If Tomorrow Comes

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21—8:00 A.M.

Tracy Whitney stepped out of the lobby of her apartment building into a gray, sleety rain that fell impartially on sleek limousines driven down Market Street by uniformed chauffeurs, and on the abandoned and boarded-up houses huddled together in the slums of North Philadelphia. The rain washed the limousines clean and made sodden messes of the garbage piled high in front of the neglected row houses. Tracy Whitney was on her way to work. Her pace was brisk as she walked east on Chestnut Street toward the bank, and it was all she could do to keep from singing aloud. She wore a bright-yellow raincoat, boots, and a yellow rain hat that barely contained a mass of shining chestnut hair. She was in her mid-twenties, with a lively, intelligent face, a full, sensuous mouth, sparkling eyes that could change from a soft moss green to a dark jade in moments, and a trim, athletic figure. Her skin ran the gamut from a translucent white to a deep rose, depending on whether she was angry, tired, or excited. Her mother had once told her, “Honestly, child, sometimes I don’t recognize you. You’ve got all the colors of the wind in you.”

Now, as Tracy walked down the street, people turned to smile, envying the happiness that shone on her face. She smiled back at them.

It’s indecent for anyone to be this happy, Tracy Whitney thought. I’m marrying the man I love, and I’m going to have his baby. What more could anyone ask?

As Tracy approached the bank, she glanced at her watch. Eight-twenty. The doors of the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank would not be open to employees for another ten minutes, but Clarence Desmond, the bank’s senior vice-president in charge of the international department, was already turning off the outside alarm and opening the door. Tracy enjoyed watching the morning ritual. She stood in the rain, waiting, as Desmond entered the bank and locked the door behind him.

Banks the world over have arcane safety procedures, and the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank was no exception. The routine never varied, except for the security signal, which was changed every week. The signal that week was a half-lowered venetian blind, indicating to the employees waiting outside that a search was in progress to make certain that no intruders were concealed on the premises, waiting to hold the employees hostage. Clarence Desmond was checking the lavatories, storeroom, vault, and safe-deposit area. Only when he was fully satisfied that he was alone would the venetian blind be raised as a sign that all was well.

The senior bookkeeper was always the first of the employees to be admitted. He would take his place next to the emergency alarm until all the other employees were inside, then lock the door behind them.

Promptly at 8:30, Tracy Whitney entered the ornate lobby with her fellow workers, took off her raincoat, hat, and boots, and listened with secret amusement to the others complaining about the rainy weather.

“The damned wind carried away my umbrella,” a teller complained. “I’m soaked.”

“I passed two ducks swimming down Market Street,” the head cashier joked.

“The weatherman says we can expect another week of this. I wish I was in Florida.”

Tracy smiled and went to work. She was in charge of the cable-transfer department. Until recently, the transfer of money from one bank to another and from one country to another had been a slow, laborious process, requiring multiple forms to be filled out and dependent on national and international postal services. With the advent of computers, the situation had changed dramatically, and enormous amounts of money could be transferred instantaneously. It was Tracy’s job to extract overnight transfers from the computer and to make computer transfers to other banks. All transactions were in code, changed regularly to prevent unauthorized access. Each day, millions of electronic dollars passed through Tracy’s hands. It was fascinating work, the lifeblood that fed the arteries of business all over the globe, and until Charles Stanhope III had come into Tracy’s life, banking had been the most exciting thing in the world for her. The Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank had a large international division, and at lunch Tracy and her fellow workers would discuss each morning’s activities. It was heady conversation.

Deborah, the head bookkeeper, announced, “We just closed the hundred-million-dollar syndicated loan to Turkey…”

Mae Trenton, secretary to the vice-president of the bank, said in a confidential tone, “At the board meeting this morning they decided to join the new money facility to Peru. The up-front fee is over five million dollars…”

Jon Creighton, the bank bigot, added, “I understand we’re going in on the Mexican rescue package for fifty million. Those wetbacks don’t deserve a damned cent…”

“It’s interesting,” Tracy said thoughtfully, “that the countries that attack America for being too money-oriented are always the first to beg us for loans.”

It was the subject on which she and Charles had had their first argument.

