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Oh, Mother, Tracy thought. I love you so much. You'll never meet Charles, and you'll never see your grandchild, and she began to weep.

She made a cup of coffee and let it grow cold while she sat in the dark. Tracy wanted desperately to call Charles and tell him what had happened, to have him at her side. She looked at the kitchen clock. It was 3:30 A.M. She did not want to awaken him; she would telephone him from New Orleans. She wondered whether this would affect their wedding plans, and instantly felt guilty at the thought. How could she even think of herself at a time like this? Lieutenant Miller had said, “When you get here, grab a cab and come to police headquarters.” Why police headquarters? Why? What had happened?

Standing in the crowded New Orleans airport waiting for her suitcase, surrounded by pushing, impatient travelers, Tracy felt suffocated. She tried to move close to the baggage carousel, but no one would let her through. She was becoming increasingly nervous, dreading what she would have to face in a little while. She kept trying to tell herself that it was all some kind of mistake, but the words kept reverberating in her head: I'm afraid I have bad news for you…. She's dead, Miss Whitney…. I hate to break it to you this way….

When Tracy finally retrieved her suitcase, she got into a taxi and repeated the address the lieutenant had given her: “Seven fifteen South Broad Street, please.”

The driver grinned at her in the rearview mirror. “Fuzzville, huh?”

No conversation. Not now. Tracy's mind was too filled with turmoil.

The taxi headed east toward the Lake Ponchartrain Causeway. The driver chattered on. “Come here for the big show, miss?”

She had no idea what he was talking about, but she thought, No. I came here for death. She was aware of the drone of the driver's voice, but she did not hear the words. She sat stiffly an her seat, oblivious to the familiar surroundings that sped past. It was only as they approached the French Quarter that Tracy became conscious of the growing noise. It was the sound of a mob gone mad, rioters yelling some ancient berserk litany.

“Far as I can take you,” the driver informed her.

And then Tracy looked up and saw it. It was an incredible sight. There were hundreds of thousands of shouting people, wearing masks, disguised as dragons and giant alligators and pagan gods, filling the streets and sidewalks ahead with a wild cacophony of sound. It was an insane explosion of bodies and music and floats and dancing.

“Better get out before they turn my cab over,” the driver said. “Damned Mardi Gras.”

Of course. It was February, the time when the whole city celebrated the beginning of Lent. Tracy got out of the cab and stood at the curb, suitcase in hand, and the next moment she was swept up in the screaming, dancing crowd. It was obscene, a black witches' sabbath, a million Furies celebrating the death of her mother. Tracy's suitcase was torn from her hand and disappeared. She was grabbed by a fat man in a devil's mask and kissed. A deer squeezed her breasts, and a giant panda grabbed her from behind and lifted her up. She struggled free and tried to run, but it was impossible. She was hemmed in, trapped, a part of the singing, dancing celebration. She moved with the chanting mob, tears streaming down her face. There was no escape. When she was finally able to break away and flee to a quiet street, she was near hysteria. She stood still for a long time, leaning against a lamppost, taking deep breaths, slowly regaining control of herself. She headed for the police station.

Lieutenant Miller was a middle-aged, harassed-looking man with a weather-beaten face, who seemed genuinely uncomfortable in his role. “Sorry I couldn't meet you at the airport,” he told Tracy, “but the whole town's gone nuts. We went through your mother's things, and you're the only one we could find to call.”

“Please, Lieutenant, tell me what — what happened to my mother.”

“She committed suicide.”

A cold chill went through her. “That's — that's impossible! Why would she kill herself? She had everything to live for.” Her voice was ragged.

“She left a note addressed to you.”

The morgue was cold and indifferent and terrifying. Tracy was led down a long white corridor into a large, sterile, empty room, and suddenly she realized that the room was not empty. It was filled with the dead. Her dead.

A white-coated attendant strolled over to a wall, reached for a handle, and pulled out an oversized drawer. “Wanna take a look?”

No! I don't want to see the empty, lifeless body lying in that box. She wanted to get out of this place. She wanted to go back a few hours in time when the fire belt was ringing. Let it be a real fire alarm, not the telephone, not my mother dead. Tracy moved forward slowly, each step a screaming inside her. Then she was staring down at the lifeless remains of the body that had borne her, nourished her, laughed with her, loved her. She bent over and kissed her mother on the cheek. The cheek was cold and rubbery. “Oh, Mother,” Tracy whispered. “Why? Why did you do it?”

