Red Beans And Vice Part 2

"What's Truely's?"

"Truely, with an E for some reason, Fortier Whitten. His mother was from a real Creole family, the Fortiers. His daddy was a carpetbagger, which any Uptown lady will tell you about Truely if she gets a chance."

"Sounds like a senator. So, do I call you Mary Beth from now on?"

Mary shrugged her shoulders. "If it seems too weird, don't sweat it. I'll know who you're talking to."

"Let's try it. So, Mary Beth, how's the coffee business?"

"New Orleans is now the biggest coffee-importing city in this country. Twenty-seven point eight percent of all the beans that come in come in here. And Truely does most of that importing."

"Well, something must be going right, because this is a great house full of beautiful antiques. Do you like living in New Orleans?"

"I've been here eighteen years so I guess if I didn't I would have left by now. It grows on you, that's for sure."

"That's not the most enthusiastic endors.e.m.e.nt for a marriage I've heard. Is there a problem?"

Mary smiled and got up. "Oh, G.o.d, no. I fell for that goofball twenty years ago and I haven't fallen out. But these Southern families are so complicated. And the town is too. I spent ten years feeling like an outsider and I became terrified when the day came I didn't feel like an outsider anymore. It's a club I'm not sure I want to belong to."

"The Groucho Marx Syndrome," Heaven said with a grin. "I've been there myself."

The phone rang and Mary grabbed it. She waved it at Heaven and put it down. "It's for you. I'm going up to put my lawyer face on."

Heaven wondered who was calling her. She hoped something terrible hadn't happened at home. "This is Heaven."

"Heaven, this is Nancy Blair. I wonder if you're free for lunch today, or does Mary have you all booked up?"

"I'm free, Nancy. Wasn't that an ordeal yesterday?"

"Welcome to New Orleans, Heaven. How about Antoine's at one?"

"It's a date," she said and hung up.

She poured another cup of coffee and walked around the first floor, touching the lovely finish of a table or admiring a porcelain figure or a bronze bust. It really was quite a collection. Heaven thought about the full-time uniformed staff around to keep all this stuff clean. She herself had house cleaners, a team of jovial lesbians. Was it the fact that all of Mary's employees were African-American that made Heaven uncomfortable? Was it their uniforms? Mary came down the stairs and found Heaven in the living room.

"This place is full of good s.h.i.t."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Who was on the phone?"

"Nancy Blair wanting to have lunch."

"Oh, dear, how fun. I'm sorry I've got this deposition or I'd b.u.t.t in."

"Give me the twenty-five words or less on Nancy Blair, will you?" Heaven asked.

"She made tons of money selling s.e.x to those who could afford it, invested her money well, bought herself a seat on a couple of boards, and then got religion. She gave lots of money to the sisters for their school because in the old days they would let her girls' children go to the academy on the cheap. They parade her out like their own little Mary Magdalene."

"Whoa. Do I sense some cynicism?"

Mary picked up her briefcase by the front door. "Everybody, I'm leaving. Take care of Heaven," she yelled to the air. She turned to her friend and patted her arm. "Cynicism is as Southern as pecan pie, Heaven. I'll see you later."

Heaven was following the meeter/greeter/seater from the front desk through the labyrinth that was Antoine's. Since its birth in 1840, Antoine's has kept the secrets of the powerful of New Orleans. Private dining room waiters hurried through the hall, one with a Baked Alaska ready to be set on fire at the last possible moment. As hokey as it was, Heaven loved every minute, wondering what the kitchens were like, how many walk-in coolers they had, how many people on the payroll. When they arrived at Nancy Blair's table, Heaven smiled. "I see you chose the spot with your back to the wall, not the door. h.e.l.lo, Nancy."

Nancy Blair was wearing a red suit today, as fine in its detail as the navy one had been the day before. She had on dark gla.s.ses and white kid gloves. "Pardon me for not getting up, Heaven. I'm creaky. Oh, yes, you always want to be able to keep an eye on the door, and know where the back door is too."

Heaven laughed and sat down on Nancy's right side. "Where do you get all these fabulous suits?"

"Paris," Nancy answered. "Thank G.o.d Karl Lagerfield took over Chanel, not one of those knuckleheads from England that can't sew a seam. Tailored suits have been my trademark for years, Heaven. They always made a good impression in court."

"Did you have to go often?"

