In Dreams

by Patricia Rosemoor

  What if Emile were a real clairvoyant, not one of the charlatans working the tourists? He was obviously different. No costume. No props. Just him.

  And he apparently had recognized her as a like soul.

  Was that connection enough?

  Lucy didn’t know if Emile could or would tell her more, but it was worth a shot.

  “Can we talk away from here later?” she asked, thinking he might at least know something more about Sophie Delacorte that would help them. “Just to be clear, this isn’t a come-on and I won’t be alone.”

  “Another interested party?”

  “Right. He is.” She emphasized the he.

  “I can spare enough time for a café au lait.” Emile checked his watch. “Café du Monde in fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll be there. My name is Lucy Ryan, by the way. How much do I owe you?”

  He shook his head and made a dismissive gesture. Lucy stood and started to move away, but then she stopped and tried to impress upon him the importance of his carrying through with the promise.

  “This is a matter of life or death, Emile.”

  He shrugged as if she wasn’t telling him something that he didn’t already know. “Yes, Lucy. Yours.”

  That unnerved Lucy enough to make her hurry away from Emile, needing to quickly find one reality-based private eye.

  9

  WHAT THE HELL kind of private investigator was he? Justin wondered, when he couldn’t get something as simple as a last name from one of the people he’d questioned.

  He was having no luck at all. And he was beginning to wonder if they’d too easily taken Odette at her word when he saw Lucy round the corner wearing an intent expression like she’d learned something that he hadn’t.

  And then she saw him and her expression changed to one of relief and something else. Something soft and alluring. Something that made Justin’s heart beat harder and his feet move faster to get to her. With the sun making her red hair glow and an inviting smile lighting up her freckled face, she was irresistible.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Did you find someone who knows her?”

  “Knew her,” Lucy corrected him. “Though he may or may not know that she’s dead.”

  “Focus, Lucy, focus.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes and said, “The woman’s name is Sophie Delacorte. The psychic who told me that agreed to meet us at Café du Monde in fifteen minutes, hopefully to give us further information. Make that about ten minutes now.”

  “A psychic?”

  “Named Emile Poree. And don’t poo-poo what you don’t understand,” she said, sounding a little tense.

  Everyone knew the supposed clairvoyants around Jackson Square were simply working a trade. Somehow, he figured Lucy didn’t want to hear that—she had her own psychic dreams, after all—and so he decided not to voice that opinion.

  Instead, Justin simply asked, “You think this Emile Poree will show?”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “Let’s get over there and get a table, then.”

  They cut through the heart of Jackson Square with its statue of General Andrew Jackson mounted on his horse. The park was laid out in a sun pattern, and oak-shaded walkways streamed out from the center like rays. People gathered on the benches—some alone, but mostly couples.

  Justin thought it was a park for lovers. The French Quarter was a neighborhood for lovers. New Orleans was a city for lovers. Even as he thought it, Justin let his gaze drift to Lucy, and he couldn’t help but hunger for her.

  Exiting the park, they waited for traffic to stop before crossing to the outdoor café where the patrons people-watched while enjoying café au lait and beignets, a French Quarter tradition.

  Though the place was crowded, Justin was relieved to see an empty table at the back where they would be able to talk with some privacy.

  They were barely seated when Lucy said, “There he is now, waiting to cross the street.”

  Justin got a look at the supposed psychic—not what he’d expected. A Saints T-shirt and jeans wasn’t exactly the costume de rigueur. So Emile Poree wasn’t trying to make a big production of himself to the tourists.

  A waitress arrived at their table, pad in hand. “What can I get you?”

  “Café au lait for three.”

  Emile arrived at the table just as the waitress hurried off.

  Standing, Justin held out his hand. “Justin Guidry, private investigator.”

  Emile held on to him a second longer than made Justin comfortable. “I’m sorry.”

  “That I’m a P.I.?”

  “For whatever happened to make you so unsettled.”

  Justin got the idea Emile didn’t mean Sophie Delacorte’s death, yet he said, “Murder always unsettles me.”

  They sat and Emile asked, “What is your interest in Sophie Delacorte?”

  “You heard about the body of the woman found in the courtyard, right?” Lucy asked.

  Emile appeared shocked. “That’s why Sophie hasn’t been around the square?” He mumbled something under his breath in the local patois that sounded like a prayer. “You’re certain you have the right woman?”

  “The police haven’t identified her yet,” Justin admitted, “but we’ve been doing some digging ourselves. What didn’t appear in the media is something she had on her person. A particular valuable tarot deck that Lucy had seen in a shop. The shop owner said she sold it to a tarot reader named Sophie who worked Jackson Square. So here we are.”

  Emile nodded. “And there was only one Sophie and no one has seen her for the past few days, so she must be the one. But you still haven’t answered my question.” He turned to Lucy when he again asked, “What is your interest in this?”

  She licked her lips and softly said, “I saw it…the murder.”

  Just then the waitress arrived with their chicory-laced coffee and hot milk. Justin pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet, and not wanting another interruption, told her to keep the change.

  “Thanks,” the waitress said. “You want anything else, you just signal.”

