New Orleans Noir

by Joanna Wayne

  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 div
erse 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 la
ter, 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.”