Louie Morelli's Mistress

56

Chapter One

Louie Morelli said, Anthony, how bad is it?

They were at Andrea Apuzzo’s place in Metairie: Louie, Victor DeAngelis, and Louie’s cousin, Anthony Morelli—the men tucked away at a corner table. Flanked by his companions, Louie sat with his back to the wall, his dark eyes surveying Andrea’s dining room. Subtle lighting accentuated the restaurant’s romantic elegance while its food—Northern Italian with a New Orleans flair—stood on its own.

Having deliberately eaten lightly of linguine with fresh clams and mussels, Louie pushed aside his plate. He reached for his glass of Chianti, taking a sip and regarding Anthony over the rim. Anthony was his younger cousin, forty-one years old, running what the Feds described as the last vestiges of the New Orleans mob. In spite of this distinction, Anthony didn’t look particularly menacing. He had a boyishly charming appearance, with a crop of curly brown hair and dimples, resembling a star athlete with his buffed physique and sportsman’s suntan.

Tonight, Anthony looked worried, although it hadn’t diminished his appetite; he was finishing his filetto di manzo, eating heartily. He was in good company. On the other side of Louie, Victor was devouring his veal shank, his bushy-brown hair already frizzing from the rain blast at the airport. Victor was a big guy, with a heavily muscled form, his body more suited to a lineman’s uniform than the businessman’s blue suit he was wearing.

Louie’s decision to abstain from stuffing himself had nothing to do with the quality of his meal. His finely tuned palate had savored every bite, but he was planning on having sex with his girlfriend, Mercedes Glapion, after he left Andrea’s, and he knew from experience that a heavy meal could diminish his performance. Accustomed to fine dining, Louie was fortunate he was naturally slender, with a medium frame. He stood five feet eight and a half inches on his doctor’s scale, easily the smallest of the three men at the table, although his dark, good looks and commanding presence overshadowed his companions’ superior physiques.

The restaurant buzzed with the muted conversations of fellow patrons. Sinatra was being piped through the speakers, the piano bar in the next room falling silent. Meeting Louie’s gaze, Anthony set down his fork and said, Aw fuck, Louie, it’s bad.

He looked sheepish, knowing he was at fault for not preempting the disaster. Louie would not have allowed the Congressman to get so greedy, would have protected himself and his associates. But he was not going to call Anthony on it. The younger man revered him, due partly to his old man’s incarceration when he was a kid. As a teenager, Anthony had lived in Louie’s lakefront home, regarding him as a surrogate father ever since. So, this week, when the trouble started, Anthony summoned Louie from Florida, where he’d moved after Hurricane Katrina.

Even before Katrina, Louie had been expanding his real estate investment business in the sunshine state. The storm gave him the incentive to relocate his headquarters to Boca Raton, but Louie’s ties to the Big Easy were blood ties, and tonight Louie was reminded of just how deep those bonds were. Even now, after five years as a resident of Florida, Louie still felt that New Orleans was home. It wasn’t that he missed it—he came back too often for that—it’s just that he had been born a prince to an underworld king commonly credited with masterminding JFK’s assassination. New Orleans was his town, his legacy, and he’d never be able to walk away from it. But his father’s empire, which he had parceled into legitimate interests and intertwined with the city’s movers and shakers, did not require so much of his attention nowadays. Often, he was just a phone call away, or, as in today’s case, a short plane ride removed.

Louie checked his cell phone: half past seven on this first Monday of Lent. He’d been in Louisiana an hour and a half, coming directly to Andrea’s from the airport. Anthony hadn’t mentioned specifics on the phone, but Louie already knew what the trouble was. Now, after a brief explanation during which the waiter came and went, removing plates and serving coffee and cannoli, Anthony said, That damn Wallace has been nothing but a pain in the ass. Blakely’s scared—he has it on good authority that the Feds are going to indict Wallace next week.

Louie said, Jesus. That doesn’t give us much time. He drank wine, his gaze meeting Victor’s, his concern mirrored in his friend’s hazel eyes. I suppose Roy Blakely’s sources are good, even if his administration is run by a bunch of hacks. Blakely was the mayor of New Orleans, and Louie sighed wearily because he knew, already, where this was going. Roy has a right to be scared. When Wallace talks—

You think Wallace will talk?

Louie gave Anthony a hard look. Don’t you? Doesn’t everybody these days? He felt the weight of this come down on him and said facetiously, Wallace is a whore. He’ll be making deals faster than he can talk.

