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He tuned back into the conversation in time to hear Alia say, “...appreciate your time. Can we get together in the morning with Jimmy and go over everything?”
“Sure. Give me a call.”
Landry stood and found himself closer to Alia than he’d expected. She radiated heat and the aroma of lemon-flavored cookies and something subtler—sweeter, more erotic. Something sultry.
They said their goodbyes and left through an elaborately worked gate that opened into the alley a few yards from the street. Silence settled between them, lasting until they’d reached the sidewalk, until they turned left toward Bourbon Street. Finally, he dragged in a deep breath, swallowed hard and said, “Let’s go for a drive.”
She didn’t ask where he wanted to go or why. She simply said, “Okay.”
Within minutes they were outside the bar. He dug his keys from his pocket and beeped open the locks. Heat rolled out of the car, shimmering and breaking an instant sweat on his skin. He cranked the engine, turned the AC to high and rolled down the windows. It took a few moments to back out, what with the steady flow of foot traffic, then he headed out of the Quarter.
“What did you think of Evie? Real or fraud?”
He glanced at Alia, her smile failing to hide the fact that she was seriously interested. “No fair,” he replied. “It’s not like she was doing a reading.”
Though she’d done just that, sort of. Maybe her husband had filled her in. Maybe she had just been making guesses. Maybe it was a psychic’s job to learn things.
“She bakes great cookies. I would marry her for those cookies.”
Was it that easy? All he had to do was get Evie’s cookie recipe and Alia would be his? If life were only that uncomplicated...
“Did you know that at one point, Murphy arrested her for some suspected involvement in a murder case?”
“Really.” Alia considered it then. “He doesn’t seem the type.”
“If you’d ever had reason to arrest Jimmy, wouldn’t you have?”
“If I’d thought I could get away with it, I’d’ve killed Jimmy.”
“You ever get personally involved with someone in a case?”
“Once.”
Stopping at a red light, he looked her way again. “How’d that work out?”
She met his gaze, hers steady and serious. “Verdict’s still out.”
The words repeated in his brain until the blast of a car horn made him realize the light had turned green.
He eased his foot down onto the gas and crossed Canal, then a few blocks later, Poydras. He had one of two possible destinations in mind, and both were drawing nearer with each block. He drove along Saint Charles Avenue, watching tourists as the trolley passed on its Garden District tour, sweaty and hot, red-faced but mostly smiling, having a good time, and he saw a few residents facing the afternoon the way a good Southerner should, doing nothing, escaping into cooler places, waiting for the sweltering sun to set so life could resume.
His decision on where to go was simple enough: he turned into the driveway of the first house he reached. Miss Viola’s.
The house looked exactly the way he’d seen it thousands of times: all neat and trim, drapes opened on the lower windows, lace panels making it difficult though not impossible to see inside, fresh flowers hanging from baskets on the porch and filling pots that lined the steps. Nothing had changed since the time he’d visited last Monday, not a thing, but everything was different.
This house had always been his refuge, his safe place—rather, it had represented those things. Miss Viola had been the true refuge and safety. Without her, this place that had been so important was nothing but walls and a roof.
The thud of Alia’s door closing woke him from his staring at the draped and lacy empty windows. He let go of his own car door, shoving it with his hip to bang more loudly that he’d intended.
Alia climbed the couple steps that led to the house, but he ignored them and walked to the garden gate instead.
He didn’t know if she wondered, but he offered assurance anyway.
“Miss Viola’s kids won’t mind if they find us here.”
Alia walked through the gate he held open. “Even if they did, you’d be surprised how much influence a badge carries.”
He gave her a narrow look. “I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life. Nothing about that would surprise me.”
The garden was still lush and growing, though everything seemed parched, diminished by the absence of Miss Viola. He stopped near the house to turn on the hose, then watched as soaker hoses buried beneath mulch sent tiny sprays of water bubbling to the top.
After circling the garden to make sure the system was working, he sat down on the bench in the corner, the seat cool and shaded by tall shrubs.
