“Nothing wrong with that,” Carmela shot back.

  But when she rounded the display of tiki torches and gazed into the reading room, it was empty. Giovanni was gone. Probably finished for the night, Carmela told herself. Or up front enjoying a glass of wine and a plate of smoky, sweetly sauced ribs.

  Outside on the patio now, Carmela found it empty. Funny, she thought to herself, it was jammed out here just ten minutes ago. Guess things really are winding down.

  Carmela thought briefly then of just crossing to her apartment, putting the key in the lock, and calling it a day. Dump Shamus’s skulls by the front door; deal with the darn things tomorrow.

  On the other hand, mornings were always a time of stress for her. Between hot rollers, feeding dogs, brewing coffee, and selecting the eye shadow du jour, she always seemed to run a perpetual fifteen minutes late. And she’d promised Shamus she’d deliver the stupid skulls. So . . .

  Adjusting the box in her arms, Carmela ducked through the stone archway at the back of the patio and headed down the alley.

  CARMELA WASN’T AT ALL KEEN ABOUT KEEPING her little car in a garage down the street, but she didn’t have much choice. Her building complex didn’t have a garage, and leased parking spaces were always at a premium in the French Quarter.

  As Carmela’s footfalls echoed down the alley, shadows stretched out from the buildings that buttressed up against it. And Carmela proceeded cautiously. It was one thing when you had two alert dogs walking beside you. Or if you were unencumbered and striding down the alley confidently, one finger poised on a can of pepper spray. But tonight she felt like a pack animal. Slow-moving and overburdened.

  With each stride, the unwieldy box banged against Carmela’s legs. And her eyes darted into each nook and cranny. She’d never felt completely safe walking down any dark alley. And, for some reason, this one seemed particularly menacing tonight.

  Just up ahead loomed the rusty hulk of a Dumpster. Carmela decided to pick up her pace, give it a wide berth. Just twenty more feet, and she’d be at her garage stall. Then she could flip up the door, switch on the dim overhead light, dump the box, and hustle her buns back home. And then she was going to—

  Scrtch scrtch.

  Carmela stopped dead in her tracks. She’d heard something. In fact, the sound she’d heard was definitely coming from behind that damn Dumpster.

  Oh crap, she thought, now what do I do?

  Mustering all her courage, Carmela called out, “Who’s there?”

  And was suddenly rocked to the core when she heard a gargled, slightly strangled sound.

  Is someone hurt? she wondered, her mind thunking into overdrive. Is someone crying for help? Because there definitely had been a strange sound, an almost plaintive cry.

  Tiptoeing closer, Carmela peered around the Dumpster as her ears picked up an almost imperceptible scuffle. Something moving against cobblestones. And then something akin to a low growl.

  Everything inside her told her to get away from there.

  But for some reason she remained glued in place. For some reason her brain said, Injured animal. Carmela Bertrand, rescuer of cats and dogs, fund-raiser for terns and egrets, petition-signer for Louisiana turtles, suddenly had it in her mind that an injured creature was back there.

  Then, just as she bent forward, a flash of white fluttered up in front of her!

  A dove? she thought in the split second her brain began to comprehend what was going on. The same dove Giovanni had produced to please the crowd?

  But wait, her brain told her. This dove’s wings are tinged with red!

  Terror gripped her then, but still Carmela bent forward to look. And as she did, it seemed her eyes must be playing tricks on her. Because there, among the heaps of broken bottles and rags and flap of dirty newspapers, lay the twisted body of a young woman. A young woman with blond hair, a yellow silk halter top, and blood all around her. Lots of blood.

  Oh no!

  The box Carmela had been clutching suddenly slipped to the pavement. As its seams burst open, white skulls seemed to fly out everywhere. A ghastly punctuation to the death and the horror of the moment.

  And then, as Carmela’s brain was still playing catch-up to what happened, she was hit from behind.

  Not hit, her scrambled brain told her as she tumbled forward, more like tackled. By someone big. And strong. And very, very determined.

  Cobblestones rushed up to greet her as Carmela fell sideways with full force. She was cognizant of the side of her head connecting with cement, her breath being knocked out of her, and someone—or something—jumping on her back. Then, just as fast, the presence was gone.

