Death of a Beauty Queen Page 5

  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.

  She frowned at him, feeling the skin stretch along her forehead and cheek. Her hand moved to brush the scar, but she stopped it. “All right,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll read your cards, but I have to warn you, I don’t guarantee happy endings.”

  His smile stretched wider. “I’ll take my chances.”

  She’d already studied and cataloged him last night, using the tools Maman had taught her. Now she thought about the kind of man she’d judged him to be, and decided that for him, happy little hints of the future wouldn’t do. Whether he would admit it or not, his challenge to her was to tell him exactly what she saw inside him. And that she would do.

  She dealt the cards, surprised when the Fool turned up in position zero. Something Maman had said not long before she died echoed in her head.

  Keep your heart open, ’tite. When I’m gone, your safety will lie in the hands of the Fool.

  He pointed at the Fool card without touching it. “That’s significant, isn’t it?”

  Rose swallowed and rested the heels of her hands on the edge of the table. “Would you like to read your own fortune?” she asked drily.

  He shook his head and waited, but his eyes twinkled. Twinkled!

  “Every card is significant,” she said, starting her usual spiel. “Where they are is as important as what they are. The Fool in position zero indicates that—” she took a breath, wishing she could stop herself “—that you don’t have to search any longer. You already have everything you need. You’re standing on the threshold of a new life. All you have to do is make use of what you already know. But beware. If you become distracted from your primary goal, you’ll fail and lose everything.”

  She felt his dark gaze on her the whole time she talked, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the Fool card. She’d wanted to skew his fortune—tell him that he should give up his current obsession, but that wasn’t in the cards, and she wasn’t able to make herself say anything but exactly what the cards foretold.

  She started to gather them up, but he stopped her with his hand. She looked up at him, startled.

  “My primary goal—what is it?” He angled his head, indicating the cards.

  Rose looked at his large, warm hand on top of hers. Its heat sent warmth flowing through the lace into her skin, up her arm and through her entire body. Warmth and promise. One person’s stalker is another’s protector.

  No. If he was the Fool, she’d take her chances on her own. She jerked her arm away. “I can’t tell you that. If you don’t know—”

  He nodded slowly, still holding her gaze. “I know.” He took a long breath. “It’s you.”

  Rose recoiled, aghast. “Stop this. I shouldn’t have…” She picked up her cards, stacked them quickly and shoved them into her large tote. “I have to go.”

  He stood. “I’ll take you home.” He collapsed the folding chair he’d been sitting in and reached for its bag.

  “No! No, you won’t!” She scrambled up, knocking her table over. She reached for it, but he beat her to it. He scooped it up and folded i
t.

  “Give it to me,” she demanded. She took a fortifying breath. “I told you, I’ll call the police if you don’t leave me alone.”

  “And I told you, I am the police.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He spread his hands. “You saw my badge. If you don’t believe me, then call them.” His gaze bore into hers. He was daring her, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he’d thought about it and decided that she didn’t have the nerve.

  Damn him, he was right. If she called the police, she’d have to explain why the she didn’t have a driver’s license or a checking account, and why not only the permit on Jackson Square, but also the house she lived in were in Maman Renée’s name. She’d have to explain why there was no birth or tax record anywhere for Rose Bohème.

  He studied her for a few seconds, then handed over her tiny table. “I’m not your enemy, Rose. I’m trying to help you.”

  “Well, you’re doing a really bad job of it,” she cried, “because I was fine—I was safe and—and happy until you showed up. I don’t want or need your help. If you don’t leave me alone I swear I’ll scream.”

  Dixon held up his hands and backed away. He walked back to the bench where he’d sat all morning, but it was full, so he stood with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets, watching her.

  She quickly gathered up her table and chairs, threw their straps over her shoulders and headed toward Decatur Street. She’d catch the Prytania streetcar at Canal Place.

