The French Kiss Killer has returned

and has his next target in sight...

Detective Hunter Bergeron has two goals: find the French Kiss Killer and keep Helena Cosworth from becoming his next victim. Hunter and Helena share a past, and close proximity now only reignites their attraction. But with New Orleans on high alert, giving in to old feelings is a distraction neither can afford. Especially in the darkest corners of the Quarter.

JOANNA WAYNE began her professional writing career in 1994. Now, more than fifty published books later, Joanna has gained a worldwide following with her cutting-edge romantic suspense and Texas family series, such as Sons of Troy Ledger and Big “D” Dads. Joanna currently resides in a small community north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. You may write to Joanna at PO Box 852, Montgomery, TX 77356, or connect with her at joannawayne.com

Also by Joanna Wayne

Riding Shotgun

Quick-Draw Cowboy

Fearless Gunfighter

Dropping the Hammer

Trumped Up Charges

Unrepentant Cowboy

Hard Ride to Dry Gulch

Midnight Rider

Showdown at Shadow Junction

Ambush at Dry Gulch

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

New Orleans Noir

Joanna Wayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09423-8

NEW ORLEANS NOIR

© 2019 Jo Ann Vest

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To everyone who loves a south Louisiana mystery.

To my great friends who live there and to everyone

who has ever longed to visit New Orleans.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Prologue
Friday, March 15

Elizabeth Grayson jerked forward as the car skidded to a slippery stop. The deserted dirt road that had been barely passable before had suddenly disappeared, replaced by clumps of tall grass, deeper pockets of brown water and what appeared to be a wide stretch of swampland.

Her nerves grew edgy. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere we can finally be totally alone.” He flicked off the headlights.

“It’s pitch-black out here,” she murmured.

“Are you afraid of the dark or of being alone with me?” he teased, his voice deep and sexy, almost melting her anxious vibes.

“I’m never afraid when I’m with you.”

“That’s what I like to hear, baby. You always know how to please me.”

She loved the way he talked to her, as if she were his equal though he was older and much more mature than the high school boys she’d dated back home. The sloppy kisses of teenage boys never thrilled her the way his did. She’d never melted at their touch.

He killed the motor, then stretched his arm across the back of the seat and slipped it around her shoulders. “This is a favorite place of mine when I need to get away,” he said.

“Really? It seems so isolated.”

“I see it as private and a little forbidden,” he said, “but if it makes you nervous, I can drive back into town.”

“No. I don’t want to go back,” she answered quickly.

All she’d been able to think about for the past two days was seeing him again. She craved his touch and the way her body came alive when he slid his hands beneath her blouse or when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth.

Unfortunately, their making out had been limited to what they could manage in the back seat of his sports car parked behind a sleazy bar in a part of town she hadn’t known existed until a few nights ago. Even then she’d wanted more, but he’d held back. He’d wanted to wait until everything was right.

They’d met last Saturday night when Elizabeth had been out with a girlfriend who lived in Metairie. Her friend Melinda had managed to snare fake IDs for both of them before Elizabeth had flown to New Orleans to visit her great-aunt for spring break.

Melinda had already been tipsy by the time Elizabeth noticed the hunk of a man staring at her. He nodded when they made eye contact but didn’t approach them. When he smiled and left the bar, she followed him outside.

One hello in his deep, sexy voice and she was certain he was the most gorgeous and exciting man she’d ever met. She’d whispered her phone number into his ear as he opened the door to his black sports car.

He’d called the very next day. She’d thought of nothing but him since then.

He wasn’t driving the sports car tonight, but a mud-encrusted pickup truck more suitable for the terrain. He pulled a flashlight from the truck’s console and flicked it on as he climbed from behind the wheel. He reached behind the driver’s seat and picked up what appeared to be a blanket.

Her pulse went crazy. Spring break was almost over. She’d be flying back to Tulsa on Sunday and might never see him again. Her heart would surely break but how much worse would it be if she didn’t have this time with him tonight to treasure?

Complete privacy. And a blanket. They were surely going to make love. It would be the first time for her to go all the way. He would be experienced. He’d teach her all she needed to know.

He walked around the truck, opened her door and took her hand. She quivered in anticipation, ready for this in every way.

Aunt Ella still thought of Elizabeth as a kid and constantly warned her to be careful. As much as Elizabeth had hated lying to her tonight, she’d had no choice.

If her great-aunt could see her now, she’d be horrified. She would tell Elizabeth she was tempting disaster. The thought intensified Helena’s anxiety.

“Okay. I can tell you’re not ready,” he said, dropping her hand. “I obviously misread the signs.”

“You didn’t,” she assured him. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with you.” That much was true.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped out of the truck. The earth was damp, sucking like quicksand. The grass was almost to her knees, hiding anything that might be crawling beneath it. Like snakes. Or tarantulas.

He put a thumb beneath her chin and nudged until she faced him. He leaned over and his lips met hers. Desire pummeled her as heated juices seeped into the silky red panties she’d worn just for him.

