New Orleans Noir

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 diverse 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 later, 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.”

“I’d hoped Bev might be with you,” Helena said. “I know she’s familiar with the rental history of each of the four units as well as the needed repairs and upgrades.”

“She’d planned to join us, but she’s in Little Rock this morning waiting for the arrival of her first grandbaby. A boy. She left me a spreadsheet showing the rental history for the past five years, so we’re good.”

“No problem. A new grandson tops a meeting any day.”

Helena poured two glasses of iced tea and wrapped them in a cloth napkin to catch the condensation.

She’d met Bev on several occasions while visiting Mia. She owned and operated the French Quarter rental management agency that had handled Mia’s four apartments for at least the last decade. Bev had recommended Randi when Helena mentioned selling the house.

“Would you like a tour of the carriage house proper?” Helena asked.

“Absolutely.”

The tour took about thirty minutes and Randi seemed more enthralled with each room they visited, raving not only about the architecture but even the choice of colors, furnishings and artwork.

When they returned to the kitchen, Randi removed her laptop from her briefcase and sat it on the table. “Bev told me this place was a stunner, but this is much grander than I was expecting. From all indications, it’s in excellent condition for a house almost a hundred years old.”

“Mia did a terrific job of keeping it in good repair.”

“That’s important, but as we all know, you can never be certain what kind of structural problems you’ll find when you start checking out these historic houses.”

“A truth we’ve all learned from watching cable house remodeling shows,” Helena admitted. Not that she was too worried about that. Mia’s estate had left Helena more than enough assets to make any needed repairs to the property.

“Who was your grandmother’s decorator?” Randi asked. “I have several clients who could use their advice.”

“Mia was her own decorator, right down to the smallest details. Well, I did give her a few suggestions in the artwork department, but that’s it.”

“Then you both have excellent taste. I love the painting of the young couple running through the rain beneath beautiful French Quarter balconies.”

“Thank you. That’s actually my first prize-winning painting from a high school art contest.”

“You painted that in high school?”

“Eleventh grade.”

“Wow. Such talent. I know you said you were starting a new job at a Boston gallery, but I didn’t know you’d be exhibiting your own work.”

“Hopefully. If not, I’ll just be selling others’ creations and searching for new talent, but even that is exciting.”

“I’m sure you’ll be successful. You obviously had a very talented grandmother, as well. She perfectly captured the historic nature of the home without giving up comfort or convenience. That’s a hard combo to come by.”

“Then you don’t think I’ll have any trouble selling the property for a decent price?”

The awkward silence and the pained expression on Randi’s face said more than words could have.

Helena cringed. “Is the real estate market that bad?”

“It’s not actually the market that’s the problem.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s this particular property, or more to the point it’s that Elizabeth Grayson was staying here with her great-aunt when she was murdered.”

“People still need a place to live,” Helena said, trying to make sense of Randi’s concerns.

“I know, but the media hype isn’t making this any easier. Elizabeth was killed six months ago. The three previous victims of the alleged serial killer were murdered at six-month intervals almost to the day.”

“We’ve passed that date,” Helena said.

“But only by a few days. People who are familiar with the facts are on edge. It’s as if they’re all holding their collective breaths waiting for the killer to strike again.”

Helena’s frustration swelled. “Elizabeth was abducted off the streets. There’s no evidence the killer ever set foot on this property.”

“I’m not saying it’s reasonable,” Randi said, “but I have to level with you. Normally, this house would sell in days, might even set off a bidding war. In this climate of fear, all bets of a quick, lucrative sale are off.”

“In other words, my property has a curse on it until the killer is arrested and there’s nothing I can do about it?”

“Not necessarily. I just want you to be aware that you may be in for some lowball offers if you list the property immediately. If the killer doesn’t strike again, this should blow over in a few months.”

“Renters don’t seem to be afraid of moving in,” Helene said, clutching at the only positive thing she could see. “Bev said there’s a waiting list of prospective renters.”

Randi stared at the well-manicured nails on her left hand for a few seconds before lifting her gaze. “More bad news. The waiting list fell through, according to Bev. Your recently vacated apartment has not been rented. And Connor Harrington in 4-C gave a thirty-day notice yesterday.”

Helena threw up her hands in exasperation. “Connor is single and muscular. I can’t believe he’s afraid of being the serial killer’s next victim.”

“I don’t know what reason he gave, but I’m sure Bev will get back with you in a day or two on that,” Randi explained.

It had taken weeks of soul-searching for Helena to make up her mind to sell her grandmother’s beloved home and now that decision might have to be delayed.

