Death of a Beauty Queen Read online

  “And his, right? The killer? What about his?”

  Dixon shook his head. “Lyndon Banker’s shoes were some kind of ridiculously expensive leather sneakers with the name on the sole. Testini or Testoni or something. The other man’s shoes were cheap loafers—nothing unique about the impressions our CSI made except that they were worn down on the left heel. Unidentifiable.”

  Rose’s thoughts were whirling desperately. Panic was tightening around her chest like a vise. “The knife? The gun? Fingerprints? There had to be something.”

  “This was my first homicide, Rose. And it’s the only case I’ve never been able to close. Trust me, I covered everything. The gun used to kill Lyndon Banker was lying beside him—left there deliberately. It was a .22 with a body already on it, but it was wiped clean. The only bit of trace that CSI managed to get off it was some of Rosemary Delancey’s blood embedded in the grip.”

  “What do you mean ‘a body already on it’?”

  Dixon waved a hand. “That just means that the gun had been used in the past to kill someone. The bullet from that homicide and the bullet taken from Lyndon Banker’s body were a match.”

  “You didn’t find any of his DNA at the crime scene?” Rose croaked as the vise tightened even more. “I mean—she must have struggled. Surely she managed to scratch him or grab his arm or something.” She flung her arms wide. “How could there be all that blood all over the place if she didn’t fight?”

  “I believe she did fight,” Dixon said. “I believe she fought with every ounce of breath in her body to stay alive. She probably did scratch him. I hope to hell she did. But with so much of her blood at the scene, it would have taken a miracle for CSI to identify what would have been a minute trace of his, especially back then.”

  Rose was speechless. None of what Dixon said conjured up a single memory, but her imagination was making up for what her memory lacked. She could picture Rosemary Delancey struggling, scratching, stumbling as she tried to get away from the man’s glinting, flashing knife.

  The imagined glint of light on steel sent throbbing pain to her temple. She winced and her heart raced. Did she remember a knife? Was that why any sudden flash of light could trigger a migraine? Her fingers found the sore spot and massaged it.

  “Are you all right?” Dixon asked.

  She nodded, pressing her lips together. “This is just so awful. That poor girl.”

  Dixon went on. “I don’t think the killer intended to kill her. I think he went to her apartment to try and get money out of her. It’s my theory that he was sent by someone Banker owed money to—a lot of money. He was a notorious gambling addict. He’d long since run through his own inheritance. It turns out that none of the Delancey heirs could touch their money until they turned twenty-five. I think the killer must have—” Dixon paused for a moment before continuing. “I think a lot of blood was spilled before the killer found that out.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rose said automatically, although inside her, a nauseating dread was building. She was afraid she did understand—much too well.

  He wiped his hand down his face again and sighed. “I think most of the blood in the apartment was from small cuts, shallow cuts,” he explained with a grimace. “If the killer was experienced with a knife, he could spill a lot of blood and cause a lot of pain without endangering his victim’s life. Most of the cuts would be minor.”

  He met her gaze and held it for another long moment. “And a lot of them would have been on her hands and arms—and chest.”

  Dixon watched Rose’s reaction. As he’d expected, she knew exactly where he was going with his comment.

  Her eyes widened, then she squeezed her hands into fists, took a step backward and crossed her arms.

  Dixon stepped around the kitchen counter. “Let me see your hands, Rose,” he said softly, holding his out, palms up.

  She shook her head, her wide amber gaze never wavering from his face. “No.”

  It wasn’t even a word, just a movement of her lips. She took another step backward.

  He didn’t allow his hands to waver. He kept them out placatingly. “Come on. I told you the truth, Rose. I’ll protect you. I swear. Whoever he is, he can’t hurt you as long as I’m around.”

  He moved slightly closer, watching her eyes. He felt as though he was coaxing a half-wild, starving kitten. One wrong move and she would bolt.

