Private Investigations. Jean Barrett
“Then what about Devlin?” Moura said, offering Christy’s eldest brother.
It was Denise, bless her, who rescued Christy. She had lowered her own phone and, with a lot of head-bobbing and eye-rolling, was signaling Christy to take the call.
“Absolutely not. Look, Ma, I have to go. There’s a call for me on the other line. I think it may be a new client. Love to Pop.”
“But I haven’t told you yet what your father—”
“Later, Ma.” She hung up and eagerly whispered to Denise, “Is it a potential client? Do I get a miracle?”
“Now how’d I know if he is or isn’t? But you’d better pick up. He sounds serious. Real serious.”
Christy snatched up her phone, stabbed in the other line, greeted the caller with a brisk, “Christy Hawke speaking,” and felt her heart lurch in her breast as the mellow male voice, from a past she thought she had buried, spoke to her earnestly.
“It’s me, Christy. Glenn.”
“How are you, Glenn?” Now how did she manage to sound so cool when her heart was still misbehaving?
“Not so good, actually.” He seemed surprised that she could ask such a thing. “I need to see you, Christy.”
“Personal or professional?”
“Professional,” he said.
Should she resent him for contacting her like this? No, she decided, she had made peace with that particular episode in her past, forgiven him long ago. “Are you in trouble, Glenn?”
He paused. “Maybe.”
“Like to tell me about it?”
“I think we need to get together as soon as possible.”
Christy could appreciate his wish for a meeting. Clients rarely wanted to discuss their problems over the phone. “I’m free right now.” Oh, boy, was she free. “Do you know where my office is?”
“Uh, yes, but my lawyer doesn’t want anyone knowing I’m worried enough to consult a private investigator, and if I’m seen going into your office…”
A lawyer? Just what kind of trouble were they talking about here?
“Look,” he went on, “I’m already downtown. It was…well, necessary for me to be here.” Was there an implication in that she was supposed to understand? “So if we could meet somewhere….”
“Name it.”
“The Café Du Monde?”
“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be there.”
“See you then. And, Christy?”
“Yes?”
“The circumstances being what they are, I appreciate your willingness to offer your services.”
Was that something else she was supposed to understand, she wondered as she put down the phone. She didn’t, of course, but in fifteen minutes she hoped to. Denise was ready to pounce as Christy got to her feet.
“We got us a client?”
“I think so.”
Denise grunted her satisfaction. “Maybe finally get some action around here. Where you goin’?”
“Upstairs. I need to change before I meet him.”
“Must be some real important dude. Must be somebody you got to impress.”
“Never mind.”
Drat the woman and those shrewd jet eyes of hers, Christy thought as she tripped up the narrow stairway to her tiny apartment overhead. It was just like Denise to practically accuse her of wanting to look as attractive as possible when Glenn saw her again after all these years. All right, that’s just what she wanted to do and she was a pathetic fool for caring. So what?
So what if Glenn Hollister had a wife now and was a father, as well, though she’d heard his marriage was foundering? And so what if he’d dumped Christy for the elegant Laura Claiborne, an episode which had left Christy’s heart grievously scarred? Yeah, so what?
She didn’t have an answer for that reckless so what until, about to burrow into the battered old armoire for an outfit guaranteed to please, she caught her image in the long mirror on the door. There was Christy Hawke in long shorts and running shoes, her honey-colored hair crammed under a Cubs baseball cap. Okay, so that much of Chicago was still a part of her. But, hey, it wasn’t her fault. If New Orleans ever got itself a team, she was willing to switch her loyalty.
The brim of the cap shaded a piquant face and a pair of aquamarine eyes that defiantly said, “Here I am. This is what you get.” So why was she getting ready to turn herself into some kind of baby doll? Forget it. Whatever dumb torch she might once have carried for Glenn Hollister, he would have to take her as she was.
And so much for all those so what’s, she concluded as she firmly closed the door of the armoire, grabbed her bag and headed for the stairs.
THE CAFE DU MONDE was located on the river in the old French Market, which had once supplied the city with fresh fruits and vegetables. These days, the long colonnaded structure contained shops, most of them serving the tourist trade. The place was close enough to Christy’s office to permit her to reach it on foot, but just far enough away to put her curiosity about Glenn Hollister into overdrive as she walked there.
That curiosity was at maximum speed by the time she arrived and stood searching the outdoor tables. They were crowded with the usual tourists hunched over beignets and café au lait. Christy was still looking for Glenn when he appeared suddenly at her side.
“I don’t deserve this,” he said out of nowhere in that kind voice that had always been a pleasure to hear. “Not after the way I let you go.”
She turned to face him and realized immediately that she had probably made a big mistake. He was slender, fair-haired and had a face that could still soften her heart. Oh, yeah, not just probably but definitely a mistake for her to be here. On the other hand, with the wolf at her door….
The moment deserved something brilliant, witty, but all she had to offer was an inane, “Helping people is what I do, Glenn. Uh, where can we—”
“I have a table over here.”
He conducted her to a shady corner and tried to seat her so that she faced the view. But since that view was of the nearby Jax Brewery, the scene of her recent defeat, Christy preferred to take a chair looking inward.
When Glenn had settled across from her, and they had ordered coffee neither of them wanted, Christy treated herself to a second examination of the man who had once meant—well, if not everything to her, pretty close to it. And she decided all over again that, yeah, he still looked good. He also looked like hell, which was something she’d missed the first time around. There was a grimness in the little smile he directed at her, a haunted expression in his eyes.
“The circumstances being what they are,” she said, leaning toward him. “That was what you said on the phone. Does that have an explanation, Glenn?”
His gentle gray eyes widened in disbelief. “You don’t know? How is that possible when it must be all over the news?”
She’d been so busy fighting Dallas McFarland for possession of Brenda Bornowski that she hadn’t watched a newscast or read a newspaper since early yesterday. And, of course, Denise couldn’t have told her anything. All Denise ever listened to was her beloved jazz. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I’ve been out of touch. Just how bad is it, Glenn?”
“Laura,” he said, referring to his wife. “She’s dead, Christy. And I’m about to be charged with her murder. That’s how bad it is.”
Beneath her shock, Christy felt a rush of affectionate sympathy for him. But it