  Gasping for breath, head hammering with pain, Carmela was aware that a light had gone on in the second-story window above her. That a window had creaked up.

  Will they call 911? she wondered. Then she struggled to try to make her brain function. She knew some horrible event had taken place behind that Dumpster and that she had to get away. Now!

  Flailing about helplessly, Carmela managed to prop herself up on one arm, then pull herself to her knees. Just as she was puzzling out what to do next, Giovanni suddenly loomed in front of her. Reaching out, he grasped her arms and pulled her effortlessly to her feet!

  Gazing into Giovanni’s dark, intense face, Carmela saw a swirl of long hair, caught the scent of his fur vest. Terrified, she threw back her head and let loose a bloodcurdling scream.

  “It’s okay,” Giovanni told her. But to Carmela, his voice sounded deceptively soothing.

  “No!” she cried.

  “It’s okay,” he tried again, releasing her arms, holding his hands up in front of him.

  But Carmela was making little moaning sounds in the back of her throat, backpedaling away from Giovanni as fast as she could. Praying that someone—anyone—would come to her aid! Then the heel of Carmela’s shoe caught between a pair of uneven cobblestones, and her knee twisted painfully. Arms flailing, she wrenched herself about, trying to save herself, then crashed down hard once more. And as consciousness seemed to wink away, like a candle guttering in the wind, Carmela’s last terrifying thought was, Please keep him off me!

  Chapter 2

  BLUE light bars pulsed, voices barked orders, someone was urging Carmela to open her eyes.

  She gave it a try, managed a gentle flutter of eyelashes.

  “That's it,” coaxed a kindly voice. “You're okay, just a few scratches and a bump on the noggin.”

  Carmela eased her eyes open to find a worried pair of brown eyes staring intently at her. “Who are you?” she croaked. Her throat felt dry, her lips parched.

  “Barney,” said the man. His finger tapped the front of his light blue uniform. New Orleans EMS at your service.”

  As memories suddenly flooded back to her, Carmela clutched Barney's arm. “I'm still in the alley?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “What's . . . where's . . . ?” began Carmela.

  “Where's Amber?” asked Ava, kneeling down next to Carmela. She shook her head sadly. “Gone.”

  But that's not what Carmela was asking about. She tried again. “Where's . . . uh . . . ?” What was his name again? she wondered. “Where's Giovanni?”

  Ava patted Carmela on the shoulder. “He's fine. Giovanni's right over there.”

  “What?” said Carmela. She twisted her head too fast, was suddenly overcome with a wave of nausea.

  “Whoa, take it easy,” said Ava, settling a blanket around Carmela's shoulders.

  Carmela clutched frantically at Ava's hand. “Ava, I think Giovanni ...” Carmela's eyes sought out the nearby Dumpster with its hubbub of activity. “I think he might have ...”

  “Oh honey, no,” said Ava. “Giovanni said he was trying to help you.”

  Carmela was suddenly taken aback. “Really?” she asked as she drew a few shaky breaths. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, cher, you can't possibly think Giovanni would. Now Ava turned to stare at the furor that surrounded the Dumpster. Bright lights had been brought in, police and paramedics milled about; black and yellow crime scene tape seemed to crisscross the alley everywhere. An ambulance had been backed directly up to the Dumpster, a gurney unloaded. Lights blazed from the second- and third-floor apartments that lined the alley, and scores of gawkers peered down.

  Carmela gingerly touched a sore and scuffed part of her arm. “It was like a bad dream,” she murmured. “And I thought Giovanni had ...” Her voice trailed off. “Where is he?” Carmela asked again.

  “Over there,” gestured Ava. “Talking to the police. Well, actually he's talking to that detective we know. The one who's relatively cute and is kind of a sharp dresser.”

  “Edgar Babcock?” said Carmela. She glanced over; saw his tall and lanky form, his ginger-colored hair. Babcock was sort of attractive in a tough-guy kind of way. He was also uncannily smart and dogged in his pursuit of crime. As luck would have it, they'd had run-ins with him before.

  Barney clicked on a miniature flashlight and shone it in Carmela's eyes. “Look this way,” he told her.

