Mardi Gras Mambo

They say that confession is good for the soul, but I’ve always dismissed that as a ploy by priests to get people back into the church. All those years I spent in Catholic schools I never really took the confessional all that seriously. Besides, my parents weren’t Catholic; they were pagans, and every day when I got home from school they spent a good hour “deprogramming” (their word) me from what the priests had spent all day drilling into my head. Rain, Storm, and I were sent to Catholic schools because their schools were better than what the city had to offer; however, my parents suffered tremendously with liberal guilt for doing it. (Mom and Dad did set up a scholarship fund for deserving students from poor backgrounds to go to private schools; that probably helped their consciences somewhat.) I never really minded the religious lessons we were taught; I learned the catechism and all of that stuff—I was even consecrated in the church (it was necessary for me to stay in the schools). Although I didn’t really believe in what I was learning, I did find some comfort in the rituals. I liked listening to Mass, especially in the original Latin. I liked the cool outfits the priests and higher-ups in the church wore; all those rich vibrant colors and great fabrics. Of course, when the Pope came to New Orleans we all were let out of school to go catch a glimpse of His Holiness; same thing whenever one of the reliquaries came to town to be venerated. Mom always called those occasions “The Great Holy Tour,” but I was always amazed at how the devout reacted: crying, swooning, and going into hysterics as the gold-plated box with this or that saint’s finger or jawbone or toenail went past them. I also saw the merit of the confessional; you went in, admitted to your sins, and then the priest gave you acts of contrition and God forgave you. As I got older, I became a little more cynical about it. How great was it to be Catholic? You could be a mass murderer as long as you went to confession and said a few “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys.” But every once in a while, I would go to Mass at St. Louis Cathedral in the Quarter and lose myself in the pageantry and ritual. It was soothing.

The confessional was never really a problem until I hit puberty and started having feelings for other boys. Obviously, I knew what the Church’s position on homosexuality was, so what was I supposed to say? I knew the priests, no matter how cool, would never approve or forgive my sexual attraction to other boys. By the same token, how was I supposed to explain my parents? How could I go in there and say, “My parents are pagans and every day tell me that everything I learn here about God is sexist, misogynist, racist crap and that the Catholic Church has been the single biggest instrument of repression in history?” No, that wouldn’t go over too well with even the coolest of the priests. So I’d go into the little booth, ask forgiveness, and then recount minor things—swearing, yelling at my brother or sister, not honoring my parents, making fun of my teachers—those sorts of things. I just wanted to get it over with, get my assignment of “Our Fathers” or “Hail Marys” or whatever the priest wanted me to say and be done with it so I could get the hell out of there. In real life, I found that confessing to other people sometimes might make me feel better, but it didn’t always have the same effect on them. Confession is not about the other person; it’s about you. So, I figured, it’s just easier never to do anything wrong or hurtful to someone else so you won’t ever be put in that position of having to clear your conscience.

Answering Venus and Blaine’s questions about the shooting, on the other hand, wasn’t making me feel much better about anything. I wanted to try to call Colin’s cell phone, find out where he was, make sure he was okay, but I couldn’t do that until I was done with them. At first, it was easy answering their questions. They just wanted to know about the shooting—how it happened, what we were doing, where everyone was when the shots started coming—those kinds of things. When they asked about Aunt Sylvia, I didn’t know how to answer. I drew a complete blank. I just shrugged. “I don’t know where she is.”

“I know,” Storm interrupted. “She’s playing bridge at my grandmother’s.”

Of course, it’s Monday—and Misha had told us that right when we arrived, I remembered. How strange that I’d forgotten that. Every Monday Maman’s bridge club met at the big house on Third Street. They had brunch, drank mint juleps, gossiped, and played bridge until about three in the afternoon—or whenever they got too drunk to keep track of the game anymore. Even on Lundi Gras, they still got together. Papa Diderot always called them “the hen pack” and made himself scarce whenever they gathered in his house. “I can’t stand the sound of their cackling; it cuts right through me,” was what he’d always say when asked. What making himself scarce usually meant was heading down to the Boston Club and drinking Wild Turkey until he was poured into a cab later that afternoon. He always timed it so he arrived after the hens were gone; then he and Maman would stagger up to their bedroom and pass out until it was time for dinner and more drinks.

