by Joanna Wayne
This was what her life had been reduced to. Rather than enjoying a nice dinner with a handsome attorney who might even be fun, she was more excited about a murder investigation and chasing someone else’s nightmares.
She picked up her phone and made a quick call to Hunter. He answered on the first ring.
“What’s up?”
“Change of plans.”
“Dumping Pierre? Smart move.”
“I’m not dumping Pierre. Change of restaurants. We’re going to the Aquarelle Hotel if I can get reservations at this late date.”
“Ask for Connor Harrington. He’ll get you in.”
“I’ll try that, and I’m telling you this because you asked, but I don’t need or want someone to follow me around town. I promise we’ll stay on the safe, beaten path.”
“Got it. You’re on your own. Have fun. Seriously, do have fun. You deserve a break.”
He didn’t sound a bit jealous this time. She should be happier about that.
* * *
PIERRE SEEMED TO resent her discarding his suggestion for a restaurant without checking with him first. She refused to feel too bad about it. After all, it was going to be her treat, though she expected him to protest that, at least half-heartedly.
He wouldn’t win. This was a payback for a favor, not a date. Dates required more emotional capital than she could afford right now.
She glanced around the room as the hostess showed them to their table but didn’t see anyone she recognized. Unlike the bar last night, the dinner bunch was a reserved group, mostly middle-aged or older.
A very attractive waitress stopped by their table. “Can I get you a cocktail?”
“I’ll take a Glenlivet over ice,” Pierre said.
Nice and pricey. He probably figured he earned it with his free legal advice. Perhaps he had.
“And for you?” the waitress addressed Helena.
“A glass of celebratory champagne,” she said. “What do you have that’s nice but reasonable?”
“We have a very good Moët & Chandon.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Pierre didn’t ask what she was celebrating, and she’d just started to tell him about it when he started reading her the menu. When he got to the lobster and filet mignon, he paused.
“That sounds really good if they know how to grill a decent steak,” he said.
“You can always send it back if it doesn’t meet your expectations.”
“Believe me, I’ve had to do that many times in other restaurants,” he assured her. “What are you thinking about? The stuffed trout and the blackened redfish both look like good choices if you’re not up for lobster.”
“I’m thinking about the avocado and crab salad.”
“A salad. That’s it? You’re celebrating inheriting a fortune in the city with the best food on the planet. You should spring for the most expensive item on the menu.”
As he had.
“I inherited an estate but lost a beloved grandmother,” Helena said. “That’s not something I can celebrate.”
“I never knew my grandparents, but I can see why you might feel that way,” Pierre said. “How’s the new job in Boston working out?” he asked, smartly changing the subject.
“Quite well, though I don’t start until the first of November. With luck, I’ll have sold the carriage house property by then.”
“Then you’ll be not only wealthy but beautiful and talented. Men will be falling at your feet. I can’t imagine why some lucky guy hasn’t grabbed you up before now.”
“I’m not partial to men who grab.”
He smiled. “I put that badly, but you know what I mean. Come to think of it, I’m good friends with Kelly Abby who owns a gallery in the Warehouse District. She’s recently divorced and thinking about moving to California. She might be putting her shop on the market. You could buy it and immerse yourself in the art world without leaving the New Orleans area. I’m sure you could sell a few paintings if you owned your own gallery. There’s probably a lot less competition here.”
As if she wasn’t talented enough to compete with the best. Okay, maybe Hunter had a point after all. Pierre was a bit arrogant.
Conversation came easier after they finished their drinks. They were halfway through dinner when three stunning women, all who appeared to be in their early-to mid-twenties, walked into the restaurant. Few eyes didn’t follow them as the hostess led them to a table near the back of the restaurant.
Helena saw the woman who must be Lacy and felt a tightening in her chest. Same hair color and style as Elizabeth. The same thin, willowy build. The shape of the nose was slightly different and Lacy’s lips were not quite as full. Those were the types of minor details few except an artist would notice.
Not identical, but close. No wonder she’d thrown Alyssa for such a loop.
“That looks like three women out for trouble tonight,” Pierre noted.
“They just look like young women out to have a good time on their vacation to me.”
“What makes you think they’re on vacation?”
“Just a hunch.”
Only one of the three might be the undercover policewoman that Hunter had mentioned. If so, she was indisputably good at her job. Helena assumed she was the one who looked slightly older than the others, but she couldn’t be sure. Only Lacy stood out.
She noticed Pierre staring at the women and kept expecting him to say something about the likeness. He didn’t, though he had to notice. Perhaps he didn’t want to upset Helena. Not mentioning it was upsetting her more.
Helena moved her salad around with her fork while Pierre finished chewing his last bite of steak. Finally, she gave in to temptation. “Does the blonde in the group you said were looking for trouble remind you of anyone?”
He wiped his mouth on the white linen napkin while he studied the young women. “Seems like I may have seen her before. Is she a movie star or one of those supermodels who pop up on all the magazine covers?”
