Death of a Beauty Queen. Mallory Kane
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must have cost a significant portion of his salary rode across his left wrist, its face canted toward his thumb. No wasted effort. He could glance at its face without having to stop and cock his wrist.
His brilliant white shirt was long-sleeved, its cuffs shot perfectly beneath the lightweight sport coat. One edge of his right cuff was beginning to fray. He was frugal, or at least not wasteful, but a faint crease across the shirtfront indicated that he didn’t bother with washing his clothes. He had them laundered and folded.
He appeared lean and hard. His thighs were long and lean beneath the dress pants.
His hands were nice. Large and well-shaped, with long, spatulate fingers and short, clean nails. According to Maman, those types of fingers indicated a pragmatic and dedicated person who viewed their work as their top priority. That fit with what she’d already gleaned from his appearance.
The watch was his only accessory and his only indulgence. He didn’t even wear a ring. She stared at the fourth finger on his left hand, shifting slightly so that the light caught it at a different angle. Nope. As far as she could tell, he’d never worn a wedding band.
“Ma’am?”
She forced her gaze away from his hands and looked at him, with what she hoped was polite but mild curiosity.
“As I said, I’m looking into an unsolved murder case from several years ago.” He fished a small notepad and a pen out of his inside jacket pocket.
“An—unsolved murder?” she rasped. “Whose?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the pad and studied a page for a few seconds. Then he raised his head and fixed her with that dark, sharp gaze. “Now, is it true that you call yourself Rose Bohème?”
Chapter Two
You call yourself Rose Bohème.
The words sent fear twisting in her gut like a knife blade. Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking about sharp, shiny, deadly things. A shudder quaked through her.
“Rose Bohème,” he said again, his tone suggesting that he didn’t believe it was her real name. “How do you spell that exactly?”
She met his gaze and lifted her chin. Suddenly she felt mean. He’d barged into her home without an explanation and dismissed Maman’s little shop as beneath his notice. She added arrogant and overbearing to his list of attributes. He didn’t deserve a straight answer.
“R-O-S-E,” she said sweetly.
His left brow shot up and a dark glint sparked in his eyes. “Thank you. Now your last name,” he said evenly.
She bit her lip. He was smooth. “Bohème. B-O-H-E-M-E.”
Detective Lloyd wrote on his notepad. “Like gypsy,” he muttered.
“That’s right,” she said, shifting on her perch. “You had questions for me? I’m sure I don’t know anything about an old murder.”
The detective gave her an odd, knowing look. Did he think she was lying? “How long have you lived here?” he asked.
“More than ten years.” Rose crossed her arms. “Was the murder in this neighborhood? Because the only killing I recall was when Gilbert Carven shot a burglar who’d climbed in his window, but that was—”
Detective Lloyd waved a hand. “Please, let me ask the questions. I noticed the sign out front. Is Maman Renée here?”
“No,” she said, blinking against the sudden, familiar sting of tears at the back of her eyes. “She died five months ago.”
“Sorry for your loss.”
The stock phrase uttered in a monotone made Rose angry and dried up her tears instantaneously. “How kind of you,” she said icily.
He looked up from his notebook. “I know it can be hard when you lose someone close. Exactly what relation was she to you?”
She hadn’t expected that question. Here in the neighborhood, everyone knew them. She didn’t recall anyone ever asking her or Maman about their actual relationship.
“She was my … my …” She stopped. She couldn’t say mother. That was too easily checked. So was aunt. “… cousin,” she finally said, wincing at how weak her answer was.
“Your cousin,” Lloyd repeated sarcastically.
“Once removed on my … my mother’s side,” she embellished lamely, then bit her lip. She shouldn’t have said mother. Don’t ask me my mother’s name, she begged silently.
“The house is still listed in her name.”
Rose’s shoulders hunched as her muscles drew in protectively. This supercilious detective had a habit of stating facts in a way that made her defensive.
Why was he asking about her and Maman? The last thing she wanted was to have the police delving into why she hadn’t done anything about Maman’s will.
“I fail to see how that has anything to do with an old murder,” Rose said archly.
“Is there some reason you think it does?” the detective shot back.
Okay, that did it. She didn’t like Detective Lloyd at all. He was pompous and rude. He hadn’t even tried to hide his distaste of Maman’s quaint little shop. Now he was ignoring her questions. Well, if he wasn’t going to answer hers, why should she answer his?
She stood. “I’m not sure how I can help you, Detective. Your questions are awfully intrusive, considering that they can’t possibly have anything to do with the murder you say you’re investigating. Now, I’m busy, if you don’t mind.”
“Actually I do,” he said, looking up at her. He relaxed more deeply into the couch. “I have only a couple more questions.”
Rose stood there, arms crossed, staring at him. His hair was black, so shiny it looked blue under the overhead light. From this angle she could tell that his eyes were blue—a deep, almost navy blue. She’d never seen eyes like that before. She tried to remember if Maman had ever talked about what kind of person had navy blue eyes.
“Ms. Bohème?”
She blinked. “What?”
“I said, why don’t you sit down? I won’t be much longer.”
“I’ll stand, thank you.” She turned toward the window, giving him her profile.
From the corner of her eye she saw him shrug and lean back against the couch cushions. “Fine. Does the name Rosemary Delancey mean anything to you?”
Delancey? Shock sizzled through her, down to her fingers and toes. The painful throbbing in her temple flared again and the susurrus voices that were always there in the back of her brain rose in volume.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss, RISSSHHHH ROZZZZZSSS! The words reverberated inside Rose’s head, keeping perfect time with the throbbing in her temple. She squeezed her eyes shut.
What had he asked? Something about Delancey.
His hand touched hers. She jumped and jerked away. How had he gotten so close to her without her hearing or seeing him?
“Ma’am?” he said. “Have you ever heard the name Rosemary Delancey?”
“No,” she snapped hoarsely. “Never.”
She hadn’t. So why were the voices bothering her? And why did her pulse throb in her throat as if she were lying?
Detective Dixon Lloyd’s gaze burned against her closed lids. “No? Are you telling me you don’t recognize the Delancey name?” he asked, the tone of his voice demanding that she open her eyes.
“Well, y-yes,” she stammered. “Of course I recognize the name.