Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Remi
“Oww, Nola. It’s too early.” I whine, my cat having pounced on my head.
My cat.
I snap my eyes open and sit up. I’m not in my shitty apartment, but in a luxurious king-size bed with the softest Egyptian cotton known to man. “Aww, he brought you here.” After the events of the past twenty-four hours, I didn’t argue when Angelo told me I’d be spending the night.
Noticing the tray on the nightstand, there’s an espresso in one of those fancy little cups, pastries, and a single red carnation in a crystal vase.
“Gator bait,” I remind myself, standing and stretching.
Nola meows .
“Don’t ask,” I warn her.
That’s when I spot the note. I grab the formal monogrammed stationery.
Remi,
I have business to attend to this morning in the city. Don’t try to leave the property, you’d only get yourself killed. We’ll talk when I get back.
~ Angelo
“An implicit threat that he’d kill me, or does this mean the gator would kill me?” I shudder. “Either way, let’s hope another nighttime cruise isn’t on the itinerary.”
Nola just looks at me.
“Okay, I know you’re out of the loop. Abbreviated version: Angelo tracked me down, politely kidnapped me, took me out on a yacht, and threatened to feed me to an alligator.”
Meow .
“Right?” I don’t dare tell Nola what almost happened after those events, as I don’t need her judgmental meows.
I step into a pair of fluffy slippers and check out the spa-like ensuite. “‘Don’t leave the property?’ Are you freaking kidding me?” I squeal. “I’m never leaving. I’ll declare squatters’ rights if I have to.”
After a very luxurious bubble bath while drinking my espresso and acting all fancy, I go in search of clothes in the walk-in closet.
I gasp. Everything from my apartment is here, encompassing a tiny space in the corner. The rest of the closet is filled with new and expensive-looking designer duds.
Strapless. Off the shoulder. Halter. A-line. Every style of ball gown you could imagine. All in my size. And don’t get me started on the shoe collection.
“What is your game, Mr. Calvani?”
Choosing a sundress likely more expensive than my entire wardrobe combined, I throw my hair up in a messy bun and venture downstairs to explore, with Nola hot on my heels.
Angelo
“Is it done?” I ask Maks, closing the security feed on my phone. Haven’t been able to get a damn thing accomplished today, not with Remi flittering about the house like a butterfly.
No honor among thieves.
She’s been burned before, her beautiful wings singed. And when I find out who is responsible, I plan on dousing them with gasoline and striking the match.
Maks rolls up his dress shirt, presenting his shredded forearm like a trial exhibit. “Yes, and I nearly got killed by that fucking jungle cat.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” I tell him dismissively. “It’s a Savannah house cat.”
“It’s a jungle cat,” he grumbles.
“What else have you learned about Remi’s past?”
“Pulled her birth certificate and did some more digging. Remi Marie Landry, twenty-one years of age. Her mother died from childbirth complications.”
“From a sibling?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “From Remi’s birth.”
Damn.
“The grandmother raised her in Cajun Country until Remi was around eight, and that’s when she moved to New Orleans to live with her dad, Charles ‘Charlie’ Landry.”
“Why did Remi move with her dad?”
“The grandmother died,” he reports.
Death has always surrounded Remi. We have something in common.
“Find out why she left the city and the circumstances surrounding her outstanding warrants.”
“On it.”
My phone buzzes, and I grab it from my pocket and check the caller ID. “What do you have for me, Detective Pierre?” I answer on speakerphone.
“Not much to report so far. A witness on the scene last night snapped a pic of the second vehicle’s plate. I deleted the photo and corrected their ‘misunderstanding’ of what happened. Ran the plate when I got back to the station; it was a fake.”
Considering my next move, I announce, “I don’t want you bringing more attention to the ‘incident.’ It’ll die down on its own. For now, keep your ear to the ground.”
“Understood.”
Ending the call, I ask Maks, “Where are we with the Fabien situation?” I’m dealing with too many pots in the fire.
