Prologue

Cissy Spangler woke with a terrible ache slightly off center in the back of her head. She threw off the sheet covering her and slowly sat up, an act that sent the pain in her head to new heights. Elbows on her knees, she lowered her head and held it in her hands, the new position easing the hurt only slightly. She’d heard once that the brain can’t feel pain. Whoever said that should be fired, for hers felt like someone was digging chunks out of it with their thumbs.

Gradually, through the pain, she became aware that she was fighting the mattress, which seemed to be pulling her back into bed. Wincing, she turned and saw a broad back she didn’t recognize. She shot to her feet, a fresh stab of pain radiating down her neck. Without bothering to cover her naked body, she crossed to her dresser and grabbed for her purse. Hands shaking, she flipped the catch and poured the contents onto the dresser, trying to count the foil packets even as they came out mixed with all the crap she carried.

Two, three, four . . .

Thank God. Yesterday, there had been five of them in her purse and now there were only four. She was not going to die. Thus reprieved, her headache rolled back, only to be displaced again by another fear.

She dressed quickly, cursing good-looking men and the way they made you drink too much. With effort, she remembered a little now of what had happened.

She’d decided to call it a day around 5:30 and had packed her umbrella, her canvases, easels, and paints in her locker. She was sure of that much. Then this charming man had come by and struck up a conversation. He had suggested they go for a drink and she’d wandered off without securing her locker.

Damn. Men and alcohol. She was going to have to watch herself better in the future. . . . Hell, if she hadn’t locked up, she might not have a future.

She hurried from her tiny apartment and rushed down the stairs, each step a mule kicking the back of her head. It was mid-February. In Chicago, where she’d attended the Chicago Art Institute, February was always cold and miserable. But here in New Orleans, it was generally mild. This year had been about like April in other years. And that meant lots of foot traffic around the square and lots of business. With Mardi Gras barely a week off, the crowds were only going to get bigger. She’d believed that by the end of the month she’d probably have her back rent all paid off. Now this.

Damn.

She began to sprint toward Jackson Square, dodging the spray from one of the hoses that businesses in the French Quarter bring out each morning to wash the previous night’s broom-elusive debris and body fluids from the flagstone sidewalks. The square was right around the corner and she was there in less than a minute. From Decatur, she couldn’t tell if her locker was secured or not. But as she jogged toward it, her day was ruined, for the lock lay on the ground.

She approached the locker slowly, her second prayer of the day looping through her brain: Please let everything be there. . . . Please let everything . . . She opened the lid reluctantly, her heart fluttering. When she saw the body inside, one eye staring blankly up at her, her scream sent a hundred pigeons into the air.