“There aren’t any cops on the road this time of night, Helen. Besides, I want to surprise Mama and get there in time for breakfast.”
Carol could feel her mother’s fear. She tossed and turned on the back seat, trying to get comfortable. It was no use. Finally, she decided to sit up for a while until she felt sleepy again. The moment she did, she looked through the windshield and screamed. Her father swerved off the pavement and slammed on the brakes, cursing all the while.
When the big car came to a full stop, both her parents turned to her—her mother anxious, her father angry. Even Truffle was whimpering.
“What the hell do you mean yelling like that, Carol?” John Marlowe demanded. “You nearly made me wreck the car.”
“John, don’t fuss at her. She was only having a nightmare, weren’t you, honey?” Her mother patted Carol’s cheek and stared at her, concerned.
Carol was trembling all over and crying uncontrollably. “No, Mom, it wasn’t a nightmare. I saw it! I really truly saw it!”
“What, darling?” Helen Marlowe asked gently.
“A great big truck all black and silver… it was coming right for us. We were going to crash.”
“There was no truck, Carol,” her father said firmly. “But we almost crashed, all right. You scared the hell out of me. Now, lie down and go back to sleep. I want both of you to leave the driving to me. Okay? We’ll never get to Cassadaga at this rate.”
John Marlowe had been right about one thing—they never got to Cassadaga. The black and silver truck Carol had seen in her precognitive vision smashed head-on into the Lincoln less than an hour later, crushing the front of the car, Carol’s parents, and poor little Truffle. Since that time, Carol had never owned another pet.
Carol herself had been seriously injured in the accident. She recovered in time, although she experienced excruciating headaches for years afterward. When she was finally released from the hospital, she went to live with her Grandmother Bess in the sleepy little town of Cassadaga near Orlando, where the elderly woman ran a tourist hotel. Bess Marlowe raised Carol, sent her to the University of Florida, and tried to make her understand that the strange powers she developed at the time of her parents’ deaths were as natural as living and breathing.
“Why, this very town has a whole colony of gifted people with powers like yours,” Granny Bess had told her.
In spite of her grandmother’s reassurance, Carol found that friends and acquaintances were far less tolerant of her psychic abilities. They either scoffed or pestered her to perform trivial tricks. So for a long time she tried to pretend that she was as normal as anyone else.
After her grandmother died in 1988, Carol ran the hotel alone for a year. Then she met and almost married a man who literally swept her off her feet with his good looks, charming manners, and fairy tale promises. By the time she realized the painful truth about her lover, she had already sold the hotel, anticipating moving into Ted’s condo in Key West. Their breakup put an end to all her dreams. It was then that she escaped to the peace and solitude of her mountaintop retreat, to hide out, lick her wounds, and try to put her life back together.
Carol roused herself and forcibly shook off the lonely feeling brought on by thoughts of the accident. Going to the kitchen, she heated up the vegetable soup she’d made the day before. She carried her steaming mug back to the living room, determined to concentrate on the old movie and nothing else. That would be the best way to spend a long, snowy afternoon, she decided.
The movie was one of those lush historical melodramas that Hollywood once did so well, but almost never made anymore because of the expense of costumes and settings. It starred an elegantly handsome young Walter Pidgeon as a gentleman gambler opposite an equally young and breathtakingly gorgeous Hedy Lamarr, the plantation owner’s daughter. The drama was set somewhere in the Deep South.
Carol stared with envy at Hedy’s luxuriously long, raven-black locks. She gave her own short, bouncy curls an impatient tug. Whatever had possessed her last week to cut off all her hair?
She continued watching the flickering black and white images on the screen until she grew drowsy. Gaze fixed on the set, her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. But she remained hypnotized by the scene unfolding before her.
Walter Pidgeon, staring out a window into a storm, was sipping brandy when Hedy Lamarr—ravishingly beautiful in her anger—burst into his room. After a few moments of passionate rage, they turned their passions to better use. Pidgeon coaxed the fiery beauty into his arms. Carol sighed, remembering how it felt to fight like that, then give in to love. She couldn’t keep the tears back; she felt that lonely at the moment.
