Mardi Gras Mambo (11 page)

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Authors: Gred Herren

BOOK: Mardi Gras Mambo
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Colin parked the car in front of Aunt Sylvia's house. The yard was immaculately manicured, with bougainvillea growing up the walls of the house itself. It was a big old Victorian with a porch running around the length of the house and a tower in one corner peaking into what had always reminded me of a pointy witch's cap. There were massive oaks towering alongside the driveway, and in one corner of the porch a swing hung. I'd spent a lot of time in that swing when I was growing up. I swallowed as Colin turned off the engine. He leaned over and gave me a big kiss. “Let's go, babe.”
“Yeah, okay.” I got out of the car and headed up the walk. With a sigh, I pressed the doorbell. Through the wavy glass alongside the oak door, I saw someone approaching, and then it swung open.
Everything went dizzy for a minute and thoughts rushed through my still slightly addled brain.
I can't be hallucinating. Ecstasy doesn't make you see things.
But my reality
was
somehow altered.
Maybe the Goddess is sending me a vision or something
. But I knew that what I was seeing wasn't fantasy, wasn't a vision, but in some weird alternate universe was real, even though I knew it couldn't be. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. I felt my legs start to buckle.
I reached out and put my hand against the door frame to keep from falling over. I heard Colin climbing the steps behind me. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I stood there, stupidly, trying to form words.
Finally, I got a grip on myself and heard myself say,
“Misha?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Queen of Pentacles
a rich and charitable woman
 
 
 
