Read an Excerpt

The Delta Sisters

St. Martin's Press

New Orleans Summer 1975

The dirty little whore.

He watched her. Watched the way she moved, swaying her young hips back and forth with purpose as she sashayed through the bar. He watched her stop and chat with man after man, throwing her head back and laughing like she cared about everything they said. He watched her lean in close and whisper in their ears. Watched her hand trail down their arms. Watched her fingers linger on their shoulders or rest on their thighs.

It was a game, he knew. One she played well.

He turned away. Took a swig of his scotch. But as he heard her high-pitched laughter floating on the smoky air, he shifted on his barstool, angling himself to get a better look at her. His stomach clenched when he saw her sitting on the lap of a heavyset man, her arms draped around his neck. The bitch took the miniskirt to a new level, literally — one that barely covered her behind. He could practically see her crotch.

Christ.

He drew in a shaky breath, trying to keep his emotions under control. The fat man's hands were all over her. Their lips were moving, but he couldn't hear what they were saying.

It didn't matter. He knew women like her. Women who thought their looks and their charm would get them everything they wanted. He hated women like her. Loose women who gave their bodies to any man, yet pretended that you were the most special man in the world while they were with you.

He didn't believe for a minute that anything about her was genuine. Not the sexy smile she wore. Not the spark in her eyes. Not those damn eyelashes she was batting like she was the first woman ever to do so.

The bitch was selling a lie, and practically every guy here was buying it.

So why couldn't he take his eyes off her?

His gaze followed her everywhere she went. Disentangling herself from the fat man, she stood and started to make her way around the bar. What was she after? Money? A night of casual sex? He had already seen her get several drinks from various men. Her raucous laughter told him she was well on her way to being drunk.

She didn't stay with any one man long, and he knew she would get to him soon.

How would she play with him? Because he knew she would. This was all a game to her.

He could play the game as well. He would buy her a drink, take her for a spin on the dance floor.

And then ...

He swallowed, the thought alone giving him an erection.

The erection bothered him. He didn't want to be affected by her. She wasn't worthy of him.

Yet he was affected. He was only a man, after all.

And she was a whore. Getting under a man's skin was what she did best.

She turned, and her eyes met his. He was about to look away when she smiled.

He smiled back.

She started toward him, her large breasts jiggling in her tube top. The damn thing looked like it could slip off with the simplest effort. Any guy here might grab at it as she walked by, and in an instant, she would be exposed. That's the way drunk men behaved.

Did she even care?

He didn't think so.

She splayed her fingers across her flat belly, then dragged them lower, toward her crotch. No doubt about it, she thought she was some sort of prize. Her smug expression said she knew it and that he would know it, too.

Throwing his head back, he downed the scotch, getting ready for her. It didn't matter what she wanted. He knew what she deserved ...

The summer had been fairly uneventful, until the day Liza Monroe's body surfaced in Bayou St. John.

Liza had been missing for over a week, but everyone in mid-city New Orleans, where Olivia Grayson had been born and raised, hadn't thought much of it. Liza had often talked of leaving town for Los Angeles or New York, so when no one had seen her strutting her stuff in the neighborhood, that's what everyone had assumed she'd done. Cynthia, Liza's mother, had been frantic at Liza's disappearance, but no one had taken her seriously. It didn't surprise anyone that Cynthia knew nothing of Liza's dream to leave town; she and Liza were always fighting, and the rumor was that Cynthia couldn't control her only child — especially without a man around. But those who knew Liza, or had talked with her from time to time, knew of her dream to head to a place where the entertainment business thrived, because the word on the street was that she had a voice like silk and wanted to make something of herself.

That early July morning, however, it became clear that Liza had not left town for New York or Los Angeles. And if she had, she certainly hadn't made it.

Olivia hadn't known Liza personally — not really — but she knew of her. Everyone knew of her. In their mid-city neighborhood, like any other neighborhood, the fact that Liza was so well known was not a good thing. People didn't care about her beautiful voice, and they surely didn't sit around discussing her aspirations for stardom. What they did talk about, what interested them most, was how Liza Monroe spent her time on the streets.

Women whispered when she pranced down the tree-lined sidewalks with her head held high, as if she thought she was better than everyone else. Their mouths twisted in disapproving frowns, women gave Liza a slow once-over, checking her out from head to toe. Liza's hair was always done in the latest style, which, most recently, was a large Afro. Her nails were always neatly manicured, and she wore the type of clothes that models in Ebony magazine wore.

But while women talked about her, boys and men vied for her attention.

There was something intriguing about Liza, no matter what you thought about her. Something so intriguing that Olivia and her best friend, Belinda, had once been in awe of her. Liza looked so nice all the time. So classy. She drove around in fancy cars with men who looked sophisticated, and to Olivia and Belinda, it seemed that Liza lived a life right out of a Hollywood movie.

Of course, neither Olivia nor Belinda knew how Liza could afford to look so good all the time, considering Ms. Monroe worked as a waitress — hardly a good enough job to keep her daughter in the latest fashions. However Liza did it, Olivia and Belinda envied her. Not only her classy style but her independence. Liza did what she wanted, when she wanted to.