  Then tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, and even while she was still shaking her head, her shoulders slumped and she uncrossed her arms. Without a word she peeled off the lacy gloves and let them drop silently to the floor. Then she pushed the long, flowing sleeves of her blouse up, exposing her forearms.

  Dixon held his breath. He’d waited twelve years, his entire career as a New Orleans Police Department detective, for this moment. Although he’d never told a soul, not his partner, not even his sister, he’d never stopped looking for Rosemary Delancey.

  But now, with this beautiful, frightened woman standing in front of him, offering him proof that his search hadn’t been in vain, he felt frozen with fear.

  A part of him didn’t want to see what the faceless, nameless monster had done to her. That bloody apartment had told its horrible, gory tale very well, without Dixon having to lay eyes on the permanent reminders the man had left.

  He had to blink before he could focus on her arms and hands. When he did, the first thing that struck him was that the skin was as creamy as her face, a sort of pale peach color. Delicate blue veins traced the inside of her slender wrists.

  But her beautiful skin was merely the canvas. The man who had attacked her had used his knife like a mad Pollackesque painter. Thin white scars crisscrossed her forearms and wrists. There were even a few on her palms.

  Dixon realized his jaw hurt, he was clamping it so hard. He blinked again and rubbed his eyes, then tried to pretend his fingers didn’t come away the least bit damp.

  Carefully, gently, he ran his thumbs and fingers across the soft skin. Most of the cuts were so shallow that he couldn’t detect the slightest ridge, not even with the sensitive tips of his fingers. He turned her hands over. The tiny, torturous scars were as plentiful on the back as on the front.

  Pain seared down his neck and up to his temple. He made a conscious effort to relax his jaw. His gaze slid up her forearms to the bunched sleeves of her blouse, then farther, to her shoulders, and stopped, lingering on her breasts.

  He shook his head to rid himself of the image of what the monster must have done to the still-hidden parts of her.

  Bending, he picked up her gloves from the floor and handed them to her. He didn’t meet her gaze. He couldn’t.

  He’d pushed her, bullied her, forced her to this point, and now he was filled with shame. He shouldn’t have made her expose herself like that. What had been his point?

  Not to prove who she was. He didn’t need proof. After that first moment of doubt when he’d seen her face full-on just yesterday, he’d known for a fact. He hadn’t needed the added proof of the scars on her body.

  No. He’d done all this to prove to her that she was Rosemary Delancey. Only—he’d expected her to be defiant, like she had been so far.

  It broke his heart to see her looking so small and helpless. So defeated.

  He turned away.

  “Dixon?”

  Her voice was small, hesitant. The touch of her hand on his wrist was tentative. He stopped but didn’t turn back.

  “It’s me, isn’t it?”

  He winced.

  “I’m—” her breath hitched “—I’m Rosemary Delancey.”

  The words weren’t a question; they were a statement. But far more telling than the words was the tone of her voice.

  She was consumed with terror. She made a small sound—a quiet, hurt-animal sound. He knew she hadn’t uttered it consciously. It was what it sounded like—a soul-deep moan of pain. Not physical. Emotional.

  Any last lingering suspicion that had been hidden behind his heart
drained out of him. She hadn’t known.

  He’d never believed in amnesia. But now he had to. He had living, breathing proof.

  Without thought, without even meeting her gaze, he turned and pulled her into his arms. He had no idea how to comfort her. He was pretty sure that nothing he did could possibly be enough.

  So he just held on to her. He pressed his cheek against her hair and held her against him, feeling the fine trembling that quivered through her whole body. Feeling the warmth of her breath against his neck. Feeling the way her fists bunched the material of his sweatshirt.

  He wasn’t sure how long they stood there like that, holding on to each other, but eventually the comforting embrace became decidedly uncomfortable—to him.

  Her hair smelled like honeysuckle and he found himself not so much resting his cheek against it as nuzzling it. He began to notice the way her back curved, the way her shoulder muscles turned elegantly up to her neck, the way her breasts and belly felt against him.

