of. I saw Paulina for a few minutes yesterday. She was, uh...” Martine had to stop, had to close her eyes to push back the tears that threatened. When she thought it safe to continue, her words wobbled with emotion. “She was murdered last night, Mom.”
For an instant, the silence on the line was thick, then her mother’s own voice wobbled. “Oh, honey... Good Lord, how awful. Her poor parents... Was it a mugging or a robbery or what?”
Her fingers aching, Martine switched her phone to the other hand. “I don’t know. Just...her body was found this morning, and Jack is assigned to the case.”
“Well, it’s good to know New Orleans has their finest on the case. Still...so sad. Heavens, I can’t imagine what Paulina’s parents are feeling right now.”
“Not just Paulina’s parents. It’s weird, Mom, but she told me Callie had been murdered a few months ago.”
That bombshell rendered Bette speechless. Martine worked her boots off, then drew her feet onto the chair and gazed forlornly out the window. The tiny courtyard below that never failed to make her smile failed now. The fountain was turned off, the bright-colored cushions for the chairs stored downstairs. The plants drooped as if they might collapse under one more drop of rain, and everything looked sallow and depressed, in need of a dose of brilliant sunshine.
“Poor Callie,” her mother said at last. “And poor Paulina. What a sad, sad coincidence.”
A lot of people didn’t believe in coincidence. They insisted there was a great plan, that everything happened as it must. Her mom wasn’t among them. She thought coincidence was a lovely wrinkle that delighted her more often than not.
Could it be coincidence? Martine really wanted to believe it. Life was dangerous. Some people were willing to kill for a pair of shoes, a handful of change or because they felt slighted. It could be just really bad luck that first Callie, then her old friend Paulina had become victims. Just because their lives had been connected didn’t mean that their deaths were.
But she couldn’t quite convince herself of that.
“Mom, I wanted to get in touch with Tallie and Robin to let them know about Paulina, but I don’t have any idea where they are. Do you have phone numbers or addresses for their parents?”
“I’m not sure, but I do know their mothers follow me on Facebook. I’ll look them up and email their info to you right away, okay?” There was a brief pause with the faint sound of typing in the background. “And Tine? Be careful, honey. It would rip my heart right out of my chest if anything happened to you. I love you more than my life.”
Martine swallowed hard. “I love you, too, Mama.”
After disconnecting the call, she gazed down at the courtyard again. The barren branches of the crape myrtles faded into the brick wall behind them. The fog lifted here, swirled there, but thanks to the protection of four walls, it mostly just hovered.
It made Martine feel cold and damp and heavy.
Her gaze went distant as her mind shifted back to the conversation. She’d never imagined she would be contacting Paulina’s or Callie’s parents. Never imagined she would be offering condolences on their daughters’ deaths. Never imagined two of her four former best friends would be murdered. Never imagined for even an instant that Tallie’s or Robin’s or her own life might be in danger.
Movement in the courtyard caught her attention, drawing her to her feet and closer to the window. Nothing was there, just the fog bumping into the walls that constricted it, then slowly settling back into its lazy ramble. Still, a shiver passed through her, leaving her ice cold as she sank back into the chair.
Danger or coincidence: Did it matter? Either way, it didn’t change what she had to do.
Resolutely she typed a message on her phone, drew a deep breath and hit Send.
Now all she could do was wait.
* * *
Jimmy had a hundred favorite hangouts in New Orleans. Today it was a bar on Bourbon Street, relatively small, with wood floors, tables closely spaced and tall French doors usually open to the sounds, sights and smells of the Quarter. Today the cold kept all but the main entry closed, but he didn’t mind. There was blues on the sound system, he had takeout from his favorite Cajun restaurant and his ex-wife was seated across from him.
Alia had provided the takeout, easily enough for four people and most of it for herself. She had a passion for food that few people he’d ever met could match. Luckily, she was also blessed with a passion for working out and a metabolism that favored her.
She buttered a piece of corn bread but paused before taking a bite. “So this new case of yours...the victim was a friend of Martine’s.”
“Yeah, best friend from high school.” He didn’t ask how she knew. She was a special agent with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. She was also friends with Evie and Jack, and her husband, Landry, was co-owner of the place and tending bar at the moment. She had a lot of sources.
“I bet she’s thrilled with you,” Alia said with a smirk.
“She likes to pretend I don’t exist.”
“A lot of people like to pretend you don’t exist, Jimmy.” There was no bitterness in Alia’s voice or her smile. She liked him a lot better now that she wasn’t married to him, which was only fair. He’d been a crappy husband. He just hadn’t...cared.
Oh, he’d loved her. He still did, in different ways. But he’d been younger, stupider, more reckless, less understanding. Marriage had been more about taking a chance than making a commitment. Practically everyone in his circle of friends had been married and divorced at least once; it was no big deal. You tried it; if it didn’t work out, you moved on.
Now he knew—years too late—how idiotic that attitude had been. He’d hurt Alia, hadn’t done himself any favors and had convinced a lot of people that he was a complete jackass.
Alia had gotten over him and was much happier with Landry than she ever would have been with him. Jimmy had gotten over himself, too. But a lot of people still thought he was a jackass.
He didn't often admit it, but on occasion he found himself wishing Martine wasn't among them. After the way things had ended between them before they'd even really started, he should have forgotten her—written her off as one of the few women he couldn't seduce. But she was a damn hard woman to forget.
“I also heard the killer removed her heart,” Alia went on. “Is that true?”
This time Jimmy scowled at her. “Did Evie tell you that?”
“Ew, Jack would never tell Evie anything that gross. Isn’t that a voodoo thing? The heart of your enemy makes you strong?”
“I think around here it’s more of a movie thing. I’d have to ask someone who knows more about voodoo than me.”
“Ooh, and Martine is just such a person.”
He scowled again. “Yeah, we’ll let Jack handle that. I’ll stick to digging through the victim’s life and finding out all her secrets.” That part of the job was both interesting and off-putting. Cops were curious; it was part of the job. But wasn’t Paulina Bradley entitled to a bit of privacy after her death? Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d died violently, alone and afraid? Did it have to come to light now that she was a lousy housekeeper, that she read porn, that she daydreamed about things she would never accomplish? Did it matter now that she kept chocolate stuffed in her underwear drawer, that she had a crush on her neighbor or that she drank too much when her husband was gone?
“It’s kind of like a car wreck,” Alia said sympathetically. “You know you should look away, but you have to see what happens. There’s so little dignity after a violent death.”
“I do my best.” His phone buzzed with an incoming text message, and he finished his last bite of gumbo before picking it up. “Crap. Jack’s