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She wasn’t close to anyone, not even her parents. In those few years, she’d managed to alienate her artist friends in New Orleans. The blame lay on her, she knew. No matter how she’d tried to shake off Duke’s disappearance, it had consumed her life. There wasn’t enough left to maintain friendships. Eleanor was the only person left who’d known her for any length of time. Liza knew if she decided to come clean, Eleanor was the person she had to trust.
“Remember Duke Masonne?”
Eleanor sat up a little taller. “How could I forget him, Liza? You were in love with him. You were going to marry him. And then he disappeared.” Eleanor’s voice was sharp.
“Yes.” Liza saw the anger in her friend’s eyes. Whenever she broached the subject of Duke Masonne, her friends had one of two reactions—they hated him because they felt he’d dumped her and skipped town or they pitied her because they thought he was dead, the victim of foul play. Eleanor obviously preferred the first theory.
“That was five years ago, Liza. The cops closed the case on his disappearance. As far as everyone is concerned, he’s dead.” Eleanor waved her hand around. “You’ve moved on since then. You’ve become a celebrated artist with enough money to open your own gallery.”
Liza sat up. “You never thought he was dead, did you?”
“My thoughts don’t matter. He’s dead to you. Five years, Liza. Even if he is alive somewhere, there’s no excuse for a man who abandoned the woman who loved him and never had the decency to tell her goodbye or let her know that he was safe—”
“I saw him tonight.” Liza saw Eleanor’s reaction, though her friend attempted to mask her shock.
“Really, Liza,” Eleanor said, rising to her feet. She bent over and felt Liza’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.”
“I saw him outside the window. That’s why I jumped up and ran out.”
Eleanor looked as if she’d been slapped. “You saw Duke Masonne?”
“I’ve been seeing him for the past few weeks.”
“Seeing him?”
Liza met her friend’s gaze. “Catching glimpses of him. He’s been hanging around the gallery. Sometimes when I go to buy groceries, he follows me. He’s here, in New Orleans. And he’s alive.”
Liza pulled the comforter up around her, suddenly feeling cold, though the night was warm. A gentle breeze ruffled the curtains in the room, sending them swirling like dancing wraiths. The idea was as chilling as the expression on Eleanor’s face.
“I’m not losing my mind,” Liza said, forcing herself to sound more confident of that fact than she felt. “I really saw him.”
“And he’s stalking you.” Eleanor let the words hang. At last, she leaned forward and grasped Liza’s shoulders. “Listen to yourself. Can you hear what you’re saying? Duke would never come back to New Orleans, not after the way he deserted you. He left you fearing for his safety, wondering if he was injured or dead. There’s no coming back from an action that cruel and despicable.”
Liza closed her eyes briefly. This was the reaction she’d expected, but not the one she’d hoped for. Just this once she needed an ally, someone to help her. She wasn’t imagining things. Duke Masonne had been standing outside the window of LaTique Gallery. He’d been there not an hour ago, and two days before that. And a week before that. It was almost as if he wanted to come inside but couldn’t bring himself to try.
“I need help,” Liza said softly. She opened her eyes. “Will you help me?”
Eleanor’s hands slowly slid from her friend’s arms. “What can I do?”
“He’s here and he’s alive. I have to know what he wants.”
“If that’s the case, think it through. He left you wondering for five years. Yes, your career has skyrocketed. Yes, your talent has grown. Yes, you’re about to become an international success. But have you had a date in five years? Have you established any relationship with a good man? Have you had an ounce of fun in all this time?” Eleanor held up a hand. “The answer is no. A big no. Because that man left you in emotional limbo, a hell of doubt and worry and pain. If he is here—and that’s a big if—the only thing you should give him is a kick in the pants.”
Liza took a deep breath. “Everything you say is true. I am moving forward, though. I have been seeing someone. It isn’t serious. Not yet, but it could grow. Maybe.”
“Who?”
