The note was as lifeless and devoid of meaning as the body that lay in the drawer.
That afternoon Tracy made the funeral arrangements, then took a taxi to the family home. In the far distance she could hear the roar of the Mardi Gras revelers, like some alien, lurid celebration.
The Whitney residence was a Victorian house located in the Garden District in the residential section known as Uptown. Like most of the homes in New Orleans, it was built of wood and had no basement, for the area was situated below sea level.
Tracy had grown up in that house, and it was filled with warm, comfortable memories. She had not been home in the past year, and as her taxi slowed to a stop in front of the house, she was shocked to see a large sign on the lawn: FOR SALE—NEW ORLEANS REALTY COMPANY. It was impossible. I’ll never sell this old house, her mother had often told her. We’ve all been so happy together here.
Filled with a strange, unreasoning fear, Tracy moved past a giant magnolia tree toward the front door. She had been given her own key to the house when she was in the seventh grade and had carried it with her since, as a talisman, a reminder of the haven that would always be there waiting for her.
She opened the door and stepped inside. She stood there, stunned. The rooms were completely empty, stripped of furniture. All the beautiful antique pieces were gone. The house was like a barren shell deserted by the people who had once occupied it. Tracy ran from room to room, her disbelief growing. It was as though some sudden disaster had struck. She hurried upstairs and stood in the doorway of the bedroom she had occupied most of her life. It stared back at her, cold and empty. Oh, God, what could have happened? Tracy heard the sound of the front doorbell and walked as if in a trance down the stairs to answer it.
Otto Schmidt stood in the doorway. The foreman of the Whitney Automotive Parts Company was an elderly man with a seamed face and a body that was rail-thin, except for a protruding beer belly. A tonsure of straggly gray hair framed his scalp.
“Tracy,” he said in a heavy German accent, “I just heard the news. I—I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Tracy clasped his hands. “Oh, Otto. I’m so glad to see you. Come in.” She led him into the empty living room. “I’m sorry there’s no place to sit down,” she apologized. “Do you mind sitting on the floor?”
“No, no.”
They sat down across from each other, their eyes dumb with misery. Otto Schmidt had been an employee of the company for as long as Tracy could remember. She knew how much her father had depended on him. When her mother had inherited the business, Schmidt had stayed on to run it for her.
“Otto, I don’t understand what’s happening. The police say Mother committed suicide, but you know there was no reason for her to kill herself.” A sudden thought stabbed at her. “She wasn’t ill, was she? She didn’t have some terrible—”
“No. It wasn’t that. Not that.” He looked away, uncomfortable, something unspoken in his words.
Tracy said slowly, “You know what it was.”
He peered at her through rheumy blue eyes. “Your mama didn’t tell you what’s been happening lately. She didn’t want to worry you.”
Tracy frowned. “Worry me about what? Go on…please.”
His work-worn hands opened and closed. “Have you heard of a man called Joe Romano?”
“Joe Romano? No. Why?”
Otto Schmidt blinked. “Six months ago Romano got in touch with your mother and said he wanted to buy the company. She told him she wasn’t interested in selling, but he offered her ten times what the company was worth, and she couldn’t refuse. She was so excited. She was going to invest all the money in bonds that would bring in an income that both of you could live on comfortably for the rest of your lives. She was going to surprise you. I was so glad for her. I’ve been ready to retire for the last three years, Tracy, but I couldn’t leave Mrs. Doris, could I? This Romano—” Otto almost spat out the word. “This Romano gave her a small down payment. The big money—the balloon payment—was to have come last month.”