“We gotta perform an autopsy,” the attendant was saying. “It's the state law with suicides.”

The note Doris Whitney left offered no answer.

My darling Tracy,

Please forgive me. I failed, and I couldn't stand being a burden on you. This is the best way. I love you so much.

Mother.

“Oh, my God!”

“There's more. The district attorney served your mother notice that he was going to ask for an indictment against her for fraud, that she was facing a prison sentence. That was the day she really died, I think.”

Tracy was seething with a wave of helpless anger. “But all she had to do was tell them the truth — explain what that man did to her.”

The old foreman shook his head. “Joe Romano works for a man named Anthony Orsatti. Orsatti runs New Orleans. I found out too late that Romano's done this before with other companies. Even if your mother had taken him to court, it would have been years before it was all untangled, and she didn't have the money to fight him.”

“Why didn't she tell me?” It was a cry of anguish, a cry for her mother's anguish.

“Your mother was a proud woman. And what could you do? There's nothing anyone can do.”

You're wrong, Tracy thought fiercely. “I want to see Joe Romano. Where can I find him?”

Schmidt said flatly, “Forget about him. You have no idea how powerful he is.”

“Where does he live, Otto?”

“He has an estate near Jackson Square, but it won't help to go there, Tracy, believe me.”

Tracy did not answer. She was filled with an emotion totally unfamiliar to her: hatred. Joe Romano is going to pay for killing my mother, Tracy swore to herself.

Chapter 03

She needed time. Time to think, time to plan her next move. She could not bear to go back to the despoiled house, so she hecked into a small hotel on Magazine Street, far from the French Quarter, where the mad parades were still going on. She had no luggage, and the suspicious clerk behind the desk said, “You'll have to pay in advance. That'll be forty dollars for the night.”

From her room Tracy telephoned Clarence Desmond to tell him she would be unable to come to work for a few days.

He concealed his irritation at being inconvenienced. “Don't worry about it,” he told Tracy. “I'll find someone to fill in until you return.” He hoped she would remember to tell Charles Stanhope how understanding he had been.

Tracy's next call was to Charles. “Charles, darling —”

“Where the devil are you, Tracy? Mother has been trying to reach you all morning. She wanted to have lunch with you today. You two have a lot of arrangements to go over.”

“I'm sorry, darling. I'm in New Orleans.”

“You're where? What are you doing in New Orleans?”

“My mother — died.” The word stuck in her throat.

“Oh.” The tone of his voice changed instantly. “I'm sorry, Tracy. It must have been very sudden. She was quite young, wasn't she?”

She was very young, Tracy thought miserably. Aloud she said, “Yes. Yes, she was.”

“What happened? Are you all right?”

Somehow Tracy could not bring herself to tell Charles that it was suicide. She wanted desperately to cry out the whole terrible story about what they had done to her mother, but she stopped herself. It's my problem, she thought. I can't throw my burden on Charles. She said, “Don't worry I'm all right, darling.”

“Would you like me to come down there, Tracy?”

“No. Thank you. I can handle it. I'm burying Mama tomorrow. I'll be back in Philadelphia on Monday.”

When she hung up, she lay on the hotel bed, her thoughts unfocused. She counted the stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling. One… two… three… Romano… four… five… Joe Romano… six… seven… he was going to pay. She had no plan. She knew only that she was not going to let Joe Romano get away with what he had done, that she would find some way to avenge her mother.

Tracy left her hotel in the late afternoon and walked along Canal Street until she came to a pawn shop. A cadaverous-looking man wearing an old-fashioned green eyeshade sat in a cage behind a counter.

“Help you?”

“I — I want to buy a gun.”

“What kind of gun?”

“You know… a… revolver.”

“You want a thirty-two, a forty-five, a —”

Tracy had never even held a gun. “A — a thirty-two will do.”

“I have a nice thirty-two caliber Smith and Wesson here for two hundred twenty-nine dollars, or a Charter Arms thirty-two for a hundred fifty-nine…”

She had not brought much cash with her. “Have you got something cheaper?”

He shrugged. “Cheaper is a slingshot, lady. Tell you what. I'll let you have the thirty-two for a hundred fifty, and I'll throw in a box of bullets.”

