Thigh High

  She was Ionessa Dahl. Graduate of the Goizueta Business School at Emory University in Atlanta, summa cum laude.

  She was the woman Mac suspected had planned and executed the robberies in his banks.

  She was his obsession.

  Two

  The Garden District

  New Orleans

  The guidebooks claimed the Dahl House in the Garden District represented the finest in New Orleans architecture as well as the finest in New Orleans families—the Dahl family had built the gracious old mansion in 1847 and owned it ever since.

  The guidebooks didn’t mention that the most recent remodel had occurred in 1901, when indoor plumbing had been added and electrical wire run, or that the air-conditioning unit, added in 1971, was on its last legs. The Dahl House was the sort of behemoth that wove the noble family (rumored to be long-ago exiled French aristocrats) into the fabric of New Orleans, giving them such distinction that everyone from the first black mayor to the newest grocery store clerk knew and revered it and its current owners, Hestia and Calista Dahl.

  Affectionately known as the Dahl girls, Hestia and Calista were eighty and eighty-two, tall women with the characteristic Dahl tremor in their arthritic fingers.

  Hestia’s hair was snowy white, short, and styled in that old-lady poodle permanent that enabled to her to get up in the morning, take a shower, and run down to the kitchen to start breakfast without ever lifting a comb. She wore polyester pants with elastic around her skinny waist, and shirts that didn’t quite match the pants and sweater vests she picked up at resale shops.

  Calista’s brown hair sported chunky auburn highlights and, close to the end of the month, gray roots. When dressed in the size-fourteen jeans she bought at Wal-Mart, she reported proudly that people told her she looked younger than her age, and laughed when Hestia asked, “How young would that be, darling? Seventy-eight?”

  The Dahl girls were almost the last of the Dahls. Almost.

  The honor of being last, and of rescuing her heritage and her great-aunts from an ignoble slide into oblivion, fell to Ionessa Dahl.

  As she had done every day since she was four and came to live with her great-aunts, Ionessa descended the wide, curved stairway into the foyer. Standing before the gilt-framed mirror, she straightened the crisp white button-front shirt, the single-button jacket, the straight-cut skirt. She carried an umbrella—in New Orleans, the chance of downpours always existed, and it had been a warm, wet February. She squared her shoulders and, pleased with her image as a conservative, successful banker, she nodded at herself.

  Of course, in this house, her image wasn’t worth a damn.

  “How is business, Daniel?” Aunt Hestia’s voice, high, clear, and lilting with the accent of metro New Orleans, mixed with the clink of silverware and china from the dining room.

  The alluring scent of bacon wafted into the foyer. Daniel’s voice, hoarse from breathing too much cigarette smoke and singing too many shows, answered, “We’re off a little this year. The tourists aren’t drinking as much as usual, and they’re not tipping because it’s storming and they’re wet.”

  “You ought to give out towels before the show. A dry tourist is a happy tourist.” Ryan Wright was from Texas or maybe Oklahoma—no one had quite figured it out—with an accent that grated on the ear and a superior attitude totally unjustified by his success or intelligence. Luckily for him, he was handsome and played the saxophone, and in New Orleans, those were two attributes that would keep a street musician from starving.

  “Brilliant idea,” Daniel said with a much-feted club singer’s irony. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Slipping into the dining room, Nessa poured herself a cup of coffee from the marble-topped antique sideboard and turned to face the long table. One hundred and fifty years of hard use pitted the mahogany surface, but the rich wood shone with the patina of age and beauty. The placemats were plastic, the plates scratched Corelle, but the Mardi Gras runner of purple, green, and gold added a festive touch.

  “Morning, sweet girl.” Calista bent and offered Nessa her soft, wrinkled cheek.

  “Morning, Aunt Calista. Tonight’s the big night!” Nessa gave her a hug and a kiss. Calista always smelled brisk and sweet, like key lime pie.

  “I know. I just can’t wait.” Calista glanced at the clock.

  Hestia called from the kitchen, “Come and get the eggs!”

  “Later, Nessa.” With a pat on Nessa’s cheek, Calista bustled away.

  The boarders were eating a sumptuous Southern breakfast of ham and eggs, grits swimming in butter, and biscuits and gravy. Nessa figured the cholesterol was going to kill them all—but they were going to die happy.

