Joanna Wayne - New Orleans Noir

He’d called the very next day. She’d thought of nothing but him since then.

He wasn’t driving the sports car tonight, but a mud-encrusted pickup truck more suitable for the terrain. He pulled a flashlight from the truck’s console and flicked it on as he climbed from behind the wheel. He reached behind the driver’s seat and picked up what appeared to be a blanket.

Her pulse went crazy. Spring break was almost over. She’d be flying back to Tulsa on Sunday and might never see him again. Her heart would surely break but how much worse would it be if she didn’t have this time with him tonight to treasure?

Complete privacy. And a blanket. They were surely going to make love. It would be the first time for her to go all the way. He would be experienced. He’d teach her all she needed to know.

He walked around the truck, opened her door and took her hand. She quivered in anticipation, ready for this in every way.

Aunt Ella still thought of Elizabeth as a kid and constantly warned her to be careful. As much as Elizabeth had hated lying to her tonight, she’d had no choice.

If her great-aunt could see her now, she’d be horrified. She would tell Elizabeth she was tempting disaster. The thought intensified Helena’s anxiety.

“Okay. I can tell you’re not ready,” he said, dropping her hand. “I obviously misread the signs.”

“You didn’t,” she assured him. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with you.” That much was true.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped out of the truck. The earth was damp, sucking like quicksand. The grass was almost to her knees, hiding anything that might be crawling beneath it. Like snakes. Or tarantulas.

He put a thumb beneath her chin and nudged until she faced him. He leaned over and his lips met hers. Desire pummeled her as heated juices seeped into the silky red panties she’d worn just for him.

She’d be a fool to do anything to spoil this moment. He wasn’t the man of her dreams. She’d never had dreams this good.

They walked for ten minutes or more, dodging spreading palmetto fronds, clumps of reeds and the exposed roots of cypress trees until they reached the slippery bank of a murky bayou.

The moon finally peeked from behind the clouds, providing enough illumination that he turned off the flashlight. A few yards farther and he took a different path, not stopping until they reached a slightly higher and dryer area. He dropped her hand and her insides quaked as he spread the blanket.

He kicked out of his shoes and lay down on his side, his right elbow supporting him so that he could meet her gaze. He opened his arms for her to join him.

She hesitated and scanned the area one last time. “Are you sure there are no snakes or alligators around here?” she asked.

“I guarantee you that before this night is over, you won’t be worried at all about snakes, alligators or any other creatures of the swamp. Now undress slowly so I can watch,” he said, an authoritative bent to his voice that hadn’t been there before. By the time she was totally naked, passion enflamed her.

She lay down beside him, anticipating heaven.

Instead she fell into the depths of hell.

Helena Cosworth gathered her luggage from the taxi and walked the short distance to an intricately designed seven-foot-high metal gate. She stood there for a moment, letting the familiarity seep into her tired bones until grief-crinkled memories invaded and dampened her spirit.

The historic French Quarter carriage house just beyond the gate had been her second home for as long as she could remember. Her mother had died when she was only five.

Her dad had been an oil and gas executive who went wherever he was needed. If the location wasn’t right for raising a daughter, she went to boarding schools in the States. Even when she lived with him, she spent most summers and many holidays in New Orleans with her energetic, fun-loving grandmother Mia.

During those visits, Mia had made her the center of her life and the adventure-laden Crescent City was their playground. The zoo, Audubon Park, the bustling Mississippi River, theater, trips down St. Charles Avenue on the cable car, parades galore. And the many hours spent in museums nurturing Helena’s passion for art.

The lifestyle wasn’t ideal by everyone’s standards, but it worked for them. When her father had died from a sudden heart attack a week before her high school graduation, she moved in with Mia and began her college career the following fall at Tulane University.

Helena reached to the keypad and punched in the code for the security system Mia had installed a few years back. A twist of the handle and a firm shove and the gate squeaked open.

Heat and humidity hit like a wave of steam as she stepped inside the courtyard where the day’s fetid air seemed trapped by the surrounding walls. She was quickly revived by the fragrance of night jasmine that overflowed from a huge pot and the cooling mist from the impressive angel fountain in the middle of the spacious area.

She didn’t even glance toward the four apartments surrounding the rest of the courtyard as she made her way to the bright red door that served as the main entrance to the carriage house. The original, barn-style doors on the front of the house that had once swung open for horses and carriages had been replaced with brick walls and fake, shuttered windows years ago.

A shudder of emptiness shook Helena’s resolve not to fall into a state of teary-eyed depression. It had been just over five weeks since she’d received the heartbreaking news of Mia’s tragic accident, and although she’d been here for the funeral, the wound of grief felt fresh.

She opened the door and stepped into the marble foyer. The air conditioner was blasting away. Thankfully, she’d let Ella Grayson know when she was arriving. Ella had been one of Mia’s tenants for years and she and Mia had been fast friends. They’d become closer than ever after Ella’s great-niece, Elizabeth, had been brutally murdered last spring.

Helena parked her luggage by the door and dropped her handbag onto the antique cherrywood table before flicking on the delicate Tiffany lamp. Illumination climbed the foyer walls in enchanting patterns. Everything looked the same as it had when Mia was alive. Even the citrusy fragrance of the candles she’d burned nightly lingered in the air.

The property now belonged to Helena—at least until she found a buyer. Giving up the old carriage house would be like giving away a chunk of her soul, but her career was in Boston. She would start her new job with one of the most successful individually owned art galleries in the city on November 1. A few of her paintings already hung in the gallery.

Helena traipsed across the cozy sitting room with its worn Persian rug, comfortable furniture and shelves filled with books and framed photographs.

When she stepped into the kitchen, memories attacked full force. She’d had morning coffee at the small, round mahogany table with Mia for as long as she could remember, though when she was young, Helena’s cup was filled mostly with cold milk and a shot of honey.

They’d sipped the chicory-laden brew from dainty flowered cups while Mia filled Helena’s young head with simple answers to life’s mysteries.

Like why king cakes had plastic babies hidden inside them and why people riding floats at Mardi Gras always wore masks. And why even rich people ate po’boy sandwiches that needed to be dressed.

Heart aching, Helena finally walked to the foot of the elegant, curved staircase. The staircase where her grandmother had slipped and fallen to her death.

According to the medical examiner, a severe brain trauma caused by the fall had likely killed her within minutes. Minutes that she’d been totally alone.