# Death of a Beauty Queen

Mallory Kane

“I don’t remember ever being held, being kissed.” Tears welled in her eyes. “How can I not remember anything?”

“I don’t know.” The thought that he’d been the first man in her memory to touch her lips with his was so erotic and at the same time so humbling.

He touched her shoulder and she stepped into his arms again. He nuzzled her silky, sweet-smelling hair. “The theory of amnesia is that you’re blocking out memories that are too painful or too awful to deal with. It’s called dissociative amnesia. It’s generally caused by a traumatic event.”

Her hand went to her temple. He wasn’t sure if she was touching the scar or massaging a headache.

“I promise you. I’m going to find out who did this to you and I’m going to make sure he pays.”

## About the Author

MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.

She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. After twenty-five books published, Mallory is still amazed and thrilled that she actually gets to make up stories for a living.

Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats. She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com.

Death of a Beauty Queen

Mallory Kane


www.millsandboon.co.uk

I dedicate this book to the people of New Orleans: their hearts, their courage, their indestructible optimism.

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

## Prologue

Twelve Years Ago

It was an ugly crime scene. Not that newly appointed Detective Dixon Lloyd had seen many—none as a detective, but this one was worse than most. He could tell by the other officers’ faces.

Blood was smeared on walls, on floors, on the snow-white sheets on the young woman’s bed. A terry cloth robe’s sash had been cut in two and tied to the two headboard posts. Dixon grimaced as his stomach churned.

He stepped into the bathroom, which didn’t help his queasiness. Water filled the large spa tub about two-thirds full. A glass of white wine sat on the imported Italian tile surrounding the tub and a pale ivory candle had burned down to the wick.

The room appeared ready for the beauty to sweep in, slide an elegant dressing gown off her shoulders and sink into the warm, pleasantly scented water.

Only the water wasn’t warm or pleasantly scented. It was cold. And red. Bloodred.

Dixon’s gaze zeroed in on the smeared handprint on the tile near the glass. She must have reached for it, hoping to break it and use it as a weapon. But the smear stopped two inches from the base of the glass. She hadn’t been quick enough. He swallowed acrid saliva as a vision of what must have happened rose in his brain. He tried to concentrate on searching for anything unusual about the scene, other than the obvious.

“—make of it?” It was the voice of his partner and mentor, veteran detective James Shively, talking to the crime scene investigators in the bedroom.

“Hard to say,” the CSI replied. “There’s blood smeared everywhere, but the only spatter is on the bed. I’d guess he used a slender blade.”

“Yeah,” Shively said. “How much blood are we talking about?”

“With the blood in the bathwater and who knows how much down the drain, not to mention all this rain going down the sewer drains, too, it’s going to be hard to tell.”

Dix looked back at the tub. Down the drain. The killer must have surprised her in the bedroom, tied her to the bed and tortured her, then thrown her in the tub so that her lifeblood dripped down the drain.

“Say, Shively,” the CSI went on, “the name on the apartment is Rosemary Delancey. Wasn’t she Queen of Carnival this past Mardi Gras?”

“Yeah, not to mention the oldest granddaughter of Con Delancey.”

“Oh hell,” the CSI breathed as Dixon joined them. Dixon had heard of the Delanceys. Of course—who hadn’t? Everyone around here knew who they were. Con Delancey, the late, infamous senator from Louisiana, was as famous as Huey Long and his brother in this part of the country. And as scandalous.

Con Delancey’s granddaughter had been murdered. Which meant that this story would headline local and national news tomorrow and who knew how many more days. And the department would be under the gun to catch the killer. He raised his gaze to Shively’s.

“Yeah,” Shively said and nodded, reading his mind. “Welcome to Homicide, Lloyd. You’re in luck. Your first homicide investigation is going to be the most sensational murder New Orleans has seen in a long time.”

Dixon glanced at the bed. On the floor beside the bedside table was a small gold photo frame. It lay facedown and he could see shards of glass surrounding it. He picked it up and turned it over. The girl in the picture had on a gaudy tiara and was dressed in a silver evening gown. Over her head was a banner that read “Queen of Carnival.”

His gaze slid over the smeared and stained sheets. One particular stain looked like it had been made by the bloody side of a face—the same beautiful face as in the picture—pressed against the material. He swallowed again, not quite free of the nauseating vision of how she must have struggled. How she must have screamed and fought and even pleaded with her attacker not to kill her.

He took the back off the picture frame and slid the photo out, shaking the bits of glass off it.

“Be nice if we had a body,” he said.

## Chapter One

Present Day

Aron Wasabe groped in the dark for his cell phone on the bedside table and turned off the ringer before it could buzz again. He squinted at the display and grimaced, then threw back the covers and got up, sliding the phone into the pocket of his pajamas.

His wife, Carol, turned over. “Aron?” she whispered. “Don’t forget Amy’s soccer game. It’s at six.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep,” he muttered. She sighed softly. She was used to the phone calls and odd work hours. After all these years, she didn’t even ask questions.

Down in the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee, then gazed out the patio doors at the rising sun while it perked.

The president of Aron Accounting, Bruce Wexler, had worked for him for years. He was smart and capable. There wasn’t much he couldn’t handle. So if he thought something was important enough to call Wasabe this early, it probably was. It might even be important enough to warrant his having to work on Friday. He frowned. It had better not take too long. He was not going to miss another one of his daughter’s soccer games.

He decided to finish his first cup of coffee before calling Wexler back.

After filling a mug, he added a generous dollop of cream and three heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Then he walked out onto the patio where the sun bathed the flowers and trees in pale pink light.

He smiled to himself. Carol would probably call it mauve or puce or some other ridiculous word. She did a good job with the house and the yard. The patio was like an outdoor kitchen and dining room, beautifully landscaped.

She’d made a home for him and their six-year-old daughter and he loved her for it. He sat down in a glider and gently rocked back and forth as he enjoyed that first swallow of coffee of the day. It was the best.

His phone rang again. He took another long swallow before leisurely retrieving it. He checked the display. Wexler again.

“Bruce? Twice before seven? This better be good.” Wasabe allowed a slight irritation to color his voice, just enough to worry the president of his accounting firm.

“It’s important, Mr. Wasabe. There’s a kid running his mouth. Says he saw the Delancey girl. The one who was murdered twelve years ago. The Carnival Queen?”

Wasabe’s throat closed on a sip of coffee. He coughed. “So?” he asked, clearing his throat and trying to sound casual, but hearing the anxiety in his voice. “That’s what you woke me up for? Some yahoo trying to sell a bill of goods, like we hear every week?”

It couldn’t be true. Rosemary Delancey couldn’t be alive. Not after all this time. But a flutter of hope tickled the back of his throat. If she were …

“I know how you like Delancey stuff,” Wexler went on. “So I knew you’d want to hear about this.”

Wasabe had given his employees and associates hints over the years of his interest in the Delancey family. He’d never explained why. He’d left it to them to draw their own conclusions. Apparently, the majority of them believed he was obsessed with the infamous late-patriarch of the clan, Con Delancey.

Wexler was still talking and he’d missed most of it. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I said the kid is James Fulbright’s boy.”

“The loudmouth? He’s Councilman Fulbright’s son?”

“Yeah. He’s saying his pop was King of Krewe Ti Malice the year the Delancey girl was Carnival Queen.”

“Was he?” Wasabe asked. Wexler should know. The Wexlers had ridden in Mardi Gras parades for decades.

“Yes, sir. He sure was. Junior was probably about twelve. He claims she was his first crush. Said he’d recognize her in a whorehouse under a sweaty fat john.”

“How’d you hear about this?”

“Junior was bragging. He told me T-Bo Pereau was hanging around. Said Pereau sneaked off like a pup that had just snatched a bone away from a big dog.”

“And who the hell is T-Bo Pereau?”

“A nobody. In and out of prison for possession and small-time dealing.”

