at the display—Scarlett Heinz. "Bradley, I have to take this call. It's really important."
"Okay—"
I pressed answer before he could finish speaking. It served him right for letting Pauline cancel our dates. "Hello?"
There was silence on the other end.
"Scarlett?"
"Don't call me again," she said in a low, unsteady voice.
"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you. Delta said it would be all right to call—"
"Well, it's not," she interrupted.
"All I want is justice for Ivanna Jones," I said firmly.
"It's too late for her," she gushed. "But it ain't for the rest of us."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you don't know what you're messing with," she replied in a frightened tone. "If you're smart, you'll let it lie."
"What's going on, Scarlett? Please tell me what you know." I waited for her to respond, but I heard dead air on the other end of the line. I looked at my phone and realized she'd ended the call.
I lay back on the chaise lounge, stunned. It had been clear from the start that Scarlett had information about the case. But judging from her warning to me just now, something was going on at Oleander Place—something far more sinister than Ivanna's death. And that was a possibility I hadn't foreseen.
As I stroked Napoleon's belly, I wondered what, exactly, was I "messing with" and whether Miles McCarthy was involved in some way. The bigger question, though, was whether other lives were at stake. Like Scarlett's.
Or mine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"So what do you want to do about Scarlett?" Veronica asked the next morning as I exited Interstate 10 in the direction of the French Quarter.
"I guess I'm going to have to go to Oleander Place to try to talk to her after her shift. Depending on how long it takes us to question everyone at Lickalicious Lips this morning, I might be able to do it today."
"That reminds me." She pulled a tube of pale pink Chanel lip gloss from her hot pink Dolce & Gabbana Miss Sicily bag and applied a fresh layer.
I turned onto Canal Street. "Where'd you say this place was again?"
She smacked her lips. "On St. Peter."
I nodded and glanced in the direction of Ponchartrain Bank—which we were passing purely by chance, of course. I immediately spotted Corinne's fairy-like figure walking toward the main door with her handbag clutched to her chest and her head lowered. She looked despondent, like a Tinker Bell with drooping wings.
"That's Corinne Mercier," I said, pointing in her direction. "It looks like something's wrong."
"Why don't you pull over?"
"I think I will." I steered my Mustang into a thirty-minute customer service zone in front of a tourist shop.
Veronica rolled down her window, and I leaned across her lap and shouted, "Everything okay, Corinne?"
She turned toward my car and glanced uncertainly at Veronica. " Bonjour ."
"Bone-jure," Veronica replied with a polite nod. Like me, she spoke an unofficial Texas dialect of French.
I cleared my throat. "This is my partner, Veronica Maggio."
"I am 'appy to meet you," Corinne said, approaching the window. She was so small that she barely had to bend over to see inside the car. "After yesterday, I am in desperate need of Private Chicks' services."
I killed the engine. "Why? What happened?"
"Zere was more money missing from my teller drawer." Her big blue eyes welled with tears. "Anozer five hundred dollars."
"This has happened before?" Veronica asked.
I nodded. "Did you have to pay back the money again?"
" Non . Mr. Hartmann and I were here until midnight. We did not find ze money, but zis time he tell me not to pay."
So that's the bank business he had to take care of ASAP . I pressed my fingers to my lips. "Could one of your customers be a short change artist?"
"I don't sink so. Ze bank train us to recognize such tricks."
"Does anyone else have access to your drawer?" I asked.
"I don't see how, but I suppose it is possible."
"Well, if someone did steal money without you noticing," I said, "then the security cameras would have captured
"Okay—"
I pressed answer before he could finish speaking. It served him right for letting Pauline cancel our dates. "Hello?"
There was silence on the other end.
"Scarlett?"
"Don't call me again," she said in a low, unsteady voice.
"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you. Delta said it would be all right to call—"
"Well, it's not," she interrupted.
"All I want is justice for Ivanna Jones," I said firmly.
"It's too late for her," she gushed. "But it ain't for the rest of us."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you don't know what you're messing with," she replied in a frightened tone. "If you're smart, you'll let it lie."
"What's going on, Scarlett? Please tell me what you know." I waited for her to respond, but I heard dead air on the other end of the line. I looked at my phone and realized she'd ended the call.
I lay back on the chaise lounge, stunned. It had been clear from the start that Scarlett had information about the case. But judging from her warning to me just now, something was going on at Oleander Place—something far more sinister than Ivanna's death. And that was a possibility I hadn't foreseen.
As I stroked Napoleon's belly, I wondered what, exactly, was I "messing with" and whether Miles McCarthy was involved in some way. The bigger question, though, was whether other lives were at stake. Like Scarlett's.
Or mine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"So what do you want to do about Scarlett?" Veronica asked the next morning as I exited Interstate 10 in the direction of the French Quarter.
"I guess I'm going to have to go to Oleander Place to try to talk to her after her shift. Depending on how long it takes us to question everyone at Lickalicious Lips this morning, I might be able to do it today."
"That reminds me." She pulled a tube of pale pink Chanel lip gloss from her hot pink Dolce & Gabbana Miss Sicily bag and applied a fresh layer.
I turned onto Canal Street. "Where'd you say this place was again?"
She smacked her lips. "On St. Peter."
I nodded and glanced in the direction of Ponchartrain Bank—which we were passing purely by chance, of course. I immediately spotted Corinne's fairy-like figure walking toward the main door with her handbag clutched to her chest and her head lowered. She looked despondent, like a Tinker Bell with drooping wings.
"That's Corinne Mercier," I said, pointing in her direction. "It looks like something's wrong."
"Why don't you pull over?"
"I think I will." I steered my Mustang into a thirty-minute customer service zone in front of a tourist shop.
Veronica rolled down her window, and I leaned across her lap and shouted, "Everything okay, Corinne?"
She turned toward my car and glanced uncertainly at Veronica. " Bonjour ."
"Bone-jure," Veronica replied with a polite nod. Like me, she spoke an unofficial Texas dialect of French.
I cleared my throat. "This is my partner, Veronica Maggio."
"I am 'appy to meet you," Corinne said, approaching the window. She was so small that she barely had to bend over to see inside the car. "After yesterday, I am in desperate need of Private Chicks' services."
I killed the engine. "Why? What happened?"
"Zere was more money missing from my teller drawer." Her big blue eyes welled with tears. "Anozer five hundred dollars."
"This has happened before?" Veronica asked.
I nodded. "Did you have to pay back the money again?"
" Non . Mr. Hartmann and I were here until midnight. We did not find ze money, but zis time he tell me not to pay."
So that's the bank business he had to take care of ASAP . I pressed my fingers to my lips. "Could one of your customers be a short change artist?"
"I don't sink so. Ze bank train us to recognize such tricks."
"Does anyone else have access to your drawer?" I asked.
"I don't see how, but I suppose it is possible."
"Well, if someone did steal money without you noticing," I said, "then the security cameras would have captured
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