“Were you asleep?” Ethan asked.
“No. What about the time?”
“The Saints’s scrimmage? That you wanted to go to?” Ethan said. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”
“The—” Dixon stopped. He had forgotten. “Sorry, I can’t go,” he said. “Something’s come up.”
Ethan was quiet for a split second. “Something’s come up since this morning?” he snapped. “What the hell?”
Dixon thought fast. “It’s Dee. She needs me to—to move some stuff.” He winced. He didn’t like lying to his partner, but what was he going to tell him? I’ll be busy chasing down a lead on your dead cousin? Yeah, that would work.
“Right. Your sister is insisting that you change your plans to help her. That’s so like Dee,” Ethan said flatly. It wasn’t a question. It was a very sarcastic, disgusted statement.
“Come on, Ethan. You ought to understand family. Dee didn’t insist. She just looked so disappointed.” It was a low blow, playing the family card, but Dixon knew it would work with Ethan.
Another second of silence. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll see if Harte wants to go.”
“Why don’t you take that girl you’ve been dating?” Dixon suggested, hoping to redirect Ethan’s ire.
“Why don’t you mind your own business?”
Dixon laughed. “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise. What’d you do? Make her get her own drink?” Ethan had been going out with the daughter of a prominent New Orleans attorney. He’d complained about her being high-maintenance.
“No. I didn’t do anything.”
“She doesn’t like football, does she?”
Ethan muttered a curse word. “If it’s not cappuccino or designer shoes, she’s not interested. Have fun moving furniture.”
“Yeah,” Dixon said, and started to hang up, then he thought of something. “Hey, Delancey,” he said. “When your cousin died, she was living in her own apartment, right?”
“Dix, really? More questions about Rosemary? That T-Bo really got under your skin, didn’t he?” Ethan sighed. “Yes, she was living in her own apartment. Why?”
“I was wondering if there was any friction between her and her parents. Was that why she left home?”
He heard Ethan sigh. “I have no idea. Anything else?”
“Nope,” Dixon said and hung up. He scrubbed a hand down his face as he set the phone on its charging station. Eventually he was going to have to tell Ethan that his cousin Rosemary was alive and living less than six blocks from where she was attacked.
Dixon headed through the kitchen to his bedroom. He needed to get to sleep. It was after ten, and 5:00 a.m. would come way too soon.
Once in bed, he tried to clear his mind so he could fall asleep, but just as he was about to drift off, the vision of the twenty-two-year-old Carnival Queen rose in his inner vision, then slowly, it morphed into the fascinatingly beautiful face of Rose Bohème.
Gone was the pretty debutante who’d haunted him for twelve years. It was Rose Bohème, the woman, who needed him now. He would be there tomorrow, in Jackson Square. And tomorrow he wouldn’t miss her. Now that he’d found her, he didn’t plan to let her out of his sight until he’d solved the mystery of her apparent return from the dead.
ROSE GOT HER table set up by six o’clock. Today she was thankful that she’d crisscrossed the tiny table’s top with ribbons to hold the tarot cards in place. The forecast only foretold a thirty-percent chance of rain, but it was already cloudy and the wind was blowing.
She’d braided her hair this morning, but a braid wasn’t going to cut it if the wind kept up, so she tucked the fat coils into a knit beret and anchored it with bobby pins.
Over the years she’d learned not to mind having her face exposed. Only a very few rude people and children asked about the scar. The children didn’t bother her. She explained to them that she’d had a bad accident many years ago.
Once she got her hair anchored, she pulled her wool knit shawl closer around her. Even in New Orleans, late-October mornings were chilly. She shivered and felt in her skirt pockets for her cold-weather gloves. She slipped them on, thankful that she’d tucked them there the previous weekend.
After her nightmarish night, she was lucky she’d made it here at all, much less remembered everything.
She rubbed her temple and pushed away the disturbing images from her dreams. Nights were bad enough since Maman had died. She was not going to let the visions and the voices intrude upon her days.
At least she’d gotten rid of that rude bully of a detective. Once she’d threatened to call 911, he’d beat feet out the door. It made her wonder if he was really a policeman at all.
An arrow of fear pierced her chest. Dear God, that must be it. He wasn’t really a detective. Sure, he’d showed her a badge, but she had no idea whether it had been real or not.
Her hands shook as she pulled the shawl closer around her. Whom had she let into her home? Whom had she allowed past the protective barrier Maman had provided so that Rose could feel safe?
Suddenly, she felt her careful control draining away. The faceless, nameless terror loomed—rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss, rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Only it was no longer faceless or nameless. The terror had blue-black hair and deep blue eyes. And its name was Dixon Lloyd.
“Yo, Mama. Hey?”
She jumped at the familiar voice. She blinked and realized she was staring at the tarot cards. She looked up.
It was Diggy Montgomery, a kid who danced on the street corner near her. “You okay?” He made a funny hip-hop gesture with his hands.
“I’m fine,” she said, dredging up a smile for him. “I like your hat.”
“Yeah.” He took it off and twirled it, then seated it back on his head. “I found it over on Canal. Blew off some rich dude’s head I bet. Wan’ some coffee?”
“I would love some,” she said, digging into her skirt pocket. She always gave him five dollars for a large cup of café au lait from the Café du Monde and never asked for change. His mother was a waitress there and she was pretty sure he got the coffee for nothing, but she didn’t care. He put sugar in it and brought it to her. That alone was well worth five bucks.
When he returned, he had the coffee plus a small paper bag. “Here you go, Mama. Enjoy.”
“Diggy, wait. Take another dollar,” she called, but he just executed a flawless circle, doing things with his sneaker-clad feet that she wouldn’t have believed could be done. Then he tipped the fedora, gave her a cocky grin and a mock salute, and said, “Naw, sugar. You look cold. Eat yo’ beignet. ‘S all good.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling. “Come back later and I’ll read your cards.”
He shook his head as he sashayed to his corner, tossed the hat onto the ground to collect tips and started his moves.
The tourists who were out this early were more interested in their places in line at the Café du Monde than getting their fortunes told, but Rose figured by noon, if it didn’t rain, she’d have more business than she could handle. After all, it was the week before Halloween. Between now and the first of the year was her most lucrative time.
DIXON PUT THE hood of his sweatshirt up and huddled in line, waiting for his turn to elbow his way up to the counter and get his café au lait. He wanted to sit down and have a plate of beignets, but he was anxious to find Rosemary.
Coffee in hand, he walked down St. Ann Street, sipping at the hot, sweet brew