Death of a Beauty Queen Read online

  Chapter Two

  You call yourself Rose Bohème.

  The words sent fear twisting in her gut like a knife blade. Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking about sharp, shiny, deadly things. A shudder quaked through her.

  “Rose Bohème,” he said again, his tone suggesting that he didn’t believe it was her real name. “How do you spell that exactly?”

  She met his gaze and lifted her chin. Suddenly she felt mean. He’d barged into her home without an explanation and dismissed Maman’s little shop as beneath his notice. She added arrogant and overbearing to his list of attributes. He didn’t deserve a straight answer.

  “R-O-S-E,” she said sweetly.

  His left brow shot up and a dark glint sparked in his eyes. “Thank you. Now your last name,” he said evenly.

  She bit her lip. He was smooth. “Bohème. B-O-H-E-M-E.”

  Detective Lloyd wrote on his notepad. “Like gypsy,” he muttered.

  “That’s right,” she said, shifting on her perch. “You had questions for me? I’m sure I don’t know anything about an old murder.”

  The detective gave her an odd, knowing look. Did he think she was lying? “How long have you lived here?” he asked.

  “More than ten years.” Rose crossed her arms. “Was the murder in this neighborhood? Because the only killing I recall was when Gilbert Carven shot a burglar who’d climbed in his window, but that was—”

  Detective Lloyd waved a hand. “Please, let me ask the questions. I noticed the sign out front. Is Maman Renée here?”

  “No,” she said, blinking against the sudden, familiar sting of tears at the back of her eyes. “She died five months ago.”

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  The stock phrase uttered in a monotone made Rose angry and dried up her tears instantaneously. “How kind of you,” she said icily.

  He looked up from his notebook. “I know it can be hard when you lose someone close. Exactly what relation was she to you?”

  She hadn’t expected that question. Here in the neighborhood, everyone knew them. She didn’t recall anyone ever asking her or Maman about their actual relationship.

  “She was my…my…” She stopped. She couldn’t say mother. That was too easily checked. So was aunt.

  “…cousin,” she finally said, wincing at how weak her answer was.

  “Your cousin,” Lloyd repeated sarcastically.

  “Once removed on my…my mother’s side,” she embellished lamely, then bit her lip. She shouldn’t have said mother. Don’t ask me my mother’s name, she begged silently.

  “The house is still listed in her name.”

  Rose’s shoulders hunched as her muscles drew in

  protectively. This supercilious detective had a habit of stating facts in a way that made her defensive.

  Why was he asking about her and Maman? The last thing she wanted was to have the police delving into why she hadn’t done anything about Maman’s will.

  “I fail to see how that has anything to do with an old murder,” Rose said archly.

  “Is there some reason you think it does?” the detective shot back.

  Okay, that did it. She didn’t like Detective Lloyd at all. He was pompous and rude. He hadn’t even tried to hide his distaste of Maman’s quaint little shop. Now he was ignoring her questions. Well, if he wasn’t going to answer hers, why should she answer his?

  She stood. “I’m not sure how I can help you, Detective. Your questions are awfully intrusive, considering that they can’t possibly have anything to do with the murder you say you’re investigating. Now, I’m busy, if you don’t mind.”

  “Actually I do,” he said, looking up at her. He relaxed more deeply into the couch. “I have only a couple more questions.”

  Rose stood there, arms crossed, staring at him. His hair was black, so shiny it looked blue under the overhead light. From this angle she could tell that his eyes were blue—a deep, almost navy blue. She’d never seen eyes like that before. She tried to remember if Maman had ever talked about what kind of person had navy blue eyes.

  “Ms. Bohème?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I said, why don’t you sit down? I won’t be much longer.”

  “I’ll stand, thank you.” She turned toward the window, giving him her profile.

  From the corner of her eye she saw him shrug and lean back against the couch cushions. “Fine. Does the name Rosemary Delancey mean anything to you?”

  Delancey? Shock sizzled through her, down to her fingers and toes. The painful throbbing in her temple flared again and the susurrus voices that were always there in the back of her brain rose in volume.

  Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss, RISSSHHHH ROZZZZZSSS! The words reverberated inside Rose’s head, keeping perfect time with the throbbing in her temple. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  What had he asked? Something about Delancey.

  His hand touched hers. She jumped and jerked away. How had he gotten so close to her without her hearing or seeing him?

  “Ma’am?” he said. “Have you ever heard the name Rosemary Delancey?”

  “No,” she snapped hoarsely. “Never.”

  She hadn’t. So why were the voices bothering her? And why did her pulse throb in her throat as if she were lying?

  Detective Dixon Lloyd’s gaze burned against her closed lids. “No? Are you telling me you don’t recognize the Delancey name?” he asked, the tone of his voice demanding that she open her eyes.

  “Well, y-yes,” she stammered. “Of course I recognize the name. Everyone in Louisiana knows about Con Delancey. But I don’t…I don’t know any of them.” She peered up at him. “Should I? Was it a Delancey who was murdered?”

  “Yes,” he said, still holding her gaze.

  “But…” She was having trouble focusing her thoughts. The voices were getting louder, loud enough to drown out all other sound. She rubbed her temple and grimaced.

