New Orleans Noir. Joanna Wayne

and souvenir shops. They didn’t realize what a diverse group of locals resided beyond the historically correct exteriors.

      Mia had fit right in the community and couldn’t walk down the street without stopping to talk to half a dozen people and waving to more.

      “Any other happenings I should know about?” Helena asked.

      “You can order groceries locally now and have them delivered. That’s the most exciting new thing we’ve got going for us. The second most popular topic is the French Kiss Killer and I really don’t want to talk about him tonight.”

      “I’m with you, but I admit facts of the brutal murder still haunt me, perhaps because I’d met Elizabeth several times over the years and was always impressed by her vibrant personality. Or maybe it was just the senselessness of it all.”

      “Me and my big mouth,” Alyssa said. “I said I wasn’t going to talk about the murder and then I just throw it right out there.”

      “It was bound to come up, sooner or later. Elephants in the room never stay unnoticed for long.”

      “I’m convinced they’ll find the killer,” Alyssa said. “Hunter Bergeron is heading up the task force and he’s not the type of cop to give up until he arrests his man.”

      Hunter Bergeron. Helena’s nerves went edgy. She swallowed hard, angry with herself that she was having any kind of reaction to merely hearing his name. She couldn’t keep that up.

      It had been six years since he’d broken her heart. She’d moved on. So had he, even doing a tour of duty with the Marines or so Mia had told her.

      The memories were still there, but they were buried so deep they no longer had the power to rip her apart.

      “I’m so glad we had this visit,” Helena said, “but if you’re sure you’re okay now, I really should go.” She stood before Alyssa could drag her into a conversation about Hunter. “We should have lunch together soon.”

      “I’d like that.” Alyssa followed Helena and switched her sign back to Open before she unlatched the door.

      “Are you sure you feel like seeing more customers tonight?” Helena asked.

      “I’m sure. Besides, the later it gets the drunker they tend to be and the easier it is for them to part with their bucks and believe whatever I tell them.”

      “No doubt.” Helena smiled as she took both Alyssa’s hands in hers.

      “Be careful,” Alyssa murmured. Her words took on an ominous tone.

      “I will.”

      “I don’t mean just tonight. I mean all the time. You never know who you can trust these days.”

      “You’re right.” Hunter Bergeron had taught her that. She gave Alyssa a quick parting hug and then hit the busy street again.

      The music, laughter and smiling faces didn’t have their usual uplifting effect. Helena found it hard to shake the talk of the serial killer and the fearful timbre of Alyssa’s parting warning.

      Could it be that Alyssa was more psychic than she’d ever admitted to Mia?

      Helena tried to ignore the plunge in her own spirits as she reached the tall metal gate and punched in Mia’s private code.

      Once inside the courtyard, the anxiety eased. She was home.

      Only Mia was gone forever, and home wasn’t home anymore.

      * * *

      HUNTER BERGERON HAD followed Helena at a distance, mesmerized by the sway of her narrow hips. He wasn’t the only one noticing her. Almost every man she passed gave her at least a futile glance.

      The first time he’d laid eyes on her, he’d thought her the most beautiful girl in the world. She’d changed in the six years since then, wore her hair longer, developed the curves of a woman instead of a young coed.

      Tonight, she was so damned stunning she boggled his mind. She was out of his league and had always been. Any hope of rekindling the fire that had once raged between them would end in heartbreak. He didn’t need that now.

      He leaned against the front of a building across the street from the carriage house, staying deep in the shadows beneath an iron balcony. Several minutes later, the light in the upstairs bedroom flicked on.

      He knew that bedroom intimately. His legs felt like rubber as he finally turned and walked away.

      But he’d be back. He had no choice. Unknowingly, she might be his only link to the French Kiss Killer.

      And that could get her killed.

       Chapter Four

      Helena jerked awake to the sound of clanking metal garbage cans and the grinding of compactors. She’d closed the airy privacy curtains last night but had failed to close the heavy, noise reducing drapes.

      She stretched beneath the crisp, cotton sheet and punched her pillow over her ears. A couple more hours of sleep would provide a much better start to a very busy day. Unfortunately, her mind was already splintering into a dozen different directions.

      By the time the streets had become relatively quiet again, she’d given up on sleep. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, tugged her cotton nightshirt down midthigh and shoved her bare feet into a pair of fuzzy flip-flops.

      The first thing on her agenda was coffee. The difficult part would be that this morning she’d have it alone.

      The antique Swiss grandfather clock on the wide landing struck the hour. The six melodic chimes echoed in the quiet house.

      If Mia were still alive, her sweet soprano voice would have wrapped itself around an old hymn or maybe she’d be in a twangy country mood. Her musical tastes ran the gamut.

      Cherishing the memories while trying not to let them slide into overpowering grief, Helena forced herself to continue down the stairs and into the kitchen. She flicked on the overhead light and started a pot of coffee.

      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