Death of a Beauty Queen

by Mallory Kane

  She put her hand on the stair banister, already drooling over the idea of a hot mug of rooibos tea. Once she’d had her tea and relaxed for a few minutes, she planned to head over to Bing’s café up the street and use his laptop to research Rosemary Delancey.

  It galled her that Detective Lloyd had planted the name in her head, but now that he had, she felt compelled to find out everything she could about the woman who he’d said had disappeared at the exact time her life had begun. A frisson of dread rippled through her. She shook off the eerie feeling and started up the stairs, but a brisk knock on the door stopped her.

  She turned. Through the octagonal stained glass inset she could see a distorted figure looming. By his height and the breadth of his shoulders, she knew who it was.

  Detective Lloyd. A flurry of emotions swirled in her chest. She recognized irritation and apprehension, but there were others she didn’t want to put a name to. She sent a longing glance toward the top of the stairs where hot soothing tea waited for her, then sighed and went to the door.

  She flung it open and glared at him. “Fancy you showing up here,” she said sarcastically.

  Dixon Lloyd’s expression was grim. “Do you know that you were followed this afternoon?”

  She sent him an arch look. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Dixon’s jaw dropped. “You knew about him? Did you see him?”

  She huffed out a disgusted breath. “Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m looking at the person who’s been following me.”

  “Not me,” he grated. “The punk in the ponytail.”

  Rose’s pulse jumped, but she worked at keeping her expression neutral. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Dixon pushed past her into the foyer and headed up the stairs.

  “What are you— Wait.” But he paid no attention to her. She had no choice but to follow him. When she got to the top, he was already through the living room door.

  “Please, come in,” she said wryly as he stepped over to the big window and looked out.

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Do you know a scrawny punk with a dirty blond ponytail and bad teeth?”

  She shook her head, but he wasn’t looking at her. “No.”

  “Do you remember seeing him today?”

  “You mean in the square? No, I don’t think so. Who is he? What was he wearing?”

  “Ripped, faded jeans and a ragged gray sweatshirt with a Saints logo on the back.”

  “Well, that narrows it down,” she snapped. “Who is he and why do you think he was following me? For that matter, why are you following me?”

  Dixon glared at her, his dark blue eyes turning a stormy gray. “I told you last night, I’m trying to protect you.”

  “Look, Mr.—Detective Lloyd. I’m beginning to think the only person I need protection from is you. There’s no reason for anyone to follow me.” She uttered a short, sharp laugh. “Trust me, I don’t have anything of value to anyone.”

  She saw the muscle in his jaw flex. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  He surprised her then by doing something that seemed completely out of character for him. He reached out and caught a strand of hair that had fallen over her face and pushed it back. In doing so his hand brushed the scar at her hairline.

  She shivered.

  “You have memories. They’re locked in here right now,” he said, his hand lingering at her temple, “but eventually we’ll figure out how to unlock them, so we can catch the person responsible for nearly killing you.”

  She swatted his hand away. “Nobody is trying to kill me. And nobody was bothering me, either—until you came along.” She lifted her chin. “If you don’t have anything new to say, please leave. I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m tired.”

  “I think you need to come with me. It’s not safe for you to stay here alone.”

  Rose laughed and shook her head in wonder. “Are you kidding me? You don’t really think I’m going to go with you? I’ve been here alone since Maman died five months ago, if you call it alone. I have friends and neighbors on either side of me. Bing lives over his coffee shop up the street, and I teach piano lessons during the week. I’m actually rarely alone at all.”

  “Are you sure you’ve never seen that punk before?”

  “No, of course I’m not sure. A punk kid with poor hygiene hanging around Jackson Square? That doesn’t exactly eliminate very many people.” She spread her hands. “As far as who might have followed me on the streetcar—if he was following me to catch me or attack me or rob me, then why didn’t he? I had my hands full and I wasn’t exactly moving fast.” She shrugged a shoulder.

  Dixon shook his head. “That’s because I spotted him and chased him off.”

  “Really? Well, Mr. Detective Lloyd, I’m pretty sure that if you’re right, and someone other than you is following me, I can only conclude that you must have led them to me.”

  To her surprise, Dixon winced and rubbed a hand down his face.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re worried that you led this punk to me.” Her eyes were wide and frightened. “Oh my—it was you, wasn’t it? You’re the detective who worked that murder. That’s why you’re so obsessed about it.”

  Dixon swallowed and avoided her gaze. “None of that matters. What matters is that you’re in danger. By the time I saw the guy who was following you, he’d seen you at your door. He knows where you live.”

  Rose stared at him. Everything he said quaked inside her like another thunderclap in the storm that seemed to be gathering over her head.

  She couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him any longer. She stalked into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea as she muttered to herself.

  “Two days ago I was fine. I was happy.” Before he’d shown up at her door. “Relatively happy,” she amended as she scooped red tea leaves into her teapot.

  Now, suddenly, people were stalking her, she wasn’t safe in her own home and a tall, disturbingly handsome man had appointed himself her own personal prophet of doom.

