fine,” she assured him.
“I have to tell you something. Right about the time of that accident, your boyfriend, Ryan Jones, was in here. He was asking a whole lot of questions.”
Kinsey instantly conjured an image of Ryan: curly blond hair, bittersweet-chocolate eyes, a nice smile. She’d met him several weeks earlier when he came into the gallery to buy a painting for his office and wound up taking Kinsey to dinner instead. Since then, she saw him whenever his New York engineering firm sent him to New Orleans to work on a levee project they’d contracted. “What kind of questions?” she asked.
“Stuff about your background, where you’d grown up, things like that.”
Kinsey’s brow wrinkled. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. You haven’t exactly told me a whole lot, you know. I just said something about what a hard worker you are. He said he knew that. Then he started asking questions about your family, specifically, your mother.”
Kinsey swallowed hard. “My mother? What did he want to know?”
“Let’s see. How old she was and how long had she lived here and where exactly did she live and work...stuff like that. I told him the truth, that I’d never met her, that she was kind of a recluse. He left a few minutes later after getting a phone call.”
“That’s...odd,” Kinsey said. She’d spent years looking after her mother who at times was a social misfit. The thought of a friend asking questions behind her back—well, it was disquieting.
“I thought so, too. That’s why I’m telling you.” He took a deep breath and added, “On top of that, I’m afraid we have a more immediate problem than a snoopy boyfriend.”
“Don’t keep calling him my boyfriend,” she protested. “We haven’t known each other that long and he’s only in town—”
Marc held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you know what I mean. Our star artist is holed up in the ladies’ room.”
Still reeling over news that Ryan had been asking about her family, Kinsey shook her head. “How long has she been in there?”
“Forever. Someone from the newspaper showed up and wanted an interview and she refused. Turned all shy, refused to have her picture taken or anything. Thank goodness you’re here. She’s supposed to say something meaningful about her muse in five minutes. Remind her that’s why I’m doing this show, to sell her work, not be her therapist.”
“I know, Marc. I’ll get her back out here.”
“Tell her the newspaper guy left.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. I tried to get him to stay, but art shows aren’t exactly a huge draw, even when the paintings are as good as these.”
The opening seemed to be well attended, for which Kinsey was thankful. She’d sent out over a hundred invitations and it looked as if about half had decided to come, packing the narrow, trendy space with well-dressed people sipping wine. Of course, it was a heck of a lot cooler in the gallery than it was outside, so maybe that helped account for some of the attendees.
As she moved through the room, greeting people as she went, she noticed several discreet sold signs. That should make Marc happy.
Once inside the ladies “lounge,” Kinsey found Ellen Rhodes sitting forlornly on a velvet bench, staring at her hands.
“Congratulations, you’re a hit,” Kinsey said with a giant smile.
Ellen looked up with nervous blue eyes. “I can’t do this. I don’t like all these people looking at my work.”
“Isn’t that the point of a show?” Kinsey asked gently.
“I didn’t know it would be like this. So many people...”
“You’ve already sold several paintings,” Kinsey said. “You’re a hit.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Listen, I get it, you’re not into the publicity side of things, you’re not a media hound. But Marc has a lot at stake here. He believes in your work or he wouldn’t have offered you this show. Most artists work for recognition, you know. Buck up, now.”
“You sound like my mother,” Ellen said, but at least there was a little snap in her voice.
“That’s because I’m channeling my own,” Kinsey said. “I’ve heard versions of this speech my whole life.” Like when she’d come home from a school she’d only attended a month to find her mother packing...again. No matter how much Kinsey pleaded to stay in one place, they inevitably moved on. When Mom got it in her head it was time to go, they went. Period.
Until a few years ago, that is. As soon as Kinsey had announced her independence and settled down in New Orleans, her mother had followed suit. She now took care of a sickly elderly man who had once been wealthy but was no longer, and she seemed almost content.
“Is that newspaper guy still out there?”
“No. Marc gave him an interview and he left.” Kinsey’s cell phone rang and she slipped it out of her pocket, answering hesitantly when she didn’t recognize the number. She listened for a minute or so before responding in a soft voice.
“Is everything okay?” Ellen asked as Kinsey pushed the end-call button.
Kinsey dropped her phone into her evening bag. “Huh? Oh, yes. And no.” She made a decision and added, “I’m really sorry, but I have to leave.”
“You can’t,” Ellen squealed.
“I have to. That was the police.”
“The police!”
“They want my help with an accident victim. I have to go to the hospital right away.”
Ellen started to protest, but Kinsey hustled her back into the main gallery and steered her toward Marc, who couldn’t hide the look of relief that flooded his face.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked Ellen.
“I was until Kinsey said she’s leaving.”
Marc’s smile drooped as he turned his attention to Kinsey. “You can’t leave. You just got here.”
“I’m sorry, but the man who was hit earlier this evening is conscious and the police asked me to come see him.”
“Why you?”
“They didn’t say.”
“But you don’t even know him!”
“I know,” Kinsey agreed. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she called as she raced outside, car keys in hand.
A half hour later, she stepped out of the elevator onto the third floor of the hospital. She immediately spotted Detective Woods standing at the end of a short corridor as though waiting
