Gypsy Magic

by Rebecca York; Ann Voss Peterson; Patricia Rosemoor

  He heard her wait a beat, wondering if she was going to mention Tony, the guy who had sent him astray. But all she said was, “He needs to rest.” Her voice was firm. So was the sound of the door closing.

  She stayed at the far end of the hallway, and bitter disappointment flooded through him. She had stood up for him, but what was he expecting now? That she’d take up where they’d left off? Sure. With a blind man. A blind man she hated because she thought his father had worked overtime to convict her cousin of murder. Still, when her lips had touched his, he hadn’t felt hatred in her kiss. He had tasted sweetness, desire, a connection between them. And he wanted more.

  He heard her slow footsteps returning and directed his nonexistent gaze to the spot where he thought she was standing. His mouth was suddenly dry, but he managed to get the words out that he’d planned.

  “You’re sure Carlo’s innocent. Well, maybe I can help you prove it—one way or the other.”

  “How?”

  Wyatt heard hope in her voice, also doubt. Maybe mistrust. He couldn’t fault her for that.

  “When my father retired he took some of his old files with him.”

  “Doesn’t his work belong to the police department?” she shot back.

  “Most of them, yes,” he admitted. “But a cop can keep his own files on important cases. I certainly did. And there’s no reason to believe Dad was any different.” Quickly he added, “If we can find the folder on Carlo’s case, maybe we can turn up something you can use.”

  “Why would you want to help me?” she demanded. “Why should I trust you? How do I know you won’t just string me along—delaying the truth until it’s too late for Carlo?”

  Because I care about you. Because I never stopped. Those words stayed locked in his throat. He couldn’t say them. It wouldn’t be fair to her. It hadn’t worked out the first time. Now he had nothing to offer her—besides the help he might be able to give her. Yet the need to cling to what time he had with her was overwhelming.

  He heard himself saying, “You should trust me because I sensed that my father is uneasy about his case. Maybe something wasn’t done right. Maybe…” He paused, brushed back his hair with his hand. “I don’t know. There was a lot of pressure to convict Carlo. Maybe…” Again he stopped, unable to voice the unthinkable.

  “How could you help?” she asked, her voice softening.

  “You mean how could a blind man help you?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she answered. By the tone of her voice, he was pretty sure that was what she’d been thinking. It was funny about being blind. There was a myth that blindness sharpened your other senses. It wasn’t true, of course. But it made you use what you had more carefully. Hearing. Smell. Touch. Even taste.

  He listened to what people said very carefully now. Not just their words.

  Sighing, he answered the spoken question. “I was a damn good police detective. Now I work with the police in several jurisdictions, on old cases that nobody else has the time for. I go over the paperwork, the evidence. Sometimes I have an assistant to help search through the files. I also use a scanner that reads material to me. When the reports are already on the computer, I convert them to voice. I also reinterview witnesses, try to pick up things the initial investigators missed. You’d be surprised how much you can learn from tone of voice, for example. From evasive answers. I’ve closed some old cases the cops had given up on.”

  “You’d help find out the truth about Carlo?” she breathed, and this time he heard hope in her voice.

  “I’d do it for you.” He swallowed, thinking he might as well make this as convincing as he could. “When you sent me away before, you did it because I was Louis Boudreaux’s son. I want you to know that my father isn’t a bad man. That he was doing his job the best he could.” He might have added that he had another motive, too. He’d be close to Alessandra—for as long as the investigation took.

  “So you think Carlo’s guilty?” she asked, some of the color going from her tone.

  “He was convicted. That was good enough for the State of Louisiana. But I won’t presume his guilt or innocence now. I’ll do my best to find out the truth.”

  “Okay.”

  He held out his hand. “We should shake on it.”

  For a heartbeat she didn’t move. He strained his ears, waiting. When she finally crossed the carpeted floor, he let the breath ease out of his lungs.

  Her hand met his, and he closed his fingers around hers, held tight for several seconds, feeling the same kind of connection he’d felt when they’d kissed. Perhaps he was a coward, but he kept his eyes closed because he was afraid to see his own strained face.

  He felt her fingers tremble. Then she pulled her hand back. “Andrei knocked on the door to make a point. I have to go talk to my family about your being here.”

  “Before somebody thinks you’re doing more than dressing my cut?”

  “Our community is like a small town,” she answered. “We’ve been together for a long time, and people know other people’s business. They’ll talk, no matter what happens.”

  “Then tell them I’m going to help you investigate Carlo’s case.”

  “They may not believe me.”

  “Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

  “Why?” she asked sharply.

  “Because you may not have mentioned it to Andrei, but you and I both know that barker didn’t wish me well. For all I know, he sent my cab away so he could ambush me. Maybe he was just having some fun. Maybe it was more than that.”

  “No,” she answered automatically, but her voice lacked conviction. Then, “You need to rest. And I need to go and talk to my family. They’re in my sister’s trailer. Valonia’s there.”

  “Carlo’s mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “She should be delighted to hear you’re consorting with me.”