  The moment she was gone, Emile leaned in across the table and in a low voice said to Lucy, “You weren’t actually present when she died, were you?”

  “No.”

  He nodded as if satisfied. “I felt the power when I touched your hand. You had a vision, yes?”

  “A dream,” Lucy said. “I went to the courtyard, hoping I could stop the tragedy from happening. I was too late.”

  “But now your life is in danger…so the murderer must have seen you.”

  Lucy nodded.

  She wore her fear openly for a moment, and Justin wanted to take her in his arms and tell her it would be all right. That he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. But how could he guarantee her that?

  Emile reached out and touched Lucy’s hand. Justin stiffened until he realized this wasn’t an intimate touch. The psychic was using the contact to somehow connect with Lucy in a way he couldn’t fathom. He imagined he could feel the air around them change, as if the atmosphere wan suddenly charged with power.

  Or maybe it was simply his imagination.

  Then Emile leaned back and nodded. “I believe you are a good person, Lucy Ryan, or you wouldn’t have tried to save poor Sophie. She might not have been the most honest of women, but she had a good heart.”

  “Not the most honest of women?” Justin echoed. Did he mean she’d said whatever it took to please her clients to make a living, or was there was more to it? “What kind of scam was she into?”

  Emile merely said, “She never talked about her business opportunities, but even so, I don’t want to see her murderer get away with this. So how can I help you?”

  An unsatisfactory answer, but Justin wasn’t going to push. Emile Poree was the only direct link they had to the murder victim, so he would have to handle the man with kid gloves. Something told him that Sophie had been killed because she’d tried to swindle the wrong client.

  The question was:
who?

  RELIEVED THAT EMILE was obviously willing to tell them what he knew about Sophie, Lucy said, “The tarot deck found on her body…supposedly she bought it for a particular client. Do you know who that might be?”

  “What did this tarot deck look like?”

  “You’re psychic,” Justin said. “You tell us.”

  Emile laughed and shook his head. “A nonbeliever. How did you get hooked up with this one, Lucy?”

  “He saved my life. And I wouldn’t exactly call Justin a nonbeliever. More like a skeptic.”

  “Does this skeptic know that we don’t control our gifts but that they control us?”

  “Hello, skeptic sitting right here,” Justin said, apparently feeling left out.

  Lucy ignored him. “I’ve tried to explain that to him, but that’s the problem with skeptics—they don’t always retain what they’re told.”

  “All right, knock off the wit,” Justin said, his voice raised slightly. “Murder is serious business!”

  Realizing he’d just gotten the notice of several people nearby, Lucy kicked him under the table and hissed, “Justin, please! It’s just a game, okay.”

  “What?”

  She felt eyes aimed their way and was desperate to be free of the unwanted attention.

  “I know you love that stupid board game,” she said, “but who cares if it was the butler in the study with a lampshade or what. You won and that’s all that counts.”

  The curious eyes returned to other things, and Lucy sagged with relief. Justin was looking at her as if he’d never seen her before and Emile was sitting back, smiling, seemingly enjoying the show.

  “Keep your voice down,” she murmured. “We don’t need an audience. Now where were we?”

  “The tarot deck,” Emile said. “You were going to tell me what it looked like.”

  “You don’t need a description,” Justin said. “Just tell us about Sophie’s clients.”

  Justin gave her a look that probably meant she was supposed to keep the details to herself, Lucy thought. For some reason, he didn’t want the description getting out. Lucy didn’t see what it could hurt, but Justin was better at this than she, so she would let him take the lead.

  “Sophie had swarms of clients every day she worked,” Emile said. “The tourists are as thick as flies right now and she was very popular.”

  “What about the regulars?”

  “There were a few. An old woman who wanted to know about the afterlife. A teenager who was looking for reassurances about her boyfriend. And then there was the gambler who kept wanting to know when his luck was going to turn. No one who looked to be any kind of threat, though.”

  “What about private clients away from the square?” Justin pressed. “She must have had some.”

  “Of course. But like I told you, Sophie Delacorte didn’t talk about those opportunities. And the only time I ever saw her away from Jackson Square was by accident. It was in a club near Esplanade—a place called Music of the Night. Sophie said she lived nearby.”

  “Nothing more specific?”

  “Afraid not. Sorry.”

  “At the club,” Justin said, “did you see her talking with anyone?”

  Emile nodded. “Another woman. A tall blonde named Erica.”

  Lucy was aware that Justin’s tone changed subtly when he asked, “No last name?”

  “If she told me, I don’t remember.”

  “What did she look like, other than being tall and blond?”

  “Beautiful and rich. Designer outfit. And she wore this ring on her middle finger that was so big, I wondered how she could wave that hand so easily when she called the bartender over for another drink.”

  “Lots of diamonds, huh?” Lucy asked.

  “No. A giant topaz and lots of gold studded with emeralds and rubies. An incredible design. Asian, I think. But it was a one-of-a-kind ring.”

  “One of a kind,” Justin echoed, drawing back from the table.

  “Maybe someone at the club can give you her last name,” Emile said.

  Realizing Justin wasn’t paying attention, his mind clearly in other things, Lucy asked, “Was this Erica one of Sophie’s clients?”