"Depending on the mayor or the police chief at the time. I think thirty-three arrests in a year was my record. But many of my colleagues were arrested hundreds of times in a year. I spent my bribe money wisely. Are you shocked?"

Heaven blushed. She had been thinking about her own brush with the law. "No. I was a lawyer, but I did something stupid years ago and lost my ability to practice. I'm no saint. And you know what? Life does go on."

"And the bills still have to be paid, don't they? I ordered us a nice bottle of white Burgundy, a Puligny-Montrachet, if that's all right with you. They have a good French wine list here."

For the next hour, Heaven and Nancy enjoyed good food and wine and each other's company. Heaven was fascinated with the matter-of-fact way that Nancy told racy tales of her life as a landlady, as she called it.

"You know, Nancy, I realize that there must have been some great landladies in Kansas City. It was a wide-open town for a few years in the twenties and thirties. Yet, I've never heard any of the stories."

"They dead now, child," Nancy said with the first tinge of nostalgia Heaven had detected. "I'm just lucky I lived in a town that couldn't survive without the likes of me. I have a professor from New Orleans U. who's writing a book of my life. She comes over four times a week and I talk into a tape recorder. Says it will make a movie, for sure."

"But you didn't ask me to lunch to rehash old war stories did you, Nancy? You don't seem the type that lives in the past."

Nancy went right to the point. "Heaven, I'm fond of the Sisters of the Holy Trinity. I don't like what happened yesterday, not one bit. Of course, it's easy to pin it on that little b.i.t.c.h, Amelia Hart. But really, she's no fool. Why would she come in and make a stink if she'd set up the s.n.a.t.c.h of the cross and all the other?"

"I'm sure the police will-"

"Bull," Nancy broke in. "The police may come up with a couple of black kids they say did it, but it won't lead us to the cross, or the slick behind all this."

Heaven wondered if she had a sign on her back that read "Meddling Redhead for Hire. Works Free." 'You know, Nancy, I'm going home tomorrow and I won't be back for a month. I don't know how much help I can be."

Nancy Blair's eyes narrowed and she signaled for the check. 'You're an outsider, Heaven, and that gives you an advantage. Just keep your eyes and ears open. You never know where that cross might pop up. And I've got a bad feeling that this wasn't an isolated incident."

Heaven's wheels were turning. "I guess it wouldn't kill me to go over to the convent and see a photo of the cross. I didn't really pay attention to it yesterday when I arrived."

Nancy Blair didn't even have to present a credit card. She just signed the check and started gathering up her things to leave. The white kid gloves went back on. She was thinking out loud. "No matter what I said earlier, I wouldn't rule out Amelia Hart. She carries a heavy chip on her shoulder, Heaven. Chips make you stupid."

Heaven stood and gave the older woman a hug. "Thanks for sharing your history and for lunch. That fish in the parchment paper was just as good as the press on it said it would be."

Nancy slipped her arm around Heaven's waist for a moment suddenly very s.e.xy for a little old lady, then released the younger woman. She must have been a pistol in her day, Heaven thought. "I'm sneaking out the side door, where all the sinners come and go." She handed Heaven a calling card with just her name and a phone number; heavy ivory paper, deep engraving. "Here's my card if you need to get in touch with me. I'll see you next month." She turned and. out of nowhere, two managers appeared and swept her away. Heaven hadn't noticed them hovering or anything. Pretty attentive service.

Heaven walked down Bourbon to Ursulines and then over to Chartres, where the convent was located. She let the French Quarter take over her senses for a few minutes, loving the sights and sounds. It was almost three and leisurely lunches were running into afternoon c.o.c.ktails. The bars along the Bourbon strip weren't full but they sure weren't empty either. Farther down Bourbon, the gay bars were opening the wooden French doors that allowed the late-night crowd to spill out on the street. The sidewalks had been hosed down and hadn't received their nightly dose of regurgitated Hurricane c.o.c.ktails yet. Azaleas were blooming everywhere on second-story balconies. The place was maddening, with all the hidden courtyards, the indication of lives being lived behind closed doors in these ancient buildings that looked like a good wind would blow them all over. Heaven loved it.

Suddenly, a garage door flush to the street opened and a silver Porsche almost ran over Heaven, sticking its sleek nose out on the sidewalk. She jerked to attention abruptly brought back to earth from her flights of fancy. She shot an angry look at the driver, a very distinguished man with silver hair. He gave her a bemused glance and turned his car out onto Ursulines. While the automatic door slowly came down, Heaven caught glimpses of banana trees and flowering bushes in pots, and a wrought-iron table and chairs set on a brick terrace.

