foot?”
He shrugged. “Guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
She barely managed to keep herself from rolling her eyes. “But not your way.”
“Sorry, no,” he said, returning the burner to the counter and reaching for her blue-plumed pen.
She moved it out of his reach before he could grab it. “Do you think you could limit your touchy-feely habit to items you’re going to buy?”
He laughed then, the sound deep and resonant like that of a bass guitar, one that vibrated through her, tickling, taunting, one she knew she was going to have a problem with if he stayed around for long.
Or not, she amended moments later, when he said, “There’s nothing about this place that I buy. Horoscopes and healings and protection charms? What a bunch of—”
“A bunch of what?” She bristled further, not quite sure why she was letting him get to her when his opinion was one she’d run up against too many times to count. “A bunch of crap? A bunch of, what did you call it earlier, hocus-pocus?”
“You’re going to tell me it’s not? That you believe—” he glanced at the cover of the book and read the copy “—I can learn how to create an electromagnetic balance all the way to the cellular level in the physical body? Just by taking a couple of classes?”
She pruned her lips, then forced them to relax. “I believe there are many things not easily explained by conventional reasoning.”
“Let me guess. You’re a big X-Files fan.”
This time she gave in, rolling her eyes. “Just my luck, stuck entertaining a smart-ass.”
“Smart enough to know the difference between what’s real and what isn’t,” he said, a brow going up and drawing her gaze to his lashes again.
“You think Detective Franklin would be here if Della’s visions were fabricated? If he didn’t have proof that what she sees is real?” Gah, but she hated finding intelligent minds closed.
“You tell me.”
“What, and waste my breath? I think I’d rather show you,” she said, having heard the faint croon of a female voice drifting down the stairs behind her.
He snorted. “I’ve been around the block, sister. I’ve pretty much seen it all.”
“Ah, but have you listened to it?”
“Listened to what?”
Perry narrowed her gaze. “If I let you come around here, do you think you can keep your hands to yourself?”
The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
His eyes flashed, specks of silver bright in the deep dark gray. He let his gaze drop from her face to her shoulders before she glared and moved behind the cash register to hide.
He laughed again, shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and walked his lazy, loose and lanky way around to where she stood.
“Better?” he asked, once he was close enough to touch…if only she had the guts to reach out.
What would be better would be to start this day over and not have him show up to disturb her. “Yes. Now listen.”
She backed toward the staircase and motioned him forward. Wariness in his expression, he did as she asked, stopping when she held up one hand.
“Listen,” she whispered, standing on one side of the stairwell opening as he stood on the other. “Tell me what you hear.”
He propped a shoulder against the wall and hung his head; she leaned into the corner, her hands stacked behind her.
The days just ain’t the same…
The walls of the stairwell that rose to the second floor were brick, and on them hung framed photos of Sugar. At clubs in the old Storyville district, performing with Jelly Roll Morton and Johnny Dodds.
The sun hangs low and hangs dark…
More Sugar Babin memorabilia remained stored in the attic. LPs and costumes. Even her famous gold cigarette case and gnarled walking stick.
The nights never end, never fade…
Perry didn’t know how Jack—how anyone—could deny the interaction between this world and those that lay beyond, when hearing Sugar sing.
Black is the color of my heart…
Nor did she understand why he wasn’t saying anything. “Well?”
Still staring down at the floor, he shrugged. “Your aunt left a radio playing?”
“No.” Perry shook her head. “That’s Sugar.”
“Another aunt?”
“This used to be where she lived. This building. She was a famous blues singer.”
“So you pipe the music into the shop for old times’ sake.”
“No. That’s Sugar singing.” She waited and waited, but his expression never changed. “She died after a suspicious fall down the stairs. These stairs,” she added, pointing.
“Then the piping’s about exploiting the legend?”
It took all her control not to stomp her foot. “Jack, there is no piping. That singing you hear is Sugar’s ghost.”
3
WHAT A LOAD of hooey. “You’re kidding me, right? A ghost?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t hear her.”
“I hear music.” He shrugged. That much was true. “It doesn’t mean I buy into any ghost story.”
Perry sighed and closed her eyes. “I should be used to this by now. I don’t know why I let it get to me.”
“Hey, it’s got to be good for business.” Jack backed up against the wall, keeping his hands in his pockets since she seemed bothered when he used them. “Adds to the woo-woo flavor of the place.”
Perry pushed away from the corner and paced the length of the counter twice before she stopped to face him. “Believe or don’t believe. It’s no skin off my nose that you’re lacking an open mind.”
His mouth twisted to the right. “Guess I played hooky the day they passed out the gene.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you played hooky several days in a row.”
That made him smile. “You think?”
“Yeah. I do.” When she tossed back her hair, the strands of colored crystals dangling from her ears twinkled, speckling her cheeks with dots of blue and gold. “You missed good manners day, for one.”