  “Truthfully? I couldn’t say.”

  “Anyone who could tell us more?”

  “Maybe the bartender who was waiting on them. A good-looking Creole boy named Zeke Montplaisir.”

  “Anything else you can tell us, Emile?” Justin asked.

  Apparently, he was back on the case, Lucy thought, wondering what he had been thinking about.

  “About Sophie?” Emile asked. “Or Erica?”

  “Sophie,” Justin said without hesitating.

  But Lucy had the oddest feeling that he was lying. That he was more interested in the mysterious and rich Erica than he was in the murder victim.

  Why?

  Emile couldn’t tell them anything more, but he asked to be kept informed and volunteered to help in the investigation if he could. Justin suggested he might be called in to identify Sophie’s body. He and Justin exchanged business cards. “As for you, Lucy Ryan,” Emile said, his expression intent, “you need to learn to use your gift to your best advantage.”

  “I am doing the best I can.”

  “I don’t sense that is so. Right now, you’re a channel. Learn to be more.”

  With that, he left, leaving Lucy confused. Emile had said that their gifts controlled them—now he was indicating the reverse.

  So which was it?

  Was it even possible to be more than a receiver of her dreams? She’d tried changing the outcome more than once to no avail. But she’d never tried manipulating her gift to give her information.

  If Emile was serious, then maybe it was possible to do more, and so, learn the identity of the man who’d murdered Sophie Delacorte.

  “WHAT’S GOING ON WITH YOU?” Lucy asked Justin when they got back to his apartment.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re quiet. Withdrawn.”

  He’d been this way since Emile had mentioned the blonde named Erica. They’d left Café du Monde shortly after the psychic and had headed for Music of the Night only to find that the nightclub was indeed that and didn’t even open until nine. They’d had a fast dinner before coming back to Justin’s loft to wait—not that Justin had eaten half of his food. He’d played with the rest, pushing it around to the edges of his plate like she had when she’d been a child and had wanted to “hide” the vegetables she didn’t like. Throughout all that, Justin had been less than fully present.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, opening the refrigerator door and burying his head inside as if he was hungry now. “I always get distracted thinking about a case. Want something to drink?” he asked, pulling out a can.

  “No, thanks. Funny, but I didn’t notice you were distracted until Emile mentioned the blonde.” Lucy waited for Justin to deny it, but he didn’t. “So what’s with this Erica?” Was the woman an ex of some kind? Ex-girlfriend? Ex-wife? “What does she mean to you?”

  He popped the top on a root beer and took a long slug, then said, “If it’s who I think it is, then we’re talking about the biggest failure of my life.”

  So she’d been right, Lucy realized gloomily. She plopped herself on a stool by the breakfast bar. Justin was probably still in love with this Erica. Though why it should matter to her didn’t compute. She might be attracted to him—and he might haunt her dreams—but she wasn’t about to act on any of it.

  Even though Justin had put himself in the middle of this case, she was convinced that as long as they weren’t lovers, he would come out of this investigation alive. Realizing she felt unsettled anyway, Lucy wondered if it was because of the danger…or because of Erica.

  “You know, sometimes things are simply not meant to be,” she said, thinking both about the end of his relationship with the mystery woman and about the impossibility of his starting one with her.

  “Meant to be?” Justin frowned and insisted, “Erica
Vaughn was a client.”

  Feeling suddenly lighter inside, Lucy asked, “Vaughn? Where have I heard that…the detective…you asked him about the Vaughn case.”

  “Yeah, because it was one I blew.”

  “That happens. We all make mistakes.”

  “But not ones that get someone else killed.”

  “What?”

  “That’s my bayou secret, Lucy,” he said, rounding the counter and stopping in front of her. “The reason I was hiding out at the fishing camp. I didn’t know if I was ever coming back to New Orleans until you came along.”

  “What happened?”

  “Erica Vaughn hired me to find her younger sister Theresa. The girl had been having an affair with an important man. Well, that according to Theresa. Who knows what important means to an eighteen-year-old. Erica didn’t know who the man was, but she did know that he was married. She tried getting more from her sister, but Theresa grew hostile. And then she disappeared. She was legally an adult, and there was no evidence of foul play. The police didn’t act on it, especially not after getting the married man angle.”

  “So Erica decided to investigate on her own.”

  “To have me investigate,” Justin clarified. “Or that’s the way it was supposed to be. I got a few leads, but quickly ran into a dead end. And then Erica’s body was found along the Moonwalk. The official story is that she was out taking a late stroll when she was mugged. Something went wrong…maybe she struggled…and she ended up dead. Knifed to death.”

  “Knifed? Like Sophie,” Lucy murmured.

  “Like Sophie,” he echoed. “Both women were alone at night in fairly deserted areas. Both women were knifed to death. Both were thought to be victims of muggers. And now I find they knew each other.”

  “You think—”

  “That they were killed by the same man? That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.”

  If that was truth, that explained why her psychic dreams had brought them together. One man responsible for both deaths. And possibly a third, Lucy thought, remembering the younger sister Theresa, who apparently was still missing.