House of Blues

kitchen, which appeared to be full of caterers hard at
work. The others were stumbling ahead of her, but she still couldn't
see or hear Sally.
    Then she was in this room, and for a while she had
been gagged as well as handcuffed. Perhaps, even if the room were
soundproofed, it leaked a little. She was left here, in the dark,
alone, not knowing where her child was, for an hour or two, she
thought, probably until the party was over.
    And then a woman came into the room, a woman of about
sixty, she thought, or perhaps seventy, a stunning beauty; but
terrifying. Her hair was a steely color, streaked with white so
becomingly it might or might not have been natural. It was thick, and
cut so that it waved and pouffed in ways Reed had seen before, that
made her envious of those born with thick curls instead of fine silk.
The woman wasn't black or Creole, Reed thought, though she couldn't
be sure. She was Mediterranean perhaps, but who could say in this
city where anyone could be anything?
    She wore a black dress with expensive jewelry and
lots of it, some of it diamonds. Her face was longish, very elegant.
Her mouth was red, her makeup flawless.
    She was perfectly groomed, perfectly tailored,
perfectly in control—a perfect dragon lady. A perfect aristocrat.
She could be a high-up corporate executive, or perhaps an ambassador
from some sun-drenched country.
    Or maybe she was just a department store buyer who
knew how to dress.
    "Who are you?" the woman asked.
    "Who are you?" Reed retorted.
    The woman did something with her chin, and a man, the
one who had found Reed at the gate, tossed the woman a document.
    "No purse in the car. This is all there is."
    "Dennis Foucher," read the dragon lady.
"Who are you?"
    Reed realized the document was Dennis's car
registration. "I don't see why I should tell you that. Where is
my little girl?"
    "Your little girl?"
    " Of course my little girl. Goddammit, what's
going on here?"
    "Perhaps you can tell me." The Dragon did
the unexpected; she smiled. "How did you come to be here?"
    " How did I—" Reed stopped and looked
around, speechless, gripped by the absurdity of the thing. And then
the words poured out, as if she couldn't talk fast enough.
    The more she talked, the grimmer the Dragon's
features became.
    When Reed was nearly finished, when she was at the
part where she had leapt from her car, she saw a way to make an ally
of the Dragon. It was the New Orleans way, the way that always got
you through. "We have mutual friends," she said
breathlessly. "I saw people I know leaving your house." She
was beside herself in her relief. "Bruce Smallwood and Lafayette
Goodyear. Barron Piggott. I saw them leaving your party."
    Reed thought the Dragon flicked her eyes at the man,
but otherwise she remained impassive. "I don't believe I know
them," she said.
    " Oh."
    The Dragon said nothing.
    Reed let a moment go by and then she began to plead.
    " Where's Sally? Where's my child? Please tell me
my baby's all right."
    The woman looked annoyed, as if she couldn't stand
having her time wasted this way. "Of course she's all right."
There was something different about her voice; it was still very
definite, but a little softer.
    But her face remained hard as a peach pit. She left
without speaking again, and as Reed remembered the scene, she could
hear the click of the Dragon's heels.
    But that was impossible, the carpet was inches thick.
She didn't know how long ago that had been, but she had had two meals
since then; a day must have passed, or nearly a day. She couldn't
hear anything, even telephones ringing. Not once did she catch a
child's voice, even a faint high cry.
    Where is Sally? What's happening to her?
    The questions came up and up again, but Reed never
saw harm as coming to her child, couldn't, in her heart, imagine her
hurt. She was unable to watch television or read the books and
magazines; instead she thought about having Sally back, about what
their life would be like when this was over.
    Would Sally be scarred? Would she have nightmares?
She might be afraid of people from now on, and loud noises; she might
be clingy and whiny. Oh, poor, poor thing, who had been so
innocent—it was so unfair.
    Nothing untoward had happened to Reed. Her life as a
child had been idyllic, perfect. Except for one thing, of course. How
could she have forgotten?
    She was transported to another room where she'd been
a prisoner, a place that made her sweat and writhe to think of, where
everything was white instead