What She Doesn't Know (21 page)

After taking a bite of her shrimp salad sandwich, Rita asked, “What did Brian do on Mardi Gras night? Trent said he’s taken the night off the last two years. Since that’s one of your busiest times, it surprised me.”

“Trent has a big mouth.” She ripped away the curly edge of the lettuce. “Brian’s the boss. He can do what he wants. He always made sure everything was covered.”

“What did he do, go to a party?”

Her expression stiffened. “He only said he had an engagement.”

“Did you notice a nurse who was at the hospital that first day we met? You may have passed her on the way out. She had vivid green eyes, probably contacts, bright red hair, and her name was Aris Smith.” She noticed the other woman’s eyes, an unusual shade of gray-green. Not contacts.
 

“No, why?” Tammy answered without giving it any thought at all.

“I wanted to talk to her, but she doesn’t seem to work there. Maybe I just got her name wrong.”

Rita studied her: smooth complexion, plain features, long Mardi Gras-colored nails, and enough time to have changed clothes, thrown on a wig, and put in contacts before waltzing into Brian’s room to bathe him—or specifically to get Rita out of the room. Tammy claimed not to have known him in the past few years, but who would have known him better? Throw unrequited love into the mix—

“Trent, I need to talk to you when I’m done here,” Tammy said to the right of Rita’s shoulder. He was passing through the courtyard. “About you-know-who,” she added, indicating a man sweeping bread crumbs from beneath a nearby table. Trent nodded and continued on.

Tammy turned back to Rita. “Have you actually found anything to substantiate your theory that Brian was pushed? Obviously not, since you’re asking all these questions. So let me ask
you
a question. Why are you so sure someone tried to kill Brian?”

“Call it a feeling.”

“You know, I’d suspect you were some nut with an obsession for Brian, except for one thing: the way you look at Christopher. Unless it’s just, what do you call it? Transference? Maybe you’re transferring your feelings for Brian onto his brother. Either way, I think you’re chasing a story that’s not there.”

When Dave dropped off the bill, Tammy signed for it before Rita could even get her purse. “I’ve got to get back to work. The only person who can solve this mystery is Brian himself, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to be able to tell us anything anytime soon.” She pushed back her chair. “I have some of Brian’s mail I forgot to give Christopher. Can you pass it on to him?” She stood. “I have to give him credit for taking care of Brian’s personal affairs. It’s more than I thought he’d do.”

“You were wrong about Christopher. He’s as worthy as Brian is,” Rita said as they walked through the lobby.
 

“Be careful,” Tammy threw out as she handed Rita the envelopes a minute later.

“Careful?”

She nodded toward the entrance. “Watch yourself out there. Never know what kind of kooks you’ll run into.”
 

“Thanks for the warning—about the kooks. And for lunch.”
 

Rita headed to the restroom. She glanced back to find Tammy and Trent discussing something—her, by the way they looked in her direction. The restroom was as elegant as the hotel’s lobby. There was even a chandelier in here, though of a smaller scale. She stepped into a stall and took a
 
few moments to clear her head and prepare to walk the streets of New Orleans alone.

That bitch knew way too much. He could have walked over and slid his fingers around Rita’s throat…if there hadn’t been fifty other people sitting in the lush courtyard enjoying their lunches.

She knew about Sira, which meant she definitely knew about Xanadu. Brian wasn’t supposed to tell her until she was voted in by the High Council, and they hadn’t reached a decision yet. Apparently he had. That was reason enough for his execution. And for Rita’s.

All he had to do was get her alone. That was beginning to be a challenge with Christopher around. But she was alone now.

He ducked into the men’s room and pulled some items from his duffel bag. Exiting the restroom at the same time she did, he made sure to catch her eye but saw no flicker of recognition. Rita walked out of the hotel and into the stream of foot traffic on the sidewalk. She kept glancing back, as though she could feel someone watching, following.
Yes, be afraid of me. I have the power to end your life.
 

When she turned to look in his direction, he shifted his gaze to a woman walking toward him. She lifted her chin and snubbed him. A man flicked his cigarette butt dangerously close to his sweater. Dickhead. The guy challenged him, and he saw disdain on his face.
Freak. Queer.
The echoes of adolescent taunts bounced through his brain.