Neither the man nor the car were the kind Heaven was usually attracted to: Well-polished middle-aged men with expensive cars were such a cliche. Still, at that moment, Heaven was intoxicated with the promise of the situation. She wanted to be kissed on that terrace, with the scent of magnolia in the air. By that man. Reminding herself he was probably gay, she crossed the street and entered the small office and gift store in the gatehouse of the former convent.

Originally, Heaven had intended to go to the diocesan offices and ask for a photocopy of a picture of the cross. She even had a good reason. She was going to say that she intended to make a duplicate out of chocolate or spun sugar or some d.a.m.n thing. But when she got to the convent, a tour was starting and she paid her money and got in line with a group of Catholics from Minnesota. It couldn't hurt to learn more about the place and the sisters.

First stop was a video history of the convent that Heaven had trouble concentrating on because it had very poor production values, and bad lighting and narration. It did show the cross, a filigreed iron affair that reminded her of all those movies of the evil white explorers claiming some choice piece of real estate from a group of aborigines. Maybe the Indians were behind the attack on the convent. Heaven racked her brain. What Indians had lived here, the Choctaws? Maybe a few Choctaws had decided to get revenge. She realized the video was over and their guide, a crusty old guy with an accent that sounded to Heaven like Brooklyn, was loudly trying to get them to move out in the hall.

"The staircase from the original convent, which was right over there where the parking lot is now," he yelled, gesturing to his left, "was moved to this building when it was occupied in 1750. Now let's go see that staircase, original in the first convent building and finished in 1734."

The crowd, about thirty of them, shuffled down the hall, Heaven bringing up the rear. Before she got around the corner she heard a choked gasp coming from their guide, then, "Oh, dear Jesus, what the h.e.l.l?"

Screams popped out of a few Minnesota throats. Heaven pushed into the entry hall of the convent where the staircase led to the second floor, a graceful curve of thick cypress boards. But no one would want to walk up those stairs at this moment because they were covered with insects; wriggling ones, flying ones, thousands of them, millions of them. Heaven felt her stomach heave. She turned away.

"Termites!" the tour guide yelled.

Heaven was doodling on her napkin when Mary walked into the Bombay Club. "Did you get my message?" she asked.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Heaven said with less than her usual good humor. Her stomach refused to calm down. She hated bugs. "Did you get mine?"

"Yes, and I can hardly wait to hear. You just said there was another problem at the convent. What are you drawing?" Mary sat down and waved for a waiter. "What are you drinking?"

"First question: I'm drawing the stolen cross from seeing it on a video. I'm thinking of re-creating it in chocolate. I went to the convent to get a photo of it but that became impossible. Second question: I'm drinking a Bombay martini. Since we're in the world-famous Bombay Club, what else? And what happened at the convent was really disgusting."

"I'll have a Cosmopolitan," Mary said to the waiter. "Heaven, why in the world would you use the word disgusting? Horrifying, mysterious; but disgusting?"

Heaven stuck her re-creation of the cross in her purse and leaned in toward Mary.

"Bugs. Millions of them. Termites actually. And they were eating the ancient cypress staircase that's the only surviving part of the oldest building in the Mississippi Valley at a rapid clip."

"Termites?" Mary said as her drink appeared and she held it up in salute to her friend. "Well, that's terrible, but I thought someone had vandalized the place again. Although I am surprised the diocese didn't take better care of that staircase."

"They swear they have it checked for bugs twice a year. They live in mortal fear of a termite. They're sure it was sabotage."

'You're kidding!"

"No, and what's more, they had just given a tour at one o'clock and the stairway was fine. I guess the people at the diocese archives office don't use the streetside door. Actually, I learned that the convent was built to face the river, so the entrance on Chartres is actually the back door. But the office workers come in and out a side door near where they park their cars. Someone brought millions of termites in and planted them on the staircase between two and three in the afternoon and didn't get caught."

"Ugh. What did the diocese people do?"

"Called an exterminator, and the police," Heaven said with a little shiver. She could still see the ma.s.ses of silver wings.

"Well, if there's one thing we are experts at down here in the swamp, its killing bugs and vermin 'cause we got plenty of 'em," Mary said.

"Who's killing vermin?" Truely Whitten asked as he bent down and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek.

