Читать книгу Close To The Edge - Kylie Brant - Страница 9

“I’ve made your apologies to the hostess.”

The first words Charlotte Wheeler spoke were delivered in her customary genteel voice, carefully modulated. But years of experience had Jacey reading the disapproval layered beneath. Your late arrival is insufferably rude. There is no reason, short of death, that could possibly excuse your tardiness.

And because no excuse would mollify her mother, least of all the truth, Jacey didn’t offer any. “Thank you. Have you found your table setting yet?”

Charlotte’s lips tightened just a fraction. “We’re seated together. I waited for you before dining. I didn’t want to disturb the others at our table by both of us holding up their meals.”

Years of practice had her skirting the verbal land mine. “Let’s sit then, shall we? You’re looking lovely tonight. I always like that color on you.”

That, at least, could be said honestly. Charlotte’s dress was the same bottle-green color as her eyes. She was sixty, and, thanks to a skilled and discreet plastic surgeon, looked fifteen years younger. Her brown hair was worn short, as Charlotte subscribed to the outdated belief that a woman of a certain age should never wear long hair. It wasn’t the only antiquated notion she clung to, nor the only one they disagreed upon.

Jacey followed her mother across the crowded room, stopping several times to return greetings and exchange pleasantries. The contrast between the staid dinner and the smoky bar she’d left less than an hour ago couldn’t be more stark. If her mother had her way, Jacey’s entire adult life would be filled with more of the same; an endless parade of boring functions, peopled by equally dull members of what passed for New Orleans’ high society.

A shudder worked down her spine at the thought. They were shown to their table by a white-jacketed waiter who seated them, then summoned another to bring their plates. Every time Jacey wearied of the constant battles with her mother over her choice of careers, she had only to think of events like this to feel her resolve stiffen. That strength was necessary. Battles with Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler could leave lasting wounds.

The upside of her tardiness was that she was still eating when the guest speaker was introduced, which gave her something to focus on besides what promised to be an excruciatingly long-winded speech. With an ease born of long practice, Jacey assumed a politely interested expression and tuned the woman out.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the plight of the walruses, which was the current issue of the moment for the Sisters of the South Auxillary. Jacey would be happy to write a check, which was the pitch the speaker was working up to. But it seemed like the venues selected for the fund-raisers—fancy dinners or formal balls—were a bit ironic. Why not spend the money instead on the cause itself, and eliminate one layer of cost?

Her mind drifted to her business. She needed more help. Not that there had been any truth to Lucky’s breezy assertion that he carried more than his share of the weight, but there was no denying that a third investigator would lighten the load for them both. It was a nice problem to have, especially since there had been a time a few years ago when she’d almost despaired of getting to this point. But her business had been self-supporting for two years now. She no longer had to dip into her trust fund to pay her bills. Joan, her secretary, had her hands full managing the office, but Jacey didn’t think they were yet at the place where they could keep another full-timer busy. She decided to advertise next week for part-time help, and have the new employee handle some of the research.

Twenty minutes later there was a burst of applause and Jacey joined in, already calculating how much longer she’d have to stay. She’d be required to mingle, of course. Her mother would insist on that. But with any luck she could fulfill her obligations and be home in an hour.

The thought of her comfortable home in the French Quarter beckoned. Once she got there she’d chase away the chill from the evening rain by wrapping up on her couch in a quilt, with a hot drink and maybe an ice pack for her knee. It still throbbed, just a bit from the blow she’d landed on the biker. She could only hope that he was nursing a far more serious injury.

She parted from her mother, making the rounds as quickly as she could manage. Jacey had just stopped to speak to Suzanne Shrever, a former classmate of hers, when she felt eyes on her. She turned around, scanning the crowd, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Honestly, Jacinda,” Suzanne was saying, “I’m so envious of you with your exciting career. Is it very dangerous?”

That question was difficult to answer, Jacey thought, knowing that Suzanne’s idea of danger was hiring a new caterer.

“I’m careful,” she said, “and most of my work is routine. Missing persons, serving summonses, theft detection.” She was careful to remain vague. Although most of her cases were just that unexceptional, all she needed was for her mother to get wind of details such as her experience earlier today. She’d learned long ago that skirmishes with Charlotte were safer when she didn’t provide her with ammunition.

