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Only Jimmy would ask for a date in the middle of a funeral.
“Nice turnout.”
“Better than Jackson’s.” Jimmy laughed. “These folks are giving their funeral best a workout. They’ll be back out here in a few days for Camilla’s burial. Definitely no open casket for that one.”
Alia’s jaw tightened. What she’d seen of Camilla Jackson yesterday had topped her list of freakiest things ever and, please, God, would never be outdone.
“Does the coroner have a cause of death on Camilla?” she asked, wiggling her shoulders to loosen her sweat-soaked shirt from her back.
“It would be easier to figure out if he’d gotten the body before it turned to soup.” Jimmy raised one hand to ward off a chastisement. “His words, not mine. Probably all he’ll be able to offer on cause of death is an educated guess. Dehydration, maybe.”
“Maybe she was literally scared to death.” Alia rather liked small spaces herself, but finding herself in a crypt would certainly stop her heart.
“How’s the daughter?”
“Out of the hospital and medicated out of her senses.”
“How’s the son?”
There was a slyness to his tone that made her turn her narrowed gaze on Jimmy. His features were almost expressionless, but there was a hint, just a hint, of a grin trying to break free. Haughtily, she said, “He’s coping.”
The grin succeeded. “You appear to be helping him with that.” When she didn’t respond, he went on. “Word is, you two took a long walk in the rain, then had dinner last night.”
“You have him under surveillance?” The fine hairs on the back of her neck bristled. That was something she should have expected—and not a decision left to Jimmy alone. He wasn’t the primary on the case; they shared those responsibilities. He should have discussed—
“Nah. I was going down to see Nina before she went to work and saw you at the restaurant. You both looked like you got dunked in the Mississippi, so I made a guess about the walk.” He leered at her, but it was hard to take offense at it, what with him being Jimmy. “Besides, I remember that you used to like walking in the rain.”
Alia forced a deep, calming breath. “I told him a positive ID had been made on Camilla and checked on Mary Ellen.”
“So it was just business.”
“Yeah.” She breathed again. “Pretty much. Mostly.” Something akin to relief at acknowledging her attraction to Landry seeped through her, easing the taut muscles in her neck. It wasn’t really something she could discuss with either of her parents or anyone she worked with, and her ex excelled at keeping confidences, even though he was constitutionally incapable of fidelity. Maybe because he was constitutionally incapable of fidelity.
“You gone and gotten interested in some guy who isn’t me?” He gave her a wounded look. “You’re heartless, you know that? How we ever gonna work things out if you’re seeing someone else?”
She met his gaze, hers level and unimpressed. “Jimmy, if we ever work things out, do me a favor and shoot me.” Before he could respond, she changed the subject. “Who is Nina? Your girlfriend of the week?”
“Aw, we’ve been together way longer than that. At least two weeks.” As they passed one of his fellow detectives, he nodded to the man, shoved his hands into his pockets, then slanted a look at her. “She’s a nice woman. You’d like her.”
“Really,” she said drolly. “Because I don’t remember liking any of your girlfriends when we were married. Where did you meet her?”
“Where she works. Down on Bourbon Street.”
His face turned a deeper shade of crimson, the change having nothing to do with the heat, and it made Alia choke back a laugh. “You’re dating a stripper, aren’t you?” God, he was so predictable. “On second thought, if we ever work things out...” She gave him the same sort of sly look he’d passed her way earlier.
“I’ll just shoot myself.”
* * *
God love Saturday nights, it didn’t matter how hot, humid, chilly or dreary they were, people still flooded the Quarter in general and Blue Orleans in particular. Landry had this one off, though, so he wasn’t behind the bar, filling orders, visiting with friends or engaging in a little harmless flirtation with pretty tourists. He didn’t feel like staying in the apartment, either, watching crap on TV and listening to the drone of the window air conditioner, so he’d headed out soon after the sun went down, aimlessly wandering the streets.
Now he was seated on the steps across from Jackson Square, listening to a lone saxophone down the street, punctuated by an occasional ship’s whistle from the river. People thronged the sidewalks, drifting from restaurant to bar and out again, lining up for carriage rides, laughing, letting the good times roll. That was what New Orleans was known for, right? Laissez les bons temps rouler.