When the hero kissed his darling slowly, thorougly, deeply, it seemed to Carol she could feel his lips on her own. She could taste his brandy in her mouth. She sighed as a wonderful lethargy stole through her body. Her eyes finally closed.
Carol awoke with a start as the sun was coming up the next morning. She opened her eyes and stretched, feeling oddly warm and satisfied. The sweet old movie lingered like afterglow. She experienced a pang of disappointment when she realized that the handsome gambler on the television screen hadn’t really held her and kissed her last night. He’d been only a delicious illusion.
“If I could find a guy like that…” She shook her head and chuckled at her own foolishness.
A glance at the clock shattered any lingering traces of romance. She had fallen asleep in front of the television and slept right through the night. If she hurried, she would just have time for a quick shower before she dressed to head down the mountain in her jeep. She only hoped traffic between here and Charlotte would be light. She could not miss her flight to New Orleans!
When she dashed into the bathroom to brush her teeth, she stopped for a moment and gazed at herself in the mirror—brown curls tousled, hazel eyes dewy and glittering, cheeks flushed, lips puffy.
“Gad, Carol!” she said to her reflection. “You look like you’ve been making out in the back of some guy’s van.”
She licked her dry, kiss-bruised lips and her eyes went wide.
“Brandy!” she said.
The last drink she’d had was over a week ago when she went down the mountain to have dinner one night. And it wasn’t brandy! Yet that unmistakable taste lingered on her lips and tongue. She had no idea how to explain any of this; she’d learned from past experience not even to try. Instead, she pushed all thoughts of the movie and its handsome hero from her mind. It was time to set her psychic powers to more serious business than stealing kisses from long-dead movie stars.
Taking one last glance around the cabin, Carol felt odd suddenly, as if she knew she was gazing on her home for the final time. She shook off the odd sensation and headed for the door—for New Orleans and the mysterious unknown that awaited her there.
Chapter Two
New Orleans was, indeed, decked out for Carnival. As her plane taxied in, Carol spotted banners of purple, green, and gold snapping in the breeze. She glanced at the brochure the flight attendant had given her. It stated that Rex, King of Carnival, had established those as the traditional Mardi Gras colors back in 1872—purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power. Now, here was the proof before her very eyes. She felt her excitement building. She could hardly wait to get off the plane—to smell and taste and feel the Crescent City.
Moments later, in the crush of the reception area, she saw that New Orleans was already one big party in progress. Tourists dashed about, some carrying costumes for the big day. She wondered what she would wear. Most likely, Frank Longpre would keep her far too busy on the case to leave much time for frolic.
Carol’s flight had landed in New Orleans a few minutes early thanks to strong tailwinds all the way. She wasn’t surprised when she entered the terminal and no one stepped forward to claim her. Maybe Captain Longpre was here, but hadn’t seen her in the crush of incoming passengers. Suddenly she wondered how he would recognize her. No one here knew her, she reminded herself. She
should have thought to wear a red rose or something.
Checking directional signs, Carol had turned toward the baggage claim area when a hand touched her arm. “Mademoiselle, s’il vous plait.”
Carol looked around to find a dark, diminutive woman at her elbow. The withered creature was dressed in a rainbow-colored caftan with a scarlet tignon tied about her head. Large, gold hoops tugged at her earlobes and strings of beads and gold chains dangled around her neck and at her thin wrists. She looked as old as time, but her golden eyes gleamed like twin beads of polished amber. A homeless beggar, no doubt, Carol figured, about to fish into her purse for some change.
“Mademoiselle Marlowe,” the woman said. It was not a question. She knew who Carol was.
“Yes?”
“It is good you have returned at last.”
Carol shook her head as she inched away from the woman, unnerved by her steady, golden gaze. “No, you must have me confused with someone else. I’ve never been here before.”