  * * *

  DIXON WATCHED ROSE rushing away from him. He wanted to kick himself. Why had he asked her to read his fortune? Why had he made those cryptic, suggestive remarks? He’d gotten caught up in her gypsy charm and forgotten his goal for a moment. But from the instant he’d first spotted her on Prytania Street, the sight of her had made him reckless.

  He wanted to push her, to force her to acknowledge him, and by acknowledging him, to admit that she needed him.

  By the time she’d reached Decatur and was about to turn toward Canal, Dixon noticed the man walking behind her. He recognized the filthy blond ponytail and the bedraggled hoodie with a peeling faded fleur-de-lis on the back. It was the punk who’d been sitting on the other end of his bench this morning.

  The truth hit him like a physical blow to his solar plexus. Ponytail had been there for the same reason as Dixon. He was watching Rose, following her.

  Dixon began walking briskly toward the creep, staying about half a block behind him. Sure enough, Ponytail didn’t hesitate when Rose turned the corner. He stayed half a block behind her.

  He might just happen to live in the same direction as she did, but Dixon didn’t buy that theory for one instant. He dogged the man’s heels, staying far enough back not to be noticed, until Rosemary boarded the streetcar.

  Dixon was about a hundred feet behind Ponytail when the skinny punk grabbed onto the rail and swung himself up onto the car’s steps just as it pulled away. He turned his head to look at Dixon, flipping his ponytail. Then he grinned.

  Dixon had screwed up. He’d figured it out about two seconds before the grungy ponytailed piece of riffraff had grinned at him. He’d known Dixon was behind him. That’s why he’d waited until the streetcar took off to jump aboard. The question was, had Ponytail just noticed him behind him, or had he known about Dixon all along, even while they were sitting together on the bench?

  Dixon felt sick. Was the punk following her because Dixon had led him to her? In trying to protect her, Dixon may have brought the danger right to her doorstep.

  He sprinted back to the parking lot where he’d left his car, cursing softly as he dodged pedestrians and other vehicles.

  Three minutes later, he was in one mother of a traffic jam.

  “Son of a…” Dixon muttered, craning his neck in a vain effort to see past the car in front of him. What the hell was the holdup? He’d been in bumper-to-bumper traffic ever since he’d pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto Canal Street.

  Then the answer hit his brain. The Saints game. He was stuck in football traffic.

  He’d never get to Rose’s before the streetcar did. If Ponytail was following Rose to attack her, there was no way Dixon could get there in time to save her.

  For the first time in his career, he wished he had a siren in his car. He took advantage of a slight break in traffic to pull over and park in front of a drugstore on Canal. It was probably less than three miles by car to Prytania Street. On foot, he could make it in about six to eight minutes, if he cut through alleys and empty lots.

  By the time he reached the streetcar stop, sweating and out of breath, the car was pulling away. He looked down Prytania toward Rose’s house and saw her about a block and a half away. Ponytail was nowhere in sight.

  Working to control his breathing, he took off after Rose at a brisk walk. Even burdened down with her huge tote and her chair and table carriers slung over her shoulder, she still walked as though she’d just been crowned Miss America.

  He quickly closed the distance between them by a half block, but she was almost at her house. He didn’t take his eyes off her for an instant. His breathing was beginning to approach normal, so he sped up, wanting to catch up with her before she disappeared inside.

  Just about the time she reached the corner of her house, he glimpsed the ponytailed punk sneaking from one alley to the next, behind the houses that faced Prytania.

  Within the next second, Ponytail saw him. He bared his teeth—not in a smile this time—glanced toward Rose, who was inserting her key into her front door, then turned tail and ran.

  It took Dixon a split second to decide whether to stay with Rose or chase Ponytail. He decided to give chase. Rose had her door open. He knew that once inside, she’d lock the door. On the other hand, this might be his best chance to catch the punk and wring out of him what information he could.

  He headed after the punk. Sadly, he’d ridden the three miles to Prytania Street, while Dixon had run it. Plus the kid was probably ten or twelve years younger and at least forty pounds lighter than Dixon’s taller, more muscled frame.