Politicians are the biggest crooks, said Victor, referring to Wallace, the people’s representative from Louisiana’s 2nd Congressional District, a man Louie had been instrumental in corrupting.

Anthony was alarmed. If the Feds popped them on this, he’d be facing the same fate as his father. It would lead to the indictment of the mayor and half of City Hall. There was only one viable solution, but making a hit on a United States congressman wasn’t an option. He met Louie’s dark eyes, and said tentatively, What do you think?

Louie did not immediately answer. He was thinking of Mercedes, suddenly anxious to see her. They’d been together eleven years and had an eight-year-old daughter. But Mercedes wasn’t your average girlfriend. For one, she was stunningly, shockingly beautiful. She also bore the distinction of being the top psychic and voodoo practitioner in New Orleans, running a lucrative business in The Quarter. She claimed Marie LaVeau, the famous nineteenth century voodoo queen, as her ancestor.

Louie thought this was bull, but Mercedes did come from a long line of voodoo priestesses, although what she practiced was a blend of Catholicism and an earth religion with roots in Africa—an Anglicized version of voodoo and what Louie called witchcraft, because of all the things Mercedes claimed to be, including a certified herbalist, she was first and foremost a witch.

Last month a local rag had photographed Mercedes at LaVeau’s crypt in the old St. Louis Cemetery: the headline read: Top Psychic Pays Homage to Famous Ancestor. Mercedes, always thrilled to get publicity, had shown the article to Louie. The final paragraph was dedicated to him: "Ms. Glapion has long been the mistress of crime boss Louie Morelli, and there has always been speculation that her shop on Chartres Street was purchased with mob money. Ms. Glapion vehemently denies this, asserting she purchased the prime commercial spot with money she made during her acting career. If so, it must have been very brief and lucrative as Mercedes Glapion was twenty-three years old when she launched her landmark store. Of course, during her time in California she did live temporarily at the Playboy Mansion, and bore the distinction of being Miss August …"

Victor and Anthony had finished their cannoli. Louie’s coffee, barely touched, was cold. Both men were looking to him, and Louie said, Victor, get the bill. He turned to Anthony, patting his cheek in a fatherly gesture, forgiving him already. Go home and see your family. I’ll take care of the problem.

*     *     *

The man who managed Madame Mercedes’s House of Voodoo, Gerard Denton, was thirty-eight years old with a blond, Rod Stewart-type shag, a narrow face, five stud earrings on one lobe and three on the other, and a tattoo on his back of a young man who’d broken his heart. Few people ever saw the tattoo, or even knew of its existence, and in his wildest, secret fantasies Gerard wouldn’t have minded if Louie Morelli saw it. He’d always admired the man’s good looks, even more so since his coarse hair began showing threads of silver. He frequently told Mercedes that Louie looked like an Italian movie star, and tonight, seeing the Town Car glide to a halt at the curb, he sighed wistfully and set down the bottle of Windex he had been using to spray the glass counter.

Mercedes’s building had double plate glass windows framing the door. A long counter was stocked with Rider-Waite Tarot decks, and a tall shelf behind it held statues of Catholic saints, African voodoo gods, and elaborate Carnival masks. Store shelves displayed human-shaped candles in a variety of colors, plus other candles for making spells, some in the form of caskets and devils. Here, too, were oils, incense, and gris-gris dolls.

Three walled cubicles closeted Mercedes’s readers and their clients, but only one was in use tonight. A middle-aged black man was waiting his turn with the psychic, whose low, indistinguishable voice could sometimes be heard from behind the door. A scruffy young couple was browsing the merchandise, and Gerard, who’d had trouble with these types before, was keeping a close watch on them.

It was a slow night, and little wonder: the weather was miserable. Rain was falling at a steady pace as the big Lincoln splashed to a stop. It had been a few weeks since Gerard had seen Louie, and Mercedes had admitted to him that they had a new understanding and were free to date other people. He’s got a girl in Lauderdale, she confided, without being in the least bit upset about it. But then, it had never even bothered her that Louie was married.

Gerard saw Victor alight from the Lincoln’s front passenger side. Stepping onto the curb, Victor gave a perfunctory look in both directions before opening the rear door for his boss. Louie’s Bruno Maglis hit the pavement, and then the mobster emerged, his charcoal pin-striped suit tailored to his slender frame. His eyes, so absent of light they could only be described as black, panned the street. Then he turned his gaze on the shop and strode purposefully forward.