“Well,” Suzanne tossed her artfully styled curls, “I just think you’re the bravest thing. Bitsy didn’t think you’d show up here tonight, but I said that very thing, I said, well of course she will, Jacinda is just so brave.” She nodded vigorously.

The sensation was back, as if eyes were boring into her. “Well, that’s nice,” Jacey said inanely, scanning the crowd over the other woman’s shoulder. She found the source of the feeling standing across the room at the balcony doors. The man was instantly recognizable, with his mane of silver hair and neat mustache. J. Walter Garvey, a local shipping magnate, gave her a nod when their gazes met and then, with a slight inclination of his head toward the doors, he went outside.

Suzanne’s voice bubbled around her, but it might as well have been the drone of bees. Jacey looked around, trying and failing to see anyone else that the man might have been gesturing to. Curiosity, the bane of her existence, surged. More than half convinced she was going to make a fool of herself, she excused herself from her friend and made her way toward the half-open balcony door.

She found the older man leaning against the railing, smoking a thin cigar. The rain had stopped, but the early-fall air was still heavy with moisture. Jacey stepped outside and then hesitated, once again questioning her action. The Garvey family was reputed to be among the wealthiest in the city, due in no small part to the solitary man on the balcony. And although she knew him to speak to, having met him at various functions much like this one, she could think of no reason for him to seek her out.

“Close the door behind you and come here.” The man’s voice sounded a trifle testy. “There’s no telling how long I can dodge that throng inside. There’s always a few who’ll use an event like this one to try to hit me up about a new business venture.”

Jacey strolled over to his side, immediately wishing for a coat. She hadn’t thought to bring a wrap when she’d tossed some things into the car to change into after work. “Mr. Garvey.” She joined him at the railing, felt her skin dewed by the thick moisture in the air. “How have you been?”

“Not worth a damn.”

She smiled a little. She’d always appreciated his tendency to speak his mind. Her smile faded when, in the next instant he added, “I’m dying.”

Her face jerked to his, saw the truth of his words written there. “I’m sorry.” The words were simple, heartfelt.

He waved them away. “Cancer. Nothing to be done about it, and I’d appreciate you keeping this to yourself. Haven’t even told my family. I never could stand people blathering over me.”

No, pity wouldn’t be something this man would suffer easily. Even knowing as little as she did about him, Jacey recognized that. Rather than giving him any, she matched his matter-of-fact tone with one of her own. “What can I do?”

“I’m looking for someone to conduct research for me. I’ve considered several local investigative agencies, but think you might be better suited than most to fill this assignment.”

A quiet hum of pleasure filled her at his words, followed by a leap of interest. This was what she needed, this constant challenge of matching her wits to solve puzzles, work out problems. She liked to think she was good at it, too. “I’m glad to hear that.”

In the next moment he slipped out of his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. The old-fashioned courtliness of the gesture was at odds with his reputation for ruthlessness, both in business and with his family. “I’ve built Garvey Enterprises into a heavily diversified global operation. Started at a time when the business was more like bare-knuckled fighting than endless bickering in corporate boardrooms.” From his tone, it was easy to tell he much preferred the former. “I can’t take it with me when I die, and I don’t mind telling you, that fact irritates the hell out of me.”

She smiled, surveying him in the dim spill of light afforded through the closed balcony doors. “Who will step into your shoes when you’re gone?”

He gave a short nod of approval, drew on his cigar again. “You’ve cut to the heart of the matter. I’d heard you were quick. The fact is, Miss Wheeler, I don’t know the answer to that question. That’s where you come in.”

Brows skimming upward, she asked, “You want me to tell you who to leave your business to?”

“Few men are fortunate in both business and family. Or maybe I just failed with mine.” He gave a shrug that seemed more impatient than regretful. “My children were overindulged when they were young, and they haven’t improved with age. Rupert, my son, is a skirt-chasing spendthrift, and my daughter, Lianna, is a pea-brained socialite with the morals of an alley cat. Their offspring don’t look any more promising, but they’re all I’ve got to work with. I need you to find out more about them, their strengths, if they have any, as well as any weaknesses. If there’s one in the lot who’s worthy, there will still be a Garvey at the helm of the business, at least for another generation. If I decide, based on the information you find for me, that they’re all as useless as their parents…” He inhaled, then blew a perfect smoke ring. “Well, then the business will be completely incorporated, with each of the family members getting a small share, and no real power in the way it’s run.”