  Suddenly, lust arrowed through him and hit its target dead center. He stirred, hardened. For a moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity, he hovered on a razor’s edge, unable to let go of her and unwilling to let her know how she affected him.

  While he struggled with himself, her body softened. She lifted her head, just enough that if he lowered his a fraction of an inch, their lips would meet. She slid her hands up until her palms rested against his pecs. Did she know? Did she sense how much he wanted her?

  He groaned under his breath and caught her hands in his.

  “Dixon?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rose. I didn’t mean to—”

  She backed away. “Please don’t.”

  For an instant he thought she was asking him not to stop. But she pulled her hands away and twisted her fingers together.

  “Don’t say you’re sorry after you’ve come in here and disrupted my life.” She shook her head and her shoulders tightened. “I don’t know what to do now. Before yesterday I didn’t know who I was or what had happened to me.…” She stopped and looked up at him, her gaze hard and fearful at the same time. “But I was happy.”

  Dixon felt a queasy thud in the pit of his stomach. He set his jaw. “I need to be sure you’re safe. Is there somewhere you can go? Someone you can stay with? You shouldn’t be here by yourself.”

  She stiffened visibly. “I’m not going anywhere, Detective,” she said haughtily. “This is my home. I have piano students who expect me to be here. You are not going to disrupt my life any more than you already have.”

  He’d asked Bing to watch her, but could he depend on the café owner? The man certainly cared about Rose, and he was an ex-Marine, but Dixon didn’t want to leave Rose’s safety in his hands alone. “Why are you being so stubborn?” he snapped. “You know you were followed today. I don’t know what that guy might have done if I hadn’t scared him off.”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “I don’t know I was followed. You are the only one who saw him. I didn’t. I have dead bolts. I have a cell phone. I have neighbors. I will be fine.”

  Dixon was so angry that his ears burned. “You have got to be the most stubborn person I have ever met.”

  She crossed her arms and lifted her chin.

  His jaw began to throb because it was clamped so tightly. “I’ll assign a cruiser to drive by here every hour from 8:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. But I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t you dare! That’s ridiculous. I don’t want someone watching me at all hours. And a police car circling around here all night will spook my neighbors.”

  “Good. Maybe it’ll spook whoever’s following you, too,” Dixon snapped. “A lot can happen in an hour. I doubt it took the killer an hour to do all that damage.” He nodded, indicating her hands and arms.

  When her face drained of color and her shoulders drew up, he felt like a heel. “Rose, listen to me—”

  “Get out!” she grated through clenched teeth. “Just get out of here.”

  He got out. Why had he said that? It had been a mean remark, but he’d been at the end of his rope, casting about for some way to force her to acknowledge the danger she was in.

  He wanted to turn around and apologize, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. She was already suspicious of his motives. That remark probably made her hate him. Worse, it had likely destroyed any chance he had of winning her trust.

  * * *

  AS HE STRODE up the street to where he’d left his car, he dialed a buddy of his who patrolled in the Garden District, Ray Fieri.

  “Hi, Ray,” he said. “You still on night shift?”

  “I sure am,” Ray said. “You want to trade jobs?”

  Dixon laughed. “Can I get you to do me a favor, off the record?”

  “I don’t know. Last time I did you a favor I almost got suspended.”

  “That’s bull and you know it. In fact you got a commendation for actions above and beyond.”

  “Oh, well that, too.”

  “I need you to drive by this address every hour or so for the next few days.” He gave Ray the address of Rose’s house.

  “That’s Maman Renée’s place.”

  Dixon winced. “Right. Can you do it and not mention it to anybody? If you see anyone lurking around, give me a call on my cell—no matter what time it is.”

  “Lurking?” Ray said sarcastically.

  “Lurking, sneaking, whatever you want to call it,” Dixon fired back. “And by the way, bite me.”

  “No problem. I sure do love Very Old Barton,” Ray said, a smile in his voice.

  “Very Old Barton. Got it. Remember, don’t confront anyone. Just give me a call.”

  “What’s going on with you and Mama Renée’s girl? I mean, she’s gorgeous, but she’s kind of odd.”