She’d be a fool to do anything to spoil this moment. He wasn’t the man of her dreams. She’d never had dreams this good.

They walked for ten minutes or more, dodging spreading palmetto fronds, clumps of reeds and the exposed roots of cypress trees until they reached the slippery bank of a murky bayou.

The moon finally peeked from behind the clouds, providing enough illumination that he turned off the flashlight. A few yards farther and he took a different path, not stopping until they reached a slightly higher and dryer area. He dropped her hand and her insides quaked as he spread the blanket.

He kicked out of his shoes and lay down on his side, his right elbow supporting him so that he could meet her gaze. He opened his arms for her to join him.

She hesitated and scanned the area one last time. “Are you sure there are no snakes or alligators around here?” she asked.

“I guarantee you that before this night is over, you won’t be worried at all about snakes, alligators or any other creatures of the swamp. Now undress slowly so I can watch,” he said, an authoritative bent to his voice that hadn’t been there before. By the time she was totally naked, passion enflamed her.

She lay down beside him, anticipating heaven.

Instead she fell into the depths of hell.

Chapter One
Tuesday, September 18

Helena Cosworth gathered her luggage from the taxi and walked the short distance to an intricately designed seven-foot-high metal gate. She stood there for a moment, letting the familiarity seep into her tired bones until grief-crinkled memories invaded and dampened her spirit.

The historic French Quarter carriage house just beyond the gate had been her second home for as long as she could remember. Her mother had died when she was only five.

Her dad had been an oil and gas executive who went wherever he was needed. If the location wasn’t right for raising a daughter, she went to boarding schools in the States. Even when she lived with him, she spent most summers and many holidays in New Orleans with her energetic, fun-loving grandmother Mia.

During those visits, Mia had made her the center of her life and the adventure-laden Crescent City was their playground. The zoo, Audubon Park, the bustling Mississippi River, theater, trips down St. Charles Avenue on the cable car, parades galore. And the many hours spent in museums nurturing Helena’s passion for art.

The lifestyle wasn’t ideal by everyone’s standards, but it worked for them. When her father had died from a sudden heart attack a week before her high school graduation, she moved in with Mia and began her college career the following fall at Tulane University.

Helena reached to the keypad and punched in the code for the security system Mia had installed a few years back. A twist of the handle and a firm shove and the gate squeaked open.

Heat and humidity hit like a wave of steam as she stepped inside the courtyard where the day’s fetid air seemed trapped by the surrounding walls. She was quickly revived by the fragrance of night jasmine that overflowed from a huge pot and the cooling mist from the impressive angel fountain in the middle of the spacious area.

She didn’t even glance toward the four apartments surrounding the rest of the courtyard as she made her way to the bright red door that served as the main entrance to the carriage house. The original, barn-style doors on the front of the house that had once swung open for horses and carriages had been replaced with brick walls and fake, shuttered windows years ago.

A shudder of emptiness shook Helena’s resolve not to fall into a state of teary-eyed depression. It had been just over five weeks since she’d received the heartbreaking news of Mia’s tragic accident, and although she’d been here for the funeral, the wound of grief felt fresh.

She opened the door and stepped into the marble foyer. The air conditioner was blasting away. Thankfully, she’d let Ella Grayson know when she was arriving. Ella had been one of Mia’s tenants for years and she and Mia had been fast friends. They’d become closer than ever after Ella’s great-niece, Elizabeth, had been brutally murdered last spring.

Helena parked her luggage by the door and dropped her handbag onto the antique cherrywood table before flicking on the delicate Tiffany lamp. Illumination climbed the foyer walls in enchanting patterns. Everything looked the same as it had when Mia was alive. Even the citrusy fragrance of the candles she’d burned nightly lingered in the air.

The property now belonged to Helena—at least until she found a buyer. Giving up the old carriage house would be like giving away a chunk of her soul, but her career was in Boston. She would start her new job with one of the most successful individually owned art galleries in the city on November 1. A few of her paintings already hung in the gallery.

Helena traipsed across the cozy sitting room with its worn Persian rug, comfortable furniture and shelves filled with books and framed photographs.

When she stepped into the kitchen, memories attacked full force. She’d had morning coffee at the small, round mahogany table with Mia for as long as she could remember, though when she was young, Helena’s cup was filled mostly with cold milk and a shot of honey.

They’d sipped the chicory-laden brew from dainty flowered cups while Mia filled Helena’s young head with simple answers to life’s mysteries.

Like why king cakes had plastic babies hidden inside them and why people riding floats at Mardi Gras always wore masks. And why even rich people ate po’boy sandwiches that needed to be dressed.

Heart aching, Helena finally walked to the foot of the elegant, curved staircase. The staircase where her grandmother had slipped and fallen to her death.

According to the medical examiner, a severe brain trauma caused by the fall had likely killed her within minutes. Minutes that she’d been totally alone.

