Down & Dead In Dixie (Down & Dead, Inc. Series)

by Vicki Hinze

  I rolled onto my back, my mouth so dry I was tempted to drink salt water, which even I knew would really kill me, and used my good leg to kick hard and the other to stay stable. I floated in the last of the way, and was never so happy in my life to scrape my backside on sand.

  The beach might typically have been deserted, but a big group having a party littered it. I came out of the water downwind of them, blended in, weaving through the group, and skirted the volleyball game and bright lights, then ambled toward the parking lot. So far I didn’t recognize anything or anyone, which was a good thing, considering.

  “You okay?” A tall guy with a winsome smile asked. His waxed chest looked smoother than mine. “You’re limping.”

  I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to be remembered. “Fine, thanks,” I said, ducking so the brim of my hat hid my face. I kept walking.

  Figured. First decent guy to notice me since my breakup with Andy six months ago—not that I was attracted or could ever get past the smooth chest thing—but even if I was and could, I couldn’t do squat to encourage him because I’m dead. In my new life, my luck was holding steady at lousy. Odd, but it seemed kind of comforting to be able to count on something.

  The neon lights of a casino came into view. I headed toward them. It wasn’t one in Biloxi. I drove by those all the time. Must have drifted west in the water. Gulfport maybe—I recognized a bank—yes, Gulfport. I really had drifted. Should have thought of the drift, but I hadn’t. It was too far to walk to retrieve the clothes I’d stashed, but at least I’d kept my money with me.

  There was something about stashing my purse and money that the woman in me just couldn’t do. So I’d bought a waterproof bag, dumped my old purse in a trash drum and kept my cash with me. Now, I was grateful for the little female idiosyncrasy. I wasn’t without clothes and flat broke.

  Tour buses lined up in the casino’s parking lot. I could catch a ride—no records. But where did I go?

  I hung out at the edge of the beach until I stopped dripping water, shoved every strand of hair under my hat, then entered the casino to get some clothes. The stores were open around the clock. Approaching the first person I saw, I asked about the shops. She had no idea where they were located. Neither did the second person, or the couple that followed her.

  A woman in uniform walked toward me. Not wanting to be seen or remembered, I tried skirting her, but she proved persistent. Running would have aroused more suspicion so I slumped and paused near a bank of slot machines.

  Petite and in her forties, she intercepted me. “Why are you bothering our guests?”

  “I’m not. I asked for directions,” I said. “I didn’t see you in your uniform or I’d have asked you.” Could she hear my heart thundering? “Where are the shops?” Frowning, I lifted a hand. “Some jerk stole my clothes off the beach.”

  “He took your clothes and left your purse?” Her eyebrows shot up on her forehead.

  “It was with me. Good thing, as it turns out.”

  She nodded. “Hotel won’t cover items left unattended on the beach.” Frowning her thoughts on their policy, she motioned. “All the stores are down the east corridor. You’ll find everything you need. Guests get a discount, but only if you ask for it, so be sure you do.”

  “I will. Thanks.” Letting her continue with the assumption I was staying at the hotel, I wound between banks of slot machines to the corridor and then stepped into the first clothing shop.

  Within minutes, I walked out wearing a pair of jeans and a Crimson Tide t-shirt, sneakers and a red baseball cap. My next mission? Find a drug store.

  A block down the street, I found a Walgreens. There, I bought a box of red hair dye and applied it in the restroom. The smell probably didn’t make the employees happy, but I left the place tidy so they’d have no complaint other than the fumes.

  As I left the store and stepped into the night, my stomach growled, demanding food. Considering hunger a good sign—for a while, I thought I’d never be able to eat again—I walked back to the casino and grabbed a burger and soft drink then exited out at the garage near the long row of tour buses.

  Lester’s warning to avoid rental cars and public transportation seemed like sound advice, but while his heart had been in the right place on sending me to his friend, Paul Perini, in Dixie, Florida, I couldn’t actually go there. If something went wrong with my drowning death and push came to shove, Lester would know where I was hiding. I didn’t want to burden him with the secret or to give anyone a reason to beat the information out of him. Dead is dead, until it isn’t, you know? So, just in case, I didn’t want to take any chances he or his friend, Paul Perini, would be hurt. And that meant I had to find somewhere to go. Somewhere away from Jackson and Dallas.

