Fat Tuesday(31)

He had followed it here, to Blessed Heart Academy, and watched with dismay as the woman he recognized alighted with the assistance of the chauffeur. Chauffeur and bodyguard, Burke thought. After Mrs. Duvall went inside, the man took up his post at the gate. Burke wasn't surprised by the vigilance. Ruby Bouchereaux had already told him that Duvall kept an eagle eye on his wife.

"You didn't know he was married?" the madam had said, gauging his astonishment."I'm not surprised. Pinkie keeps her under lock and key."

"Why? What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing," she replied with a soft laugh."I see her periodically.

She's quite beautiful. As was her mother, until her lifestyle began to take its toll."

Burke listened raptly as Ruby told him about Remy's mother, Angel.

"She was an exotic dancer in one of the nightclubs Pinkie owns. This was twenty or more years ago. Angel Lambeth had talent and a promising career, but she became pregnant and had to quit dancing long enough to have the baby. When she returned to work, she was not only a mother, but an addict. Heroin, I believe. Her performance got sloppy. The drugs took a toll on her looks. So she was transferred to a club with a less critical clientele. A dive. You know the kind of place."

"What about her daughter?"

"When she was old enough, Remy became Pinkie's bride. Beyond that, I know very little of the mysterious Remy. No one knows much."

"How did Angel fare?"

"Badly. She was eventually demoted from dancing to running the cash register. Shortly after Pinkie married the girl, Angel died.

Supposedly of an overdose."

"Supposedly?"

Ruby Bouchereaux arched her brow eloquently."Pinkie was a big man around town by then. Would he embrace a drug-addicted mother-in-law who turned tricks to support her habit?"

"You think he disposed of Angel to spare himself embarrassment?"

"Or the cost of rehab. He probably considered Angel a bad investment In any case, her death was awfully convenient for him, wasn't it?"

Now, his butt growing numb from sitting so long in his car, Burke reviewed the story from every angle, wishing he knew the information that would fill in all the blanks. What was Mrs. Duvall doing here at the school? Did they have a kid?

His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before. He searched the car for something to eat and found a forgotten Twinkie in the glove box.

What was taking so freaking long? The chauffeur had found a way to pass the time. He was cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife.

Burke saw him cough up a wad of phlegm and spit it into the shrubbery flanking the gate. Nails clean, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the iron post of a gaslight. Burke couldn't see his eyes, but he would bet they were closed and that the goon was taking a nap standing up.

Forty-seven minutes after Remy Duvall went into the school, she came out. She said nothing to the chauffeur until they reached the car, when she paused before getting in and spoke to him over her shoulder.

He doffed his cap.

"Yes, ma'am. Anything you say, madam. Kiss your ass? You bet.

Jump? How high? Roll over? Play dead? Your wish is my command."

Burke's muttering was tinged with contempt as he watched the chauffeur hustle to carry out her orders.

He cranked up the engine of the Toyota and followed at a nonthreatening, nonsuspicious distance as the limo left the Garden District, traveled down Canal Street, and then turned left, entering the French Quarter via Decatur Street.

The driver double parked beside a row of parking meters, all of which were occupied. Straight ahead lay the French Market. The chauffeur got out and went through the routine of opening her door and helping her out.

Burke whipped his Toyota into a space farther down the street, ignoring the stripes marking it as a loading zone. He reached for the duffel bag in his backseat. When he stepped out of the car a few moments later, he was wearing not a sport coat and dress shoes, but a loose rain jacket, Nikes, a baseball cap, and dark sunglasses.

Placing his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he strolled down the banquet looking like an average Joe who had the afternoon off, with seemingly no purpose in mind except to shop the fresh produce of the French Market and to meander among the stalls where vendors sold everything from voodoo dolls to alligator money clips.

He picked through a bin of Vidalia onions while, one row over, Remy Duvall sorted through the oranges. Now no more than eight feet away, Burke got his first close look at her.

There was no cleavage showing today, yet her two-piece suit could have been tailored for a Barbie doll. The skirt was short and snug. Its tightly nipped waistline drew attention to her breasts his attention anyway. Her heels were high, her earrings flashy. The diamond on her ring finger was the size of a doorknob. She looked like the girls in the get-off magazines, except for her hair. It wasn't long and tangled.

It was sleek and smooth. But there was something about the way it brushed her cheek each time she moved her head that was like an invitation to touch. Cherry-colored lips parted into a smile when she lifted one of the oranges to her nose and sniffed it.

Except for the small gold cross around her neck, she couldn't have looked more blatantly sexual if she'd been stark naked and had BoFF ME tattooed on her tits.

Even the fruit vendor was almost too flustered to sack up the pair of oranges she selected. The chauffeur paid for her purchase, but the vendor handed her the sack, placing it in her hands with his profuse thanks.