Priceless : A Novel Part 8

He looked at the money and started to hand it back. "I can't take this, Charlotte. What are you going to live on?"

She shrugged. "Oh, there's plenty of money where that came from, don't you worry. Besides, I have lots of friends who'll help me. Greta? How much did that d.i.c.khead take from you?"

"A hundred."

"Thousand, I a.s.sume?" She counted it out. Who knew Greta had a hundred grand to lose?

She felt good, having paid them back, and it made what she had to do next a little easier.

"You realize, I guess, that there isn't going to be a job here anymore."

They nodded. Davis spoke. "I can stay, though. You can't be here alone. It isn't safe."

She smiled and stood. She went to her closet and pulled out her handsome leather suitcase. "I won't be here, Davis."

They were concerned. "Where will you go?"

"I'm going to the one place where I know I can trust people." She turned to look at Greta, who she knew would understand. "I'm going to New Orleans to find Miss Millie."

SHE DIDN'T LIKE creeping about in her own house, but neither did she want to draw the attention of the investigators. So, after stepping out of her shoes, she padded along the upper hallway to her parents' room. creeping about in her own house, but neither did she want to draw the attention of the investigators. So, after stepping out of her shoes, she padded along the upper hallway to her parents' room.

Her mother's dresser was just as she had left it. Opening her drawers released the faint scent of her perfume, light, cuc.u.mbers and lemons, natural and sweet. She wondered if it was really there or if she was just imagining it. She was also coming to realize that her mother wasn't exactly as the public thought. Chanel No. 5 for going out, lemons for staying in. Regal queen on the runway, sweet young woman in private. Maybe everyone had at least two faces. She certainly did. Charlotte rummaged through the underwear drawer, finding the cool hardness of the key right away.

The guest room was rarely used, but Greta kept it immaculate, of course. Looking around, Charlotte couldn't see a chest, and she frowned. She finally found it under the bed. She paused, hearing voices in the hall. They pa.s.sed. She breathed and then opened the chest.

Three things lay inside: a flat jewelry box, a ring box, and a flash drive on a silver chain.

Back in her own room, she flipped open the boxes. In the first lay a magnificent agate and diamond collar with matching earrings. She caught her breath. A famous Vogue Vogue cover of Jackie wearing this very necklace hung above the fireplace in her father's study, Jackie's arms folded across her bare chest, her eyes closed, her hair smoothed back from her forehead. She hadn't been much older than Charlotte was now. The ring box contained a simple gold band, Jackie's wedding ring. Charlotte turned it over-the inscription inside merely said "J & J & J & J ..." all the way around. Nice. If only things had stayed that simple. cover of Jackie wearing this very necklace hung above the fireplace in her father's study, Jackie's arms folded across her bare chest, her eyes closed, her hair smoothed back from her forehead. She hadn't been much older than Charlotte was now. The ring box contained a simple gold band, Jackie's wedding ring. Charlotte turned it over-the inscription inside merely said "J & J & J & J ..." all the way around. Nice. If only things had stayed that simple.

The tiny zip drive lay in her palm. Was he asking her to hide something from the investigators? She decided to think about it later and hung it around her neck, where it hung almost down to her belly b.u.t.ton. Hmm. Hmm. Maybe her father had worn it. She almost took it off to give to the authorities right away, but as her hand closed over it, she changed her mind. What good could it do? He'd already confessed to the crime; they didn't need any more evidence. And he'd said it was for her, for her wedding day, and why would he give her criminal evidence as a wedding present? Maybe her father had worn it. She almost took it off to give to the authorities right away, but as her hand closed over it, she changed her mind. What good could it do? He'd already confessed to the crime; they didn't need any more evidence. And he'd said it was for her, for her wedding day, and why would he give her criminal evidence as a wedding present?

GRETA RUMMAGED IN her purse. "I do have it. Hang on." She pulled out a battered red notebook. her purse. "I do have it. Hang on." She pulled out a battered red notebook.

"Greta, didn't I give you an iPhone for Christmas? You shouldn't keep all your addresses in that old thing."

Greta shrugged. "I only just worked out how to make the phone play music. Anything else would be beyond me. This little red book works just fine, Charlotte." She flipped through it. "Here it is. Do you have a pencil?"

Charlotte was holding her phone and merely raised her eyebrows.

"OK. Millie Pearl, 1778 Robideaux Avenue, New Orleans." She frowned. "I'm sorry, I don't have a phone number."

Charlotte closed her phone. "S'OK. I got it when she called the other day. Besides, I'm just going to show up and surprise her."