  Certainly, Skeeter Graves was happy. With his arm wrapped around his plate, he shoveled in scrambled eggs with the speed of someone convinced that if he didn’t eat quickly, they’d be stolen. And Skeeter wasn’t even a boarder; he was just a bass-player friend of Ryan’s who mooched a meal as often as he could.

  Ryan sat next to him, gauntly handsome with good, broad shoulders and a buff chest displayed by a Hawaiian shirt he buttoned only halfway. He winked at Nessa, the wink of a man who knew and depended on his seductive abilities. “Hey, gorgeous.” He developed a husky growl when he spoke to Nessa—indeed, to any woman, sort of like Gaston in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. Nessa half expected to see him tear his shirt open the rest of the way to show off his six-pack.

  Debbie Voytilla sat next to him. Debbie was fun, cute, enthusiastic, and clever, a middle-aged divorcée, and a woman frankly enjoying her infatuation with Ryan. Putting her hand on his arm, she smiled into his face. “The coffee’s hot. Do you want me to freshen your cup?”

  “Thanks, Debbie, but Nessa’s up. She can do it.” He held out his cup.

  All of her life, Nessa had taken this kind of nonsense from men, but with a smile rather than making a scene. Guys with small…egos…liked to be waited on, so she humored them. But lately, she hadn’t been herself. She was tired of people—men and women—taking advantage of her good nature, lying to her, using her. She blamed the last seven years; purgatory had curdled the milk of her human kindness into something else. The cottage cheese of bitterness, she guessed.

  Grabbing the coffeepot, she carried it over to Ryan’s outstretched cup—and poured a stream onto his wrist.

  “Son of a bitch!” He dropped the cup, splashing the floor with the dregs of coffee.

  Aunt Hestia stepped into the doorway. “Mr. Wright, we do not encourage that kind of language in the dining room!” But her eyes twinkled.

  “I’m so sorry.” Nessa put the pot back on the burner.

  “Really, Nessa! You’re clumsy this morning.” Debbie pulled an ice cube from her tea, wrapped it in a napkin, and put it on his wrist.

  “That’s so much better.” Ryan gave a dramatic sigh, caught her hand, and kissed it. “Thank you, Debbie. You’re an angel.”

  Debbie dimpled and blushed.

  Ryan waited until she turned back to her meal. Then he glanced at Nessa and rolled his eyes.

  Nessa wished she had poured the coffee in his lap.

  “Nessa, darling, you look so professional in that suit. A touch of red around your neck would make quite a power statement,” Daniel Friendly said.

  Nessa slipped into a chair beside him. “I’ve got a scarf in my bag.”

  “Do you want me to tie it for you?” Daniel asked.

  Nessa grinned at him. “I can tie a knot.”

  “I don’t tie knots, darling. I make artistic statements in silk.” Daniel was bronze sequins, white feathers and rhinestones. Pale skin, expertly applied makeup, and wide brown eyes. A swirl of blond hair and sensuous lips. And a figure that made men suck in their stomachs and the women pinch their husbands—until they discovered he was a guy in drag.

  Nessa only knew when she stood next to Daniel—Dana to his audience—that she felt like half a woman. In his gestures, his mannerisms, and his appearance, Daniel was ultrafeminine. Only his s
peaking voice gave him away.

  Aunt Calista bustled over to place a heaping plate of eggs, ham, and biscuits in front of Nessa. “Eat. You need sustenance to work in That Bank.”

  “With That Woman,” Aunt Hestia added as she popped more bread in the toaster.

  The aunts always said it like that, in capital letters—That Bank, That Woman—and accompanied the words with glares of disapproval.

  Nessa smoothed her napkin in her lap. “My promotion is finally coming through.”

  “About time,” Daniel said.

  “When I think how That Woman has spread ugly rumors about how you’re soft—you, the descendent of Althea Dahl!” Calista said.

  “I don’t have a lot in common with Althea Dahl,” Nessa said.

  “No, it’s not as if you’ve ever poisoned your husband. Not that you have a husband. Not that that’s a concern, you’re still young, but the occasional date wouldn’t hurt.” Hestia blinked at Nessa. “Are you bringing someone tonight?”

