Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (10 page)

They had loved each other through the best and worst of times. At one point, they were the most sought-after jazz artists in Paris. The contrast between her sensuous, velvety vocals and the airy pirouettes of Lester’s soprano sax made their music seem like an ethereal dance that only the two of them could truly understand. Everyone else came along 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 67

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for the ride, hoping to move close enough to glimpse and feel the magic.

But then there were many, many dark days of drinking and screaming and accusations. Lester had even hit her once when he was high on drugs. But he never did it again because Renee picked up a telephone and bashed him on the head with it until he was unconscious.

She rode with him in the ambulance, crying and begging him to wake up and be all right. When Lester did regain consciousness, he refused to press charges against her. His drug addiction had been revealed, however, and the scandal made headlines. In some tabloids, both of them were portrayed as drug users, even though Renee’s friends knew that she had never even smoked a joint. Still, the pair couldn’t go anywhere without photographers hounding them.

When Renee opened her jazz club, The Emerald Isle, on rue de Furstenberg in St-Germain-des-Prés, Lester was right there by her side.

The exclusive club had initially been a resounding success. The opulent decor gave it a palatial feel, with marble inlays on the walls, crystal chandeliers, heavy red-velvet drapes, and a balcony on the mezzanine reserved for special celebrity or royal patrons. Tapered candles and delicate, crimson orchids adorned every table. An army of waiters in crisp, black tuxedos bustled back and forth, serving and pampering the guests. Some of the most well respected and influential musicians in the world had graced Renee’s stage.

Despite its popularity and splendor, The Emerald Isle quickly and inexplicably began losing money a year after it opened. Lester, of course, was there to console a confused and depressed Renee.

It had taken her more than two years to discover that Lester was stealing from her. He’d been bankrupted by unscrupulous people with get-rich-quick scams, which he was suckered into on the promise of regaining the money he’d squandered on his drinking, drug, and gambling addictions. Renee cut him off at that point and refused to speak with him for five years.

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Then, out of the blue, Lester showed up on her doorstep. He camped out there for three days straight, claiming that he had something important to say to her and he wouldn’t leave until she agreed to hear him out. On the third day, Renee decided to listen from her balcony. Lester told Renee, and everyone else passing by on the rue Bona-parte, that he’d been addicted to heroin for more than six years. It had almost cost him his life but he hadn’t been able to stop. Even after Renee ended it with him, the addiction had been too strong for him to do the right thing. For the last three years, he’d lived as a vagrant, reduced to sleeping in St-Julien-le-Pauvre Park, too ashamed of himself to contact anyone from his old life.

Then one day last winter, he had seen Renee, still the most stun-ning, regal woman he’d ever met, walking by him in St-Julien-le-Pauvre. He had waved to get her attention. But in his wretched, debilitated state, she hadn’t even recognized him. That was when he knew he had to change. He’d been sober for six months when he appeared outside her apartment, and he asked if she would agree to at least have lunch with him. Nothing fancy—he was pretty broke—but he’d be honored if she said yes.

That was a year ago, and they had been drawing closer ever since.

Renee had almost been able to see a future for them. The only thing that had troubled her was the fact that, about six months ago, Lester had suddenly come into a very large sum of money and he wouldn’t tell her where he had gotten it. He just said that he was in the process of starting a new business. When Renee began pulling away from him, Lester finally disclosed the source of his newfound wealth. It was a grisly, lurid business, and she was shocked and uneasy. But when faced with the thought of being without Lester again, Renee decided that his fate was her fate. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Now Lester was dead. He’d hanged himself, the paper said. But she knew it wasn’t true. Lester wouldn’t have killed himself, not now. She saw him two days before his death, and they had planned a vacation in 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 69

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Rome. And he hadn’t drunk since they got back together. She was sure of it.

If they would do this to Lester, was she safe? Panic gripped her, and she dropped her head onto the desk and began to cry.

The sharp trill of the telephone brought her back to reality. Renee almost didn’t answer it. She didn’t want to deal with anyone right now.

Not even friends offering well-meant condolences. But then she remembered that Paolo, her bodyguard, said he was going to call her to see if she needed him to escort her to the club that afternoon. Yes, she definitely needed him. Renee was afraid, but she couldn’t stay away from the club. Not now, after what had just happened. No matter how badly she wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear, she couldn’t just not show up. She wiped her eyes and her nose on the back of her hand and picked up the phone, expecting to hear Paolo’s throaty, French accent on the other end of the line.

Instead she heard a woman’s voice say: “Hello? Hello?”

“Who is this?” Renee demanded. “What do you want?”

“Ms. Rothchild? You don’t know me, but my name is Mariana Blair. I’m a reporter from the Glo—”

Renee slammed the phone into the cradle. She put her head down on the desk and, once again, began to sob.

When the phone rang again, Renee snatched it up and screamed into the receiver: “Don’t you people have any respect at all? Mon dieu!

A man is dead and I suppose all that means to you is another quote for your bloody article. Well I have nothing to say. And if you call me again I will take action against—”

“Please, I don’t mean to disturb you, madam, especially in such a time of grief, but I think you’ll want at least to hear me out. It seems that the music world has suffered a string of untimely deaths, including a good friend of mine, Brixton Hewitt, and now your, uh, friend Lester Bennett. Who knows who could be next.”

Mariana let her words hang in the air between them. She waited 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 70

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out the silence, feeling Renee Rothchild begin to panic on the other end of the line.

She’s wondering exactly how much I know, Mariana thought. Well, let her wonder.