Greta turned away and carried on going through kitchen drawers. Charlotte had told her she could take what she wanted, and she was gathering her favorite tools. It looked like a pile of wooden spoons to Charlotte, but she knew better than to question Greta.

"Be careful, Charlotte." The older woman turned suddenly and pointed a spatula at her. "Not everyone knows you the way she and I do, and people are going to judge you badly because of what your father has done. Protect yourself."

"I don't care what people think of me."

"I know you think that, Charlotte. But it still hurts. Someone attacked you yesterday, and you're pretending this is all OK and it really isn't." Her voice faltered. "It really isn't OK at all."

THE PHONE RANG through from the front desk. "Clara Ackerman is here to see you, Miss Williams. Shall I send her up?" through from the front desk. "Clara Ackerman is here to see you, Miss Williams. Shall I send her up?"

Charlotte frowned. Clara was the last person she expected to see. "Of course, thank you."

Charlotte met Clara at the elevator. When the doors opened, Clara looked worried, but her face lit up when she saw Charlotte.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you! When we saw you on the news, that you'd been attacked, we were all so worried." She gave her a big hug. She was wearing a winter white cashmere coat with a red fake fox collar and looked wonderfully elegant and together.

"We?" Charlotte suddenly had visions of all of her school friends getting together in a bar to witness her downfall. Take a shot every time someone calls Charlotte a party girl! Take a shot every time someone calls Charlotte a party girl!

"My family." Clara looked around. "Why are all these people here? What are they doing with your things?"

Charlotte made a face. "They're taking them. For some reason I don't fully understand, the investigation has seized the apartment."

"You're joking."

"Sadly, I'm not."

"Well, come and stay with us, then. As long as you like." She tugged off her leather gloves and cashmere cloche hat, stuffing them all in her pocket.

Charlotte was a little bit stunned. She and Clara had gone to school together and moved in the same circles, but they had never been close. Her closer friends had either not called her at all or had gone on TV, the way Emily had.

"Uh ... that's very nice of you, Clara, but I doubt your parents would like the daughter of a suspected felon staying in their guest room. Or a horde of paparazzi outside at all hours." Even all the way up there, they could hear the baying of the hounds.

Clara smiled. "My mother told me to tell you not to let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds get you down." She giggled. "I think it shocked her to say the word, to be honest, but she was brave about it. Our family doesn't like the press, you know."

Charlotte shook her head. "Why not? I see your parents in the society pages all the time."

Clara shrugged. "It's older than us. I think it must be on account of the wh.o.r.es."

There was a pause.

"What horse?"

"Not horse. Wh.o.r.es. Prost.i.tutes. You know, women of easy virtue."

Charlotte laughed. "I know what a wh.o.r.e is, Clara, I've just lost the thread of the conversation."

An investigator was pulling books off the shelves and riffling their pages, apparently looking for very thin bars of gold bullion.

Clara looked at her and dropped her voice. "All our money was made a long time ago, right?" She turned up her palms and grinned. "The Ackermans brought a shipload of women from Holland and set up a floating brothel in New York Harbor. We did very well. So well that we repeated the pattern in harbors all over the eastern seaboard. It was the first recorded example of an offsh.o.r.e corporation." She laughed. "We're tax dodgers from way back."

Charlotte was shocked. "How is it possible that no one knows this?"

"Lots of people do know it, so I always a.s.sume everyone does. Apparently, my great-great-great-grandfather wanted to run for office back in the day, and the newspapers of the time made a big fuss about the wh.o.r.es, and he couldn't run. We've never forgiven the press, so we're totally on your side."

Charlotte was touched. "Even if my dad is guilty?"

Clara nodded. "Yes, why not? You didn't do anything. Everyone makes mistakes." She grinned. "Besides, have you looked in the mirror lately? You look terrible. It's just as well no one is inviting you anywhere."

Charlotte laughed despite herself. She went over and sat next to Clara, giving her a hug. "You are the only person who has come to see me, did you know that?" Clara shook her head. "I cannot tell you how much it means to me. I was really starting to feel alone."

Clara squeezed her hand. "Well, you're not. And you're welcome to come and stay with us if you need to. We have a lovely guest suite, and we'll take very good care of you."

"I know. But I've decided to get out of Dodge for a while instead."

Charlotte told Clara her plan to go to New Orleans. Clara remembered Miss Millie, of course, and understood that part.

"But why go now? Surely you're safer here? I mean, no one knows you in New Orleans."

"And that," Charlotte said, smiling, "is exactly the point."

SCARSFORD WAS MORE blunt. "You're insane." blunt. "You're insane."

Charlotte had gone to catch a cab to the airport just as Scarsford was pulling up.