“I should receive the records no later than tomorrow. As far as the phone call recordings, those will take a few more days.”
“This takes priority above all else.”
“Even your new pet?”
“Careful,” I warn him.
Maks holds up his hands. “Talking about the jungle cat.”
Sure you were.
We enter the walk-in freezer, where I find Remi’s piece of shit landlord tied to a chair.
Former landlord.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask, grabbing a plastic bag.
“I don’t know! You got the wrong guy!”
“Wrong answer.” I move lightning-fast, bringing the bag over his head.
Remi
“Girl, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but that ain’t no house cat.” Corinne eyes Nola in my arms. “You got yourself a bobcat. Don’t know how it hasn’t ripped you to shreds,” the old woman mutters.
The housekeeper reminds me of MawMaw, God rest her soul. “I promise you, Nola isn’t a bobcat.”
The woman doesn’t appear convinced as she opens a can of cat food and dumps it in a porcelain bowl. “Alright, not a bobcat. Bon appétit .”
She places the bowl on the tile, and Nola hops out of my arms to inspect. Taking a few sniffs, the food appears up to her standards, and she takes a dainty bite.
“What’s in the locked room at the end of the hall?” I wonder. Having snooped throughout the property, there’s only one room I can’t enter.
“Music room.”
“Music room?” I repeat excitedly. “Do you have a key?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. And you’re not getting it.” Corinne pats her apron pocket.
Sometimes it’s too easy.
Glancing out the window, I distract her by asking, “Is it safe to walk near the lake, or are there alligators?”
She follows my gaze, and my hand snakes into the top of her pocket, pleating up the fabric lining until the key’s lifted into my hand. Dropping it in my pocket, I’m the picture of innocence as she turns her attention back to me.
“Is there water in the lake?” she raises an eyebrow.
“Is this a trick question? Yes, there’s water in the lake,” I say tentatively,
“Then if there’s water, there’s gators.”
“I’ll remember that.” Considering it’s seared into my memory from last night, I don’t think I could forget, even if I wanted to.
“Do you need anything? I’m getting ready to head out,” she tells me.
I play it cool. “No, ma’am.”
“Mr. Calvani’s never brought no woman here,” she admits, and I beam for some silly reason. “I hope you stick around.”
“That’s the plan.” Shithole apartment versus palatial estate? Worth the threat of life and limb. So maybe I didn’t feel that way when I was hanging over the yacht last night, but a good night’s sleep with sheets soft as a cloud has a way of changing a girl’s perspective.
There are a hundred questions I want to ask this woman, as I suspect she’s the keeper of all Mr. Calvani lore, but I don’t want to come off as too strong too fast, and so I wave her goodbye.
Corinne leaves, and I make a mad dash down the hall. Using the key, I open the door and flip on the light. Tentatively, I step inside the musty room.
“Wow.”
Positioned in the center of the impressive space is a covered grand piano. Hurrying over, I fling off the cover, my eyes going wide. Not just a grand piano, but a concert grand.
Seating myself on the bench, I give my hands a stretch before tentatively playing a C diminished 7th chord; the rich, booming sound fills the room. “Really wow.”
My fingers begin moving, and before my mind catches up, I find myself playing one of MawMaw’s favorite jazz songs. It’s been a while since I’ve found myself behind the keys, but like riding a bicycle, it comes back to me easily enough.
“Can’t believe he let you in here.”
My finger slips, landing on the wrong note. I turn around to find the blue-eyed girl from Angelo’s photo. All grown up, she’s dressed in black from head to toe.
I smile sheepishly. “He didn’t exactly let me in here; I sort of helped myself.”
She examines me from the doorway, her eyes far less intense than Angelo’s. “So you’re the lady with the bobcat. I would’ve never pictured you as my brother’s girlfriend.”
“Nola isn’t a bobcat, and I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.” The last part of her statement registers, making me feel so much better; she’s Angelo’s sister, not his daughter.
“Compliment.” She crosses the room and sits on the bench next to me.
