The Unknown Woman (2 page)

She hoped these charms brought her good luck while she was here in New Orleans. So far, she’d had nothing but problems. It had been snowing when she’d left Minnesota, her plane had been delayed at takeoff because of the storm, and she’d arrived well after ten last night, worried and tired.

At least the hotel staff had welcomed her warmly.

“Here you go,” Queen Patrice said, placing a shopping bag on the table and returning the credit card.
“I boxed and wrapped the items, so they’re ready as gifts.”

“Thank you. I should get something for my sister, too. Maybe one of these charm bracelets?” she suggested, pointing at her own.

The woman shook her head. “You may see something later that you like better. You should wait.”

Kerry nodded. “That’s probably a good idea. Well, this has been a very, uh, enlightening afternoon. The museum was fascinating, and thanks again for all your help with my souveniers.”

“It was nothing. Wait. I have thought of something.” From the pocket hidden in the skirt, she removed a purple ticket and handed it to Kerry. “The old queen will be performing a healing rite tomorrow night. You might like to attend. It is an authentic ceremony. The directions for the location are on the back of the pass.”

Kerry stared at the ticket in her hand. She wasn’t sure about attending a voodoo ceremony at night, but it seemed rude to refuse outright. Instead she stored it in her wallet and headed out the door. “It was nice talking to you,” she said, relieved to be outside in daylight again.

Glancing back, she saw the young voodoo queen standing in the doorway, watching her. In the bright sunlight, Kerry realized the woman’s eyes were a deep blue, not black.

A smile warmed the voodoo queen’s solemn expression for a second before she turned and closed the door behind her.

Kerry stopped in her tracks. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, “that was Patti.”

Relieved laughter burst from her. For a few minutes she’d actually believed all that hocus-pocus.

Ah, New Orleans. Voodoo queens. Pythons. Vampires. Werewolves. And don’t forget the ghosts.

She laughed again. Probably Patti had been putting her on a bit with that voodoo queen act, but it had worked its own kind of magic and Kerry felt less lonely than she had that morning. She would stop by the restaurant tomorrow and tell Patti how much she’d enjoyed the museum—

“Read your fortune, my dear?” A wizened old woman, dressed in black with a black lace mantilla, tried to grab her hand.

Kerry evaded her grasp. “No, thanks. I just had a reading.”

Smiling, she ambled along the street. The temperature, in the mid sixties, felt almost balmy compared with Minnesota. She glanced in several shops for a special gift for her sister. Maybe Kerry could find a potion of some kind for both Sharon and her husband—perhaps an aphrodisiac. They might need it after being cooped up with sick children for so long.

Before dark, she found an ideal gift—several small sample bottles of rum and special tins of coffee in a carved wooden box that could be used for jewelry when it was empty. The store would even ship it for her.

She pulled out her credit card and tried not to wince at the total. After all, the rest of the trip was free.

Walking along the park, she took in the sights along the Mississippi River—the Mississippi!—and thought of Mark Twain and his days on the river, of fancy gamblers and even fancier ladies of the evening, and those other queens of the famous city, the steamboats that plied the waters, calliopes blasting.

She watched the
Creole Queen
leave her portage and head up the river. As she lifted her hand against the last rays of the setting sun, the charms on the silver bracelet gleamed and danced before her eyes. They tinkled against each other in the breeze off the river and whispered secrets that hinted at the great adventure that supposedly awaited her.

“Bring it on,” she murmured wryly.

K
ERRY RETURNED
to the hotel in the soft, sultry dark. The streets were more crowded than they had been at high noon. A good-looking young man, probably all of twenty, tried to hit on her.

Things were looking up, she decided as she passed him and kept walking. Fingering the charm bracelet and finding the blessed cross, she considered the advice of Queen Patrice. While werewolves didn’t hold much appeal for her, she thought a handsome vampire might be just the thing.

“May I kiss you on the neck? May I take a little bite?”

She mentally chuckled, recalling the line from a silly high school play they’d put on as a fund-raiser to buy classroom computers. The tallest, thinnest senior boy had been the vampire. Not exactly the type she had in mind—

“Miss Johnston,” the concierge called to her when she entered the Hotel Marchand.