Heaven looked up and couldn't believe her eyes. Standing right beside Truely was the man, the silver-haired, Porsche-driving man that Heaven had fantasized about not two hours before. She felt her face turning pink. He pulled two chairs from an empty table next to them. The man must be with Truely.

"Heaven, this is my best friend in the whole world, Tompkins Wilson Tibbetts."

Heaven couldn't help herself. She giggled. "Tompkins Tibbetts, huh?"

He sat down next to Heaven with the comfortable slouch of a person who was at home at the Bombay Club. He grabbed a handful of goldfish crackers out of a bowl on the table and gave Heaven that bemused glance again, then actually winked. "That's why my friends call me Will. Sorry I almost ran over you today," he said with a great deal of humor and not a hint of apology in his voice.

A waiter approached their table again. Heaven couldn't remember the last time someone had winked at her. It was so corny. "Maybe, just this once, I could have a second martini," she said.

"That's what New Orleans does," Mary said as she handed Heaven the aspirin bottle along with her coffee the next morning. "It makes people break their own rules. You, the girl with the one-martini limit."

Heaven was clutching a gla.s.s of ice water, a huge gla.s.s of ice water. She pressed it against her face and then moved it to her lips and downed three aspirin. Next she took a big gulp of coffee. "At least I stopped at two and switched to that Far Niente cab. What a great dinner. I loved the thing with the duck and the jalapeno jelly and the caramelized onions."

"You and Will were having a ball," Mary said with a sly smile.

"Oh, stop it. It was just a harmless dinner flirtation. I forget. Is he married and did I take any clothes off?"

"Divorced and not a one. Well, I think your shoes. I seem to remember your foot working up his leg. Do you remember you promised Truely you'd come to the coffee warehouse today?"

"That I remember. I'm looking forward to it. I'm into coffee. We use a single estate bean and grind them at the restaurant to ensure freshness."

"Well, la-de-da," Mary said with a laugh. "I must admit, I had a ball last night myself. I haven't laughed that much in months. Your rendition of the termite story got funnier as the night went on."

"Speaking of the crises at the convent, I need to go upstairs and pack my stuff. My plane leaves at three and I want to do a little investigating before I leave, and also visit Truely. Where's his office?"

"In the warehouse at the beginning of Magazine Street, you can't miss it. Don't forget your lunch," Mary said.

"My lunch?"

"You're having lunch with Will at K-Paul's at 12:30. Aren't you glad I hadn't been traumatized by termites so I could keep track of you?"

Heaven got up and kissed her friend on the top of her head. 'Yes, I am. I would have remembered. The coffee is kicking in. Thank you so much for your hospitality."

"I wish you'd change your mind and stay here when you come back next month."

Heaven shook her head. "I want to stay in the Quarter so I can be close to the venue for the dinner and to Peristyle, the kitchen I'm prepping in. I got a small suite at the Hotel Provincial. It's not even a half block from the convent. I'll be more productive there."

"Heaven," Mary said seriously, "about this investigating. I know you're famous for catching the bad guy at home, but New Orleans isn't Kansas City."

"Which means?"

"Nothing is ever the way that it seems here. Everything is more dangerous than it seems."

"That seems like the Surgeon General's warning for life in general, not just New Orleans. Now go to work. International law needs you."

Mary shrugged. "Be careful. I mean it."

Heaven waved confidently from the kitchen door.

The television station that Amelia Hart worked for was right in the Quarter. Heaven hadn't called ahead and had no idea if Amelia would be there or even remember who she was, and if she did, would want to talk to her. She pressed the buzzer on the street and when the receptionist answered she bluffed with, "Heaven Lee from Kansas City to see Ms. Hart." That got her in the door. The next fifteen minutes were spent cooling her heels in the waiting room, but then the woman behind the desk said that Ms. Hart would be out shortly.

And she was, walking toward Heaven with her hand outstretched. "This is a surprise."

Heaven got up and shook the hand. "I'm leaving to go back to Kansas City this afternoon and there were a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about before I left."

"Come in then," Amelia said in a businesslike voice. She used a code to get them through a door to the warren of equipment, cables and props that const.i.tuted a television studio. "I have something that resembles an office," she said as she turned the corner into a tiny room crammed with a desk, a computer and printer, hundreds of clippings and books and files, and photos of Amelia with various celebrities push-pinned to the cork walls. Amelia sat down in front of her computer screen and removed a big pile of magazines from the only other chair in the room. Heaven sat.