Victor accompanied his boss inside, doorbell chiming as they stepped in. Pasting a smile on his face, Gerard said, Good evening, Mr. Morelli, and nodded cordially at Victor.

Victor was focused on the scruffy young couple, both rail-thin, with spiked burgundy-tipped hair and an abundance of eyebrow and nose piercings. Without glancing at Gerard, he said, You want me to stick around, Lou?

No, go get some rest. Come by in the morning.

Louie started toward the narrow staircase that would lead him to Mercedes’s office, when Gerard said, Mr. Morelli, Mercedes went home to have dinner with Ceci. Louie veered course, instead heading toward the rear door that led into the courtyard. This door was locked, but Gerard had the key in his pocket. He came around the side of the counter and in that moment of distraction, he observed the young woman attempting to pocket a skull-shaped candle. There was always that threat from these vampire types, but before Gerard could even remark on the theft, Victor turned back from the door and said, Put it back, doll. Come on now, what’s wrong with you? Don’t you know better than to steal? Put it back and let’s go, both of you. What are you doing out on a night like this? Why don’t you go on over to St Vincent’s and get a hot shower and something to eat? Come on, now. Move it.

*     *     *

Mercedes’s living quarters were in the townhouse directly behind the shop. In between was a courtyard centered about a fountain with a red-bricked, circular base. Pots of herbs lined the brick-paved walkway, sodden and beaten down by rain. Nearby palm fronds were fraying in the wind. Cutting across the walkway, Louie was exposed to the elements before reaching the exterior staircase, starting his ascent to the second floor. Like much of the French Quarter, Mercedes’s house was Spanish-Caribbean, with wrought-iron lace on the gallery. Rooms fronting the courtyard had French doors with fan-shaped windows above them. At the top of the stairs was a single black door, and Louie entered here, stepping into the small vestibule off the kitchen. Ceci’s polka-dot raincoat was hanging on a peg by the door, her pink rubber boots on the floor mat beneath it.

Louie smelled chicken and Creole sauce even before he entered the kitchen, where Mercedes’s Haitian housekeeper was rinsing a pot at the sink. Of an indeterminate middle-age, Anjolie was stocky and square-shouldered, with jet-black hair and skin so deeply black she appeared African. Dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt, Anjolie was thoroughly modernized, defying a primitive start in life that included unspeakable horrors before fleeing Baby Doc’s Caribbean paradise.

Anjolie was an eccentric in a house of eccentrics. She rarely talked, barely nodding at Louie as he breezed through on his way to the dining room, pushing open the swinging door and stepping in. His lover and their daughter were sitting at the table, and he paused a moment to study them, both with the same straight, shiny dark hair. Ceci’s was tucked into a ponytail and Mercedes’s parted to the side, skimming the tops of her shoulders. Mercedes’s skin was café au lait with an extra dose of cream. She was one quarter black, but her features were Caucasian, with only the velvety black of her eyes reflecting her mixed-blood heritage.

Seated to the left of Mercedes, Ceci gazed up at him with the same black, tip-tilted eyes of her mother. She had been baptized Cecile, but nobody had ever called her by her full name. She was a strikingly beautiful child, more French than Italian, and more Mercedes’s daughter than his. Louie’s sole contribution to Ceci’s appearance was her olive skin, but he never doubted she was his daughter and had legally claimed her as such.

Mother and daughter sat at a rectangular table draped in scarlet linens, porcelain plates before them revealing the final stages of their dinner. Decorated by one of New Orleans’s premier designers, the formal rooms were furnished with elegant period pieces. French doors accessed the gallery, but tonight the view was of the rain-splattered courtyard and darkening winter gloom. Although the high-ceilinged rooms had a tendency to be drafty, the house felt warm to Louie, and as he walked into the room, he unbuttoned his coat, fingers automatically going to the knot on his silk necktie.

At the sight of her father, Ceci’s black eyes flared with excitement. She half pushed back her chair, and Louie went directly to her and setting a hand on her shoulder, he tilted up her face with his forefinger and dropped a kiss onto her forehead. Hi pumpkin, he said, Did you miss me?