Kerry glanced over to see Luc—oh, yes, Carter, she remembered—approaching her with a smile. He was the one who had welcomed her last night and assured her that a late arrival was no problem.

Like Patti, he was probably in his twenties, late twenties—she decided, since he was the concierge of a grand old hotel, and one didn’t get to that position without some prior experience.

With his sandy blond hair, blue eyes and all-American good looks, he could have posed for one of the Mardi Gras posters that showed handsome couples having a great time.

“Here’s the list of musical venues you requested,” he said, holding out a paper. “I believe there’s also a package for you. It was delivered about ten minutes ago.”

“For me?” she asked, taking the list from him.

“Yes. I’ll check with the bell captain.”

Intrigued, she followed Luc to the captain’s desk. The man confirmed she did indeed have a package. Kerry’s eyes went wide when he lifted a huge basket from beneath the counter. It contained flowers, Mardi Gras trinkets, chocolates, fruit and a bottle of champagne.

“Are you sure that’s for me?” she asked.

The bell captain handed her the card with a gallant flourish. “For Miss Kerry Johnston.”

The gift was from her sister and brother-in-law. The message told her to enjoy herself “or else!!!” She laughed softly at the threat.

“I’ll get someone to carry this for you.” He called to a bellhop and indicated the basket. “Miss Johnston needs help to get this to her room, patio suite 2.”

“Delighted,” the young man answered.

After thanking the concierge and the captain for their help, Kerry followed the bellhop to the French doors that led outside. Like the concierge, the bellhop was young and good-looking, with skin the color of a rich café au lait and golden-brown eyes. She wondered if the hotel hired only sinfully handsome men.

“You have an admirer,” he said, carefully carrying the basket to avoid bumping any of the antique tables and lamps as he led the way out to the courtyard and her room.

“A secret one,” she murmured, deciding on impulse not to admit the gift came from relatives.

“The very best kind,” he declared.

They walked past the pool and the bellhop opened the gate to the private patio garden that fronted the entrance to her quarters. She’d been astounded to discover she was staying in one of the hotel’s exclusive units.

“On the table?” the bellhop asked.

“Yes, that would be great.” She debated how much she was supposed to tip him, then gave him a five. After all, she was in a luxury patio suite.

“Shall I open the champagne?” he asked. “It’s been chilled.”

“Uh, not now. Maybe later.”

“I’ll see that it’s iced,” he promised and left the room with a brisk stride.

Kerry tossed her purse on the table, sniffed an elegant white lily in the arrangement beside her basket, and wondered what to do next. She suddenly felt hungry, then remembered that she hadn’t had dinner yet.

It was almost eight, she realized with a glance at the ornate wall clock. In White Bear Lake, restaurants stopped serving at ten on weeknights and midnight on Saturdays.

But this was New Orleans. Everything probably stayed open all night.

She was too tired to go out again, and she didn’t want to go alone in any case. She realized she’d grown complacent about having her fiancé for a companion for four years. Perhaps that had been the basis of their relationship—it was easier to stay together than face being alone.

Chez Remy was the hotel restaurant, but she hadn’t been there yet. She glanced down at her casual clothing. It was probably a pretty fancy place.

She spent a few minutes freshening up, then changed
into a long black skirt and pale peach organza blouse with matching camisole. Once she was ready, she headed back out to the courtyard.

Chairs and tables dotted the flagstones, and almost all were occupied. The events rooms glowed with candlelight and music from a live band spilled out into the courtyard. More revelers appeared to have arrived for the Twelfth Night party since she’d retired to her room and prepared for dinner.

The music changed to a fast number. A distinguished-looking man, with gray hair at his temples, caught her hand as she walked by and pulled her to join the couples dancing in the courtyard.

Falling into the spirit of the evening, Kerry let him lead her in a few steps, but when he spun her around, she waved farewell and headed toward the doors leading to the restaurant.

He blew her a kiss and found another partner.

