New Orleans Noir

by Joanna Wayne

  “I’d hoped Bev might be with you,” Helena said. “I know she’s familiar with the rental history of each of the four units as well as the needed repairs and upgrades.”

  “She’d planned to join us, but she’s in Little Rock this morning waiting for the arrival of her first grandbaby. A boy. She left me a spreadsheet showing the rental history for the past five years, so we’re good.”

  “No problem. A new grandson tops a meeting any day.”

  Helena poured two glasses of iced tea and wrapped them in a cloth napkin to catch the condensation.

  She’d met Bev on several occasions while visiting Mia. She owned and operated the French Quarter rental management agency that had handled Mia’s four apartments for at least the last decade. Bev had recommended Randi when Helena mentioned selling the house.

  “Would you like a tour of the carriage house proper?” Helena asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  The tour took about thirty minutes and Randi seemed more enthralled with each room they visited, raving not only about the architecture but even the choice of colors, furnishings and artwork.

  When they returned to the kitchen, Randi removed her laptop from her briefcase and sat it on the table. “Bev told me this place was a stunner, but this is much grander than I was expecting. From all indications, it’s in excellent condition for a house almost a hundred years old.”

  “Mia did a terrific job of keeping it in good repair.”

  “That’s important, but as we all know, you can never be certain what kind of structural problems you’ll find when you start checking out these historic houses.”

  “A truth we’ve all learned from watching cable house remodeling shows,” Helena admitted. Not that she was too worried about that. Mia’s estate had left Helena more than enough assets to make any needed repairs to the property.

  “Who was your grandmother’s decorator?” Randi asked. “I have several clients who could use their advice.”

  “Mia was her own decorator, right down to the smallest details. Well, I did give her a few suggestions in the artwork department, but that’s it.”

  “Then you both have excellent taste. I love the painting of the young couple running through the rain beneath beautiful French Quarter balconies.”

  “Thank you. That’s actually my first prize-winning painting from a high school art contest.”

  “You painted that in high school?”

  “Eleventh grade.”

  “Wow. Such talent. I know you said you were starting a new job at a Boston gallery, but I didn’t know you’d be exhibiting your own work.”

  “Hopefully. If not, I’ll just be selling others’ creations and searching for new talent, but even that is exciting.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be successful. You obviously had a very talented grandmother, as well. She perfectly captured the historic nature of the home without giving up comfort or convenience. That’s a hard combo to come by.”

  “Then you don’t think I’ll have any trouble selling the property for a decent price?”

  The awkward silence and the pained expression on Randi’s face said more than words could have.

  Helena cringed. “Is the real estate market that bad?”

  “It’s not actually the market that’s the problem.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s this particular property, or more to the point it’s that Elizabeth Grayson was staying here with her great-aunt when she was murdered.”

  “People still need a place to live,” Helena said, trying to make sense of Randi’s concerns.

  “I know, but the media hype isn’t making this any easier. Elizabeth was killed six months ago. The three previous victims of the alleged serial killer were murdered at six-month intervals almost to the day.”

  “We’ve passed that date,” Helena said.

  “But only by a few days. People who are familiar with the facts are on edge. It’s as if they’re all holding their collective breaths waiting for the killer to strike again.”

  Helena’s frustration swelled. “Elizabeth was abducted off the streets. There’s no evidence the killer ever set foot on this property.”

  “I’m not saying it’s reasonable,” Randi said, “but I have to level with you. Normally, this house would sell in days, might even set off a bidding war. In this climate of fear, all bets of a quick, lucrative sale are off.”

  “In other words, my property has a curse on it until the killer is arrested and there’s nothing I can do about it?”

  “Not necessarily. I just want you to be aware that you may be in for some lowball offers if you list the property immediately. If the killer doesn’t strike again, this should blow over in a few months.”

  “Renters don’t seem to be afraid of moving in,” Helene said, clutching at the only positive thing she could see. “Bev said there’s a waiting list of prospective renters.”

  Randi stared at the well-manicured nails on her left hand for a few seconds before lifting her gaze. “More bad news. The waiting list fell through, according to Bev. Your recently vacated apartment has not been rented. And Connor Harrington in 4-C gave a thirty-day notice yesterday.”

  Helena threw up her hands in exasperation. “Connor is single and muscular. I can’t believe he’s afraid of being the serial killer’s next victim.”

  “I don’t know what reason he gave, but I’m sure Bev will get back with you in a day or two on that,” Randi explained.

  It had taken weeks of soul-searching for Helena to make up her mind to sell her grandmother’s beloved home and now that decision might have to be delayed.

  One thing was for certain. She wasn’t going to give Mia’s beautiful home away at below what it was worth just because of the timing.

  “I didn’t mean to rain on your parade like this,” Randi said. “We don’t have to decide or sign anything today, but we can talk about how to proceed if you do decide to list with us.”

