Besides, itt couldn’t have been Deanna, she told herself. Deanna wouldn’t have taken a carriage ride by herself, not when she was supposed to be shopping with Heidi.
But when Lauren made it across the street to one of her favorite clothing shops, she found Heidi in the back alone, trying on hats.
“Hey,” Heidi said. “How’s this?”
The straw hat she was trying on was wide-brimmed and sported a bright flower, and Heidi wore it well.
“Perfect,” Lauren said. “Where’s Deanna?”
“She said something about the shop next door,” Heidi said. “She said she’d be right back.”
“I could have sworn I just saw her in a carriage.”
“Why would she take a carriage ride without us?” Heidi asked.
“She wouldn’t.”
“Then you probably just saw someone who looked like her,” Heidi said. “You know, this place is a little pricey, but this really is a nice hat. Should I buy it?”
“Yes,” Lauren said, still distracted. “I’m going to check next door.”
Heidi turned and stared at her. “You sound worried.”
“No, not really.”
“Lauren, it’s broad daylight. There are a zillion people on the streets.”
“I know.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “Let’s look for Deanna.”
“Buy your hat. I’ll check next door.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”
When she stepped back onto the street, Lauren was practically assaulted by music. She came to a dead halt.
There was something happening in the street. A jazz funeral. The mule-drawn hearse, escorted by mounted police, passed just as she emerged. Behind the hearse came the mourners and, with them, the musicians. It was a spectacle not everyone got to see, something unique, sad yet wonderful, to be found in the city. Someone was about to be laid to rest in grand fashion.
The procession had to be on its way from the church to the cemetery—something of a long route from here, Lauren thought. The musicians were playing a dirge now, but she’d been to several jazz funerals in her life, and she knew that once they left the cemetery there would be a celebration of the deceased’s life. Often the band would play “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the old standby. It was an old custom, African beliefs blended with western religion.
On the street, everyone had stopped, watching the procession go slowly by.
She did the same.
The mourners were black, white and all shades in between.
One of the trumpet players was a huge, handsome African-American man. As he played, his eyes lit on Lauren, and she offered him a nod of respect. Strangely, he kept watching her solemnly until he had passed her.
As soon as the funeral had moved on, people began to mill around on the sidewalks again, and cars followed slowly, until they could turn onto a different street.
Lauren found herself listening to the sad dirge until the funeral march was but a hint in the air, and the laughter on the street and sounds of a corner rock band overshadowed what had been. Then she gave herself a shake and hurried into the next store.
She saw T-shirts, voodoo potion boxes, alligator heads, votive candles and holders, but no sign of Deanna.
Nor did Heidi appear.
She walked back into the store where Heidi had been looking at the hat. Neither of her friends was there.
Irritated, she took out her cell phone. She tried Deanna’s number first and got her voice mail. The same thing happened when she tried Heidi’s number. Cursing silently, she left her a message, too.
She didn’t want to go far; they had to be nearby somewhere. But after going in and out of a dozen shops, cafes and restaurants, her level of aggravation peaked, and she gave in to the heat and her own weariness and opted for a table near the street at the last cafe she checked and ordered a giant iced tea.
While she sat, she drew out her sketch pad, but before she could start working on a street scene, she found herself staring at the sketch she had made of the fortune teller the night before.
“You ruined the whole party, you know,” she said softly to the sketch. The woman was still striking, everything about her unusual, from the remembered color of her skin to the bone structure of her face.
“Talking to yourself?” someone said.
She looked up, startled, wariness slipping through her.
Their handsome neighbor from cottage six was standing by her, a pleasant smile on his face.
She didn’t answer; she was torn between suspicion and an inexplicable desire to engage in conversation. Okay, maybe not so inexplicable. He