“Keep an eye on Pereau, and bring Junior Fulbright to the office. Noon. He knows Rosemary so well, he can find her for us. And if he talks to anybody else I’ll cut off his thumbs.” Wasabe grimaced. “And don’t be late. I’m going to my daughter’s soccer game at six.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wasabe hung up and picked up his coffee with a shaky hand. Twelve years ago, while working as a small-time collector for a loan shark, he’d made a choice that earned him a lucrative career as a contract killer. However, it left him effectively indentured to a powerful and ruthless man.

Was this his chance to close the book on that first botched job? If Rosemary Delancey really was alive, maybe he could finally earn his freedom by delivering her to The Boss.

IT WAS HER. He was sure of it. Detective Dixon Lloyd’s pulse hammered in his ears. That two-bit drug dealer he and his partner, Ethan Delancey, had collared for parole violation was right, and Ethan was wrong.

T-Bo Pereau had sworn he could tell them where Rosemary Delancey, the supposedly murdered Carnival Queen, was, in exchange for not putting him back in prison. Dixon had wanted to make the deal, but Ethan had scoffed.

You’re being suckered by the Delancey mystique, he’d told him. As soon as Pereau heard my name, I saw the wheels turning in his brain and the dollar signs in his eyes. Trust me. When you’re dealing with the Delancey name there’s always a story. A few years ago a murderer tried to get immunity by telling my brother Lucas who really killed our granddad. A couple of times a year the local tabloids will carry a photo that “proves” that Con Delancey is alive and living with a Cajun woman in the bayou or something just as outrageous.

Dixon had heard the stories himself, so he figured Ethan was right. Still, he hadn’t wanted to take a chance. Poor T-Bo Pereau had gone back to Angola, but Dixon had quietly called in a favor and gotten him a few perks in exchange for what he knew about Rosemary Delancey.

T-Bo’s information had been disappointing to say the least. All he’d given Dixon was a weak story about seeing a woman who’d looked like the murdered Carnival Queen catching the Prytania streetcar on Canal. When Dixon asked him how he could be sure it was Rosemary Delancey, T-Bo had replied, Everybody knows the Delanceys.

Dixon had figured he could write off his time and the favor he’d called in.

But now, as Dixon watched the woman walking down the street, he sent up thanks that he’d followed up on the two-bit dealer’s story.

Her hair was inky black and captured into a long, loose braid. She was covered from neck to fingertips to toes by a long skirt, a gauzy long-sleeved blouse and some kind of lacy gloves. But there was no mistaking that tilt of her head or that walk.

Dixon unconsciously touched his wallet, where he carried the photo he’d taken from her apartment all those years ago. A deep sadness still weighed on his chest each time he thought about that horrific, bloody crime scene. It had been his first homicide. The upscale Garden District apartment had been drenched in her blood, but Rosemary Delancey’s body had never been found.

The woman slowed down, so he did, too, keeping her in sight but not getting too close. She glided along as if the narrow, uneven sidewalk were a beauty pageant runway, cradling a long loaf of French bread like an armful of roses.

Dixon was no expert on beauty pageants or Mardi Gras Carnival queens, but after her murder he’d searched out every photograph and video ever taken of Rosemary Delancey. He’d become an expert on what she looked like and how she walked.

At that moment she turned her head to check the traffic before crossing Prytania Street. When he saw her full-face for the first time, his certainty melted like cotton candy in the rain.

Viewed straight-on, there was something not quite right about her features. Before he had time to figure out what it was, however, she’d turned away again and crossed the street.

She said something to a newspaper kiosk vendor and he laughed. She continued on. At the door of a two-story shotgun house three doors down she produced a key from a hidden pocket in her skirt and unlocked the door.

Dixon’s pulse raced. Had he really found Rosemary Delancey? Because T-Bo Pereau’s information had her boarding the Prytania streetcar, Dixon had checked the public records of every single resident within a twenty-block radius, without much hope of success. He’d found three people with names similar to Rosemary.

Rosalie Adams, who was eighty-three; Rosemary Marsden, forty-eight, who owned a dress shop on Magazine Street; and Rose Bohème, thirty, whose signature was on Renée Pettitpas’s permit renewal for a display space on Jackson Square. Of the three, only Rose Bohème held any promise, although she was too young to be Rosemary Delancey, who would have been thirty-four. Still, it had been a place to start.

Now here he was, standing in front of Renée Pettitpas’s address, his head spinning with excitement. If Rose Bohème was Rosemary Delancey …

Dixon looked up at the house. Its chips and peels spoke of several decades of stucco and paint—white, pink, gray and most recently green. In this part of town, the effect of the crumbling layers with old brick peeking through was charming.

Dixon’s sister made quite a good living working to achieve the same effect artificially for clients who loved the look but preferred to pay outrageous sums for faux finishing for their Garden District mansions rather than live in this part of town where they could have the real thing. He ought to take a picture for her. She’d go nuts over the rainbow of colors the crumbling layers revealed.

He glanced upward at the creaky weathered sign that read Maman Renée, Vodun, Potions, Fortunes in peeling paint. She’d want to steal that, too.

Just as the black-haired woman pushed open the door, a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, ran up to her.

“Mignon!” the woman cried, leaning down to buss the girl’s cheeks. “Here you are, early as usual.” She gestured toward the canvas tote dangling from her wrist. “I have a new piece for you to learn today.”

“Miss Rose,” the little girl said with a shake of her many neatly braided pigtails, “I want to play ‘Saints Go Marchin’ In.’”

“In good time, ‘tite.” She pushed the door open and let the girl go inside ahead of her. Just as she entered, she turned back and glanced around. Dixon could have sworn her gaze lit on him for an instant before she pushed the door closed.

For a couple of seconds, he stared at the weathered wooden door with its clear-and-red leaded glass insert, his chest contracting as if a giant fist squeezed it. The little girl had called her Rose.

Rose. Thinking of the woman’s features, doubt nagged at him, but he’d come this far. He wasn’t about to give up without checking her out.

He looked around. Maman Renée’s voodoo shop was one of a row of similar two-story houses.

In a window of the house next door, he saw an elderly man’s gnarled, dusty-black fingers push the lace curtains aside, then quickly let them drop.

The house on the other side and the duplex across the street were both boarded up and the duplex’s roof was caved in. They looked as though they hadn’t been touched since Katrina.

Half a block up the street, he saw the tables and chairs of an outdoor café. The sign said Bing’s, since 1972. He walked over and sat. When a husky man with a towel slung over his shoulder and a marine tattoo came out to take his order, Dixon nodded toward the voodoo shop.

“What happened to Maman Renée?” he asked casually, but the man wasn’t fooled. He eyed him suspiciously.

“You a cop?”

Dixon gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Café au lait,” he said. So Bing was protective of Rose Bohème. Dixon had seen it a lot in the old neighborhoods during his career as a homicide detective. He was glad she had neighbors who cared for her, but it was going to make his job a lot harder if none of them would give him any information.

He’d asked his question about Maman Renée as an icebreaker. He knew that five months ago, Renée Pettitpas, seventy-eight years old, had suffered a stroke. Rose had called 911, but by the time the EMTs arrived, Renée had died.

So what now, Lloyd? he asked himself as he waited for his coffee. The little girl was there for a piano lesson. It fit. Rosemary Delancey had majored in music at Loyola University’s College of Music and Fine Arts. Everything about Rose Bohème fit, except her face and her age.

As he frowned, trying to figure out what was wrong with her features, the folded photo in his wallet that he’d taken from Rosemary Delancey’s apartment seared his buttock like a brand. He’d always hoped that one day, if she’d survived that bloodbath, someone would see her and recognize her, although truthfully, he’d never really believed the day would come. Yet here he was, about to confront the woman who everyone believed had been murdered twelve years before.

He unwrapped the cloth napkin from around a fork and spoon. The flatware rattled. He held up his hand. He was actually shaking.

Bing returned at that moment with his café au lait. He set it down, then folded his arms and watched him.

Dixon sipped the hot milk-laced coffee.

“Why’re you so interested in Maman Renée?” Bing finally asked gruffly.

