Joanna Wayne - New Orleans Noir

When it was ready, Helena filled one of the colorful cups she and Mia had purchased in the French Market the last time they’d gone shopping for spring’s first Creole tomatoes. So many great yet simple times they’d spent together.

All never to be again. She wondered if the sorrow at being back here would be less intense if Mia’s death hadn’t come so suddenly—not that she could change that.

Helena took her coffee and walked to what had been Mia’s bedroom suite. As always, a pile of books was messily stacked on her bedside table.

Helena padded across the lush crème-colored carpet and picked up the top book. She expected one of the historical romances that her grandmother loved or a nonfiction book dealing with the history of New Orleans.

Instead, it was a study of profiling serial killers in America. Helena scanned the titles of the next three books. All dealt with some aspect of serial killers.

Helena shuddered at the thought of Mia delving into such gore for bedtime reading.

She’d called her grandmother at least once a week between Elizabeth Grayson’s murder and Mia’s fatal accident. Mia had assured Helena every time that she was too busy with her fund-raising campaign and attempting to cheer up Ella that there was no time left for her to wallow in gloom and doom.

Her reading material suggested differently.

Helena dropped to the side of the bed and picked up a thick gray hardback book with no dust jacket. Several bookmarks were scattered among the pages.

She opened the tome to the first marked page and her eyes went immediately to a paragraph highlighted in neon yellow.

Serial killers may be physically attractive to the opposite sex and function somewhat successfully in society for long periods of time in between their crimes.

A few paragraphs down on that same page:

It is often difficult to predict the future targets of the killers as they may not understand the involved dynamics themselves.

Below that passage, in her meticulous script, Mia had written one name in the margin.

Hunter Bergeron.

Had Mia been questioning Hunter about what she was reading? If so, when had they become friends?

Helena closed the book but took it with her when she left the room. She’d read more later, but she needed to finish unpacking and then shower and dress before her real estate agent, Randi Lester, arrived.

Be careful whom you trust.

Unexpectedly, Alyssa’s warning came back to haunt her as she left the bedroom.

She’d heed the warning, especially when it came to Hunter Bergeron. With any luck she wouldn’t run into him at all.

* * *

HELENA BUZZED RANDI through the gate at exactly 8:28 for their 8:30 appointment. Nice to know the woman who’d hopefully be listing the carriage house and the four apartments surrounding the rest of the courtyard was prompt.

Helena unlocked the door, stepped outside and watched as Randi crossed the courtyard. The Realtor paused near the fountain and turned a full 360 degrees, taking in the view.

The picture on the business card Randi had mailed her didn’t do her justice. She appeared to be approximately the same height as Helena’s five feet six, or would have been if her stiletto heels hadn’t given her at least a four-inch boost.

In her midthirties, Helena judged, with an athletic build and sun-streaked hair cut into a layered bob. Silver bangles dangled from her ears. A frilly white blouse topped a pair of black-and-white checked ankle pants.

“Impressive,” Randi pronounced once she met Helena at the door. “One of the biggest and nicest courtyards I’ve seen in this part of the French Quarter. It will grab any potential buyer’s attention immediately. And nothing beats a great first impression in the real estate business.”

“Glad to hear that,” Helena said as she extended a hand. “I’m Helena Cosworth.”

“I know. I recognized you from your picture on Facebook.”

“I sometimes forget I have that public image floating around in digital space. I should probably update it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Randi said. “It’s a great likeness even if you do look even younger in person.”

“Thanks, but flattery will only get you a cup of coffee or a glass of iced tea,” Helena said.

“Iced tea sounds terrific.” Randi stepped inside and followed Helena to the kitchen. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, although our many phone conversations and the enthusiastic manner in which Beverly Ingram has described you make me feel as if we’ve old friends.”

“I’d hoped Bev might be with you,” Helena said. “I know she’s familiar with the rental history of each of the four units as well as the needed repairs and upgrades.”

“She’d planned to join us, but she’s in Little Rock this morning waiting for the arrival of her first grandbaby. A boy. She left me a spreadsheet showing the rental history for the past five years, so we’re good.”

“No problem. A new grandson tops a meeting any day.”

Helena poured two glasses of iced tea and wrapped them in a cloth napkin to catch the condensation.

She’d met Bev on several occasions while visiting Mia. She owned and operated the French Quarter rental management agency that had handled Mia’s four apartments for at least the last decade. Bev had recommended Randi when Helena mentioned selling the house.

“Would you like a tour of the carriage house proper?” Helena asked.

“Absolutely.”

The tour took about thirty minutes and Randi seemed more enthralled with each room they visited, raving not only about the architecture but even the choice of colors, furnishings and artwork.

When they returned to the kitchen, Randi removed her laptop from her briefcase and sat it on the table. “Bev told me this place was a stunner, but this is much grander than I was expecting. From all indications, it’s in excellent condition for a house almost a hundred years old.”

“Mia did a terrific job of keeping it in good repair.”

“That’s important, but as we all know, you can never be certain what kind of structural problems you’ll find when you start checking out these historic houses.”

“A truth we’ve all learned from watching cable house remodeling shows,” Helena admitted. Not that she was too worried about that. Mia’s estate had left Helena more than enough assets to make any needed repairs to the property.

“Who was your grandmother’s decorator?” Randi asked. “I have several clients who could use their advice.”

“Mia was her own decorator, right down to the smallest details. Well, I did give her a few suggestions in the artwork department, but that’s it.”

“Then you both have excellent taste. I love the painting of the young couple running through the rain beneath beautiful French Quarter balconies.”

“Thank you. That’s actually my first prize-winning painting from a high school art contest.”

“You painted that in high school?”

“Eleventh grade.”

“Wow. Such talent. I know you said you were starting a new job at a Boston gallery, but I didn’t know you’d be exhibiting your own work.”

“Hopefully. If not, I’ll just be selling others’ creations and searching for new talent, but even that is exciting.”

“I’m sure you’ll be successful. You obviously had a very talented grandmother, as well. She perfectly captured the historic nature of the home without giving up comfort or convenience. That’s a hard combo to come by.”

“Then you don’t think I’ll have any trouble selling the property for a decent price?”

The awkward silence and the pained expression on Randi’s face said more than words could have.

Helena cringed. “Is the real estate market that bad?”