She studied the man, fascinated by the scene he’d detailed for her. “It must be difficult to contemplate your company in the hands of strangers.”

“Not as difficult as thinking of it in the hands of an incompetent, family or not.”

Jacey could appreciate the sentiment. Wheeler and Associates had been her brainchild. She’d been the one with the dream, the ambition, and the guts to see her vision come to life. She’d close the doors before she’d see it run improperly. “So you want me to look into the backgrounds of your grandchildren, then let you know what I find out.”

“That, and I want your personal observations on each.” Catching her look of surprise, he tapped his cigar on the railing to remove the ash, and then continued. “Any firm could get me the information I need, but you…you travel in the same circles. With your social connections, there isn’t a party or snooty affair you couldn’t get an invitation to, and that, my dear, is why I chose you. I’ve always thought if you really want to see what makes a person tick, observe them in a social arena like the one inside.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated the gathering on the other side of the doors. “Over time, everyone shows their true colors, and whether you love that type of thing or hate it as much as I do, these events can be a mine of information.”

The words cast a decided pall over her earlier enthusiasm. Glancing through the double doors, she gave an inner sigh. He was right, and she would have arrived at the same conclusion eventually. A good PI used every avenue at her disposal. It was surely a flaw in her genetic makeup that she would have preferred more nights like the one she’d spent in Frenchy’s than time spent at functions just like this one.

“What do you say, Miss Wheeler? Do you want the case?”

Without a hint of hesitation she answered, “Absolutely.”

“Good.” His tone suggested that he’d expected no other answer. He took her hand, pumped it hard twice before releasing it. “I’ll send over a file in the morning that will give you the basic data on each of my grandchildren, as well as my contact information. I’ll want regular updates.”

She nodded. “I’ll fill you in weekly. Would you like to come in to sign the contract, or should I have it delivered to you?”

“Deliver it to Garvey headquarters. The less we’re seen together the better chance we have of keeping our association under wraps.”

Now that he’d enlisted her cooperation, he appeared eager to be alone again. Jacey let the suit jacket slide off her shoulders and handed it to him. “I’ll talk to you soon,” she promised, and turned to walk toward the doors. Before entering the ballroom again, she took one last look at the man who’d just hired her.

Garvey was leaning heavily against the railing, the cigar in one hand, his jacket in the other. There was an aura of loneliness about his figure, one he would have been the first to deny. She felt a flicker of sympathy. Despite his family, the man was destined to die the same way he’d hacked out a niche in the corporate world. Alone.

Once inside, she looked for her mother to say her goodbyes and make her escape. But once she found her, Charlotte dashed Jacey’s hopes of salvaging a portion of the evening with a quiet hour or two at home before bed.

“Did you hire a limo or drive yourself?”

“I drove,” she said automatically, then immediately wished the words back. That would probably be enough to set her mother off on a disapproving lecture about maintaining appearances.

But this time Charlotte surprised her. “Wonderful, then you can give me a ride home. After John dropped me here, I gave him the rest of the night off.”

Jacey blinked in surprise. Her mother wasn’t exactly known for her largesse with employees. “I could call for a taxi if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m right on your way.”

She was at least twenty minutes in the other direction, but Jacey pressed her lips together and did a mental count to ten. She could hardly refuse without seeming churlish, and making it appear that she didn’t want to spend any more time than possible in her mother’s presence.

Just because that fact happened to be true, didn’t make it any less discourteous.

Silently kissing away the fantasy she’d had of spending a couple of hours unwinding, she accompanied her mother in search of their hostess. Her temples began to throb. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that the headache would only worsen before the evening was over.

The gates to the huge estate swung open slowly, and Jacey nosed her car up the long circular drive. Darkness had fallen over the meticulous lawn and ornamental shrubbery. She had always thought the home looked best in the dark. With the windows lit from within, the mansion took on a deceptively warm and inviting air. In the daylight, its uncompromising lines and precise landscaping made it seem much more rigid, impersonal.