Helena forced herself to go on, climbing the stairs slowly, stopping only a few seconds at the landing before making it to the second floor and the bedroom she’d always thought of as her own.

A pale orchid coverlet and countless pillows covered the four-poster bed. Beyond that, tall French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked Dumaine Street.

Helena unlatched the doors, swung them open and stepped onto the balcony.

Spicy odors of fried seafood wafted through the air and suddenly Helena was starved. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and that was only her usual yogurt and granola. It was nearly seven now.

There would be time for memories and unpacking later. A beer and a po’boy were calling her name.

Chapter Two

Alyssa Orillon rinsed her empty teacup and placed it on the countertop to be carried upstairs to her main living quarters later. The small downstairs kitchen was barely big enough for the mini-fridge, a microwave, a card table and two padded wooden chairs she’d picked up for next to nothing in a used furniture store on Magazine Street.

The remaining five hundred square feet of the home’s ground floor was dedicated to her cozy waiting room and a private counseling area. Located only two blocks from Jackson Square, she was right in the thick of the tourist pedestrian traffic, though business was slow tonight.

Not untypical for a Tuesday night. Last weekend’s convention goers had gone home. This week’s hadn’t arrived yet.

She glanced at her watch. Half past eight. Too early to call it a night—especially since she didn’t open her doors until early afternoon on weekdays.

Inconveniently, the beginning of a headache was tapping at her right temple. An uneasy feeling had been messing with her nerves all afternoon, the kind of vague sense of anxiety one might expect from a psychic—unless said psychic was a complete and total fraud—like Alyssa.

Fake, but not a rip-off artist, as some of her competitors were. Alyssa was an expert at giving customers what they wanted. Most people were fairly easy to read if you honed your skills as well as Alyssa had.

The professionally printed sign painted on her door lured in the type of customers she handled best.

Alyssa Orillon—Psychic.

Is true love in your future?

Is the man in your life right for you?

Is something wonderful about to bless your life?

The answers you desire are waiting inside.

The sparkling, crystal ball rotating in the large front window provided an additional enticement for the curious or extrasensory believer. The crimson velvet drape behind the ball blocked the view of the studio’s dimly lit interior, making it even more mysterious.

Unlike Alyssa, her grandmother Brigitte had the gift in spades. At least she had until she claimed old age weakened her powers. Before moving into an assisted living center in Covington, Brigitte had frequently told Alyssa how lucky she was not to be constantly haunted by other people’s nightmares.

Alyssa walked to the window, notched back the heavy drape and peeked out. Things were getting livelier on the street. A few more drinks and hopefully someone would knock on her door, enter her chambers and cross her palms with cash.

The only person she recognized was Andy, the scruffy young man at the curb playing his sax for tips. A nice guy, but bad luck found him at every turn. Good tippers didn’t.

Just as she started to let go of the curtain’s edge, she spotted another familiar figure. Hunter Bergeron. Tall, ruggedly handsome, with dark brown hair that always looked mussed. Alyssa suspected there were plenty of young women who’d love to run their hands through it and straighten it for him.

Had she been a decade or so younger, she might have been one of those women.

Hunter was low-key for a hard-nosed homicide detective. He could push when he had to, though. He’d proved that when questioning half the people in the French Quarter after Elizabeth Grayson’s murder.

She walked over, opened her door and tried to get his attention, just to say hello and perhaps pick his brain for a minute about the serial killer investigation. He didn’t look up, his attention focused on a stunning young woman in a bright yellow sundress, who didn’t appear to see him watching.

The young woman leaned over and dropped a bill into the musician’s open sax case. When she straightened, she turned Alyssa’s way.

Oh my God. That is Mia Cosworth’s granddaughter. She had no idea Helena was back in town.

Alyssa stepped outside, waving frantically until she got Helena’s attention. Helena smiled and began to maneuver her way around a cluster of tourists.

Seconds later, Helena stepped through the open door and threw her arms around Alyssa in the same enthusiastic way she had when Helena had been a kid and her grandmother would bring her to visit.

Good memories until...

Alyssa trembled. She pulled away from Helena and reached for the back of one of the waiting room chairs for balance.

“What’s wrong?” Helena asked.

“It’s this dreaded headache,” Alyssa lied. “I’ve been fighting it all day. I just need to sit down.”

Helena helped her into the chair. “Can I get you something for it?”

“If you don’t mind. There’s a bottle of aspirin on the table in the small kitchen and a pitcher of cold water in the fridge.” This was far more than a headache, but she needed time alone to regain her equilibrium.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. It didn’t help. Instead weird images popped into her head as if she were hallucinating. She’d experienced this before but not in years and not often.

The harder she tried to force the images from her mind, the more vivid they became. It was Helena being chased by a man who was too blurry to identify. And blood. Lots of blood, covering Helena’s clothes and her hair and part of her face.

This isn’t real. I’m not an authentic medium. This is some nightmarish trick my mind is playing on me.

But why now?

