by Alison Kent
“Randy still being a cheapskate?” A funny turn of events, considering the way he’d tossed money around before meeting Claire.
“I only plan to get married once in my life. I’d like the full designer gown, doves, balloons and ribbons package, ya know?” Claire sighed. “I think I liked Randy better when he believed money could buy happiness.”
“No, you didn’t. You just happened to be in the driver’s seat then. Now he’s keeping you on your toes.” Though Perry was quite sure that Claire’s toes were the last body part Randy had on his mind.
Claire’s sigh filled the void in the conversation. “I suppose he’s worth it.”
“Oh, stop it already,” Perry said, drawing little O’s above the X’s. “You know he is, and if you don’t, well, send him my way.”
“No can do, girlfriend. He bakes me cookies.” Claire laughed as if nothing more needed to be said.
And Perry supposed nothing did. She didn’t know a single female who wouldn’t dig on having a man with culinary skills that went beyond throwing burgers on a grill and popping the top on a beer can.
She certainly would, though she didn’t see it happening since her life had always revolved around women. A choice she’d made too many years ago to count. “I’ve still got room in my freezer if you have more you need to unload. Never can unload too many cookies, you know. At least from a calorie/wedding dress perspective.”
Claire laughed a second time. “See? Eloping would get me out of that worry. I could wear blue jeans, and all would be right with the world.”
“Wait. Back up,” Perry said as the bell over the shop’s front door chimed. She glanced up to see a man shove back the hood of his navy hoodie before disappearing into the shop’s aisles. “I thought you didn’t want to elope. That you wanted to know what Della could tell you about your wedding.”
“I did, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“Fickle, much?” Perry asked, straightening on the stool to peek over the bookcase that ran like a divider down the center of the shop. She saw brown hair flecked with bits of blond and a touch of gray at the man’s temples. She also saw long, long, long lashes that made her want to cry with envy.
“Probably less than it seems,” Claire was saying.
“How so?”
“Well, for example, if I were to have a baby, I wouldn’t want to know its sex in advance.”
“Hmm,” Perry said, more interested in her customer than in Claire’s attempt at logic. If only the stupid bookshelf were five instead of six feet tall. “Are you and Randy already talking about kids?”
“Please! It’s way too soon for that. We’re still learning what we can about each other.”
“Besides your shared cookie fetish?”
Claire groaned. “I swear. I’m going to be an elephant before we ever set a date.”
“Maybe, but Randy’s a good guy.” Perry smiled to herself, returning the plumed pen to its base. “He’ll be there through thin and through thick.”
“Ha! A comedian in every crowd.”
“I was raised by a woman who sees things she shouldn’t be able to see. I have to get my laughs somewhere.”
“God, Perry. I can’t even imagine a lifetime of dealing with that. I would think it would be so…I don’t know. Frightening?”
Perry shoved a hand through her hair, pushing the wild corkscrew curls away from her face. She had never talked to anyone about growing up with Della, about Della having to deal with the truth of her visions. Having to deal as well with both of their fears that the aftermath might one day debilitate her, leaving Perry alone again and too young to cope. Frightening was only a part of it.
“That. And interesting.” To say the least, which was all she could say for now. “I’ve gotta run. Are you sure you want to cancel?”
“Definitely,” Claire said, and Perry could almost hear the other woman nod. “But let’s do dinner one night this week.”
“Cookies for dessert?”
“What else?” Claire asked, laughing and adding, “I’ll call you,” before ringing off.
Once she had, Perry was left with no reason to stay at the counter. And even if she’d had tons of work to do there, curiosity would still have gotten the better of her. It wasn’t every day a man who looked like the one an aisle over walked into the shop.
She climbed down from the stool, closed the leather appointment book and stored it on end next to the cash register she locked out of habit. Then, smoothing down her skirt and the hem of her paisley-print poet’s blouse, she hooked the key ring on her index finger and went to check him out.
He was well worth checking out. The hint of gray had fooled her from a distance; he was no older than his late thirties, she guessed. He wore jeans and Reeboks with his hoodie. The neckband of a white T-shirt showed above the eyelets where the drawstrings hung loose.
He stood studying a display of ground marble and resin figurines representing the twelve astrological signs, designed by a local artisan. He held a Taurus bull in one hand, an Aries ram in the other. Perry wondered if she should read anything into his selections or just let it go.
She nodded toward the figurines. “Those are one of our most popular items. The artist has made quite a name for herself here. A true hometown success story.”
He didn’t glance up right away. Instead, he silently returned both items to the antique cherry cabinet. Then he turned and stared down at Perry until she was certain she would never again be able to breathe—she who had never been susceptible to the buff and chiseled type.
His eyes were gray, a dark pewter with silver specks. Up close, his lashes appeared even longer than they had from a distance. His eyes were amazing, gorgeous—as was his denim-and-cotton-covered build—but his expression scared her to death.
“May I help you?” she asked when the silence had gone on for too long.
“Della Brazille?”
Uh-oh. “Who’s inquiring?”