Dixon didn’t answer directly. “I see you’ve been here since 1972.”

Bing looked down his crooked nose at him.

He nodded at the tattoo on the man’s forearm. “Marines,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll bet you can take care of yourself.” Dixon watched Bing.

A dark brow shot up. “Wanna try me?”

Dixon shook his head with a short laugh. “No. I guess the folks around here take care of Rose, now that Maman Renée is gone.”

“How’s any of that your business?” Bing said, unfolding his arms and clenching his fists. “‘Cause we don’t like questions and we sure as hell don’t like cops.”

Dixon leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “I’m worried that Rose could be in danger,” he murmured.

Bing stiffened and his eyes narrowed. “How?” he asked.

Dixon took a calculated risk. “You remember when she first showed up here twelve years ago?”

The Marine didn’t respond.

“Someone had tried to kill her. Maman Renée took care of her.” Dixon watched Bing’s expression.

“So you say,” the man responded, shrugging.

Dixon studied Bing as he finished his coffee. “You’re here every day?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Bing said forcefully. “And I keep an eye on things, too.”

“I could use your help, watching out for Rose,” Dixon said. “I can’t be here all the time.”

Bing’s expression didn’t soften one bit. “You say a lot, mister, but you ain’t said who you are or why Rose is your business.”

Dixon stood and slid a five-dollar bill under the empty mug. “I’m a cop, just like you figured. Detective Dixon Lloyd, Homicide.” He took out his wallet and showed Bing his badge. “But I’m working undercover. Nobody—nobody—can know I’m on the job. Rose’s safety is at stake.”

“Then why’re you telling me?”

“Because you protected her. As soon as I asked you about Maman Renée, you made me as a cop and you wouldn’t tell me anything. Can I count on you to keep an eye on her and let me know if you see anyone or anything suspicious?”

Bing nodded. They exchanged phone numbers and Dixon held out his hand.

Bing eyed it suspiciously. “I’m gonna watch out for Rose. I do anyway. And I’ll call you if I see anything. But I swear, Lloyd, if you put her in harm’s way, you’ll answer to me.”

“Understood,” Dixon said.

Bing eyed him for another couple of seconds, then he shook his hand.

Dixon walked back down the street toward Maman Renée’s shop. Once her student was gone, he’d knock on the door and ask the questions that had burned inside him for twelve years.

How had she escaped from her attacker? Where had she gone? And why had she never come forward to let her family and the police know she was alive?

Her murder case—Dixon’s first homicide—was the only case he’d never managed to solve. In the past twelve years, he’d earned a reputation in NOPD. They called him The Closer, and now he finally had the chance to earn the title. Before this week was out, he planned to close the case the press had dubbed The Beauty Queen Murder.

ROSE BOHÉME CLOSED the front door behind Mignon after warning her to go straight home. She smiled to herself. The eight-year-old had been taking piano lessons for only three weeks, and already she could sight-read five easy pieces. If she kept on like that, Rose wouldn’t be able to keep up with her for much longer.

As she climbed the wooden staircase to the apartment above, a flash of light from the window blinded her.

She froze in nameless terror as red amorphous afterimages of the flash seared into her brain.

A second later, rationality overcame the fear. She took a long, slow breath and glanced toward the uncurtained front window. Something metallic, maybe just the foil from a cigarette package or gum wrapper, had caught the late-afternoon sun.

She could hear Maman’s voice in her head, chiding her. Breathe easy, ma ‘tite. Just forget all that’s gone before. Maman put a spell on this house, keep you safe.

But behind the sweet memory of Maman’s voice lurked other unsettling voices, scurrying around the back of her mind with susurrus whispers that haunted her dreams.

Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. She pressed her fingers against her suddenly pounding temple and shook her head.

Stop it. Rose closed her eyes and listened for Maman’s soothing words again, but the ghostly hissing drowned out all other sound.

Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.

Pain throbbed in rhythm with the voices. Pressing her fingers against her temple seemed to help. As she massaged the sore place near her hairline, her stomach rumbled.

Of course. She was hungry. That was all that was wrong with her. She hadn’t eaten at all today. She thought about the gumbo she’d made this morning. That’s what she needed. A big bowl of gumbo and some of the French bread she’d bought. Then she’d go to bed so she could get an early start tomorrow.

Just as she headed back up the stairs, a knock at the door made her jump.

Mignon? Surely not. She should have made it home by now. Rose retraced her steps, squinting against the sunlight, and flipped the light switch near the bottom of the stairs. She unlocked the door, leaving the chain on.

“Mignon?” she started before she saw the looming shadow of the man who stepped forward. “Oh,” she said, then, “the shop is closed.”

“Hold it.” He stuck his foot between the door and the facing as a glint of light on metal flashed in her eyes.

She recoiled with a cry before she realized that the shiny object he held was a badge.

“New Orleans Police, ma’am,” the man said in a low, gruff voice.

“Police?” She put a hand to her racing heart. “Has something happened to Mignon?” she rasped.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Detective Lloyd. Dixon Lloyd. I need to ask you some questions.”

Rose opened the door to the maximum width allowed by the chain and looked up at him. He was tall, three or four inches taller than her five feet eight inches. His eyes were hooded.

The badge he held reflected the waning sunlight off its burnished surface.

Rose blocked the reflection with her hand, wishing he would put the thing away. What could the police want with her? She hadn’t done anything, had she? “I’m sure you have the wrong address,” she said.

“No. I have the right address. You are Rose Bohème, right?” His voice was firm, commanding.

He knew her name. Oh, this was not good. “Yes,” she said, working for just the right tone of mild interest and slight impatience. “What is this about?”

“Could I come in, please?” he asked, only it didn’t really sound like a request. The commanding tone was still there.

“Of course.” She tried to keep the stress out of her voice as she unlatched the chain and held the door open. He stepped past her into the foyer, filling it up with his height and his broad shoulders. He brought with him the smell of sunlight, wind and the street.

She sent a glance up and down the sidewalks. Curtains fluttered and a couple of doors slammed shut. She smiled wryly as she closed the door but left it unlocked. People on this end of Prytania Street didn’t like cops. She’d have a lot of questions to answer tomorrow.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked, studying his shadowed face and wishing she’d replaced the second bulb in the foyer fixture. The single pale globe did little more than create eerie shadows along the dusty, bottle-lined shelves and counters of Maman’s shop.

The detective didn’t answer her. His head turned as he checked around him. Rose didn’t like the imperious way he took in the entire room with one sweeping glance and then dismissed it. The only thing that seemed to catch his attention was the stairs. His head tilted as he looked up to the top of them.

“Is there somewhere we can sit?” he asked.

Rose considered saying no. He’d dismissed Maman’s shop as beneath his notice, so she didn’t feel the need to be even nominally polite. As she opened her mouth to speak, he turned his dark eyes to meet hers.

She looked away. The throbbing in her head increased, flaring into a hot, bright pain. Her personal warning system. This detective wasn’t here to ask about some crime or other that had happened in the neighborhood.

He was here for her.

So this was it—the day Rose had dreaded for ever since she could remember. The police had come for her and she had no idea why.

Her entire body tensed as awful, encompassing fear blanketed her. She felt helpless and lost, like she had twelve years ago when she’d woken up to stare blankly at a wizened woman who was wrapping her cuts in soft white bandages.

It took all her strength not to bolt past Detective Lloyd out the door. She clenched her fists and the skin of the scar that ran along her hairline and down her cheek stretched as she frowned. She consciously relaxed her features until she could no longer feel her skin drawing.

“It’s okay,” he said, watching her closely. “We can talk standing here if you’d rather not allow me upstairs.”

His tone worried her and those eyes were positively searing. Was she acting suspiciously? “No, no. Please, come in.”

She ascended the stairs, conscious of his heavier, masculine footsteps, his eyes boring into her back and his thoughts, which of course she couldn’t read, swirling around her. At least that’s how she imagined them.

At the top of the stairs she stepped aside and turned on the landing light. Then she led the way into Maman’s living room, where the curtains were open and the waning sunlight was brighter than downstairs.