  Maddy stuck her head in from the kitchen. Their cook was black, four-foot-ten inches tall, ninety pounds soaking wet, older than God, and wielded as much authority.

  All conversation stopped while Maddy announced, “The McHauers sent a tomato aspic—where am I going to find room in the refrigerator for that?—and Mr. Richarme came by with an envelope, and Mrs. Bagnet made her pralines.” Maddy’s black eyes swept the room and lingered on Calista. “I counted ’em, so no one’s going to sneak one. And there is another mouse in the kitchen!”

  “Oh, dear.” Calista headed for the door Maddy held open.

  “You girls have got to get the exterminator. That is no place to cut corners. Ever since the flood, the little devils have been all over the city, gnawing in the pantry, making me jump, and all you do is catch them….” Maddy’s voice faded as the door closed behind them.

  Hestia turned in surprise as their very first boarder trudged into the room, pulling a carry-on suitcase. “Pootie, you came downstairs! You should have told us you wanted breakfast. All we’ve got is frozen bagels.”

  “S’okay.” Pootie DiStefano’s Bronx mumble made it sound like one word.

  “Where are you off to this beautiful morning?” Hestia chirped.

  “N’York.”

  “Oh, but Pootie. Tonight’s our party, you know it is!” Hestia cried.

  Pootie gave her a weary look.

  “Now, Pootie, you should try it once,” Hestia said persuasively. “All of New Orleans comes. It’s so much fun. I’m sure you’d like it!”

  “No.” Pootie settled herself at the table and eyed the food balefully.

  “Maddy has been cooking day and night,” Hestia continued. “She’s making shrimp étouffée in puff pastry shells. You know that’s your favorite.”

  Pootie visibly wavered for a minute, then shook her head. “Gotta go see my family. But thanks.”

  Tall, stout, taciturn, and middle-aged, she was without vanity or social skills. She smoked until she was hoarse; her once black hair was salt-and-pepper; and Nessa doubted she’d ever applied mascara or dressed in anything except khaki shorts, T-shirts, and sandals. For ten years she had lived in their attic, but even the inquisitive aunts knew nothing about her except that she was Italian and so antisocial she had never, not once, had a visitor of any kind.

  To Nessa, the sight of Pootie grated painfully. She served as a constant reminder of Nessa’s failure.

  Calista returned, and as the kitchen door closed behind her, they could hear Maddy’s voice shouting, “What if the guests see a mouse tonight? Can you imagine? All the fancy ladies shrieking and spilling their drinks on the carpet…?”

  Calista placed a split toasted bagel, cream cheese, and a circle of warm blueberry crumble at Pootie’s elbow. “I caught the mouse,” she announced.

  “Horrid little things!” Debbie looked truculent. “I swear I hear them squeaking in the attic at night. The first time I see one in my bedroom, Miss Calista, no one will sleep that night.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hestia said. “We’ll be rid of them by the end of the week.”

  Calista took her seat at the head of the table. “Nessa, you were going to tell us about your promotion.”

  “That Woman has held you back.” Hestia’s eyebrows snapped into an angry V at the thought of Stephanie Decker. “She’s jealous of you.”

  “I wish she would let me help her with her makeup.” Daniel was frankly distressed. “She’s beige. Just beige. Does she think it’s enough to wear good clothes? Doesn’t she know she needs to be seen, not overlooked?”

  “She’s a woman in a man’s world.” Nessa snapped her napkin open. “She has to be a—”

  “Bitch?” Pootie asked through a bite of bagel.

  “Not a doormat,” Nessa corrected.

  “You’re too kind, Nessa.” Hestia put the spoon in the warm glass pan full of blueberry crumble and passed it around the table, and took her seat. “The way she’s treated you, making you do all the work.”

  Pootie took a huge helping.

  “She’s the manager. I’m supposed to do the grunt work.” Nessa ran the bank, but that was her weakness—she couldn’t bear to let Stephanie out on the floor to make the tellers and the customers mad. “Yesterday she had me get the big corner office ready. When I asked her why, she refused to say. She hasn’t hired anyone, but there has been an unsigned communication from Philadelphia, and you know what that means. Mr. MacNaught is taking a hand.”

  Everyone tossed troubled glances across the table at each other, then at her.

