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