Death of a Beauty Queen Read online

  Rose heard the note of caution in his voice. “Maman told you not to talk to me about it, didn’t she?”

  Bing didn’t answer. He reached under the counter for a plastic gallon bottle and poured liquid on the Formica countertop and kept polishing.

  Rose smelled the distinctive odor of alcohol.

  “It’s okay, Bing. I know she was just trying to protect me. But she’s gone now and I need you to tell me anything you know about me.”

  “That cop was here asking questions about you the other day. I didn’t tell him anything.” Bing slung the towel back over his shoulder. He propped on the edge of the counter stool and crossed his arms. “He asked me to look out for you.”

  “I need to know,” she said simply.

  Bing sighed. “The place was open for dinner back then. I guess it’s been twelve years now. I don’t know how I did it. By the time I closed at nine o’clock, cleaned up and made up the beignet dough so it could rise, it was after midnight. Then I was up at five to get ready for breakfast.” He smiled. “That was before I married Angelique and she made me stop serving dinner.”

  “Angelique is an angel,” Rose said.

  “Anyhow, Maman called me and told me to bring her a white tablecloth and all the alcohol I had.”

  Maman unwinding blood-soaked bandages from her hands and arms.

  “While I tore the cloth into strips, she told me she’d gone out at midnight to gather dandelion greens. Best time, she said, because the leaves are fat and crisp. She said you were walking barefoot, with a bloody terry cloth robe hanging around your shoulders and whispering something that sounded like Irish rose. She said you were covered with blood.”

  Rose pressed her hand over her heart, trying to calm its erratic beating. “What did I look like?” she asked.

  “Can’t tell you that,” Bing said. “Maman wouldn’t let me see you. And she made me promise I wouldn’t say anything. Said she’d be telling me the story when she told everyone else.”

  A couple walked up and sat at a table. Bing took their order and served them while Rose waited. When he came back to the counter, he said, “Where was I?”

  “Maman’s story.”

  “Right. She said you were a relative who was hiding from an abusive boyfriend, and that was it. I doubt anybody ever questioned her. She had a way about her.”

  Rose laughed quietly and massaged the scar at her hairline. “Yes, she did. You reminded me of something. One of the first things I remember is her telling me that I’d been very sick. She said I shouldn’t go outside until I was completely recovered.” Rose shook her head. “She had me exercising inside the house every day, but she didn’t let me go outside for a long time.”

  “A few months anyway,” Bing agreed. “By the time people started seeing you out and about, it seemed like you’d always been part of the neighborhood.”

  “Did she know, Bing? Who I was?”

  Bing looked at her somberly. “She saw the newspapers of course, just like I did. But the one time I mentioned it to her she shut me up right quick. And of course,” he made a slight gesture toward her hair, “when I saw you for the first time, you had black hair.”

  “Was that why she named me Rose?”

  Bing looked out the front of the restaurant but he wasn’t checking on his patrons. He seemed to be staring back into the past. “Maman Renée told me once that when she found you, you didn’t talk for days, just whimpered and slept. Said she kept asking you who you were—what your name was, but you would just cry. Then one morning she brought you a rose with your breakfast tray and you burst into tears and whispered rose.”

  He started to say something else, then stopped.

  Rose waited, her heart in her throat.

  “Maman Renée had a daughter. Beautiful girl. She was training to be a concert pianist. Twenty-five years ago, when she was twenty, she was killed by her boyfriend.”

  “Oh…” Rose was shocked and anguish ripped through her heart like a razor blade. “She never told me.”

  “She never talked about her. Ever. But then she found you.” Bing nodded slowly and raised his gaze to hers. “Yeah,” he said. “She knew you were Rosemary Delancey.”

  * * *

  WAS IT ROSEMARY Delancey? Wasabe had just pulled up to the curb on Prytania Street when he spotted her walking toward the voodoo shop. He held his breath and angled his head this way and that, but before he could get a good look at her face, she’d unlocked the door to the voodoo shop and gone inside.