The images faded as fast as they’d come. Alyssa shuddered, determined to ignore the cold horror that rode her spine, and pulled herself together. She could not plant her groundless, horrifying hallucinations into Helena’s mind.

Chapter Three

Helena shook two aspirin from the bottle into Alyssa’s palm and then handed her a glass of cold water. Alyssa was no longer shaking the way she had been, but she didn’t look well.

“Should I call 911?” Helena asked. “Just in case you’re coming down with something.” Or was having a stroke—or worse.

“No. No doctors. No ambulance. I was dizzy for a minute, but I’m fine now.”

“You don’t look fine. You look as if you saw a ghost.”

“No chance of that. I couldn’t conjure one up if I tried. Believe me, I know.”

Her attempt at humor fell flat. “You should at least get checked out at the emergency clinic,” Helena said. “I’ll be glad to go with you.”

“That’s totally not necessary, but thanks. What I could really use is some conversation with someone who doesn’t expect me to read their mind.”

To emphasize her point, Alyssa stood, walked to the door and flipped the rectangular plaque from Open to Closed.

“Have a seat,” Alyssa insisted, “and fill me in on all you’ve been doing since I saw you last. You cut out so soon after your grandmother’s memorial service that I didn’t get a chance to properly say goodbye.”

“I was in a state of shock,” Helena admitted. “Her death was so sudden, so unexpected. I’m not sure what I said to anyone.”

“I understand that,” Alyssa said. “Her death was a shock to all of us. She was a dynamo those last few months, as driven as I’d ever seen her.”

“I know she was busy trying to raise money to offer an award to anyone who helped identify Elizabeth’s killer.”

“She raised over a hundred thousand dollars. Everyone was amazed.”

“Mia could always do anything she set her mind to.” Helena settled in the nearest chair. “I didn’t realize she raised that much, though.”

Alyssa dropped into the facing chair and kicked out of her beaded sandals. She pulled her bare feet into the chair with her, tucking them beneath her long, flowing skirt.

There was no overhead lighting in the reception area, but red silk squares were draped over the shades of a pair of brass, dragon-shaped lamps. Flames flickered from a cluster of fragrant candles that dominated a round table in the center of the space, bathing the room in a warm, sensual glow.

As a small child, Helena had thought Alyssa’s home was as magical as the Greek and Roman gods in Mia’s colorfully illustrated books.

By the time she understood what powers a psychic supposedly possessed, she’d outgrown her belief in magic.

“What’s going on in the neighborhood?” Helena asked. “Any gossip I should know about?”

“I’ll start with the bad and get it out of the way. Fancy died.”

“Fancy, the portrait painter?”

“That’s the one. She’d set up her paints and easel in that same spot outside Jackson Square every day for as long as I’ve lived here—and that’s more years than I care to admit.”

“I credit much of my interest in art to her,” Helena said. “When I was five all I wanted for Christmas was an easel and some paints so I could make pictures like Miss Fancy.”

“She would have loved that story,” Alyssa said.

“I wish I had shared it with her.”

“The locals threw her a real New Orleans funeral with a jazz parade and lots of dancing in the streets, similar to what we all did for Mia, except less organization and fewer musicians.”

“You guys definitely sent Mia off in style,” Helena agreed. They’d left very little of the organization up to her.

Most tourists saw the French Quarter as a hodgepodge of bars, restaurants and souvenir shops. They didn’t realize what a diverse group of locals resided beyond the historically correct exteriors.

Mia had fit right in the community and couldn’t walk down the street without stopping to talk to half a dozen people and waving to more.

“Any other happenings I should know about?” Helena asked.

“You can order groceries locally now and have them delivered. That’s the most exciting new thing we’ve got going for us. The second most popular topic is the French Kiss Killer and I really don’t want to talk about him tonight.”

“I’m with you, but I admit facts of the brutal murder still haunt me, perhaps because I’d met Elizabeth several times over the years and was always impressed by her vibrant personality. Or maybe it was just the senselessness of it all.”

“Me and my big mouth,” Alyssa said. “I said I wasn’t going to talk about the murder and then I just throw it right out there.”

“It was bound to come up, sooner or later. Elephants in the room never stay unnoticed for long.”

“I’m convinced they’ll find the killer,” Alyssa said. “Hunter Bergeron is heading up the task force and he’s not the type of cop to give up until he arrests his man.”

Hunter Bergeron. Helena’s nerves went edgy. She swallowed hard, angry with herself that she was having any kind of reaction to merely hearing his name. She couldn’t keep that up.

It had been six years since he’d broken her heart. She’d moved on. So had he, even doing a tour of duty with the Marines or so Mia had told her.

The memories were still there, but they were buried so deep they no longer had the power to rip her apart.

“I’m so glad we had this visit,” Helena said, “but if you’re sure you’re okay now, I really should go.” She stood before Alyssa could drag her into a conversation about Hunter. “We should have lunch together soon.”

“I’d like that.” Alyssa followed Helena and switched her sign back to Open before she unlatched the door.

