Alison Kent - Goes Down Easy

RED AND BLACK. Welts and bruises. Cuts and scrapes and raw purple skin. An arm. A hand. A missing finger.

The ring. It should be there. A class ring. A sports ring. Heavy and gold. It had been there before.

The watch remained. Platinum links. Multiple dials. The edge of a sleeve.

Torn, not cut, and stained with a rust color that had once been blood. Nothing more. Nothing else.

Only slices of light, crosshatched shadows, herringbone in yellow and blue. And so much watery, fluid green.

Della opened her eyes and sat up, pulling the bed’s periwinkle chenille coverlet to her chin. She blinked slowly and let out a breath of relief. The pain was gone. She felt empty, spent…strangely weak and fragile.

Forty-eight years old and she ached like an ancient crone. It was enough to make her laugh. Except laughing would expend energy she didn’t have to spare.

She scooted to the side of the bed, tugged down the hem of her fine lawn nightgown, and sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the mattress while picking up the bedside phone and dialing the NOPD.

“Operations.”

“Detective Franklin, please.” She waited thirty seconds before he came on the line.

“Franklin.”

“Book. It’s Della,” she said, and hurried on. “They’ve cut off his finger. He was wearing a ring. A college bowl ring maybe? I can’t say.” She tucked the coverlet tighter. “I can only see the shape. The edge of the insignia.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“He’s still wearing a watch. And I think I see ropes.”

“Della.” Book’s voice was firm, caring. “Hang on to it. I’m on my way.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

Jack was pretty damn sure he hadn’t stuttered. But just to be certain…

He pulled from his back pocket the newspaper he’d folded to the headline and dared her to deny her meddlesome ways. “The case is my business, got it? My business. Not yours.”

She didn’t even glance at the paper. She crossed her arms over her chest. She said nothing.

She was an intriguing little thing. Looked a lot like a gypsy. Black curls hanging in a cloud around a heart-shaped face. Big dark eyes and a bow of a mouth that meant business. About five foot eight—though the way she was staring him down, he wouldn’t be surprised if she thought herself ten feet tall.

“Well?” he finally asked. She’d obviously gone mute.

“Well what?” Her eyes flashed.

A reaction, though not much of one. He’d have preferred an admission or a denial. Either one would make it easier to gauge his next step. “Are you going to back off or not?”

“Let’s see.” She held up one finger after another, counting off her list. “You’ve been sarcastic, rude, demanding. You’ve come into my place of business and ordered me around, not even bothering to tell me who you are. And you want me to back off?”

Hands now at her hips, she shook her head, summing up the situation with a loud snort and an even louder, “Get the hell out of here.”

Jack sighed, rubbed a hand over his forehead where the ache that had started three days ago in Austin remained.

“My name is Jack Montgomery,” he said, returning the newspaper to his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He showed the woman his driver’s license and identification card. “I’m a private investigator.”

She barely even glanced at his ID. “Good for you. But you’re in the Big Easy now, cher. Those won’t even get you a bowl of gumbo.”

His Texas card. Stupid. His Louisiana paperwork was in his computer case out in his Yukon, but she didn’t give him time to explain. She turned and started to walk away. He didn’t even think.

He reached out and grabbed her upper arm. “Della, wait.”

She jerked free, glared over her shoulder. “I’m not Della.”

What?

“I’m Della.”

At the sound of the second female voice, deeper, almost musical, Jack looked up. Standing behind the shop’s counter at the foot of the staircase that opened there, stood the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.

She was older than the one he’d mistaken her for, but he doubted she’d yet reached fifty. She was slender and barefoot, dressed in what looked like silk pajamas in gold and black. Her hair, a dark honey brown, had been pulled up into a knot already tumbling loose.

Her skin was a translucent porcelain, and he was so glad he wasn’t saying any of this out loud because he sounded as fruity as one of the Queer Eye TV guys. Or so he imagined, since he’d never seen their show.

More than anything, though, he found himself caught by and unable to look away from her eyes. They were large, the irises purple, her expression serene even while he swore her stare was scrambling his brain like so many bad eggs.

“She does that to everyone.”

He blinked, looked back at the gypsy. “What?”

“Della is my aunt, and you’re not the first man she’s turned into a drooling fool.”

“I’m not drooling,” he said, swiping the cuff of his sweatshirt over his chin.

“Perry, Book is on his way over,” Della said, heading toward a beaded curtain hiding a door at the rear of the shop. “I’m making brunch. Spinach omelets, I think. Bring your friend.”

The beads gave off a tinkling singsong sound as they settled. Neverland. No. La-la land. That’s where he was. The funny farm. Where life was beautiful…

“Are you coming?”

This from the same woman—Perry—who’d ordered him off the property minutes before. “I thought you wanted me out of here.”

She twisted her mouth as if she couldn’t decide between smiling and snapping. Like a turtle. Clamping down on his nose and tearing it right off his face. “I do. But obviously Della doesn’t.”

“And she always gets her way?” He’d seen her. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she did.

“You’ll be able to figure that out for yourself soon enough.”

It was exactly what he wanted—personal access, an in—yet he couldn’t make himself take the first step. He’d been battling strange feelings about the case since taking it on.

And these two women weren’t doing a damn thing to settle the uncertainty. They were, in fact, making things worse.

Making things…weird.

Perry took a step toward the door through which Della had disappeared, holding aside the strands of blue beads. “C’mon. You don’t want to miss Della’s omelets. And I know you’re not going to want to miss comparing notes with Book.”

Jack tensed at the twist of the be-careful-what-you-wish-for screw. “Who’s Book?”

“He’s a detective with the NOPD.” Perry gave the screw one last tightening turn. “And he believes every word Della says to be the truth.”

DETECTIVE BOOK FRANKLIN parked his unmarked car in the alley where a small courtyard backed up to Sugar Blues. He’d met Della Brazille right here two years ago, and nothing about his life had been the same.

He didn’t know anyone who was a bigger skeptic or cynic than he was, and so he had a hard time explaining to his co-workers—he didn’t have anyone outside the force he called a friend; he’d tried, but nobody understood a cop’s hours and drive but another cop—why he jumped when Della called.

He shouldn’t have jumped. He shouldn’t have believed in her sight, or believed her visions meant anything, that they were more than nightmares or a fertile imagination seeking attention.

He lived in New Orleans. He’d run into plenty of psychics fitting that bill.

Straightening his tie as he made for the kitchen door, Book couldn’t help remembering the first time he’d seen her here at the back entrance to Sugar Blues. There’d been a break-in and murder in the next building over, the security there no better than here.