He wasn’t big but he was strong.
I could hurt him without your help, Sira. I could do it myself. I’m the boy.
He swung his gaze ahead.
Focus. She’s the one you want. She’s the threat.

Didn’t these people realize his power? No. He was no one. Sira was his power, his strength. As much as he hated to admit it, without her, he was nothing.

He trained his gaze on Rita, who was now turning onto St. Peter. He scooted closer as she merged with a crowd of bead beggars. He adjusted the hokey purple cap he now wore and moved up behind her. If he could only get a little closer …

The afternoon skies had become cloudy again, and Rita pulled her coat around her as she made her way to St. Peter. Trash littered every surface, spilling out of full garbage cans and piling up in the gutters like so much dirty snow. The smell of refuse mixed with aromas from the hot dog vendor nearby.
 

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She slowed down, looking from side to side. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, for New Orleans anyway.

So why did she have the eerie feeling that someone was watching her? She surreptitiously glanced behind her and found that the crowds were thickening. Music floated out of restaurants and bars, jazz clashing with a dance beat. As she scoped around, a few people met her eyes. But this feeling wasn’t the kind one might have if someone were admiring her. This felt…different. Malevolent.

She glanced back again, but no one stood out. Or rather, everyone stood out. A woman in black tights with a purple and green leotard, a man wearing baggy black clothes and a fuzzy purple cap. A tall man wearing a cap covered with yellow, phallic-looking spikes. Oh, brother.

Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she was just off-balance. She breathed out in relief when she saw the sign for St. Peter. Getting closer to Christopher.

The crowd was spilling out from Bourbon Street, with louder groups gathered below iron balconies—galleries—to beg for the beads others dangled from above. She migrated toward the crowd, hoping for safety in numbers. “Do you know where Pat O’Brien’s is?” she asked one woman.

“Right down there.” Barely distracted by Rita’s question, she lifted her shirt to reveal bare pendulous breasts as she danced for someone above. “Throw me some pearls!”

A din of shouting and whistles ensued, and as Rita slipped out of the crowd, something hard hit her on the head.

Then the world went black.

CHAPTER 13

Christopher sat at a small table near the back of what he called the dungeon. It was dark and cavernous in the piano bar, the only real light coming from the two bronze-clad pianos with their mirror backdrop. Two women were at the helm, taking requests and trading off this song for that.

He wasn’t in the mood for songs, but he was in just the right mood to sit in a cave. He’d foregone the famous Hurricane drink for a beer, then another. He didn’t like what Rita was doing to him. She was opening up places inside him, old wounds she wanted to heal. He downed another half a beer to the chorus of
Irish Eyes are Smiling
and thought of Rita’s eyes.

She was also opening up bizarre possibilities. He glanced at the cylinder of paper sitting on the chair next to him. Rita wasn’t a crackpot. He liked it better when he suspected she was. She’d been telling the truth all along, and he’d been an idiot for not believing, for rationalizing away the obvious.

He couldn’t wait to show her what he’d found. He glanced at his watch, but it was too dark to see the time. Where was she?

“Breathe, lady, breathe.”

Rita heard the voice, but her heart was pounding beyond her control. Too many faces hovered over her, and she tried to suck in air. She was sitting on the ground with her back against a flimsy metal column.

“Move back, she’s hyperventilating,” a man in baggy clothing and a purple felt cap said, pushing everyone aside. The strands of beads around his neck brushed her face as he knelt down beside her. “Are you all right?”

“These beads hit her on the head,” the girl who had lifted her shirt said, holding up a strand of large pearls. “I earned ‘em, but she deserves ‘em.” She leaned forward and with the utmost care put them over her head.

Rita was sure she was losing her mind. Carnival was supposed to be magic, not manic. Part of the crowd was still begging for beads. What with the fear of being watched racing through her, the shock of getting pelted by a strand of beads was too much for her nervous system to handle. She could feel her breathing getting calmer, shallower.