Blaine wrote down the address and phone number of Maman’s house and walked down the verandah to make a call on his cell phone. I assumed he was getting someone to go over and let Sylvia know she was again a widow. Better a cop than me, I thought, shivering again. How exactly would Maman react to the news that her husband’s bastard was dead? I tried to imagine it and couldn’t.

“So, Scotty, what brought you and Colin over here this morning?” Venus asked, knitting her brows together. Blaine rejoined us.

“Well, as I said before, Aunt Sylvia—Mrs. Overton—is an old family friend,” I said carefully, looking over at Storm, who nodded. “And yesterday morning, we figured out that Aunt Sylvia owned the house where—” I stopped. How could I say this without confusing everyone? They all looked at me, and I swallowed, took a deep breath, thought “fuck it,” and plunged ahead. “Where who we thought was Misha was killed. And we found out that Aunt Sylvia had actually married him, which was kind of a shock, so we came over here to tell her. You can imagine my shock when Misha opened the door.” It wasn’t entirely untrue; I just switched out why we came by today for why we came by yesterday.

Venus and Blaine exchanged a glance, then Venus said, “And that’s when you found out that there were two of them?”

I nodded. “And that’s when we—” I paused and looked over at Storm, who was frowning. There was no getting out of this now. I was going to have to let him in on the family secret—if he didn’t already know. I had to tell the cops—they were going to find out sooner or later—but I didn’t want Storm to find out at the same time. “Can I have a minute alone with my brother?”

“Fine.” Venus threw her hands up in the air. “Take as long as you want.”

Storm and I walked back down to the corner of the verandah. I swallowed. How much did Storm know about the family connection? It was possible he already knew, but better safe than sorry. “You might want to sit down.”

Storm made a face at me and leaned against the railing. “Nothing that comes out of your mouth is a shock to me anymore, little bro.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke out of his nose. His eyes narrowed. “Is this going to be one of those things that made me sorry I’m a lawyer?”

I gave him a faint smile. “Oh, maybe. This may come as a surprise to you, Storm—I know it did to me—but Misha is—was—our uncle.”

Storm goggled at me. “What?”

One of the things I’ve always admired about Storm is his even temper. He never gets mad—about anything. He’s always calm and rational, which is why he’s such a good lawyer. Even when he was a kid, he never got angry—no matter how much he was provoked. So, I was hoping he would be able to keep cool about this. I explained everything Mom had told me the night before. As he listened, though, I began to get nervous. First, his eyes narrowed and his lips practically disappeared. Then his face went white, then red, and I found myself talking faster and faster. By the time I was finished I could tell he was about ready to blow his stack. He crushed his cigarette out with a vicious stomp of his foot. He turned and walked away from me for a second, then walked over to the railing and slammed his fist down on it. He turned back to me. “I. Don’t. Fucking. Believe. This,” he said in a low voice. He ran his hands through his hair. “You mean to tell me Mom’s known about this for fucking months and never said anything to us? Ever?”

“Stay calm, Stormy,” I said, shaking my head. “I know, I know. I was shocked—still am, in fact. It was quite a bit to take in.”