“Trent Maxwell. He’s a New Orleans policeman. But I have to know what happened to Duke. Maybe if I find out the truth, I can put this behind me. Eleanor, you didn’t really know Duke. He wasn’t the kind of man who would deliberately hurt me. I…I don’t know how to make you see it, but you have to believe me. What we had was very much like the love you and Peter share. It was real. If I can’t believe that, how can I ever believe in anyone again?”
Eleanor stood up and began to pace the room. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help me find him.”
“And then?”
“I only want to talk to him.”
“I don’t know.” Eleanor came back around the sofa to face her. “I’ll talk it over with Peter. But I want a promise from you.”
“Anything.” Liza felt a surge of hope that was the most promising emotion she’d allowed herself in five years. “What?”
“You’ll go and talk with a professional, a psychologist.”
Liza’s immediate reaction was to reject the idea. She wasn’t insane. She hadn’t imagined the man outside the window. But she saw the iron in Eleanor’s eyes. “I don’t think this is necessary, but I’ll agree. If you help me.”
Eleanor nodded. “I have to go back to Washington. We left Jordan with Peter’s folks, and I’m due for a doctor’s appointment.”
“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” Liza asked.
“Yes, I think I am.” Eleanor’s hand strayed to her stomach and her smile was small but joyous. “I have to go back to D.C. In the meantime, though, I’ll leave Familiar here with you. He’s rather extraordinary. And to be honest, if Duke Masonne or his look-alike is snooping around here, Familiar will deal with him. When I return, we’ll settle this once and for all.”
“You’re leaving the cat?” Liza looked at the black cat that was scampering around the room.
“Don’t ever underestimate him,” Eleanor said. “He’s the best detective working the business.”
“And people think I’m suffering from delusions,” Liza said softly. She was rewarded by a smile from her old friend.
“Point taken,” Eleanor said. “Now Pascal gave me this sleeping pill for you. He said it would only relax you, and I want you to take it.”
Liza made a face. “He has more pills than a pharmacist.” She obediently opened her mouth and took the pill and glass of water Eleanor offered.
“I’m going back downstairs to help with the party. Just relax and try to rest. I’ll take care of everything.”
Liza caught her friend’s hand. “Thank you, Eleanor. I’ve been alone for so long, I’d forgotten what it feels like to have a real friend.”
“I only hope I’m doing the right thing.”
I HAD A WONDERFUL little snoop around Liza’s establishment. Very neat. First floor, gallery, second floor, studio, and at the tip-top, her home, complete with a second, secret studio. I am gravely concerned.
To all the world, Liza is a watercolor artist, a woman who captures the spirit and soul of New Orleans in the wash of color, the fragility of beauty that comes from age and light and the fine details of a scene. But there is another Liza, another side to this complicated woman. A very dark side.
She has secret drawings in her secret studio, all pen and ink, all of one man. I have no doubt that this is the missing Duke Masonne. He may have been gone for five years, but he’s been very much a part of Liza’s life. There must be over a hundred drawings of him.
The only good thing I can say is that I have no doubt of what he looks like. Though many of the drawings are shadowy, a strange portrayal of his face half in light and half in dark, I could spot him in a lineup in a split second.
He is, indeed, a handsome man. Striking, even. But what truly stirs the fear in my heart is the way Liza has created a shrine to him. I mean, her little secret room is so full of him that it seems there’s no room for anything else. And I know enough about humanoid psychology to realize that such an obsession is a long, long way from healthy.
I was on the street with Liza and what I saw was emptiness. There was no one around. Not even the hint of someone. Not even a lingering trace of an odor.
Eleanor has generously offered my help in this case, but for the first time in my career as a supersleuth, I don’t know if I’m the cat for the job. I realize I’m smart, capable, highly trained and incredibly intuitive, but Liza may need the help of a doctor, not a detective. The only thing I can do is keep my sharp eyes open and my sensitive ears attuned to the sound of a visitor. If this Duke guy is out there, I’ll nail him. And he can answer a few questions that have waited far too long to be addressed.
