Brigitte's Cross (The Olivia Chronicles)

by Angelic Rodgers

  Liz recognized the guide pictured on the brochure as the woman she had seen earlier outside her house. She noted the dates and times of the tours and where they met up. They ran tours a couple of times a day, and they apparently threw in a visit to a couple of bars; not only did they stop at The Ruby, but they also were sure to make their way down the street to Marie Laveau’s Voodoo Bar. She decided she’d just wait for them to come to her.

  She didn’t have to wait long. Around 3:30, she saw a small group come in and take seats at one of the larger tables in the rear of the bar. She went over herself to wait on them. She heard a small gasp as she approached the table. Apparently someone was not really good at hiding their infatuation with her. No surprise there after the encounter with Georgette.

  “What can I get you folks?” She decided to act nonchalant. Ai was staring at her in much the same way Georgette had; she knew who she was, then.

  She took their drink orders and watched them from the bar. Ai got up and approached her.

  “It is so good to see you are back.”

  “Yeah, well, who the fuck are you?” Liz said it as if she were asking someone to pass the salt at dinner. There was no heat or anger was in her voice. No one in the bar seemed to notice the exchange, other than Ai, who was flustered by the directness and coldness in Liz’s voice.

  “My name is Ai. I am a graduate student in folklore at UNO. I’ve been leading tours over break.”

  “Oh, I know that much. Don’t you think I recognize you from in front of my freaking house? Don’t you think that your little tour business is a bit disrespectful?” She loaded the drinks up on a tray and headed to the table. Ai stayed at the bar.

  “Look,” she said when Liz came back. “I am not doing this to be disrespectful. There’s a whole historical, folklore aspect to this that is part of what I’m studying; besides, I knew Alex a little, and at least with me doing the tour, you can bet that it isn’t just about the money.”

  Liz huffed. “Oh, that makes it all better. Go to your table and have your drink and move on with your little group. The first sign of trouble from any of your tour groupies, and I’ll ban you from the bar. And just set a foot off the sidewalk or street next time you’re near my house.”

  Ai went back to the table, and Liz sensed someone come in the bar behind her. She turned to face the door and she saw him—the beautiful young man she’d seen in the park. He wasn’t wearing a suit this time; instead, he wore a worn leather jacket with a t-shirt and faded jeans. He smiled, almost too easily, when he saw her; it was as if they knew each other.

  She took his order after looking at his ID and slid him the ginger and rye with a twist and tried not to stare him down. He was slender, but solid. He kept on his jacket, and she wondered that he wasn’t warm inside. His features were almost delicate, and his skin smooth and golden. She pondered how he kind of looked like a ginger and rye, down to his eyes, which were strikingly pale amber with flecks of green and brown in them. He was intently watching the table where the tour participants were seated, but he sat quietly.

  Ai didn’t approach Liz again; she left cash with plenty of gratuity at the table to avoid talking to her. Liz noticed that when the group was gone the man at the bar got up and followed them at a distance. Other than ordering a drink, he’d not spoken to her or anyone else in the half hour that he was there.

  Kirby passed the man as he left the bar, and he did a double-take. “If I wasn’t in domestic bliss with you and Mike, I’d chase that one down for sure.” Kirby slid behind the bar and made himself a club soda with a twist. “I thought I would come down and serve as relief bartender for a bit so you could get a bite to eat, sketch, or do whatever.”

  Liz patted him on the back. “Thanks. I would like to get out and take a walk around the block, I think.”

  Once she was out on the street, the mysterious man was pretty easy to spot. The tour group was not far from the bar yet, and he was hanging back. She walked up behind him and gently put her hand on his bicep. He didn’t flinch or start, he simply turned his head toward her, as if he was expecting her to meet him outside.

