Читать книгу Goes Down Easy - Alison Kent - Страница 8

“EXCUSE ME?”

Jack was pretty damn sure he hadn’t stuttered. But just to be certain…

He pulled from his back pocket the newspaper he’d folded to the headline and dared her to deny her meddlesome ways. “The case is my business, got it? My business. Not yours.”

She didn’t even glance at the paper. She crossed her arms over her chest. She said nothing.

She was an intriguing little thing. Looked a lot like a gypsy. Black curls hanging in a cloud around a heart-shaped face. Big dark eyes and a bow of a mouth that meant business. About five foot eight—though the way she was staring him down, he wouldn’t be surprised if she thought herself ten feet tall.

“Well?” he finally asked. She’d obviously gone mute.

“Well what?” Her eyes flashed.

A reaction, though not much of one. He’d have preferred an admission or a denial. Either one would make it easier to gauge his next step. “Are you going to back off or not?”

“Let’s see.” She held up one finger after another, counting off her list. “You’ve been sarcastic, rude, demanding. You’ve come into my place of business and ordered me around, not even bothering to tell me who you are. And you want me to back off?”

Hands now at her hips, she shook her head, summing up the situation with a loud snort and an even louder, “Get the hell out of here.”

Jack sighed, rubbed a hand over his forehead where the ache that had started three days ago in Austin remained.

“My name is Jack Montgomery,” he said, returning the newspaper to his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He showed the woman his driver’s license and identification card. “I’m a private investigator.”

She barely even glanced at his ID. “Good for you. But you’re in the Big Easy now, cher. Those won’t even get you a bowl of gumbo.”

His Texas card. Stupid. His Louisiana paperwork was in his computer case out in his Yukon, but she didn’t give him time to explain. She turned and started to walk away. He didn’t even think.

He reached out and grabbed her upper arm. “Della, wait.”

She jerked free, glared over her shoulder. “I’m not Della.”

What?

“I’m Della.”

At the sound of the second female voice, deeper, almost musical, Jack looked up. Standing behind the shop’s counter at the foot of the staircase that opened there, stood the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.

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 of what I saw this morning before I called.”

“You saw the headline. But not the actual paper.”

Della nodded at Montgomery’s rhetorical statement. Book shoved his hands to his waist, his coattails flying like bat wings behind him, instead of grabbing the other man and tossing him out on his ear. “Perry, do you mind giving me a few minutes alone with Della?”

“Sure. Jack and I will wait in the shop.” She headed for the door.

Jack didn’t move. “I’d like to stay, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah. I mind. Police business.” Cocky upstart.

“Why don’t we eat and then talk, Book?” Della asked, whisking a bowl of eggs.

Book reached over and turned off the flame beneath the omelet pan. “No, we’ll talk now. And we’ll talk alone.”

He waited for Perry and Jack to leave the room before he looked to Della again. She stood in the corner where two of the aqua-tiled kitchen’s countertops formed a right angle, and her expression told him he wouldn’t like what she was going to say.

“You should have let Jack stay. He might have information you can use.”

She was right. He didn’t like it. “Does he?” he asked, his gut tightening.

“He might.”

“But you don’t know.”

“Contrary to popular belief, Book, I don’t know everything.” She pushed away from the corner and crossed in front of him, making her way to the table.

She smelled like a field of flowers, something warm and purple and soft. He followed her, took the chair beside hers, staying close. “Tell me what you do know.”

She related to him the same things she’d said on the phone earlier. This time, as he took notes, he pressed for specific details. On the ring, especially.

He’d get a sketch done and canvas area pawnshops to start. Nothing that took a lot of time away from his legitimate cases. Nothing that would get him written up for coloring outside the lines. Again.

“What is your department saying this time?”

“Not much.” He didn’t know why she asked when she already knew.

“Book, tell me the truth.”

He closed his notebook, capped his pen and returned both to his coat’s inside pocket. “We’re not officially on this case. There hasn’t been enough evidence to warrant our involvement.”

“You’re here on your own then?”

He was here because of her visions. But he was also here because of her. “It’s no different than any other time.”

She shook her head slowly. Tendrils of hair fell to curl around her face. She hooked her bare feet on the rung beneath his chair and leaned toward him, reaching out with one hand, pulling it back before he could wrap up her fingers with his.

“I never meant to be a burden to you. To cause you trouble at work, or with your peers.” She laced her hands in her lap, looking up at him as if he were the only one with the answer to her prayers. “I hope you know that.”

He shrugged, blowing it off because he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought when it came to his dealings with Della. All that mattered was that she came to no harm. “It’s no big deal. I’m more concerned with you staying safe.”

Her laugh was as light as a breath of fresh air. “I’m not in any danger. I never have been.”

“In the past, no. But this time your name is in the paper.” He was going to skin alive one particular big-mouthed leaker—especially since the leak was nothing but gossip.

He’d never talked about the Eckhardt case or about Della’s newest visions. The leak made operations a laughingstock. “I’m sorry that happened. I can see the scum is already oozing out of the woodwork.”

She laughed again and sat back. “You’re talking about Jack, I presume. Though I’m quite sure he said he came from Texas, not out of the woodwork.”

Book’s mental gears whirred too loudly for him to process more than the facts. “He’s from Texas?” Eckhardt was from Texas.

“I believe Perry said Austin. The man’s family hired him. Apparently, they’re quite unsatisfied with the progress being made through police channels.”

Montgomery showing up here like he had gave further credence to what Della had seen. Yet it still wasn’t enough for Book to open an official case. Unofficial, he could manage. “I suppose I should talk to him.”

Again, Della leaned forward. “You had the chance, you know. Before you ran the poor man out of here.”

“I don’t like the thought of you becoming a victim. Of you being exploited.” He didn’t like the idea of a lot of things when it came to Della Brazille. The biggest one being the way he hadn’t yet harnessed his balls and told her how important she was to him. “Finding Montgomery here on top of finding that headline this morning has not made for the best start to the day.”

“I know what you need.”

Oh, but she had no idea. It always left him stymied, how she could see violent crimes but never the soft spot in his heart.

Still, he shifted in his chair so that no personal space remained between them, so that when he breathed in, it was her scent filling his lungs.

“Yeah? What’s that?” he asked, his heart beating so hard in his throat he couldn’t even swallow.

“You need brunch.” She patted his knee as if he were a child, then got up to finish cooking.

All he could do was sit there and battle the urge to walk out the door.

WHAT PERRY WANTED most of all was for Jack to go away. He disturbed her, and she did not like being disturbed. Especially when, after living a rather disturbing life, she was finally feeling the calm of things going her way.

She stood at the register in Sugar Blues, having just rung up a customer. It seemed a good place to stay, what with the long, glass-topped counter between her and Jack. Because now that the two of them were alone, her senses were ringing high and loud.

He closed the book on Reiki training through which he’d been leafing and made his way to the rear of the shop. Of course, she had to notice his walk, how he moved, all lanky and long and loose. She wasn’t supposed to notice that about him, and she sure wasn’t supposed to like it.

She sighed, obviously having listened too much to Sugar singing the blues, waxing eloquent about the handsome men who’d broken her heart. Jack stopped at the counter and picked up a tiny gold incense burner. Funny how he always had to have his hands on something, stroking, fondling.

Perry groaned, catching the forward progression of her thoughts one stroke too late. “If you break it, you’ve bought it.”

“Yeah,” he said, running his thumb over the Buddha’s belly. “I saw the sign on the door. Do you really sell enough of this crap to stay in business?”

“Do you insult everyone you meet or is this special treatment only for me?”

“I just say what comes to me.”

“Open mouth, insert 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.”