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 bell 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
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 revellers, 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 fire, Tracy moved past a giant magnolia tree towards 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 grey 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.’
Tracy said impatiently, ‘Go on, Otto. What happened?’
‘When Romano took over, he fired everybody and brought in his own people to run things. Then he began to raid the company. He sold all the assets and ordered a lot of equipment, selling it off but not paying for it. The suppliers weren’t worried about the delay in payment because they thought they were still dealing with your mother. When they finally began pressing your mother for their money, she went to Romano and demanded to know what was going on. He told her he had decided not to go ahead with the deal and was returning the company to her. By then, the company was not only worthless but your mother owed half a million dollars she couldn’t pay. Tracy, it nearly killed me and the wife to watch how your mother fought to save that company. There was no way. They forced her into bankruptcy. They took everything – the business, this house, even her car.’
‘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.’