The Delancey Dynasty
She could hear Maman’s voice in her head, chiding her. Breathe easy, ma ‘tite. Just forget all that’s gone before. Maman put a spell on this house, keep you safe.
But behind the sweet memory of Maman’s voice lurked other unsettling voices, scurrying around the back of her mind with susurrus whispers that haunted her dreams.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. She pressed her fingers against her suddenly pounding temple and shook her head.
Stop it. Rose closed her eyes and listened for Maman’s soothing words again, but the ghostly hissing drowned out all other sound.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.
Pain throbbed in rhythm with the voices. Pressing her fingers against her temple seemed to help. As she massaged the sore place near her hairline, her stomach rumbled.
Of course. She was hungry. That was all that was wrong with her. She hadn’t eaten at all today. She thought about the gumbo she’d made this morning. That’s what she needed. A big bowl of gumbo and some of the French bread she’d bought. Then she’d go to bed so she could get an early start tomorrow.
Just as she headed back up the stairs, a knock at the door made her jump.
Mignon? Surely not. She should have made it home by now. Rose retraced her steps, squinting against the sunlight, and flipped the light switch near the bottom of the stairs. She unlocked the door, leaving the chain on.
“Mignon?” she started before she saw the looming shadow of the man who stepped forward. “Oh,” she said, then, “the shop is closed.”
“Hold it.” He stuck his foot between the door and the facing as a glint of light on metal flashed in her eyes.
She recoiled with a cry before she realized that the shiny object he held was a badge.
“New Orleans Police, ma’am,” the man said in a low, gruff voice.
“Police?” She put a hand to her racing heart. “Has something happened to Mignon?” she rasped.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Detective Lloyd. Dixon Lloyd. I need to ask you some questions.”
Rose opened the door to the maximum width allowed by the chain and looked up at him. He was tall, three or four inches taller than her five feet eight inches. His eyes were hooded.
The badge he held reflected the waning sunlight off its burnished surface.
Rose blocked the reflection with her hand, wishing he would put the thing away. What could the police want with her? She hadn’t done anything, had she? “I’m sure you have the wrong address,” she said.
“No. I have the right address. You are Rose Bohème, right?” His voice was firm, commanding.
He knew her name. Oh, this was not good. “Yes,” she said, working for just the right tone of mild interest and slight impatience. “What is this about?”
“Could I come in, please?” he asked, only it didn’t really sound like a request. The commanding tone was still there.
“Of course.” She tried to keep the stress out of her voice as she unlatched the chain and held the door open. He stepped past her into the foyer, filling it up with his height and his broad shoulders. He brought with him the smell of sunlight, wind and the street.
She sent a glance up and down the sidewalks. Curtains fluttered and a couple of doors slammed shut. She smiled wryly as she closed the door but left it unlocked. People on this end of Prytania Street didn’t like cops. She’d have a lot of questions to answer tomorrow.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked, studying his shadowed face and wishing she’d replaced the second bulb in the foyer fixture. The single pale globe did little more than create eerie shadows along the dusty, bottle-lined shelves and counters of Maman’s shop.
The detective didn’t answer her. His head turned as he checked around him. Rose didn’t like the imperious way he took in the entire room with one sweeping glance and then dismissed it. The only thing that seemed to catch his attention was the stairs. His head tilted as he looked up to the top of them.
“Is there somewhere we can sit?” he asked.
Rose considered saying no. He’d dismissed Maman’s shop as beneath his notice, so she didn’t feel the need to be even nominally polite. As she opened her mouth to speak, he turned his dark eyes to meet hers.
She looked away. The throbbing in her head increased, flaring into a hot, bright pain. Her personal warning system. This detective wasn’t here to ask about some crime or other that had happened in the neighborhood.
He was here for her.
So this was it—the day Rose had dreaded for ever since she could remember. The police had come for her and she had no idea why.
Her entire body tensed as awful, encompassing fear blanketed her. She felt helpless and lost, like she had twelve years ago when she’d woken up to stare blankly at a wizened woman who was wrapping her cuts in soft white bandages.
It took all her strength not to bolt past Detective Lloyd out the door. She clenched her fists and the skin of the scar that ran along her hairline and down her cheek stretched as she frowned. She consciously relaxed her features until she could no longer feel her skin drawing.
“It’s okay,” he said, watching her closely. “We can talk standing here if you’d rather not allow me upstairs.”
His tone worried her and those eyes were positively searing. Was she acting suspiciously? “No, no. Please, come in.”
She ascended the stairs, conscious of his heavier, masculine footsteps, his eyes boring into her back and his thoughts, which of course she couldn’t read, swirling around her. At least that’s how she imagined them.
At the top of the stairs she stepped aside and turned on the landing light. Then she led the way into Maman’s living room, where the curtains were open and the waning sunlight was brighter than downstairs.
The detective stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room before he entered. Rose squirmed as she looked at the furniture through his eyes. The green velvet chairs and the old burgundy brocade couch looked threadbare, not fit even for Goodwill. Its frame was in good shape, though, sturdy.
