“Absolutely.”
“Let me ask you, Aunt Patti, how did you get Little Miss Scamalot to accept your offer? Out of the goodness of her heart? Because she wanted to help you catch a killer?”
“Yes.”
She had hesitated before answering, a fraction of a second only, but enough to tip off Spencer. “Collaborating with Borger only two days and already lying. That’s not the Patti O’Shay I know and respect.”
It had been a lie, of course. And a poor one.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me. What did you offer her?”
“Money.”
“Now, there’s a surprise. How much?”
“That’s between me and Yvette.”
Spencer gazed at her a long moment, jaw tight. “Then I want in,” he said. “If for no other reason than to watch your back.”
“No. Absolutely not. Jeopardizing my career is one thing, jeopardizing yours is another.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue but she cut him off. “Detectives, I think you have a scene to finish processing. And I’ve got a leave to continue. Excuse me.”
She turned and walked away, aware of their concern, Spencer’s frustration.
She didn’t blame them. If either of them had made the same decisions, she would have been damn concerned indeed.
47
Thursday, May 10, 2007
5:15 p.m.
Yvette paced and checked her watch. She had hung around Patti’s house all afternoon, itching to get out. She was bored. Irritated. It’d been two days and the Artist hadn’t shown himself.
Maybe he had moved on? Found a new girl to go all “whack job” over. Maybe she had gotten lucky and a tree had fallen on him. Or he’d been hit by a truck.
She thought of Patti. The woman’s hands had trembled when she’d handed her the check for ten grand. In that moment, Yvette had realized how important this was to her. How huge an investment.
And in that moment, guilt had plucked at her.
She had taken the money, anyway.
Her cell phone dinged, announcing the arrival of a text message.
Please Come. Tips. 6:00. R.
Yvette reread the message. She wanted to go. She didn’t have to be at the Hustle until nine, which would give her plenty of time to go by Tipitina’s.
If Patti could break the rules, why couldn’t she?
Decision made, she checked her watch again and called a cab. Patti would be really pissed when she found out. And if she didn’t get out before the woman returned, she’d stop her.
Bossy, worrywart.
The cab arrived as she was zipping her sexiest jeans. She slipped into a pair of low-heeled sandals, grabbed her purse and darted out to the cab.
A local landmark, Tipitina’s had featured some big names over the years but was known mostly for showcasing local and regional music. Located in the Quarter, it had been spared the worst of Katrina’s sucker punch.
The taxi dropped her in front of the club. Yvette paid the driver and headed inside. It was early for a place like Tip’s, but there looked to be a fair-size crowd, anyway.
Riley spotted her the moment she walked in. His set hadn’t begun yet, and he hurried over to her. “You came. This is so cool.”
“I can’t stay too long. I have to work.”
“I’m just glad you’re here.” He caught her hands. “I wrote a song for you.”
She felt herself flush with pleasure. “You did?”
“I wasn’t going to sing it unless you came tonight.”
“I’m glad I did.”
“Me, too.” He bent and kissed her. Just the briefest of touches, his mouth to hers. She felt the contact to the tips of her toes.
“I’ve got to get up there. Clap for me, okay?”
He returned to the stage. She got a Coke and perched on a tall stool. His was a simple style: an acoustic guitar, a piano, Southern ballads about love and heartbreak, faith and family. He had a smoky voice, achingly accessible.
What, she wondered, was he doing managing an art gallery?
When he sang “her” song, he looked right at her. Into her. She felt hot. Light-headed and giddy. The words, the moment, wrapped around her-and she fell in love with him.
No one had ever accused her of being smart.
“Hello.”
She glanced at the woman who had come to stand beside her. She recognized her, though she wasn’t sure from where. “Hi.”
“June Benson,” the woman said. “Riley’s sister.”
“That’s right.” Yvette smiled. “I knew I’d seen you before.” She motioned the stage. “He’s good.”
“I think so, too.”
“He told me y’all are really close.”
“We are.” She paused to sip her drink. “Riley’s been talking a lot about you.”
“He has?”
“Mmm.” She shifted her gaze to the stage, expression ferocious. “My brother is…impetuous. He acts before he thinks. Wears his heart on his sleeve. I wanted you to know that.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
She returned her gaze to Yvette, looking her straight in the eyes. “He’s easily hurt. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Why would you think I’d hurt him?”
“I know who you are. The kind of dancer you are. And that you’re definitely not a ‘cocktail waitress.’”
Yvette felt as if she had been punched. “How did you-”
“Spencer Malone told me. That night at the gallery.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” The woman leaned toward her. “I love my brother and don’t want to see his heart broken. That’s all.”
Yvette struggled to keep how deeply June’s words hurt from showing. “And a woman like me would break his heart. Is that right? Because I’m trash? A whore?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Riley’s first set ended and he bounded over. “You guys are talking. That’s so great.”
“We are getting to know each other,” June murmured.
“Didn’t I tell you? Isn’t she the best?” He beamed at his sister, then turned to Yvette. “Did you like your song?”
She had. Liked it-and him-too much. It’d been a nice fantasy while it lasted.
“Yes,” she whispered, standing. “I’ve got to go. Sorry.”
She ducked past him and hurried toward the club entrance. He caught up with her.
“What gives? Did June say something to you?”
“That she didn’t want you hurt.”
“She’s overprotective. More like my mother than my sister sometimes.” He smiled. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yes, she did. She thinks I’m a-” She bit the words back, dangerously near tears. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not ever again.
“A what? You misunderstood her, she’s a really sweet-”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Your name’s not Yvette Borger?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not a cocktail waitress. I’m a stripper,” she said as harshly as she could. “At the Hustle. I do three sets a night and make damn good money. I get extra for lap dances and still more for ‘private’ lap dances. That’s why your sister thinks I’ll hurt you. Because I’m no good.”
He didn’t reply, and she wrenched her arm free. “I have to go.”
As she walked away, Yvette realized what hurt the most was that he didn’t try to stop her.
But she wasn’t surprised.
48
Thursday, May 10, 2007
9:25 p.m.
Yvette didn’t bother calling a cab. Despite the warm, humid night, she was cold. What an idiot she was. For allowing herself to be drawn into a fantasy. Her own little fairy tale, which didn’t have a damn thing to do with real life.
She paused to fire up a cigarette, then continued toward the Hustle. Nobody said life was going to be fair. Nobody promised it’d be easy, that people would be nice.