She turned to look out the window. He had offered to drive her, apparently so he could talk her out of leaving.

"We can protect you here. Someone punched out your lights, remember?"

"Of course I remember. I've got a big fat swollen nose, OK?"

"New Orleans is a wild town. I've been there."

"For Mardi Gras, I presume. Did you show everyone your t.i.ts?"

He made a face at her. "Seriously, you can't leave town. You're under investigation."

"Actually, I can definitely leave town, and I'm not under investigation."

She was confident on this point, because she'd spent an hour on the phone with Arthur Bedford. He'd tried to talk her out of leaving, too, but she'd been firm. He'd also taken the last of her money, more or less, in payment for his legal services for her father. She still owed him the gross domestic product of a small nation, but she was sure he would manage to protect at least his own fee from the ravages of the government. Lawyers and accountants had a way of making sure they got paid, even if no one else did. Now she had a little less than five thousand dollars in her purse, and they weren't going to let her fly for free.

Strangely, it was exhilarating. But now Scarsford was raining on her parade.

He made a frustrated noise. "You could get hurt there."

"I got punched here. I can't live my life in fear, Mr. Scarsford. My dad is going to be in jail here for a while waiting to get sentenced, and every time I see him, it upsets me a little bit more. I need some time to think things through."

"Where will you stay?"

"With friends."

"You have friends here."

She sighed. "Look, Mr. Scarsford, I'm going to New Orleans. I'm going to get myself together and work out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life."

They pulled up at the terminal and got out, Scarsford showing his badge to the cop on the curb. He offered to carry her bag, but she shook her head. Time to carry her own s.h.i.t.

He stayed with her all the way to security.

"Charlotte ..." She turned and smiled at him. "Please be careful."

"I will, Mr. Scarsford."

"Please call me Jim."

"OK, Jim."

She stretched up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. He could smell her light perfume, cuc.u.mbers and lemons, and for a moment, her body brushed his. He watched as she put her suitcase on the conveyor belt, stepping out of her shoes, unclipping her watch, removing her jewelry. As the first gray plastic tray rattled into the X-ray machine, she suddenly remembered something and reached for another. She pulled a necklace from around her neck and dropped it into the tray. He saw it and frowned.

"Good-bye for now, Jim. I'll be back for sentencing, and my mobile number is the same." She smiled a brilliant smile at him, turning and making her way through the scanner.

He stood there, motionless, and watched her gather her belongings. She didn't look back; she'd already forgotten him. What was wrong? Why was he feeling angry?

And then suddenly, he realized what he'd seen dropping into the tray. A zip drive. Just like the one they'd taken from Jacob's office. No wonder she'd been happy! She was getting away with evidence.

He stepped forward, but the TSA guard held up his hand. Scarsford started to reach for his badge but stopped.

She'd swindled him, just as her dad had swindled everyone else. So pretty, so charming, so vulnerable. But apparently capable of taking valuable evidence and walking off with it. Having the b.a.l.l.s to kiss him as she did so.

You fool, Jim. You total f.u.c.king idiot. He turned on his heel, white-hot anger clearing his brain wonderfully. Time to get back on the case, Charlotte. I'll be seeing you sooner than you think. Time to get back on the case, Charlotte. I'll be seeing you sooner than you think.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

It turned out that flying coach wasn't much fun. No hot towels. No complimentary alcohol. No handsome movie actors in the seat next to you. No ensuing Mile-High Club experience. Charlotte smiled to herself as she looked out the window. That had been just the one time, to be fair. You couldn't expect an airline to come up trumps every time. The old lady sitting next to her continued to empty her purse into the seat pocket in front of her. Magazines, check. Mints, check. Book of word searches, check.

The old lady turned to her. "Young lady, might I use your pocket? Mine is full and I need somewhere to put my water bottle."

Charlotte smiled and nodded. Unfortunately, the old lady took this to mean that they were BFFs, and by the time the plane began to bank down over Louis Armstrong Airport, Charlotte knew all about Maude's three daughters, her bunions, her flatulence, and, surprisingly enough, her secret love of opera. Maude had been happy to talk about farting at great length and volume, but she dropped her voice for the Wagner.

Charlotte had been to New Orleans before, once, for Mardi Gras, but she'd been with a group of friends and hadn't really been paying attention. For the first time, she noticed there was jazz playing over the airport address system and paused to look at a huge mural of jazz musicians on the way out. She liked jazz well enough but couldn't help a.s.sociating it with older people, a previous time.

She waited in line for a cab, another new experience. What did people do when it rained? The weather was mild, warmer than New York. She folded her heavy coat over her arm, wishing she had someone to hand it to.