“And there’s three of them.” He pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros out of his pants pocket and lit another one with a shaking hand. He puffed away at it for a few moments until his head was half hidden in a cloud of smoke. But his face relaxed as he kept puffing, and I could see him pulling his head together. “Jesus Christ. I can’t believe Mom kept this from us. So much for openness and complete honesty within the family, like she’s been preaching to us since we were fucking born. Hypocrite.” He started pacing again, flicking ash from time to time. “Well, you can’t tell them that—about the family connection.” He made a jerking motion with his hand in the general direction of Venus and Blaine. “That’s all we fucking need.” He leaned against the railing. He buried his face in his hands. “No, that’s not right. Focus, Storm! You have to tell them about Sasha. If we don’t tell them about all of this, they’ll just find out some other way and it’ll look bad for everyone—the whole fucking family. Shit, shit, shit. Christ, they could think Maman did this.”

“Maman?” I stared at him. He had to be insane. I mean, sure, I guess there was a motive there—but Maman? I tried picturing it in my head. Maman was one of those old-school Southern ladies—white gloves, her hair always perfectly coiffed, shoes and accessories all perfectly matched, soft-spoken and gentle. It was next to impossible to picture her standing out in the rain with a rifle. “That’s just crazy.”

“Scotty, Maman is a crack shot.” He gestured toward the crime-scene tape. “Shooting someone dead through a window? She could do it with one eye closed and a hand tied behind her back backward with a mirror and not even blink.”

“Maman?” I stared at him. “No fucking way.”

“Don’t you ever pay attention at those interminable family gatherings?” He rolled his eyes. “I swear to God, if I have to fucking hear one more time about how her father used to take her shooting and hunting when she was a kid—Scotty, they used to go on safaris when she was growing up. She’s hunted lions, for Christ’s sake. Her and Papa Diderot used to take their kids shooting. Haven’t you ever heard Mom bitch about how horrible it was that they killed wild animals all the time, and that’s why she’s a vegetarian? You can’t tell me you’ve never heard that story. She tells it all the fucking time. It’s practically a goddamned Thanksgiving tradition.”

“Um, I always kind of tune Mom out when she’s talking about Maman and Papa.” It was true—I did. I’d heard the stories about how awful they were so many times that I stopped listening before I hit puberty, and pretty much erased them from my memory. The stories might have been different, but they always boiled down to the same theme: Maman and Papa were horrible, repressive capitalistic tools of the government who’d tried to brainwash their children into becoming card-carrying conservative Republicans like themselves. “But, of course,” Mom would say, throwing her hands up in the air, “they’re my parents and Goddess help me, I love them.”

“Jesus, Scotty, Maman carries a gun now! A very ladylike pearl-handled revolver that will fit in any size purse. She never leaves the house without it, you know, in case someone tries to carjack her or mug her, she can blow a hole through him. She can also shoot a rifle, and, like I said, she’s a dead shot.” His eyes began darting back and forth as his mind worked. “And the other one was shot Saturday night?”

“Yeah.” My head was spinning. The thought of my grandmother blowing someone away with the pistol she tucked neatly in her purse was something I couldn’t quite wrap my head around.

“Shit. Pasha, Sasha, and Misha? Sounds like Donald Duck’s nephews.” He shrugged. “Well, she couldn’t have done that. I can alibi her for Pasha. We were all at the preparty before the Endymion Ball, and there’s no way she could have slipped out of there in her evening gown, gotten down to the Quarter and shot someone, then slipped back in without being noticed.” He sighed. “Listen to me: I can alibi my grandmother. Those are words I never thought I’d have to say.” He threw back his head and barked out a laugh.

“So, what should I tell them?” I leaned against the railing. My headache was coming back with a vengeance.

“Well, you have to tell them there’s three of them—or were, at any rate.” He puffed madly on his cigarette. “You know what? Leave the family stuff out of it. They might not ever find out about it and, hopefully, by the time they do, we’ll know who was behind all of this.” He tossed his cigarette out into the grass. “And as soon as we can, we’re heading over to Maman’s and we’re getting to the bottom of this.”

“You don’t really think—” I stopped myself. I couldn’t even bring myself to say it out loud. Someone in the family could have done this. Why hadn’t that occurred to me before?

But then, of course, Sasha had thought I had killed Pasha. . . .

