New Orleans Noir. Joanna Wayne

it was the killer’s intent to intimidate her, he failed miserably,” Hunter said. “Your grandmother considered herself part of the investigative team and she was good at it.”

      “She was always a fighter,” Helena said.

      Hunter planted both feet on the floor and leaned forward. “I have one very important request. I don’t want you to discuss the phone calls with anyone. Not your best friend. Not Ella. Definitely not a reporter.”

      “Why?”

      He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. He didn’t want to frighten her, but he had to warn her. “There’s an outside chance the killer may try to contact you now that you’ve returned to the carriage house.”

      “What makes you think he even knows I exist?”

      “He mentioned you in the last call.”

      “What did he say about me?”

      “Just that she had a beautiful granddaughter. He hoped you’d be visiting soon.”

      “And obviously, I did. For Mia’s funeral, almost as if he knew Mia was going to die.”

      “There’s no way he could have predicted the fatal fall. The important thing is that I need you to call me immediately if you get a suspicious phone call or if anything happens that makes you uneasy,” Hunter warned. “Even if you think it’s probably nothing—even if the person who makes you uneasy is someone you know.”

      “Right now, you’re making me extremely uneasy.”

      “Don’t be. I’ll keep you safe. I promise, but you have to trust me and never hesitate to call me.”

      “What great timing I have, as if I’m part of the killer’s welcoming committee.”

      “If I’d known you were coming this week, I would have suggested you put the trip off.”

      “It never dawned on me to check a serial killer calendar.”

      “Understandable.” Hunter walked over, took her hand and pressed his card into her palm. Even that slight touch stirred the old vibes. He struggled to keep them under control.

      “Put my cell phone number in your phone on speed dial. Call anytime, day or night. I’ll always answer. Count on it.”

      She took the card, but quickly moved her hand away from his. “If that’s all, you should go now. I’m sure you have more important work to do.”

      “Okay. Just remember, if you need me, I’m a phone call away and I can have a police officer here in seconds.”

      She walked him to the door and opened it.

      “You always were a good cop, Hunter, even if you didn’t know it. I’m glad you took it up again. You must have missed it.”

      “I missed a lot of things.” Nothing as much as he’d missed her.

      For a second, her gaze softened to velvet and he could almost swear he sensed a tinge of desire. But the moment passed, and she closed the door behind him.

      She didn’t want him around. He got that, but he had only two goals right now. To find the French Kiss Killer before he killed again and to keep Helena safe.

      He planned to do both.

      * * *

      LEANING AGAINST THE closed door, Helena struggled to make sense of the disturbing emotions churning inside her. She felt like a cannonball had smashed into the house and ran over her, leaving her flattened and unable to react in any appropriate way.

      Her first impulse had been to lash out at Hunter and blame him for Mia’s having to deal repeatedly with a killer. He was the detective. He should have done more to find the killer or at least kept him from talking to Mia.

      If nothing else, he should have at least called Helena and let her know about the phone calls.

      Only her grandmother wasn’t one to be ordered around by anyone—never had been. Instead of quivering in fear, she’d likely dived in just like Hunter said, knowing full well what she was doing and any risks she might be taking.

      She was sixty-eight years old, but Mia had known no limits, accepted no boundaries. Helena would be lucky if she had half Mia’s spunk at that same age.

      Helena looked at the card Hunter had given her and realized she’d wadded it up in a clutched fist. She took it to the kitchen counter, laid it out flat and used her fingertips to iron out the wrinkles.

      Call him if she needed him. She quaked at the thought.

      Retrieving his last words from six years ago out of the depths of her memory, she used them like a suit of armor.

       I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know, but I can’t go through with this.

      And then he’d left her standing at the flower-bedecked altar like the fool she’d been. The fool she would never let herself be again.

      Her phone rang. A quick surge of apprehension rocked through her.

      “Hello.”

      “Helena, it’s me, Ella. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

      “Absolutely not. It’s so good to hear from you. In fact, I was hoping to pay you a visit about eleven if that works for you.”

      “That would be great. We have so much to talk about now that you’re moving back to New Orleans.”

      There was that bothersome misconception again. She’d clear that up when she saw Ella. The way things were going now, she couldn’t get out of here fast enough. She slipped Hunter’s card into her pocket.

      * * *

      ELLA MET HELENA at the door, greeting her with a bear hug that wouldn’t quit. The clinging was an unnecessary but potent reminder of the angst Ella had been through over the last six months. When Ella finally pulled away, Helena took a good look at her and was shocked to see how much thinner and frail she’d become over the five weeks since Mia’s death. The downward plunge in her health had begun months prior to that. Losing her best friend had only made it worse.

      Before Elizabeth’s murder, Ella had been so plump that her apron ties were barely long enough to make a bow in the back. Her cheeks had been fat and rosy, her hair smooth with a fair amount of brown.

      Now, her flowered top practically fell off her shoulders and her blue, flour-stained apron was tied in a big bow. New wrinkles tugged at her mouth and puffy, dark flesh circled her eyes. Her hair was almost totally gray with frayed ends that barely reached the middle of her ears.

      Selling the house and property might turn out to be a wash on this trip, but at least Helena could spend some quality time with Ella before she left for Boston.

      Helena breathed in the odor of spices wafting from the kitchen. “What is that I smell?”

      “Peach cobbler.”

      “My favorite,” Helena said. “You remembered.”

      “How could I forget? Mia and I spent one whole day a few summers ago gathering peaches at a local pick-your-own orchard. Day was hotter than Lucifer’s spa, but she refused to quit until she had enough of the juicy fruit to fill her freezer.”

      “I take it you did not handpick these peaches.”

      “Sure I did. Picked them right from the baskets at the French Market when they were at their peak. Then I sliced and froze them.”

      They both laughed, and it was amazing how much that softened the hard lines in Ella’s face. She probably didn’t laugh nearly enough.

      “I didn’t just make cobbler,” Ella said. “I made some homemade shrimp salad. And I have fresh French baguettes to spread it on.”

      “You shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble.”