  I ate the tangy burger while walking between the long rows of buses, gazing up their windshields to their destination headsigns. Jacksonville . . . Dothan . . . Montgomery . . . New Orleans.

  I stopped, sipped at my soda. For a while, Jackson’s friend in Dallas, Craig Parker, had worked with Mark Jensen in New Orleans. Mark had been in chef’s school with Jackson and Craig. Unlike either of them, Mark had family money behind him. Going into chef’s school, he already owned a restaurant in the French Quarter, Jameson Court. I could go there. Nothing connected Daisy Grant to Mark Jensen or Craig Parker, but Lester’s Lily Nichols knowing Craig could help me get a job with Mark. Hey, maybe eventually I could somehow get a covert message to Jackson. Not right away, of course, but one day. . . The possibility brightened my mood.

  The bus driver came up, dampening it. “Ready to leave already?” He checked his watch. “You’ve got another hour.”

  “Tapped out my gambling budget.” Feigning a yawn, I asked, “Do you mind if I wait on the bus?” Standing exposed out in the open gave me the willies. “I’d love to grab a nap.”

  “You do look tired.” He motioned to the open door. “Go ahead.”

  I got inside and walked to the very back. Hunching down, I begged my ankle to stop screaming its agony, closed my eyes, and took my first half-easy breath since witnessing Edward Marcello’s murder.

  Chapter 4

  IN THE FRENCH Quarter, the tour bus rolled past St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 then stopped on Basin Street. About half the passengers exited the bus. Why they went to Mississippi to gamble when there was a casino right on the riverfront in New Orleans, I had no idea, but I left with them and walked into one of a dozen specialty shops lining the sidewalk. Grabbing a map and a soda from the cooler, I made my way to the cash register near the front door.

  A young man in his early twenties rang up the purchase. “$7.47.”

  I passed him a ten. “Do you know where Jameson Court is? It’s a restaurant—”

  “I know it.” He dropped his voice. “A little pricey for someone on my salary, but I hear people rave about the food all the time.” He motioned toward the river. “Two blocks down the street. Second building on the right.”

  Glad it had a good reputation, I smiled. Had to be a good sign, right? “Thanks.”

  He gave me a slow look. “No offense, but I wouldn’t go in Jameson Court dressed like that. Not if you’re expecting to be seated.”

  I stilled. “Formal?”

  “This time of year, definitely.” He nodded, his dark hair swinging toward his face. “Local bigwigs hotspot.”

  “Great. More money I don’t need to spend.” I shrugged. “I’ve already had everything but my swimsuit stolen on this trip.”

  “Shame they missed the gaudy purse.” He pressed his hand over his mouth. “Did I really just say that?” Surprise lit up his eyes. “I can’t believe I said that.” He winced, then lowered his voice, glanced at the bag and wrinkled his nose. “Sorry, sugar, but truth is truth.”

  “No problem.” His reddened face warned me he often spoke his mind and then wished he hadn’t. “The purse is gaudy.” No sense lying about it. “In a pinch, you take what you can get.” Waterproof, not style, had been my top priority.


  He pursed his lips. “There’s a consignment shop three blocks over, Basin Boutique. Ask for Ruth. Tell her Jason sent you.” He passed me the change from my ten. “Give me your name and I’ll call her. She’ll cut you a good deal.”

  My name. “Lily. Lily Nichols.” I cocked my head. “You really think I need different clothes?” I frowned. “I’m not going for dinner. I’m looking for a job.”

  “Then, you’d definitely better upgrade. Formal isn’t necessary, but if you’re not well-dressed, you won’t make it past the door to even ask to leave your resume. Not at Jameson Court.”

  “To Ruth’s boutique it is, then.” I smiled again and extended my hand. “Thanks, Jason.”

  “No problem, sugar.” His eyes turned kindly. “Been in your sneakers myself. Good luck—and don’t worry. I didn’t see you.”

  I stopped, went statue-still. “What?”

  He winked. “I don’t see anyone or anything. No one does. Works best for all in the Crescent City.”