“Are you sure you feel like seeing more customers tonight?” Helena asked.

“I’m sure. Besides, the later it gets the drunker they tend to be and the easier it is for them to part with their bucks and believe whatever I tell them.”

“No doubt.” Helena smiled as she took both Alyssa’s hands in hers.

“Be careful,” Alyssa murmured. Her words took on an ominous tone.

“I will.”

“I don’t mean just tonight. I mean all the time. You never know who you can trust these days.”

“You’re right.” Hunter Bergeron had taught her that. She gave Alyssa a quick parting hug and then hit the busy street again.

The music, laughter and smiling faces didn’t have their usual uplifting effect. Helena found it hard to shake the talk of the serial killer and the fearful timbre of Alyssa’s parting warning.

Could it be that Alyssa was more psychic than she’d ever admitted to Mia?

Helena tried to ignore the plunge in her own spirits as she reached the tall metal gate and punched in Mia’s private code.

Once inside the courtyard, the anxiety eased. She was home.

Only Mia was gone forever, and home wasn’t home anymore.

* * *

HUNTER BERGERON HAD followed Helena at a distance, mesmerized by the sway of her narrow hips. He wasn’t the only one noticing her. Almost every man she passed gave her at least a futile glance.

The first time he’d laid eyes on her, he’d thought her the most beautiful girl in the world. She’d changed in the six years since then, wore her hair longer, developed the curves of a woman instead of a young coed.

Tonight, she was so damned stunning she boggled his mind. She was out of his league and had always been. Any hope of rekindling the fire that had once raged between them would end in heartbreak. He didn’t need that now.

He leaned against the front of a building across the street from the carriage house, staying deep in the shadows beneath an iron balcony. Several minutes later, the light in the upstairs bedroom flicked on.

He knew that bedroom intimately. His legs felt like rubber as he finally turned and walked away.

But he’d be back. He had no choice. Unknowingly, she might be his only link to the French Kiss Killer.

And that could get her killed.

Chapter Four

Helena jerked awake to the sound of clanking metal garbage cans and the grinding of compactors. She’d closed the airy privacy curtains last night but had failed to close the heavy, noise reducing drapes.

She stretched beneath the crisp, cotton sheet and punched her pillow over her ears. A couple more hours of sleep would provide a much better start to a very busy day. Unfortunately, her mind was already splintering into a dozen different directions.

By the time the streets had become relatively quiet again, she’d given up on sleep. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, tugged her cotton nightshirt down midthigh and shoved her bare feet into a pair of fuzzy flip-flops.

The first thing on her agenda was coffee. The difficult part would be that this morning she’d have it alone.

The antique Swiss grandfather clock on the wide landing struck the hour. The six melodic chimes echoed in the quiet house.

If Mia were still alive, her sweet soprano voice would have wrapped itself around an old hymn or maybe she’d be in a twangy country mood. Her musical tastes ran the gamut.

Cherishing the memories while trying not to let them slide into overpowering grief, Helena forced herself to continue down the stairs and into the kitchen. She flicked on the overhead light and started a pot of coffee.

When it was ready, Helena filled one of the colorful cups she and Mia had purchased in the French Market the last time they’d gone shopping for spring’s first Creole tomatoes. So many great yet simple times they’d spent together.

All never to be again. She wondered if the sorrow at being back here would be less intense if Mia’s death hadn’t come so suddenly—not that she could change that.

Helena took her coffee and walked to what had been Mia’s bedroom suite. As always, a pile of books was messily stacked on her bedside table.

Helena padded across the lush crème-colored carpet and picked up the top book. She expected one of the historical romances that her grandmother loved or a nonfiction book dealing with the history of New Orleans.

Instead, it was a study of profiling serial killers in America. Helena scanned the titles of the next three books. All dealt with some aspect of serial killers.

Helena shuddered at the thought of Mia delving into such gore for bedtime reading.

She’d called her grandmother at least once a week between Elizabeth Grayson’s murder and Mia’s fatal accident. Mia had assured Helena every time that she was too busy with her fund-raising campaign and attempting to cheer up Ella that there was no time left for her to wallow in gloom and doom.

Her reading material suggested differently.

Helena dropped to the side of the bed and picked up a thick gray hardback book with no dust jacket. Several bookmarks were scattered among the pages.

She opened the tome to the first marked page and her eyes went immediately to a paragraph highlighted in neon yellow.

Serial killers may be physically attractive to the opposite sex and function somewhat successfully in society for long periods of time in between their crimes.

A few paragraphs down on that same page:

It is often difficult to predict the future targets of the killers as they may not understand the involved dynamics themselves.

Below that passage, in her meticulous script, Mia had written one name in the margin.

Hunter Bergeron.

Had Mia been questioning Hunter about what she was reading? If so, when had they become friends?

Helena closed the book but took it with her when she left the room. She’d read more later, but she needed to finish unpacking and then shower and dress before her real estate agent, Randi Lester, arrived.

