What She Doesn't Know (11 page)

Ten minutes later, she stepped into the cool late afternoon and, checking all around her, headed to her car. The black car was still parked next to hers. She peered through the crackled tinting on the windows to see if anyone was at the wheel. It was empty. She ended up sliding in sideways again, muttering the whole time. She headed into the Quarter to find someplace to grab an early dinner. Then she’d spend the evening making calls to every hotel in the city.

It was nearly midnight when Christopher went out to buy a six-pack of Dixie Jazz beer. He wasn’t out of beer; he had two more in the fridge. He hadn’t even finished the one he’d opened an hour earlier. He told himself that since he planned on staying up most of the night working on a client’s website he might want three beers. Except he never drank when he worked.

What he really couldn’t understand was why he’d ended up in the Quarter, and why, particularly, he’d ended up driving past the Ashbury. He had no intention of stopping. Rita was probably asleep.
 

He had a better idea what had brought him there when he saw the black car with the bad tint job parked along the side street: that sixth sense he’d honed to an edge under the worst circumstances. Sure, it could be a different car than the one he’d seen outside Brian’s house, but he didn’t believe in coincidences. He pulled up behind the car. The license plate was missing, another sign of trouble. As soon as he opened his door, the black car’s engine started, and it pulled away.
 

By the time he started his car and began to pursue, the car had disappeared. That uncomfortable feeling in his gut increased as he returned to the hotel. He woke the clerk and asked her to ring Rita’s room.

A few minutes later, a sleepy-looking Rita shuffled into the lobby through a side door. Question creased her brow. Her brown, wavy hair was tousled, and a pillow crease marred her cheek. She had a little-girl quality that reached out and grabbed at him.

“Has something happened to Brian?” she asked before saying anything else.

He shook his head. “Can we talk somewhere?”

That obviously took her back, as she blinked and scrubbed her fingers through her hair. “I guess we could go out to the courtyard. What’s this about?”

He merely nodded toward the door she’d come in through, and she preceded him out to the courtyard. She walked purposefully toward a grouping of chairs in a corner. She was wearing dark blue pajamas, he noticed, and her black wool coat over them. She’d thrown on loafers but not socks. She curled into one of the high-backed chairs and pulled her legs up so she could wrap her arms around them. The air was cold, but not biting.

“Did you find a room for after tonight?” he asked.

She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you woke me up to ask me that…unless you’ve found something.”

“Not a chance of that.”

“No, I haven’t found a room. What’s going on, anyway?”

“Does that mean you’re going home tomorrow as scheduled?”

That stubborn look returned to her face. “No. Why are you asking me all this in the middle of the night?”

“When you left Brian’s house, a black Buick, an older model, pulled out right behind you. I don’t know why I noticed it, but I did. Tonight I happened to be driving through this part of town and thought I saw the same car parked across the street from this hotel. When I got out of my car, intending to see who the driver was, he took off. It was strange, and I never discount strange, even around here.”

Her arms tightened around her legs. “Are you sure it was the same car?”

“Not sure, no. The one I saw had purple tinting, the kind that peels off after a while. I couldn’t tell with the car I just saw, other than it did have tinted windows. Seen any cars hanging around like that?”

“I haven’t really noticed…well, there was the one at the hospital that parked too close, but I can’t imagine anyone would do that if they were…” She dropped her arms and set her feet on the ground. “You think this car is following me?”

“Don’t know.”

“See, I’m unnerving whoever pushed Brian. Does this mean you’re willing to consider I’m not crazy?”

He tried not to look too skeptical. “No. But, with all your nosing around, you may have gotten the attention of someone who’s really crazy. Maybe you ought to just take that flight on home before you get into trouble.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re not fabricating this black car to scare me into leaving?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He should have expected this. “I’m sure.”

She leaned forward now. “If someone is following me, it means I’m getting close to them. They’re keeping an eye on me.” Her expression grew serious. “He or she wants me out of here. But if I leave now, Brian’s would-be killer will go free. And he may just finish the job if Brian ever comes out of his coma. I can’t take that chance. Can you?”