The detective stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room before he entered. Rose squirmed as she looked at the furniture through his eyes. The green velvet chairs and the old burgundy brocade couch looked threadbare, not fit even for Goodwill. Its frame was in good shape, though, sturdy.

The grand piano’s gloss was dazzling under the light, but big and little finger smudges marred the surface.

Fingerprints. Her hands began to tremble. She tried to relax them, but despite her effort they clenched into fists. Her gaze darted back to the piano. Her gloves were there, where she’d removed them for Mignon’s lesson.

“P-please sit,” she said unsteadily, unwrapping her fingers and gesturing toward the couch. She walked over to the piano and picked up the black lace fingerless gloves and slipped them on as unobtrusively as she could. She perched on the edge of the piano bench and clasped her hands in her lap.

The detective sat down on a chair and turned it to face the piano bench. Then he leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, which were mere inches from hers. He sat there, saying nothing, his gaze on her hands—her gloves. It took all her strength not to hide them behind her back like a child.

After what seemed like an eternity, he shifted his gaze to his badge, regarding it as if he’d forgotten he was still holding it. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Rose tried to concentrate on studying him instead of wondering what he was thinking about her. She noticed what she hadn’t seen at the door or in the dim light of the shop downstairs.

Detective Lloyd was very well-dressed. Her interest piqued, she assessed him with the eye of an experienced fortune-teller. Maman had taught her that understanding people was all in the subtle details. Rose had a feeling that knowing as much as possible about this detective might be a good idea.

His clothes weren’t expensive, but he wore them well. His broad, straight shoulders told her he was proud and confident. A large watch that must have cost a significant portion of his salary rode across his left wrist, its face canted toward his thumb. No wasted effort. He could glance at its face without having to stop and cock his wrist.

His brilliant white shirt was long-sleeved, its cuffs shot perfectly beneath the lightweight sport coat. One edge of his right cuff was beginning to fray. He was frugal, or at least not wasteful, but a faint crease across the shirtfront indicated that he didn’t bother with washing his clothes. He had them laundered and folded.

He appeared lean and hard. His thighs were long and lean beneath the dress pants.

His hands were nice. Large and well-shaped, with long, spatulate fingers and short, clean nails. According to Maman, those types of fingers indicated a pragmatic and dedicated person who viewed their work as their top priority. That fit with what she’d already gleaned from his appearance.

The watch was his only accessory and his only indulgence. He didn’t even wear a ring. She stared at the fourth finger on his left hand, shifting slightly so that the light caught it at a different angle. Nope. As far as she could tell, he’d never worn a wedding band.

“Ma’am?”

She forced her gaze away from his hands and looked at him, with what she hoped was polite but mild curiosity.

“As I said, I’m looking into an unsolved murder case from several years ago.” He fished a small notepad and a pen out of his inside jacket pocket.

“An—unsolved murder?” she rasped. “Whose?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the pad and studied a page for a few seconds. Then he raised his head and fixed her with that dark, sharp gaze. “Now, is it true that you call yourself Rose Bohème?”

## Chapter Two

You call yourself Rose Bohème.

The words sent fear twisting in her gut like a knife blade. Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking about sharp, shiny, deadly things. A shudder quaked through her.

“Rose Bohème,” he said again, his tone suggesting that he didn’t believe it was her real name. “How do you spell that exactly?”

She met his gaze and lifted her chin. Suddenly she felt mean. He’d barged into her home without an explanation and dismissed Maman’s little shop as beneath his notice. She added arrogant and overbearing to his list of attributes. He didn’t deserve a straight answer.

“R-O-S-E,” she said sweetly.

His left brow shot up and a dark glint sparked in his eyes. “Thank you. Now your last name,” he said evenly.

She bit her lip. He was smooth. “Bohème. B-O-H-E-M-E.”

Detective Lloyd wrote on his notepad. “Like gypsy,” he muttered.

“That’s right,” she said, shifting on her perch. “You had questions for me? I’m sure I don’t know anything about an old murder.”

The detective gave her an odd, knowing look. Did he think she was lying? “How long have you lived here?” he asked.

“More than ten years.” Rose crossed her arms. “Was the murder in this neighborhood? Because the only killing I recall was when Gilbert Carven shot a burglar who’d climbed in his window, but that was—”

Detective Lloyd waved a hand. “Please, let me ask the questions. I noticed the sign out front. Is Maman Renée here?”

“No,” she said, blinking against the sudden, familiar sting of tears at the back of her eyes. “She died five months ago.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

The stock phrase uttered in a monotone made Rose angry and dried up her tears instantaneously. “How kind of you,” she said icily.

He looked up from his notebook. “I know it can be hard when you lose someone close. Exactly what relation was she to you?”

She hadn’t expected that question. Here in the neighborhood, everyone knew them. She didn’t recall anyone ever asking her or Maman about their actual relationship.

“She was my … my …” She stopped. She couldn’t say mother. That was too easily checked. So was aunt. “… cousin,” she finally said, wincing at how weak her answer was.

“Your cousin,” Lloyd repeated sarcastically.

“Once removed on my … my mother’s side,” she embellished lamely, then bit her lip. She shouldn’t have said mother. Don’t ask me my mother’s name, she begged silently.

“The house is still listed in her name.”

Rose’s shoulders hunched as her muscles drew in protectively. This supercilious detective had a habit of stating facts in a way that made her defensive.

Why was he asking about her and Maman? The last thing she wanted was to have the police delving into why she hadn’t done anything about Maman’s will.

“I fail to see how that has anything to do with an old murder,” Rose said archly.

“Is there some reason you think it does?” the detective shot back.

Okay, that did it. She didn’t like Detective Lloyd at all. He was pompous and rude. He hadn’t even tried to hide his distaste of Maman’s quaint little shop. Now he was ignoring her questions. Well, if he wasn’t going to answer hers, why should she answer his?

She stood. “I’m not sure how I can help you, Detective. Your questions are awfully intrusive, considering that they can’t possibly have anything to do with the murder you say you’re investigating. Now, I’m busy, if you don’t mind.”

“Actually I do,” he said, looking up at her. He relaxed more deeply into the couch. “I have only a couple more questions.”

Rose stood there, arms crossed, staring at him. His hair was black, so shiny it looked blue under the overhead light. From this angle she could tell that his eyes were blue—a deep, almost navy blue. She’d never seen eyes like that before. She tried to remember if Maman had ever talked about what kind of person had navy blue eyes.

“Ms. Bohème?”

She blinked. “What?”

“I said, why don’t you sit down? I won’t be much longer.”

“I’ll stand, thank you.” She turned toward the window, giving him her profile.

From the corner of her eye she saw him shrug and lean back against the couch cushions. “Fine. Does the name Rosemary Delancey mean anything to you?”

Delancey? Shock sizzled through her, down to her fingers and toes. The painful throbbing in her temple flared again and the susurrus voices that were always there in the back of her brain rose in volume.

Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss, RISSSHHHH ROZZZZZSSS! The words reverberated inside Rose’s head, keeping perfect time with the throbbing in her temple. She squeezed her eyes shut.

What had he asked? Something about Delancey.

His hand touched hers. She jumped and jerked away. How had he gotten so close to her without her hearing or seeing him?

“Ma’am?” he said. “Have you ever heard the name Rosemary Delancey?”

“No,” she snapped hoarsely. “Never.”

She hadn’t. So why were the voices bothering her? And why did her pulse throb in her throat as if she were lying?

Detective Dixon Lloyd’s gaze burned against her closed lids. “No? Are you telling me you don’t recognize the Delancey name?” he asked, the tone of his voice demanding that she open her eyes.

“Well, y-yes,” she stammered. “Of course I recognize the name. Everyone in Louisiana knows about Con Delancey. But I don’t … I don’t know any of them.” She peered up at him. “Should I? Was it a Delancey who was murdered?”

“Yes,” he said, still holding her gaze.