He glared at me. “I don’t know what to fucking believe anymore. Come on, let’s wrap this up so we can get the fuck over to Maman’s.”

To say that Venus wasn’t happy to find out that it was actually triplets as opposed to twins would probably be an understatement. It looked like steam was going to start coming out of her ears, and, for a minute, I thought she was going to punch me really hard.

Actually, she was so mad she couldn’t speak for a few minutes. She got up, paced around, and spluttered every time she opened her mouth. She even scared Blaine a bit. Finally, after smoking a cigarette and grinding it out under her shoe like she was pretending it was me, she calmed down enough to sit back down and smile at me. “Were you planning on reporting this triplet thing at any time, say, in the near future?”

“Well—” I stopped talking because I knew she was right.

Her eyes glittered dangerously. A vein in her forehead was pulsing. “So, let me get this straight. Pasha Saltikov was the one shot Saturday night. Misha Saltikov was the one who was just shot here. And the final triplet is Sasha?”

“Yeah.” I thought for a minute, sorting them all out in my head. “Yeah, that’s right. At least I think so.”

“And where can I find this Sasha?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Storm give his head an almost imperceptible sideways shake. “Um, in all the excitement last night, he just kind of took off.” I shrugged. “I’ll tell him to call you if I see him again.”

“Great. Just great.” Venus stood up. “Come on, Blaine.” They started down the stairs. “I need you to stop by the station to give a statement. Feel free to bring the shyster with you.” She turned back to me and got right in my face, jabbing me in the chest with a well-manicured nail. “And don’t get any funny ideas, Scotty. I’m not convinced you’re telling me the truth. I ought to run your ass in.”

“On what charge?” Storm challenged her.

“Annoying the hell out of me.” She turned on her heel and stormed off down the walk.

“Okay,” I called lamely after her. I turned to Storm once they were safely in the SUV and on their way. “Any particular reason you had me lie to her about where Sasha is?”

Storm already had his cell phone out and up to his ear. He held up a hand to shut me up. “Hello, Mother, dear. Can you, Dad, and dear, dear Uncle Sasha meet Scotty and me over at Maman’s? We’re heading over there right now.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. He clicked the phone off. Almost immediately it started ringing. He glanced at the caller ID and grinned before turning the phone off completely. “They’ll be there.” He turned it off.

We ran through the rain to his car, and he turned the heater on full blast. “We’re going to Maman’s?” I asked, through chattering teeth. I still had the police blanket but it was wet. Shivering, I tossed it behind the seat and turned the vents so they blew hot air right at me. I wasn’t looking forward to this.

“Oh, hell, yeah.” Storm made a U-turn and floored the accelerator, spinning the tires on the wet pavement. “Time for a fucking family meeting.”

I chose not to point out that Rain wouldn’t be there, so technically it wasn’t a real family meeting.

Maman and Papa Diderot lived on Third Street in the Garden District. The house had belonged to the Diderots since they built it just before the Civil War, with what my mother always disdainfully referred to as “slave money.” It was gorgeous, a raised three-story Greek Revival American “cottage” with a wide front porch, set back behind a circular drive with lush bushes surrounding the house on every side. Huge old swamp oaks shaded the big expanse of lush green grass to its left. The entire yard was closed in with a black wrought iron fence that tilted and leaned in some places. The house itself was painted white, with window shutters a dark emerald green. There was a brass plaque mounted in the fence next to the front gate, describing the original owners and naming the architect who built it. The plaque, from the National Historic Society, honored the house as a historic landmark. I’ve loved the old house, with its high ceilings and hardwood floors and massive rooms, since I was a little boy, even though it was always dark inside. The thick, heavily brocaded curtains were always drawn, shutting out the light. We weren’t allowed to act like kids inside the house; all the furniture was old and valuable and Maman was deathly afraid we’d break something. We also weren’t allowed to play in the side yard where anyone could see us; we were only allowed in the backyard, with its high bushes shielding us from the view of any wide-eyed tourist driving past. The house always seemed to me to cry out to be allowed to live again—for the rooms to be filled with the light the windows were designed to let in. It always kind of seemed like a museum inside. If I lived there I would open all the windows and let in the light and fresh air.