  Cursing softly, he checked his watch. After six. It would be dark before long. He was going to have to ditch his car and hide somewhere close in hope that he could get a good straight-on view of her face before dusk. If he couldn’t he’d be forced to hide—maybe all night. Because now that he was here, there was no way in hell he was leaving until he had the answers he wanted.

  He’d borrowed his cousin’s beat-up Malibu for the excursion, knowing that his high-end midsize sedan would stick out like a sore thumb on this end of Prytania. He drove the Malibu a few blocks away and walked back to the house across the street from the shop. He hid in the alley behind the ruined duplex as he looked around for a breach in one of the walls. He couldn’t find even one missing nail. The house was tight.

  That settled that. It was too dangerous for him to hang around here in the daytime. It would not be a good idea to run into Detective Lloyd, and if Wasabe was right, it would be inevitable. He was sure the detective was stuck to Rosemary like glue.

  He’d have to wait until dark. He headed back to his car to wait.

  His plan was threefold. He’d come here to satisfy himself that she was Rosemary Delancey. He’d hoped to walk past her, giving her a chance to see his face. He wanted to know if she recognized him. And he wanted to know for certain if the cop was Dixon Lloyd.

  While he waited, he looked around the trash bin that was the inside of his cousin’s car. There were empty cigarette packs tossed into the passenger seat, along with water bottles and a few fast-food bags, their smell mingling with the stale cigarette smoke with nauseating results.

  Wasabe craned his neck to look in the backseat. On the floorboard behind the passenger seat was a massive pile of matchbooks. Wasabe glanced at his watch. It would be at least two hours before it would be dark enough for him to sneak over and spy on the woman through her windows. He picked up a handful of matchbooks and idly looked through them to pass the time.

  In less than a half hour, he’d happened upon a gold mine. A matchbook from Doll’s Diner in Angola, Louisiana. Wasabe flipped the cover of the matchbook back and forth with his index finger as he thought.

  He stuck the matchbook into his pocket and spent the next few minutes searching through the trash in the car. Finally, he found what he was looking for. A nearly empty pack of cigarettes.

  He could spook Rosemary, if he decided it really was her, by lighting cigarettes and letting the matches cast flickering, grotesque shadows and highlights on his face. He was pretty sure that if he scared her enough, she’d call Lloyd.

  Dixon Lloyd was a good detective. Wasabe pocketed the cigarettes alongside the matchbook and smiled. Lloyd would get the message. Wasabe could get inside Angola if he wanted to.

  * * *

  IT WAS DARK when Rose finally looked up from the piano keyboard. The only light in the living room came from the lamp sitting on the piano. She’d played for hours.

  For a few moments she sat there with her fingers poised over the keyboard. When she’d come back from Bing’s, she’d felt deceived and betrayed. Maman had kept so many secrets from her. Most of her secrets and all of Rose’s. The wizened woman was the only family Rose remembered, and yet she’d lied to her for twelve years. She’d kept her from her family. Possibly destroyed any chance Rose had of ever recovering her memory.

  As soon as she’d come back from Bing’s, Rose had run upstairs and looked around Maman’s bedroom. She’d glanced at the massive wardrobe where Maman had kept her clothes, but she knew what w
as in there. She’d been through it. But the closet—Rose had never been in Maman’s closet. In fact, ever since Rose could remember, its door had been locked.

  She’d recalled the keys in the back of the flatware drawer. In the kitchen, she’d jerked the drawer open. There, behind the stained and worn silver plate flatware was an old key ring. Grabbing it, Rose had hurried back into Maman’s bedroom. She’d tried keys until one turned the lock.

  Pulling in a deep breath and sending a silent apology to Maman, she’d opened the door—and stared. The closet was practically empty. There were a few things hanging on hangers, most notably a moth-eaten fur coat. But the only other thing in the closet was a white cardboard box, the kind a gift from a department store might come in.