  In the silence that followed, he knew he should find some way to get home. But he also knew from experience that the cab company had shut down for the night. And if he asked one of her relatives, he’d probably end up with a knife sticking between his ribs, not just trailing across them. Actually, he could manufacture lots of excuses for staying here, even when he knew she was putting herself in a compromising position. For him.

  But he was needy tonight. Too needy for chivalry. He’d accept the offer to sleep in Alessandra’s bed, on her perfumed sheets and pillows, because that might be as close to her as he would ever get.

  So instead of offering to clear out, he said, “If you’re going to leave me alone, I need to know the layout of this room.” He swallowed, hating to admit weakness. “Otherwise, I’ll feel trapped here.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  She moved toward him again, and he knew by where her voice came from next that she’d hunkered down on the floor beside the bed, her face inches from his.

  “My trailer is about ten feet wide and fourteen feet long. The bed is in the corner farthest from the door. The couch is opposite you. There’s a chair and a table against the wall between them. The hall between us and the kitchen is lined with closets. The exit door is to your right, just before the kitchen. The bathroom is a rectangle opposite the front door. It’s small. A toilet, a sink, a shower. There are shelves above the toilet.”

  “Let me make sure I have all that straight,” he said. “I’ll need my cane.”

  “I’d better get a few things out of the way first.” He heard her scurrying around the room, heard a cup rattling in a saucer and newspaper rustling. A woman straightening up her house for company—even when the company couldn’t see the disorder.

  She hurried down the hall to the kitchen, and the cup and saucer clanked into a stainless-steel sink. Then she was back.

  Pushing himself up, he was annoyed to find that his footing wasn’t quite as sure as he would have liked. Alessandra was instantly at his side. Eyes closed, he clasped her slender waist, simply because the contact felt good. But pride had him asking for the cane so h
e could move around on his own.

  She put the white staff into his hand, and he used it to locate the furniture and the features that she’d mentioned.

  “Okay. I can find my way around,” he said, standing by the door.

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “Fine.”

  She hesitated. “I never lock the door. We trust each other here, but I’m going to lock it now. You can open it from the inside if you need to.

  “Thanks.”

  OUT IN THE DARKNESS through the open window, someone had been listening with great interest to the private conversation between Wyatt and Alessandra. Now it was time to move to a different location.

  Quickly the black-clad figure glided to the side of a nearby trailer, then faded back into the shadows as Alessandra’s door opened.

  She stepped out, her features illuminated by one of the lights that had been set up in the area where the carnies camped.

  Well, not camped, exactly. Each family or individual had a traveling home—some of them quite comfortable. Like Alessandra’s little nest with its rich wall hangings, fringed pillows and thick rugs.

  Wyatt Boudreaux was standing just inside the door, and she turned to say something the watcher couldn’t catch. Not from here.

  Then she closed the door and hurried more deeply into the family compound—leaving the blind man inside.

  Yes, Wyatt Boudreaux was blind. But he was still the enemy, still dangerous. He should have been warned off this evening. Instead, he’d offered to help Alessandra save her cousin, and she’d accepted. They were going to try to unearth information that was better off buried.

  Like the woman Carlo was supposed to have murdered, Theresa Granville. She’d been dead for ten years. Carlo would be dead in another few weeks.

  The killing should end there. But it wouldn’t, because Wyatt Boudreaux had changed the rules. He’d gotten involved, and taken Alessandra with him. Too bad for her.

  The watcher’s face contorted. Now both of them would have to die. And soon—before they unearthed any inconvenient evidence.

  Chapter Three

  Alessandra knocked on Sabina’s door.

  “Come in,” her sister called.

  When she made her way down the hall, she found the room already crowded with people. Andrei was there. And Valonia. From the looks on their faces, she knew they’d been discussing her. Sinking to the nest of pillows near the doorway, she sat with her skirt tucked under her and her arms clasped around her knees.

  Valonia gave her a narrow-eyed look. As Wyatt had mentioned, she was Carlo’s mother. What he didn’t know was that the older woman had been like a mother to Alessandra and her sister for the past fifteen years, after their own parents had died in an accident trying to make it to the next town when the roads in the low-lying bayou country were flooded.

  “Wyatt Boudreaux is still in your trailer?” Sabina asked, her voice mild but her green eyes flashing.

  “As I told Andrei, he was hurt tonight because of us. And before you try to contradict me, maybe you’d better ask Tony why he sent Wyatt down that passageway between the tents.”

  “Tony sent him there?” Sabina echoed.

  “Yes. Deliberately. When he asked directions to a telephone. We’re camped right beside the bayou. If he’d kept walking down that lane between the tents, he would have ended up in the water—maybe in an alligator’s jaws.”

  Andrei made a dismissive sound. “Tony must have recognized him as Boudreaux’s son. Remember, he and Carlo were best friends.”

  “So did Tony attack him with a knife?” Alessandra asked.

  “Tony wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “Well, he’s your best friend, now, so of course you’d say that. But are you really sure?”

  When Andrei looked down at his hands, she knew she’d made her point.

  “Wyatt’s not the enemy,” she continued. “He says he’s going to look into Carlo’s case—see if there’s any hope of saving him.”