  Buying a map, asking for directions; he realized I was new here. That’s all. “Appreciate the help, and the tip, Jason.” I hurried out.

  Living in the Vieux Carré, where no one saw or knew anything, could be a huge perk for a dead woman.

  Things were looking up.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, thanks to Jason and Ruth, I stood dressed for success in a black suit, white shirt, and black pumps—and I paid less for everything than for the new shoes wrecked at Edward Marcello’s murder. Cruising down the sidewalk toward Jameson Court at a snail’s pace—pumps and a bum ankle do not mix—I still felt my spirits lift. Maybe my luck was changing.

  Ruth thought the restaurant stopped serving at ten, so my timing should be about right. Job first, then somewhere to spend the night. I set my priorities then checked my cash. Hotel rates had to be outrageous in the Quarter, but if I secured a job with Mark, I could handle it until I found a place, provided I was careful. My stomach fluttered. I grabbed my Grant half-dollar and rubbed it hard. If nothing else good had come from being on my own for so long, I knew how to be careful.

  Something hard collided with the back of my head.

  My knees collapsed, and my world went black.

  * * *

  “HEY, LADY. LADY, you okay?”

  I knew that voice. I cranked open my eyes. Jason. And Ruth stood beside him. They hunched over me. “Why am I on the ground?”

  “Some jerk knocked you senseless and stole your purse,” Ruth said, her voice shrill. Her gelled spikes of hair rammed toward my face like lethal weapons. “I yelled at him, and he took off. You okay?”

  “Jason, why are you here?”

  “Ruth called me. We’ve been trying to get you to come around for ten minutes, sugar.” He blew out a long breath. “I was scared to call the cops. Scared to even call you . . . anything. We didn’t know what to do.”

  “No cops.” I struggled to sit up. “I’ll be okay.” I still held my Grant half-dollar. At least the jerk hadn’t gotten it. “Who hit me?”

  “I’ve never seen him around here before. He was big. Huge. No way could I tangle with him and win.” Ruth looked apologetic. “Sorry. I lost my gun in Katrina when they confiscated them.”

  “No.” I rubbed my head, felt the goose egg. “You’d just have been hurt.” Ruth was petite. Maybe a hundred pounds, soaking wet—less without hair gel. “Thanks for coming to help me.”

  “What is your name?” Jason asked loudly enough to be heard by others.

  This wasn’t a memory check but a cover. He had no idea what I’d told anyone else aside from Ruth. “Lily. Lily Nichols.” I reached for his hand and felt dizzy. “Can you help me get to my feet?”

  He grabbed one arm, Ruth the other and they lifted me then held on to make sure I stood steady. Dizzy, I hung on until my head finally cleared. “Thanks. I’m good now.”

  “He took everything.” Ruth cringed. “What are you going to do?”

  Good question. “Walk over to Jameson Court and try to get a job.”

  “You know anyone in town?” Ruth brushed the street grit from my sleeve and skirt.

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Then you can stay with me until you get a place.”

  Temptation to accept burned strong. But if discovered by the Marcellos or Adrianos or Boudin, or by Detective Keller or the flat-nosed FBI guy, Johnson, I couldn’t be responsible for dragging their wrath down on Ruth’s head. She too could wake up dead. “I can’t impose, but thank you for your offer.”

  Ruth kept dusting me off. “What you can’t do is go into Jameson Court with dirt clinging to your clothes, and you can’t stay on the street. You’ve just seen that it’s not safe, Lily. Where are you going to go?”

  “I’ll work it out.” I smiled at them. “I . . .” Words failed me. “Thank you.”

  Ruth frowned and called after me. “If you change your mind, just come to the boutique.”

  Standing under the street lamp, I nodded and then resumed walking toward Jameson Court.

  So much for my luck changing. Apparently, I’d come into my new life carrying a lot of baggage from my old one.

  * * *

  STEPPING INTO JAMESON Court had butterflies in my stomach. It was elegant, decorated in crisp white and deep green with understated splashes of gold and fine art dotting the walls and lush greenery filling quiet coves to give diners privacy. I loved the place on site. The old woods and antique pieces that were both massive and scaled to appropriately fit the places they occupied set the perfect tone of tranquil elegance. My feet floated on ancient rugs I would never have expected to see in a restaurant or in any high-traffic area. Yet anything else would have seemed out of place for Jameson Court.