The round drive at Maman’s house was practically empty of cars when Storm made the turn into it almost on two wheels. But I recognized Rain’s Range Rover parked under the awning, and Storm almost hit it from behind when he slammed the car into park. He was out of the car and climbing the steps two at a time before I could get my seat belt off. He unlocked the front door and left it open for me as I scrambled to catch up. I could hear voices coming from the ladies’ sitting room, as Maman liked to call it, up ahead and down the hall to the left.

“I should have gone with her,” I heard Maman say as Storm and I walked through the door. She was holding a highball glass in her hand, and she finished the amber liquid in it with a skilled toss of her head. She was wearing a gray silk dress, pearls at her throat. Her face was perfectly made up, every white hair in place on her head. Rain was sitting, her legs curled underneath her, on the green and gold brocade couch.

“Hey guys,” Rain said, a strange look on her face. “You wouldn’t believe what just happened—”

“Aunt Sylvia’s husband was shot and killed, and she’s on her way to the morgue to identify the body.” Storm’s voice was harsh. He jerked a thumb at me. “Guess who was there when he was shot?”

Maman’s glass dropped, shattering on the floor. Her hand went to her throat and her face went pale. “Scotty, darling, are you all right?”

“A little shaky, but okay.” I sat down in a wingback chair.

“Storm, what the hell—” Rain started, but Maman interrupted her.

“Language, young lady.” She pressed the buzzer on her desk that summoned Helga, the housekeeper. “Do you need a drink, darling? Storm?”

“Bourbon, please,” Storm replied, and when she turned to me, I nodded. She filled two glasses with ice and bourbon just as Helga walked in. She handed us our glasses and she turned to Helga. “Helga, dear, I broke a glass. Would you be an angel and take care of it?”

Helga had worked for my grandparents as long as I could remember. She was originally from Sweden, and she was a little shy of her heavily accented English, so she didn’t speak much. When we were little, she used to take us in the kitchen and give us chocolate milk and sugar cookies. She looked pretty much the same as she had when I was a kid, except for the gray in her hair and the telltale wrinkles and the thickening of her waist and hips. She glanced at me and gave me a little smile before nodding and silently disappearing back down the hall. We sat there in silence until she returned, swept up the wreckage, and vanished again.

“Now,” Maman said, sitting down next to Rain on the couch, “what is all this about?”

But before Storm could say anything, my parents stormed into the room. “Storm, I did not raise you to be rude to your mother!” Mom snapped. “I—”

“Where’s Sasha?” he interrupted her.

My mother is seldom at a loss for words. I’ve seen her debate Christian protestors on the spot, scream at cops, and argue with politicians—and they always come off the worse for wear. There’s never been any doubt in my mind where Storm’s arguing skills came from. But this time, her mouth opened and closed, as her eyes went from me to Maman to Rain to Storm and, finally, Dad.

“He went out a little while ago. We were just starting to get a little worried about him when you called, son,” Dad said, putting his arm protectively around Mom. She leaned into him. They were both wearing jeans and T-shirts.

“You just let him walk out?” I said. “Knowing full well there are people out there trying to kill him—”

“Enough!!!” Maman roared.

We all turned to look at her. In all of my twenty-nine, almost thirty years, I have never once heard Maman raise her voice. In fact, I’ve never seen her anything but calm and gracious. But now, her face was mottled red with fury, her eyes shooting flames. Her hands on her hips, she stalked over to my mother. “Cecile, sit down and shut up. You, too, Douglas.” Meekly, my parents sat on the sofa facing the one Rain was on. She turned to me. “And you, young man, you do not talk to your parents that way in my house as long as there is breath in my body.” She glared at each of us and then added, in her usual pleasant speaking voice, “When you say Sasha, do you mean Alexander?”