The oddest feeling crept over Carol. She had the sudden urge to turn and run, yet those twinkling eyes drew her like a magnet. The woman scared her, although there was nothing threatening in her demeanor. Quite the opposite. She smiled at Carol, looking genuinely happy to see her.
“Let me take your hand,” the stranger urged.
Before Carol could object, she felt hot, dry flesh pressing hers. With one long-nailed finger, the old lady traced the lines in Carol’s palm, muttering in French and nodding her tignoned head all the while.
“It is as I supposed. You are the one. You have come back in the very nick of time.”
“In time for what?” Carol was dumbstruck. Who was this crazy old crone?
“In time to do what should have been done long ago. You must go to Elysian Fields. You must set things right. There is little time left.”
Carol felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. She backed away. “Please, I don’t know who you are. I have to go now. Someone is meeting me.”
“There is no need to hurry,” the woman said. “He has been delayed—no serious trouble. Simply a flat tire on the big road. I am sorry for his inconvenience, but I needed to talk with you alone before he arrived.” Again, she reached for Carol’s hand, this time giving it a firm squeeze. “You must do what I say!”
“What do you want of me?”
“You know Elysian Fields,” the woman declared.
Carol shrugged. “I know the name, that’s all. Is it a place?”
The woman nodded. “It is where this all began.”
“Where what began?”
“You will understand in time. You must go before first light tomorrow to the foot of Barracks Street, beyond the French Market. A ferryman will meet you at the river’s edge to take you to Elysian Fields.”
“But I can’t leave the city,” Carol protested. “I have work to do.”
“Your work is there, mademoiselle. Do not delay and do not tell anyone of your plans. Not even your man.”
Before Carol could ask what she meant by that, the woman pressed a cold object into Carol’s palm. She glanced down at it—a coin that looked like old Spanish gold. Or was is simply a Carnival trinket?
“Show this to the ferryman, but to no one else. Do you understand? And tell no one that we met and spoke. If you should be so careless as to involve others, be warned that they will be wholly involved.”
Carol nodded, speechless. She looked back down at the antique coin. “But, really, I don’t think I can…”
When she looked up again, the woman had vanished. Carol scanned the crowd, but saw no sign of the bright red headdress. She shrugged and slipped the coin into her purse. Probably, this was just some sort of Carnival prank.
“Miz Marlowe?” She heard a deep male voice calling her name and glanced about. A tall man was shouldering his way toward her through the crowd, his hand raised to catch her attention.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, smiling an apology filled with frustration. “Of all days for such a thing to happen, I had a flat right in the middle of the expressway. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. Anyway, welcome to the Big Easy, ma’am.”
Carol experienced a moment of total confusion. This, of course, was Captain Longpre. She knew she should tell him immediately about the old woman and explain that his mishap was somehow her fault. But when she tried to form the words, they simply refused to come. The very idea seemed silly. She decided to put the weird old character completely out of her thoughts, at least for the time being. She was here on a case, after all, not to worry over deranged strangers who accosted her out of nowhere, then disappeared like smoke. Maybe she’d imagined the entire confrontation.
Her mind back on business, she took a closer look at Captain Longpre in his three-piece, pin-striped suit. At that moment, she was very glad she’d decided to wear her new purple trapeze dress with high heels. She’d obviously made the right choice when she rejected her jeans, ski jacket, and silver moon-boots for the trip.
She liked Frank Longpre immediately. The detective had a sharp, soldierly bearing that bespoke his years spent at South Carolina’s famed military institute. He was tall, athletically built, and handsome in a rather rough-and-tumble way. His manners came straight out of the plantation era. Damned if he didn’t almost bow when he spoke her name!
Carol smiled at him and offered her hand. “Captain Longpre, I presume. How did you pick me out in this mob?”
“Well, I could say you just look psychic, but actually, ma’am, Jesse sent me your picture from the Atlanta paper—not a bad likeness for newsprint.”