Whatever else people can say about my parents, one thing they did instill in their children was manners. I knew it was incredibly rude just to stand there on the porch staring at him, but I couldn't, for the life of me, think of anything to say that wouldn't sound stupid. We stood there staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke.
“I'm sorry, but do we know each other?” He was smiling at me with a slightly puzzled look on his face. His grayish blue eyes looked from me to Colin and then back again. He was wearing a freshly pressed white button-down shirt tucked into baggy gray wool slacks. The haircut was the same, the face was the same, the build was the same, but there was something different.
The
voice
was different. As I stood there, trying to think of something, anything, to say rather than just gawk like an idiot with my mouth open, I realized that was what was off. There was a very faint trace of an accent, but not nearly as thick and heavy as I was used to hearing from him. And the tone was slightly different too. The Misha I knew had a deeper, almost thicker-sounding voice. This Misha spoke clearly, with a slightly higher pitch to his voice. Then I began to notice other, subtler differences. The chin was maybe a little sharper, the dimples a little deeper in his cheeks, the skin smoother and softer, and the nose a little crooked, almost like it had been broken once and not set completely right. And he stood differently. The Misha I knew kind of slumped as though trying to hide his size. This Misha stood fully erect, with his shoulders up and back.
“I-I don't think we do, after all,” I finally managed to get out. But I couldn't stop staring at him. A voice called from down the hallway, “Who is it, Misha?”
That voice I immediately recognized as Aunt Sylvia's. She came through a doorway off the hall and smiled at me. “Why, Scotty! Darling, what are you doing here?” she asked as she put her hands on her hips. She looked genuinely delighted to see me.
There was no way of telling her age from just looking at her. The skin on her face was wrinkle free and tight, although her eyelids were far too smooth and a little sunken—a telltale sign of having had work done. But other than that, you wouldn't be able to tell. Her platinum hair hung down to her shoulders, which were encased in a pink cashmere sweater. Her oval-shaped green eyes opened wide in greeting, and her red painted lips spread in a smile. She was wearing a pair of black slacks, and diamonds glittered at her ears, her neck, and her fingers. She walked toward me and extended her right hand with its perfectly manicured nails. “And this must be . . . Colin? Am I right?” She smiled. “Frank's the taller one, right?” She winked at me. “Sophie's told me all about your arrangement. Somehow I always knew you'd never settle down with just one man.”
Oh, great! My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Next, she'd be showing Colin pictures of me when I was a baby or something. Why do older people love to embarrass younger ones?
“Yes.” Colin smoothly stepped past Misha into the foyer and extended his own right hand. “Colin Cioni. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Overton.”
“Scotty, I don't believe you've met my husband.” She gave me a quick hug, pressing her cheek against mine. She smelled of an expensive perfume. “Misha, this is Scotty, Sophie's grandson. I just had lunch with your grandmother the other day, Scotty.”
Misha smiled and gripped my hand in his, squeezing and shaking it at the same time. His big hand swallowed mine completely, and his grip could break bones with very little effort. “It's very nice to meet you, Scotty. Your grandmother is a fine lady.”
“Yeah.” I shook my head and glanced over at Colin, my look clearly signaling
help.
Maybe we'd slipped into an alternate universe or something.
“Won't you come into the drawing room?” Aunt Sylvia said. “We were just about to have mimosas. Won't you please join us?” She hooked an arm through one of Colin's and led him down the hall. “I was just telling Sophie the other day at lunch how much I was looking forward to meeting you and Frank, Colin. . . .” They went into the room she'd just come out of and her voice trailed off.
“You
really
don't know me, do you?” I said to Misha. I shook my head again. There were differences, all right, but at the same time, I couldn't get it out of my head that this was the same guy I'd bought sixteen hits of Ecstasy from the night before.
“No.” He shook his head and gestured in the direction of the drawing room. “Please come into the drawing room.” I followed him down the hall, watching his butt in the gray slacks. They were built almost exactly the same, but I was right. This Misha walked more erectly than the one I knew.
There were
two
of them.
Or had been.
“Do you have a brother?” I asked quietly as we entered the drawing room. “I mean, the resemblance is uncanny.”
Misha and Sylvia exchanged a glance, and then Sylvia said, “Have a seat, Scotty, and have a mimosa. Darling, will you serve?” Her voice was like velvet—but there was steel underneath. She was watching me, and I got the sense she knew this wasn't a social call; but she was a lady and she was going to treat it as such. It's hard to escape your breeding.
I kept watching Misha as he filled four flutes with champagne and then added some orange juice, apparently just for color, judging from the ratios. I sat down in a gold wingback chair and Aunt Sylvia sat down on a green and gold brocade couch. It was a big room, filled with tastefully selected antiques and a number of Audubon prints on the walls. Misha distributed the drinks before sitting next to Sylvia on the couch and crossing his legs. Colin was sitting across from me in a matching wingback chair, and we were facing the two of them across a mahogany coffee table shined to a mirror's surface. Colin made a face as I lifted my glass to my mouth, resisting the urge to down the whole thing in one swallow. Poor thing, he'd only been living in New Orleans for a few months; he hadn't adapted to social drinking in the morning yet. He took a little sip out of his glass and then set it down on a coaster.
“I have a twin brother, yes,” Misha said haltingly, looking at Sylvia. “But I haven't seen Sasha in over a year. What is this about? Why are you asking about him?” Sylvia took one of his hands in hers and patted it. “Has Sasha . . . has he done something bad?”