After an extremely long pause, Renee whispered, “Who are you?

What do you want?”

“As I tried to say before, I’m a reporter from the Globe in London. I wanted to ask you a few questions, if I may?”

Renee remained silent, so Mariana continued, “I’m sure you’re familiar with Edward ‘Ruff Daddy’ Shelton? As you may have heard, he was in the car with Brixton Hewitt when Brixton was killed. There’s reason to suspect that Ruff Daddy may have been the intended target, not Brixton. Tell me, are you currently on speaking terms with Ruff Daddy? I ask you because I have it from a reliable source that he met Lester at the Lido the last time he was in Paris. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really? That’s too bad. So I guess you wouldn’t happen to know Klaus Svrenson or his Dutch associate Kees Van derVall either?”

Renee was dumbfounded. Rage, fear, curiosity, indignation, and grief welled up in her so strongly that she could barely speak. Who was this woman? How did she know about any of this? In the end, Renee’s rage and fear got the best of her.

“How dare you question me? How dare you call me, especially at a time like this, to ask these ridiculous questions? It’s cruel and insensitive and just sick. You should be ashamed.”

“Please, Ms. Rothchild, I didn’t mean to upset you any more than you already are. It’s just that you must know how important the answers to these questions are right now. I believe that you, of all people, would want to take special care—”

“What? What did you just say? Was that a threat?”

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“No, Ms. Rothchild. I’m not trying to threaten you in any way.”

“That’s right. You’re not threatening me. You’re just trying to play me for the fool and get me to spill my guts to you so you can turn around and run with any little scrap I can give you.” Renee’s voice turned husky and menacing.

Suddenly, she was no longer Renee Rothchild, international jazz diva. She became, once again, the young and hungry Edna Louise Byrd from the bayous of Louisiana—the Edna Louise Byrd who had scratched and clawed her way to the summit of the jazz world and refused to allow anyone to remove her from her perch.

“I told you once, I have nothing to say to you. I don’t know the answers to any of your questions. I’ve never heard of this Van derVall or Klaus Svrenson. I’m giving you fair warning. If you call me again, even once, you’ll regret it. I promise.”

Renee slammed the phone down and began pacing her office like a caged animal. Thoughts of Lester and his dashed dreams and promises flooded her mind along with the realization that she too was now in danger. She had no idea how she was going to make it through the next hour, much less through the rest of the day or week.

She couldn’t consider that now. She had to take this one day at a time. First, she had to contact Lester’s family. Then she had to call Paolo. He would protect her. He would make sure that she got to the club and back home again in one piece, without losing her mind along the way.

Later, at The Emerald Isle, Renee had the unmistakable feeling that she was being observed. The feeling was so intense that she hesitated mingling with the guests as she normally did. Most nights, she was as much a source of entertainment as the famous musicians whom she booked to perform. But tonight she couldn’t trust herself in that role. She avoided the patrons, speaking to no one but Paolo.

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second to herself to grieve in private. He repeatedly told her just to go home, but when she said no, he assumed that she simply could not face her grief alone. So he stayed nearby, waiting outside her second-floor office. She remained in the office throughout the evening and, except for several phones calls that she had to make, spoke to no one.

At the end of the night, when Renee asked him to stay with her in her townhouse, he agreed. She’d looked terrified all night, poor thing.

It was the least he could do. Renee and Paolo slipped out the back door of the club just after 1 A.M. and headed to her home.

The next morning, they left early to return to the club. Renee told Paolo she had to meet with some business associates.

They came out of Renee’s townhouse and turned left onto rue Jacob and then right onto the small side street, rue de Furstenberg. It was a short walk from her home to the club, but that morning, Renee felt as though it would never end.

The scene outside was as quiet and picturesque as usual. The tall empress trees were in full bloom, with their large, mauve blossoms glowing in the morning light. The houses on either side of the street had been converted from stables and, unlike her own modern townhouse a few blocks away, were centuries old, with low doorways and brick-and-stone facades. They lent just the right old-world charm that, to Renee, was the hallmark of good taste and beauty. But she barely noticed any of it that day. She was unable to focus. Her thoughts were on this afternoon’s meeting with Lester’s associates.

Renee sat behind her desk for two hours staring off into space before she heard a knock at the door. Slowly, she rose and walked over to the locked door. She opened both locks with the key that she wore around her wrist and swung the door open. It was Paolo.

“Your guests have arrived, ma’am. They’re downstairs, waiting at a table.”

“Good,” Renee said. “I’ll be right down.”

When Renee came downstairs, her guests were seated at a table 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 73

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near the bandstand and Paolo was standing by the bar, some fifty feet away, where Renee had instructed him to stay. She knew that from that distance he couldn’t hear what would be said but he would be able to watch and protect her if something went wrong.

Paolo watched as the visitors rose to greet Renee. The slim woman with long, auburn hair stood and hugged Renee, seemingly consoling her, and the wiry, dark-skinned man in the gray suit shook her hand before they sat down. At first, the man sat back in his chair, almost dis-interestedly, as Renee and the woman leaned toward each other whispering. The woman kissed Renee’s cheek as Renee dabbed tears from her eyes, then turned toward the man who glared at them impatiently.

Paolo never took his eyes off of them.

At the table, the man cleared his throat and said, “I think it’s time we got down to business.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the woman said.

“So, Renee, have you arranged things here?” the man asked.

“Just so you both know, I don’t feel right about this,” Renee said, still dabbing at her eyes.