  I glanced around, feasting my eyes. The dining room was full, the restaurant busy yet quiet. Peaceful. Serene. For a woman who had known too little of either peace or serenity, both called to me as much as the charming, understated elegance. Probably more.

  A blonde woman, also elegant, in her mid-thirties and dressed in a black sheath and heels, approached me. “May I help you?” she asked, her southern drawl natural, not affected. Definitely, a native.

  I stood a little straighter. “I apologize for showing up during the dinner rush. I intended to wait until tomorrow, but shortly after arriving, I was mugged—”

  “Mugged?” Her eyebrows lifted. “Where were you mugged?”

  Too much information. “Across from St. Louis Cemetery,” I said quickly, avoiding its number, and then shifted subjects. “I need to speak to Mark Jensen. I’m looking for a job.”

  The mention of his name had the tension in the woman’s face changing to concern. “Were you hurt in the mugging?”

  “I was knocked out, but I’m fine now.” She’d been staring at the freshly scraped raspberry on my face and would assume I’d gotten it during the mugging. I let her.

  “Why don’t you come with me? I’m Rachel.” She motioned for me to follow her. “We’ll get you a cup of tea and you can talk to Mark.”

  “Thank you.” She led me through a hallway paralleling the dining room. We passed several waiters on their way to tables with artfully arranged food that smelled delicious. It reminded me I hadn’t had a bite to eat since the burger on the bus at the casino, and now I had no money to buy food. Somehow I couldn’t picture a soup kitchen close to Jameson Court.

  We walked into a sleek and modern kitchen at total odds with the old-world charm of the dining room. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Well-equipped, sleek, clean and functional. On the far end stood a glass-walled office. In it, behind a long oak desk, sat a man who had to be Mark Jensen. He fit Jackson and Craig Parker’s descriptions.

  By both accounts, Mark had been the lady killer of chef school and much envied but also much admired because he wasn’t full of himself. Dark brown hair, bright brown eyes, and a quick smile. His face was all angles and his skin tinted but not from sun, by heritage. French heritage, if I had to guess. Definitely some C
ajun in his gene pool.

  “Mark.” Rachel escorted me into the office. “Do you have a minute?”

  Staring at a computer screen, he looked up. “Sure. What’s . . . up?” He spotted me and faltered in a way that made it clear Rachel didn’t often bring strangers into his private sanctum.

  “Me.” I smiled. “I’m looking for a job.”

  He studied me. Not in a sexual way, but definitely assessing. “What do you do?”

  Rachel interrupted. “Your ankle’s a wreck. Go ahead and sit down.” Rachel motioned to a brown leather chair opposite Mark’s desk. “I’ll get you that cup of tea.”

  “Thank you.” I took the seat and turned to Mark. “I was a hostess most recently, out of state. I just arrived here and I’m afraid Rachel was right. My ankle is wrecked, and I’ve already been mugged.” Of all times, my stupid stomach growled.

  “Before you had supper.”

  “Sorry.” I felt my face heat. “He took everything I had.”

  “Not everything.” Mark lifted his chin. “What’s in your hand?”

  I’d forgotten I held my coin. Apparently, Mark had noticed me rubbing it. I rubbed when stressed and always had. “A Grant half-dollar. It’s my good luck charm.” Now considering my circumstances, luck sounded like a whacky stretch even to me.

  “They’re rare coins.”

  Surprise rippled through me. “You’re familiar with the Grant?”

  “A little.” He nodded and rocked back in his seat. Its springs squeaked. “An old friend of mine had one.” Mark touched his cheek and sobered. “Mugged, huh? I guess the luck in yours was on hiatus today.”

  Had that old friend of his been Jackson? Aside from his coin and her own, she’d never seen or heard of another Grant half-dollar. “I survived it. That’s some luck.” Actually, I guess I hadn’t been as unlucky as I’d felt. I’d died, started over, gotten here, and survived a mugging. That wasn’t half-bad. “I apologize for barging in on you without an appointment.”

  “Not a problem. Did the police catch the mugger?”