“Ophelia’s not screwed up,” Constantine said. “And she doesn’t play games.”

  “She’s way-high maintenance,” Leopard proposed. “Sex at least twice a day.”

  “And she doesn’t approve of violence,” said Constantine. “She’d never do for me.”

  “Not only that, she reminds me of my mom,” Leopard added. “No way.”

  “So, since she’s got the hots for you, you poor sucker—”

  “You’re the sacrificial lamb.”

  “If she’s so hot for me,” Gideon asked, “why is she running away?” He drained his cup and folded his arms with an air of endless patience. “It has to be more than a few obsessive boyfriends and a father who killed himself over his wife’s supposedly imaginary lovers.”

  Leopard spread his hands. “I hear they really were imaginary. The guy was nuts.”

  “Ophelia can’t possibly think every man will be the same. Her mother got married again.”

  “To a religious fanatic,” Leopard reminded him. “Not sure whether that’s a plus or not.”

  “I’m not a thug,” Gideon said, ticking off one finger. “Not a vigilante, either. I’m not a lunatic. Not a fanatic.” He ticked off three more fingers. “What else do I have to not be? A lowlife? A slanderer? No problem. In the few hours since I met Ophelia, she’s been called bad news, a bitch, a dyke, a child abuser, the best gangbang in town…” Gideon took a deep breath. “And yet, a lot of people love that girl, from her sister to my firstgrade teacher to the guy in the gift shop of the Chamber.”

  “Child abuser?” Constantine’s tone chilled even Gideon’s heart. “Who said that?”

  “Some idiot who was fool enough to believe it,” Gideon replied. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is who put the idea in his head.”

  Leopard stood. “You two duke this out. I gotta take care of some last-minute shit.” He disappeared into the noise and lights of poetry night.

  “You may get off on being judge, jury, and executioner,” Gideon said to Constantine, “but let me find the culprit first.”

  “So long as you find him,” Constantine replied. The phone on the desk rang and he picked it up. “Hello, Violet,” he said, and after ten seconds started laughing. “It sounds serious,” he chuckled, and “Willy Wyler, huh?” An obnoxious grin. “I’d better come over and save you.” Finally, doubled over with laughter, he managed, “Good-bye, Ophelia,” and hung up. “You’re right,” he told Gideon. “Willy wouldn’t have the guts or the imagination to come up with that. You could have just told me.”

  “It’s a frigging blackmail case. I didn’t want to turn it into a murder.”

  Constantine grinned. “Gotta satisfy my bloodlust somehow, sport. Either I wipe whoever said that about Ophelia, or I wait till you hurt Ophelia and then wipe you.”

  “Why would I hurt her?”

  Constantine shrugged. “People do, and they’re mostly the men who fall for her. You’re up shit creek now for better or for worse. I sure hope I won’t have to kill you.”

  Gideon laughed and played a hunch. “You’re a jackass, Dufray.”

  “Uh-huh,” Constantine agreed. “Let’s get out of this hellhole. Poetry nights are the pits.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gideon and Constantine left Tony’s Greek and Italian restaurant by the back door. They had eaten on a private patio, where Gretchen was treated to enough scraps to renew her patience. The owner of the restaurant, Constantine’s friend, hadn’t appeared during their meal.

  “Meet him some other time,” the Native American rocker said. He pulled his long black hair into a ponytail and stuffed it under a ball cap. Together they walked across a deserted alley and through the yard of a vacant house to the parallel street where Gideon had parked the Mercedes.

  “Ophelia will be pissed if you mess with Plato Lavoie,” Constantine said, as they drove toward Blood and Velvet through the clear spring night. “She knows all about the platform in his tree.”

  “I won’t mess with him,” Gideon replied. “Only ask him a few questions. If he didn’t do the dead-cat thing, maybe he saw who did.”

  “Not likely.” Constantine shook his head. “He works evenings and sleeps till afternoon, and by then Ophelia’s home. Nights he’s not working, he hangs at Blood and Velvet.”

  “I still have to ask.”

  Constantine snorted. “You want to size him up. See if he’s a threat to your woman.”

  “That too,” said Gideon amicably.

