Tell Me Something Good (5 page)

“Smart and ambitious. I knew it from the
moment we met. But I meant, tell me something about you
personally.” He pushed his half-eaten salad aside.

“Personally,” she repeated, gazing back at
him.

“It’s only fair, since you know so much about
me.”

“Not that much, really,” Lyrissa said. “All I
know is that you have an MBA from Loyola. You became CEO of your
family’s corporation three years ago, after your uncle was forced
to retire. Since then you’ve reorganized the company.”

“Very good. Now what’s my favorite color?”
His mind- numbing smile flashed again.

She was ready this time. Lyrissa wore a
serene expression as she met his gaze. “My interest is
professional.”

Noel didn’t respond immediately. He seemed to
be deciding on his next move. His expression didn’t change, but his
direction did. “Okay, let’s talk business. What are collections
like ours worth?”

“Difficult to say, until I get at least a
general idea of what we’re talking about. But obviously it’s
valuable.”

“Yes, we know that Has Taylor Gallery handled
similar appraisals?” Noel drummed the fingertips of his right hand
on the white linen tablecloth.

Lyrissa took a small bite of fish and chewed
slowly. Let him wait for a while, she thought. At last she dabbed
her mouth with her napkin. “Similar, but not as large. I suppose
Mrs. St. Denis is preparing her will and needs a dollar
figure.”

“That’s part of it,” he said vaguely. “Tell
me this, how long will the appraisal take?”

“How long will it take for you to get me the
list and track down where each piece is?” Lyrissa asked.

Noel drew a cream colored legal envelope from
his in-side jacket pocket. “Here’s the list.” He opened it and took
out the folded sheets.

Lyrissa put down her fork and took them from
him. She scanned five pages of the neatly printed list for several
minutes. Each page contained two columns describing works of
art.

“You don’t have the artists’ names or
locations indicated on over half the items. Do you have another,
more complete list?” She held up the sheets of paper as though they
were useless.

He sighed deeply. “Now you see the
problem.”

“You don’t have any idea where fifty percent
of the most valuable privately held collection of Creole and
African-American art is?” Lyrissa said sharply. There was no
mistaking the criticism in her voice.

“We have a general idea,” Noel said, an
abashed expression on his face. “But as we told you, it’s all in
the family. At least, we’re pretty sure.”

“You’re pretty sure,” she repeated.

“It’s really not that bad, Lyrissa.”

“Noel, I—”

“We’ve made progress!” he cut in. “You called
me by my first name.”

Lyrissa pressed her lips together. “Let’s
talk about how we can begin, despite the difficulties.”

“Yes, let’s,” he said brightly and bent his
head close to hers.

They talked about how she would proceed with
the appraisal for another thirty minutes. Lyrissa spent most of
that time taming her reaction to being so close to him. She felt
drained by the time they said goodbye. On the other hand, Noel had
a decided spring in his step as he strode toward his car. She
wanted to slap the arrogance from his stride.

For the rest of the day she was in a bad mood
without quite knowing why. Fighting New Orleans rush hour traffic
to get home didn’t help her relax. She unlocked the front door to
the two-story family home and tossed her leather briefcase on the
foyer table. Her grandmother and Aunt Claire came from the living
room.

“Tell us all about it, dear. Is he as
handsome as they say?” Aunt Claire bubbled, her dark eyes bright.
“We’ve been dying to find out all day.”

“Claire, please!” Mama Grace snapped. She
turned to Lyrissa. “Where is our painting? I hope those thieving
pi-rates haven’t sold it.” She wore a deep scowl.

Lyrissa sighed heavily. The tight feeling in
her neck traveled up to her temples. “Can I at least sit down?”

“Of course, cher,” Aunt Claire clucked like a
mother hen. “I have your favorite—iced mint tea.” She started off
down the hall toward the kitchen, then stopped and turned around.
“Don’t say anything until I get back.”

Mama Grace took Lyrissa’s hand and led her to
the sofa. “Take your shoes off and put your feet up.”

Lyrissa knew very well the attention, though
sincere, was to get her back on the subject of the painting. Aunt
Claire came back and fussed over her. Soon Lyrissa had a tall glass
of tea in one hand, a napkin on her lap, and two sets of eager dark
eyes gazing at her in anticipation. Her grandmother and aunt sat on
the long paisley print sofa facing her.