  Rose had pulled the large oblong box from the closet and set it on the floor, then, holding her breath, she’d opened it.

  And found exactly what she’d been looking for. She’d stared at the contents of the box for several minutes, her brain racing—not with memories, but again, with her runaway imagination.

  Finally she’d reached in and picked up the dark-stained white terry cloth robe. “Oh, Maman,” she’d whispered in a strangled sob, “why didn’t you tell me?”

  She looked at her fingers, still poised over the ivory keys. They were shaking. “Why?” she repeated.

  Then she stood and stretched. Stretching felt good after so long sitting in the same position at the piano. Playing had helped her process all the stunning things she’d learned this afternoon.

  But it hadn’t stopped her from feeling torn in two. She’d loved Maman and Maman had loved her. But now she had to face a sobering truth. Maman had cared for her, loved her and protected her, yes. But every word out of her mouth had been a lie. And she’d kept Rose with her, not for Rose’s sake, but for her own.

  Sighing, she got up from the piano and walked downstairs to check that the door was locked. When she flipped the light off, she saw a movement in the shadows on the other side of the street, where a duplex that had been damaged in Katrina stood dark and empty.

  It loomed like a defiant reminder of the massively destructive hurricane. Its windowpanes glinted jagged as shark’s teeth in the pale glow from the few streetlights that hadn’t been broken by vandals with air rifles or slingshots.

  Rose froze, narrowing her gaze to a squint and holding her breath, waiting to see if whatever had moved was still there.

  This was all she needed, after this afternoon. She curled her fingers, imagining how satisfying it would feel to wrap them around Detective Dixon Lloyd’s neck and squeeze. It was his fault she was jumping at shadows.

  A flicker of something drew her attention back to the abandoned house. She squinted. Out of the dimness shone a faint red glow, like the end of a cigarette. Was there someone smoking inside the abandoned house?

  The red glow moved back and forth, back and forth, passing the jagged windows like the single red eye of a big cat that paced restlessly in its cage.

  She kept losing sight of the red dot, then finding it again. She rubbed her eyes. Maybe if she opened the door she could see better. The beveled diamond-shaped insert in the door with its clear-and-red alternating panes distorted everything.

  She looked behind her. All the lights on the ground floor were out, so whoever was over there shouldn’t be able to see her. Easing the door open, she caught sight of the red glow again, and again it disappeared. At that very instant, she felt a whisper of something across her skin—a breeze? Or her imagination?

  Goose bumps pebbled the flesh of her arms and she heard Maman’s voice in her ear. A goose walked over your grave. That’s why they call them goose bumps.

  She crossed her arms and hugged herself, but she didn’t close the door. She’d told Dixon she wasn’t afraid. Now she knew that she’d lied. She was, but she’d be damned if a vagrant taking shelter in an abandoned building or a kid sneaking around looking for trouble would cause her to cower in her house.

  She lifted her chin and stared defiantly at the point in the middle of a broken window where she’d last seen the red glow. As she did a bright light flared—like a match.

  A thrill of caution rippled through her, but she tamped it down as much as she could. The vagrant—or the kid—was lighting another cigarette. That was all.

  Staring at the flickering match flame, she waited to see the red flare that would signal the lighting of another cigarette, but it didn’t come.

  Instead, the match’s light climbed higher, until it glowed on a dark seamed face and reflected in glittering scarlet eyes that stared back at her like the eyes of a demon. They blinked slowly, then widened, and she could see white all around the red, blazing pupils.

  While she watched, mesmerized, her hand to her throat, the flame went out. The window was dark again. It was as if nothing had been there at all.

  She forced her hand to relax, then went inside and pushed the door closed.

  Or tried to.

  It caught on something.

  Rose started, looked down and gasped. A large foot in a leather shoe blocked the door.

  Rose reacted instinctively, pushing at the door with all her might. Her scalp burned with panic. She sucked in a breath, preparing to scream.

  “Hey, Rose.”