The only positive thing I found was a half-finished picture—not watercolor or pen and ink but acrylic—so very different from anything else she’s done. There’s a sense of fantasy to it—a robbery in progress depicted from the point of view of a bystander. And the loot being stolen is a painting. Bright colors, a sense of whimsy. If this is the new direction her work is taking, perhaps she’s going to leave her dark memories behind. Then again, if she’s seeing this Duke Masonne in every shadow and behind every bush, it doesn’t seem to me as if she’s ready to step out of the past.
Ah, her sleeping pill is taking effect. She’s one beautiful woman, and so childlike with that long blond hair falling over the sofa and onto the floor.
If this Duke is alive, why would he abandon a woman like this? That’s the question I somehow have to make her consider. Was he a criminal with a secret life? Did he get into some kind of trouble? Was he killed? Five years and no one has an answer. Now that seems more than a little strange to me. I suppose there’s just so dang many humanoids running around the planet that it’s impossible to keep up with every single one.
Now I’m going to do a little more snooping while Miss Renoir sleeps.
THE AFTERNOON HAD GROWN warm, and Mike slipped out of his jacket and carried it over his arm. The French Quarter was bustling during what he’d come to view as a typical Friday morning as tourists made one more attempt to seek out the delicious food and the flavor of the old Quarter.
He’d had a restless night, endlessly going over Liza Hawkins’s expression when she’d seen him in the window. The predominant emotion had been fear. But beneath that, there was something else. Something that made his own body respond in a way he’d long forgotten.
She was a beautiful woman, and desire for her would not have been unusual. There was more to it, however. Desire and something electric. They had a past, of that he was certain. What kind of past, though? That was the question.
He was tempted to stroll by her gallery again, but thought better of it. He’d frightened her badly. Chances were she had someone on the lookout for him.
For several weeks he’d confined his activities to shadowing her. He knew her daily habits, the place she bought her groceries, the restaurants she frequented, dining mostly alone. Except for the tall blond man. A cop. He was a plainclothes detective—Mike hadn’t had any trouble finding that out. Trent Maxwell was well known in the French Quarter.
The first time he’d seen Liza with the cop, he’d felt a stab of jealousy so visceral he’d felt his hands clench into fists and his body tense for action. It had been a gut reaction and he’d been able to control it. But he hadn’t been able to explain it. Not to his satisfaction.
He felt things for Liza Hawkins, but he didn’t understand why. The answer was buried in the past, and today he’d decided to stop watching and start getting some answers.
He picked up a Times Picayune newspaper and hurried back to his apartment. The article about Liza’s opening was on the front of the art section, a splashy story with several photographs that lauded Liza’s talent and her “meteoric rise” to success.
Anita Blevins was the art critic whose byline headed the story, and Mike picked up the phone, dialed the paper and waited for the switchboard to connect him with the critic. Her voice was stiff, cultured and impatient, just as he’d anticipated.
“My name is Mike Davis and I just read your article on a New Orleans artist, Liza Hawkins. I’m interested in collecting some of her work, but I wondered if you might have more details about her.”
“I’m not the woman’s biographer,” Anita Blevins said sharply.
“But as a journalist with a great degree of talent, as demonstrated in your article, I was hoping you might give me an unprejudiced opinion and a bit of history. Of course, if you’re too busy, I understand.”
“A bit of history?” Anita’s voice warmed. “Okay, a thumbnail sketch. New Orleans artist, watercolorist, single, had a tragic love affair with a businessman, very reclusive and eccentric. Pretty standard fare for artists of all types, I’d say.”
Mike wasn’t the least bit interested in the value of Liza’s work, but he knew that was the tack to take. “Do you believe her work will increase in value?”
“No doubt. Are you an investor or a collector?” Anita’s interest was aroused.
“Both. I collect what I like, but I also like to turn a profit.” Mike was almost surprised at the ease with which the words came. He didn’t remember investing in anything except cattle feed and fertilizer. Or sometimes a good bull. He’d seen hefty returns on two prize Herefords.