  “I suppose that’s complicated, too.”

  “Not at all.”

  Helena felt a nagging pain starting at the back of her skull. “I’m a novice at selling real estate, so I have no idea where to start. I suppose I should alert the remaining tenants that I’m putting the house on the market.”

  “Let’s don’t jump the gun on that,” Randi cautioned. “Unless the prospective owner plans to use the entire property for himself and his family, having the units already under lease will be an asset.”

  They spent the next hour talking about the advantages of working on upgrades and repairs before having the house appraised. Randi clearly knew her stuff and she patiently answered all of Helena’s questions while basically alleviating none of her fears.

  By the time they’d finished and gone over the selling contract, Helena felt as if she were drowning in details.

  She stood and walked to the window that overlooked the courtyard. “I suppose I should run this new information by Pierre Benoit.”

  “Is that the man that Bev listed as one of your tenants?”

  “Yes. He’s a divorce attorney with an office in the downtown area. I hired a probate attorney to settle Mia’s estate, but Pierre walked me though some of the legal hurdles.”

  She owed him a dinner for that since he’d refused to accept cash.

  “I think I’ve given you enough to think about for one day,” Randi said. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, but if you’re going to have two vacant units, it might be a good time to do any needed repairs or updates on those first.”

  “Good point. I hadn’t expected so many complexities, but I’ll sign the real estate agreement now,” Helena said. “I’ve made the decision to sell. The hard part is already done.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am.” If she didn’t change her mind in the time it took to pick up the pen and
sign her name on several dotted lines.

  Randi delayed her departure to take her through the agreement again over a second glass of tea. Signing was more stressful than Helena had expected. She did so love this house.

  But the life she knew here was gone forever and she would love her life in Boston, too. She had to keep reminding herself of that.

  They made small talk as they walked across the courtyard when they were finished. Randi paused near the fountain just long enough to catch a few drops from the cool spray in her outstretched right hand.

  “Whoever gets this house and courtyard is going to be a very lucky buyer,” Randi said as she was leaving.

  Helena stood by the gate for a few minutes after she locked it behind Randi. A blue jay darted past her on its way to the nearest bird feeder. Graceful monarch butterflies fluttered among the blooms of a potted verbena.

  She was mere steps away from French Quarter revelry, music and great food, yet this space had always been a peaceful haven. Perhaps her tenants no longer thought of it as safe.

  If that bothered Connor Harrington, it must be a million times worse for Ella. Helena needed to find time to visit with her today.

  She glanced up and then she saw him.

  Hunter Bergeron—still, quiet, alone, standing on the edge of Ella’s balcony. Old longings vibrated along her nerve endings as she met his gaze. Her insides melted.

  It had been six years, but she would have recognized him anywhere. Tall and muscular. Same unruly brown hair. Same cocky way of standing, his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets.

  Her stomach knotted and she felt the burn of acid creeping up into her throat.

  She’d tried to prepare herself for running into him while she was back in New Orleans. Just not in this courtyard. Not where it had all begun—and ended.

  Traitorous recollections pounded her relentlessly.

  Then, without even a wave of acknowledgment, he turned and disappeared back inside Ella’s apartment. Helena wrapped her arms around her chest and bit her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood.

  Had he even recognized her? Had she become no more than a distant memory of an infatuation gone bad? Or maybe he looked at it as a commitment he’d escaped just in time.

  It didn’t matter. There was nothing left of their relationship but regrets.

  She should turn and go back inside before he left Ella’s.

  But she was still standing there as if in a paralyzing trance when Hunter stepped out of Ella’s door and into the courtyard. Her insides quaked as he approached, but she managed to keep her head up and her breathing somewhat steady.

  “Hello, Helena.”

  Hello. That was it, as if it hadn’t been six years since the goodbye that almost destroyed her. Her resolve not to let him intimidate her strengthened.

  “What are you doing here, Hunter?”

  “Looking for you, for one thing. Police business. We need to talk.”

  Chapter Five

  Helena stared him down like he was a coiled snake about to strike, waiting so long to respond he felt sweat pooling on his brow. She clearly had the temperature advantage in her white shorts and lacy, summery top.

  He was wearing his usual plainclothes detective attire—jeans and a sports shirt with the neck unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  Nonetheless, he was starting to feel guilty as hell that he was ruining her homecoming by insisting she have anything to do with him.

  He stepped closer. “This won’t take long.”

  “Then start talking.”

  “I talk faster when I’m not sweltering.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Elizabeth Grayson’s killer?”

  He nodded. “Afraid so.”

  “In that case, we can talk inside.”

  He followed her into the carriage house. In minutes he’d settled into the same comfortable chair in Mia Cosworth’s cozy sitting room as he had dozens of times before over the last few months. Surprisingly, he’d developed a close bond with Mia during this investigation though she’d clearly never forgiven him for running out on Helena. Made sense. He’d never forgiven himself.