  Carmela glanced left, then right.

  “Head still hurt?” Barney asked.

  Carmela lifted her shoulders, rotated her head. Pain seemed to radiate everywhere. “Not too bad,” she said.

  “You might want to go to the emergency room and have a CT scan,” Barney suggested.

  “I really don't need to do that,” said Carmela. She could just imagine the scene. Since she was still on Shamus's medical plan, the hospital would call him. Then he'd want to come down there, swagger about, and put his two cents in. No thanks. That was the last thing she needed right now.

  “You sure you're okay?” Ava asked gently.

  “What I'd really like to do is go home,” insisted Carmela. She glanced down the alley, saw Babcock and a uniformed police officer talking to Giovanni. The way they were all posturing, the situation looked vaguely hostile.

  Ava got to her feet and walked over to them. Carmela watched from a distance.

  “You need to come downtown with us,” Babcock was saying in his louder, more authoritative cop voice.

  Giovanni nodded unhappily.

  Ava stepped forward protectively. “Are you arresting him?”

  “No, ma'am,” said the uniformed officer. “We just need to take a statement. It's routine.”

  Ava eyed them both carefully. “You're not going to beat him with rubber hoses or shine bright lights in his eyes, are you?”The officer pretended to look shocked. “No, ma'am. Of course not.”

  “Very well,” said Ava.

  “Oh for goodness sake,” Babcock exclaimed in what was a very exasperated tone.

  BUT DETECTIVE EDGAR BABCOCK WAS FAR KINDER when he questioned Carmela. “What exactly did you see?” he asked her. Ava stood by, ready to lend assistance.

  “A bird flew up, and then I noticed the body,” said Carmela.

  Puzzlement swam in Babcock's brown eyes. “A bird?”

  “Like a dove,” said Carmela. “No, not like a dove. It was a dove.” Her eyes met Ava's, wide with surprise now, but Carmela didn't elaborate any further. “Then after someone knocked me down, Giovanni came along, and I guess”— Carmela drew a deep breath.—”I guess he sort of saved me.”

  “He didn't attack you?” asked Babcock. “You didn't see him with the girl?”

  Carmela stared at Ava again. “No.”

  “And what was it the other officer said you heard?” asked Babcock.

  “Kind of a scratching, scuffling sound,” said Carmela. “And then . . . maybe like a growl?”

  Babcock stared at her placidly. A single eyebrow lifted. “A growl?”

  “Like the sound an animal might make,” said Carmela. She stared at him, feeling the throb of a whopper headache coming on. “Am I making any sense at all?”

  “Possibly,” allowed Babcock. He didn't look happy.

  “Of course, you are, darlin',” cooed Ava.

  “Here's the thing of it,” said Edgar Babcock slowly.” There are what look like teeth marks around the victim's neck. Like . . .” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Like . . . gnashes. Like an animal tore into her.”

  “Dear Lord,” breathed Ava as she crossed herself.

  Carmela's mind suddenly flashed back to the old black-and-white film, The Wolf Man. Her earlier mention of a werewolf had probably shaded her memory, had planted a trick image and colored what she saw and heard tonight.

  “And what else?” asked Babcock.

  “Whoever—whatever—kind of jumped on top of me and knocked me down,” said Carmela.

  Tears oozed from Ava's eyes. “You poor, poor dear.”

  ACTION NEWS, LET ME PASS,” A WOMAN'S BRASH voice suddenly demanded.

  A blue-uniformed officer stepped into the woman's path and blocked her advance as well as that of her cameraman. That didn't seem to faze the pair in the slightest. The light atop the mobile camera suddenly blazed like a lighthouse beacon, throwing out a glare of white light that blinded Carmela, Ava, Babcock, and everyone in their immediate circle.

  “Do you know who I am?” asked the woman, thrusting a microphone forward. “I'm Kimber Breeze. WBEZ-TV. I have every right to be here, so kindly step out of my way.”