“But …” She was having trouble focusing her thoughts. The voices were getting louder, loud enough to drown out all other sound. She rubbed her temple and grimaced.

“What about Lyndon Banker?”

She frowned. “Banker? What?” She had no idea what he’d said.

“The name Lyndon Banker. Do you recognize it?”

Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.

“Are you all right?”

His words barely rose above the hissing in her head. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples and squeezed. It seemed to help.

After a moment, she answered him. “Yes, I’m fine. What did you say about a bank?”

“Forget that.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

Her eyes followed the bright metal of his watch. She noticed that it stayed in place on his wrist.

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything about a murder?”

“The murder happened around here?”

“Actually, it happened just off St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District, about six blocks from here. Twelve years ago.”

“Twelve …” The vision of Maman unwinding blood-soaked bandages assaulted her.

“Where were you twelve years ago?”

Rose turned her back on him and walked over to the window, looking out onto Prytania Street. She saw the old neon signs, the flickering lights from the curtained windows, the shadows on the window shades. Her neighbors, her friends.

She loved this neighborhood, this house. It was home. She hugged herself. “I was here,” she murmured. “With Maman. I was safe.”

She felt the detective’s burning gaze on her back. She heard his footsteps as he approached. Then she heard the rustling of cloth and felt something—warmth or energy—emanating from his body.

When he spoke, his voice was too close, too quietly intimate. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.

She whirled and almost hit him, he was that close. She tried to step backward but her heel hit the baseboard. She flattened her palms against the wall behind her.

“Sure about what?” she asked. Where she was or if she was safe? “I don’t understand these questions. What does any of this have to do with me?” she cried.

“Think about the name. Rosemary Delancey,” he said calmly, then leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Rosemary,” drawing out the S.

Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. The whispers blended with his voice, swirling around her in a singsong rhythm. “I—don’t—know—anything about—Rosemary Delancey,” she bit out, suppressing the urge to squeeze her temples between her hands again.

“I think you do,” he said, staring down at her. He lifted a hand toward her hair.

She recoiled, alarm rising in her chest. She slid sideways, away from him. “Get away from me,” she cried.

He stepped backward, regarding her narrowly. His jaw tensed. “Rosemary,” he said. “Say it. Rosemary.”

“Stop it!” She squeezed her head again. “I don’t know that name. Why are you doing this?” Her temple throbbed again.

“I think you know why,” he said quietly.

Rose’s temper burst into flame. “Leave me alone! I don’t know anything! I never heard of her!”

Detective Lloyd’s eyebrows went up. “That’s surprising, because she was someone who should have meant a lot to you.”

“Why? How?” Rose asked, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket in her fist and shaking it. “Stop playing with me and tell me what you want me to say.”

Dixon Lloyd looked down at Rose’s hand on his arm. It was a pretty hand, with long slender fingers and short unpainted nails. Nails that didn’t go with the image stored in his head, but then, nothing about this woman matched up with the twenty-two-year-old girl he’d come to know.

He focused on the black fingerless lace gloves she’d put on as soon as she’d been able to get to the piano to retrieve them. Were they an affectation, along with the long flowing skirt and blouse? Was she trying to perpetrate a witchlike image, similar to the seventies and eighties pop icon Stevie Nicks? Or was all that gauzy feminine garb hiding something—like knife scars?

The thought surprised him. Then, as he considered it, a queasy anger turned his stomach.

Swallowing against the queasiness, he turned his attention to her face and studied her up close for the first time. Most interesting was a long scar that started at the level of her right brow and traveled jaggedly down her cheek to her jawline. The shriveled skin drew her mouth slightly on the right side and caused her right eye to slant upward.

His stomach turned over. Scars. Of course. That’s why her face seemed off. The photo he’d carried in his wallet all these years was of a pretty girl with good bones and the promise of classic beauty once she matured. She’d been barely twenty-two when she’d died. Disappeared, he corrected himself.

Now the scar, along with the character that came with age, made her face much more interesting. Still lovely. If possible, even more fascinating. Certainly no longer a Stepford beauty queen. She was stunning. Stunning and mysterious, a dangerous combination.

“—unless you explain,” she was saying.

“What?” He’d missed most of what she’d just said.

“What do you mean what? Everything. Why you’re here. Who Rosemary Delancey is. Why you think any of this has anything to do with me.”

She tossed her answer at him as a challenge, but Dixon didn’t think she was nearly as brave as her words sounded. Her face was pallid, her eyes were becoming damp and a fine trembling shimmered through her.

He steeled himself against her tears. She’d stayed hidden all this time—why? Because of the scar? He could understand a young debutante not wanting to be seen in public with what must have seemed like a hideous facial deformity.

But Rosemary Delancey was thirty-four now. Was she still so vain? Or was she afraid of whoever had attacked her? Whatever the reason she hadn’t come forward, she knew now that the gig was up.

It was time to hit her with the facts and gauge her reaction.

“Okay,” he said, holding up one finger. “First, Rosemary Delancey was the victim of a violent attack twelve years ago. She lost so much blood that the medical examiner concluded that she could not have survived. But that conclusion couldn’t be verified because her body was never found.”

He held up a second finger. “Second, I’m here because someone recognized you.”

Rose’s amber-colored eyes went wide, whites showing around the iris. Her face drained of color. She pressed a hand against her chest, which rose and fell rapidly. “Recognized me?” she croaked.

Dixon was surprised at her obvious terror. He knew it was real. No one could fake that sudden pallor. But if she was that afraid of being found, why did she live only a few blocks from where she was attacked? Why hadn’t she left the city? Or gone back to her family? If anyone could make her feel safe, it was the Delanceys, wasn’t it? He filed that question away to think about later.

He continued, holding up a third finger. “Finally, why should it matter to you? I would think that the answer to that question is obvious, Miss Delancey.”

Her hands flew to her mouth. She moaned. Her face turned from palest pink to sickly green and her eyelids fluttered rapidly. Then her pupils rolled up and she collapsed into his arms.

Dixon caught her barely in time to keep her from crumpling to the floor. He struggled to hold on to her limp body. He’d deliberately baited her, throwing the name at her, and he’d been prepared for an explosive reaction—maybe even a violent one. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d hit him or tried to run away, but he sure hadn’t expected her to faint.

“Hey, Rosemary,” he murmured, close to her ear, as he slid his arm around her back to get a better hold on her until he could move her to the couch. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Her limbs went from rag doll–limp to stiff as boards in less than a second. “Let me go,” she cried hoarsely, pushing at his biceps and scrambling to her feet.

He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and gave her the once-over to be sure she was actually awake before he loosened his grip.

Immediately, she teetered, but when he reached out to steady her, she threw her palms up and stumbled backward. “I want you out—of here,” she demanded breathlessly.

He studied her. She was still pale—her skin looked translucent, but the greenish hue was gone and pink splotches were growing in her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

“Not until I’m sure you’re all right.”

“Of course I’m not—all right,” she exclaimed. “You come—barging in here—making accusations—”

He arched a brow at her choice of words. “Accusations? I’m not accusing you of anything—yet. I’m a police detective. All I’m doing is asking questions, Miss Delancey.”

“Stop calling me that!” she snapped. “Why are you doing this?”

Dixon frowned at her. “I’m trying to get to the truth about what happened the night you were attacked. How did you get away? Why have you never come forward? Never contacted your family to let them know you’re alive? Is it because you’re afraid of your family?”

Rose gaped at him and her fingertips whitened against the back of the chair. Her other hand brushed at the scar that ran along her hairline and down her cheek. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

As he watched her, a seed of doubt took root inside him. What if she was being honest? What if she really didn’t know what he was talking about?

What if she really didn’t remember?

He didn’t believe in amnesia. There were instances where people who had been through a traumatic event might not remember the specifics, but full-blown amnesia—forgetting everything about one’s life? Nope, he didn’t buy it.

But Rosemary looked completely dumbfounded. Her wide eyes were filled with terror. Could anyone fake that kind of fear?