Tracy had met Charles Stanhope III at a financial symposium where Charles was the guest speaker. He ran the investment house founded by his great-grandfather, and his company did a good deal of business with the bank Tracy worked for. After Charles’s lecture, Tracy had gone up to disagree with his analysis of the ability of third-world nations to repay the staggering sums of money they had borrowed from commercial banks worldwide and western governments. Charles at first had been amused, then intrigued by the impassioned arguments of the beautiful young woman before him. Their discussion had continued through dinner at the old Bookbinder’s restaurant.

In the beginning, Tracy had not been impressed with Charles Stanhope III, even though she was aware that he was considered Philadelphia’s prize catch. Charles was thirty-five and a rich and successful member of one of the oldest families in Philadelphia. Five feet ten inches, with thinning sandy hair, brown eyes, and an earnest, pedantic manner, he was, Tracy thought, one of the boring rich.

As though reading her mind, Charles had leaned across the table and said, “My father is convinced they gave him the wrong baby at the hospital.”

“What?”

“I’m a throwback. I don’t happen to think money is the end-all and be-all of life. But please don’t ever tell my father I said so.”

There was such a charming unpretentiousness about him that Tracy found herself warming to him. I wonder what it would be like to be married to someone like him—one of the establishment.

It had taken Tracy’s father most of his life to build up a business that the Stanhopes would have sneered at as insignificant. The Stanhopes and the Whitneys would never mix, Tracy thought. Oil and water. And the Stanhopes are the oil. And what am I going on about like an idiot? Talk about ego. A man asks me out to dinner and I’m deciding whether I want to marry him. We’ll probably never even see each other again.

Charles was saying, “I hope you’re free for dinner tomorrow…?”

Philadelphia was a dazzling cornucopia of things to see and do. On Saturday nights Tracy and Charles went to the ballet or watched Riccardo Muti conduct the Philadelphia Orchestra. During the week they explored NewMarket and the unique collection of shops in Society Hill. They ate cheese steaks at a sidewalk table at Geno’s and dined at the Café Royal, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Philadelphia. They shopped at Head House Square and wandered through the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Rodin Museum.

Tracy paused in front of the statue of The Thinker. She glanced at Charles and grinned. “It’s you!”

Charles was not interested in exercise, but Tracy enjoyed it, so on Sunday mornings she jogged along the West River Drive or on the promenade skirting the Schuylkill River. She joined a Saturday afternoon t’ai chi ch’uan class, and after an hour’s workout, exhausted but exhilarated, she would meet Charles at his apartment. He was a gourmet cook, and he liked preparing esoteric dishes such as Moroccan bistilla and guo bu li, the dumplings of northern China, and tahine de poulet au citron for Tracy and himself.

Charles was the most punctilious person Tracy had ever known. She had once been fifteen minutes late for a dinner appointment with him, and his displeasure had spoiled the evening for her. After that, she had vowed to be on time for him.

Tracy had had little sexual experience, but it seemed to her that Charles made love the same way he lived his life: meticulously and very properly. Once, Tracy had decided to be daring and unconventional in bed, and had so shocked Charles that she began secretly to wonder if she were some kind of sex maniac.

The pregnancy had been unexpected, and when it happened, Tracy was filled with uncertainty. Charles had not brought up the subject of marriage, and she did not want him to feel he had to marry her because of the baby. She was not certain whether she could go through with an abortion, but the alternative was an equally painful choice. Could she raise a child without the help of its father, and would it be fair to the baby?

She decided to break the news to Charles after dinner one evening. She had prepared a cassoulet for him in her apartment, and in her nervousness she had burned it. As she set the scorched meat and beans in front of him, she forgot her carefully rehearsed speech and wildly blurted out, “I’m so sorry, Charles. I’m—pregnant.”

There was an unbearably long silence, and as Tracy was about to break it, Charles said, “We’ll get married, of course.”

Tracy was filled with a sense of enormous relief. “I don’t want you to think I—You don’t have to marry me, you know.”

He raised a hand to stop her. “I want to marry you, Tracy. You’ll make a wonderful wife.” He added, slowly, “Of course, my mother and father will be a bit surprised.” And he smiled and kissed her.

Tracy quietly asked, “Why will they be surprised?”

