As Piper Marmande ran on her treadmill, she watched the sunrise on television when the weatherman cut to a camera stationed by the lake. The shower she’d taken after docking at ten the night before hadn’t left her feeling clean, so she’d increased her regular speed to try to sweat Kenny’s presence out of her skin. She appreciated his help, but the price was more than she was comfortable with.
As the guy on the screen droned on about enjoying the cool, dry air and clear skies before the massive storm to the north hit them in a few hours, her cell phone started to ring. She would’ve ignored it, but her grandfather seldom called her this early unless it was important. He’d left numerous messages, but after she’d turned her phone back on, she hadn’t wanted to wake him.
“Good morning, Pops,” she said, pressing a towel to the front of her neck. “Sorry about yesterday, but I was working on plan B.” What she said was true and necessary, but the dirty feeling came back.
“I hope it’s a good one, sweetie, because I think I know who killed our deal and why.”
She gazed out her kitchen window at the dark clouds rolling toward her. Fate seemed to be on its way to crush her, and she wouldn’t be able to face her grandparents if she lost the one thing their family had built for generations.
“Did you hear me, Piper?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, holding on to the countertop to stay on her feet. “What’d you find out?”
“You ever heard of Richoux International?”
Piper closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose so she could concentrate, but the name didn’t raise any alarms. “Should I have?”
“Kendal Richoux owns it. She visited the bank yesterday and offered to make good on our loans.”
It was hard to listen to the weariness in Mac’s voice, but she tried not to let it swamp her as she booted up her laptop. She didn’t remember the company, but she’d heard of Kendal Richoux. “Is she the woman the Wall Street Journal calls the Great White?”
“That’s what Brad called her.” Mac sighed. “Ms. Richoux came out of nowhere, and he tried to put her off, but she knows what she’s doing.”
Brad Howell and Mac had met in grade school, so if he was willing to forget the friendship he and Pops had shared for decades, they were in serious trouble. “What does that mean?” she asked as she found a few articles about Richoux International that barely mentioned its owner.
“He told her the bank was working with us, and he wasn’t in a position to sell us out…literally.”
“That sounds like Brad.” There was more, but she felt better knowing Brad hadn’t turned his back on Pops immediately.
“She hosted a reception for the full bank board last night, and it’ll be hard for them to ignore the amount of money she’s talking about.”
“What in the world would she want with us?”
“That’s easy,” Mac said, as if he’d resigned himself to the inevitable. “We’re worth more with our doors closed than operational, and people like Kendal Richoux thrive on situations like this.”
“You’re not giving up on me, are you?”
“We’ll find out today if we have a fight left to wage.”
“The board would act that quickly? It’s the weekend, for God’s sake.” Panic sucked the air from her lungs.
“Brad said it’ll take about a week if they decide to accept her offer, that’s not what I’m talking about. Ms. Richoux’s invited us to lunch to discuss why she’s here, so I need you to meet me at the Palace Café at noon.”
“I’ll meet you there, Pops, but I need to make a few calls.”
Piper hung up and hurried into the shower to try to organize her thoughts. She put on a robe after she dried her hair and skipped breakfast to head to her home office. Then she called Kenny, who assured her that the bank officers would consider their merger plan before they entertained anything from an outsider.
She felt better now about delaying Richoux, but was still uneasy about Kenny. Deals that seemed to have no downside when the other guy was explaining them usually ended in disaster for the one being buttered up, so the red flags were still flapping when she considered tying their future to Kenny and his investors.
“This absolutely sucks,” she said as she scrolled through her contacts, searching for a number.
Hillary Hickman answered after the second ring. “Hickman Investigations.”
“Hill, thank God you’re in,” Piper said. “I need a favor, hopefully before noon.”
“Not a lot of time, but I’ll do my best.”
Piper gave her Kendal’s name and company information, wanting as many facts as Hill could find before their lunch date. If she could send this woman back to New York, she’d have a better shot of getting them out of trouble without anyone’s help.
“I’ll give you a call.”
She placed the phone back in its cradle and stared at the framed photo her grandmother had given her as a housewarming gift after she bought her condo. Mac and Molly had tried to talk her into a house, but she liked the sameness of this place. It wasn’t different in any way from the other twenty-nine units, which matched how she felt about herself—common and mediocre. She lived here, but it wasn’t home or permanent.