  This close to him, she could smell him—the same spicy, sandalwood scent from the night she saw him in the park. They stood on the sidewalk, looking at each other silently. He was truly beautiful. His hair was not quite curly, and it was the color of black coffee. His eyebrows were arched gracefully over green-flecked amber eyes, and his lashes were thick and long. Despite it being dark, his pupils were like pin points. She saw no lines at the corners of his eyes, no tell-tale signs of aging. If she guessed his age based on appearance alone, she would say he was probably around 19. She had carded him when he ordered his drink, though, and when he silently passed his Louisiana driver’s license, she saw that he was 26. She also saw his name: Christophe Garnier.

  “I’ve seen you before.” As she said it, he nodded ever so slightly, and she saw the corners of his pale, full lips curl up slightly, as if he was amused.

  “Yes, you have, and I have seen you. You really shouldn’t walk in parks alone at such a late hour. But, then, I guess you weren’t really alone. I was there, after all.” He smiled wide, and she saw his stunningly white and perfect teeth. When he smiled all the way, he had the tiniest little lines at the corners of his eyes.

  It was unlike her to feel attraction to a man. She’d not been even the slightest bit interested in anyone, or even thought about the idea of ever dating again, yet here she was standing in the street, having to fight very hard to resist touching this man she didn’t even know. She was hyper-aware of his body heat, his smell, and she could even see the slight throb of his jugular at the bend of his neck, which was just at eye level for her. “I suppose you are right.” She turned a little, back toward the bar. “I’m going back to work now. You’re more than welcome to come back in for another round.”

  “Maybe some other time. I have some work to do myself.” He smiled again. “I’ll stop by and see you soon.” As she went back toward the bar, he moved toward the tour group, keeping them in his sights as they moved down the sidewalk toward Marie Laveau’s Voodoo Bar, a few blocks down.

  Kirby was surprised to see her back so soon. She made herself a drink and took it to the office. Grabbing her sketch pad, she started to draw, tracing the outline of Christophe’s face. She sketched quickly, wanting to remember the eyes and mouth, feeling compelled to get it on paper. Kirby came in later to find her asleep on the couch, and he covered her with the throw and turned off the lamp before closing the door.

  Daniela entered the house with her mother, arm in arm. Their own house was quite large, but it seemed insignificant in comparison to this house. The entryway was wide, with shelves facing the door, filled with more books than she had imagined existed. To her left was not only the entrance to another room, but the end of a staircase that curved up, leading to the upper floors which she assumed were just as well-appointed. The room on the left appeared to be the proper library; she could see more books there, along with comfortable chairs. Two older gentlemen were in that room, smoking and talking in low voices.

  To the right, she could see a small sitting room, and she could hear voices in the room beyond it. She started to move that way but was delayed by her mother tugging on her arm. “Daniela, dear, please let the good woman take your cloak.” She turned to her mother and saw a hired woman waiting to take their cloaks and gloves. Once that was squared away, she and her mother moved through the sitting room and toward the voices.

  In the formal parlor, several people were gathered; her father had come earlier, as her mother fussed over every detail of her dress and hair before declaring she was ready to make an entrance. She felt even more like a child now standing in this room than she had with her mother and Elena fussing over her. Upon entering the room, though, her attention shifted very quickly from the opulence of the furnishings and onto their host.

  She had expected an older man; he looked much younger than her own father, who was only in his fo
rties. This man had the flush of a twenty something about him; surely, she thought, this must be a son that they forgot to mention? Surely this was not the man they wanted to match her with, although she hoped it was.

  Even though he didn’t seem to notice her, she felt like he was staring right at her. She watched as he talked, his smile coming easily as he laughed at a joke. His hands looked well-manicured, and he wore a tailored suit that fit him well. He was slender but looked solid and strong. His hair was blue-black against his creamy skin, and as he looked over toward her, she felt herself become faint. Before she hastily dropped her eyes to the ground, she saw his eyes were pale and ethereally blue.

  Her mother nudged her. “There he is, Daniela. Isn’t he dashing?” She looked up again and saw him smiling at her.

  “Which one, mother? Surely not the smiling man in the suit?”