She nodded. A whole lot, she said. Her large eyes were solemn, watching him. Louie’s heart swelled with affection, and he felt a twinge of guilt for failing to love her with the same passion with which he loved his three grown children. But this did not mean his love was paltry, and part of his guilt derived from having abandoned Ceci to the whims of her mother, whom he did not consider worthy of raising his child.

His eyes slid to Mercedes. She was regarding him with a little cat’s smile, her black eyes shadowed by bristly dark lashes. Beneath the heady smell of Creole sauce was a familiar scent of perfume and lavender body oil. Fresh from her bath, Mercedes wore a filmy negligee that did nothing to conceal the magnificent body beneath it. Indeed, the gown barely reached mid-thigh, and her shapely legs were bared and her feet stuck into high-heeled mules of the type frequently worn by models in Victoria’s Secret catalogues.

More than a decade had passed since Louie met Mercedes, but he never forgot her first words. I know you’re the man, baby, she told him. I want to be your girl.

She’d been young then, but she already had her business paid for—not with mob money, but with hush money from a big-shot Hollywood producer she had seduced and then blackmailed. A combination of beauty, intelligence, and a fucked up childhood made Mercedes a perfect companion for Louie. While he bore her a great affection, he’d never made the mistake of falling in love. The recent development of not being entirely exclusive was of his doing; nevertheless, Louie still had feelings for Mercedes, and her provocative attire and naughty, sideways glance ignited the old spark. His eyes narrowed and went swiftly over her.

Mercedes caught him looking. Ceci said you were coming, baby.

Mercedes’s voice was low and throaty, resonant of sex. She had the oval face of a Renaissance Madonna with an exquisitely lush mouth. Even after all these years, it was hard not to look at Mercedes, and with effort, Louie turned and faced his daughter. Did she? he asked lightly, playfully.

It was not the first time Ceci had predicted his arrival. She was an odd and strangely gifted child, and Anjolie pronounced early on that she had the sight of LaVeau, referencing Mercedes’s ancestor. Looking at her father, Ceci nodded proudly. I saw you coming on the airplane.

Ah, so you knew I was missing you.

She smiled impishly, exposing the space between her lower front teeth where a baby tooth had fallen out and an adult one was growing in its place. You were coming to see mama, not me.

There was something unnatural about a child you couldn’t lie to, but Louie was used to it, and he rewarded her with a wink. He noticed she wore the prim blouse and blue-plaid jumper of the St. Louis Cathedral Academy. Ceci was in the third grade, with an old-fashioned nun as a teacher.

Sister Mary Agatha had phoned him the third week of school. Mr. Morelli, she said, in a no-nonsense tone, I understand Cecile Glapion is your daughter.

Louie had been sitting at the breakfast table in his Delray Beach house, with his wife of thirty-two years and his darling princess of a daughter, Stella. He was annoyed by this intrusion. How did you get my number? he asked.

That woman—the redhead … Miss Glapion’s friend. She gave it to me.

Louie left the table. Stepping onto his terrace, he squinted against the bright Florida sun. Before him was a long, rectangular pool, set amidst a columned splendor. Just beyond the walls of his property were low-rising dunes, sandy beach, and the aquamarine waters of the Atlantic. You mean Rhoda? he said, sharply. His annoyance was mounting at the sight of his youngest son, Michael, who was reclining on a chaise with a bottle of Mountain Dew—nursing a hangover instead of attending class at Florida Atlantic University.

Yes, she said tightly, and it was obvious from her tone that Sister Mary Agatha did not at all approve of Rhoda.

This brought a smile to his lips. Sister, I’m confused. Ceci’s school has never called me before.

Mr. Morelli, I’m aware that your relations with Cecile’s mother are not … legitimate, but that is between you and our Lord. At any rate, your daughter … she broke off with a sigh.

What is the problem, Sister?

I’ve been told you’re a reasonable man.

I like to think so. Is there something wrong?

Yes, I’m afraid there is. You see, your daughter is emotionally disturbed. She claims to see things—visions, she calls them. Sister Mary Agatha snorted. She brought a deck of Tarot cards to school—

Well, I can see how that could be a problem. I’ll talk to her mother.

Hmph, Miss Glapion is the problem, sir, if you don’t mind my saying. She’s not very attentive to Cecile, and her permissiveness … the child is indulged while being emotionally neglected. She desperately needs a stable environment. Miss … what’s her name, Rhoda, says you are the only stable influence Cecile has and, as I understand it, your presence is … erratic.

Sister, I’m aware of my shortcomings as a father, Louie said, his gaze drifting to Michael. What can I do for you today?