Charles sighed. “Darling, I’m afraid you don’t quite realize what you’re letting yourself in for. The Stanhopes always marry—mind you, I’m using quotation marks—‘their own kind.’ Mainline Philadelphia.”

“And they’ve already selected your wife,” Tracy guessed.

Charles took her in his arms. “That doesn’t matter a damn. It’s whom I’ve selected that counts. We’ll have dinner with Mother and Father next Friday. It’s time you met them.”

At five minutes to 9:00 Tracy became aware of a difference in the noise level in the bank. The employees were beginning to speak a little faster, move a little quicker. The bank doors would open in five minutes and everything had to be in readiness. Through the front window, Tracy could see customers lined up on the sidewalk outside, waiting in the cold rain.

Tracy watched as the bank guard finished distributing fresh blank deposit and withdrawal slips into the metal trays on the six tables lined up along the center aisle of the bank. Regular customers were issued deposit slips with a personal magnetized code at the bottom so that each time a deposit was made, the computer automatically credited it to the proper account. But often customers came in without their deposit slips and would fill out blank ones.

The guard glanced up at the clock on the wall, and as the hour hand moved to 9:00, he walked over to the door and ceremoniously unlocked it. The banking day had begun.

For the next few hours Tracy was too busy at the computer to think about anything else. Every wire transfer had to be double-checked to make sure it had the correct code. When an account was to be debited, she entered the account number, the amount, and the bank to which the money was to be transferred. Each bank had its own code number, the numbers listed in a confidential directory that contained the codes for every major bank in the world.

The morning flew by swiftly. Tracy was planning to use her lunchtime to have her hair done and had made an appointment with Larry Stella Botte. He was expensive, but it would be worth it, for she wanted Charles’s parents to see her at her best. I’ve got to make them like me. I don’t care whom they chose for him, Tracy thought. No one can make Charles as happy as I will.

At 1:00, as Tracy was getting into her raincoat, Clarence Desmond summoned her to his office. Desmond was the image of an important executive. If the bank had used television commercials, he would have been the perfect spokesman. Dressed conservatively, with an air of solid, old-fashioned authority about him, he looked like a person one could trust.

“Sit down, Tracy,” he said. He prided himself on knowing every employee’s first name. “Nasty outside, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, well. People still have to do their banking.” Desmond had used up his small talk. He leaned across his desk. “I understand that you and Charles Stanhope are engaged to be married.”

Tracy was surprised. “We haven’t even announced it yet. How—?”

Desmond smiled. “Anything the Stanhopes do is news. I’m very happy for you. I assume you’ll be returning here to work with us. After the honeymoon, of course. We wouldn’t want to lose you. You’re one of our most valuable employees.”

“Charles and I talked it over, and we agreed I’d be happier if I worked.”

Desmond smiled, satisfied. Stanhope and Sons was one of the most important investment houses in the financial community, and it would be a nice plum if he could get their exclusive account for his branch. He leaned back in his chair. “When you return from your honeymoon, Tracy, there’s going to be a nice promotion for you, along with a substantial raise.”

“Oh, thank you! That’s wonderful.” She knew she had earned it, and she felt a thrill of pride. She could hardly wait to tell Charles. It seemed to Tracy that the gods were conspiring to do everything they could to overwhelm her with happiness.

The Charles Stanhope Seniors lived in an impressive old mansion in Rittenhouse Square. It was a city landmark that Tracy had passed often. And now, she thought, it’s going to be a part of my life.

She was nervous. Her beautiful hairdo had succumbed to the dampness in the air. She had changed dresses four times. Should she dress simply? Formally? She had one Yves Saint Laurent she had scrimped to buy at Wanamaker’s. If I wear it, they’ll think I’m extravagant. On the other hand, if I dress in one of my sale things from Post Horn, they’ll think their son is marrying beneath him. Oh, hell, they’re going to think that anyway, Tracy decided. She finally settled on a simple gray wool skirt and a white silk blouse and fastened around her neck the slender gold chain her mother had sent her for Christmas.

The door to the mansion was opened by a liveried butler. “Good evening, Miss Whitney.” The butler knows my name. Is that a good sign? A bad sign? “May I take your coat?” She was dripping on their expensive Persian rug.