The grand piano’s gloss was dazzling under the light, but big and little finger smudges marred the surface.
Fingerprints. Her hands began to tremble. She tried to relax them, but despite her effort they clenched into fists. Her gaze darted back to the piano. Her gloves were there, where she’d removed them for Mignon’s lesson.
“P-please sit,” she said unsteadily, unwrapping her fingers and gesturing toward the couch. She walked over to the piano and picked up the black lace fingerless gloves and slipped them on as unobtrusively as she could. She perched on the edge of the piano bench and clasped her hands in her lap.
The detective sat down on a chair and turned it to face the piano bench. Then he leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, which were mere inches from hers. He sat there, saying nothing, his gaze on her hands—her gloves. It took all her strength not to hide them behind her back like a child.
After what seemed like an eternity, he shifted his gaze to his badge, regarding it as if he’d forgotten he was still holding it. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Rose tried to concentrate on studying him instead of wondering what he was thinking about her. She noticed what she hadn’t seen at the door or in the dim light of the shop downstairs.
Detective Lloyd was very well-dressed. Her interest piqued, she assessed him with the eye of an experienced fortune-teller. Maman had taught her that understanding people was all in the subtle details. Rose had a feeling that knowing as much as possible about this detective might be a good idea.
His clothes weren’t expensive, but he wore them well. His broad, straight shoulders told her he was proud and confident. A large watch that must have cost a significant portion of his salary rode across his left wrist, its face canted toward his thumb. No wasted effort. He could glance at its face without having to stop and cock his wrist.
His brilliant white shirt was long-sleeved, its cuffs shot perfectly beneath the lightweight sport coat. One edge of his right cuff was beginning to fray. He was frugal, or at least not wasteful, but a faint crease across the shirtfront indicated that he didn’t bother with washing his clothes. He had them laundered and folded.
He appeared lean and hard. His thighs were long and lean beneath the dress pants.
His hands were nice. Large and well-shaped, with long, spatulate fingers and short, clean nails. According to Maman, those types of fingers indicated a pragmatic and dedicated person who viewed their work as their top priority. That fit with what she’d already gleaned from his appearance.
The watch was his only accessory and his only indulgence. He didn’t even wear a ring. She stared at the fourth finger on his left hand, shifting slightly so that the light caught it at a different angle. Nope. As far as she could tell, he’d never worn a wedding band.
“Ma’am?”
She forced her gaze away from his hands and looked at him, with what she hoped was polite but mild curiosity.
“As I said, I’m looking into an unsolved murder case from several years ago.” He fished a small notepad and a pen out of his inside jacket pocket.
“An—unsolved murder?” she rasped. “Whose?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the pad and studied a page for a few seconds. Then he raised his head and fixed her with that dark, sharp gaze. “Now, is it true that you call yourself Rose Bohème?”
Chapter Two
You call yourself Rose Bohème.
The words sent fear twisting in her gut like a knife blade. Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking about sharp, shiny, deadly things. A shudder quaked through her.
“Rose Bohème,” he said again, his tone suggesting that he didn’t believe it was her real name. “How do you spell that exactly?”
She met his gaze and lifted her chin. Suddenly she felt mean. He’d barged into her home without an explanation and dismissed Maman’s little shop as beneath his notice. She added arrogant and overbearing to his list of attributes. He didn’t deserve a straight answer.
“R-O-S-E,” she said sweetly.
His left brow shot up and a dark glint sparked in his eyes. “Thank you. Now your last name,” he said evenly.
She bit her lip. He was smooth. “Bohème. B-O-H-E-M-E.”
Detective Lloyd wrote on his notepad. “Like gypsy,” he muttered.
“That’s right,” she said, shifting on her perch. “You had questions for me? I’m sure I don’t know anything about an old murder.”
The detective gave her an odd, knowing look. Did he think she was lying? “How long 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 felt the detective’s burning gaze on her back. She heard his footsteps as he approached. Then she heard the rustling of cloth and felt something—warmth or energy—emanating from his body.
When he spoke, his voice was too close, too quietly intimate. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.
She whirled and almost hit him, he was that close. She tried to step backward but her heel hit the baseboard. She flattened her palms against the wall behind her.
“Sure about what?” she asked. Where she was or if she was safe? “I don’t understand these questions. What does any of this have to do with me?” she cried.
“Think about the name. Rosemary Delancey,” he said calmly, then leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Rosemary,” drawing out the S.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. The whispers blended with his voice, swirling around her in a singsong rhythm. “I—don’t—know—anything about—Rosemary Delancey,” she bit out, suppressing the urge to squeeze her temples between her hands again.
“I think you do,” he said, staring down at her. He lifted a hand toward her hair.
She recoiled, alarm rising in her chest. She slid sideways, away from him. “Get away from me,” she cried.
He stepped backward, regarding her narrowly. His jaw tensed. “Rosemary,” he said. “Say it. Rosemary.”