“I don’t know where the painting is. But,”
Lyrissa hastened to add, when she saw their disappointment, “Mr.
Taylor is busy with the Hayden exhibit and working with Dillard on
its collection. Which means—”

“You’ll handle the St. Denis appraisal.
Bravo, Lyrissa!” Mama Grace clapped her hands.

“Clever girl! We’ll have our ancestor’s
magnificent painting back where it belongs in no time,” Aunt Claire
added.

“And we’ll knock Georgina St. Denis off her
high horse once and for all.” Mama Grace sat back with a look of
satisfaction.

“Don’t get happy just yet,” Lyrissa
cautioned. “Getting that painting away from Georgina St. Denis
won’t be easy.”

“You can do it. Don’t let her intimidate
you,” Mama Grace said sternly.

“Right,” Lyrissa whispered, more to herself
than to Mama Grace.

She sipped her tea as Mama Grace and Aunt
Claire talked. Lyrissa could still feel Noel’s sensual charisma
flowing over her like a satin sheet. A small voice told her Mrs.
St. Denis might be the least of her worries.

Lyrissa gazed at the grand St Denis family
mansion as she approached it. Somewhere in there was the key to
retrieving her family legacy. Mama Grace had told her stories about
their magnificent ancestors for as long as she could remember. Past
family glory was all Mama Grace and Aunt Claire had to hold onto.
They had lived a life of genteel near-poverty for years before
Lyrissa was born, always teetering on the edge of a financial
crisis. Yet Mama Grace did have an abundance of pride to pass on.
Her grandmother and great-aunt always held their heads high in
public. Still she knew how much it hurt them to be treated inferior
by the “best” old families.

Pride helped Lyrissa deal with the subtle and
blatant insults she suffered as a child. Feeling second-class,
never good enough, had taken a toll on her sense of worth. With
each accomplishment she’d had to overcome doubt in her own ability.
Now she would deliver the mother of all pay-backs to those high and
mighty New Orleans society Creoles. Lyrissa tingled at the prospect
of throwing each taunt back in their smug faces. She’d show them
what the Jouberts were made of!

She parked her car in the circular driveway,
and headed up the steps. For a moment she stared at the front door—
made of beveled glass with an oak frame—then she rang the bell. A
tall, dark woman wearing a white uniform dress opened it after
several minutes.

“Good morning, I’m here to see Mrs. St.
Denis,” Lyrissa said.

“You the lady from the art gallery?” The
woman blocked the door as though she were a security guard.

“Yes, Lyrissa Rideau.” She took one of her
business cards from a side pocket of her briefcase and handed it to
her.

“Hmm.” The woman studied it as though
considering its authenticity. “Come on in. Can’t be too careful
these days. I’m Rosalie. Been keeping house for Miss Georgina
fifteen years.”

“Thank you,” Lyrissa said with a respectful
nod, and then entered the foyer.

The parquet floor gleamed. On either side of
the wide hall were long antique tables. Each held a tall vase
filled with fresh spring bouquets. Several feet ahead a staircase
curved gently to the west and up to the second floor. There was
also a small elevator of wrought iron. Lyrissa recognized it as one
commonly made around the turn of the century for private homes of
the wealthy. Rosalie turned to give her another once-over.

“Rideau, huh? I went to school with a
Clarence Rideau. Know him?” Rosalie asked.

“The name doesn’t ring a bell. But then, I’ve
got a mil-lion relatives.” Lyrissa smiled and shrugged. “I’ll ask
my grandmother.”

Rosalie seemed to warm a bit. “Betcha he’s
one of your cousins. And don’t get me started on having too many
kinfolks. Most of the time one of ’em wants to borrow money or be
fed.” She waved a hand.

Lyrissa laughed. “And I’ll bet you can’t say
no.” “Humph! Guess again,” she retorted with spirit. “So you gonna
count up their fancy doodads.” Rosalie’s tone seemed to be the seal
of approval.

“Yes. I’m looking forward to it There are
some beautiful things here.” Lyrissa walked over to an early
nineteenth century ornate mirror that hung on the wall. Its wooden
frame was painted an antique gold.

“Yeah, if you like old stuff. Me, I prefer
modern furniture. These things give me the creeps, buncha antiques
from dead folks.”

“You make it sound like the house is
haunted,” Lyrissa teased.