He smiled then, too. Carol felt herself begin to relax. The warmth in his dark eyes, the black hair with a light frosting of silver at the temples, the slightly crooked nose—no doubt broken playing football by the looks of his physique—all fit together to form a pleasing picture of an easy-to-like guy. They would get on well; she was sure of it.
“Did you have a good flight, Miz Marlowe?” His hand lightly cradled her elbow as he steered her toward the baggage claim area. She could feel a certain electricity radiating from his touch, and the harp music had begun again.
She stopped and turned to him. “Look, call me Carol. Okay? I’ve found that it’s much easier on everybody if we start off on a casual basis.”
“Fine by me,” he said with a slow, lazy grin. “We’re a right casual bunch down here in N’Awlins. My name’s Francis, but my mama was the only one who ever called me that.”
“It’s ole Frank,” Carol replied. “Right?”
He laughed—a good, deep, male sound, but with a nervous edge to its tone. “So, you called Jesse after all, eh? Well, I don’t blame you one bit for checking up on me before you come traipsing all the way down here. How is that old son of a…?”
“Jesse’s fine. He sends his regards.”
“Regards, eh? I wish he’d send me the money he owes me on last year’s World Series. The welsher!”
Carol laughed. “My psychic powers tell me you should never bet with a man who’s partial to raspberry doughnuts.”
Frank sighed and shook his head. “I know it. Me, I’m strictly a lemon man, myself.”
Carol gave him a serious, appraising glance. “Somehow, I would have guessed that about you.”
Their trivial banter served its purpose. Carol was not fully at ease yet, still shaken by her unnerving conversation with the old woman. As for Frank Longpre, she could feel the tension radiating from him as if he had high-voltage current coursing through his veins. Beneath his calm and casual façade lay a tangled mass of ragged nerves. She had sensed his tenseness over the phone and now it was even more evident. Jesse Calhoun had been right about Frank. Not only had he suffered many years over his wife’s disappearance, he was still suffering. But it was more than that. This case was taking its toll for reasons he obviously didn’t understand. She would have to go easy with him—as her grandmother used to say, “gentle him along”—until he felt more comfortable having her aro
und. He obviously viewed her unusual powers with more than casual skepticism.
They spent the ride from the airport into the city talking mostly about “ole Jesse.” Frank told stories about their college days, their time in the Army together, then their joint decision to go into police work. Finally, he seemed to run out of conversation. He turned to Carol with a questioning look.
“How about you? What’s your background?”
“You have to ask? I’m surprised. I figured you would had run a thorough check on me already.”
“I did a surface investigation after talking to Jesse. But I’ve been too busy to dig very deep. Don’t worry, ma’am.” He turned and gave her another of his sad-sweet smiles. “This isn’t official. I’m just curious. I like to know the people I work with.”
Carol received a sudden flash—a picture of Frank Longpre with his co-workers, then another glimpse of his private life. She saw a bachelor’s untidy apartment, a little Christmas tree on a table with no presents underneath, a mailbox with only bills inside, no personal letters. As Jesse had told her, Frank’s work was, indeed, his whole life.
“There’s not a lot to tell about myself,” Carol began. “My parents died when I was young and I was raised by my father’s mother in a little town in central Florida. Cassadaga. She owned an old hotel there.”
“You mean you actually grew up in a hotel?” He sounded intrigued. “That must have been a right interesting life.”
Carol thought about it for a minute. “Well, yes, I guess it really was. I always felt self-conscious about telling people that I wasn’t raised normally—I mean, in a regular house in the suburbs with two cars in the garage, a swimming pool out back, and all that. But life at the hotel was fun most of the time. Granny Bess and I were certainly never lonely.”
The smile faded from Frank’s face when she made that statement. Obviously, she would have to watch what she said around him. She didn’t want to add to his pain. Her guess would be that this man had been lonely most of his life.
Whispers in Time Page 3