“All right.” Tracy watched as he moved over to an arsenal on a table behind him and selected a revolver. He brought it to the counter. “You know how to use it?”

“You — you pull the trigger.”

He grunted. “Do you want me to show you how to load it?”

She started to say no, that she was not going to use it, that she just wanted to frighten someone, but she realized how foolish that would sound. “Yes, please.”

Tracy watched as he inserted the bullets into the chamber. “Thank you.” She reached in tier purse and counted out the money.

“I'll need your name and address for the police records.”

That had not occurred to Tracy. Threatening Joe Romano with a gun was a criminal act. But he's the criminal, not I.

The green eyeshade made the man's eyes a pale yellow as he watched her. “Name?”

“Smith. Joan Smith.”

He made a note on a card. “Address?”

“Dowman Road. Thirty-twenty Dowman Road.”

Without looking up he said, “There is no Thirty-twenty Dowman Road. That would be in the middle of the river. We'll make it Fifty-twenty.” He pushed the receipt in front of her.

She signed JOAN SMITH. “Is that it?”

“That's it.” He carefully pushed the revolver through the cage. Tracy stared at it, then picked it up, put it in her purse, turned and hurried out of the shop.

“Hey, lady,” he yelled after her. “Don't forget that gun is loaded!”

Jackson Square is in the heart of the French Quarter, with the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral towering over it like a benediction. Lovely old homes and estates in the square are sheltered from the bustling street traffic by tall hedges and graceful magnolia trees. Joe Romano lived in one of those houses.

Tracy waited until dark before she set out. The parades had moved on to Chartres Street, and in the distance Tracy could hear an echo of the pandemonium she had been swept up in earlier.

She stood in the shadows, studying the house, conscious of the heavy weight of the gun in her purse. The plan she had worked out was simple. She was going to reason with Joe Romano, ask him to clear her mother's name. If he refused, she would threaten him with the gun and force him to write out a confession. She would take it to Lieutenant Miller, and he would arrest Romano, and her mother's name would be protected. She wished desperately that Charles were there with her, but it was best to do it alone. Charles had to be left out of it. She would tell him about it when it was all over and Joe Romano was behind bars, where he belonged. A pedestrian was approaching. Tracy waited until he had walked past and the street was deserted.

She walked up to the house and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. He's probably at one of the private krewes balls given during Mardi Gras. But I can wait, Tracy thought. I can wait until he gets home. Suddenly, the porch light snapped on, the front door opened, and a man stood in the doorway. His appearance was a surprise to Tracy. She had envisioned a sinister-looking mobster, evil written all over his face. Instead, she found herself facing an attractive, pleasant-looking man who could easily have been mistaken for a university professor. His voice was low and friendly. “Hello. May I help you?”

“Are you Joseph Romano?” Her voice was shaky.

“Yes. What can I do for you?” He had an easy, engaging manner. No wonder my mother was taken in by this man, Tracy thought.

“I — I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Romano.”

He studied her figure for a moment. “Certainly. Please come in.”

Tracy walked into a living room filled with beautiful, burnished antique furniture. Joseph Romano lived well. On my mother's money, Tracy thought bitterly.

“I was just about to mix myself a drink. What would you like?”

“Nothing.”

He looked at her curiously.. “What was it you wanted to see me about, Miss —?”

“Tracy Whitney. I'm Doris Whitney's daughter.”

He stared at her blankly for an instant, and then a look of recognition flashed across his face. “Oh, yes. I heard about your mother. Too bad.”

Too bad! He had caused the death of her mother, and his only comment was: “Too bad.”

“Mr. Romano, the district attorney believes that my mother was guilty of fraud. You know that's not true. I want you to help me clear her name.”

He shrugged. “I never talk business during Mardi Gras. It's against my religion.” Romano walked over to the bar and began mixing two drinks. “I think you'll feel better after you've had a drink.”

He was leaving her no choice. Tracy opened her purse and pulled out the revolver. She pointed it at him. “I'll tell you what will make me feel better, Mr. Romano. Having you confess to exactly what you did to my mother.”

Joseph Romano turned and saw the gun. “You'd better put that away, Miss Whitney. It could go off.”

“It's going to go off if you don't do exactly what I tell you to. You're going to write down how you stripped the company, put it into bankruptcy, and drove my mother to suicide.”