a harmless explanation, and she intended on finding out what it was. She called Ryan’s cell number and left a message when the phone switched immediately to voice mail.
By now the show at the gallery was over. The crew engaged to clean up after the gala would be hard at work. Kinsey called her boss, half wondering if he’d fire her on the spot.
“It all turned out okay,” Marc said. In the background, Kinsey heard voices and the tinkling of glass. It sounded as if Marc had gone out to eat after the show. “We sold eight of her paintings. Everyone loved her once she lightened up.”
“I’m sorry I had to leave,” Kinsey said as she unlocked her car door.
“Couldn’t be helped,” Marc said. His voice was muffled, as though he had covered the phone to speak to someone else, and she waited a second or two before he got back to her. “Listen, it’s time to order and I’m starving. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Food. When had she last eaten, lunchtime? Her stomach growled.
She contemplated calling her mother and decided against it. There was one phone in the old house. Her mother was and always had been something of a night owl, but the man she took care of would be asleep by now and Kinsey didn’t want to wake him.
Those three calls were worrisome, though. Had Ryan somehow found out where she lived and, heaven forbid, had he visited her?
That would not do. If there was one thing Kinsey knew, it was her mom didn’t like strangers. Frances Frost was obligated now to Mr. Dodge, but the poor old guy couldn’t live forever. Sooner or later, she’d be free to wander off again and perhaps if pushed, would do so sooner rather than later.
Three calls meant something had gotten to her. Kinsey knew she’d never be able to sleep if she didn’t see her mom in the flesh and make sure everything was okay. At the last second, she stopped at the small grocery located about midway between the Dodge house and the art gallery to pick up something—anything—to eat. She was met at the door by the Chinese owner, Henry Lee, who was getting ready to turn the open sign to closed.
“Can I grab something really quick?” she asked. “I’m famished.”
“Sure,” he said, allowing her to enter though turning the sign to discourage further patrons.
Kinsey grabbed a premade po’boy sandwich and a bottle of iced tea. A basket on the counter held bananas and apples and she added one of each.
“I heard the show was a good one,” Mr. Lee said as he totaled her purchases.
“I didn’t get to attend much of it,” Kinsey admitted as she handed over a twenty-dollar bill. “You heard about the accident down the street?”
“I heard one of those courier guys went berserk and drove into a crowd of people,” Mr. Lee said as he counted out Kinsey’s change. “I can’t tell you how many times one has come close to clipping me.”
Kinsey gave Mr. Lee an abbreviated rundown of what had really happened, causing the man’s faint eyebrows to arch in surprise. But then his forehead wrinkled. “Did you say the victim wore a cowboy hat?”
“Yes, a tan Stetson. Why?”
Mr. Lee swore under his breath. “I knew there was something I wanted to tell you. A man was in the store earlier today. A cowboy. I swear, he stood right where you are asking questions about someone named Smith. Mary Smith. I think that was the name. Maybe it was Sherry. Anyway, I told him I didn’t know anyone by that name. Then he asked about Mr. Dodge’s housekeeper.”
“By name?”
“No. He called her a housekeeper.”
“What did you tell him?” Kinsey asked, trying to remain unflappable. She wasn’t sure Henry Lee knew she was even related to the Dodge housekeeper.
“I didn’t tell him anything. You have to understand that back in the day, Bill Dodge used his money to do a lot of good in this neighborhood for people like me. You’d have a hard time meeting a kinder man, and I wouldn’t send trouble his way for anything. He deserves to live out his life in peace, and as far as I’m concerned, that housekeeper of his allows that to happen. Without her to shoo people away, that worthless nephew of his would walk off with half the house. Anyway, the cowboy guy asked a couple of questions. He was holding up the line in back of him and people were getting restless. He asked about other contacts he could talk to. I recalled seeing you and the housekeeper chatting with each other one day—it’s the only time I ever saw that woman talk to anyone in here—so I wrote your name on a piece of paper and said you might know something. Frankly, I was trying to get rid of him. He got busy on his cell phone, I suppose looking you up, then he left. That’s it.”
“Did you indicate my connection to the gallery?”
“No. I just gave him your name and told him to phone you. You have to understand, it was really crowded in here. I didn’t have time to be answering questions, especially when the Gastner sisters started arguing about which one of them got the last box of beignet mix. Half my customers walked out. I completely forgot about the man until right now.”
“Did he mention any facts about himself? You know, like where he was from or his name, anything at all?”
“No. I don’t think so. I was kind of distracted.”
“You need to tell the police about this,” Kinsey said. “Ask to speak to Detective Woods.”
“I will.”
“It could be important,” she added. At least she wouldn’t have to make a list of her former clients now that this issue would be cleared up. “But maybe you could leave Mr. Dodge and his housekeeper out of it.”
“Gotcha,” he said with a nod. “I was going to do that anyway because I don’t want to trouble Bill.”
She left a few minutes later, her head swimming with all that had happened today and what it could possibly mean. Back in her car, she unwrapped the po’boy and took a bite. Was it possible Zane and Ryan were somehow connected, or was it coincidence that two men had asked questions about her mom on the same day and that one wasn’t responding to her calls and the other had come close to being killed?
Surely Ryan would realize Marc would report his questions to Kinsey. She was tempted to think it was out of character for Ryan to go behind her back, but truth be known, she wasn’t sure exactly what kind of character he had. He’d come on pretty strong, but now that she really thought of it, he hadn’t shared much about himself. She knew he was working on a levee project, but she didn’t know which one.
Seamlessly, she shifted gears to think about the man she’d given the name Zane, but for a second, she couldn’t get past his blue eyes. Paul Newman eyes, with the same frank evaluation going on behind them. It was pretty obvious now that he hadn’t wanted Kinsey to paint his portrait because he hadn’t asked Mr. Lee directly about her.
On the other hand, she knew just how she’d like to capture him if she did have the opportunity. The sexy twinkle of his eyes, the slight cleft in his chin, his cheekbones and lips. She’d pose him straight on, his rock-hard torso and broad shoulders encased in a trim T-shirt to reveal his muscular arms, head slightly bent forward, thinking about horses or tractors or engines or whatever it was a guy like him thought about when he contemplated life.
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