Be careful whom you trust.

Unexpectedly, Alyssa’s warning came back to haunt her as she left the bedroom.

She’d heed the warning, especially when it came to Hunter Bergeron. With any luck she wouldn’t run into him at all.

* * *

HELENA BUZZED RANDI through the gate at exactly 8:28 for their 8:30 appointment. Nice to know the woman who’d hopefully be listing the carriage house and the four apartments surrounding the rest of the courtyard was prompt.

Helena unlocked the door, stepped outside and watched as Randi crossed the courtyard. The Realtor paused near the fountain and turned a full 360 degrees, taking in the view.

The picture on the business card Randi had mailed her didn’t do her justice. She appeared to be approximately the same height as Helena’s five feet six, or would have been if her stiletto heels hadn’t given her at least a four-inch boost.

In her midthirties, Helena judged, with an athletic build and sun-streaked hair cut into a layered bob. Silver bangles dangled from her ears. A frilly white blouse topped a pair of black-and-white checked ankle pants.

“Impressive,” Randi pronounced once she met Helena at the door. “One of the biggest and nicest courtyards I’ve seen in this part of the French Quarter. It will grab any potential buyer’s attention immediately. And nothing beats a great first impression in the real estate business.”

“Glad to hear that,” Helena said as she extended a hand. “I’m Helena Cosworth.”

“I know. I recognized you from your picture on Facebook.”

“I sometimes forget I have that public image floating around in digital space. I should probably update it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Randi said. “It’s a great likeness even if you do look even younger in person.”

“Thanks, but flattery will only get you a cup of coffee or a glass of iced tea,” Helena said.

“Iced tea sounds terrific.” Randi stepped inside and followed Helena to the kitchen. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, although our many phone conversations and the enthusiastic manner in which Beverly Ingram has described you make me feel as if we’ve old friends.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You painted that in high school?”

“Eleventh grade.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose that’s complicated, too.”

“Not at all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She glanced up and then she saw him.

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

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

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

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

Traitorous recollections pounded her relentlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Helena.”

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

“What are you doing here, Hunter?”

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

Chapter Five

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

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

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

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

“Then start talking.”

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

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

He nodded. “Afraid so.”

“In that case, we can talk inside.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helena was clearly not going to make this easy.

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s mentioned that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A definite possibility.”

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

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

“Then you think he will strike again?”

“I believe it’s possible.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he said. “None of it good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How many times did he call her?”

“Three, over a three-week period.”

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

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

“Did he threaten Mia?”

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

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

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

“Then why couldn’t you track him?”

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

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

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

“Then three different people were in on this?”

“Very unlikely. We believe a professional grade voice changer was used.”

“Where is my grandmother’s phone now?”

“In police custody. It hasn’t rung since her death.”

“Then he must have known her well enough to know when she died,” Helena said.

“Maybe, but it made the local news. Your grandmother was pretty much a legend in this area what with all her charitable and historic preservation work.”

Helena massaged her arms as if she were cold, the facts no doubt chilling her to the bone.

“I know this is not what you wanted to hear, Helena, but rest assured we’ll apprehend this guy sooner or later. He’ll make a mistake. Serial killers always do. And when he does, we’ll get him.”

“But how many other teens or young women will he kill before he makes that mistake?” Helena asked.

“I can’t answer that.” And that was what kept him up at night, what haunted his mind every hour of the day. That kind of evil had to come from devils residing deep in a person’s psyche. Even the killer might not know when he’d succumb to the darkness and strike again.

“Had Mia not died the untimely way she did, she might have led us to Elizabeth’s killer,” Hunter said.

“Poor Mia. So much to deal with. How horrible to spend the last few weeks of her life being intimidated by a madman who must have wanted her dead. Wanted it bad enough...”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Hunter interrupted. The haunted look in her eyes and the angst in her expression made it clear. “Mia wasn’t murdered by the serial killer or anyone else, Helena. That possibility was thoroughly investigated. There was absolutely no evidence of foul play. Absolutely none.”

“Thank God for that.”

“If it was the killer’s intent to intimidate her, he failed miserably,” Hunter said. “Your grandmother considered herself part of the investigative team and she was good at it.”

“She was always a fighter,” Helena said.

Hunter planted both feet on the floor and leaned forward. “I have one very important request. I don’t want you to discuss the phone calls with anyone. Not your best friend. Not Ella. Definitely not a reporter.”

“Why?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. He didn’t want to frighten her, but he had to warn her. “There’s an outside chance the killer may try to contact you now that you’ve returned to the carriage house.”

“What makes you think he even knows I exist?”

“He mentioned you in the last call.”

“What did he say about me?”

“Just that she had a beautiful granddaughter. He hoped you’d be visiting soon.”

“And obviously, I did. For Mia’s funeral, almost as if he knew Mia was going to die.”

