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Hattie is a tiny thing, still a beauty with flawless mocha skin, I couldn’t begin to guess her age. She’s a cross between Eartha Kitt with her sultry voice, and beautiful like Halle Berry. When I first found out what my dick could do, it was Hattie’s image I’d jerk off to. I swear she knew it too, because she’d call me in here just to beat my ass for shits and giggles. She’s still the sexiest woman I know.
My mama used to come to Miss Hattie to get her fortune read in the backroom of the restaurant. A lot of people came to Hattie for a lot of different things. I wasn’t supposed to know, and I didn’t, not at first. I’d sit on the floor with my back propped against the wall and wait for Mama to come out. The murmurings that floated from the backroom didn’t make a whole lot of sense to a young boy who just wanted to be outside playing and causing trouble. All I knew back then was that Miss Hattie made me feel kind of funny, and I kind of liked it. Later on, I thought I was going to marry her.
“You find your woman yet, Ignatius?” Hattie sets a cup and saucer in front of me and fills it with coffee.
The new criminal investigator from the crime scene with the striking blue eyes and caramel colored skin flashes in my mind and stirs my blood. The thoughts of what I could do to that curvy little body have been a welcome distraction since the gore we found at the fire.
“I’m waiting for you, Miss Hattie.” I give her a wink. Even at thirty years old, with her I still turn into that twelve-year-old boy who still hasn’t grown any facial hair.
“It’s not me you’re waiting for.” Her words sound like an old secret waiting to be told as she peers at me sideways.
I lean into the counter and pick up the cup with both hands, the thing getting swallowed up in my grip. “You know I love you, Miss Hattie.”
“I swear you get more incorrigible every year.” She shakes her head and grins.
I take a sip from the cup. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
“You are one of a kind, Ignatius Beauchamp.” There’s just something about Hattie that’s intoxicating. I’ve often wondered why she hasn’t married. Probably because there isn’t a man in all of New Orleans who could handle the likes of her. She leans an elbow on the counter and props her chin on it, her piercing gaze fixed on my face. “I heard there was another fire down in the Ninth Ward.”
My jaw tenses as flashes of the fire and the horror we found inside fill my head. “You know I can’t talk about it. Not until after the investigation is finished.”
She gives me a look that says Silly boy, as if she knows exactly what happened at the crime scene. “You don’t have to, Ignatius. You know Miss Hattie knows things.”
Like the fortune teller you are.
Imagining the criminal investigator wallowing around the evil of that horror, knowing it was tainting her with its filth makes something possessive inside me rage with the need to protect her from it. “No one should know those things.”
“You are right, Ignatius, some secrets should stay hidden.” There’s a look in Hattie’s eyes, something ancient, something that tells tales only whispered in the dark.
As I look into Hattie’s blue eyes, a coldness slips down my spine and makes the hairs rise on my skin. I swear she knows. She may not know exactly what was there, but I do believe somehow she knows. Because there’s something in the air in the city this Mardi Gras, as if the spirits have been summoned, and some of them are not pleased. If you’re from New Orleans, this is our way of life. We know we share the city and the bayou and the river itself with things we don’t want to see.
She closes her eyes for a long second and breathes deeply, pushing away whatever thoughts or secrets or whatever it is that a woman like her sees. Fixing her now clear vision on me again, she grins. “Some of Miss Hattie’s gumbo is exactly what you need.”
I scrub a hand down my face. That’s not what I need. Right now, being here is taking my mind off the hell I’ve been thrown into, and for the moment, it is exactly what I do need.
“Can I have some too, Tante Hattie?” comes a woman’s voice from behind me.
I turn slightly to peer over my shoulder. Whoever the woman is, I don’t recognize her voice. She’s apparently Hattie’s niece because she referred to Hattie as her aunt.
Well, I’ll be damned.Color me surprised, look what the cat dragged in. The sweet little criminal investigator and, wouldn’t you know it, she’s Hattie’s niece. Of course she is.
“Sha bebe! When did you get here?” Hattie comes around the counter and folds her arms around her, embracing the young woman fondly.
The woman returns Hattie’s affection, it’s apparent they’re close. “Two days ago. I was called in for the fires.”
Stepping back, Hattie’s expression turns serious. “Terrible things be happening.” She turns to face me. “You must know Ignatius. He was one of the first responders. He’s one of our fine firemen.” She grins slyly. “Isn’t this a small world, two of my very favorite people with so much in common?”
I glance at Hattie from the corner of my eye. Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she had something to do with this. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I greet the beauty, and extend my hand to her. “I’m Ignatius Beauchamp.”
She places her small hand in mine. “Pleasure, I’m Dominique Chavelle.” She’s even more enticing up close. With the same blood flowing through her veins as Hattie, it comes as no surprise. “I’m the criminal investigator working the crimes.”
“I know, I saw you at the scene.” Jesus Christ, can I sound anymore desperate?
A slow blush tinges her tanned cheeks a light pink, the same shade as her lips. Lips I should not be staring at. And I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about what I’d like to do with her mouth.
She tucks a stray strand of her gypsy hair behind an ear and averts her gaze. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same. All of you look the same in uniform.”
“Then I hope I can change that.” Because, belle amie, I promise you won’t be saying that when I get you naked.