“Buy her now. She’s going straight up. And the pictures are a bonus. They are quite beautiful, aren’t they?”
“I think so.”
“Are you a native of New Orleans, Mr. Davis? You don’t have the accent, but then our city is so culturally rich that diversity is almost a trademark.”
“I’m visiting,” Mike said carefully. “Why does Miss Hawkins paint only New Orleans scenes?”
“That’s a good question. When I interview her, I’ll ask. You can read the answer in my profile of her for the Sunday paper.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” He could tell she was about to bolt off the telephone. “You said she was involved with a businessman. What happened?”
“He disappeared. You asked for facts, but do you want supposition?”
Mike’s hand clenched at his side. “Facts are wonderful, but a report with intuition can sometimes ferret out the truth even when it can’t be proven.” Anita Blevins was a woman susceptible to flattery, and he used it without shame.
“There are two theories. Duke Masonne was murdered and the body will never be found or…he was involved in illegal deals on the docks and he disappeared.”
“What did this Masonne do?”
“He imported art and antiques from Europe. Quite the complement to our artist. It was an odd match in some ways, a conservative businessman and an artist. That kind of difference breeds gossip. And don’t think I’m going to repeat any of it. Use your imagination.”
“You’ve been more than helpful. I’ll look forward to your profile,” Mike said.
“You’ve piqued my interest, Mr. Davis. It might be fun to do an article on an investor who collects local artists. What about it?”
“And ruin my cloak of anonymity? Not today. But if I change my mind, I’ll give you a call.” He hung up quickly, hoping the newspaper didn’t use caller identification. He’d been foolish to call from his apartment.
“Duke Masonne.” He said the name softly. At last he had a place to start.
LIZA CLOSED THE SCRAPBOOK and found herself staring into the golden gaze of Familiar. The cat had sat on the arm of her sofa as if he’d guarded her all night long. Incredible, but she did have the strangest sense that she was safe as long as he was there. Either it was that sentiment or the sleeping pill, she wasn’t sure which, but she’d actually slept better the past night than she had in weeks.
Her fingers traced the leather cover of the scrap-book. “It was real,” she said to the cat. “No matter what anyone tries to tell me, the love Duke and I shared was real. He didn’t leave me. He didn’t run off. Something happened. And now he’s back here to explain.”
Even to herself, she sounded pathetic—a woman jilted who can’t accept the fact. If Duke was alive, then he’d left her. Five years. Why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he simply said he was leaving? She wasn’t the kind of woman who clung to a man. She’d never been. If he’d asked for his freedom, she would have let him go without a scene or a recrimination. He knew that.
At least she would have been spared five years of hell. Five long years of wondering, of imagining. Of hoping.
She stood up and put the scrapbook on the coffee table. To her surprise, it was almost dusk. Not even Pascal had called to interrupt her sleep. He must be inordinately worried about her, she thought wryly. Normally no one’s problems or concerns came before Pascal’s. He’d been known to browbeat an artist for a commissioned picture while the artist’s mother was dying of cancer.
“I should get dressed,” she said. Talking to the cat was becoming a habit and one that concerned her. Not only was she seeing men who’d disappeared, she was talking to a cat as if he could understand every syllable.
“How about a stroll through the French Market? I’m starving. Maybe we can find some suitable food.”
“Meow!”
“Now that’s enthusiasm. Eleanor didn’t think to leave cat food for you.”
“Grr-rrr-rr-rr.”
“Oh, so cat food is out of the question.”
“Meow.”
She was losing her mind. The cat was talking back to her—and she understood him perfectly. “I’ll take a shower and get dressed. You consider the menu.”
She rushed through her toilet and dressed. When she came back into the room wearing pale yellow capris, sandals and a cotton pullover, she found the cat on the sofa with the telephone book open. His paw was on an ad for soft-shell crabs.