“There’s no way he could have predicted the fatal fall. The important thing is that I need you to call me immediately if you get a suspicious phone call or if anything happens that makes you uneasy,” Hunter warned. “Even if you think it’s probably nothing—even if the person who makes you uneasy is someone you know.”

“Right now, you’re making me extremely uneasy.”

“Don’t be. I’ll keep you safe. I promise, but you have to trust me and never hesitate to call me.”

“What great timing I have, as if I’m part of the killer’s welcoming committee.”

“If I’d known you were coming this week, I would have suggested you put the trip off.”

“It never dawned on me to check a serial killer calendar.”

“Understandable.” Hunter walked over, took her hand and pressed his card into her palm. Even that slight touch stirred the old vibes. He struggled to keep them under control.

“Put my cell phone number in your phone on speed dial. Call anytime, day or night. I’ll always answer. Count on it.”

She took the card, but quickly moved her hand away from his. “If that’s all, you should go now. I’m sure you have more important work to do.”

“Okay. Just remember, if you need me, I’m a phone call away and I can have a police officer here in seconds.”

She walked him to the door and opened it.

“You always were a good cop, Hunter, even if you didn’t know it. I’m glad you took it up again. You must have missed it.”

“I missed a lot of things.” Nothing as much as he’d missed her.

For a second, her gaze softened to velvet and he could almost swear he sensed a tinge of desire. But the moment passed, and she closed the door behind him.

She didn’t want him around. He got that, but he had only two goals right now. To find the French Kiss Killer before he killed again and to keep Helena safe.

He planned to do both.

* * *

LEANING AGAINST THE closed door, Helena struggled to make sense of the disturbing emotions churning inside her. She felt like a cannonball had smashed into the house and ran over her, leaving her flattened and unable to react in any appropriate way.

Her first impulse had been to lash out at Hunter and blame him for Mia’s having to deal repeatedly with a killer. He was the detective. He should have done more to find the killer or at least kept him from talking to Mia.

If nothing else, he should have at least called Helena and let her know about the phone calls.

Only her grandmother wasn’t one to be ordered around by anyone—never had been. Instead of quivering in fear, she’d likely dived in just like Hunter said, knowing full well what she was doing and any risks she might be taking.

She was sixty-eight years old, but Mia had known no limits, accepted no boundaries. Helena would be lucky if she had half Mia’s spunk at that same age.

Helena looked at the card Hunter had given her and realized she’d wadded it up in a clutched fist. She took it to the kitchen counter, laid it out flat and used her fingertips to iron out the wrinkles.

Call him if she needed him. She quaked at the thought.

Retrieving his last words from six years ago out of the depths of her memory, she used them like a suit of armor.

I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know, but I can’t go through with this.

And then he’d left her standing at the flower-bedecked altar like the fool she’d been. The fool she would never let herself be again.

Her phone rang. A quick surge of apprehension rocked through her.

“Hello.”

“Helena, it’s me, Ella. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Absolutely not. It’s so good to hear from you. In fact, I was hoping to pay you a visit about eleven if that works for you.”

“That would be great. We have so much to talk about now that you’re moving back to New Orleans.”

There was that bothersome misconception again. She’d clear that up when she saw Ella. The way things were going now, she couldn’t get out of here fast enough. She slipped Hunter’s card into her pocket.

* * *

ELLA MET HELENA at the door, greeting her with a bear hug that wouldn’t quit. The clinging was an unnecessary but potent reminder of the angst Ella had been through over the last six months. When Ella finally pulled away, Helena took a good look at her and was shocked to see how much thinner and frail she’d become over the five weeks since Mia’s death. The downward plunge in her health had begun months prior to that. Losing her best friend had only made it worse.

Before Elizabeth’s murder, Ella had been so plump that her apron ties were barely long enough to make a bow in the back. Her cheeks had been fat and rosy, her hair smooth with a fair amount of brown.

Now, her flowered top practically fell off her shoulders and her blue, flour-stained apron was tied in a big bow. New wrinkles tugged at her mouth and puffy, dark flesh circled her eyes. Her hair was almost totally gray with frayed ends that barely reached the middle of her ears.

Selling the house and property might turn out to be a wash on this trip, but at least Helena could spend some quality time with Ella before she left for Boston.

Helena breathed in the odor of spices wafting from the kitchen. “What is that I smell?”

“Peach cobbler.”

“My favorite,” Helena said. “You remembered.”

“How could I forget? Mia and I spent one whole day a few summers ago gathering peaches at a local pick-your-own orchard. Day was hotter than Lucifer’s spa, but she refused to quit until she had enough of the juicy fruit to fill her freezer.”

“I take it you did not handpick these peaches.”

“Sure I did. Picked them right from the baskets at the French Market when they were at their peak. Then I sliced and froze them.”

They both laughed, and it was amazing how much that softened the hard lines in Ella’s face. She probably didn’t laugh nearly enough.

“I didn’t just make cobbler,” Ella said. “I made some homemade shrimp salad. And I have fresh French baguettes to spread it on.”

“You shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble.”

