Behind the Mask. Joanna Wayne

      “Here, let me help you with that.”

      He stepped beside her. The smell of him assaulted her senses. A clean smell, soap and after-shave, and something more. That unmistakable musk that had always clung to him like a personal aura, a permanent badge of his masculinity.

      “No, that’s okay. I can get it.”

      “Of course. You always could take care of yourself, couldn’t you?”

      “I manage.” At least she had been managing. Suddenly all her independence was going up in smoke. Her body longed to reach out to Graham, to bury itself in his strong arms, the way it had done last night in her dreams.

      “So, what brings the famous Nashville research doctor back to old New Orleans? Surely not Mardi Gras. You were never one to mingle with the poor masses. This was always your week for skiing in the Alps.”

      Sarcasm edged his voice and hardened the lines in his face. Nothing had changed in the ten years since she’d seen him. Nothing ever would. Those were the facts she needed to keep in front of her, not some romantic fantasy from her dreams.

      “This isn’t about me, Graham. Things will go better for both of us if we just keep to the reason you’re here.”

      “You’re right. So tell me what happened, before the good doctor runs me out.”

      “I witnessed a murder last night. A young woman.”

      “And where were you when this happened?” he asked, his expression cold and stony, successfully masking all feeling.

      “I was on a float, in the Minerva parade.” The words came slowly, rolling off a tongue that felt too big for her mouth. No doubt another side effect of the drugs. “We had stopped. The crowds were pushing closer and closer. I backed away, against the support frame. I was just staring into the horde of spectators.”

      Graham pulled up a chair and straddled it, his long legs stretching to the edge of her bed. “And you think you saw someone murdered in the crowd?” he asked, doubt clearly written in his face. “But no one else saw it?”

      “No. I don’t think anything. I saw a murder.”

      “Point made. And taken.” He settled in his chair.

      Lindsey chose her words carefully. She needed to be as accurate as possible, in spite of the drugs. “I’m not sure where we were exactly, the route was so long. But it was somewhere in the Uptown section.”

      “Was it near the beginning of the route?”

      “We were about an hour into the parade, but we were moving slowly. I know we were on one of the avenues. There was a grassy neutral ground separating the two sides of the street. Almost all of the houses were huge, and they had balconies loaded with people,” she continued. “But not this one. It was dark as night, except for a sliver of light from an upstairs window. The window and room were rounded, like a turret, jutting out from the rest of the house.”

      Lindsey tried hard to concentrate on her story. But everything seemed hazy. She wished she could blame it solely on the drugs, but she couldn’t deny the effect seeing Graham again was having on her senses. And the way he was staring at her now was definitely not helpful.

      Detective Graham Dufour. He’d always talked of joining the police force, and she’d thought his aspirations far too limiting. But she’d been only seventeen. What had she known then of life...or love?

      “And you saw something in this window,” he offered, keeping her on track like a good detective.

      “Yes. A young couple, in costume.”

      “A soldier and a Southern belle?”

      “That’s right. How did you know?”

      “It was in the report from the hospital. A patient named Lindsey Latham admitted for treatment. Slightly inebriated and talking out of her head, mumbling incoherently about the dashing soldier who’d stabbed the beautiful Southern belle.”

      “So you knew it was me?”

      “Let’s just say I thought it might be. I wasn’t sure you still were Miss Latham.”

      No. He wouldn’t be. Not when he had been so distraught over their breaking up that he’d managed to stay single a whole three months.

      “Did you come here last night?”

      “As soon as I read the report. You were out of it.”

      “But you stayed for a while?”

      “Yeah. I stayed, until one of the nurses threw me out.”

      Lindsey met his gaze, for just an instant, and once again pain pierced her heart. She stared at the muted pattern in the wallpaper, determined not to let Graham invade her life again.

      “Are you all right, Lindsey? You look so pale.”

      No, she wasn’t all right. She wouldn’t be all right as long as Graham was around, but she would never let him know it.

      “I’m fine. And you’re wasting a lot of time sitting here, when you should be out catching the murderer.”

      “If there’s a murderer, I’ll catch him. Now, exactly what did you see through that window, Lindsey, besides a soldier and his girlfriend?” he questioned, Sergeant—Friday.

      “They were dancing, close together. His hands were around her waist. Hers were wrapped about his neck.”

      “And you were able to pick up all these details?”

      “Yes, I was on one of the tall floats, above the crowd. The street was narrow, and the house sat close to the sidewalk. Besides, like I told you, the round room jutted out, putting them even closer. It was almost as if I could reach out and touch them.”

      “Okay. You had a perfect view, and they were dancing. Then what?”

      “It was beautiful. She looked so happy, so much in love. The soldier lowered his lips and kissed her. It seemed to go on forever. His lips on hers, his arms wrapped around her. But then he dropped one hand to his side and began to run his hand along the sheath there.”

      Lindsey paused. The room seemed so cold. And the memories so vibrant. “It happened so fast. No one could have stopped it. He just yanked the dagger from out of the sheath and plunged it into her heart.” She fought to steady her voice. “One minute she was lost in his kiss. The next she was crumpling to the floor.”

      “It’s Mardi Gras, Lindsey. You remember how it is. The people go crazy. What you saw was probably just an act, a performance for the enjoyment of the crowds outside their window.”

      “No!” She wanted to scream. Why wouldn’t people listen? Why wouldn’t they believe her? She’d seen a woman murdered, and all anyone could do was question her story. “It wasn’t an act. The blood was everywhere, gushing, covering the bodice of her green velvet dress.”

      “And what was the soldier doing while you watched the woman die?”

      “I don’t know. I only remember her. When I noticed him again, he had started to walk away.”

      “Started to walk away? What stopped him?”

      “I’m not sure. Perhaps me. He paused and stared out the window. I was too far away to see his eyes, of course, but his face was turned, as if he were looking straight at me. As if I were part of his deadly conspiracy.”

      Her throat was dry now, like cotton. She reached for the glass of water on her table.

      Graham beat her to it. He handed it to her, his fingers lightly brushing against her own. She jerked away, frightened by the feelings that accompanied something so meaningless as an incidental touch. She sipped the water slowly, struggling to keep her mind on the task, to keep feelings from the past at bay. She had to concentrate, to remember everything that might lead to the killer’s arrest.