  The kettle began to whistle, so she grabbed it and moved it off the eye, then carefully poured the hot water over the leaves in the teapot. She didn’t hear Dixon approaching over the noise of the kettle, but she felt him near her. She could tell herself all she wanted that having him in her house didn’t bother her, but she’d be lying. He filled up the tiny space with his long legs and broad shoulders.

  “Do you want some tea?” she asked ungraciously.

  “Sure,” he said. Then, “You know, there’s something about all this that bothers me.”

  Rose put the lid on the teapot and left it to steep. She turned around, crossing her arms over her chest. “Really? Just one thing?”

  He inclined his head and his dark blue eyes might have twinkled, but before Rose could be sure whether she’d seen a spark, it was gone and his expression turned grim.

  “You haven’t asked any questions.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Of course I have. Lots of them.”

  He shrugged. “About why I keep bothering you. About who might be following you. Sure. But you haven’t shown one tiny sliver of interest in what happened to you—” he stopped “—to Rosemary Delancey.”

  “Yes, I have,” she retorted, too quickly.

  He shook his head. “No, you haven’t.”

  To cover her consternation, she lifted the lid of the teapot and sniffed at the steam that rose.

  “Is it because you’re afraid? Or is it because you don’t have to ask. You already know what happened.”

  “I don’t know what you want from me. Do you want me to fall at your feet and beg you to tell me about this—this woman who means nothing to me?” A spurt of adrenaline, painful in its intensity, shot through her, causing her limbs to tremble. “Well, I won’t. I don’t want to know about her. I want you to leave me alone.”

  “That’s not going to happen and you know it.”

  Rose felt tears pricking her eyes. She did kn
ow it. She knew something else, too. No matter what she said to Dixon, she did not want him to leave her alone. Not really.

  Certainly not now, since she’d read his cards. Her fingers tingled again, just like they had when she’d turned up the Fool card for him. Maman had told her, When I’m gone, your safety will lie in the hands of the Fool.

  Whether or not she believed Dixon Lloyd, she did believe Maman.

  She cleared her throat, then asked, “Lemon or cream?”

  “What?”

  “In your tea. Lemon or cream?”

  “Oh,” he said, eyeing the teapot. “Lemon—and ice, if you don’t mind.”

  She took a lemon from a bowl on the counter and cut it into wedges and arranged them on a plate.

  “It’ll be another minute. It’s still steeping,” she said. “Do you want sugar or sweetener?”

  “Sugar,” he said. “Tea’s not tea unless it’s sweet, right?”

  She allowed herself a small smile. “I’m not the one to ask. I eat way too much sugar in everything.” As Rose retrieved a mug and a glass from the cabinet, she remembered that she had some snickerdoodles left from the batch she’d made the first of the week for her students.

  She got a plate and put some cookies on it and set it in front of Dixon. She poured half the tea into a pitcher and stirred in sugar. After putting ice in the glass, she poured the warm sweet tea over it and handed it to him.

  Then she poured hot tea into her mug and added sugar and a dollop of cream.

  Dixon took a sip, swirled the glass so the coolness from the ice would distribute evenly, then picked up a lemon wedge. He squeezed it one-handed into his glass, stirred the ice cubes briefly with his finger, then tasted it again. With a tiny nod of approval, he took a long swallow. “Good,” he said, licking his lips.

  Rose realized she was staring at his mouth. She forced herself to focus on something else. That something else turned out to be his neck, where his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. His neck was strong and long. It curved out to form wide, sturdy shoulders—the kind of shoulders that could carry any burden.

  She blinked. Take your eyes off him, she told herself. Now.

  She looked down at her mug, then picked it up and wrapped her hands around it. Its surface was warm but hard. Steam rose from the shiny, dark red liquid—liquid the color of blood.

  Her fingers seemed to go numb and she quickly set the mug down on the counter. It rattled as she pushed it away.

  “Is something wrong?” Dixon asked.

  “Of course something’s wrong,” she said hoarsely. “You’ve inserted yourself and your danger into my life—why, I don’t know. So you can satisfy your quixotic tendencies? Or make yourself feel better about not solving that murder?” To her dismay, tears gathered in her eyes and fell, splashing onto her black lace gloves. She took a long breath that hitched at the top like a sob.

  “Rose, I don’t mean to—”

  She held up her hands, palm out. “Stop. Just stop,” she said.

  “Okay,” she said, squeezing her eyes closed and wringing out hot tears from beneath her lids. “Tell me. It’s what you’ve wanted to do ever since you knocked on my door yesterday.”

  Dixon eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then wiped a hand down his face. His lips thinned into a straight, grim line. As eager as he had been, why was he hesitating now?

  A frisson of fear slid down her spine. Was the story that horrific? Did the prospect of reliving what had happened to Rosemary Delancey all those years ago affect him that much?

  Her pulse skittered with a sudden fight-or-flight reaction. She started to throw her hands out to stop him, to push him away and escape, but instead, her fingers sought the tiny ridge of scar tissue that began at her temple. A deep, undeniable resolve grew inside her.

  She needed to hear this. If there was even the smallest chance that Dixon Lloyd held the key to her past, she had to know. No matter how awful his truth was, it could not be as horrific as the cold, blank wall that existed on the other side of that moment when she’d woken up in Maman’s gentle care.