Olivia and Belinda figured their mothers ought to give them room to grow, let them do things on their own. So, one day, when Olivia's mother had told her that she couldn't go to the Mardi Gras celebration unescorted, Olivia had made the mistake of saying aloud that she wished her life had some excitement, like Liza Monroe's. That she was sure Liza's mother let her go to the parade by herself.

Sylvia Grayson hadn't hesitated before slapping Olivia across the face.

"Don't you ever say you want to be like that girl," her mother had warned, wagging an angry finger at her. "She's not class. She's trash. You hear me?"

"Yes, Mama," Olivia managed softly. The slap hadn't hurt as much as stunned her. Her mama never slapped her.

Sylvia's eyes widened in alarm. "You been hanging with that girl?"

"No, Mama."

"You stay away from her. You hear?"

"Yes, Mama."

"If she tries to get close to you, run the other way. You've got plenty of friends in your Jack and Jill social club. The right kind of friends. You don't need her type in your circle."

Olivia had only been fifteen at the time, the same age as Liza, but as she would soon learn, not nearly as experienced in the ways of the world as Liza was. Olivia hadn't understood all there was to know about the young girl who seemed to have it all. Hours after the slap, as Sylvia held her on the porch, rocking back and forth with her on the swing in the cool of the night, she explained those things.

Surprised at what her mother had told her, Olivia had then shared what she'd learned with Belinda.

"She's fast, and loose," Olivia told Belinda, amazement in her voice. "My mama thinks she's looking for a father figure, since she never had one, and that's why she's always with those older men."

Like Olivia, Belinda had been shocked.

For the next two years, Olivia and Belinda had watched Liza, but with different eyes. So much more made sense now. They realized why she was considered fast and wondered why they hadn't figured it out before. She was always nice to the men in the neighborhood, especially the ones who had some money. It didn't matter if he was a stranger or had lived his whole life in the area. Yet Liza had never forged a real friendship with any of the females.

Oh, she was a social butterfly, flitting around from one club to the next, always on the arm of a man twice her age. No one barred her entrance, even though she was a minor. She may have looked older than twenty-one, but everyone in the area knew she was underage. And while no one could prove it, the rumors said she took money and gifts for sex like a common whore.

"It's a damn shame," Olivia's mother would say on the occasions she saw Liza drive or walk by with some man. "A pretty girl like that allowed to run wild." Under her breath, Sylvia would always add that the apple didn't fall too far from the tree.

While the last comment always piqued Olivia's curiosity, she never asked her mother what she meant by it, and her mother never offered an explanation about Ms. Monroe. But it was clear that Sylvia didn't like Cynthia for some reason; nor did most anyone else in the neighborhood, as far as Olivia knew. Whatever Ms. Monroe had done, all the adults knew about it, the way they always did in small communities where everyone seemed to know everyone else's business.

Olivia doubted anyone could keep a secret in this neighborhood.

News spread quickly here, like it had this morning. As fast as a flaming wildfire, the word had gotten around that a body had been found in the bayou. Within minutes of the medical examiner's arrival, people had run to the scene. Like so many others from the vicinity, Olivia now stood in the crowd, watching as the team of men pulled Liza from the water. Olivia couldn't see much, certainly not enough to convince her the body was Liza's. But she could hear Ms. Monroe hollering, and she caught glimpses of the distraught woman as she flailed her arms in the air and struggled with those who held her back from running to the body.

That was enough to convince Olivia of the body's identity.

Enough to make a cold chill slide down her back.

Dead. Liza was really dead. Olivia shivered.

There was so much activity at the front of the crowd. Olivia tipped on her toes to get a better look, but she was shoved from both left and right, and her efforts were pretty much futile. The police pushed people back, and as the crowd moved, Olivia saw only flashes of the gurney that carried Liza's now covered body from the scene.

Unable to see much else, Olivia scanned the faces in the crowd. An odd feeling came over her, a strange mix of melancholy and curiosity. How weird that so many people had left their homes to run to the scene, yet no one but Ms. Monroe was crying. Did anyone here care what had happened to Liza? Olivia doubted it. In fact, she'd heard one woman in the crowd say, "That girl had it coming."

Not even the men, who had enjoyed Liza's company in life, seemed to be torn up over her tragic death.

These people weren't here because they cared, but because they considered this the day's entertainment — and they weren't about to miss it. Sadly, Olivia had to agree that this was the biggest event that had happened all summer.

Olivia continued to survey the crowd, checking out those who were chatting in small groups. She knew practically everyone gathered here.

Hugging her torso, she turned in the other direction. Instantly, her eyes met and held someone else's. Her heart spasmed hard. The intense eyes that stared back at her belonged to a man.

He was a young man, maybe a few years older than she. His skin was the color of milk chocolate. He wore his black hair in a medium-sized Afro. She could see the handle of a blue hair pick protruding from the curly mane. The look said he was a bit of a rebel. She liked that.

