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