“Wasn’t that much trouble. Besides I figured we’d have a lot more time and privacy for talking if we ate here. You know how noisy some of the lunch spots can be.”

“Especially the ones worth going to where the seafood gumbo is hot and spicy and the po’boys drip all down your shirt.”

“Well, when you put it that way, maybe we should have gone out,” Ella said.

“Another day,” Helena said. “Shrimp salad sandwiches, peach cobbler and being here with you in your comfy, air-conditioned apartment can’t be beat.”

Ella led the way to her second-floor kitchen.

All of the units were more or less what Helena considered upside down. Kitchen and dining areas and a spare room with floor to ceiling windows were on the second floor. Ella used her extra room for a guest room.

A large family area with a fireplace was on the first floor of every apartment as was a very spacious bedroom suite. All the apartments were entered through the courtyard. All had second-floor balconies and an ambiance that reeked of history and comfort.

Ella pointed to a bottle of white wine on the counter. “Would you mind opening the wine? I splurged on a bottle of Mia’s favorite chardonnay and I’ve been saving it to celebrate your homecoming.”

“Sounds great.”

“I chilled it before you got here. Wineglasses are on the table.”

They stuck to small talk until they’d settled at the dining nook that overlooked the myriad of greenery and blossoms trailing over the iron balcony.

They devoured the sandwiches and were halfway through bowls of warm cobbler topped with ice cream before the conversation took a nosedive.

“I saw you talking to Hunter Bergeron in the courtyard when he left here this morning,” Ella said. “I’m glad to see the two of you are cordial again. Mia would be, too. I’m not sure she ever quite forgave him for backing out of the wedding, but she was convinced he was going to be the one to apprehend Elizabeth’s killer.”

First Alyssa and now Ella. It was as if Hunter had his own cheering squad. She had no intention of becoming one of his groupies.

“I hope he’s successful in getting the killer off the streets,” Helena said, “but I don’t see the two of us becoming friends.”

“Sorry. It was probably thoughtless of me to bring him up. I don’t blame you for the bad feelings. It’s just that you’ve both done a lot of growing up since then. I think you’d like him if you’d give him a chance.”

“From what I hear, Hunter has plenty of friends.”

“Mostly other detectives. He’s asked about you several times,” Ella added before letting the subject drop.

Helena was not about to get drawn into talk of what Hunter said or thought about her. Seeing him again had shaken loose a few old memories, but she would make certain things between them went no further.

They talked for at least an hour about the neighborhood and the other tenants and all the plans that were in the works for fall festivals.

Fortunately, they managed to avoid any further mention of Hunter and any talk about Elizabeth’s murder, keeping things on the lighter edge of the spectrum.

Things had gone so well, Helena was stunned when she saw tears welling in Ella’s eyes as she walked Helena down the stairs and to the door.

“I’m thrilled you’re back, Helena. I promise not to be a burden, but you can’t imagine how much your being close by means to me. I miss your grandmother so much. She held me together when I literally didn’t think I could go on. She’s the only one who understood how much I was hurting.”

Ella’s words felt like a jagged cord circling Helena’s heart. “I know how close the two of you were, but you must have other friends you can talk to about your grief. It can’t be good for you to keep it all bottled up inside you.”

“I have lots of friends. They all try to help. Even Hunter comes by at least once a week. They say they understand, but they can’t. It’s not their pain. It’s mine. Most of them had never even met Elizabeth.”

“Your niece was beautiful in looks and spirit,” Helena said. “I know how much you loved her.”

“I still do, and I can’t begin to heal as long as the monster who killed her is out there just waiting to take someone else’s life.”

“They’ll find him and make him pay,” Helena said, though she wasn’t convinced of that herself. “Have you tried talking about your pain with Alyssa Orillon? Mia always said Alyssa had an uncanny talent for connecting with people.”

“We talked a few times. I begged her to try to reach Elizabeth across the gulf of death. All she did was tell me to think about happy times Elizabeth and I had together. It didn’t help. I’m just glad to have you back.”

Helena couldn’t leave it like this. A lie of omission even for a good reason was still a lie. “I hate disappointing you, Ella, more than you can know, but I’m not moving back to New Orleans.”

“But Mia left all the property to you. It’s yours free and clear.”

“It is. But my life isn’t in New Orleans. I’ve taken a new job in Boston that starts November 1. I’ll be moving there permanently then or sooner if this property sells.”

Ella stepped away. “But you loved this place. Mia had always counted on your moving here one day. You can’t just put it in the hands of strangers.”

It was useless to try to explain her own reasoning when at times she doubted the decision herself.

She took both of Ella’s hands in hers. “Let’s just take it a day at a time. Who knows? I may never find a buyer.”

Ella sighed and shrugged. “You will. It just won’t be a Cosworth.”

Helena felt like she was deserting Ella as she walked away, but at least Ella would have Hunter around to pay her visits.

And for some crazy, inexplicable reason, that thought made Helena feel worse.

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