  A block from Blood and Velvet, Constantine jerked his head to the right. “Park at the back. Maybe we should see if your woman’s a threat to you.”

  Gideon did a mental eye roll and pulled around behind the club. Constantine directed him to park across the alley next to an eight-foot brick wall surrounding a huge purple Victorian house—Violet’s, evidently. Gretchen sighed and lay down in the back seat to wait once again.

  Constantine unlocked a gate in the wall and led Gideon into a small back garden. Exterior lights tripped on, revealing a deck ringed by pots of dangling vines and a short flight of steps to a brick patio crowded with plants in dingy pots. Ophelia’s inventory, Gideon guessed, in its temporary home. In the shadows near the gate stood a stone statue of a woman.

  Constantine led the way to the deck. “Ophelia wouldn’t let her display it in Blood and Velvet. After weeks of threats and tantrums, Violet compromised and put it here.” He reached under the deck and flipped a switch, indicating the statue with a sweep of the hand. Ophelia stood in wind-blown glory, curls and cape billowing behind, naked but for flying fabric at her nipples and crotch, forever aflame in artificial stone. One raised arm brandished a whip; the other hand cradled a ball whose chain coiled next to her bare, restless feet. And then there were the fangs—slender, sharp, and deadly, glistening in the harsh light.

  “Lord Almighty.”

  “Sure you want to take that on?” Constantine asked roughly.

  Gideon strode across the patio and down an azalea-lined path toward the statue, which was set on a short pedestal and sheltered from prying eyes by the garden wall. “I want the living, breathing version. What was this, a publicity stunt?”

  Constantine came up behind him. “When Ophelia moved here, Violet assumed she would join her in running the club. Ophelia tried for a while, but she’d rather be up at dawn mucking in the dirt than out at midnight with a horde of screwed-up partiers. They had some vampire pics done, and Vi had a sculptor model this statue on them without telling Ophelia. They had a bloody fight about it, Ophelia being stubborn as hell and Violet unable to see any point of view but her own, but they made up and parted ways soon after. Vi still has hopes Ophelia will change her mind.” He paused. “Not likely. Ophelia inherited the trailer with several acres going down to the river, as well as the tract where Plato lives, from her old man.”

  “She’s Plato’s landlady?” Gideon ran his eyes over every detail of the statue, but he kept going back to one particular feature.

  “Yep,” Constantine said. “Not too thrilled by the fangs, huh, sport?”

  “They’re ridiculous.” Gideon shrugged and tore himself away.

  Constantine reached for the switch. “Not sexy? Not scary? They’re a little out of proportion, but the sculptor wanted them to show.”

  “They’re like the fake fangs she picked up at the Chamber to night. Really dumb.”

  Constantine returned Ophelia’s likeness to the cool, forgiving darkness, and five minutes later they walked through the candlelit anteroom of Blood and Velvet.

  A bartender greeted Constantine, while his eyes stayed on Gideon. “What’ll it be—blood and tonic?” He whipped a knife out from under the bar and made as if to slit his wrist. “The blood is very fresh.” He threw back his head, showing incisors sharpened to points, and laughed like a maniac.

  “Blame Vi,” Constantine told Gideon. “She says the customers like it.”

  “Sure scared a blonde bitch a minute ago.” The bartender gave Constantine a put-upon look, swiped his rag around the bar. “But not enough to get her to leave.”

  Constantine cocked his head. “Problems?”

  “Vi and Ophelia are in the photo studio. Plato got wind and went upstairs.”

  “Ophelia can handle Plato,” Constantine promised. “She wouldn’t thank me for interfering.”

  “It’s not only that,” the bartender said, his eyes sliding to Gideon and away.

  “He’s a cop, but he’s family,” Constantine said. “Say what you have to, Al.”

  Al spoke just loud enough to be heard above Violet’s elegant taste in jazz. “It’s this Sims character, the one Vi’s suspicious about. He’s been asking nosy questions and acting like he’s hot for her, but she knows he doesn’t have it bad. Now he’s here with this blonde with an agenda, and they took off after Plato. If they see Plato with Ophelia…” He spread his hands. “It’s not the kind of publicity Violet goes for.”

  “Darby Sims?” Gideon spoke up. “The blonde’s in a black sequined dress?” When Al nodded, he said, “Dar’s a friend of mine. He’ll tell me what’s going on.”

