* *
HUNTER BERGERON HAD followed Helena at a distance, mesmerized by the sway of her narrow hips. He wasn’t the only one noticing her. Almost every man she passed gave her at least a futile glance.
The first time he’d laid eyes on her, he’d thought her the most beautiful girl in the world. She’d changed in the six years since then, wore her hair longer, developed the curves of a woman instead of a young coed.
Tonight, she was so damned stunning she boggled his mind. She was out of his league and had always been. Any hope of rekindling the fire that had once raged between them would end in heartbreak. He didn’t need that now.
He leaned against the front of a building across the street from the carriage house, staying deep in the shadows beneath an iron balcony. Several minutes later, the light in the upstairs bedroom flicked on.
He knew that bedroom intimately. His legs felt like rubber as he finally turned and walked away.
But he’d be back. He had no choice. Unknowingly, she might be his only link to the French Kiss Killer.
And that could get her killed.
Helena jerked awake to the sound of clanking metal garbage cans and the grinding of compactors. She’d closed the airy privacy curtains last night but had failed to close the heavy, noise reducing drapes.
She stretched beneath the crisp, cotton sheet and punched her pillow over her ears. A couple more hours of sleep would provide a much better start to a very busy day. Unfortunately, her mind was already splintering into a dozen different directions.
By the time the streets had become relatively quiet again, she’d given up on sleep. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, tugged her cotton nightshirt down midthigh and shoved her bare feet into a pair of fuzzy flip-flops.
The first thing on her agenda was coffee. The difficult part would be that this morning she’d have it alone.
The antique Swiss grandfather clock on the wide landing struck the hour. The six melodic chimes echoed in the quiet house.
If Mia were still alive, her sweet soprano voice would have wrapped itself around an old hymn or maybe she’d be in a twangy country mood. Her musical tastes ran the gamut.
Cherishing the memories while trying not to let them slide into overpowering grief, Helena forced herself to continue down the stairs and into the kitchen. She flicked on the overhead light and started a pot of coffee.
When it was ready, Helena filled one of the colorful cups she and Mia had purchased in the French Market the last time they’d gone shopping for spring’s first Creole tomatoes. So many great yet simple times they’d spent together.
All never to be again. She wondered if the sorrow at being back here would be less intense if Mia’s death hadn’t come so suddenly—not that she could change that.
Helena took her coffee and walked to what had been Mia’s bedroom suite. As always, a pile of books was messily stacked on her bedside table.
Helena padded across the lush crème-colored carpet and picked up the top book. She expected one of the historical romances that her grandmother loved or a nonfiction book dealing with the history of New Orleans.
Instead, it was a study of profiling serial killers in America. Helena scanned the titles of the next three books. All dealt with some aspect of serial killers.
Helena shuddered at the thought of Mia delving into such gore for bedtime reading.
She’d called her grandmother at least once a week between Elizabeth Grayson’s murder and Mia’s fatal accident. Mia had assured Helena every time that she was too busy with her fund-raising campaign and attempting to cheer up Ella that there was no time left for her to wallow in gloom and doom.
Her reading material suggested differently.
Helena dropped to the side of the bed and picked up a thick gray hardback book with no dust jacket. Several bookmarks were scattered among the pages.
She opened the tome to the first marked page and her eyes went immediately to a paragraph highlighted in neon yellow.
Serial killers may be physically attractive to the opposite sex and function somewhat successfully in society for long periods of time in between their crimes.
A few paragraphs down on that same page:
It is often difficult to predict the future targets of the killers as they may not understand the involved dynamics themselves.
Below that passage, in her meticulous script, Mia had written one name in the margin.
Hunter Bergeron.
Had Mia been questioning Hunter about what she was reading? If so, when had they become friends?
Helena closed the book but took it with her when she left the room. She’d read more later, but she needed to finish unpacking and then shower and dress before her real estate agent, Randi Lester, arrived.
Be careful whom you trust.
Unexpectedly, Alyssa’s warning came back to haunt her as she left the bedroom.
She’d heed the warning, especially when it came to Hunter Bergeron. With any luck she wouldn’t run into him at all.
* * *
HELENA BUZZED RANDI through the gate at exactly 8:28 for their 8:30 appointment. Nice to know the woman who’d hopefully be listing the carriage house and the four apartments surrounding the rest of the courtyard was prompt.
Helena unlocked the door, stepped outside and watched as Randi crossed the courtyard. The Realtor paused near the fountain and turned a full 360 degrees, taking in the view.
The picture on the business card Randi had mailed her didn’t do her justice. She appeared to be approximately the same height as Helena’s five feet six, or would have been if her stiletto heels hadn’t given her at least a four-inch boost.
In her midthirties, Helena judged, with an athletic build and sun-streaked hair cut into a layered bob. Silver bangles dangled from her ears. A frilly white blouse topped a pair of black-and-white checked ankle pants.
“Impressive,” Randi pronounced once she met Helena at the door. “One of the biggest and nicest courtyards I’ve seen in this part of the French Quarter. It will grab any potential buyer’s attention immediately. And nothing beats a great first impression in the real estate business.”
“Glad to hear that,” Helena said as she extended a hand. “I’m Helena Cosworth.”
“I know. I recognized you from your picture on Facebook.”
“I sometimes forget I have that public image floating around in digital space. I should probably update it.”
“I wouldn’t,” Randi said. “It’s