  “No, it’s good!” Nessa assured them. “Stephanie was unhappy, so it must be good news for me. I’ll get a raise, a real raise this time, one big enough to make a difference.” To allow her aunts to live as they should, alone in their house without the need to cook and clean for a bunch of boarders.

  “That means you can get your own apartment,” Hestia said.

  “But she’s happy living here,” Calista said.

  “I am.” No matter how much she would like to have a private conversation with her aunts without boarders listening in and expressing their opinions, Nessa couldn’t get an apartment and pay off the mortgage on the aunts’ house, too. So she would stay

  “But Calista, that’s not the point,” Hestia explained. “Other than college, she’s never lived anywhere else with anyone else. She’s twenty-seven years old and I’m very much afraid she’s still a virgin.”

  Nessa lifted her gaze from her plate to see every eye in the dining room fixed upon her.

  Calista looked horrified.

  Even Hestia looked surprised.

  “Am not,” Nessa muttered. “I did go to college, you know.”

  “Oh, dear,” Debbie murmured, and offered Nessa a sympathetic smile.

  Ryan’s gaze moved from one person to another, obviously fascinated.

  Pulling his head out of his plate, Skeeter offered Nessa a wide-lipped simper that made her skin crawl.

  Pootie stood. “Fascinating as this discussion is, I have to go.” She trudged toward the door, then backed up and stopped behind Nessa’s chair. “Kid, if you ever have the guts to get out of that stupid bank, come to me. You’ve got the smarts. I could teach you.”

  Nessa turned in her chair and stared as Pootie stalked out. The front door slammed shut with the sound of solid wood.

  “That was nice.” Hestia’s impressive eyebrows knit. “I guess.”

  “What does she do?” Debbie asked.

  “We don’t know,” Calista said.

  “Then you don’t want Nessa doing it, do you?” Daniel asked.

  “I suppose not.” But Hestia thoughtfully tapped her finger to her lips.

  “Yeah, who’d want to work with her? I mean, it’s one thing to be queer, but even her name is weird, and her legs are white and she never shaves them.” Ryan wiped his hands on his chest as if wiping away slime.

  “Mr. Wright.” Hestia fixed Ryan with a stern gaze. “We don’t rent to scalawags and cert
ainly not to men who make ungentlemanly remarks. Please remember that before we change our minds about you. You, too, Mr. Graves.”

  Skeeter looked at his plate with alarm, then back up at Hestia. Like any child of the South, he said, “Yes, ma’am!”

  Ryan’s truculent expression gave way to abashed boyishness. “Sorry. I shouldn’t spread rumors. It’s not like she’s one of the Beaded Bandits.”

  “I should say not.” Hestia was clearly offended. “Pootie is a dear, but neither one of the Beaded Bandits is a damned Yankee.”

  Nessa couldn’t help it—she laughed softly. “Certainly. Only people from New Orleans are mad enough to successfully rob banks every year for such ridiculously small amounts.”

  “Not mad, chère.” Calista tapped her forehead. “Clever.”

  “Crazy,” Skeeter mumbled.

  “Well, my darlings, I’ve got to go to the club.” With a whoosh of sequins and perfume, Daniel tossed his boa around his neck. “I used my seniority to grab the afternoon show so I could be here for the party. Oh, and—” He slid an envelope out of his décolletage. “Here’s a little something to make it extra special.”

  Embarrassed, Nessa turned her head away.

  “You shouldn’t have, Daniel!” But Calista took the envelope and kissed his cheek.

  “Can’t wait, darlings!” he called.

  “We’ve got to go hit the streets, too. Mardi Gras is one hell of a”—Ryan observed the aunts’ reproving stares—“one heck of a lot of work, but the tips could keep me for half a year.” He stood.

  So did Debbie. “Wait, Ryan. I’ll walk with you.”

  “That would be great.” Ryan tugged on Skeeter’s arm.

  Skeeter stuffed a biscuit into his pocket and bobbed his head at the aunts. “Thank you, Miss Hestia, Miss Calista. It was wonderful!”

  The front door slammed repeatedly, a solid sound of two-inch-thick mahogany against a massive door frame, before silence fell over the dining room.

  Hestia put her hand over Nessa’s. “I’m so sorry.”