“No, I’m investigating the crime scene and the dead body that was discovered.”
I slap a hand to my chest, thankful acting has always seemed like second nature for me. It comes with the territory when your job is to create a fantasy. “Oh my God. Are you serious? This building is supposed to be safe! Jesus Christ. What the hell?” I pretend to have the chills and shiver as I glance up and down the hall. “Did the cameras catch the person who did it?”
He studies me like a scientist and I’m whatever he’s growing in a petri dish. “Cameras haven’t worked in months, according to the building manager. You don’t know anything about any of this? You weren’t involved in any way, Ms. Maison?”
I jerk back in overly exaggerated surprise. “Excuse me, do I know you?”
Cavender’s smile turns predatory, as if the dumbass thinks he’s got an edge on me. I would shake my head if it wouldn’t ruin my act, but instead I mentally roll my eyes.
“Pretty sure most everyone in the department is aware of you, Ms. Maison. You’re what we like to call . . . a person of interest.”
Finally, I hit my limit and drop all pretenses because I really do have shit to get done. “So, what you’re saying, Detective Cavender, is that you’re profiling me in connection with an ongoing investigation in hopes that somehow you’ll connect me to it, even though I wasn’t here and have no idea what you’re talking about. Is that right? Because if it is, I’m happy to take a report of this incident to my councilperson so she knows exactly how the cops in this jurisdiction treat her constituents.”
This time, when he stares at me, I get a definite impression of a snake.
“That’s a lot of big words for a woman who spends most of her time on her back . . . not reading.”
My shoulders go back, and I lift my chin. “I have nothing further to say to you, sir.”
His gaze cuts to my door. “I need to search your condo.”
“And I need a spa day, but we don’t always get what we need.”
Cavender bristles. “You’re refusing to cooperate with an ongoing murder investigation now.”
At this, I throw back my head and let out a burst of laughter that evaporates just as quickly as I stare daggers at him. “You know as well as I do that you don’t have probable cause, and no judge is going to give you a warrant. Yes, I live in this building. No, I wasn’t here last night. I don’t have any idea what the hell you’re investigating, nor do I want to know. Now, unless you magically produce a warrant in the next fifteen seconds, I’d like you to leave me alone before I have to report you for police harassment. Actually, if you could show me your badge again, I’d like to write that number down for my records.”
He ignores my request for the badge number and continues his questioning. “Where were you last night?”
My smile is as big as my aversion to nosy, meddling law enforcement. “None of your damn business.”
“So you don’t have an alibi.”
I tilt my head to the side and stare at him. “You think you know everything about me already. Do you think I was alone last night?”
“All you have to do is give me a name, and I’ll leave you alone.”
When I perch my hand on my hip reflexively, forgetting about my wound and stitches, it takes everything I have not to wince. “I’m afraid that’s too damn bad. I pride myself on having excellent discretion, and that means I don’t share the names of my companions.”
His whistling nostrils flare again, and I don’t even want to know what the pervert is probably thinking right now. Perhaps he’s trying to imagine what it would be like to be one of those companions.
Ew. Fucking gross. Not even if I were broke and starving.
“I’ll be watching you, Ms. Maison. If there’s a single shred of evidence that connects you to this crime, then you’re going down. Mark my words.”
I release a long breath and shake my head. “If only cops would investigate crimes and figure out who did it before they go around accusing people of committing them.”
He backs away, his gaze steely. “That only applies to innocent people, madam.”
With that dig, he backs away and returns to hammering on my neighbor’s door.
Well, fuck. That didn’t exactly go well.
Two hours later, I poke my head out of the condo and check the hallway. Detective Douchebag is gone, thankfully, but I have a feeling I haven’t seen the last of him.
After a quick scan of the hall, I roll two giant suitcases through the doorway and lock up. The girls will be coming over later to take the rest of the boxes, and the furniture will be moved to Desiree’s house to replace some of her old stuff.
I’m starting fresh in my new place, and I’m not coming back here again. Not fucking ever.
This building has bad juju, and my new life doesn’t have room for any of that.
Thankfully, I don’t see a soul as I wheel out my suitcases, and those fabulously malfunctioning cameras won’t catch me leaving this time either.
I can’t believe I didn’t think about cameras last night. God. What a fucking nightmare that could have been.
Although, at least then I would have had a clear-cut case of self-defense. No way anyone could argue that the man charging into the elevator to stab me could have been my fault. Then again, given the attitude of Detective Cavender, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. I probably would have been in cuffs for not calling the cops myself and reporting the incident.
Well, old habits die hard, and the day I call the cops to report I stabbed someone is the day I leave this town and never look back. I load the suitcases into the back seat of the Honda and drive away, with part of me wishing I could just point my car toward the highway and do exactly that—drive away and leave it all behind.
But I love my new place. It’s going to be a fresh start. No, really, it will be.
After all the time and money I’ve spent on the house in the Quarter, I don’t have any left to skip town and live a lavish lifestyle on the beach. Not in a hurry, anyway. I’d have to liquidate, and that would take at least a month or longer.
But what if the attack really wasn’t random? Ho-It-All asks, chiming in.
“The guy’s dead, so there shouldn’t be shit to worry about now,” I tell the interior of the beat-up Honda and its empty car seat. “Besides, even if he weren’t, no one is going to run me out of my own town over some stupid stitches.”
But the unease dogs me the entire time I drive, park the car, and then wheel the suitcases to my gate.
Something doesn’t feel right, but I’m not sure what it is.
That’s when I decide to visit Celeste again. Maybe a reading will ease my concerns. Or make them a million times worse.
Seventeen
Magnolia
“I had a feeling I’d be seeing you again today, chère.”
Madame Celeste’s husky voice welcomes me as I cross the threshold of her shop, the Reading Room, which is where she can be found most of the time when she’s not sitting at her card table out in front of Saint Louis Cathedral.
Sunshine from the doorway highlights dust motes floating in the air, and I feel instant relief as soon as I step inside. The spicy scent of her incense. The deep colors. The quiet sounds of chimes and tabletop fountains she has around the space. They soothe me.