The picture of her parents that sat on her desk showed her mom, Jen, seven months pregnant with her. She sat in front of her dad, Mackey, mid-laugh, her hands holding her midsection as if protecting the life within from being jostled too much. It was their only family photo, capturing perfectly Jen Marmande’s joy that everyone remembered her for. The black-and-white moment teased Piper with the possibilities she’d never have. The happy memories stopped there, and she’d had no chance to build on them.
Her mother had died in childbirth, leaving her father to deal with the pain and loss along with their baby, but Mackey didn’t have the strength to start a future without the one person he’d invested all his happiness in. They didn’t talk about it, but her father took his life, or threw it away, as she considered it. He selfishly gave up, never thinking of the wreckage he’d left behind. Mourning his loss, Mac had been walking around in a fog for years, which inevitably led them to the scary cliff they were teetering on, but she never blamed him.
“We all process differently, and I refuse to lose another thing,” she said to her father’s smiling face. Her life had been cursed almost from the very beginning, and she had survived by finding a place that insulated her from as much pain as possible. She kept people from seeing who she truly was, even if that perpetuated the loneliness. She had earned her reputation as a bitch, but she dictated the terms of every relationship she had. That way no one ever mattered enough for her to consider death as a remedy for the lost happiness.
“That’s where you and I differ, Daddy.” With a deep breath, she buried the pain of losing him so she could try to salvage what was left of their family’s legacy. “Giving up isn’t in my nature.”
*
Tourists as well as the locals flocked to Café du Monde, a New Orleans tradition. The open-air shop served only coffee and beignets, small pieces of fried bread dough covered in powdered sugar that, like fingerprints, were individually unique even though machines now cut the dough. To Kendal the coffee shop with its brass kettles of steamed milk and constant motion was a microcosm of the city.
The waiters, an interesting reflection of the face of New Orleans, had originally been white men who later moved to finer establishments in the nearby French Quarter. Then African Americans moved into the vacated positions and were replaced in droves by Hispanics, who in turn lost their jobs to the new Asian immigrants. Strangely, the new minority in town was once again old white men.
History’s most valuable lesson was that oppressors eventually became the oppressed. Or, as Kendal often thought, it was fate’s way of displaying its sense of humor as it balanced the scales of justice.
“You want beignets with that?” the waiter asked.
She chose a seat at one of the tables along the rail, a prime spot for people-watching, but the streets were mostly empty that morning because of the chill blowing off the river. Most of the customers were jockeying for one of the seats under a heater inside. “Sure, why not.”
“Make it four orders and another café au lait.” Again Kendal didn’t have to turn around to see who spoke. The voice was another familiar ghost in her head.
“What’s the matter, Charlie, don’t you trust me?”
“The Clan sent me to warn you. Henri knows you’re here and he’s preparing.” He sat across from her and put his folded hands on the slightly sticky Formica-topped table. They knew each other well enough to be silent for a while.
“Tell me, Charlie, do you know how pistolettes got their name?” she asked finally, cocking her head to the side and waiting for his answer.
“Small French breads used for sandwiches? Those pistolettes?”
Her smile made him smile back. “Those pistolettes.”
“No, but I have a feeling I’m about to.”
“Once upon a time, before the technology that made all loaves of bread taste exactly alike, bakers would rise early every day to make dough. They mixed the same ingredients, in the same measurements, and kneaded. The surprise always lay in the yeast. Would it rise? Would it bake correctly? Finally one of the French bakers got smart. He mixed, he kneaded, and he waited for the dough to rise. Only then, instead of baking loaves that might or might not turn out, he baked small individual loaves.”
“So he could correct the dough accordingly, right?” Charlie asked. Long gone were the days when he interrupted, wanting to know what these talks were about. They were always educational and relevant, so he sat back as if waiting for the rest of the story.
“Correct. When the small loaves turned out well, he would walk outside and fire a pistol to signal the town. The shot meant he was putting in the full loaves and they’d be ready within the hour. Those who couldn’t wait could buy the small loaves. In time they came to be called pistolettes for the shot fired every day.”