  Slightly cowed, the officer gave way, and Kimber Breeze surged forward, leading with the padded shoulders of her bright red power suit. Her skirt hugged her hips, and her long legs slid down into a pair of stiletto heels. Kimber's sleek, blond mane was teased into a seriously big do and flowed around her head like a halo. But this woman was no angel; she was the fiercest reporter on the air. “Ma'am,” the police officer tried again. “These people have had a rough night, and the paramedics and detectives need to finish with them. You'd best let this go till tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow's too late,” snapped Kimber. “The news waits for no one.” She swiveled her head toward her cameraman. He was big, blocky, and built like a linebacker. “You sure you got the body shot, Harvey?” she asked.

  Harvey responded with a tight nod.

  “Good,” said Kimber. “Then we'll interview the wits.” She held up her index finger and made a twirling motion. “Roll tape.”

  Detective Babcock suddenly swung into action. “Hey news lady!” he barked. “This is a crime scene. You need to step way back behind the yellow tape.”

  Kimber ignored him completely as she pointed one red-tipped finger toward one of the smashed skulls. “Be sure to get a shot of that,” she instructed Harvey. Then her eyes fell on Carmela, still clutching a blanket around her shoulders. Kimber lifted her chin and pressed forward like some kind of news automaton.

  “You're Carmela Bertrand?” Kimber asked, consulting a page of hastily scrawled notes. “You were attacked here tonight?”

  The reporter caught Carmela completely off guard.

  “No,” said Carmela. “Well, sort of,” she corrected. “Maybe.” Then she blinked, frowned, glanced at Ava for help.

  “Carmela's just fine,” said Ava. “It was the other girl who didn't fare so well.”

  “That's an understatement,” muttered Carmela.

  “The murdered girl,” said Kimber, still focusing intently on Carmela. “Do you know who she was?”

  “Amber Lalique,” piped up Ava.

  Kimber's eyebrows shot up. “The fashion model?”

  “I guess so,” said Carmela.”But you were also the intended victim of this French Quarter stalker,” Kimber said to Carmela.

  “Enough,” said an irritated Babcock. “You guys got your sound bite. Now back off and let the police do their job.”

  “Sir, it's our duty to let the public know what's happening,” protested Kimber. “How else can we help protect them?” Her words sounded noble, but her attitude didn't ring true. Ambition burned in Kimber's eyes and in her voice.

  “Out!” thundered Babcock. And this time Kimber and her cameraman did back off. But Kimber, glaring back over her shoulder, looked positively livid.

  Chapter 3

  HAVE another piece of pie,” urged Ava. “I've already had two pieces,” said Carmela.

  “But it's peanut butter pie,” cajoled Ava. “From the Bon Ton Bakery.”

  They were sitting in Carmela's apartment, trying to depressurize from the evening's unsettling events. Ava had hastily wrapped things up at her shop, then headed over to Carmela's. Now she was attempting to pour copious amounts of red wine down Carmela's gullet and force-feed her peanut butter pie. Carmela wasn't protesting all that much.

  “The right food can cure whatever ails you,” proclaimed Ava. “Stress, depression, even a bad love life. I read the scientific details in one of those magazines at the supermarket checkout. They said the world's brightest doctors and researchers concur with that theory.”

  “I think they were referring to antioxidants and heart-healthy foods,” said Carmela. “You know, like broccoli and soy and whole grains.”

  “Yeech,” said Ava, making a face. “Who wants to eat that crap when you can feast on the likes of fried oysters, etouf-fee, and po'boys?”

  “We're still young,” said Carmela. “We can get away with eating that stuff. Give it another twenty years or so, and then our poor arteries will probably be clogged with that bad goo you're always hearing about. You know, cholesterol.”

  “In twenty years my poor ankles will probably get as fat as my calves,” sighed Ava. “I'll have those old lady cankles. Everything all swollen and merged together.”

  Carmela was starting to feel a whole lot better. She lay sprawled on her leather chaise with Boo and Poobah curled at her feet, being the sweet little doggy darlings they always were. An ice pack was easing the pain in her twisted knee. And Ava was keeping her well-fed and sublimely amused. In times of stress, Ava generally resorted to food and humor. Never a bad antidote.

  “You think your guy Giovanni will be okay?” asked Carmela.

  “I tried to impress upon Lieutenant Babcock that Giovanni was a good kid. That he'd never, ever be involved in anything like this attack tonight.”

 

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