  “A word of warning about Plato,” Constantine said on the way upstairs. “He sees himself as Ophelia’s love slave. He’ll be slobbering all over her.”

  Gideon swore.

  “You’ll have to get used to it, sport. There’ll always be guys like him getting off on her.”

  “Idiots. How did your wife like it, with all those fans fantasizing about you?”

  Constantine sneered. “Whenever my wife emerged from her drug-induced stupor, she broadcast to the entire world that sex with me was a nightmare—on a mission to save my female fans from a like fate. Not that I was likely to sleep with any of them, but how was she to know? Fortunately, most of the little fools either thought she was delusional or that she wasn’t woman enough to take me, whatever that means.”

  At the third floor they turned down a long corridor. At the far end, Darby and the blonde rounded a corner.

  “It’s a good thing my wife is dead,” Constantine said.

  Gideon had no answer for that.

  “Can we get on with this?” Ophelia lisped. “These fake fangs are killing me.”

  “I have to get it right.” Artemisia adjusted one light and hurried across the room to another. “If I have to quit teaching, you could hire me to take kinky pictures.”

  “You won’t quit teaching,” Violet said.

  Ophelia shivered in the black teddy and fingered the whip. “This is not supposed to look professional. The pictures can be crap, as long as I’m clearly visible with some unidentifiable male. Damn it, I can’t talk properly with these fangs in the way!”

  “So shut up,” Tony said. He shifted his hairy legs on the chaise lounge upholstered with fake leopard skin. In only boxers and a pink blindfold, he still looked far from vulnerable. He pulled the scarf over his eyes. “Wake me when it’s time to go home.”

  “If you fall asleep, we really will tie you up,” Ophelia warned.

  “Go ahead and try,” Tony replied.

  Violet stood back, nodding approval. “Angel, you look magnificent! Oh, I do wish you’d come work in the club again.”

  Ophelia snarled, and Art flashed one picture, then two, then three.

  Violet said, “Hold on, Artemisia, her stockings are crooked.” She adjusted a garter and let Art shoot more. “Since you won’t wear heels, angel, how about wind in your hair? That’s one of the best features of your statue.”

  “I refuse to freeze my boobs off,” Ophelia said.

  A gentle knock sounded on the door, followed by a much sharper one. “It’s probably for me,” Violet said, heading for it.

  “Two more,” Ophelia suggested. “That’ll leave room for some garden pictures on the roll.” She straddled Tony and hovered above him, brandishing the whip.

  Violet opened the door a crack, and the murmur of voices came through. Art snapped a picture from the side and went to the head of the chaise to get the last one from the front. “I’ll be out in two minutes,” Violet said.

  “I want Ophelia!” A strident female voice was followed by a growled male protest.

  Violet said, “Our photo session is almost done. Oh, hello, Plato. Now, you know Ophelia doesn’t like it when you—”

  “She’s in costume! I have to see her!” Plato burst past Violet and flung the door wide.

  “Shit.” Ophelia leaped off the chaise lounge and advanced on Plato, whip raised. He whimpered and cowered into the corner, grinning like a fool. “Stay!” she ordered, and the man crumpled happily into a heap on the floor. Ophelia swiveled toward the doorway, where a tall black hunk and a slinky blonde stood gaping. Then Constantine showed up, and—no surprise, considering her luck today—Gideon.

  She spat out the fake fangs, scowled at the appreciative grins on the faces of her dearest male friend and would-be lover, and took in the gawping black stranger and the blonde. What a goddamn nuisance.

  “Great job,” she told Art, who flushed deep red and glanced at her brother.

  “You bitch,” said the slinky blonde.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Gideon took in the situation and the room, which was twenty by thirty or so. A small cloth-covered table by the door held a silver tray of bottled water, a box of tissues, and a white ceramic lamp. A large folding screen enclosed the room’s far-left corner, and curtains on the far wall covered the doors to a balcony at the back, if he recalled the building exterior correctly. Violet was enraged and squirming in the grip of a burly man wearing only boxers and socks. Artemisia stood beside them, blushing and clutching a camera to her chest. A scrawny balding man who must be Plato crouched against the far wall, and Darby Sims had his back to the door. At center stage, staring each other down, were the blonde from the Chamber and Gideon’s very own Ophelia, gripping that ridiculous whip.