Much like its lone occupant.

“Just leave your car in front. I’ll have cook serve us tea in the drawing room.” As Jacey pulled to a stop, Charlotte’s hand went to the door handle.

“I really can’t come in, Mother. It’s been a long day and I have an early start tomorrow. But I’ll call you tomorrow night, I promise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” With her usual tactics, Charlotte steamrollered over Jacey’s excuses. “We have to discuss this situation you’re in, and I refuse to do that over the phone.”

Situation? Jacey rubbed her temples as her mother got out of the car. The hammering within was taking on a life of its own. Had Charlotte overheard Garvey? Or had she somehow caught wind of what had occurred at Frenchy’s? She rejected both notions, even as she turned off the ignition and got out of the car. It would be just like her mother to be talking about her “little hobby,” as she liked to call Wheeler and Associates. She had a feeling that the upcoming conversation was one they’d had many times before, and there was no new ground to be covered.

Nevertheless, she followed her mother up the ornamental brick walk, and into the house. With her sore knee and headache, she was feeling just bitchy enough to be more blunt than usual when she told her mother to butt out. Again.

Charlotte was already replacing the receiver to the house phone in its cradle when Jacey stepped into the graceful drawing room. Like its owner, it was carefully accessorized to reflect elegance and good taste. With its paintings and objects of art it always reminded Jacey of a museum. Beautiful, but curiously lifeless.

“Well, this latest situation you’re embroiled in is embarrassing, to say the least. However, I have thought of a way for you to salvage a bit of dignity from the mess.” Charlotte heaved a sigh, and set her purse on the walnut credenza.

“Why don’t you let me decide what’s right for me, Mother? I’ve been an adult for some time now.”

She might as well not have spoken. Charlotte was continuing. “It’s not totally your fault, of course. I must say, I never expected Peter to behave so badly. But he is a man, after all, and you can be assured that people will be more forgiving of his boorishness than they would be of a woman’s.” She sat on the Louis XXIV armchair, and waved Jacey to the nearby matching settee.

She remained standing, attempting to make sense of her mother’s words. “Peter? My Peter? Why? What has he done?”

Charlotte looked coolly amused for a moment. “Well, he’s hardly yours anymore, now is he?”

The conversation was taking on the complication of a maze. “No, that is, we’re on a break, but…” Jacey shook the unusual muzziness from her brain and demanded, “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re talking about? What is this about Peter Brummond?”

As an answer Charlotte rose, went to the French provincial desk in the corner of the room and returned with a cream-colored envelope, which she handed to her daughter. With impatience mounting, Jacey opened the flap to withdraw a heavily embossed invitation and scanned it quickly. Then she stopped, stared harder at the note in her hand, and sat down heavily on the settee.

You are cordially invited to an engagement party for Peter Alexander Brummond and Celeste Emilie Longwaite, to be held…

“Good heavens, you really didn’t know? Don’t tell me he compounded his gauche behavior by not even inviting you?”

She tried to swallow, found her throat too dry. She had a mental flash of a very similar envelope lying, still unopened on her hallway table, with a pile of other correspondence she hadn’t gotten around to yet.

“No. I mean, yes, I received one, but I’ve been so busy…” Her voice trailed off as she continued to gaze at the invitation, as if she could make sense of it through sheer force of will. Peter was getting married. To someone else.

“You really have to open your mail promptly, Jacinda.” Exasperation sounded in her mother’s voice. “I’m surprised someone at the Auxilliary tonight didn’t mention this to you, and just think how difficult that would have been.”

Difficult. A wild laugh welled up in Jacey’s throat. She only barely managed to restrain it. Yes, she supposed it would have been difficult to hear from an acquaintance that the man she’d parted from three months ago in a mutual agreement to—“take a break for a bit and see where we’re at”—had, in that time, met someone else and proposed marriage to her. A proposal he hadn’t tendered to Jacey during their eighteen months together.

Not that she’d wanted him to. But still.

