have you lived here?” he asked.
“More than ten years.” Rose crossed her arms. “Was the murder in this neighborhood? Because the only killing I recall was when Gilbert Carven shot a burglar who’d climbed in his window, but that was—”
Detective Lloyd waved a hand. “Please, let me ask the questions. I noticed the sign out front. Is Maman Renée here?”
“No,” she said, blinking against the sudden, familiar sting of tears at the back of her eyes. “She died five months ago.”
“Sorry for your loss.”
The stock phrase uttered in a monotone made Rose angry and dried up her tears instantaneously. “How kind of you,” she said icily.
He looked up from his notebook. “I know it can be hard when you lose someone close. Exactly what relation was she to you?”
She hadn’t expected that question. Here in the neighborhood, everyone knew them. She didn’t recall anyone ever asking her or Maman about their actual relationship.
“She was my … my …” She stopped. She couldn’t say mother. That was too easily checked. So was aunt. “… cousin,” she finally said, wincing at how weak her answer was.
“Your cousin,” Lloyd repeated sarcastically.
“Once removed on my … my mother’s side,” she embellished lamely, then bit her lip. She shouldn’t have said mother. Don’t ask me my mother’s name, she begged silently.
“The house is still listed in her name.”
Rose’s shoulders hunched as her muscles drew in protectively. This supercilious detective had a habit of stating facts in a way that made her defensive.
Why was he asking about her and Maman? The last thing she wanted was to have the police delving into why she hadn’t done anything about Maman’s will.
“I fail to see how that has anything to do with an old murder,” Rose said archly.
“Is there some reason you think it does?” the detective shot back.
Okay, that did it. She didn’t like Detective Lloyd at all. He was pompous and rude. He hadn’t even tried to hide his distaste of Maman’s quaint little shop. Now he was ignoring her questions. Well, if he wasn’t going to answer hers, why should she answer his?
She stood. “I’m not sure how I can help you, Detective. Your questions are awfully intrusive, considering that they can’t possibly have anything to do with the murder you say you’re investigating. Now, I’m busy, if you don’t mind.”
“Actually I do,” he said, looking up at her. He relaxed more deeply into the couch. “I have only a couple more questions.”
Rose stood there, arms crossed, staring at him. His hair was black, so shiny it looked blue under the overhead light. From this angle she could tell that his eyes were blue—a deep, almost navy blue. She’d never seen eyes like that before. She tried to remember if Maman had ever talked about what kind of person had navy blue eyes.
“Ms. Bohème?”
She blinked. “What?”
“I said, why don’t you sit down? I won’t be much longer.”
“I’ll stand, thank you.” She turned toward the window, giving him her profile.
From the corner of her eye she saw him shrug and lean back against the couch cushions. “Fine. Does the name Rosemary Delancey mean anything to you?”
Delancey? Shock sizzled through her, down to her fingers and toes. The painful throbbing in her temple flared again and the susurrus voices that were always there in the back of her brain rose in volume.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss, RISSSHHHH ROZZZZZSSS! The words reverberated inside Rose’s head, keeping perfect time with the throbbing in her temple. She squeezed her eyes shut.
What had he asked? Something about Delancey.
His hand touched hers. She jumped and jerked away. How had he gotten so close to her without her hearing or seeing him?
“Ma’am?” he said. “Have you ever heard the name Rosemary Delancey?”
“No,” she snapped hoarsely. “Never.”
She hadn’t. So why were the voices bothering her? And why did her pulse throb in her throat as if she were lying?
Detective Dixon Lloyd’s gaze burned against her closed lids. “No? Are you telling me you don’t recognize the Delancey name?” he asked, the tone of his voice demanding that she open her eyes.
“Well, y-yes,” she stammered. “Of course I recognize the name. Everyone in Louisiana knows about Con Delancey. But I don’t … I don’t know any of them.” She peered up at him. “Should I? Was it a Delancey who was murdered?”
“Yes,” he said, still holding her gaze.
“But …” She was having trouble focusing her thoughts. The voices were getting louder, loud enough to drown out all other sound. She rubbed her temple and grimaced.
“What about Lyndon Banker?”
She frowned. “Banker? What?” She had no idea what he’d said.
“The name Lyndon Banker. Do you recognize it?”
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.
“Are you all right?”
His words barely rose above the hissing in her head. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples and squeezed. It seemed to help.
After a moment, she answered him. “Yes, I’m fine. What did you say about a bank?”
“Forget that.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
Her eyes followed the bright metal of his watch. She noticed that it stayed in place on his wrist.
“Are you sure you don’t remember anything about a murder?”
“The murder happened around here?”
“Actually, it happened just off St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District, about six blocks from here. Twelve years ago.”
“Twelve …” The vision of Maman unwinding blood-soaked bandages assaulted her.
“Where were you twelve years ago?”
Rose turned her back on him and walked over to the window, looking out onto Prytania Street. She saw the old neon signs, the flickering lights from the curtained windows, the shadows on the window shades. Her neighbors, her friends.
She loved this neighborhood, this house. It was home. She hugged herself. “I was here,” she murmured. “With Maman. I was safe.”
She