  Dixon frowned. “Nothing’s going on. What do you mean ‘odd’?”

  “She’s kind of a recluse. I know she tells fortunes in Jackson Square, but I think that’s the only place she ever goes.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Dixon said noncommittally. “Listen, I can’t go into details right now. I’ll fill you in once I’m sure everything’s okay.”

  “You got it. When you bring me my whiskey, pick up some wings. We’ll watch a ball game.”

  “Sounds good. Call me if you even smell somebody near that house.”

  Dixon hung up. Ray was a good man. He’d let him know if he saw anybody. He hoped that hourly drive-bys would be enough.

  “Damn it to hell, Rose,” he muttered as he got into his car. “How am I going to keep you safe if you won’t believe me?”

  Chapter Seven

  If Detective Dixon Lloyd had dared to show his face today, Rose would have strangled him with her bare hands. She’d hardly slept the night before. The nightmares and the susurrus whispers were worse than ever.

  She’d gotten to Jackson Square early this morning, but it had started spitting rain around noon, so she’d decided to spend the afternoon working in Maman’s shop, sweeping and dusting and cleaning out stacks of newspapers and magazines. But after about twenty minutes, with the sun shining in the bare shop windows and reflecting off glass and chrome, she’d had to stop.

  The glints of light flashing in her face and the red reflections made by the ruby glass in the window panes played havoc with her imagination, plunging her into eerie daylight versions of the horrific nightmare visions. The sunlight stabbed her retinas like knife blades and the red reflections looked like blood on the countertops, the floors, even on her skin.

  Finally, she walked up the street to Bing’s café. “Hi, Bing. How’s everything?”

  “Hi, Rose,” Bing said when he saw her. “Things are fine around here. How about you? You doing okay?”

  She smiled and nodded. “I’m fine. Would you mind if I used your laptop? I just want to search something.”

  “Sure. No problem at all. Go ahead, I’ve got to fry some beignets. Want one?”

  “Please,” she said as she stepped behind the lu
nch counter and sat at his desk. She brought up a search engine and entered the name Rosemary Delancey. To her surprise, there were thousands of hits. Most of them were references to Mardi Gras and the Krewe parades, but there were a lot of pages about Rosemary. Newspaper articles about the murder, complete with photos of a blood-soaked apartment.

  Studio portraits and casual photos of a pretty college-aged girl with red-gold hair. Even a picture of the girl dressed in a sparkling silver evening gown and a gaudy tiara, standing next to an older man wearing a massive jewel-encrusted crown that couldn’t possibly be real.

  Trying to ignore the photos of the bloody crime scene, Rose studied the girl more closely. She found herself touching the part in her own dyed-black hair where

  reddish-gold roots peeped out in stark contrast to the black. It was time to color it, she thought idly, as she clicked over to the next page of listings.

  She found a website that called itself delanceydynasty.com. It appeared to be a fan site devoted to the family. There was a family tree, bios of the family members and a page for news and rumors. And scattered through the site were photos of the family.

  They certainly were a handsome bunch. And there was a familiarity about them. Was it because they were well-known in the New Orleans area, or because the face she saw in the mirror every day looked like them? She touched the scar at her hairline and let her fingers trace the line of her jaw.

  Bing came in to pour a cup of chicory coffee and added hot milk. “Everything okay, Rose?” he asked.

  Rose closed the browser window. “Fine. I appreciate it.”

  “Anytime, sugar. You know you can ask me for anything.” He set the coffee on a tray along with a plate of beignets dusted with powdered sugar and headed out to deliver it to the customer.

  Rose stepped around the lunch counter as he came back inside. “Are you really busy?” she asked.

  “Nope, not until somebody wants a refill on their coffee. You want some?”

  “No, thanks.” She drew in a deep breath. “Bing, do you remember when I—when I came here?”

  Bing snapped the dish towel off his shoulder and began polishing the counter. “I guess so,” he said. “That was quite a few years ago.”