Death of a Beauty Queen

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 and trying to look like just another guy hanging out on Jackson Square on a Saturday.

Then he spotted her. She was dealing tarot cards, tucking each one under the ribbons that crisscrossed her table. She had on black knit gloves today—still fingerless, and she handled the cards like a shark.

Was the sight familiar? Had he seen her here before and not recognized her? He couldn’t be sure.

Watching her, he realized she wasn’t reading the cards so much as her customer. The woman was fortyish, tired-looking and obviously going against her husband’s wishes by having her cards read. She kept glancing over to where he leaned against the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the St. Louis Cathedral and the park named for Andrew Jackson, smoking a cigarette and glaring at her.

Periodically, he turned his head and yelled, “Get back over here,” at two little boys who seemed determined to feed their popcorn to a seagull.

Dixon was pretty sure even he could tell the woman’s fortune. She was in for another dozen years at least of taking care of her sons, being bullied by her husband and wishing she had more time to herself. But he doubted Rosemary was giving her such dire predictions.

Sure enough, after Rosemary pointed at several cards and talked seriously for a few minutes, the woman smiled and laid her hand on Rosemary’s arm. Rosemary blushed and smiled back, and the woman took out two bills and tucked them under the ribbons, earning her a dark look from the husband.

Dixon sat down on a bench next to a bored-looking punk with a dirty blond ponytail and drained his fast cooling coffee. He didn’t stare at Rosemary, but he kept an eye on her, not quite sure exactly what he was doing there. He only knew that it was important to him to be sure she was safe.

For the next three hours, he watched her reading cards and making people happy, judging by their reactions and the money they gave her. Apparently fortune-telling wasn’t a bad career, especially if the teller was a beautiful and mysterious gypsy.

Chapter Four

Rose had long since draped her shawl across the back of her chair and exchanged her knit gloves for the black lace ones. The afternoon sun was much warmer than the forecasted seventy degrees.

She smiled and thanked the girl who slipped a twenty beneath the dark green ribbons on her little table. It had been easy to read the girl’s cards. She wore a small diamond on her left ring finger and her fiancé stood right beside her drinking an energy drink. The cards had reflected what Rose saw in their faces. They were in love and oblivious to the practicalities of marriage.

As the couple walked down St. Ann, looking at the artwork hanging on the fence that bordered Jackson Square, Rose unpinned the beret and let her braid hang free.

She looked around for Diggy, but he’d apparently taken a break or given up for the afternoon. Blotting sweat from her upper lip, she thought it would be worth that twenty she’d just earned to have him bring her a cold drink.

A shadow blocked the sun and fell across her face. She looked up. It was Dixon Lloyd. The detective—or not.

She gathered up her cards and began shuffling them, ignoring him until he set a cold bottle of water down on her table. It was covered in condensation, chilled drops sliding down the frosty plastic to pool on the table and soak into the dark green ribbons. Rosemary licked her lips.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I got it for you.”

She wanted to push the proffered bottle away, but her thirst won out over her indignation and yes, even her fear.

“Thank you,” she muttered ungratefully as she picked it up and twisted off the top. She drank nearly a third of it, stopping only when the cold threatened to give her a brain freeze.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, sitting down on the flimsy folding chair opposite her.

She set down the bottle and looked at him. “Are you stalking me?” she asked, proud of herself for her control after last night.

He shrugged. “One person’s stalker is another’s protector,” he said evenly.

Rosemary’s pulse raced at his words. “Protector?” she repeated drily, determined not to be afraid of him today. It was daylight and they were surrounded by people. Strangers … But surely if she needed help, at least one of them would come to her rescue. “I don’t think so. I think you’re trying to scare me. Well, it won’t work.”

“Tell my fortune,” he said, smiling at her.

She had to make a conscious effort to not let her mouth drop open. His smile stunned her. Without it, his dark blue eyes were unreadable. His face was a mask, with sardonically arched brows and a wide mouth that could curve ironically.

But his smile turned his navy eyes into warm blue pools, and his mouth from stern to boyish. She noticed that his nose was straight and short, adding to the boyishness of his face. Along with the smile, it instantly removed at least five years from her estimate of his age.