She wasn’t going to go away. He was afraid of that. She already thought someone had tried to kill her twice. Even warning her about the car wasn’t going to scare her off. He got to his feet, his self-preservation instincts pushing him to bid her good luck and get the hell out of there. “So what are you going to do if you can’t find a room, which is likely?”

She shrugged. “I can sleep in the car.”

She was a lot more stubborn than he’d given her credit for. “Yeah, that’d be safe, for sure. Just don’t park in a parade zone, or they’ll tow you away. Lock your doors real tight, too. A lot of people come here for Mardi Gras and don’t have money for accommodations. They look for cars to sleep in. And be real sure that whoever it is you’ve got the attention of doesn’t know where you’re parked.”

She shivered at those words, the first real sense sinking into her expression. “Well, the car thing might not work out anyway because I have to return it tomorrow. But I can’t leave. Maybe my travel agent will produce a miracle. It could happen,” she added at his skeptical look.

He got to his feet, irritated at her stubbornness. He’d turn around, warn her to be careful, head out. Then forget about her. She wasn’t his problem. He hadn’t invited her here.
 

His feet wouldn’t move, though. His mouth wouldn’t form the words
adios
. He was going to regret this, he just knew it, but the words came out anyway. “If you don’t think I’ll snuff you in your sleep, you can stay at Brian’s house.”

For a moment she didn’t answer. The surprise at his offer was evident. Then she pushed out the words, “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“You’ll inconvenience me more if I’m thinking you’re out there sleeping in your car.”

He convinced himself that his real reason for putting her under his roof was he still suspected she had something to do with Brian’s state of mind before his fall. She’d held back information before about their relationship. It wasn’t a stretch to consider she was still holding something back.

“You don’t strike me as the worrying type.” She got to her feet, too, and jammed her hands into her coat pockets. “All right. Thank you, I’ll stay. If I need to,” she added.
 

“Call me if you don’t get your miracle.”

“If I need to,” she said again, as though staying with him were the last resort.
 

“But I’m not interested in your gumbo, got that?”
 

He raised an eyebrow at that. “We’re talking about my soup?”

Her mouth twitched for a second. “Of course.” She started to turn but paused. “What were you doing driving around the Quarter at this time of night?”

He gave her sly smile. She didn’t trust him, and maybe that was a good thing. “Just wandering. Go on back to your room. Call me if you decide to stay.”

She looked dubious, walking to the stairs but watching him, seeing that he was watching her.
You don’t want to stay in the same house as me, cherie. That’d be a bad thing.
 

CHAPTER 8

 
Rita showed up on his doorstep late the next afternoon, a grateful, if sheepish, smile on her face. “Thanks. My travel agent is going to keep working to find me something, so hopefully I won’t put you out for long.”

Christopher wanted to snort at the idea of both her finding a room and not inconveniencing him. He contained it and stepped back so she could walk inside the house. Her determination said something; he just wasn’t sure what it was.

He realized he wasn’t being a good host and took her bag. “Upstairs,” he said, leading the way. “Did you visit Brian today?”

“Yes. No change. What do you think of the respiratory nurse, Sasha?”

He opened the door to the bedroom and set her bag on the bed. “She seems competent.”

“But not very friendly.”

“Maybe it’s just you.” When she looked at him in surprise at his bluntness, he added, “Maybe she doesn’t like you nosing around.”

She looked as though she were going to say something but clamped her mouth shut instead. “I’d love a shower.”

He opened the door that led to the bathroom and pulled a couple of towels out of the linen closet. “All yours.”

He returned to the kitchen, the one place in this house that brought familiar comfort. How many Saturday afternoons had he watched Rosie, their cook, make her famous Sunday gumbo? He was the only one in the family who had talked with her and not at her, and who was rewarded with her tales of her Creole childhood. And with her gumbo recipe.
 