We all just stared at her in shock.

She waved her manicured hand. “Listen, it’s bad enough that Mikhail was killed this morning—I am still reeling from that news—but now you say someone is trying to kill Alexander as well?” She turned to my mother. “And he was at your home, Cecile?”

Mom nodded numbly. I’ve never seen her eyes that wide open before in my life. Well, I’ve never really seen her speechless before, for that matter.

“This is terrible, just terrible.” She shook her head. “This is going to kill your father. Just kill him.”

“Maman—” I cleared my throat. “Maman, you mean you know there were three of them?”

“Unlike what some people think, I’m not some stupid old woman who can’t handle the truth.” She shot a glance at my mother. “Nor am I going to have a nervous breakdown.”

“But Maman,” my mother finally said, “you did have a breakdown.”

Maman rolled her eyes. “I was upset, Cecile, when I found out about Mikhail. Who wouldn’t be? To find out that my husband had a child with another woman? I just needed to get away for a while, get my head together, figure out what to do next. Obviously, divorce was out of the question.” She sat down in the matching chair to the one I was in. “What would be the point of throwing all these years of marriage down the drain because the affair I forgave him for years ago produced a child he had no knowledge of? That ‘sanitarium’ I went to, Cecile, was actually a very nice spa. While I was there, I hired a private eye to find out if this Mikhail was indeed my stepson. Sylvia helped me.”

“Aunt Sylvia?” Rain replied. She looked over at me for help. I just shrugged.

“Yes, Aunt Sylvia,” Maman snapped. “Anyway, to make a long story short, I contacted Mikhail and arranged to meet him in Munich. He seemed like a nice enough young man, and the story was true—my investigator turned up the birth certificate.”

“So that’s how you knew there were triplets,” Storm said.

“I already said I knew there were triplets!” She waved a hand. “Honestly, does everyone in my family think I’m a moron?” She sighed. “Of course, I tried to find the other boys. But I had no luck. It was like they had just disappeared into thin air. Mikhail claimed they were into drugs, pornography. You name it, Mikhail said they were into it. He obviously loved the idea that they were gone. I never pursued it with him much, but I tried to find them . . . for your father’s sake. And then Sylvia fell in love with Mikhail. Of course, he was after a marriage visa and her money, but he’s been good to her.” A tear escaped her eye. “She’s going to be devastated, just devastated.”

“For my father’s sake?” Mom choked the words out. “What are you saying?”

“They’re his sons, Cecile.” Maman stared at her. “Of course, he’d be delighted to know about them, to find them, to welcome them into the family. Do you really think your father is such a monster that he—that we—would turn our backs on family?”

“I—” Mom choked, “I was just trying to protect you.”

“That’s very very kind of you, Cecile, but I don’t need protection.” Maman got up, walked over to Mom, and gave her a big hug and kiss. “You have no idea how much it means to me.” Her voice was heavy with emotion.

“But Papa didn’t know about Mikhail?” This was from Storm. He looked completely bewildered—pretty much how I was feeling.

“I didn’t—oh, God forgive me—I didn’t tell him Mikhail was his son. I wanted to find the other two boys first.” She wiped tears away. “He’ll never forgive me . . . all this time he could have had with his son, and now it’s too late. Secrets, secrets and lies, this is what comes from not telling the truth. You say two of them are dead?”

I nodded.

“Well, then we have to make sure nothing happens to Alexander—make it up to him somehow.” It was a command.

My cell phone rang. I walked out into the hall, leaving them to talk. “Hello?” I answered.

“Scotty? Is Sasha.”

“Where are you?”

“Meet me at your house. Have bad news for you.”

“Sasha—” I struggled for a minute. “Bad news? What do you mean?”

“The bad guys—they have Frank.”

And the line went dead.