He led her through a marble hallway that seemed twice as large as the bank. Tracy thought, panicky, Oh, my God. I’m dressed all wrong! I should have worn the Yves Saint Laurent. As she turned into the library, she felt a run start at the ankle of her pantyhose, and she was face-to-face with Charles’s parents.

Charles Stanhope, Sr., was a stern-looking man in his middle sixties. He looked like a successful man; he was the projection of what his son would be like in thirty years. He had brown eyes, like Charles’s, a firm chin, a fringe of white hair, and Tracy loved him instantly. He was the perfect grandfather for their child.

Charles’s mother was impressive looking. She was rather short and heavy-set, but despite that, there was a regal air about her. She looks solid and dependable, Tracy thought. She’ll make a wonderful grandmother.

Mrs. Stanhope held out her hand. “My dear, so good of you to join us. We’ve asked Charles to give us a few minutes alone with you. You don’t mind?”

“Of course she doesn’t mind,” Charles’s father declared. “Sit down…Tracy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The two of them seated themselves on a couch facing her. Why do I feel as though I’m about to undergo an inquisition? Tracy could hear her mother’s voice: Baby, God will never throw anything at you that you can’t handle. Just take it one step at a time.

Tracy’s first step was a weak smile that came out all wrong, because at that instant she could feel the run in her hose slither up to her knee. She tried to conceal it with her hands.

“So!” Mr. Stanhope’s voice was hearty. “You and Charles want to get married.”

The word want disturbed Tracy. Surely Charles had told them they were going to be married. Yes,” Tracy said.

“You and Charles really haven’t known each other long, have you?” Mrs. Stanhope asked.

Tracy fought back her resentment. I was right. It is going to be an inquisition.

“Long enough to know that we love each other, Mrs. Stanhope.”

“Love?” Mr. Stanhope murmured.

Mrs. Stanhope said, “To be quite blunt, Miss Whitney, Charles’s news came as something of a shock to his father and me.” She smiled forebearingly. “Of course, Charles has told you about Charlotte?” She saw the expression on Tracy’s face. “I see. Well, he and Charlotte grew up together. They were always very close, and—well, frankly, everyone expected them to announce their engagement this year.”

It was not necessary for her to describe Charlotte. Tracy could have drawn a picture of her. Lived next door. Rich, with the same social background as Charles. All the best schools. Loved horses and won cups.

“Tell us about your family,” Mr. Stanhope suggested.

My God, this is a scene from a late-night movie, Tracy thought wildly. I’m the Rita Hayworth character, meeting Cary Grant’s parents for the first time. I need a drink. In the old movies the butler always came to the rescue with a tray of drinks.

“Where were you born, my dear?” Mrs. Stanhope asked.

“In Louisiana. My father was a mechanic.” There had been no need to add that, but Tracy was unable to resist. To hell with them. She was proud of her father.

“A mechanic?”

“Yes. He started a small manufacturing plant in New Orleans and built it up into a fairly large company in its field. When father died five years ago, my mother took over the business.”

“What does this—er—company manufacture?”

“Exhaust pipes and other automotive parts.”

Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope exchanged a look and said in unison, “I see.”

Their tone made Tracy tense up. I wonder how long it’s going to take me to love them? she asked herself. She looked into the two unsympathetic faces across from her, and to her horror began babbling inanely. “You’ll really like my mother. She’s beautiful, and intelligent, and charming. She’s from the South. She’s very small, of course, about your height, Mrs. Stanhope—” Tracy’s words trailed off, weighted down by the oppressive silence. She gave a silly little laugh that died away under Mrs. Stanhope’s stare.

It was Mr. Stanhope who said without expression, “Charles informs us you’re pregnant.”

Oh, how Tracy wished he had not! Their attitude was so nakedly disapproving. It was as though their son had had nothing to do with what had happened. They made her feel it was a stigma. Now I know what I should have worn, Tracy thought. A scarlet letter.

“I don’t understand how in this day and—” Mrs. Stanhope began, but she never finished the sentence, because at that moment Charles came into the room. Tracy had never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life.

“Well,” Charles beamed. “How are you all getting along?”

Tracy rose and hurried into his arms. “Fine, darling.” She held him close to her, thinking, Thank goodness Charles isn’t like his parents. He could never be like them. They’re narrow-minded and snobbish and cold.