One thing was for certain. She wasn’t going to give Mia’s beautiful home away at below what it was worth just because of the timing.

“I didn’t mean to rain on your parade like this,” Randi said. “We don’t have to decide or sign anything today, but we can talk about how to proceed if you do decide to list with us.”

“I suppose that’s complicated, too.”

“Not at all.”

Helena felt a nagging pain starting at the back of her skull. “I’m a novice at selling real estate, so I have no idea where to start. I suppose I should alert the remaining tenants that I’m putting the house on the market.”

“Let’s don’t jump the gun on that,” Randi cautioned. “Unless the prospective owner plans to use the entire property for himself and his family, having the units already under lease will be an asset.”

They spent the next hour talking about the advantages of working on upgrades and repairs before having the house appraised. Randi clearly knew her stuff and she patiently answered all of Helena’s questions while basically alleviating none of her fears.

By the time they’d finished and gone over the selling contract, Helena felt as if she were drowning in details.

She stood and walked to the window that overlooked the courtyard. “I suppose I should run this new information by Pierre Benoit.”

“Is that the man that Bev listed as one of your tenants?”

“Yes. He’s a divorce attorney with an office in the downtown area. I hired a probate attorney to settle Mia’s estate, but Pierre walked me though some of the legal hurdles.”

She owed him a dinner for that since he’d refused to accept cash.

“I think I’ve given you enough to think about for one day,” Randi said. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, but if you’re going to have two vacant units, it might be a good time to do any needed repairs or updates on those first.”

“Good point. I hadn’t expected so many complexities, but I’ll sign the real estate agreement now,” Helena said. “I’ve made the decision to sell. The hard part is already done.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” If she didn’t change her mind in the time it took to pick up the pen and sign her name on several dotted lines.

Randi delayed her departure to take her through the agreement again over a second glass of tea. Signing was more stressful than Helena had expected. She did so love this house.

But the life she knew here was gone forever and she would love her life in Boston, too. She had to keep reminding herself of that.

They made small talk as they walked across the courtyard when they were finished. Randi paused near the fountain just long enough to catch a few drops from the cool spray in her outstretched right hand.

“Whoever gets this house and courtyard is going to be a very lucky buyer,” Randi said as she was leaving.

Helena stood by the gate for a few minutes after she locked it behind Randi. A blue jay darted past her on its way to the nearest bird feeder. Graceful monarch butterflies fluttered among the blooms of a potted verbena.

She was mere steps away from French Quarter revelry, music and great food, yet this space had always been a peaceful haven. Perhaps her tenants no longer thought of it as safe.

If that bothered Connor Harrington, it must be a million times worse for Ella. Helena needed to find time to visit with her today.

She glanced up and then she saw him.

Hunter Bergeron—still, quiet, alone, standing on the edge of Ella’s balcony. Old longings vibrated along her nerve endings as she met his gaze. Her insides melted.

It had been six years, but she would have recognized him anywhere. Tall and muscular. Same unruly brown hair. Same cocky way of standing, his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets.

Her stomach knotted and she felt the burn of acid creeping up into her throat.

She’d tried to prepare herself for running into him while she was back in New Orleans. Just not in this courtyard. Not where it had all begun—and ended.

Traitorous recollections pounded her relentlessly.

Then, without even a wave of acknowledgment, he turned and disappeared back inside Ella’s apartment. Helena wrapped her arms around her chest and bit her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood.

Had he even recognized her? Had she become no more than a distant memory of an infatuation gone bad? Or maybe he looked at it as a commitment he’d escaped just in time.

It didn’t matter. There was nothing left of their relationship but regrets.

She should turn and go back inside before he left Ella’s.

But she was still standing there as if in a paralyzing trance when Hunter stepped out of Ella’s door and into the courtyard. Her insides quaked as he approached, but she managed to keep her head up and her breathing somewhat steady.

“Hello, Helena.”

Hello. That was it, as if it hadn’t been six years since the goodbye that almost destroyed her. Her resolve not to let him intimidate her strengthened.

“What are you doing here, Hunter?”

“Looking for you, for one thing. Police business. We need to talk.”

Chapter Five

Helena stared him down like he was a coiled snake about to strike, waiting so long to respond he felt sweat pooling on his brow. She clearly had the temperature advantage in her white shorts and lacy, summery top.

He was wearing his usual plainclothes detective attire—jeans and a sports shirt with the neck unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Nonetheless, he was starting to feel guilty as hell that he was ruining her homecoming by insisting she have anything to do with him.