  “What about Lyndon Banker?”

  She frowned. “Banker? What?” She had no idea what he’d said.

  “The name Lyndon Banker. Do you recognize it?”

  Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.

  “Are you all right?”

  His words barely rose above the hissing in her head. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples and squeezed. It seemed to help.

  After a moment, she answered him. “Yes, I’m fine. What did you say about a bank?”

  “Forget that.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

  Her eyes followed the bright metal of his watch. She noticed that it stayed in place on his wrist.

  “Are you sure you don’t remember anything about a murder?”

  “The murder happened around here?”

  “Actually, it happened just off St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District, about six blocks from here. Twelve years ago.”

  “Twelve…” The vision of Maman unwinding blood-soaked bandages assaulted her.

  “Where were you twelve years ago?”

  Rose turned her back on him and walked over to the window, looking out onto Prytania Street. She saw the old neon signs, the flickering lights from the curtained windows, the shadows on the window shades. Her neighbors, her friends.

  She loved this neighborhood, this house. It was home. She hugged herself. “I was here,” she murmured. “With Maman. I was safe.”

  She felt the detective’s burning gaze on her back. She heard his footsteps as he approached. Then she heard the rustling of cloth and felt something—warmth or energy—emanating from his body.

  When he spoke, his voice was too close, too quietly intimate. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.

  She whirled and almost hit him, he was that close. She tried to step backward but her heel hit the baseboard. She flattened her palms against the wall behind her.

  “Sure about what?” she asked. Where she was or if she was safe? “I don’t understand these questions. What does any of this hav
e to do with me?” she cried.

  “Think about the name. Rosemary Delancey,” he said calmly, then leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Rosemary,” drawing out the S.

  Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. The whispers blended with his voice, swirling around her in a singsong rhythm. “I—don’t—know—anything about—Rosemary Delancey,” she bit out, suppressing the urge to squeeze her temples between her hands again.

  “I think you do,” he said, staring down at her. He lifted a hand toward her hair.

  She recoiled, alarm rising in her chest. She slid sideways, away from him. “Get away from me,” she cried.

  He stepped backward, regarding her narrowly. His jaw tensed. “Rosemary,” he said. “Say it. Rosemary.”

  “Stop it!” She squeezed her head again. “I don’t know that name. Why are you doing this?” Her temple throbbed again.

  “I think you know why,” he said quietly.

  Rose’s temper burst into flame. “Leave me alone! I don’t know anything! I never heard of her!”

  Detective Lloyd’s eyebrows went up. “That’s surprising, because she was someone who should have meant a lot to you.”

  “Why? How?” Rose asked, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket in her fist and shaking it. “Stop playing with me and tell me what you want me to say.”

  Dixon Lloyd looked down at Rose’s hand on his arm. It was a pretty hand, with long slender fingers and short unpainted nails. Nails that didn’t go with the image stored in his head, but then, nothing about this woman matched up with the twenty-two-year-old girl he’d come to know.

  He focused on the black fingerless lace gloves she’d put on as soon as she’d been able to get to the piano to retrieve them. Were they an affectation, along with the long flowing skirt and blouse? Was she trying to perpetrate a witchlike image, similar to the seventies and eighties pop icon Stevie Nicks? Or was all that gauzy feminine garb hiding something—like knife scars?

  The thought surprised him. Then, as he considered it, a queasy anger turned his stomach.

  Swallowing against the queasiness, he turned his attention to her face and studied her up close for the first time. Most interesting was a long scar that started at the level of her right brow and traveled jaggedly down her cheek to her jawline. The shriveled skin drew her mouth slightly on the right side and caused her right eye to slant upward.

  His stomach turned over. Scars. Of course. That’s why her face seemed off. The photo he’d carried in his wallet all these years was of a pretty girl with good bones and the promise of classic beauty once she matured. She’d been barely twenty-two when she’d died. Disappeared, he corrected himself.

  Now the scar, along with the character that came with age, made her face much more interesting. Still lovely. If possible, even more fascinating. Certainly no longer a Stepford beauty queen. She was stunning. Stunning and mysterious, a dangerous combination.

  “—unless you explain,” she was saying.

  “What?” He’d missed most of what she’d just said.

  “What do you mean what? Everything. Why you’re here. Who Rosemary Delancey is. Why you think any of this has anything to do with me.”

  She tossed her answer at him as a challenge, but Dixon didn’t think she was nearly as brave as her words sounded. Her face was pallid, her eyes were becoming damp and a fine trembling shimmered through her.

  He steeled himself against her tears. She’d stayed hidden all this time—why? Because of the scar? He could understand a young debutante not wanting to be seen in public with what must have seemed like a hideous facial deformity.

  But Rosemary Delancey was thirty-four now. Was she still so vain? Or was she afraid of whoever had attacked her? Whatever the reason she hadn’t come forward, she knew now that the gig was up.

  It was time to hit her with the facts and gauge her reaction.

  “Okay,” he said, holding up one finger. “First, Rosemary Delancey was the victim of a violent attack twelve years ago. She lost so much blood that the medical examiner concluded that she could not have survived. But that conclusion couldn’t be verified because her body was never found.”

