Besides, it would just be a date.”

“It would just be a heartache. I can't date a guy I work with.” Georgia looked right at Nessa. “Isn't that one of the reasons you've got lined up to tell me why you shouldn't sleep with Jeremiah?”

“It's a good one!”

“I agree.” But Georgia stared into the foyer where Antoine had disappeared.

“Other than this investigation, I don't think I ought to have anything else to do with him,” Nessa said.

Georgia turned to her friend and smiled, a slow, pleased curl of the lips. “I don't know, dear Nessa—he doesn't look to me like the kind of man who'll leave that decision in your hands.”

The music ended.

Mac stepped away from Calista and bowed. “Ma'am, you're light on your feet.”

“You are, too, young man. Dancing with someone so capable is a pleasure I've not enjoyed for many a long year.” Calista glowed with delight. “Look, here comes Hestia. I know her. She wants her turn.”

Calista was a delightful woman: tall, well upholstered, and funny. She made him think of family, the kind of family that cheered for each other in
It's a Wonderful Life.

Yeah, right. Like he believed in those kinds of fairy tales.

But he could be pleasant, at least to older women, so he said, “I've just met the woman I've been waiting for all my life, and now she wants me to dance with her sister.”

Calista beamed and let Hestia cut in, then caught her sister's arm. “When you're done with him, I get him back.”

“Shouldn't we let Nessa have a turn?” Hestia asked.

“Nessa who?” Calista sashayed off the dance floor like a woman whose every dream had come true.

“I haven't tangoed in thirty years.” Hestia looked up at Mac. “Do you tango?”

“Of course.” He looked into her faded blue eyes, the eyes so much like Nessa's. “But there is a price.”

“A price? Ten cents a dance?” She dimpled.

“Something like that. You have to tell me all about Nessa.”

“No, dear.” She patted his cheek. “The cost is too high.” She turned away.

Damn. These aunts were like lionesses protecting their cub.

He caught her arm. “Come on. Dance.” He walked to the band, spoke to the band leader, and purposefully strode back to Hestia.

“You're direct.”

“It gets me what I want.”

She allowed him to clasp her in his arms, and she fit well: tall, so thin she was bony…and graceful.

The compelling beat took the ballroom, and he took control of the dance, with precision and close attention, leading Hestia through the moves with a power that echoed his training (from the other women) and his respect for any female who wouldn't gossip about her niece just for the pleasure of sharing a treat that came all too rarely.

He got his reward. When they finished to a nice round of applause, he caught Nessa's approving gaze on him. Her friend, a lovely black woman, was poking her in the ribs and grinning. And Nessa was blushing.

Yes, the dance had done its job. Nessa's aunts liked him, and Nessa liked him even more.

He would have worked his way toward Nessa, but Hestia caught his hand and led him off the dance floor, past Calista, who joined their little cavalcade, and up the grand curving stairs in the foyer. Here they were above the main action of the party, out of the way, out of earshot, yet not out of sight.

Calista seated herself on the top step, looked up at him, and said, “I remember when Ionessa first came to live with us. She was five.”

He released a pent-up breath. They were giving him a glimpse of Nessa's past, one he had not requested, but one that they thought was important.

“Barely. She had just turned five.” Hestia leaned her elbow against the banister.

“Her parents were killed on her birthday.” Calista gestured down the stairs. “In a plane crash.”

“Good God.” So Ionessa Dahl wasn't quite the privileged daughter of society she appeared to be. In her way, she'd suffered. And sadly, that made him like her better.

“We were her only relations, and we hadn't seen Nessa since she was a baby. But as soon as we heard the news, we went for her.” Hestia's mobile face grew quiet with anguish. “Pitiful little thing, that first night, she was so quiet.”

“She was in shock,” he said.

“And in pain. I'll never forget those sad, lonely eyes.” Calista sighed.

Yes, he'd seen something similar in Nessa's eyes, too.

“The next morning, Calista brought her downstairs,” Hestia said. “As Nessa descended those stairs, she burst into the most awful wails of childish anguish.”

The two women were silent as they recalled that long-ago morning.