In the restaurant, she was seated at once and had a view of the main lobby. She knew that tickets were required to attend the Twelfth Night Celebration, but she felt sure that by the end of the evening there would be a lot of party crashers there.

At the waiter’s suggestion, she started the meal with a shrimp cocktail and tangy red sauce.

On the back of the menu, Kerry read a brief history of the hotel, which covered an entire city block and contained an art gallery as well as the hotel, restaurant, bar and guest rooms. The hotel had been run by Remy
Marchand and his wife, Anne, until Remy’s death four years ago.

Kerry knew the Marchand daughters were all involved with the family business. Charlotte Marchand managed the hotel. Kerry had seen her name and title on the confirmation letter for her reservation. Melanie had apparently followed in her father’s footsteps and was a chef in the restaurant. Renee Marchand was in charge of public relations, according to the hotel services booklet in her suite, and she was pretty sure the fourth Marchand sister ran the art gallery she’d visited that morning. The hotel was truly a family affair.

The waiter, Henri, a tall, thin man with an aura of regal dignity, returned. He placed a crystal flute of sparkling wine before her.

“From Ms. Charlotte,” he explained. “She likes to extend a special welcome to our guests on their first night in the dining room.”

“Please thank her for me. If the rest of my visit is as lovely as the first day has been, I’ll have many wonderful memories to take home.”

When she was alone, she sipped from the flute, smiling as the bubbles tickled her nose. Mmm, after a week of this, she just might get used to living in the lap of luxury. Champagne, two attractive men flirting with her—things were definitely looking up.

However, after dinner, as she wound her way through cluster of people dancing, talking, and laugh
ing in the courtyard, she became somber once more, her own solitude weighing on her spirits.

She unlocked the door and went inside her room. The bedside lamp was on, the covers were turned down, and a china plate with a fruit knife and fork were tucked into a snowy linen napkin beside the gift basket. The champagne nestled in a silver ice bucket as promised, and two crystal flutes stood beside it.

The empty room reminded Kerry she was alone in this very romantic city, which would have made the perfect honeymoon hideaway.

Hot tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She sat in a wicker chair, reminiscent of plantations and rum punches, and sobbed her heart out.

After a few minutes, feeling foolish for weeping, Kerry undressed, hung her clothes in the antique wardrobe and pulled on her pajamas.

Over the sounds from the courtyard, she could hear a bell begin to chime the hours, then, without warning, the lights went out.

She stood in the dark for a good two minutes, waiting for the power to come back on.

When it didn’t, she sighed. It was becoming harder to convince herself that she was meant to have a good time on this trip. Feeling her way around the room, she found her purse and the pretty box of matches she’d picked up earlier in the day. With the illumination of a match, she managed to get the wick on the hurricane lamp burning. Luckily she knew how to operate this
type of lamp. Power outages were common occurrences in her hometown during winter blizzards.

Spotting the champagne, she decided it was time to be daring—do something different in her life. She would soak in the claw-foot tub, using the hotel’s Parisian bath oil, until the hot water ran out.

Before she could change her mind, she headed into the bathroom and turned on the spigots full force. Gathering up the silver champagne bucket and flute, she placed them close to the tub, then went back into the bedroom to gather the decorative candles. After opening the champagne and pouring herself a glass, she lit the candles and added the bath oil to the tub.
Perfect.

Tossing her pajamas aside, she slipped into the frothy water. Now this was living. She lifted the flute to her lips and took a sip. Delicious. She raised the glass again. And again.

A couple of thumps sounded next door. The guest in the adjoining patio suite must have come home. A handsome, witty and unattached male? Perhaps her great adventure, the shining path foretold by Queen Patrice, was about to begin.

Smiling, she refilled the flute and added another inch of hot water to the tub. After tucking a towel behind her neck, she slid down until the water touched her chin.

Ah, bliss…

A sound caused her hand to jerk, and she spilled
several drops of the golden champagne into the water. She must have drifted off for a while. On the alert now, she listened intently. The noise was louder this time.

Thump. Thump
. A curse followed.