Aidan was outside Kendall’s door at exactly seven-thirty. She answered the door in a light blue denim dress. Her hair was especially sleek—freshly washed, he thought—and shimmering down around her shoulders. He was actually pleasantly surprised that she had bothered to shower and change for his benefit. He might have told her that it wouldn’t have mattered what she was wearing, that she could wear a garbage bag as an outfit and make it look good, that she had the kind of natural beauty that shone through with or without makeup, and that her hair looked good wound up on her head or flowing free. He refrained.
In her heeled sandals, she was only a few inches shorter than he was. She was regal, even in denim. Her scent was delicate, not the kind that slammed you in the face. It was merely a hint, the kind that lingered in memory, like a haunting refrain.
“I’m just going to grab a jacket,” she told him. “It’s finally beginning to cool down.”
“Fall,” he responded.
When she came out, he indicated his car, which was—miraculously—parked at a nearby meter.
“We’re driving?”
“I thought you wanted out of the immediate area for the evening,” he told her.
“Sounds good,” she admitted.
She was beautiful, the perfect date. Except, of course, that this wasn’t a date. She had simply agreed to go to dinner because he’d said he wanted information. She was polite, but he thought that might be due to the fact that she also seemed distracted.
So was he. He needed to take everything about this—about her—slowly and carefully.
“Any suggestions?” he asked her. “I didn’t get a chance to make a reservation.”
She looked at him, giving him both a frown and her full attention. “Do you eat sushi?” she asked doubtfully.
He smiled. She was probably imagining that he wanted nothing less than a full side of beef. “I eat anything,” he told her.
She smiled at that. “Okay, sorry, do you like sushi? Or Japanese, I guess. The place I’m thinking of grills your food right at the table. Although, if you want to talk, it’s a little difficult, since they seat eight to a table, if you want your food cooked in front of you.”
“Sushi at a table for two will be fine,” he assured her.
She directed him onto I-10 and down to an exit in Metairie. The restaurant parking lot was nearly full. He wondered if they should have called ahead, but since they just wanted a small table, they were quickly led to the left side of the restaurant, where the booths were private and a wall separated them from the area where chefs were busy showing off their knife skills: slicing vegetables, meat and fish at tables with built-in grills.
They politely asked one another’s likes and dislikes, and found several rolls they would both enjoy but differed on their sashimi choices. Miso soup was followed by ginger-dressed salads, and they kept their conversation light until the rolls and sashimi came, and they’d had iced teas refilled, and it seemed as if they wouldn’t be interrupted again for a while.
She looked at him, as if on cue, and told him, “I honestly don’t know what you want me to say. I think I’ve told you everything.”
He offered her a half-grin and admitted, “I’m not even sure myself. Maybe I’m just looking for the history of the area and the plantation.” Which was true, as far as it went.
It was also true that he wanted to know how come a woman who had disappeared had been a customer at her shop and had spent the evening hanging out where Vinnie played.
Of course, her other employee, Mason, also hung out at the same bar.
As did half of Louisiana, he reminded himself. Or so it seemed.
But as far as he knew, cops and medical examiners and their lab techs didn’t go into Kendall’s shop for psychic readings.