She was older than the one he’d mistaken her for, but he doubted she’d yet reached fifty. She was slender and barefoot, dressed in what looked like silk pajamas in gold and black. Her hair, a dark honey brown, had been pulled up into a knot already tumbling loose.
Her skin was a translucent porcelain, and he was so glad he wasn’t saying any of this out loud because he sounded as fruity as one of the Queer Eye TV guys. Or so he imagined, since he’d never seen their show.
More than anything, though, he found himself caught by and unable to look away from her eyes. They were large, the irises purple, her expression serene even while he swore her stare was scrambling his brain like so many bad eggs.
“She does that to everyone.”
He blinked, looked back at the gypsy. “What?”
“Della is my aunt, and you’re not the first man she’s turned into a drooling fool.”
“I’m not drooling,” he said, swiping the cuff of his sweatshirt over his chin.
“Perry, Book is on his way over,” Della said, heading toward a beaded curtain hiding a door at the rear of the shop. “I’m making brunch. Spinach omelets, I think. Bring your friend.”
The beads gave off a tinkling singsong sound as they settled. Neverland. No. La-la land. That’s where he was. The funny farm. Where life was beautiful…
“Are you coming?”
This from the same woman—Perry—who’d ordered him off the property minutes before. “I thought you wanted me out of here.”
She twisted her mouth as if she couldn’t decide between smiling and snapping. Like a turtle. Clamping down on his nose and tearing it right off his face. “I do. But obviously Della doesn’t.”
“And she always gets her way?” He’d seen her. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she did.
“You’ll be able to figure that out for yourself soon enough.”
It was exactly what he wanted—personal access, an in—yet he couldn’t make himself take the first step. He’d been battling strange feelings about the case since taking it on.
And these two women weren’t doing a damn thing to settle the uncertainty. They were, in fact, making things worse.
Making things…weird.
Perry took a step toward the door through which Della had disappeared, holding aside the strands of blue beads. “C’mon. You don’t want to miss Della’s omelets. And I know you’re not going to want to miss comparing notes with Book.”
Jack tensed at the twist of the be-careful-what-you-wish-for screw. “Who’s Book?”
“He’s a detective with the NOPD.” Perry gave the screw one last tightening turn. “And he believes every word Della says to be the truth.”
DETECTIVE BOOK FRANKLIN parked his unmarked car in the alley where a small courtyard backed up to Sugar Blues. He’d met Della Brazille right here two years ago, and nothing about his life had been the same.
He didn’t know anyone who was a bigger skeptic or cynic than he was, and so he had a hard time explaining to his co-workers—he didn’t have anyone outside the force he called a friend; he’d tried, but nobody understood a cop’s hours and drive but another cop—why he jumped when Della called.
He shouldn’t have jumped. He shouldn’t have believed in her sight, or believed her visions meant anything, that they were more than nightmares or a fertile imagination seeking attention.
He lived in New Orleans. He’d run into plenty of psychics fitting that bill.
Straightening his tie as he made for the kitchen door, Book couldn’t help remembering the first time he’d seen her here at the back entrance to Sugar Blues. There’d been a break-in and murder in the next building over, the security there no better than here.
She’d been sitting on the wall of the central fountain, soaking wet, wearing a silky camisole and thin drawstring pants. No shoes, nothing beneath. As if she’d pulled on the clothes without thinking of anything but what she’d seen. Hell, she might as well have been naked, wearing clothing that was plastered to her skin with the temperature in the forties.
When she’d told him about it, he’d thought she was relating details of a dream. Or that she’d been stoned out of her mind and tripping.
Perry had arrived minutes later, bundled her aunt up and, in the kitchen over hot coffee for him and herbal tea for both women, had explained Della’s gift of sight. He’d taken careful notes, still doubting he was doing more than recording a bunch of BS.
But the BS has paid off. Della had seen specifics about the perps’ flight and spree that had followed. It had been enough for Book and his partner to use in their ongoing investigation. It had been enough to help them eventually nail the bastards’ theft ring.
It had been enough to make Book believe.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have a certain reporter’s throat once he was finished here. Della’s work on the Eckhardt kidnapping wasn’t yet public because there wasn’t yet an official case. Not in New Orleans anyway. She wasn’t even positive it was Eckhardt.
She’d come to him with what she’d seen, and he’d taken the information and made the Texas connection himself. No one else in operations should have known about his inquiry. Meaning, Book had a big, fat internal leak to patch.
He knocked; through the inset glass he saw Perry wave him inside. He pushed open the door without even turning the knob, a knot forming in his stomach.
“I thought you were getting that fixed.” As independent and intelligent as they were, the Brazille women were not so good with down-to-earth priorities. He’d get someone over here later today.
“Good morning, Book. I hope you’re hungry.”
At the sound of Della’s voice, he turned, his attention shifting away from Perry and the door. Della stood grating cheese, her back to the room. Beside her, a man Book had never seen before leaned against the counter.
Perry made the introductions. “Detective Book Franklin? Jack Montgomery, private eye.”
Cripes. And the day just kept going downhill.
He shook the hand Montgomery offered—a firm grip that went on seconds too long as the other man took Book’s measure. He did the same. Neither spoke, and it was Perry who finally ended the standoff with a muttered, “Oh, good grief.”
At that, Della laughed and glanced over. “Jack is here for the same reason you are, Book.”
He cursed beneath his breath. “I was hoping you hadn’t seen the paper.”
“She hasn’t,” Perry hurried to say.
“Of course I have.” Della sealed up the block of cheese in its container and handed it to Jack. “And, no,” she added as he returned the cheese to the fridge. “Jack didn’t show it to me. It was part
