“She always is,” Tori whispered. “This isn’t right. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Your housekeeper said she had a doctor’s appointment this morning.”
“Yes,”—the slightest pause—“with her psychiatrist.”
“I thought you said she’s always cheerful and positive.”
“She is. It’s not that. Both her parents passed recently, and with Tori graduating in May then heading to law school in the fall, she was—” He looked helplessly at his daughter.
“Lost,” she answered for him, eyes filling with tears. “It’s been hard for her.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, where’re you going to law school, Ms. Vanderlund?”
“Harvard.”
She’d been right about the smarts. “Congratulations. The psychiatrist’s name?”
“Renee Blackwood.”
Micki made a note. “This morning, did your wife mention Vivianne Stanley? That she meant to stop and see her? Anything at all about her?”
“Not to me,” Vanderlund said. He looked at his daughter.
She shook her head. “If she had, I would have told her not to.”
“Why’s that?”
“Mom liked to think they were friends.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “She wanted them to be friends.”
“But they weren’t?”
“The woman used her,” Vanderlund offered. “She dangled the carrot in front of Bitty’s nose, then at the last minute snatched it away.”
“What sort of carrot?”
“Social position,” he replied. “Privileges.”
As if she were a child, Micki thought, earning the right to ride her bike down the block.
“Could you give us an example?”
“The latest was about me,” Tori said. “It’s stupid and I totally didn’t care.”
Her father stepped in. “Vivianne had promised this was Tori’s year.”
“For what.”
“To be the queen of Rex.” He sighed. “Bitty wanted that more than anything. As a young woman, she was passed over. Both of our other daughters were as well. Third time was supposed to be the charm.”
“Was Mrs. Stanley the deciding factor?” Micki asked.
“No. But she had a lot of clout.”
“And she stabbed Mom in the back by lobbying for someone else.”
“Who?”
“Emily St. Pierre,” he said. “The St. Pierres are an old, New Orleans family. Emily’s an accomplished young woman. It makes sense.”
“I don’t know why she wanted it so much,” Tori said, voice breaking. “Her Majesty, Queen of Rex. Really, what does that have to do with real life?”
He looked at his daughter. “You know how she feels about it, Tori, honey. And it is an honor. It opens doors.”
“Not that many doors! Certainly not enough to be at the beck and call of—”
Vivianne Stanley.
A dead woman.
As if that fact truly just hit her, she started to cry again, deep rasping sobs. It looked to Micki as if her father was also fighting tears.
Angelo’s cell sounded. He excused himself, returning a moment later. “We have to go,” he said, then turned to the Vanderlunds. “We’ll be in touch soon.”
Micki waited until they’d reached their vehicles to ask what was up.
“They’ve located Bitty Vanderlund,” he answered.
“Where?”
“The Rex Den. She’s got a can of gasoline and a lighter and is threatening to torch the floats.”
Chapter Six
5:10 P.M.
Eight cruisers beat them to what was essentially a Central City warehouse—but not any warehouse; it was the one that housed the floats and historic memorabilia for the Krewe of Rex.
Micki couldn’t help but note the irony: a murder had pulled one cruiser, but some floats were threatened and an entire precinct turned out.
Bitty Vanderlund still wore the blood-spattered gray suit. Although slightly askew, the crown still perched on her head. In her right hand she held a barbecue lighter, in her left a gas can. Gone was the calm countenance of earlier. The woman looked as wild-eyed as a cornered doe.
And cornered she was, circled by NOPD, weapons drawn.
“Get back”—Vanderlund shrieked—“or I’ll do it.”
The smell of gasoline hung in the air. All it would take was one flick of her Bic and the famous Le Boeuf Gras was going up in flames.
Micki assessed the situation. She was the only other woman in the room and it seemed the circle of men with guns was not having the desired effect on Vanderlund.
Micki stepped through the ring of officers. “Bitty,” she said, voice soothing, “you don’t want to do this.”
“Yes, I do! They’re liars! All of them!”
“I’m a woman, too, Bitty. It’s hard sometimes. I get it. Not fair.”
“I did everything they asked.”
“I know.” Micki took a step toward her. “I’ve felt the same way you do now. But it will get better.”
“It is better. I’m not powerless. Not anymore.” She shook the gas can; the liquid inside made a sloshing sound against its sides.
Micki took another step. “You were never powerless, Bitty. You have a family. Raised beautiful, strong daughters.”