“I just sat down on the steps, put my arm around that poor, skinny child, and pointed to that mirror.” Calista gestured at the gold-framed mirror on the wall. “I asked, ‘Do you see yourself there, Ionessa?' and Nessa stopped in midwail and looked at herself. Her complexion was blotchy red, and she shut her mouth as if to spare us her honest distress.”

Hestia sniffled, and Mac handed her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her nose, took a breath, and closed her eyes in remembrance. “So I asked her, ‘Who would you like to be today?'”

“She said, ‘I want my mommy. I want my daddy. I want to go home.'” Calista's eyes filled, too. “She was ready to burst into tears again, so
I
told her, ‘I think you're a princess going to a ball.'”

“I held out my hands”—lost in her reminisces, Hestia followed the script—“and said, ‘I think you're Princess Ionessa of Greece. We should dance.'”

“Remember, sister?” Calista smiled a wobbly smile at Hestia. “She came down the stairs so cautiously, put her hands in yours, and you danced across the foyer.”

“While you belted out ‘Ramblin' Rose.'” Hestia smiled back. “Afterward, she looked at us as if we were crazy. Five years old, and already she thought we were crazy.”

The two old women laughed and shook their heads.

“When she was older, she told us she liked us, but she didn't know what to think.” Calista wrapped her arms around her knees. “So many people don't know what to think of us, either, but we have our reasons for what we do, Mr. Mac. We remember what we were taught as girls, about honor and kindness and what's required of people who have had privileged lives such as ours.”

Remembering Nessa's litany of what was wrong with the house, he glanced around.

Hestia correctly interpreted his gesture. “We know. We're barely scraping by, but we have always had a home. We had a loving family. We had a good education. We know who we are and what our place is in life. So many people do not. Displaced people, homeless people, people without family or roots.”

Was she talking about him?
Did she know…?
“I don't understand.”

“No, I don't think you do.” Calista caught sight of Nessa, working her way through the crowd in the foyer toward them, and waved. “Having that child in the house to care for gave us so much warmth and affection.”

Nessa waved back, then got stopped by a lady of enormous girth. They hugged and exclaimed, and the lady carted Nessa off to be surrounded by her family.

“She kept us young,” Hestia added.

Mac didn't know what to say. The old women seemed so…well, almost kind. They'd taken in a child they barely knew, arranged their whole lives around her.

Hell, even his mother had broken under the pressure of having Nathan Manly's son, and she was his
mother
. How did mere great-aunts manage so difficult a task as taking in a small, anguished child?

A woman's scream cut the music and babble.

Mac straightened, focused.

The aunts stiffened and peered down.

Everyone below in the entry turned toward the library. Four guests burst through the door and scattered in different directions.

Six policemen, uniformed and not, armed with service pistols, appeared and stalked forward.

Nessa's friend was one of them.

Nessa walked at her side.

A well-endowed young woman in a sequined gown bounced out of the library, eyes wide and frantic. “It's a mouse!” Her high shriek almost broke glass.

The policemen and their revolvers disappeared.

Nessa covered her eyes with her hands.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Hestia said in disgust, and started down the stairs.

“It's that silly twit Angelina.” Calista offered Mac her hand, and he pulled her to her feet. “Afraid of a little mouse.”

As Calista started after her sister, Mac said, “Miss Calista, if there's a problem, I can pay for the exterminator.”

Calista whirled around. “We're taking care of it!” She seemed to collect herself. She gentled her voice. “I mean…it's not a problem. We're taking care of it.”

He watched her descend. These women—tall, dignified—were Southern to the core, steeped in pride, the kind of women who cured the sick, fed the hungry, took matters in their own hands.

Hestia and Calista were the women who had raised Nessa. He would do well to remember that.

The great-aunts disappeared into the library, then reappeared.

Calista held a small cage covered in a napkin. “Lagniappe for our party,” she called with a laugh.

Most of the guests laughed with her.

Angelina shuddered, her fist pressed to her lips. “It's a mouse. It's disgusting.”

With the situation defused, the aunts hurried toward the back of the house. Toward Maddy, who stood, her hands on her skinny hips, and glared up at them. “I warned you girls about those mice. Didn't I warn you girls about those mice?”

“Yes, Miss Maddy,” they said in unison, and, cage in hand, Calista disappeared behind a closed door.

