a part of it.
“That. And interesting.” To say the least, which was all she could say for now. “I’ve gotta run. Are you sure you want to cancel?”
“Definitely,” Claire said, and Perry could almost hear the other woman nod. “But let’s do dinner one night this week.”
“Cookies for dessert?”
“What else?” Claire asked, laughing and adding, “I’ll call you,” before ringing off.
Once she had, Perry was left with no reason to stay at the counter. And even if she’d had tons of work to do there, curiosity would still have gotten the better of her. It wasn’t every day a man who looked like the one an aisle over walked into the shop.
She climbed down from the stool, closed the leather appointment book and stored it on end next to the cash register she locked out of habit. Then, smoothing down her skirt and the hem of her paisley-print poet’s blouse, she hooked the key ring on her index finger and went to check him out.
He was well worth checking out. The hint of gray had fooled her from a distance; he was no older than his late thirties, she guessed. He wore jeans and Reeboks with his hoodie. The neckband of a white T-shirt showed above the eyelets where the drawstrings hung loose.
He stood studying a display of ground marble and resin figurines representing the twelve astrological signs, designed by a local artisan. He held a Taurus bull in one hand, an Aries ram in the other. Perry wondered if she should read anything into his selections or just let it go.
She nodded toward the figurines. “Those are one of our most popular items. The artist has made quite a name for herself here. A true hometown success story.”
He didn’t glance up right away. Instead, he silently returned both items to the antique cherry cabinet. Then he turned and stared down at Perry until she was certain she would never again be able to breathe—she who had never been susceptible to the buff and chiseled type.
His eyes were gray, a dark pewter with silver specks. Up close, his lashes appeared even longer than they had from a distance. His eyes were amazing, gorgeous—as was his denim-and-cotton-covered build—but his expression scared her to death.
“May I help you?” she asked when the silence had gone on for too long.
“Della Brazille?”
Uh-oh. “Who’s inquiring?”
“Me. And I’m here to make sure you keep your hocus-pocus fingers out of the Eckhardt kidnapping.”
RED AND BLACK. Welts and bruises. Cuts and scrapes and raw purple skin. An arm. A hand. A missing finger.
The ring. It should be there. A class ring. A sports ring. Heavy and gold. It had been there before.
The watch remained. Platinum links. Multiple dials. The edge of a sleeve.
Torn, not cut, and stained with a rust color that had once been blood. Nothing more. Nothing else.
Only slices of light, crosshatched shadows, herringbone in yellow and blue. And so much watery, fluid green.
Della opened her eyes and sat up, pulling the bed’s periwinkle chenille coverlet to her chin. She blinked slowly and let out a breath of relief. The pain was gone. She felt empty, spent…strangely weak and fragile.
Forty-eight years old and she ached like an ancient crone. It was enough to make her laugh. Except laughing would expend energy she didn’t have to spare.
She scooted to the side of the bed, tugged down the hem of her fine lawn nightgown, and sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the mattress while picking up the bedside phone and dialing the NOPD.
“Operations.”
“Detective Franklin, please.” She waited thirty seconds before he came on the line.
“Franklin.”
“Book. It’s Della,” she said, and hurried on. “They’ve cut off his finger. He was wearing a ring. A college bowl ring maybe? I can’t say.” She tucked the coverlet tighter. “I can only see the shape. The edge of the insignia.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“He’s still wearing a watch. And I think I see ropes.”
“Della.” Book’s voice was firm, caring. “Hang on to it. I’m on my way.”
2
“EXCUSE ME?”
Jack was pretty damn sure he hadn’t stuttered. But just to be certain…
He pulled from his back pocket the newspaper he’d folded to the headline and dared her to deny her meddlesome ways. “The case is my business, got it? My business. Not yours.”
She didn’t even glance at the paper. She crossed her arms over her chest. She said nothing.
She was an intriguing little thing. Looked a lot like a gypsy. Black curls hanging in a cloud around a heart-shaped face. Big dark eyes and a bow of a mouth that meant business. About five foot eight—though the way she was staring him down, he wouldn’t be surprised if she thought herself ten feet tall.
“Well?” he finally asked. She’d obviously gone mute.
“Well what?” Her eyes flashed.
A reaction, though not much of one. He’d have preferred an admission or a denial. Either one would make it easier to gauge his next step. “Are you going to back off or not?”
“Let’s see.” She held up one finger after another, counting off her list. “You’ve been sarcastic, rude, demanding. You’ve come into my place of business and ordered me around, not even bothering to tell me who you are. And you want me to back off?”
Hands now at her hips, she shook her head, summing up the situation with a loud snort and an even louder, “Get the hell out of here.”
Jack sighed, rubbed a hand over his forehead where the ache that had started three days ago in Austin remained.
“My name is Jack Montgomery,” he said, returning the newspaper to his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He showed the woman his driver’s license and identification card. “I’m a private investigator.”
She barely even glanced at his ID. “Good for you. But you’re in the Big Easy now, cher. Those won’t even get you a bowl of gumbo.”
His Texas card. Stupid. His Louisiana paperwork was in his computer case out in his Yukon, but she didn’t give him time to explain. She turned and started to walk away. He didn’t even think.
He reached out and grabbed her upper arm. “Della, wait.”
She jerked free, glared over her shoulder. “I’m not Della.”
What?
“I’m Della.”
At