Mr. Morelli, your daughter is growing up with a morally capricious mother. Are you aware Cecile has no friends? She frightens her classmates. These visions—

Mercedes took her to a psychiatrist, he said. They’ve ruled out mental illness.

I disagree, said Sister Mary Agatha. The experts ruled out schizoaffective disorder, meaning Cecile is not schizophrenic. But the lack of proper diagnosis doesn’t mean she is healthy.

Louie considered this. For all her idiosyncrasies Ceci didn’t seem emotionally disturbed to him. I’ll do what I can, he said.

Reflecting on the exchange, Louie decided Sister Mary Agatha had pegged Mercedes perfectly. She was the worst kind of mother a child could have, and it gnawed on him that he could do nothing about it, short of bringing Ceci into his own home. But this he would not do.

Mercedes said, Did you eat, baby?

I met Anthony at Andrea’s, he said abruptly, returning his focus to the room.

And you didn’t invite me? She pushed back from the table and got to her feet. His eyes went over her again, this time in a more leisurely fashion, and the corners of her lovely mouth turned up in smug satisfaction. Ceci, are you done eating, baby?

Ceci had eaten half her food, but it was enough. It was bath time, and Mercedes called to Anjolie. Louie walked into the parlor and removed his coat, draping it over the back of an armchair. A mahogany side-bar provided a proper display of premium liquors, and sighting his preferred brand of scotch, Famous Grouse, Louie stepped over. Anjolie was attending to his daughter, and he was too lazy to fetch ice from the kitchen, so he poured a finger’s worth into a cut-crystal glass and drank it neat, savoring the taste as he swallowed. He glanced about the room, admiring the green-velvet sofas angled before the marble fireplace, a tall entertainment center on the wall beside it.

To the left of the parlor were Mercedes’s and Ceci’s bedrooms. Ceci’s room opened off the parlor while Mercedes’s was accessed through a small alcove. Downstairs were jumbled quarters that served as storage and laundry with two additional rooms divided between the aforementioned Rhoda and Anjolie. Just before the alcove a third door, partially ajar, emitted the steamy essence of Ceci’s bath. Louie could hear Anjolie talking in broken English, lapsing frequently into Creole. He couldn’t understand what she was saying, but Ceci laughed delightedly.

Mercedes sauntered over to Louie and took the glass from his hand. With her three-inch heels she stood eyelevel to him and, sipping delicately, she wrinkled her nose at the taste. You are planning to stay, aren’t you? she asked huskily.

His eyes met hers, his hand lightly brushing the hair off her cheek. I’ve missed you.

Her eyes turned smoky, her mouth forming a sulky pout. I haven’t had sex since the last time you visited. It’s been weeks, Louie.

This was familiar territory. He couldn’t stop the smile that sprang to his lips, What about Rhoda?

Rhoda doesn’t count. I need a man, baby: The real thing. You, of all people, should know this.

Anjolie, bless her, closed the bathroom door, muffling the sounds of splashing water. Louie looked directly at Mercedes. Anthony says you propositioned him.

Oh, that, she waved an airy hand. It was nothing. He’s got that new teeny-bopper girlfriend. I swear she doesn’t look a day over eighteen. He likes them blond, you know. Louie did know, but he refrained from commenting, and Mercedes continued. Anyway, she was telling Rhoda how big he is … I just wanted to see for myself if she was exaggerating.

So you grabbed his dick.

"I touched him."

He told me you grabbed him; my own cousin, Mercedes. Did you think he wouldn’t tell me?

Anthony can’t take a piss without consulting you, she said. I was certain he would tell you. But now that you and I aren’t exclusive, I don’t see what the fuss is about. It’s not like you’re here that often, and I wouldn’t mind it if Anthony did fuck me every now and then.

*     *     *

Thirty minutes later Louie was lying on a pink-satin chaise in front of the fan-shaped fireplace in Mercedes’s bedroom. Having converted the fireplace to gas, Mercedes turned on the flame with the flick of a button. Lace curtains concealed glass panes on French doors, and a crystal chandelier overhead was hung with teardrop pendants and set to a low wattage. But the bed was the focal point in the room.