There was a discreet cough behind them, and the butler stood there with a tray of drinks. It’s going to be all right, Tracy told herself. This movie’s going to have a happy ending.

The dinner was excellent, but Tracy was too nervous to eat. They discussed banking and politics and the distressing state of the world, and it was all very impersonal and polite. No one actually said aloud, “You trapped our son into marriage.” In all fairness, Tracy thought, they have every right to be concerned about the woman their son marries. One day Charles will own the firm, and it’s important that he have the right wife. And Tracy promised herself, He will have.

Charles gently took her hand which had been twisting the napkin under the table and smiled and gave a small wink. Tracy’s heart soared.

“Tracy and I prefer a small wedding,” Charles said, “and afterward—”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Stanhope interrupted. “Our family does not have small weddings, Charles. There will be dozens of friends who will want to see you married.” She looked over at Tracy, evaluating her figure. “Perhaps we should see that the wedding invitations are sent out at once.” And as an afterthought, “That is, if that’s acceptable to you?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” There was going to be a wedding. Why did I even doubt it?

Mrs. Stanhope said, “Some of the guests will be coming from abroad. I’ll make arrangements for them to stay here at the house.”

Mr. Stanhope asked, “Have you decided where you’re going on your honeymoon?”

Charles smiled. “That’s privileged information, Father.” He gave Tracy’s hand a squeeze.

“How long a honeymoon are you planning?” Mrs. Stanhope inquired.

“About fifty years,” Charles replied. And Tracy adored him for it.

After dinner they moved into the library for brandy, and Tracy looked around at the lovely old oak-paneled room with its shelves of leather-bound volumes, the two Corots, a small Copley, and a Reynolds. It would not have mattered to her if Charles had no money at all, but she admitted to herself that this was going to be a very pleasant way to live.

It was almost midnight when Charles drove her back to her small apartment off Fairmount Park.

“I hope the evening wasn’t too difficult for you, Tracy. Mother and Father can be a bit stiff sometimes.”

“Oh, no, they were lovely.” Tracy lied.

She was exhausted from the tension of the evening, but when they reached the door of her apartment, she asked, “Are you going to come in, Charles?” She needed to have him hold her in his arms. She wanted him to say, “I love you, darling. No one in this world will ever keep us apart.”

He said, “Afraid not tonight. I’ve got a heavy morning.”

Tracy concealed her disappointment. “Of course. I understand, darling.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He gave her a brief kiss, and she watched him disappear down the hallway.

The apartment was ablaze and the insistent sound of loud fire bells crashed abruptly through the silence. Tracy jerked upright in her bed, groggy with sleep, sniffing for smoke in the darkened room. The ringing continued, and she slowly became aware that it was the telephone. The bedside clock read 2:30 A.M. Her first panicky thought was that something had happened to Charles. She snatched up the phone. “Hello?”

A distant male voice asked, “Tracy Whitney?”

She hesitated. If this was an obscene phone call…“Who is this?”

“This is Lieutenant Miller of the New Orleans Police Department. Is this Tracy Whitney?”

“Yes.” Her heart began to pound.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”

Her hand clenched around the phone.

“It’s about your mother.”

“Has—has Mother been in some kind of accident?”

‘She’s dead, Miss Whitney.”

‘No!” It was a scream. This was an obscene phone call. Some crank trying to frighten her. There was nothing wrong with her mother. Her mother was alive. I love you very, very much, Tracy.

“I hate to break it to you this way,” the voice said.

It was real. It was a nightmare, but it was happening. She could not speak. Her mind and her tongue were frozen.

The lieutenant’s voice was saying, “Hello…? Miss Whitney? Hello…?”

“I’ll be on the first plane.”

She sat in the tiny kitchen of her apartment thinking about her mother. It was impossible that she was dead. She had always been so vibrant, so alive. They had had such a close and loving relationship. From the time Tracy was a small girl, she had been able to go to her mother with her problems, to discuss school and boys and, later, men. When Tracy’s father had died, many overtures had been made by people who wanted to buy the business. They had offered Doris Whitney enough money so that she could have lived well for the rest of her life, but she had stubbornly refused to sell. “Your father built up this business. I can’t throw away all his hard work.” And she had kept the business flourishing.

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. “Fuzz-ville, 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 in 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 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 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.”

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.”

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.