“Okay, then,” he said, more gently than he’d spoken to her yet. “Tell me about Rose Bohème. Who are you? Where were you born? Where did you go to school? And how did you get that scar?”

Rose jerked her hand away from the side of her head and lifted her chin indignantly. “You have no right …” But her voice faded.

“Rosemary, what happened to you?” he said gently.

Her lips thinned and her eyes glittered with tears. “Please, go away. Please, leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that. You are Rosemary Delancey, aren’t you? Twelve years ago you were attacked in your apartment. Tell me what happened that night.”

She blinked, and the tears that had been clinging to her lashes streamed down her cheeks. She shook her head. “I can’t. I don’t know. I don’t—”

“How did you get away from your attacker?”

“Get away?” More tears fell. She swiped at them with trembling hands.

Dixon turned away and paced back and forth. He wasn’t by nature a bully, although he could be as tough as he needed to be with reluctant suspects. But he didn’t know how much longer he could keep hammering away at this seemingly fragile, terrified woman. He felt like a bully.

He stopped at the window and stared out at the quiet street. If she was acting, her performance was Oscar-worthy. He turned and stared at her for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me what you remember?” he asked gently.

She wiped tears away again. She looked at the couch and perched on the cushion’s edge, then stood again and wrapped her arms about herself. She looked miserable, cornered.

Dixon had a sudden, unfamiliar urge to go to her, take her hands in his and promise her that everything was going to be all right. He’d comforted victims and families many times, but he’d never wanted to. It had always felt awkward and insincere. He knew—all too well—that a pat on the hand and a there, there, was totally useless when someone’s life was in tatters.

“You have to go,” she muttered, standing there with her fists clenched and her eyes blazing like imperial topaz. “Get out of here.”

“Rosemary,” he said. “A terrible thing happened to you, but—”

“Get out!” she shrieked, flailing her lace-covered fists. “Get out now! Or I’ll call the police!”

“Hey.” He put out a hand toward her. When had she gone from terrified to hysterical? “It’s okay. Remember I showed you my badge? I’m a police detective.”

“I’ll do it!” she screamed, her eyes glittering wildly. “I’ll call 911. I’ll tell them you assaulted me!” She turned toward a table on the opposite side of the room, near the piano, and Dixon saw the telephone there. Her purse was sitting next to it. He beat her to it.

“Okay,” he said, holding up his palms. “You’ve had a shock tonight. I’ll leave, for now.”

He stayed between her and the telephone as he glanced inside her purse. “But first, I’m going to give you my cell phone number. Okay?” He eyed her carefully.

Her eyes were still wild and her face was unbearably pale except for the pink splotches, but she didn’t move as he dug in her purse.

“That’s my—” she started, but he silenced her with a gesture.

“All I’m going to do is call my number from your phone. Then you’ll have my number and you can call me if you need me, okay?”

She put her fingers to her left temple and rubbed, squinting at him. “I want you to go!” she said, her voice rising again.

“Okay, okay.” He touch-dialed his number on her keypad, then hit the stop button once his phone began to ring. “There,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Now you have my number and I have yours. Listen to me, Rosema—Rose. Remember my name. It’s Dixon. Dixon Lloyd. I’m not here to hurt you. I want to protect you. I want to help you find your way home.”

Her face changed so abruptly that Dixon was afraid she was going to faint again. The fear and agitation drained away. Her eyes softened and filled with tears. She pressed her hands together, prayerlike, and touched her fingertips to her lips.

“Find my way home?” she whispered.

## Chapter Three

Home. The word from the detective’s mouth penetrated like a ray of light into Rose’s clouded heart. For an instant, hope blossomed in her chest.

“Home,” she mouthed, afraid to actually put voice to the word again, lest saying it might destroy it.

Then she met Dixon Lloyd’s gaze and saw a glint of triumph lighten his dark blue eyes. He was playing on her emotions, trying to catch her off guard.

She straightened and lifted her chin. “I am home. I don’t want your help and—” she drew in a breath that caught in a sob “—and I don’t need your—protection.” She crossed her arms. “I want you to get—out!”

She dug her short fingernails into her arms and glared at him until he lowered his gaze and dropped her cell phone back into her purse. He looked at her again, started to speak, then apparently thought better of it. He walked past her out of the living room.

His footsteps echoed and faded as he descended the stairs. For a couple of seconds, there was silence. Rose stiffened and held her breath, listening, until she heard the front door open and close. She let out a careful sigh, and winced as the throbbing in her head flared again.

He’d nearly caught her off guard with his clever mention of home. But how? Why had the word affected her so?

What she’d told him was true, as far as it went. Maman’s house was her home. It had been for the past twelve years.

But before that …

Rose closed her eyes against the pulse that beat painfully in her temple. She needed to follow Detective Lloyd and make sure he’d left, then lock the door and put the chain on, but she couldn’t face the stairs. The headache was making her feel light-headed. She needed a migraine pill.

She made her way to her bedroom and swallowed a tablet without water. Turning out the light, she lay on the bed in the dark for a few minutes until the pounding in her head ebbed from horrific to nearly bearable.

Finally, shading her eyes with her hand, she forced herself to stand and make her way carefully down the stairs.

When she checked the door, she found that the detective had thrown the latch. She locked the dead bolt and put the chain on, then slowly climbed the stairs again. She made her way into the kitchen. She fumbled in the cabinet for a box of crackers and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. She took the food into her bedroom, where she forced herself to eat the crackers and drink a few sips of soda. The chilled cola eased her stomach a bit. She lay down and tried to relax, but she wasn’t strong enough to hold the nightmare memories at bay.

Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. The whispers took eerie, ghost-like form and swirled around her like banshees. Blood fell like rain, washing over her vision and bringing with it the sharp, bright glint of light on slashing metal.

She moaned and covered her head with a pillow.

A long time later, the silvery flashes faded along with the whispers, and Maman’s soothing voice slid into her dreams, soothing the pounding in her head and erasing the vision of the slashing, searing knives.

DIXON WALKED AROUND the outside of Rose’s home, assuring himself that all of her lights were out. He glanced at his watch. It was only eight-thirty. He waited a few more minutes, to be sure she hadn’t turned them out in preparation for going out. But the house remained dark and quiet.

When he’d come down the stairs, he’d expected her to be nipping at his heels, making sure he left. But she hadn’t followed. He didn’t like that she’d trusted him to leave.

However, because she hadn’t followed him, he’d had a couple of seconds to check out the official-looking form he’d noticed on the foyer table when he’d first come in. He’d scanned it quickly, with the help of the high-intensity laser light on his keychain. The form was a permit renewal for a vendor space on St. Ann Street, signed by Rose Bohème.

The name on the form was Renée Pettitpas, but the renewal date was after Maman Renée’s death. A thrill ran through him as he realized what he was looking at. He glanced back toward the stairs, then back to the form.

Judging by the diagram, the space appeared to be right in front of the praline shop. Dixon had walked by that small square of land dozens, maybe scores of times in the past twelve years. Had Rose been there every time? How had he not noticed the beautiful black-haired gypsy reading her tarot cards or holding a customer’s palm?

He was at once gratified and disappointed that he hadn’t sensed her there. Disappointed because he might have been able to close her case years earlier, but gratified that he wasn’t so in tune with Rosemary Delancey that he could have actually sensed her presence in the middle of bright, busy Jackson Square.

Now he reluctantly headed for his Dodge Charger. He felt an irritating compulsion to stay all night and watch over her. Her reaction to his questions about her attack had worried him. But when she’d threatened to call 911, he’d been forced to acknowledge that the last thing he wanted was to find himself explaining to local uniformed police why he was harassing her.

And for damn sure he didn’t want Ethan to know what he was doing. Rosemary Delancey was his partner’s first cousin, and in his family’s minds, she’d been dead for twelve years. Dixon didn’t want to give them false hope or listen to Ethan telling him how gullible he was to believe a broken-down addict looking to score a few perks in prison.

He was going to need more proof than her terror and his obsession before he turned the Delanceys’ lives upside down. He tried not to think about what he was doing to her carefully insulated life.