With a massive, scrolling headboard that climbed halfway to the ceiling, the bed looked antique, but nobody in the olden days ever slept in a bed this big. Set high off the floor, dressed in a garnet-velvet comforter and decorated with a dozen satin pillows, the bed belonged in the boudoir of a high-priced cat house. In fact, the whole room had the feel of a brothel, enhanced all the more by the nude portrait of Mercedes hanging above the fireplace.

Paneled doors to a closet were on one wall and just beyond it was the bathroom. Between the doors was a vanity where Mercedes sat brushing her hair, her silver-handled brush gleaming in the low light. She was impatient for Ceci to leave, but their daughter had come traipsing into Mercedes’s bedroom after her bath. When her mother ordered her to bed, Louie said, Let her stay awhile.

So Ceci knelt at his side, between the chaise and the coffee table, and colored pictures in a scrapbook. A box of Crayolas was on the coffee table, along with the refilled glass of scotch. Louie had kicked off his shoes and was lying with his feet propped on a pillow. He was enjoying watching his daughter, her face screwed up in concentration and her Cinderella nightgown bunched about her knees, but he was acutely conscious of Mercedes’s impatience.

Baby, it’s getting late, she said to Ceci.

Ceci ignored her mother. She tore a page from her tablet and handed it to Louie. Ceci had drawn a picture of a stickman in a blue suit holding the hand of a little girl with black hair. A brown dog, knee-high to the girl, was at her side.

Louie took the picture and sat up, kicking away the pillow. Ceci sat next to him, and he put his arm around her. It’s very good, he said. Is this me?

He’d assumed it was, but she shook her head. It’s Robahr.

Who’s Robahr, honey?

He’s mama’s boyfriend. This is his dog, Max.

Louie didn’t quite catch the dog part. He looked at Mercedes with surprise. Something you haven’t told me?

Setting down her brush, she got off the stool and came toward them, laughing. It’s Robert, she said. Robert Fontenay. For some reason Ceci insists on the French pronunciation—I think Eddie said it this way. Robert is Eddie Valmont’s nephew. Eddie was Mercedes’s decorator, and Louie knew him well. He kept his eyes on Mercedes, listening as she continued. Eddie’s sister is married to a Fontenay—the uptown real estate people. I haven’t even met Robert, but he’s going to show me Lillian Rand’s house tomorrow. You know, she put that big Revival on First Street up for sale.

Louie had not known the famous writer’s Garden District mansion was for sale, nor did he care. Although he was aware Mercedes wanted a bigger house, he was surprised she was looking to move uptown. So Eddie’s nephew is showing you houses?

He’s going to show me the Rand house tomorrow.

Again, Louie glanced at Ceci’s childish drawing. Ceci seems to think he’s going to be important to you.

The way Eddie gushed about his nephew, I assumed there was some old-fashioned incest going on. You know Ceci likes to spin these tales.

Louie felt his daughter flinch, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze. Well, he said, if Ceci thinks he’s going to be your boyfriend, she’s probably right. Aren’t you, baby?

Ceci nodded against his chest, and Louie nuzzled his lips to the top of her head. He didn’t like Mercedes being dismissive of Ceci’s predictions, even if her imagination was fanciful. Mercedes gave him a look and held out her hand to Ceci. Come on, baby, it’s time for you to go to bed.

I stayed up till ten last night.

Yes, and you were a crabby little girl this morning. Say goodnight to Papa Louie.

She was reluctant to leave him, and Louie said, It’s okay, pumpkin. I’ll see you in the morning.

One of two Siamese cats in the house strolled into the room, stretching lazily on the rug. Just behind the cat came Rhoda and, seeing her, Louie got up, gently nudging Ceci toward her mother. His blood quickened at the sight of the statuesque Rhoda. Coming upstairs, she would have had to step outside to access the staircase, but from her tiny shorts and skimpy tank top you’d think it was July. Rhoda had skin like whipped cream, and sherry-brown eyes and auburn hair that cascaded to her shoulders in heavy waves. Her ass was nothing short of magnificent.

She sauntered into the room, flip flops slapping at her heels. Is my favorite little girl going to bed? she crooned.

Mama’s making me.

Then I guess you’d better go, sugar.

Goodnight, Aunt Rhoda.

Rhoda bent to kiss Ceci, and then, straightening up, she zeroed in on Louie. Gosh, Mercedes, you didn’t tell me Louie was here. She started toward him. "How long have you been here, sugar?"

Not long enough to get into any mischief, said Mercedes, steering Ceci out the door.

They had barely cleared the room when Rhoda placed her hand on the