“She’s not famous that I know of. I just think she looks a lot like Elizabeth Grayson.”
He shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’ve already contracted the bug.”
“What bug is that?”
“Serial killer addiction. It’s been a little over six months since Elizabeth’s murder and that’s all anybody is talking about these days. As if we don’t have shootings on a regular basis like every big city.”
“It’s different,” she said, without explaining how.
“Sorry,” Pierre said. “It’s just getting to the point you can’t have a conversation in this town that isn’t saturated with fear and gore. Frankly, the girl in the sundress that barely covers her buns could be Elizabeth’s body double and I wouldn’t know it. I don’t think I ever met Ella’s great-niece but once.”
But he had noticed the slightly daring length of Lacy’s attire.
Helena was only half finished with her huge salad, but she’d lost her appetite. Pierre changed the subject to brag about a divorce case he was working on where he was destroying the philandering husband and his well-known attorney.
A few minutes later, Connor walked in. She watched him as he scanned the dining area, looking extremely pleased by the number of customers. He crossed the room and went straight to the table occupied by Lacy’s party.
She could tell from the familiar way they greeted each other that they’d met before—only natural since he was an important member of the hotel management team.
The restaurant was almost full now. It was a safe guess that many of the people in the restaurant had witnessed the entrance of three women who were young, beautiful and sexy.
The elusive serial killer could be one of that number. He could be any man in this restaurant, or perhaps even a woman.
Sitting unnoticed. Following his victim and plotting he
r death or searching for his next victim.
Not murdering by choice but ordered to by some inner demon that ruled him.
Her insides quaked, and she couldn’t wait to get out of there, even if all she had to look forward to was a possible phone call from a demented killer.
* * *
HELENA HAD JUST slipped out of her shoes and dress when her phone jingled. She reached for the phone. The text was from Hunter. Unwelcome but pleasurable anticipation zinged through her senses followed by a quick burst of dread that it might be bad news.
Target practice tomorrow morning. Pick you up at ten. Wear something comfortable and shoes you can walk in. Slather on the sunscreen. I’ll bring the mosquito spray.
Before she could answer or even digest that message, another text came through.
Doing this as a friend and not a cop, so you can turn me down if you want. I’d rather you didn’t.
The thought of holding a gun made her nervous. The idea of pulling a trigger tightened knots in her stomach. Yet deep inside, she knew if it came to saving her life or someone else’s she could do it.
There was a time when Hunter hadn’t found even killing in self-defense palatable. Her thoughts traveled back to the night their relationship took its first nosedive. The first time Hunter had killed someone in the line of duty.
He’d rung the doorbell here at the carriage house in the wee hours of the morning. She’d rushed to the door in her pajamas. One peek through the door’s peephole and she’d known that something terrible had happened. She’d unlocked the door and swung it open.
Sweat had pooled at his armpits, staining the shirt of his uniform. The muscles in his jaw and neck were stretched thin, the lines in his face pulled tight, blue-corded veins seemed to stitch his face together. His eyes had a wild fire in them that she had never seen before.
Her initial fear had been that he’d been shot, but there was no blood. By that time, Mia had reached the door and had the composure to pull him inside.
It had taken several minutes for him to get the story out. He and his partner had taken a domestic abuse call at a small house near the edge of the Quarter. By the time they arrived, the argument appeared to be over. He was short on details as were the news reports the following day.
The bottom line was that two people ended up dead in an investigation he and his partner didn’t take seriously enough. The woman was shot by her husband. The husband lost his life to a bullet from Hunter’s gun.
That was the first night Hunter had spent the night on the same couch he’d slept on last night, once again leaving without waking her.
The next morning, he was suspended without pay pending further investigation of the incident. The day after he turned in his resignation and stopped by her house briefly to tell her that he was no longer with the police force.
She’d pleaded with him to talk things over with her, to let her help him get through this. She’d be there for him always. She loved and believed in him with all her heart.
He’d told her how much he loved her. She had faith things would all work out. Their wedding was two days away. The wedding that never happened.
Somehow, he must have gotten his act together over the following six years. He’d done it without her help.
She changed into a flowing lounging gown and stepped out on the balcony. There was no breeze, just layers of thick, stifling humidity.
The area was deserted except for three young men walking down the opposite side of the street, to-go cups in hand. She was about to step back inside when a car pulled up and stopped. A woman jumped out and slammed the door. She staggered away, obviously drunk or maybe drugged. The car followed at the same speed.
Panic hit as thoughts of the serial killer pounded inside Helena’s head. “I’m calling 911,” she screamed.
The woman stopped and looked up at Helena. “Stay out of this, bitch.” Her voice was so slurred the words were barely distinguishable.
Helena got the message. The thanks for being a Good Samaritan. Still, Helena ducked back inside and retrieved her phone. When she got back to the balcony, the car was parked, and the young man was holding the woman’s head as she threw up on the street.