“In that case, thank you.” I smile. “But I’m not Angelo’s girlfriend. We’re…” I pause, not knowing how to finish that sentence. “I’m sorry, what is your name?” I deflect.
“I’m Alessandra.”
“Beautiful name,” I tell her.
“Thanks. My family calls me Al. Once you get a nickname, it’s hard to shake.”
“Very true.”
“What’s yours?” she wonders.
“My mawmaw used to call me papillon .”
“What does that mean?”
“Cajun for butterfly. Do you know how to play?” I nod to the piano.
“Only chopsticks.”
My fingers move, playing the main melody, and Al furrows her brow as she places her index fingers on center F and center G for her alternate pattern.
I smile as she hits the keys in time, the sound reminding me of my childhood at MawMaw’s house. The second time I’ve thought of her today, my eyes become a little blurry, but I fight back the tears.
We finish the duet, and Alessandra claps excitedly.
“Why does no one use this room?” I wonder.
Her smile fades. “Too many memories, I guess. This was Mama’s piano,” Alessandra explains. “She passed away almost nine years ago.”
“Oh my God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
“Yes, you should’ve. It was left to Angelo in her will, but he never plays it. She’d be thrilled someone was putting it to good use. Mama was a classically trained pianist. Could’ve made a career out of it, but she chose this life.”
“What life do you mean?” I ask.
“The family life,” she says, as if that answers everything.
“‘Family above all else,’” I repeat the watch engraving. “But what does that mean?”
“You don’t know my family’s profession?” She eyes me inquisitively.
“Not exactly. I know your brother is a businessman and philanthropist…” And polite kidnapper and amazing kisser, but I leave out those parts.
Alessandra considers me.
“Oh, come on, tell me,” I beg.
She shakes her head. “My brother would be pissed; I’ll save that discussion for you and him.”
“Why is everyone in this family so mysterious?” I playfully huff.
“And you haven’t even met Fabien yet,” she says with a little laugh.
“Who’s Fabien?”
“Our older brother. He’s currently a resident of a gated community,” she says.
“Like a golf community?” I wonder.
“Like a federal penitentiary,” she corrects me.
“Ooohhh,” I comment, my own legal situation causing unease to unfurl in my chest.
“Yeah, it doesn’t make for the best ice breaker,” she says ruefully.
“What’s he in for?” I ask, placing a hand on my heart, subtly trying to massage away my worries.
“Bullshit,” she says angrily. “There are always two sides to every story. Angelo forgets that sometimes.”
“What about your dad?” I wonder, changing the subject away from Fabien and prison and outstanding warrants…
“Passed away when I was eight. Both he and Mama died of the Calvani curse.”
“What do you mean?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Cancer got them both.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her.
“Thanks. But I don’t think it’s a curse; more just shitty statistics. But Angelo’s super health-conscious because of it. Me, I figure you can’t fight statistics, so I’m going to eat, drink, and be merry.”
“ Laissez les bon temps roul . My Cajun heart agrees.” Examining Alessandra, I wonder, “How old are you?”
“Seventeen, so don’t mention to Angelo the drinking part,” she says in a rush. “He’s already crazy strict.”
“I could see that. And this conversation is between us,” I assure her. God knows I was doing things no seventeen-year-old had any business doing.
She nods. “Well, I’ve blabbed enough. I’m going for a swim. Why don’t you join me?”
My hands become sweaty, and I nervously rub them on my dress. “I would, but I don’t know how to swim,” I whisper, embarrassment creeping up my neck.
“Really?” she eyes me curiously.
“I took a few lessons as a kid, but they didn’t stick. And then my dad and I moved to the city, and there was never really an opportunity,” I say, probably a bit too defensively.
“Come on. I’ll teach you how not to drown.”
“I don’t know…”
“I’m captain of my swim team. Certified in CPR,” she reassures me. “If I can’t teach you to at least doggie paddle, then my former Olympian swim coach is a fraud.”
I take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “We wouldn’t want to embarrass a former Olympian, now would we?”