  “Yes, dear. That is him, indeed, the Count Dracula.”

  “Mother, it’s impossible—he can’t be as old as father. Look at him!”

  She laughed. “Well, dear, not all rich men are ogres. Some do age well. He comes from a very prestigious family, descended from the Prince of Wallachia. He’s very well-traveled, and his ancestors are well-revered for their efforts against the Turks. I suspect good breeding and wealth have kept him free from worry and so young looking.” She patted her on the arm. “Let us find your father so we might be formally introduced.”

  Her father at this point came up behind them. “Ah, there are my girls. Honestly, mother, did it take you that long to make Daniela presentable?” He kissed his daughter on the cheek. “I find her lovely at all times and wouldn’t think much work would be required.” He stepped between them, one on each side of him taking his arm. He smelled of pipe tobacco and wine.

  The Count had been watching them as the little family greeted each other. He excused himself and walked across the room to greet them. Daniela felt faint again, her breath catching as he gently brought her hand to his lips. She felt herself blush all over; even just the polite gesture of taking her hand and touching his lips to it seemed too intimate in this room of other people and especially in front of her mother and father.

  “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Daniela. You are every bit as beautiful as you were described as being, and I hope you’ll find our dinner party entertaining rather than tedious.” Despite the fact he’d let go of her hand, she could still feel him where their skin had touched. His eyes were unnerving in their paleness, unearthly. He smiled again, and she saw just the faintest hint of lines around them and just the trace of grey sprinkled in his blue-black hair. These signs of his age did not bother her, though.

  She could not reply with anything other than the slightest of smiles and a weak nod. She was too overwhelmed by his presence. She knew her mother was yammering away about him, but she didn’t truly hear anything she said. Soon, the meal was served and everyone was called to the table. Daniela ate everything she was served, her appetite ravenous. It helped distract her and she managed to survive the dinner without embarrassing herself by staring longingly at the Count.

  As they left, he held her hand briefly in parting. “You must come again, Daniela. My daughter was indisposed this evening, but I think the two of you will get on famously, and perhaps we can all get to know each other a bit better? She, too, should think of marriage soon.”

  Liz was disoriented when she woke up, and she scrambled for the doorknob. Because it was the first time she had slept in the office, she was not as capable of sleepwalking out of the room. Kirby had locked the door, as well, to make sure no one disturbed her. She was panicked but awake by the time she found the light switch and realized where she was. She sat back on the couch and took a drink from the glass of water she’d brought with her when she came back to sketch. She looked down at her sketch pad and found that she had not managed to draw Christophe at all, but instead she had drawn the man from her dream.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Vaughn was pleased. He managed to get in to see Wren, and for a first meeting, things went better than he expected. Wren was somewhat reserved, but he thought that with a couple more visits, he would have some good leads to follow up on. Solaris, the public defender working on Wren’s behalf, was obviously worried, but she also seemed to realize that the decision to talk was up to her client.

  The interview was fairly short, and he used it mainly as a way to gain some trust from both Wren and Solaris. He assured them both that he wouldn’t release anything until well after the trial and that he wanted the work to be a full book-length work. Wren never attempted to deny her part in Alex’s death, so it wasn’t as if there was anything to lose in terms of a guilty or not guilty plea—the not guilty plea was never on the table.

  He was surprised when he walked in; the woman in the orange jumpsuit didn’t look like the one he remembered from the crime scene photos. There was, of course, no blood and no crazed look on her face this time, but she also seemed very articulate and clear-headed. She even flirted with him a bit, telling him that she wished she were meeting him under different circumstances. She noticed the wedding band and remarked that someone was a lucky girl. “I wish I was smarter with my choices,” she’d said. It was such a rational statement given the barbaric and irrational acts she was in jail for.