  She saw Valonia’s wrinkled face contort. She was old before her time. She’d aged ten years when her son had been arrested, ten more when he’d been convicted. Carlo’s troubles had changed her, made her bitter and unable to trust any gadje. “He’s lying,” she said now. “He’s his father’s son. He wants Carlo to die.”

  Alessandra shook her head. “No. He came here with doubts. What could it hurt to let him try and help us?”

  “He could be pretending to help,” Valonia answered, her voice rising. “What if he’s just stalling until it’s too late for Carlo?”

  Alessandra had had that thought herself. Now she said, “Then we won’t be any worse off than we are now.”

  Valonia’s dark eyes were fierce. “That’s easy for you to say. Carlo’s not your son.”

  Alessandra scrambled up and went to her, kneeling beside the older woman and throwing her arms around her. “Oh, Little Mother, I know how Carlo’s punishment hurts you.”

  “No, you don’t. Not until you have a child of your own. And if you’re thinking that you would have that child with Wyatt Boudreaux, then you are betraying me, betraying your heritage, betraying yourself.”

  Alessandra felt as though the old woman had slapped her in the face. She was floundering for an answer when there was a sharp rap at the door.

  Without waiting to be invited, Milo Vasilli strode into the room, followed by his daughter, Florica.

  The carnival owner was a square-built man with graying hair and dark eyes. Florica, a woman in her mid-twenties, had his sharp features, but there was a childlike quality about her that made her seem much younger.

  Milo reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold coin he always carried, flipping it in the air as he said, “You’re consorting with that Wyatt Boudreaux.”

  The accusation made Florica giggle, the way she often did at inappropriate times. Ignoring her, Alessandra raised her head toward Milo. “I’m not consorting with him. He’s agreed to help us reopen Carlo’s case.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “That’s what I just asked her!” Valonia said.

  Alessandra stood, looking at the accusing faces around the room. “None of you will give him a chance.”

  “That’s right. I won’t. I have the final say here, and I want him out of here,” Milo said. “Now.”

  “He can’t leave tonight. We can talk about this in the morning—when we’re all a little calmer.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she turned, brushed past Milo and his daughter, and headed for the door.

  “Alessandra, wait,” Sabina called. But Alessandra ignored the plea in her sister’s voice.

  Out in the damp night air, she stood breathing hard. Was she a fool for trusting Wyatt? For trusting a gadjo?

  Maybe. Maybe she’d let herself get carried away by emotions she had no business feeling.

  Through the wall behind her, she could hear a babble of voices. They were talking about her again. Well, she’d deal with them in the morning. And deal with Wyatt. Maybe the best thing was to send him home. But then they’d never see his father’s old files.

  She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. She had the ability to see the future—sometimes. But not her own future. Never her own.

  Usually she understood why that was a blessing. But at times like this, she thought it was a curse.

  A low sound escaped from her throat. She was confused. And tired. Worn-out, physically and emotionally. Any decisions were best made in the light of day.

  WYATT TENSED when he heard the key in the lock. It was probably Alessandra, although he wasn’t going to assume that.

  After she’d left, he’d walked around her trailer, getting comfortable with the layout and turning off lights so he’d only be a shadow in the darkness. Next he’d used the bathroom so he wouldn’t be fumbling around in there while she was home. And finally he’d made his way to her kitchen and taken a good, sharp knife from the drawer. He held it against his side now, waiting
in the darkness.

  The footsteps that crossed the room were soft and light. A woman. Alessandra, surely. Unless the man who’d attacked him had sent a female accomplice to finish the job.

  He lay unmoving, waiting. She said nothing. He sensed her standing over him, probably looking down. He might have reached up and found her hand, but he sensed more. She didn’t speak, and he was pretty sure that the meeting with her family hadn’t gone well.

  Judging from Andrei’s reaction earlier, they’d probably urged her to throw him out on his ear.

  Long moments passed. At last she sighed and recrossed the room. He heard rustling sounds, heard her go into the bathroom. Then she padded softly across the room again and settled on the love seat.

  He should be the one on the love seat rather than the bed, he thought. But he didn’t want to give away the fact that he was awake by suggesting it. Instead, he lay there listening to the sound of her breathing. It had been a long time since he’d shared that sort of intimacy with a woman. He liked the sound, liked it when the rhythm changed, indicating sleep, because it meant she felt comfortable enough to relax with him here.

  He needed to sleep, as well. Tomorrow was going to be difficult. Closing his eyes, he focused on the mental exercises that helped him relax. In minutes he had joined Alessandra in slumber.

  HE WOKE UP choking, gasping, his lungs burning and heat beating at his back—and knew at once that the trailer was on fire.

  “Alessandra!” He called her name, but it came out as a choked gasp. “Alessandra.”

  Across the room, he could hear her coughing. He pushed himself off the bed, tried to stand and almost strangled. The smoke was thicker near the ceiling.

  Dropping to the floor, he crawled across the trailer toward the love seat. When he got there, he called her name again.

  He heard her gasping for breath.

  “Stay…down,” he ordered, unable to waste more breath.

  The room was full of smoke and heat. And he imagined tall shapes flickering around him. Flames? Could he see flames with his minimal ability to sense dark and light?