  Not only had Mia’s death hit Hunter hard personally, it had blown a huge hole in his best lead toward catching the French Kiss Killer.

  Helena sat across from him. She leaned back and crossed her long shapely legs.

  She was as stunning as ever, but she’d changed in ways that hurt deep in his soul. He felt it as much as saw it, though her expression was stony, her eyes a cold fire that froze and burned at the same time.

  “Why were you at Ella Grayson’s this morning?” Helena asked.

  Hunter crossed a foot over his knee. “I’d picked up some beignets at Café du Monde, and we shared them over coffee. She loves them heavy on powdered sugar—same as me—and she makes the best cup of coffee in town.”

  “I suppose I’m to believe delivering morning pastries to the elderly is a new service of the police department?”

  Helena was clearly not going to make this easy.

  “No official policy,” he said, “but we’re allowed to be decent.”

  Helena ran her fingers through her shoulder-length copper-colored hair, pushing it back from her bewitching face. “In that case, I apologize for doubting your motives.”

  “No problem. I’m not above playing good cop to get information if I need to, but this time it was all about the donuts and coffee. And the fact that she’s having a tough go of it.”

  He recognized the signs of depression. He’d grown up with them.

  “I plan to see her as soon as you leave,” Helena said. “We’ve kept in touch by phone since my grandmother died.”

  “She’s mentioned that.”

  “I don’t know why,” Helena said, “but she seems to feel at least partly responsible for the tragedy, though there was nothing she could have done to save Elizabeth. I keep reminding her that Elizabeth was a random victim of a demented serial killer.”

  Hunter leaned in closer. This was likely as good a segue as he would get. Might as well take advantage of it.

  “We’re not sure about the random element.”

  Helena’s brows arched. “Wasn’t she abducted while on her way to meet friends?”

  “Perhaps not. She’d told Ella that she was meeting friends, but her friends said the night out was planned for the following night. Elizabeth either confused the plans or lied to Ella.”

  “Do you think she deliberately met with the monster?”

  “A definite possibility.”

  Helena clasped her hands in her lap. “Why would she do such a thing? How could he persuade her to go with him?”

  “If we had the answer to those questions, we’d have a lot better chance of stopping him before he strikes again.”

  “Then you think he will strike again?”

  “I believe it’s possible.”

  “I can’t believe Elizabeth could be taken in by a murderous lunatic. She was so smart and sweet. She had plans and dreams. Mia said she talked about her future all the time.”

  Helena’s voice shook and her eyes grew moist with tears as the new reality sank in.

  Desire racked Hunter’s body. Not sexual urges, but just a need to touch her, to wrap an arm around her shoulders, to hold her close.

  But she made no move to indicate she wanted his comfort and he wasn’t about to risk being tossed out at this point.

  “Is there more I should know?” Helena asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “None of it good.”

  “Tell me everything and start with the worst,” she urged. “Don’t spoon-feed me.”

  “You got it. Elizabeth’s killer or a person claiming to be him was in touch with Mia by phone in the days preceding Mia’s fall.”

  “The killer was contacting Mia
? Why didn’t I know about that? Why didn’t someone tell me?” She straightened, her hands on her knees.

  “She didn’t want to upset you or disrupt your life when there was nothing you could do.”

  “I could have done something. I could have been here. She could have come and stayed with me. You should have told me.” She leaned forward, and he saw fire in her eyes.

  “She didn’t want you to know. I had no authority to go against her will.” Plus, she’d threatened Hunter eight ways to Sunday if he ignored her wishes and told Helena himself.

  “How many times did he call her?”

  “Three, over a three-week period.”

  “What did he talk about? Did he threaten her? Didn’t you wiretap her phone?”

  “How about one question at a time?” Hunter asked. “He admitted he’d killed Elizabeth.” He wasn’t about to go into the graphic way he described it to Mia in his first call. He hoped to hell Helena never had to hear those words and was relieved they hadn’t been recorded, which would risk her hearing them.

  “Did he threaten Mia?”

  “No, but he was clearly upset that she was raising award money for his capture and assured her that he would kill again and that he wouldn’t get caught.”

  “You must have traced the calls and found out who he was and where he was calling from. You can do that in minutes.”

  “You’ve been watching too many detective shows on TV. Real cops don’t work miracles. We did wiretap her phone—after she reported the first call. When she answered the next two, the calls went straight to the precinct where they were monitored.”

  “Then why couldn’t you track him?”

  “The calls were from different numbers. The wiretapped calls lasted less than a minute. By the time we could get to the location of origination, the caller and the phones were long gone.”

  “And Mia didn’t recognize the caller’s voice?”

  “No. Three different voices were used—two appeared to be male, one was female.”