The chatter was muted as the guests returned to their conversations, but Mac clearly heard a petite forty-year-old say, “I board here, you know, and at night I hear them squeaking up in the attic. When the first one of the little monsters runs across my pillow—”

The swelling music and the rising tide of conversation cut her off.

Maddy caught a glimpse of him and hollered, “Mr. Mac, you need to eat something before you start satisfying the ladies.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Satisfying the ladies?”

“They all want to dance with you. Best get on with it.” Maddy glanced toward one of the servers as he walked past with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, made a growling noise, and whisked after him.

Mac descended the stairs.

Hestia stood waiting for him. “Calista tells me you offered to pay for an exterminator. I want to thank you for your offer, but we couldn't use your friendship so shabbily.”

“Men were put on this earth for women to use.” His gaze found Nessa. “And use them they do.”

“Well, bless your heart.”

He heard a note in Hestia's voice that told him somehow he'd put a foot wrong. But he didn't know how. He'd said no more than the truth. Yet women had a way of getting offended over nothing, and most women kept their mouths shut about it because of what he could give them.

Hestia didn't know who he was, and even if she did, he suspected she would say what she wanted and spit on what he could give them.

“If only you carried on a conversation as well as you danced.” Her faded blue eyes watched him shrewdly.

“Which would you rather I do?”

“Lots of men have the skill of conversation.”

“That's what I figure.”

“Yet I wonder where you learned one skill so well and the other so ill.”

“It's one of my unsavory secrets.” He offered his arm.

She took it, and they walked into the throng. “Yes, you have the look of a man with secrets.” She glanced toward a glorious, shapely creature as she made her way through the crowd toward them.

The tall woman commanded the room. Her makeup was far too dramatic for Mac's taste, with black-rimmed eyes and skin that looked untouchable. She wore elbow-length fingerless black gloves, and her sleek, sequined, flesh-colored gown hugged her curvaceous figure. Each feather on the chocolate brown boa around her neck had been dipped in sequins.

Many of the guests stopped her, spoke to her, smiling intimately or with amusement. She spoke graciously to each one, but her process toward them was steady.

“A man without secrets is like gumbo without Tabasco. Dull. Flavorless.” Hestia hugged the lady who stood taller than Hestia's imposing height. “Daniel, that outfit is marvelous.”

Mac did a double take.

“Daring, aren't I?” Daniel spread his arms and spun in a slow circle.

“It's what we expect of you.” Hestia's eyes danced as she made the introduction. “Mr. Mac, this is Daniel Friendly, one of our longtime boarders.”

The cross-dresser.

Hestia placed her hand on Mac's arm and in a confidential tone said, “Mr. Mac is Nessa's date.”

“Really?” Daniel cocked his head.

“This afternoon, he was shot rescuing her from a mugger.”

“Really?” Daniel repeated, and examined Mac from head to toe.

Hestia concluded, “He is also the man investigating the Beaded Bandits.”

“Really?” This time, Daniel drew out the question.

Had Mac found one of his bank robbers?
Up close, Daniel wasn't as young as he first appeared. But he had no stubble on his chin, his hands were beautifully manicured, and his glorious fall of blond hair was clearly real.

Yes. This could be one of the guys.

“An investigator. How fascinating!” Daniel pressed a long red nail into the weave of Mac's linen shirt. “Whatever made you become an investigator?”

“I'm nosy,” Mac said bluntly.

“I can attest to that.” Hestia laughed. “Gentlemen, I'll leave you to get acquainted.”

Daniel slid his arm through Mac's. “Don't worry about us, darling. We're going to do just fine.”

With a wave, Hestia went off.

“You intrigue me,” Daniel said. “I look at you and I wonder how you managed to catch our little Ionessa's attention. You're not her usual kind of man.”

“No?” At the mention of Nessa and other men, Mac discovered his ire slowly rising. “What kind of man does she usually date?”

“Nobody important. Just guys like…Alan Arsenault. Look, there he is.”

Mac turned to see Nessa throw her arms around the celebrated crooner, as famous for his talent as he was infamous for his affairs.

Alan bent Nessa backward in a kiss, and when he stood her on her feet, she was flushed and laughing.