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rule out Amelia Hart. She carries a heavy chip on her shoulder, Heaven. Chips make you stupid.”
    Heaven stood and gave the older woman a hug. “Thanks for sharing your history and for lunch. That fish in the parchment paper was just as good as the press on it said it would be.”
    Nancy slipped her arm around Heaven’s waist for a moment suddenly very sexy for a little old lady, then released the younger woman. She must have been a pistol in her day, Heaven thought. “I’m sneaking out the side door, where all the sinners come and go.” She handed Heaven a calling card with just her name and a phone number; heavy ivory paper, deep engraving. “Here’s my card if you need to get in touch with me. I’ll see you next month.” She turned and. out of nowhere, two managers appeared and swept her away. Heaven hadn’t noticed them hovering or anything. Pretty attentive service.
    Heaven walked down Bourbon to Ursulines and then over to Chartres, where the convent was located. She let the French Quarter take over her senses for a few minutes, loving the sights and sounds. It was almost three and leisurely lunches were running into afternoon cocktails. The bars along the Bourbon strip weren’t full but they sure weren’t empty either. Farther down Bourbon, the gay bars were opening the wooden French doors that allowed the late-night crowd to spill out on the street. The sidewalks had been hosed down and hadn’t received their nightly dose of regurgitated Hurricane cocktails yet. Azaleas were blooming everywhere on second-story balconies. The place was maddening, with all the hidden courtyards, the indication of lives being lived behind closed doors in these ancient buildings that looked like a good wind would blow them all over. Heaven loved it.
    Suddenly, a garage door flush to the street opened and a silver Porsche almost ran over Heaven, sticking its sleek nose out on the sidewalk. She jerked to attention abruptly brought back to earth from her flights of fancy. She shot an angry look at the driver, a very distinguishedman with silver hair. He gave her a bemused glance and turned his car out onto Ursulines. While the automatic door slowly came down, Heaven caught glimpses of banana trees and flowering bushes in pots, and a wrought-iron table and chairs set on a brick terrace.
    Neither the man nor the car were the kind Heaven was usually attracted to: Well-polished middle-aged men with expensive cars were such a cliche. Still, at that moment, Heaven was intoxicated with the promise of the situation. She wanted to be kissed on that terrace, with the scent of magnolia in the air. By that man. Reminding herself he was probably gay, she crossed the street and entered the small office and gift store in the gatehouse of the former convent.
    Originally, Heaven had intended to go to the diocesan offices and ask for a photocopy of a picture of the cross. She even had a good reason. She was going to say that she intended to make a duplicate out of chocolate or spun sugar or some damn thing. But when she got to the convent, a tour was starting and she paid her money and got in line with a group of Catholics from Minnesota. It couldn’t hurt to learn more about the place and the sisters.
    First stop was a video history of the convent that Heaven had trouble concentrating on because it had very poor production values, and bad lighting and narration. It did show the cross, a filigreed iron affair that reminded her of all those movies of the evil white explorers claiming some choice piece of real estate from a group of aborigines. Maybe the Indians were behind the attack on the convent. Heaven racked her brain. What Indians had lived here, the Choctaws? Maybe a few Choctaws had decided to get revenge. She realizedthe video was over and their guide, a crusty old guy with an accent that sounded to Heaven like Brooklyn, was loudly trying to get them to move out in the hall.
    “The staircase from the original convent, which was right