“Sugar, I wouldn’t be here if it was,”
Rosalie replied with a grin. “But some of them old people was real
mean.” She nodded to a line of oil portraits that hung on the wall
along the staircase. Lyrissa walked over to get a better look. Two
grim men and two haughty women stared straight ahead. All were
dressed in period clothes from bygone eras. Small brass plates bore
their names.

“They don’t look too cuddly, do they?”
Lyrissa murmured.

“My granddaddy used to say that bad deeds get
attached to things,” Rosalie said somberly. “Guess that’s why I
don’t like antiques.”

Lyrissa shivered at the tone of her voice.
“There are happy memories attached to antiques, too.”

“Uh-huh.” Rosalie gazed at the portraits a
second longer, and then looked at Lyrissa again. Her expression
brightened. “Better show you to her highness before she starts
fussin’.”

“I’m ready,” Lyrissa said and tugged on her
skirt to straighten it. “Will Mr. St. Denis be here, too?” She
tried to make the question sound casual.

“Which one of her sons you talkin’ ’bout.
Richard or Willie?” Rosalie gestured for her to follow.

“I mean her grandson Noel.” Lyrissa felt the
heat once again just saying his name.

Rosalie looked at Lyrissa more closely and a
sly smile spread across the housekeeper’s face. “I wondered why he
showed up.”

“They both met with my boss about the St.
Denis collection,” Lyrissa said too quickly and blushed. Rosalie’s
knowing expression was like an x ray right into her mind.

“Uh-huh. Mr. All-work-no-play usually goes to
the office by seven in the morning and don’t leave until six in the
evening. He must really be interested in the collection. Here we
go.”

Rosalie walked off before Lyrissa could lob a
come-back. They went down the hall past a set of beautiful carved
oak doors. Lyrissa wanted to stop and examine them, but didn’t.
They proceeded to another set of doors that slid apart.

The lovely sitting room, smaller than the
formal living room for entertaining, was decorated in soft pink,
gray, blue, and moss green. An antique rug of pink roses with green
leaves covered the floor. A set of dark rose-colored chairs matched
a Queen Anne sofa in soft green-and- pink-pattered upholstery. Blue
drapes covered large windows that overlooked a patch of lawn.
Groups of family photos in silver frames lined the top of a console
table. One larger than the rest stood alone on a marble mantel. The
frame was sterling silver studded with marcasite. A handsome man
with a thick mustache stood ramrod straight in the black-and-white
photograph.

“How wonderful!” Lyrissa forgot her reserve.
She studied the pictures as though she were at a museum photo
exhibit.

“That’s my papa,” Miss Georgina said with
pride from her seat at an antique desk.

Lyrissa started. She’d been so absorbed in
taking in the decor that she hadn’t even noticed Mrs. St. Denis was
sitting quietly in the room.

“Etienne Rohas. French and Spanish
blood.”

“And African,” Lyrissa added without
thinking.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“She said African. Most likely West Africa by
way of Cuba.” Noel’s deep voice came from another comer of the
room. He must have slipped in from a back entrance. There is no way
she wouldn’t have felt his presence upon entering the room.

He wore a wide smile. His even white teeth
sparkled against the creamy brown skin of his face. A sky blue
dress shirt stretched across his broad chest. Narrow hips tapered
down to muscular thighs covered by navy pinstriped slacks.

“Hello again, Lyrissa,” he said.

“Hi,” Lyrissa managed.

Miss Georgina shot Noel a glance heavy with
meaning. “Interesting,” she murmured.

“Our African ancestor came from St. Domingue,
now known as Cuba, in seventeen eighty-two,” he said mildly despite
his grandmother’s tight expression. “We do have African blood,
Grandmother.”

“I know that,” Miss Georgina snapped. She
gave him a look that could have cut through steel.

Lyrissa cleared her throat. “Your home is
lovely,” she said to ease the tension.

“Thank you. Please sit down, Ms. Rideau.”

“Here. Best seat in the house.” He ushered
Lyrissa over to a pair of leather chairs facing Miss Georgina’s
desk He sat next to her.

“My grandson tells me you weren’t pleased
with our list.” Mrs. St. Denis fixed her with a stony gaze.

“More information on the items would
certainly make the process easier,” Lyrissa replied carefully. She
wondered just how much Noel had told her about their meeting.