Читать книгу New Orleans Noir - Joanna Wayne - Страница 13

Alyssa Orillon rinsed her empty teacup and placed it on the countertop to be carried upstairs to her main living quarters later. The small downstairs kitchen was barely big enough for the mini-fridge, a microwave, a card table and two padded wooden chairs she’d picked up for next to nothing in a used furniture store on Magazine Street.

The remaining five hundred square feet of the home’s ground floor was dedicated to her cozy waiting room and a private counseling area. Located only two blocks from Jackson Square, she was right in the thick of the tourist pedestrian traffic, though business was slow tonight.

Not untypical for a Tuesday night. Last weekend’s convention goers had gone home. This week’s hadn’t arrived yet.

She glanced at her watch. Half past eight. Too early to call it a night—especially since she didn’t open her doors until early afternoon on weekdays.

Inconveniently, the beginning of a headache was tapping at her right temple. An uneasy feeling had been messing with her nerves all afternoon, the kind of vague sense of anxiety one might expect from a psychic—unless said psychic was a complete and total fraud—like Alyssa.

Fake, but not a rip-off artist, as some of her competitors were. Alyssa was an expert at giving customers what they wanted. Most people were fairly easy to read if you honed your skills as well as Alyssa had.

The professionally printed sign painted on her door lured in the type of customers she handled best.

Alyssa Orillon—Psychic.

Is true love in your future?

Is the man in your life right for you?

Is something wonderful about to bless your life?

The answers you desire are waiting inside.

The sparkling, crystal ball rotating in the large front window provided an additional enticement for the curious or extrasensory believer. The crimson velvet drape behind the ball blocked the view of the studio’s dimly lit interior, making it even more mysterious.

Unlike Alyssa, her grandmother Brigitte had the gift in spades. At least she had until she claimed old age weakened her powers. Before moving into an assisted living center in Covington, Brigitte had frequently told Alyssa how lucky she was not to be constantly haunted by other people’s nightmares.

Alyssa walked to the window, notched back the heavy drape and peeked out. Things were getting livelier on the street. A few more drinks and hopefully someone would knock on her door, enter her chambers and cross her palms with cash.

The only person she recognized was Andy, the scruffy young man at the curb playing his sax for tips. A nice guy, but bad luck found him at every turn. Good tippers didn’t.

Just as she started to let go of the curtain’s edge, she spotted another familiar figure. Hunter Bergeron. Tall, ruggedly handsome, with dark brown hair that always looked mussed. Alyssa suspected there were plenty of young women who’d love to run their hands through it and straighten it for him.

Had she been a decade or so younger, she might have been one of those women.

Hunter was low-key for a hard-nosed homicide detective. He could push when he had to, though. He’d proved that when questioning half the people in the French Quarter after Elizabeth Grayson’s murder.

She walked over, opened her door and tried to get his attention, just to say hello and perhaps pick his brain for a minute about the serial killer investigation. He didn’t look up, his attention focused on a stunning young woman in a bright yellow sundress, who didn’t appear to see him watching.

The young woman leaned over and dropped a bill into the musician’s open sax case. When she straightened, she turned Alyssa’s way.

Oh my God. That is Mia Cosworth’s granddaughter. She had no idea Helena was back in town.

Alyssa stepped outside, waving frantically until she got Helena’s attention. Helena smiled and began to maneuver her way around a cluster of tourists.

Seconds later, Helena stepped through the open door and threw her arms around Alyssa in the same enthusiastic way she had when Helena had been a kid and her grandmother would bring her to visit.

Good memories until...

Alyssa trembled. She pulled away from Helena and reached for the back of one of the waiting room chairs for balance.

“What’s wrong?” Helena asked.

“It’s this dreaded headache,” Alyssa lied. “I’ve been fighting it all day. I just need to sit down.”

Helena helped her into the chair. “Can I get you something for it?”

“If you don’t mind. There’s a bottle of aspirin on the table in the small kitchen and a pitcher of cold water in the fridge.” This was far more than a headache, but she needed time alone to regain her equilibrium.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. It didn’t help. Instead weird images popped into her head as if she were hallucinating. She’d experienced this before but not in years and not often.

The harder she tried to force the images from her mind, the more vivid they became. It was Helena being chased by a man who was too blurry to identify. And blood. Lots of blood, covering Helena’s clothes and her hair and part of her face.

This isn’t real. I’m not an authentic medium. This is some nightmarish trick my mind is playing on me.

But why now?

The images faded as fast as they’d come. Alyssa shuddered, determined to ignore the cold horror that rode her spine, and pulled herself together. She could not plant her groundless, horrifying hallucinations into Helena’s mind.