“There really isn't an easy way to do this,” Colin said. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your brother is dead.” His tone was soft and sympathetic.
“What?” Misha's eyes opened wider, and he looked from me back to Colin then back to me again. He shook his head. His voice shook when he spoke again. “That's not possible. It can't be.”
“What is this about, Scotty?” Sylvia turned to me, still patting Misha's hand, his large hand dwarfing her little one. The diamond on her ring finger glinted in the sun streaming through the French doors that led out to the verandah. Her hands were completely steady—steel beneath velvet.
I took a deep breath. I was starting to feel really tired. The Sevres clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten o'clock. “Last night, a guy who looks an awful lot like your husband was shot in a house on Burgundy Street between eight and ten o'clock. I knew him as Misha.” I gulped down the rest of my mimosa. “I stopped by to see him last night, and this morning the police came by to question me. That's how I know.”
“But . . . I don't really understand,” Sylvia said slowly, looking from me to Colin. “This just doesn't make any sense.”
“It can't be,” Misha said, shaking his head. “It can't be Sasha. It's not possible.”
“He looked enough like you to be your twin,” I said. Misha just kept shaking his head, not accepting it.
“Sasha,” Sylvia said quietly, “I thought Sasha was in Houston.”
“He's supposed to be.” Misha rubbed his eyes. “This doesn't make any sense.”
But a young Russian muscleman in his twenties married to a woman old enough to be his grandmother does?
I thought to myself. Fortunately, that was right around when Colin decided to step in and take over. Good thing—I wasn't getting anywhere. “How did the two of you meet?”
Sylvia gave him a dazzling smile. “Several years ago, when my husband died, I decided to do some traveling. We'd always planned on going to Europe, but somehow we never managed to make it. Your grandmother, Scotty, went with me for company. Do you remember that trip?” I nodded. “It was in Munich. I was doing some shopping on my own and stopped into a coffee shop and dropped some of my bags. This handsome young man”—she patted Misha's arm—“came to my rescue and helped me. He was doing some traveling of his own, and we got to talking.” She shrugged. “We met a few times after that, and later, we stayed in touch via e-mail. After Sophie decided to come back home, I went to Moscow. I'd always wanted to see Russia, and what better way to see the city than with a handsome young man who speaks the language? Somehow, we managed to fall in love.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek and then turned back to me. “Misha came over here about six months later, and we were married.”
“And Sasha?” Colin prompted. “You said he was supposed to be in Houston?”
“Sasha came over about a year ago,” Misha replied. “We may have looked identical, but we were very different. Sasha wanted to marry a rich American lady, like me. He didn't understand that Sylvia and I are in love, that I didn't marry her for the money; I don't care about the money.” He shook his head and sighed. “When his tourist visa ran out, he didn't want to go back, so he stayed.”
“So he was here in the States illegally?”
He nodded. “I told him he had to go back, but we argued. He was staying here with us, and I told him he had to go. He went to Houston and started working there.”
“How could he work without a green card?” Colin continued.
He shrugged. “I don't know. But after he went there, we stopped speaking. I didn't want him to cause me to be deported. I love it here. I don't ever want to go back.” He held up his big hands helplessly. “And now this.” His eyes filled with tears, which he wiped away.
He's lying
, the Goddess whispered inside my brain.
“So you had no idea he was here, living in the Quarter?” Colin glanced at me.
“I have a house on Burgundy Street,” Sylvia said. “In the 800 block. But there's one thing I don't understand.”
“What's that, Mrs. Overton?” Colin replied.
“Scotty hadn't met Misha—
my
Misha—until today. So how did the two of you know to come here?” She finished her mimosa and handed the glass to Misha. Without a word he got up and refilled the glass for her.
“We looked up the ownership of the house he was living in,” Colin lied smoothly. “It was listed as belonging to you, Mrs. Overton, so we came over here to see if you knew anything. Not that we thought you would,” he added quickly.
I played along. “And you can imagine my shock when Misha opened the door.” Goddess, Colin was smooth. His tongue was almost as slick as Storm's.
Misha took my glass and refilled it and then sat back down next to Sylvia.
Sylvia took Misha's face in her hands and turned it to face her. “Misha, is there anything you want to tell me? Did you know Sasha was staying in the house on Burgundy?”
“I didn't know, Sylvia. You have to believe me.” He looked at her, and she smiled at him, then leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Well, that's that.” Sylvia stood up. “Sasha knew about the house and probably just moved himself in. I'm sorry we couldn't be of any more help to you.”
We had no choice but to stand up as well. “I'm sorry about your brother, Misha.”
He didn't acknowledge that I'd said anything. He covered his face with his hands.
The doorbell rang. “That would be our guests. I'm sorry to rush you boys out, but you understand, don't you?” She smoothed her skirt down. “If you'll excuse us?” She walked us over to the French doors, which she opened. “You don't mind going out this way, do you?” She reached up and kissed us both on the cheek. “You must come by for dinner sometime soon.” And the doors shut behind us.
But not before I saw Misha sitting on the couch, his head still in his hands. His shoulders shook.
We didn't speak until we were in the car. “He was lying,” I said as Colin pulled away from the curb. “He knew Sasha was here, and he knew Sasha was staying in the Burgundy house. I wonder why he didn't want her to know?”
“Why was Sasha pretending to be Misha? That doesn't make any sense.” Colin shook his head. “And I didn't buy her story about how they met either.”

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