“Stop it!” She squeezed her head again. “I don’t know that name. Why are you doing this?” Her temple throbbed again.
“I think you know why,” he said quietly.
Rose’s temper burst into flame. “Leave me alone! I don’t know anything! I never heard of her!”
Detective Lloyd’s eyebrows went up. “That’s surprising, because she was someone who should have meant a lot to you.”
“Why? How?” Rose asked, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket in her fist and shaking it. “Stop playing with me and tell me what you want me to say.”
Dixon Lloyd looked down at Rose’s hand on his arm. It was a pretty hand, with long slender fingers and short unpainted nails. Nails that didn’t go with the image stored in his head, but then, nothing about this woman matched up with the twenty-two-year-old girl he’d come to know.
He focused on the black fingerless lace gloves she’d put on as soon as she’d been able to get to the piano to retrieve them. Were they an affectation, along with the long flowing skirt and blouse? Was she trying to perpetrate a witchlike image, similar to the seventies and eighties pop icon Stevie Nicks? Or was all that gauzy feminine garb hiding something—like knife scars?
The thought surprised him. Then, as he considered it, a queasy anger turned his stomach.
Swallowing against the queasiness, he turned his attention to her face and studied her up close for the first time. Most interesting was a long scar that started at the level of her right brow and traveled jaggedly down her cheek to her jawline. The shriveled skin drew her mouth slightly on the right side and caused her right eye to slant upward.
His stomach turned over. Scars. Of course. That’s why her face seemed off. The photo he’d carried in his wallet all these years was of a pretty girl with good bones and the promise of classic beauty once she matured. She’d been barely twenty-two when she’d died. Disappeared, he corrected himself.
Now the scar, along with the character that came with age, made her face much more interesting. Still lovely. If possible, even more fascinating. Certainly no longer a Stepford beauty queen. She was stunning. Stunning and mysterious, a dangerous combination.
“—unless you explain,” she was saying.
“What?” He’d missed most of what she’d just said.
“What do you mean what? Everything. Why you’re here. Who Rosemary Delancey is. Why you think any of this has anything to do with me.”
She tossed her answer at him as a challenge, but Dixon didn’t think she was nearly as brave as her words sounded. Her face was pallid, her eyes were becoming damp and a fine trembling shimmered through her.
He steeled himself against her tears. She’d stayed hidden all this time—why? Because of the scar? He could understand a young debutante not wanting to be seen in public with what must have seemed like a hideous facial deformity.
But Rosemary Delancey was thirty-four now. Was she still so vain? Or was she afraid of whoever had attacked her? Whatever the reason she hadn’t come forward, she knew now that the gig was up.
It was time to hit her with the facts and gauge her reaction.
“Okay,” he said, holding up one finger. “First, Rosemary Delancey was the victim of a violent attack twelve years ago. She lost so much blood that the medical examiner concluded that she could not have survived. But that conclusion couldn’t be verified because her body was never found.”
He held up a second finger. “Second, I’m here because someone recognized you.”
Rose’s amber-colored eyes went wide, whites showing around the iris. Her face drained of color. She pressed a hand against her chest, which rose and fell rapidly. “Recognized me?” she croaked.
Dixon was surprised at her obvious terror. He knew it was real. No one could fake that sudden pallor. But if she was that afraid of being found, why did she live only a few blocks from where she was attacked? Why hadn’t she left the city? Or gone back to her family? If anyone could make her feel safe, it was the Delanceys, wasn’t it? He filed that question away to think about later.
He continued, holding up a third finger. “Finally, why should it matter to you? I would think that the answer to that question is obvious, Miss Delancey.”
Her hands flew to her mouth. She moaned. Her face turned from palest pink to sickly green and her eyelids fluttered rapidly. Then her pupils rolled up and she collapsed into his arms.
Dixon caught her barely in time to keep her from crumpling to the floor. He struggled to hold on to her limp body. He’d deliberately baited her, throwing the name at her, and he’d been prepared for an explosive reaction—maybe even a violent one. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d hit him or tried to run away, but he sure hadn’t expected her to faint.
“Hey, Rosemary,” he murmured, close to her ear, as he slid his arm around her back to get a better hold on her until he could move her to the couch. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
Her limbs went from rag doll–limp to stiff as boards in less than a second. “Let me go,” she cried hoarsely, pushing at his biceps and scrambling to her feet.
He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and gave her the once-over to be sure she was actually awake before he loosened his grip.
Immediately, she teetered, but when he reached out to steady her, she threw her palms up and stumbled backward. “I want you out—of here,” she demanded breathlessly.
He studied her. She was still pale—her skin looked translucent, but the greenish hue was gone and pink splotches were growing in her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“Not until I’m sure you’re all right.”
“Of course I’m not—all right,” she exclaimed. “You come—barging in here—making accusations—”
He arched a brow at her choice of words. “Accusations? I’m not accusing you of anything—yet. I’m a police detective. All I’m doing is asking questions, Miss Delancey.”