Beside Muriel’s second-floor balcony table, Saint Louis Cathedral looms gothic on an overcast day as we anticipate our seafood gumbo appetizers. While we imbibe intoxicating El Diablo and Fleur De Lis drinks, the crowd in Jackson Square entertains us. Sweet azaleas and magnolia blossoms waft from the garden around Andrew Jackson’s statue, mixed with spicy Cajun-Creole aromas from surrounding tables. Brass bands blare over our voices, making it impossible to hold a conversation.
Bells clang.
Everyone jerks their heads toward the octagonal bell tower.
“Goddamn, that’s loud,” Mitchell says, cupping his ears as everyone does.
A wrinkle streaks Stacy"s forehead as though an immediate thought struck Bleu. Did the church bells evoke forgotten memories? The murderer or lost images of her last