  He held up a second finger. “Second, I’m here because someone recognized you.”

  Rose’s amber-colored eyes went wide, whites showing around the iris. Her face drained of color. She pressed a hand against her chest, which rose and fell rapidly. “Recognized me?” she croaked.

  Dixon was surprised at her obvious terror. He knew it was real. No one could fake that sudden pallor. But if she was that afraid of being found, why did she live only a few blocks from where she was attacked? Why hadn’t she left the city? Or gone back to her family? If anyone could make her feel safe, it was the Delanceys, wasn’t it? He filed that question away to think about later.

  He continued, holding up a third finger. “Finally, why should it matter to you? I would think that the answer to that question is obvious, Miss Delancey.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. She moaned. Her face turned from palest pink to sickly green and her eyelids fluttered rapidly. Then her pupils rolled up and she collapsed into his arms.

  Dixon caught her barely in time to keep her from crumpling to the floor. He struggled to hold on to her limp body. He’d deliberately baited her, throwing the name at her, and he’d been prepared for an explosive reaction—maybe even a violent one. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d hit him or tried to run away, but he sure hadn’t expected her to faint.

  “Hey, Rosemary,” he murmured, close to her ear, as he slid his arm around her back to get a better hold on her until he could move her to the couch. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

  Her limbs went from rag doll–limp to stiff as boards in less than a second. “Let me go,” she cried hoarsely, pushing at his biceps and scrambling to her feet.

  He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and gave her the once-over to be sure she was actually awake before he loosened his grip.

  Immediately, she teetered, but when he reached out to steady her, she threw her palms up and stumbled backward. “I want you out—of here,” she demanded breathlessly.

  He studied her. She was still pale—her skin looked translucent, but the greenish hue was gone and pink splotches were growing in her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

  “Not until I’m sure you’re all right.”

  “Of course I’m not—all right,” she exclaimed. “You come—barging in here—making accusations—”

  He arched a brow at her choice of words. “Accusations? I’m not accusing you of anything—yet. I’m a police detective. All I’m doing is asking questions, Miss Delancey.”

  “Stop calling me that!” she snapped. “Why are you doing this?”

  Dixon frowned at her. “I’m trying to get to the truth about what happened the night you were attacked. How did you get away? Why have you never come forward? Never contacted your family to let them know you’re alive? Is it because you’re afraid of your family?”

  Rose gaped at him and her fingertips whitened against the back of the chair. Her other hand brushed at the scar that ran along her hairline and down her cheek. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  As he watched her, a seed of doubt took root inside him. What if she was being honest? What if she really didn’t know what he was talking about?

  What if she really didn’t remember?

  He didn’t believe in amnesia. There were instances where people who had been through a traumatic event might not remember the specifics, but full-blown amnesia—forgetting everything about one’s life? Nope, he didn’t buy it.

  But Rosemary looked completely dumbfounded. Her wide eyes were filled with terror. Could anyone fake that kind of fear?

  “Okay, then,” he said, more gently than he’d spoken to her yet. “Tell me about Rose Bohème. Who are you? Where were you born? Where did you go to school? And how did you get that scar?”

  Rose jerked her hand away from the side of h
er head and lifted her chin indignantly. “You have no right…” But her voice faded.

  “Rosemary, what happened to you?” he said gently.

  Her lips thinned and her eyes glittered with tears. “Please, go away. Please, leave me alone.”

  “I can’t do that. You are Rosemary Delancey, aren’t you? Twelve years ago you were attacked in your apartment. Tell me what happened that night.”

  She blinked, and the tears that had been clinging to her lashes streamed down her cheeks. She shook her head. “I can’t. I don’t know. I don’t—”

  “How did you get away from your attacker?”

  “Get away?” More tears fell. She swiped at them with trembling hands.

  Dixon turned away and paced back and forth. He wasn’t by nature a bully, although he could be as tough as he needed to be with reluctant suspects. But he didn’t know how much longer he could keep hammering away at this seemingly fragile, terrified woman. He felt like a bully.

  He stopped at the window and stared out at the quiet street. If she was acting, her performance was Oscar-worthy. He turned and stared at her for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me what you remember?” he asked gently.

  She wiped tears away again. She looked at the couch and perched on the cushion’s edge, then stood again and wrapped her arms about herself. She looked miserable, cornered.

  Dixon had a sudden, unfamiliar urge to go to her, take her hands in his and promise her that everything was going to be all right. He’d comforted victims and families many times, but he’d never wanted to. It had always felt awkward and insincere. He knew—all too well—that a pat on the hand and a there, there, was totally useless when someone’s life was in tatters.

  “You have to go,” she muttered, standing there with her fists clenched and her eyes blazing like imperial topaz. “Get out of here.”

  “Rosemary,” he said. “A terrible thing happened to you, but—”

  “Get out!” she shrieked, flailing her lace-covered fists. “Get out now! Or I’ll call the police!”

  “Hey.” He put out a hand toward her. When had she gone from terrified to hysterical? “It’s okay. Remember I showed you my badge? I’m a police detective.”