When she finished, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her mouth. They stood there in the moonlight, his arms around her protectively, her head resting against his chest.
When she’d steadied, he led her back to the car and helped her inside. Before he climbed behind the wheel, he looked up at Helena and waved.
“Sorry about the noise,” he called, in a voice that showed no sign of drunkenness. “Her twenty-first birthday. One too many hurricanes. I’ve got her. She’ll be okay.”
False alarm but the fear lingered. There was a killer out there somewhere. Someone who knew both her and Mia. Likely someone who lived in the French Quarter. Possibly someone they knew well and who had known Elizabeth Grayson well.
Someone the young victim would have trusted and gone with willingly. At least that seemed to be the most credible theory. Someone who had killed four times and gotten away with it.
Helena got ready for bed, but with little hope of falling asleep quickly. Counting sheep had never worked for her, so she looked up at the ceiling, watching the dancing shadows of the fan’s whirling blades.
Eventually, her traitorous thoughts crept back to Hunter and the way he’d looked sleeping on her sofa last night. Impulsively, her hands slid down her abdomen and touched the hairy triangle between her legs.
She imagined they were Hunter’s hands, exploring, finding all the right places to drive her crazy. Lost in desire, she brought herself to pleasure but knew that would never be enough.
She wasn’t over him. That couldn’t be clearer. She needed closure or she would never be able to move on and love again.
Even if it sent her into another spiral of heartbreak, they had to talk about the past.
Chapter Ten
Helena slipped a pair of worn sneakers into the bottom of her flowered tote bag. Hunter had specified comfortable shoes, so she’d be prepared if she needed them. In the meantime, her cute flat-heel sandals with ties at the ankles did great things for her ankles and thighs.
Her white shorts, off-the-shoulder teal-colored top and reliable silver hoop earrings finished the look.
What was she thinking? The last thing she wanted was to incite a seduction scene.
She checked her closet and pulled out a pair of loose-fitting cargo pants and an olive green cotton T-shirt that looked far more appropriate for shooting pistols or shotguns or whatever type of weapon Hunter had in mind.
The gate buzzer sounded as she finished dressing. She glanced at the clock. Only 9:30. Too early for Hunter. Besides, he knew the code. This is where cameras at the gate would come in handy.
“Can I help you?”
“Hi. It’s Robicheaux here. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not exactly, but I’m expecting Hunter any minute.”
“We can make this quick. All I need is about ten minutes of your time to go over some modifications my tech team suggested. Not that I’m pushing, but I want you to have all the options before you make a final decision.”
“Okay. I’ll buzz you in.”
He was at her door in minutes.
She opened it and welcomed him inside. Once again, there was no escaping his incredible good looks and masculinity. Odd that she was entirely aware of that and yet felt none of the heated, heart-stopping attraction she felt when Hunter stepped into a room.
“Is that coffee I smell?” Romeo asked.
“It is. Would you like a cup?”
“Wouldn’t turn it down.”
He followed her back to the kitchen. While she filled his cup, he spread the revised notes and blueprints on the table.
“I hear you and Hunter are going down to bayou countr
y today.”
“He only mentioned shooting lessons to me. I’m pretty sure it’s a losing cause. I’ve never even held a gun and I’m not enthused about starting now.”
“You may change your mind once you get the hang of it. It can be addictive. Even if you don’t like shooting, you are in for a real treat. You’ll love Eulalie.”
“Is that a person?”
“Barker’s mama. When her husband died, she moved back to her old family home on a bayou southwest of town. She runs a B and B and gives swamp tours.”
“She does sound fascinating,” Helena agreed. “At least the day won’t be a total loss.”
“If you get tired of paper plate targets or tin cans, you can shoot a water moccasin or two.”
“Now I’m excited. Not.”
“You should get Hunter to take you exploring in one of Eulalie’s pirogues. Elizabeth Grayson’s crime scene is just a short ride down the bayou from the B and B.”
This whole shooting idea sounded more bizarre by the minute. Why would Hunter take her anywhere near the murder scene? Surely there were shooting ranges right here in town.
“Speaking of Elizabeth, did her killer contact you again last night?” Robicheaux asked.
“How do you know about the first call? I thought that was highly confidential.”
“I’m in the official loop. After the French Kiss Killer’s third victim was found, Hunter got permission to call me in as a volunteer adviser to the task force.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
“Yep. So far, I’ve been very little help. The killer seems to be dealing the cards and we’re trying to figure out how to play them. The guy’s smart. No one’s denying that.”
Robicheaux went over the modifications with her while he finished his coffee.
“Any questions?” he asked.
“Not at the moment.”
“In that case I’ve probably taken up enough of your time this morning. Enjoy the rest of your day with Hunter. Who knows when he’ll get another day off? I got a hunch the infamous serial killer is puckering up for his next kiss of death.”