He listened to the sound of the shower running and tried not to put a picture to it. The woman seemed to bring out the worst in him. Not that the worst was far off. He must be crazy for offering to let her stay.
 

He caught himself smiling at the memory of her face when the heat from the gumbo lit her mouth on fire yesterday. His smile faded when he remembered pinning her against the wall in the parlor, wanting to light her mouth on fire himself. What was the deal with that, anyway?

Oh, yeah, to keep her off-balance. Except that she was keeping
him
off-balance. Was she involved in Brian’s death? Obsessed with him? He’d been willing to write her off as unbalanced, but her determination had him wondering. He couldn’t figure her out. But he would. If he couldn’t charm it out of her, he’d resort to whatever tactics it took to get the truth.
 

Rita dried off and changed into a pair of casual pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Her room, like the rest of the house, had high ceilings and ornate scrollwork around the doors. The walls were the color of Dijon mustard. She hated Dijon mustard.
 

The old-fashioned furnishings reminded her of her college roommate’s grandmother’s house. Rita had tried to teach her father a lesson by making plans to spend Christmas with a friend. Good lesson. Her father had merely wished her well and sent the annual department store gift certificate. It was at her friend’s home that Rita tasted real family life. How they laughed and lovingly nagged. The grandmother had hugged Rita as she prepared to leave. She’d never been hugged like that, a warm soft hug filled with affection. Unsolicited affection stunned her. Before she could stop herself, Rita had clung to the woman, fighting tears.
 

Her own grandmother was not plump and soft and draped in matronly clothing dotted with flour. Maura was sleek and seductive, like Lauren Bacall. Her affection was reserved exclusively for her son.

Rita packed her toiletries back into their assigned slots in her organizer and folded her clothes just so.
See, everything under control like always.
She stared at her reflection in the large mirror over her dresser, wondering what Christopher saw when he looked at her.

She grimaced. Chicken broth.

French doors opened out onto the balcony she’d seen from the kitchen, but she hadn’t bothered to push aside the filmy fabric to peer out to the courtyard. Okay, bothered wasn’t the right word. She didn’t want to think about Brian splayed out on the concrete deck.

She swallowed hard, turning to her cell phone on the bed. She’d been putting off the call, but it was in her own interest to let someone know where she was. Unfortunately, she had only one bar’s worth of charge left. When she’d made her calls to the hotels, she’d realized she hadn’t brought her charger.

Marty answered without preamble: “Where have you been? You leave this vague message about needing some time alone, and
that’s
not supposed to worry me?”

Rita couldn’t help smiling at the motherly tone in Marty’s voice, though she hated worrying her. “Guess where I am.” It was in that same singsong voice that weird nurse had used.

“At Bill’s?”

Rita grimaced. “Totally wrong. I’m in New Orleans.”

“
What?
”

“Staying at Brian LaPorte’s home.”

“
What
?”

“With Christopher LaPorte.”

“That’s it! I want to see you in my office first thing.”

“It’s too late to talk me out of it. I’m here, it’s done. I can’t explain it, not even to myself. But I…I didn’t tell you everything.” Rita took a deep breath and spilled about the gray place and the man who had approached her. “Now I know the man I saw while I was in my coma is the Brian here at Mercy Hospital. I need to find something concrete so these people will believe me. Once I do, I’ll leave it to the police and come home.”

“Rita, why are you doing all this for a man you never even met? Not only is this uncharacteristic of you, it could be dangerous.”

“Because I’m the only one who
can
do this. Everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”

“Ya think?”

“I’m not crazy. In fact, I feel more alive now than I have for years. This is something I need to do, for Brian and for myself. You’re the one who keeps telling me I need to face things and be more adventurous.”

Marty let out a long exhale. “I can see there’s no convincing you to come home now, this minute, on the next flight. I’m not sure I understand it, but I do understand your need to do this. Just be careful of him, you hear?”

“Christopher?” As if she had to ask. “I’ll be on my guard.”
Like you were when he backed you against the wall?
She shook away her conscience. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later.”