“I think Suzanne might have been referring to it tonight, but I wasn’t really paying attention,” she murmured, the invitation clutched tightly in her fingers. She raised her gaze to meet her mother’s, nearly flinched. There was a sort of impatient pity in the woman’s eyes that was somehow harder to face than the usual biting disapproval.

“Suzanne Shrever is an addlepated gossip. But I’m sure she’s not saying anything that isn’t being repeated ad nauseum in our circle.” An expression of distaste crossed her face. There was little Charlotte Wheeler abhorred more than being the target of gossip. “Damage control is of paramount importance at this point.”

“Damage control.” A blessed sort of numbness had settled over Jacey. “This isn’t a military operation, Mother.” She had a brief mental flash of Charlotte in uniform, stars on her shoulders, helmet and jack boots. She wasn’t so certain the woman hadn’t missed her calling.

“Reputations are fragile things, Jacinda. I’ve let it be known, quietly of course, that you’ve been seeing someone from out of town. We’ll have to act quickly so that you can line up an escort in time for the party. Had you answered any of my phone messages for the last week, we could have already gotten started on this.”

The words seemed to come from a distance. Anger burned through Jacey’s numbness. How dare Peter do this to her! The emotion was welcome, and she seized on it gratefully. It was easier to focus on than to acknowledge the rest of the tangled feelings crashing through her. Humiliation. Shock. Hurt.

A glance at her mother’s face had her shoving all that aside for the moment. She needed every wit about her in order to deal with Charlotte. “That won’t be necessary. I’m not going.”

“Of course you’ll go.” The certainty in her tone had Jacey’s jaw tightening. “Your failure to appear will only set people to talking even more. I’ll have Dorothy Genesson tell her bridge group that you’ll be bringing the new man in your life. She’ll hint about the seriousness of your relationship, and then we’ll let the word get around. You won’t have to stay long, but to save face you do have to attend, and appear madly happy with your current companion.”

Dorothy Genesson was as close to a best friend as Charlotte had. Both of them had been widowed for nearly ten years, and neither were eager to change that status. “Very Machiavellian, Mother. But there is no new man in my life.” Not that she had missed the lack overmuch in the last few months. “And I tend to think that beating the bushes for a man to playact with at the engagement party is even more pathetic than showing up alone, or not at all.”

“You always put the most negative spin on things. One does what the situation calls for.”

Just for a moment, Jacey thought of the biker she’d dropped earlier that evening. Somehow she didn’t think Charlotte would appreciate the association. “That’s always been my philosophy.”

“Excellent.” Her mother crossed to her and handed her a paper with a list of names printed neatly on it. Each was followed by an address and phone number. She must have taken it from the desk when she’d retrieved the invitation. “Dorothy and I put our heads together and came up with this list of five men. Each lives out of town, is single and would be a suitable escort. I assumed you’d like to do the contact and final selection yourself.”

The sheer gall of the action left Jacey speechless for a moment. Incredulity shredded that reaction, though, and quickly. “You’ve got to be joking. You expect me to call up some total strangers and beg for a date to my ex-boyfriend’s engagement party? This sounds like the plot for a very bad chick-flick.”

“Don’t be irreverent.” Charlotte sat down again. “You needn’t pursue a relationship with the man you decide upon, although any of the five would be quite appropriate, if you should decide to do so.”

“I’ll bet.” Cynicism flickered. She imagined that her mother had examined the bloodlines and portfolios of each and every candidate before placing his name on the list. “If I remember correctly, you approved of Peter, too, until quite recently.”

Voice sharpening, Charlotte said, “I won’t tolerate your impudence, Jacinda. Peter Brummond would have made an excellent match, and you have only yourself to blame for this fiasco.”

Settling back against the uncomfortable settee, Jacey readied for battle. This, then, was the crux of the conversation. Not the faux sympathy, nor the matter-of-fact plotting. If truth be known, she had far more experience dealing with her mother’s censure than with her understanding. “How exactly is that, Mother? Should I have had him shackled after we broke up so that he couldn’t meet anyone else?” She pretended to consider the idea. “Possible, perhaps, but leg irons are so difficult to come by.”

“If you had played your cards right, you could have finessed a proposal from him and this invitation would have your name on it, instead of that of some little social climber from Baton Rouge. You certainly had the time.”