“Me. And I’m here to make sure you keep your hocus-pocus fingers out of the Eckhardt kidnapping.”
RED AND BLACK. Welts and bruises. Cuts and scrapes and raw purple skin. An arm. A hand. A missing finger.
The ring. It should be there. A class ring. A sports ring. Heavy and gold. It had been there before.
The watch remained. Platinum links. Multiple dials. The edge of a sleeve.
Torn, not cut, and stained with a rust color that had once been blood. Nothing more. Nothing else.
Only slices of light, crosshatched shadows, herringbone in yellow and blue. And so much watery, fluid green.
Della opened her eyes and sat up, pulling the bed’s periwinkle chenille coverlet to her chin. She blinked slowly and let out a breath of relief. The pain was gone. She felt empty, spent…strangely weak and fragile.
Forty-eight years old and she ached like an ancient crone. It was enough to make her laugh. Except laughing would expend energy she didn’t have to spare.
She scooted to the side of the bed, tugged down the hem of her fine lawn nightgown, and sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the mattress while picking up the bedside phone and dialing the NOPD.
“Operations.”
“Detective Franklin, please.” She waited thirty seconds before he came on the line.
“Franklin.”
“Book. It’s Della,” she said, and hurried on. “They’ve cut off his finger. He was wearing a ring. A college bowl ring maybe? I can’t say.” She tucked the coverlet tighter. “I can only see the shape. The edge of the insignia.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“He’s still wearing a watch. And I think I see ropes.”
“Della.” Book’s voice was firm, caring. “Hang on to it. I’m on my way.”
2
“EXCUSE ME?”
Jack was pretty damn sure he hadn’t stuttered. But just to be certain…
He pulled from his back pocket the newspaper he’d folded to the headline and dared her to deny her meddlesome wa
ys. “The case is my business, got it? My business. Not yours.”
She didn’t even glance at the paper. She crossed her arms over her chest. She said nothing.
She was an intriguing little thing. Looked a lot like a gypsy. Black curls hanging in a cloud around a heart-shaped face. Big dark eyes and a bow of a mouth that meant business. About five foot eight—though the way she was staring him down, he wouldn’t be surprised if she thought herself ten feet tall.
“Well?” he finally asked. She’d obviously gone mute.
“Well what?” Her eyes flashed.
A reaction, though not much of one. He’d have preferred an admission or a denial. Either one would make it easier to gauge his next step. “Are you going to back off or not?”
“Let’s see.” She held up one finger after another, counting off her list. “You’ve been sarcastic, rude, demanding. You’ve come into my place of business and ordered me around, not even bothering to tell me who you are. And you want me to back off?”
Hands now at her hips, she shook her head, summing up the situation with a loud snort and an even louder, “Get the hell out of here.”
Jack sighed, rubbed a hand over his forehead where the ache that had started three days ago in Austin remained.
“My name is Jack Montgomery,” he said, returning the newspaper to his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He showed the woman his driver’s license and identification card. “I’m a private investigator.”
She barely even glanced at his ID. “Good for you. But you’re in the Big Easy now, cher. Those won’t even get you a bowl of gumbo.”
His Texas card. Stupid. His Louisiana paperwork was in his computer case out in his Yukon, but she didn’t give him time to explain. She turned and started to walk away. He didn’t even think.
He reached out and grabbed her upper arm. “Della, wait.”
She jerked free, glared over her shoulder. “I’m not Della.”
What?
“I’m Della.”
At the sound of the second female voice, deeper, almost musical, Jack looked up. Standing behind the shop’s counter at the foot of the staircase that opened there, stood the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.
She was older than the one he’d mistaken her for, but he doubted she’d yet reached fifty. She was slender and barefoot, dressed in what looked like silk pajamas in gold and black. Her hair, a dark honey brown, had been pulled up into a knot already tumbling loose.
Her skin was a translucent porcelain, and he was so glad he wasn’t saying any of this out loud because he sounded as fruity as one of the Queer Eye TV guys. Or so he imagined, since he’d never seen their show.
More than anything, though, he found himself caught by and unable to look away from her eyes. They were large, the irises purple, her expression serene even while he swore her stare was scrambling his brain like so many bad eggs.
“She does that to everyone.”
He blinked, looked back at the gypsy. “What?”
“Della is my aunt, and you’re not the first man she’s turned into a drooling fool.”
“I’m not drooling,” he said, swiping the cuff of his sweatshirt over his chin.
“Perry, Book is on his way over,” Della said, heading toward a beaded curtain hiding a door at the rear of the shop. “I’m making brunch. Spinach omelets, I think. Bring your friend.”
The beads gave off a tinkling singsong sound as they settled. Neverland. No. La-la land. That’s where he was. The funny farm. Where life was beautiful…
“Are you coming?”
This from the same woman—Perry—who’d ordered him off the property minutes before. “I thought you wanted me out of here.”
She twisted her mouth as if she couldn’t decide between smiling and snapping. Like a turtle. Clamping down on his nose and tearing it right off his face. “I do. But obviously Della doesn’t.”
“And she always gets her way?” He’d seen her. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she did.