  The second visit was far more productive. Her lawyer was not there this time, and Wren was quite detailed in the stories she told him in Solaris’ absence. She confirmed that she and Alex had been lovers at one point, but that they broke up years before. “I just couldn’t get her out of my mind. Have you ever been involved with someone that you just couldn’t shake?” Wren looked almost teary eyed when she said it, but then turned it into a flirting opportunity, saying, “You probably are always the one others are trying to forget, though.”

  She was really beautiful; Vaughn harbored no doubts that she was the kind of performer who brought customers to the club. Even without her dance gear on, she was stunning and looked dangerous. Her skin was clear and even toned, almost pale against her dark ringlets of long hair that fell halfway down her back. She was tall but curvy, even in the formless, generic clothes she was forced to wear in jail. He had seen photos of her lining the windows of the Casbah; she had lost a bit of weight, but she looked healthy.

  She spoke softly and in measured, even tones. The only signs of emotion he could see in her as she talked about Alex and her obsession with her were how she clenched her hands and how water rose to her eyes. She was the picture of repentance and grief. She didn’t speak badly of anyone, not even Liz. She was likeable.

  She didn’t want to talk about the others—she only wanted to talk about Alex. There was a good deal of sadness in her voice, and Vaughn knew he’d need to interview others to get a fuller picture.

  He stopped by the store to pick up Audrey. She was doing inventory, and was glad to stay later than usual since she was productive and feeling well again. He was glad to see her and glad that there would never be a love triangle for him to worry about. He and Audrey were solid and with the baby coming, they were even more so. When she turned toward the door as he walked in and smiled wide, he felt the leftover sadness from his time with Wren slide off him.

  “You about ready to blow this popsicle stand?” He kissed her quickly and got a whiff of ginger on her breath. “You’re addicted to candied ginger still, aren’t you?” She practically lived on ginger candy during the first trimester. The nausea and throwing up finally abated and now she was back to herself for the most part, even if she was more amorous than ever before. That was certainly a bonus, though.

  She kissed him back, taking her time. “Let’s go out for dinner, Vaughn. Let me grab my purse and we’ll lock up and get out of here.”

  “OK. Where do you feel like eating?”

  “Let’s go to the Pizza Kitchen. I know we just went a week or so ago, but I’m ready to go again.”

  After locking up, they headed to Louisiana Pizza Kitchen. Linda was surprised to see them again
so soon, but happy, as they always tipped well and were easy to take care of. She made a beeline for their table once they got situated.

  “Hey, you two. We’ve got a great new red blend in; can I interest you in a glass, Vaughn?”

  “Thanks, Linda, but while Audrey’s pregnant, I’ve pledged not to drink red wine. If she has to give up her favorite, I don’t get it either.” He ordered a Wild Turkey 101 on the rocks to get started.

  Audrey sipped her water and decided to get to the point. “I guess it’s time we grow up and start looking for a house, huh? I can’t see us raising baby Morris in that apartment. It’s been great for just us, but we need room. And, if we could start looking now, maybe we can find something before I really get huge. Right now, I’m still able to hop in and out of cars.”

  Later, as they snuggled together at home, naked under the covers, he smelled the back of her neck and felt the slight rise and fall of her belly under his arm as she slept, he thought of how fortunate they both were to have never experienced lives like those Wren and Tiffany had. He also marveled at how quickly things could fall in place and wondered about what part of town to start their house search in.

  Chapter Seventeen

  To passersby, it just looked like Olivia was wandering down the street, apparently aimlessly. She was looking for something, though. On St. Ann is a small house that often goes unnoticed, except by the most learned and observant practitioners and tour groups. 1020 St. Ann is approximately where Marie Laveau lived so many years ago. The house there now isn’t the same house, of course; that cottage was demolished in 1903. The house blended in with the others, and it was split into two side-by-side apartments, shotgun style. As she neared the spot, she could feel the heat rise—white burning heat, crackling in the air. She could also just make out a figure slipping out of the door on the side farthest from her, the front of the cottage shuttered. The figure saw her or sensed her in the darkness and stopped on the steps, staring in her direction.