“She’s all right,” the man said, helping her to her feet. He smiled, injecting warmth into his hazel eyes. “I’ve been whopped myself. Hurts like the dickens, doesn’t it?”

He had smooth skin and a friendly smile. For some reason, he looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t pinpoint any particular feature. She brushed the debris off her backside. The crowd had lost interest in her. She obviously wasn’t wigged out enough. The woman was angling for another pearl necklace. Rita rubbed the bump on her head.
 

“You still look a little pale,” the man said. “Maybe we should get you back to your house. Wouldn’t want you to pass out on the street, would we?” He gave her a friendly pat on the arm.

She did feel a bit woozy, but the walk back to the streetcar looked awfully long. Christopher had the passes they’d need to ride.

“Come on, I’ll walk you.”

She pulled back. “I should get my friend…he’s waiting at O’Brien’s for me.”

He nudged her the other way. “Aw, he’s probably having a good time. You don’t want to spoil it, do you? Tell you what. Let’s get you back to where you’re staying, and I’ll find this friend and tell him where you are. Promise.”

She didn’t want to make Christopher leave just because she wasn’t feeling well.

“Believe me,” he was saying as he led her away, “you don’t want to pass out around here during Carnival.”

“Excuse me.” Rita pulled herself off-balance and tugged her arm free. “I appreciate your help, but I don’t want to put you out. My friend is right there at the piano bar, so I might as well go find him.” As she spoke, the urge to get to Christopher intensified. She wasn’t going to analyze her feelings or try to talk herself out of them. “Thanks, though.”

“Don’t you trust me? All I want to do is help you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I understand that. I just want to get to my friend.”

“You don’t trust me, even after I helped get all those people away from you,” he said in a hurt voice.

“I do trust you,” she heard herself say, though it wasn’t necessarily true.

“Then let me help you. I love helping people. You said you trusted me.” He’d turned her words against her, giving her a smile that rivaled any cherub. “I’m not trying to pull anything on you, I promise. Okay, you’re pretty, and I’d love to get to know you better. But I just want to make sure you’re okay. When I got hit on the head, I thought I was okay, but about ten minutes later I started getting sick to my stomach and nearly passed out. You want to be in the quiet haven of your room if that happens. I’m only going to walk you to your house, make sure you get in all right.”

He had a good point. A lot of them. He looked harmless enough, and there were people around in case he did try something. And she wouldn’t be alone out here. “Well…”

“Good choice,” he said, pulling her arm.

Except she realized she was talking herself into it.
Trust your gut.
That gut was tightening with anxiety. She stopped. “I need to find my friend.”

Frustration crossed his face; then his smile took hold again. “You’re just not going to let me help you, are you?”

“I’m going to O’Brien’s. If it’ll make you feel better, you can walk me to there. I’d…appreciate that.” How had this man gotten her to lie like this?

“Don’t do me any favors,” he spat out, turning away.

An icky feeling washed over her, and she pushed onward to the bar, not wanting to think about what could have happened if she’d let him walk her home. When she glanced back, he was there, watching her. There wasn’t a trace of Good Samaritan in his eyes now. How easily she’d been fooled.

She looked for Christopher among the crowd, but no luck. She shivered as she made her way down the corridor and into the bar on the right. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, for her ears to adjust to the sounds of the piano and raucous voices singing along. A hand slipped over her arm and pulled her around.

“Ahh!” She cut her scream short when she saw Christopher, who jerked at her reaction.
 

“Sorry. I just…” She rubbed the knot forming on her head. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

“I figured you wouldn’t be able to see me in here. I’ve got a table over there. You look like you could use a Hurricane.”

“If it has liquor in it, you’re right.”

She followed him to a small table toward the back wall as the song changed to
Que Sera Sera
. He ordered another beer and a Hurricane for her. She settled at the table and found it hard to believe it was light outside.

“You didn’t warn me these things were so big!” she said when her mammoth pink drink arrived.

She could barely see him, but his eyes looked full of shadows. He tipped his glass toward hers. “Que Sera Sera,” he said, and took a long drink. He’d apparently had a few by his languorous movements.