“You’ll be able to figure that out for yourself soon enough.”
It was exactly what he wanted—personal access, an in—yet he couldn’t make himself take the first step. He’d been battling strange feelings about the case since taking it on.
And these two women weren’t doing a damn thing to settle the uncertainty. They were, in fact, making things worse.
Making things…weird.
Perry took a step toward the door through which Della had disappeared, holding aside the strands of blue beads. “C’mon. You don’t want to miss Della’s omelets. And I know you’re not going to want to miss comparing notes with Book.”
Jack tensed at the twist of the be-careful-what-you-wish-for screw. “Who’s Book?”
“He’s a detective with the NOPD.” Perry gave the screw one last tightening turn. “And he believes every word Della says to be the truth.”
DETECTIVE BOOK FRANKLIN parked his unmarked car in the alley where a small courtyard backed up to Sugar Blues. He’d met Della Brazille right here two years ago, and nothing about his life had been the same.
He didn’t know anyone who was a bigger skeptic or cynic than he was, and so he had a hard time explaining to his co-workers—he didn’t have anyone outside the force he called a friend; he’d tried, but nobody understood a cop’s hours and drive but another cop—why he jumped when Della called.
He shouldn’t have jumped. He shouldn’t have believed in her sight, or believed her visions meant anything, that they were more than nightmares or a fertile imagination seeking attention.
He lived in New Orleans. He’d run into plenty of psychics fitting that bill.
Straightening his tie as he made for the kitchen door, Book couldn’t help remembering the first time he’d seen her here at the back entrance to Sugar Blues. There’d been a break-in and murder in the next building over, the security there no better than here.
She’d been sitting on the wall of the central fountain, soaking wet, wearing a silky camisole and thin drawstring pants. No shoes, nothing beneath. As if she’d pulled on the clothes without thinking of anything but what she’d seen. Hell, she might as well have been naked, wearing clothing that was plastered to her skin with the temperature in the forties.
When she’d told him about it, he’d thought she was relating details of a dream. Or that she’d been stoned out of her mind and tripping.
Perry had arrived minutes later, bundled her aunt up and, in the kitchen over hot coffee for him and herbal tea for both women, had explained Della’s gift of sight. He’d taken careful notes, still doubting he was doing more than recording a bunch of BS.
But the BS has paid off. Della had seen specifics about the perps’ flight and spree that had followed. It had been enough for Book and his partner to use in their ongoing investigation. It had been enough to help them eventually nail the bastards’ theft ring.
It had been enough to make Book believe.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have a certain reporter’s throat once he was finished here. Della’s work on the Eckhardt kidnapping wasn’t yet public because there wasn’t yet an official case. Not in New Orleans anyway. She wasn’t even positive it was Eckhardt.
She’d come to him with what she’d seen, and he’d taken the information and made the Texas connection himself. No one else in operations should have known about his inquiry. Meaning, Book had a big, fat internal leak to patch.
He knocked; through the inset glass he saw Perry wave him inside. He pushed open the door without even turning the knob, a knot forming in his stomach.
“I thought you were getting that fixed.” As independent and intelligent as they were, the Brazille women were not so good with down-to-earth priorities. He’d get someone over here later today.
“Good morning, Book. I hope you’re hungry.”
At the sound of Della’s voice, he turned, his attention shifting away from Perry and the door. Della stood grating cheese, her back to the room. Beside her, a man Book had
never seen before leaned against the counter.
Perry made the introductions. “Detective Book Franklin? Jack Montgomery, private eye.”
Cripes. And the day just kept going downhill.
He shook the hand Montgomery offered—a firm grip that went on seconds too long as the other man took Book’s measure. He did the same. Neither spoke, and it was Perry who finally ended the standoff with a muttered, “Oh, good grief.”
At that, Della laughed and glanced over. “Jack is here for the same reason you are, Book.”
He cursed beneath his breath. “I was hoping you hadn’t seen the paper.”
“She hasn’t,” Perry hurried to say.
“Of course I have.” Della sealed up the block of cheese in its container and handed it to Jack. “And, no,” she added as he returned the cheese to the fridge. “Jack didn’t show it to me. It was part of what I saw this morning before I called.”
“You saw the headline. But not the actual paper.”
Della nodded at Montgomery’s rhetorical statement. Book shoved his hands to his waist, his coattails flying like bat wings behind him, instead of grabbing the other man and tossing him out on his ear. “Perry, do you mind giving me a few minutes alone with Della?”
“Sure. Jack and I will wait in the shop.” She headed for the door.
Jack didn’t move. “I’d like to stay, if you don’t mind.”
“Yeah. I mind. Police business.” Cocky upstart.
“Why don’t we eat and then talk, Book?” Della asked, whisking a bowl of eggs.
Book reached over and turned off the flame beneath the omelet pan. “No, we’ll talk now. And we’ll talk alone.”
He waited for Perry and Jack to leave the room before he looked to Della again. She stood in the corner where two of the aqua-tiled kitchen’s countertops formed a right angle, and her expression told him he wouldn’t like what she was going to say.