  Even so, Dixon nearly caught him. But just about the time Dixon was almost close enough to grab the guy’s flying ponytail, the punk gave a running leap toward a wire fence and scrambled over it.

  Dixon started to leap after him, but as Ponytail topped the fence, something fell out of his pocket. He looked down and apparently decided it wasn’t worth getting caught, then jumped down on the other side and hit the ground running.

  Dixon considered climbing the fence and going after him, but decided his effort would be futile. He propped his hands on his knees and panted until he got his breathing under control again. Once he’d recovered, he took out his handkerchief and picked up the disposable cigarette lighter Ponytail had dropped. With any luck at all, there would be fingerprints on the plastic case. From the look of the kid, it was a cinch he was in the system.

  * * *

  ARON WASABE TURNED the rib eye steaks and touched the center of one with his forefinger. “Five minutes,” he called out.

  His wife, Carol, stood and set her cocktail glass on the wicker side table. “I’ll get the wine and the salad and look in on Amy and Jill,” she said to their neighbors George and Ann Clampette. Their daughters were watching a movie together and eating pizza. “Finish your drinks.”

  Wasabe’s cell phone vibrated in the pocket of his cargo shorts. Grimacing, he dug it out. It was Wexler. He turned away from the Clampettes to answer.

  “Make it fast,” he growled.

  “The Fulbright kid called me. Said he found the woman and followed her to her house, but a cop had followed him and chased him off.”

  “A cop? Did he say who?”

  “Nope. Said he was tall, maybe mid-thirties, with black hair. Said he caught a glimpse of his detective badge.”

  Wasabe ground his teeth. There were only two people in the world more obsessed with Rosemary Delancey than Wasabe himself. One was The Boss. The othe
r was “Detective Dixon Lloyd,” he muttered.

  “Lloyd? Isn’t he partners with one of the Delanceys?”

  “Yeah,” Wasabe growled. Lloyd had worked The Beauty Queen Murder. Wasabe had good instincts, and his instincts told him that it was Lloyd who’d chased Junior Fulbright.

  “You know how you told me to keep an eye on that T-Bo Pereau? Well, he just got busted again. He went to Angola, but word is he’s sporting some nice privileges. The kind you wouldn’t expect a lowlife like him to get.”

  “What are you thinking?” Wasabe asked.

  “I’m thinking he took that info about the girl and gave it to Lloyd’s partner, Delancey, in return for some favors.”

  “Hmm.” Wasabe nodded. “Could be.” If Pereau had told Delancey and his partner, Dixon Lloyd, about Rosemary, Wasabe could be in danger, from more than one side. Things were moving fast—too fast. He had a lot to do and he needed to get to it. Because he sure didn’t want The Boss to find out from anyone but him that she’d been spotted alive.

  “What now, Mr. Wasabe?” Wexler asked him.

  “Did Junior say he got away from Lloyd?” he asked as he tested the steaks once more with his finger. They were ready to come off the fire. He cradled his cell phone between his ear and shoulder and grabbed the serving platter.

  “Says he did.”

  “What do you think?”

  “He said she was unlocking the door of a voodoo shop on Prytania when the cop spotted him.”

  “Check it out, and see if you can find out who Pereau spilled to. I’ll call you.”

  “What if—”

  “I’ll. Call. You.” Wasabe hung up and carried the platter to the table. He took a deep breath. “Dig in,” he said heartily.

  “Those beauties look perfect,” George said, picking up his fork and knife.

  Chapter Five

  Rose let the straps of the folding chairs and the big tote drop to the floor. She arched her back and flexed her shoulders as she thought about her day. It had been fairly successful. The morning had started slow, but before the day ended she’d told at least two dozen fortunes. Considering that she told her customers to pay what they thought her tarot reading was worth, she’d done very well. The money she made reading cards was enough to keep her in food and pay the utility bills, barely.