They were silent as the waiter filled the table with their order and accepted a bill from Kendal, walking away with a bounce in his step when she waved away the change. “As interesting as that story was, I’m not sure why you told it.”
“I already know my brother’s aware of my arrival. He was kind enough to visit last night or, rather, early this morning.”
Charlie leaned forward in clear alarm. “Where?”
“By the river, close to dawn, and I wasn’t surprised to see him since I meant to draw him out. I’m always the eternal optimist when it comes to Henri, but he’s eternally predictable. He warned me to leave, so obviously my arrival won’t make him see the error of his ways or motivate him to clean up his own messes in hopes of saving himself.”
“That was stupid, Kendal. You know what he’s capable of. You shouldn’t leave yourself so vulnerable.”
She laughed before she bit into a beignet. “His visit was like a pistolette, Charlie. The real loaf is in the oven baking. It isn’t quite ready yet, so I have time. Two of his little helpers weren’t enough to do harm, just send a message.”
His eyes, the exact shade of hers, narrowed and Charlie still didn’t look happy. “The Clan wants—”
“I know what they want. They came to me, remember? And if they sent you out to pass along messages because they believe I have some misplaced family loyalty to Henri, tell them not to worry. He ceased to be my brother long ago.” She seldom used this tone with Charlie, but she hated being spied on. “I don’t need a babysitter. Make sure you tell them that too.”
“I’m just looking out for you, old friend.”
“I know, and I love you for it, but I understand the Old Ones just as well. They’ve already had Morgaine contact me about how out of control my brother has become. A few more converts and there may be a change in management within the Genesis Clan, and the Elders will spend eternity polishing Ora and Henri’s boots.”
“That’s what they’re afraid of.”
“Yes, it is, but remember, Charlie, we live life in bits, one choice at a time. Some bits come out better than others, and some are worth remembering over and over because they were worth every minute.”
She brushed off her fingers and stood. “Tell the Elders I know what needs to be done, so they don’t have to worry. As for Henri, he’s about to find out what price his choices have cost him.” Charlie couldn’t say anything that would affect her plan, so she left it at that. For once she didn’t have a lot of time to finish this task. Ironic for someone who had nothing but time.
*
Kendal walked through the French Quarter as it came to life for another day of tourists and fun seekers. Trucks were delivering various supplies in front of restaurants, blocking a lane of traffic, and the bars were busy restocking from the night before. None of them interested her as she strode in her usual brisk clip until she was at the other side of the neighborhood.
Here the buildings were more run-down, not by time, but by abuse and apathy. The rougher sections drove the crime statistics, but nestled in the middle of all the decay were the St. Louis Cemeteries I and II. These cities of the dead stood silent witness to all that had happened to make New Orleans the place it had become. Along the rows of raised tombs, politicians rested next to criminals and some of the city’s founders. Firemen, policemen, and other heroes lay close to prostitutes and witches. Here it didn’t matter who you were or what you did. You all ended up in the same place—dead and, for the most part, forgotten.
The Christians were fond of saying, “From dust you came and dust you shall become.” True. The cycle of life had been the same for as long as anything had drawn breath on the earth. People lived, how well was up to them, and then they died. They had no escape. The monuments she passed testified to that.
It was a shame, really, that the living almost forgot the beauty people wasted on the dead. The two cemeteries were now full, and in such a bad neighborhood, people who tried to tend the graves gambled with their safety or lives. Kendal walked until she reached the center of St. Louis I. The brick tomb looked old. In fact, it was one of the first built, but unlike some of the others it had fresh flowers and a headstone mortared in place with a legible inscription.
Angelina du’Pon. My beloved.
Simple words for a beautiful woman, but they were still true. “You’re never far from my thoughts,” Kendal said softly as she ran her fingers along the marble etching of the name. She bowed and put a bunch of camellias in the empty vase to the right. The vessel held flowers only when she visited the grave. The one to the left was always full of fresh flowers, which the caretaker provided.
“Angelina, love, it’s been a while but I’m back. I can’t begin to express how sorry I am for all that happened to you. Everyone must face death, but for you it came much too early.” She brushed away a few leaves that rested at the base of the tomb and gave her memories free rein once again.