  Dixon. Her breath whooshed out and her arms and legs turned to jelly. As he pushed the door open she struggled to suck in air past her constricted throat.

  “Wha—what are you doing?” she finally managed to croak.

  “I saw you at the door. I was coming to see you.”

  She threw her head back and rolled her eyes. “You scared me! You could have let me know you were out there.”

  “Hey, I just walked up.” He frowned at her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly, noticing her hand was still at her throat. She relaxed it and let it fall to her side. “I was thinking about how early it’s getting dark.” She frowned at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to check on you.” He stood at the door and looked out. “You were looking at something. What was it?”

  “I told you, nothing,” she said quickly—too quickly.

  “You were looking at that empty building, weren’t you? Is that what spooked you?”

  Damn him. It seemed as if he could read her mind. Although more likely, he’d seen the direction she was looking when he walked up.

  “No,” she said weakly. Then more firmly, “No. You spooked me.”

  He turned and looked at her. “What did you see?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh, then spread her hands. “Okay. Fine. It was just a light, like a cigarette. Kind of a red glow. But then it went out and he—whoever—lit a match.” She shuddered.

  “Then what? Tell me why it upset you.” Dixon stepped beside her and placed his hand on the small of her back. She felt the warmth seep into her skin through the finely woven cotton blouse. She closed her eyes and wished she could melt into his touch. The slight pressure of his hand on her back felt comforting and protective. But it also stirred something inside her. Something she hadn’t felt since—ever.

  Or at least since she could remember. Her insides thrilled and fluttered at his touch.

  “Rose?”

  “It upset me because you’ve got me jumping at

  cobblywobbles.”

  “Cobbly what?”

  She waved a hand. “It’s just a word Maman used. A word for things that aren’t there.”

  But despite her brave words, she couldn’t take her eyes off the dark building, afraid that any second, she’d see those awful eyes again.

  “The match flared and lit up a face.” Her hand doubled into a fist at her chest. “It was awful, like a devil’s mask, with red eyes.”

  She waited for him to laugh, to tell her she was right about the cobblywobbles. In fact, she wished he would, even though she knew it wasn’t true. Maybe if Dixon said it aloud, his confidence, his assurance would change ominous reality into silly fan
tasy.

  But he didn’t laugh or protest what she’d said. Instead, he studied the building. “I think I’ll go check it out. I’ve got a high-powered flashlight in my car.”

  “You’re going to go in there?”

  “Yeah. I want to see if anyone’s there, or has been there recently.” He looked at her. “And when I get back, I want you to be packed and ready to go with me. You’re staying at my place until I figure out who’s after you.”

  She clenched her fist even tighter, as if she were holding on to the last shred of control she had over her life. She didn’t want to give in to the fear that lurked in a dark corner of her heart. The fear that caused the nightmares, that caused the migraines. The fear of whoever had cut her and left her for dead.

  “No. I’ve got piano students. I’ve got… This is my home. I’m safe here.”

  Dixon blew out a frustrated breath between his teeth. “We’ll talk about this when I get back. For now, lock and dead bolt the door. I’ll knock like this.” He gave a brisk, unique knock—one, then two quick raps, then two more. “You’ll know it’s me.”

  Rose watched him pull his weapon from the paddle holster at the small of his back and check it.

  “Oh, are you going to use that?” she gasped.

  “Yes,” Dixon said wryly. “It’s why I have it.”

  “That’s so dangerous. What if he has a gun, too? He could kill you. What if you don’t—”

  “Come back?” His mouth quirked. “Rose, you can count on me. I’ll always come back.” He stepped outside. “Lock the door.”

  She closed the door and locked the dead bolt. The light from the streetlamps cast his tall shadow on the glass of the door. It reminded her of the first time he’d come to see her. As she watched, his shadow moved away and blended into all the other shadows along the street.

  With her heart in her throat, Rose turned off the landing light and sat down on the fifth step, feeling in the pocket of her skirt for her cell phone. If it looked like Dixon was in trouble, she’d call 911.