  “Marissa, you are way out of line,” Darby said, his voice rife with embarrassment. “Cool it or they’ll call the cops.”

  “Already here,” Gideon said in his ear. “Whatever happened to your taste in women?”

  Darby snorted. “Man, I’m glad you showed up. What do we do?”

  “Nothing for the moment. Wait. Watch.”

  “Watching’s no problem at all.” Darby sucked in a tight, appreciative breath, murmuring, “And I thought Violet was impressive.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Vi,” Constantine spoke up. “Let Tony get dressed. Ophelia can fight her own battles.” In a smooth, practiced move, he wrapped an arm around Violet as Tony let her go.

  “Bitch!” Marissa screamed, oblivious to everyone but Ophelia. “Say something, goddamn it! Bitch!”

  “Many people would agree with you,” Ophelia answered, rocking on her stockinged heels, feet spread in an aggressive stance.

  “It’s no surprise that men flock after you, the way you dress,” Marissa sneered. “Slut.”

  Ophelia ran eyes over the blonde’s own attire. “They flock after me no matter how I dress. I send them all away. Then their women come crying.” She yanked on the bullwhip, snapping it, and Marissa yelped and backed away. “Whose poor, helpless, neglected woman might you be?”

  “You don’t know, do you?” Spittle flecked Marissa’s mouth. “You stole my husband and didn’t even think about what it would do to me, you home wrecker, you thief, you witch, you—”

  Ophelia cut into the abuse. “I don’t steal. If your husband, whoever he is, was jerk enough to come on to me, I told him to fuck off. Some men don’t listen.” She paced the room and back, toying with her whip, hot as hell but playing it cool. It took all Gideon’s concentration to notice anything but her.

  “ ‘Whoever he is’!” The blonde threw up her arms. “Did you all hear that? Whoever he is! As if anyone could forget Johnny!”

  Ophelia stiffened but let go of the tension so quickly that Gideon almost missed it. She went on walking, turning, the whip coiling through her hand and lashing behind her like a tail. “I’ve known a lot of Johnnys.”

  “Johnny Parkerson,” Marissa said. “Well? Where is he?”

  Ophelia stopped, a tight smile on her lips, her fingers clenched around the handle of her whip, but then recommenced pacing. “Crazy Johnny. Blond like you, lady, and I don’t usually go for blonds, but incredibly good-looking. I haven’t seen him for ages. Maybe you should try one of the clubs he worked at.” She threw her sister a furious scowl.

  Violet stopped struggling in Constantine’s arm and glared back.

  Constantine deposited her on the chaise next to a bewildered Artemisia. “I remember him,” he said coolly. “You know, Vi, the exotic dancer. Called himself the Blond Bomb.”

  Violet made a face. “Oh dear, yes. Anything would set him off.” Beside her, Art let out a nervous little titter. “Darby mentioned him just the other day, but Johnny left Bayou Gavotte years ago, and Ophelia’s right. He never worked in my club.”

  “I kicked him halfway to Atlanta,” Ophelia said with satisfaction. “I did you a favor, lady. I could have turned him into something like Plato here if I’d wanted.” She motioned toward the loony crouched against the wall. “Instead, I sent him home.”

  “You did a rotten job of it, bitch, because he left me again and came right back here to dance with you in your club.”

  “True, he did come back again, more than once, but I sent him away every time. As for dancing, it must have been with someone else. It’s been years.” Ophelia appeared to have lost interest. She began coiling her whip.

  Violet stood, saying crisply to the blonde, “I really must get back to work. I have no idea why you’ve come to harass Ophelia, but I can’t have this kind of disruption in my club.”

  Marissa planted her hands on her hips and shrilled, “I’m here to find my scum-sucking husband! Darby’s tried in every club in town, but I know you’ve got him hidden someplace!”

  “Why would we hide Johnny? Ophelia told him to go away—and when she says go away, she means it.” Violet glanced at Gideon. “Usually. In Johnny’s case, definitely. He’s a very unstable man. We were relieved when he left.”