He was attractive. Very attractive, she noted with increasing interest. She had never seen him before. Was this stranger new to the area, or was he simply passing through?

"Oh, Lawd!"

Olivia spun around to see Ms. Monroe throwing herself at the back of the medical examiner's vehicle, and for a moment, she couldn't tear her eyes from the strikingly beautiful woman. Even in her grief, she was stunning.

Her bottom lip quivering, Olivia once again turned, glancing back in the stranger's direction.

But he was gone.

Murder.

The word made goose bumps pop out on Olivia's skin, despite the humidity of the New Orleans summer day. Stopping before the gate outside her large colonial house, she took a long, wary look around. A few cars drove down the quiet tree-lined street. In the distance, she saw a group of young people walking and laughing.

It was the kind of scene she would expect to see in her neighborhood. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Yet something was out of the ordinary. A young woman had been murdered, quite possibly by someone she knew.

Olivia quickly opened the gate and hurried to the front door of her house. Until she'd heard the startled whispers in the crowd, she hadn't realized that Liza had most likely died of unnatural causes.

She shook her head, a little annoyed with herself. She had such an imagination when it came to the stories she created, but she seemed unable to look at the big picture when dealing with real life. Why else would Liza's body be in the bayou if she hadn't been killed?

Murdered. The reality of the situation swept over her, and she once again felt cold.

Olivia placed her hand on the doorknob, but before she could turn it, the door opened. She jumped backward with fright.

Edward Haughton, the houseman, greeted her with a smile and a nod.

"Oh. Hello, Edward." She breathed in deeply, relieved. Who had she expected to see? A man with an axe? She must have been spooked on account of what she'd learned. "You startled me."

"Sorry."

"No problem," Olivia replied, waving off his apology.

"Your mother is in the sunroom. She said she wanted to see you the moment you returned."

"Oh, all right." Olivia could only assume that her mother wanted to see her to get the news regarding Liza.

Edward wiped at the beads of sweat dotting his forehead with a white handkerchief. It didn't matter how hot the day, he always dressed in a uniform that consisted of a long-sleeved white shirt, black pants, and a black bow tie. More often than not, he also wore a matching black blazer. No doubt, Olivia's mother preferred he dress that way.

She watched Edward walk off in the direction of the kitchen. He had been around for as long as she could remember, since before her father had died. Most likely he would be here until he retired, became too ill to work, or passed away. Even if they were ever in a financial bind — which was highly unlikely — Olivia doubted that her mother would let Edward go. Appearances were important to Sylvia Grayson, which meant she would keep Edward, no matter the cost.

But not only that, her mother truly cared for him.

Having met him at a church outreach drive to help the less fortunate, Sylvia had taken a special interest in Edward. He had fallen on hard times emotionally after losing his entire family in a tragic house fire. For two months after the accident, Edward hadn't worked. Instead, he had found solace in hard liquor. With no other family, he hadn't had anyone else to turn to. Having lost everything, he had stayed in shelters for a temporary roof over his head.

All that changed once he met Sylvia. There was something about Edward — perhaps the fact that he had given up on his dream of law to provide for his young family — that had drawn Sylvia to him. She had helped him out with a financial donation as long as he promised to put it to good use. She had been hoping he would go back to school, but he had used the money to get back on his feet. All the while, Sylvia and Edward had stayed in touch; they'd become friends. Right around the time that Edward had been fired from his second menial job, the Graysons' houseman had quit. So, needing a new houseman, Sylvia had offered Edward the position.

Her mother didn't have to say it, but Olivia knew she had a soft spot toward Edward because he resembled Sylvia's late father.

While Sylvia didn't talk much about her family, she had told Olivia on more than one occasion that it was her father she had been closest to. Unlike her mother, her father had made sure to stay in touch with her after she married a man the family had disapproved of. As far as Sylvia's mother had been concerned, Samuel Grayson didn't come from the right social circles, and she would never accept him. The Etiennes were one of the old-money elite black families in Louisiana. The position had been hard-won after slavery, with Joseph Etienne, a freed slave, building a rice farm into a successful enterprise. As far as the family was concerned, their hard work was not only to better themselves, but for the benefit of future generations. As such, they affiliated with those in a similar economic position, through their church and the social clubs they belonged to. They expected the same from their children. Sylvia should have married a doctor or lawyer, not a jazz musician who had grown up in the streets of New Orleans. Hazel Etienne had seen the act as unforgivable and had practically written her off.

But Marcel Etienne had stayed in touch with his daughter, and when he had died, twenty years earlier, he had left Sylvia a small fortune from the rice farm in Lafayette he had sold before retiring. With careful investments, that money had grown into a huge fortune. Olivia's father, the legendary jazz musician Samuel "Silver Touch" Grayson, had left them some money when he died, but that alone wouldn't have been enough to keep them living the life of luxury that Sylvia had been accustomed to.

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Excerpted from The Delta Sisters by Kayla Perrin. Copyright © 2004 Kayla Perrin. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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