  She realized Dixon was watching her, a curious expression on his face. When she met his gaze, he blinked, then looked down and traced a drop of condensation down the side of the glass with his finger.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  Rose squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I’m sure,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as quavery to his ears as it did to hers.

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Rosemary Delancey was the oldest grandchild of Con Delancey, the infamous Louisiana politician. She had it all. She was beautiful and wealthy. She was on top of the world. Just a few months before, she’d been Mardi Gras Carnival Queen and had ridden in the parades and reigned over the Ti Malice Ball.”

  He stopped to take a breath and drain the last of his iced tea.

  Rose stared at him. “You certainly know a lot about her. Did you know her?”

  He shook his head and his cheeks turned pink. “No,” he said on a wry laugh. “I didn’t run in her circles. When I got the call that night, I was the very definition of wet-behind-the-ears rookie. Hers was my first homicide case as a detective. It was late—nearly midnight. We were called to an apartment on St. Charles by the superintendent, who was hysterical. He’d gone to check out a complaint of banging and screaming and found the door to the apartment open. When he went in, he saw the blood.”

  Rose swallowed. Blood. Bloodred. Her brain was hyperaware of the mug on the counter, filled with the bloodred liquid.

  “When we got there, we found the apartment covered in blood,” Dixon went on, his eyes watching her closely. “The bedclothes. The floors. The bathtub.”

  “The bathtub?” Rose echoed.

  Dixon nodded. “There was a glass of white wine sitting on the edge of the tub. Bloody fingerprints streaked the tiles just below the ledge where it sat.” He set his mouth, pressing his lips together. “The water in the tub was pink with blood.”

  “And—her? Rosemary?” Rose couldn’t resist asking, although she already knew the answer.

  He shook his head. “Nowhere. All that blood and no body.” He set his empty glass on the counter.

  Rose stared at it. For an instant her vision wavered and the tumbler morphed into a wineglass, reflecting pink from bloody water. She blinked, trying to rid her brain of that picture. Telling herself that it was her imagination and not a memory.

  “Rose?” Dixon touched her hand briefly.

  “I’m—I’m fine,” she stammered. “I don’t drink wine.”

  He sent her an odd look.

  “So you never found her?” she asked, knowing as soon as she opened her mouth that her question was foolish—naive.

  “No. Not un…” But he stopped, and let the unspoken words linger in the air.

  Rose swallowed against a queasy feeling in her stomach and gestured toward the pitcher of tea. “Do you want some more?”

  He shook his head. “The medical examiner said he couldn’t tell how much blood had gone down the drain. Blood can be deceiving. A little bit can look like a lot. His opinion was that she’d lost too much blood to survive.”

  —too much blood to survive. At Dixon’s words, Rose’s mouth and throat went dry. So dry she couldn’t speak.

  “Then we got another call. A body had been discovered—”

  Rose gasped. “A body? But…” She stopped at his sharp look.

  “It had been dragged behind a Dumpster about four blocks away, shot in the back, twice. The victim was Lyndon Banker, the son of Eldridge Banker—” Dixon met Rose’s gaze “—and Rosemary Delancey’s fiancé.”

  Chapter Six

  Rose’s amber eyes widened and what little color she had in her face drained away. “Fiancé?” Her voice was nothing more than a rasp.

  Dixon nodded. “We figured that Banker had come to Rosemary’s apartment and had caught the killer in the act. He ran—” Dixon shrugged “—maybe to get the polic
e. The killer followed him and shot him.”

  “You know that?”

  Dixon’s eyes narrowed. “Know what?”

  “That her fiancé saw the killer.”

  “We found Banker’s footprints in the blood on the hardwood floors, and Rosemary’s blood on his shoes.”

  He was going too fast for her. The players in this macabre little game were becoming confused in her head. “What if it was her fiancé that killed—” not killed “—hurt her, and the other person caught him and shot him?”

  “It wasn’t. Banker wasn’t carrying a knife. Plus, if he’d done it he’d have been covered with blood, not just the soles of his shoes.” He assessed her. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His mouth thinned. “Anyhow, after he shot Banker, the killer went back to Rosemary’s apartment to dispose of her body.”

  “Dispose of it? I thought—”

  “That’s what we figured he’d done, based on his footprints. But she was gone and she’s never been found.” Dixon’s deep blue eyes said what he didn’t put into words. Until now.

  “But…you said according to the medical examiner she couldn’t have survived.”

  “The M.E. said it appeared she’d lost too much blood to survive.”

  Rose shuddered. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me all this. Why are you so sure I’m this…woman?” She couldn’t say the name Rosemary Delancey.

  Dixon regarded her solemnly. “It all fits,” he said. “The scar on your face. The timeline.”

  “But you don’t know for sure.” She rubbed her temple.

  It was all too easy to conjure up a picture of the beauty queen’s apartment, streaked and smeared with blood, the floor tracked with— “Footprints,” she whispered.

  “Her footprints were everywhere,” he said. “Bare. Bloody. On the tile, on the hardwood floors. Everywhere.”