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It was out of the way, but after a quick side trip to Cochon Butcher, I made my way to the French Quarter, turning onto St. Philip Street. Luck was with me and I slipped into a rare open parking spot on the street and locked the doors, which was stupid because I had no windows. Pocketing the keys, carrying the food bags, I walked in through the arched door to find the entrance empty. The old, Mediterranean-style building was tall-ceilinged and cool, a typical, comfortable French Quarter building. There was something homey and maybe a little well-loved-shabby about the place that was unexpectedly soothing. The entrance was quaint, the lighting modest, and the central courtyard was old-fashioned and relaxed with a burbling fountain, tropical plants and vines, table and chairs, two rockers. Old brick was exposed by broken stucco. Lots of tile. Nice. Quiet.
Standing in the arched entrance to the enclosed central courtyard, I thought about the step I was taking. I was sober, single, mostly sane, so if I was making a mistake, it wouldn’t be for the wrong reason.
I stuck my free hand into a back pocket, catching my reflection in a small hanging mirror in the archway. I was too tall, still too skinny, even with the added twenty pounds. Bronzed skin. Bacon T-shirt. No makeup. Hair up in a messy mass, stakes twisted to hold it in place. I considered my ghostly reflection. Not a pretty woman. At the moment not even striking. Lanky and plain. Except for my amber eyes. They were almost exotic. Almost. But not quite.
Inside, Beast was strangely silent. As if she had withdrawn completely. Or was watching me like prey, hidden in the deeps of me.
I turned my back to the courtyard and looked at the empty entrance; pulled on Beast’s hearing and listened to the voices muffled by the thick walls. Smelled fresh paint and mold and age. And I was surprised that I felt no desire at all to run.
“Miss Yellowrock?”
A large woman came toward me from the shadows, dressed in black from sneakers Velcro-ed on her wide feet to her bottle-black hair. “Yes. I’m Jane Yellowrock.”
“Mr. Dumas left you a key.”
“Unit eleven, right?” I took the key—a brass key, not one of the new electronic card keys.
“Up the stairs to the third floor. There is no elevator.”
I nodded and followed her finger to the stairs. They were long, curving at the landings, with a wrought-iron railing and bare wood treads. I carried the key in one hand, the heavy paper bag from Cochon Butcher in the other, and recalled what I knew of the old building. Useless knowledge filling an empty mind. The St. Philip was constructed in 1839 as two separate but identical residences, built by a wealthy Sicilian immigrant for his family and his daughter’s family. At that time, this section of the French Quarter was called the Sicilian Quarter, home to Italian families and businesses.
Over the years since, the building had fallen into bad disrepair, and was used as rental units through the Depression. In the 1940s the building was operated as a gentlemen’s hotel by one of the most notorious madams of New Orleans—Katie of Katie’s Ladies—originally my landlady, and Leo’s heir, though she had owned the joint under another name. All of it unimportant. My mind was swimming through murky, narrow passageways of insignificant memory, trivial inconsequence. As my feet climbed the stairs.
The building was cool, but not cold, and I could hear window units purring and gurgling through doors on the landings, trying to take away some of the early-season humidity. On the third floor I found unit eleven. The door was marked as the Owner’s Suite and, like the others, was rented out. I knocked and then looked down at my hand. Watched as it inserted the key. The lock turned, clean and well lubricated with graphite, but ancient.
I pushed open the door, closed my eyes, and inhaled, smelling more fresh paint, adhesive, stone, carpet, and his citrusy cologne. Beast moved finally. Tilting her head. Mine . . .
He called out, “Come in. I was just preparing a salad.”