“Finessed a proposal.” To give her hands something to do, she smoothed her dress over her legs. “That sounds very romantic.”

“You know what I mean. Romance is vastly overrated in these situations, at any rate. What matters most are similar backgrounds, breeding and position.”

She’d heard her mother’s views on marriage often enough to repeat them verbatim. They saddened and terrified her by turn. “If Peter and I had been interested in marriage, don’t you think it would have come up over the course of eighteen months?”

“If he wasn’t interested, you can blame that hobby of yours. What man wants to be married to a woman who insists on dealing with the criminal element all day long, and most weekends, as well?”

She opened her mouth, intending to straighten her mother out about her job again, then closed it. It was useless, and it really wasn’t the issue here.

Charlotte went on. “I just don’t understand you anymore, Jacinda. You never used to be so difficult. You were always such a pliable girl.”

Weak, Jacey silently interpreted. Scared of her mother’s displeasure, which could be earned so easily. Anxious to do whatever it took to please her, until she found that by doing so she was very rarely pleasing herself. It was shaming to admit, even to herself, just how much courage it had taken to stand up to Charlotte about her choice of careers. A lifetime of choosing the path of least resistance, she’d found, hadn’t prepared her for the task.

However, constant practice was making it easier.

The jackhammering in her temples made it difficult to concentrate. She rose. There was nothing left to say, at any point. “I have to leave, Mother. I…appreciate the worry you’ve gone through. But don’t concern yourself. I’ll take care of it.”

She began to cross to the door. Charlotte stood as well, just as the cook, Luella, entered with a tray of tea. “Don’t go yet. We need to develop a plan of action.”

“No, we don’t need to do anything. This is my problem, and I’ll take care of it in my own way.” Taking advantage of her mother’s unwillingness to discuss anything personal in front of the servants, Jacey continued with her escape. “I’ll call you in a couple of days, all right?”

There was no mistaking the disapproval in Charlotte’s silence, but Jacey was far past a time when it could change her mind. Slipping out the heavy front door, she hurried down the steps and to the car, a familiar sense of relief nearly swamping her.

Those who turn and run away live to fight another day. Her father’s oft-repeated saying sounded in her mind. It had always been accompanied with a conspiratorial wink. He hadn’t been one to confront his wife on many matters, opting instead for peaceful co-existence.

The rain had grown heavier. The streetlights shot the wet pavement with tiny splinters of light. She drove slowly, her headlights barely denting the inky darkness. Her earlier relief began to dissipate as the full weight of the situation struck her.

She supposed, by her mother’s definition, she and Peter had been perfectly matched. With his tall blond good looks, they’d made, Charlotte had often said, a handsome couple. Certainly he’d come from a family whose background and fortune had been deemed appropriate by her mother, as well. Jacey had known him since she was a child, and she’d wondered, the last several months of their relationship, if that long acquaintance was to blame for the lack of any real…passion between them. They’d seemed more like a couple married twenty years than two people supposedly in love.

She didn’t even remember now which of them had first proposed the idea of stepping back from the relationship for a while. It had been Peter, she was almost certain of it, but she’d seized on the idea with an eagerness that had been just as telling. And there was no use being less than honest, nothing she’d experienced during their time apart had made her regret the decision.

Traffic was light. Those who didn’t have to venture out into the rain were probably snugged warmly inside their homes. The idea of doing the same lacked the appeal it had presented an hour ago.

Truth be told, when she’d recognized Peter’s return address on the mail that had been delivered, she’d dreaded opening it. It had been easier to put it off until she had a free evening to devote to handling her personal correspondence. Hardly the reaction of someone pining for her lost love.

Grimacing, she turned on to St. Ann Street. She never would have described herself as contrary, Charlotte’s opinions aside. So why this welter of emotion now, brewing and bubbling inside her? Apparently, she was a bit more temperamental than she’d realized.

She brought her car to a stop in front of her Creole-style house, for once not pausing to take pleasure in the double verandas, the enclosed courtyard. Resting her forehead against the steering wheel, she let the events of the last hour swamp her.

She’d been dumped, in as public a way possible. And as much as it pained her to admit it, her mother had been right about one thing.

She was going to have to start planning just how she was going to deal with it.