Glancing back at the house once more, he noticed that the faded sign was rocking slightly in the wind. Maman Renée, Vodun, Potions, Fortunes.

Rose had lived here, safely hidden away. It was arrogant to assume that now that he’d found her, she wouldn’t be safe without him.

FIFTEEN MINUTES FROM the time he drove away from Renée Pettitpas’s two-story shotgun house, Dixon was sitting on the cracked, uneven patio of the home he’d bought out of foreclosure four years ago. He’d finally decided two things at age thirty-two: he wasn’t the marrying kind, and renting was like tossing his money into the Mississippi River.

He leaned back in the teak chair and took a sip of the brandy he’d chosen instead of a beer.

He swirled the snifter, admiring its amber color in the reflection of the goldfish pool lights. Amber—the color of Rosemary Delancey’s eyes.

He’d stood in front of her less than an hour ago, and yet now, the whole experience almost seemed like a dream. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure up the vision of her at twenty-two. The girl whose image had soaked into his brain like her blood had soaked into the hardwood floor of her apartment. But that innocent, smiling girl no longer existed.

Now all he could see was midnight-black hair, shocking in contrast to her dark red brows, the ugly scar that only made her face more interesting and fascinating, the casual flowing clothes that he was sure Rosemary Delancey, debutante and Carnival Queen, had never even considered wearing.

He shifted in his chair and reached for his wallet.

“No,” he said out loud, stopping himself. He stood and picked up the jar of fish food sitting on the glass-topped table beside him.

“Here you go, Pete, Louie. Remember I told you about Rosemary Delancey?”

Louis Armstrong and Pete Fountain, his goldfish, were much more interested in the food he tossed them than his conversation.

“Come on, Louie, you remember. My first homicide. She was the Carnival Queen?” He took a sip of brandy, trying to forget about the photo in his wallet. He didn’t want to look at her twenty-two-year-old face. He was no longer obsessed with that girl anymore. That pretty debutante was dead.

“You ought to see her,” he told Louis. “She walks like she’s on a runway. Her hair is black as night, but those eyes …” He held up the glass of brandy. “See how the pool lights hit the brandy? That’s the exact color of her eyes.”

Louis gulped down the last of the food floating on the surface of the pool, turned sideways and gave Dixon a sour look, then headed for deeper water.

Pete was still swimming around, looking for one more morsel. Dixon was pretty sure Pete wouldn’t appreciate hearing about Rose Bohème’s attributes. She was already jealous of Louis. As if she could hear Dixon’s thoughts, Pete flipped her tail and disappeared beneath the philodendron leaves that floated on the pool’s surface.

He smiled wryly and finished his brandy. “Don’t be jealous, Pete. I doubt you’ll have to worry about her. You’ll probably never meet her.”

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. His pulse jumped. Could it be Rose calling him? But when he looked at the display, he saw that it was Ethan.

He sighed and answered. “Hey, what’s up?” He really didn’t want to go out on a job this late. Not when he planned to be up before dawn tomorrow.

“Nothing,” Ethan said, and Dixon breathed a sigh of relief.

“I just wanted to double check about the time tomorrow.”

“Time?” he echoed as he turned off the pool lights and headed inside.

“Were you asleep?” Ethan asked.

“No. What about the time?”

“The Saints’s scrimmage? That you wanted to go to?” Ethan said. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“The—” Dixon stopped. He had forgotten. “Sorry, I can’t go,” he said. “Something’s come up.”

Ethan was quiet for a split second. “Something’s come up since this morning?” he snapped. “What the hell?”

Dixon thought fast. “It’s Dee. She needs me to—to move some stuff.” He winced. He didn’t like lying to his partner, but what was he going to tell him? I’ll be busy chasing down a lead on your dead cousin? Yeah, that would work.

“Right. Your sister is insisting that you change your plans to help her. That’s so like Dee,” Ethan said flatly. It wasn’t a question. It was a very sarcastic, disgusted statement.

“Come on, Ethan. You ought to understand family. Dee didn’t insist. She just looked so disappointed.” It was a low blow, playing the family card, but Dixon knew it would work with Ethan.

Another second of silence. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll see if Harte wants to go.”

“Why don’t you take that girl you’ve been dating?” Dixon suggested, hoping to redirect Ethan’s ire.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?”

Dixon laughed. “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise. What’d you do? Make her get her own drink?” Ethan had been going out with the daughter of a prominent New Orleans attorney. He’d complained about her being high-maintenance.

“No. I didn’t do anything.”

“She doesn’t like football, does she?”

Ethan muttered a curse word. “If it’s not cappuccino or designer shoes, she’s not interested. Have fun moving furniture.”

“Yeah,” Dixon said, and started to hang up, then he thought of something. “Hey, Delancey,” he said. “When your cousin died, she was living in her own apartment, right?”

“Dix, really? More questions about Rosemary? That T-Bo really got under your skin, didn’t he?” Ethan sighed. “Yes, she was living in her own apartment. Why?”

“I was wondering if there was any friction between her and her parents. Was that why she left home?”

He heard Ethan sigh. “I have no idea. Anything else?”

“Nope,” Dixon said and hung up. He scrubbed a hand down his face as he set the phone on its charging station. Eventually he was going to have to tell Ethan that his cousin Rosemary was alive and living less than six blocks from where she was attacked.

Dixon headed through the kitchen to his bedroom. He needed to get to sleep. It was after ten, and 5:00 a.m. would come way too soon.

Once in bed, he tried to clear his mind so he could fall asleep, but just as he was about to drift off, the vision of the twenty-two-year-old Carnival Queen rose in his inner vision, then slowly, it morphed into the fascinatingly beautiful face of Rose Bohème.

Gone was the pretty debutante who’d haunted him for twelve years. It was Rose Bohème, the woman, who needed him now. He would be there tomorrow, in Jackson Square. And tomorrow he wouldn’t miss her. Now that he’d found her, he didn’t plan to let her out of his sight until he’d solved the mystery of her apparent return from the dead.

ROSE GOT HER table set up by six o’clock. Today she was thankful that she’d crisscrossed the tiny table’s top with ribbons to hold the tarot cards in place. The forecast only foretold a thirty-percent chance of rain, but it was already cloudy and the wind was blowing.

She’d braided her hair this morning, but a braid wasn’t going to cut it if the wind kept up, so she tucked the fat coils into a knit beret and anchored it with bobby pins.

Over the years she’d learned not to mind having her face exposed. Only a very few rude people and children asked about the scar. The children didn’t bother her. She explained to them that she’d had a bad accident many years ago.

Once she got her hair anchored, she pulled her wool knit shawl closer around her. Even in New Orleans, late-October mornings were chilly. She shivered and felt in her skirt pockets for her cold-weather gloves. She slipped them on, thankful that she’d tucked them there the previous weekend.

After her nightmarish night, she was lucky she’d made it here at all, much less remembered everything.

She rubbed her temple and pushed away the disturbing images from her dreams. Nights were bad enough since Maman had died. She was not going to let the visions and the voices intrude upon her days.

At least she’d gotten rid of that rude bully of a detective. Once she’d threatened to call 911, he’d beat feet out the door. It made her wonder if he was really a policeman at all.

An arrow of fear pierced her chest. Dear God, that must be it. He wasn’t really a detective. Sure, he’d showed her a badge, but she had no idea whether it had been real or not.

Her hands shook as she pulled the shawl closer around her. Whom had she let into her home? Whom had she allowed past the protective barrier Maman had provided so that Rose could feel safe?

Suddenly, she felt her careful control draining away. The faceless, nameless terror loomed—rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss, rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Only it was no longer faceless or nameless. The terror had blue-black hair and deep blue eyes. And its name was Dixon Lloyd.

“Yo, Mama. Hey?”

She jumped at the familiar voice. She blinked and realized she was staring at the tarot cards. She looked up.

It was Diggy Montgomery, a kid who danced on the street corner near her. “You okay?” He made a funny hip-hop gesture with his hands.

“I’m fine,” she said, dredging up a smile for him. “I like your hat.”

“Yeah.” He took it off and twirled it, then seated it back on his head. “I found it over on Canal. Blew off some rich dude’s head I bet. Wan’ some coffee?”

“I would love some,” she said, digging into her skirt pocket. She always gave him five dollars for a large cup of café au lait from the Café du Monde and never asked for change. His mother was a waitress there and she was pretty sure he got the coffee for nothing, but she didn’t care. He put sugar in it and brought it to her. That alone was well worth five bucks.

When he returned, he had the coffee plus a small paper bag. “Here you go, Mama. Enjoy.”

“Diggy, wait. Take another dollar,” she called, but he just executed a flawless circle, doing things with his sneaker-clad feet that she wouldn’t have believed could be done. Then he tipped the fedora, gave her a cocky grin and a mock salute, and said, “Naw, sugar. You look cold. Eat yo’ beignet. ‘S all good.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling. “Come back later and I’ll read your cards.”

He shook his head as he sashayed to his corner, tossed the hat onto the ground to collect tips and started his moves.

The tourists who were out this early were more interested in their places in line at the Café du Monde than getting their fortunes told, but Rose figured by noon, if it didn’t rain, she’d have more business than she could handle. After all, it was the week before Halloween. Between now and the first of the year was her most lucrative time.

DIXON PUT THE hood of his sweatshirt up and huddled in line, waiting for his turn to elbow his way up to the counter and get his café au lait. He wanted to sit down and have a plate of beignets, but he was anxious to find Rosemary.

Coffee in hand, he walked down St. Ann Street, sipping at the hot, sweet brew and trying to look like just another guy hanging out on Jackson Square on a Saturday.

Then he spotted her. She was dealing tarot cards, tucking each one under the ribbons that crisscrossed her table. She had on black knit gloves today—still fingerless, and she handled the cards like a shark.

Was the sight familiar? Had he seen her here before and not recognized her? He couldn’t be sure.

Watching her, he realized she wasn’t reading the cards so much as her customer. The woman was fortyish, tired-looking and obviously going against her husband’s wishes by having her cards read. She kept glancing over to where he leaned against the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the St. Louis Cathedral and the park named for Andrew Jackson, smoking a cigarette and glaring at her.

Periodically, he turned his head and yelled, “Get back over here,” at two little boys who seemed determined to feed their popcorn to a seagull.

Dixon was pretty sure even he could tell the woman’s fortune. She was in for another dozen years at least of taking care of her sons, being bullied by her husband and wishing she had more time to herself. But he doubted Rosemary was giving her such dire predictions.

Sure enough, after Rosemary pointed at several cards and talked seriously for a few minutes, the woman smiled and laid her hand on Rosemary’s arm. Rosemary blushed and smiled back, and the woman took out two bills and tucked them under the ribbons, earning her a dark look from the husband.

Dixon sat down on a bench next to a bored-looking punk with a dirty blond ponytail and drained his fast cooling coffee. He didn’t stare at Rosemary, but he kept an eye on her, not quite sure exactly what he was doing there. He only knew that it was important to him to be sure she was safe.

For the next three hours, he watched her reading cards and making people happy, judging by their reactions and the money they gave her. Apparently fortune-telling wasn’t a bad career, especially if the teller was a beautiful and mysterious gypsy.

## Chapter Four

Rose had long since draped her shawl across the back of her chair and exchanged her knit gloves for the black lace ones. The afternoon sun was much warmer than the forecasted seventy degrees.

She smiled and thanked the girl who slipped a twenty beneath the dark green ribbons on her little table. It had been easy to read the girl’s cards. She wore a small diamond on her left ring finger and her fiancé stood right beside her drinking an energy drink. The cards had reflected what Rose saw in their faces. They were in love and oblivious to the practicalities of marriage.

As the couple walked down St. Ann, looking at the artwork hanging on the fence that bordered Jackson Square, Rose unpinned the beret and let her braid hang free.

She looked around for Diggy, but he’d apparently taken a break or given up for the afternoon. Blotting sweat from her upper lip, she thought it would be worth that twenty she’d just earned to have him bring her a cold drink.

A shadow blocked the sun and fell across her face. She looked up. It was Dixon Lloyd. The detective—or not.

She gathered up her cards and began shuffling them, ignoring him until he set a cold bottle of water down on her table. It was covered in condensation, chilled drops sliding down the frosty plastic to pool on the table and soak into the dark green ribbons. Rosemary licked her lips.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I got it for you.”

She wanted to push the proffered bottle away, but her thirst won out over her indignation and yes, even her fear.

“Thank you,” she muttered ungratefully as she picked it up and twisted off the top. She drank nearly a third of it, stopping only when the cold threatened to give her a brain freeze.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, sitting down on the flimsy folding chair opposite her.

She set down the bottle and looked at him. “Are you stalking me?” she asked, proud of herself for her control after last night.

He shrugged. “One person’s stalker is another’s protector,” he said evenly.

Rosemary’s pulse raced at his words. “Protector?” she repeated drily, determined not to be afraid of him today. It was daylight and they were surrounded by people. Strangers … But surely if she needed help, at least one of them would come to her rescue. “I don’t think so. I think you’re trying to scare me. Well, it won’t work.”

“Tell my fortune,” he said, smiling at her.

She had to make a conscious effort to not let her mouth drop open. His smile stunned her. Without it, his dark blue eyes were unreadable. His face was a mask, with sardonically arched brows and a wide mouth that could curve ironically.

But his smile turned his navy eyes into warm blue pools, and his mouth from stern to boyish. She noticed that his nose was straight and short, adding to the boyishness of his face. Along with the smile, it instantly removed at least five years from her estimate of his age.

She frowned at him, feeling the skin stretch along her forehead and cheek. Her hand moved to brush the scar, but she stopped it. “All right,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll read your cards, but I have to warn you, I don’t guarantee happy endings.”

His smile stretched wider. “I’ll take my chances.”

She’d already studied and cataloged him last night, using the tools Maman had taught her. Now she thought about the kind of man she’d judged him to be, and decided that for him, happy little hints of the future wouldn’t do. Whether he would admit it or not, his challenge to her was to tell him exactly what she saw inside him. And that she would do.

She dealt the cards, surprised when the Fool turned up in position zero. Something Maman had said not long before she died echoed in her head.

Keep your heart open, ‘tite. When I’m gone, your safety will lie in the hands of the Fool.

He pointed at the Fool card without touching it. “That’s significant, isn’t it?”

Rose swallowed and rested the heels of her hands on the edge of the table. “Would you like to read your own fortune?” she asked drily.

He shook his head and waited, but his eyes twinkled. Twinkled!

“Every card is significant,” she said, starting her usual spiel. “Where they are is as important as what they are. The Fool in position zero indicates that—” she took a breath, wishing she could stop herself “—that you don’t have to search any longer. You already have everything you need. You’re standing on the threshold of a new life. All you have to do is make use of what you already know. But beware. If you become distracted from your primary goal, you’ll fail and lose everything.”

She felt his dark gaze on her the whole time she talked, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the Fool card. She’d wanted to skew his fortune—tell him that he should give up his current obsession, but that wasn’t in the cards, and she wasn’t able to make herself say anything but exactly what the cards foretold.

She started to gather them up, but he stopped her with his hand. She looked up at him, startled.

“My primary goal—what is it?” He angled his head, indicating the cards.

Rose looked at his large, warm hand on top of hers. Its heat sent warmth flowing through the lace into her skin, up her arm and through her entire body. Warmth and promise. One person’s stalker is another’s protector.

No. If he was the Fool, she’d take her chances on her own. She jerked her arm away. “I can’t tell you that. If you don’t know—”

He nodded slowly, still holding her gaze. “I know.” He took a long breath. “It’s you.”

Rose recoiled, aghast. “Stop this. I shouldn’t have …” She picked up her cards, stacked them quickly and shoved them into her large tote. “I have to go.”