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  When she recovered from another round of laughter, Silvia shook her hand. “Thank you for stopping by. Contact me personally if your boss would like to see something else.”

  When Shel drew her hand back, there was a business card in her palm. Without a word, she tucked it into her jeans pocket and hurried away.

  Back on Fifth Avenue, police officers were removing barricades and reopening the street to traffic. She leaned against the brick wall of a closed shop and eagerly dug the card out of her pocket for a better look.

  Thomas Taylor, Artist, City Dock Shoppes.

  She squinted at the card. Not exactly the key to the universe, but at least Kathleen—or Addison—had an outlet from which to sell her art. She turned over the card, saw a scribbled telephone number, and wondered if the lovely Silvia Frances was such a pristine straight girl after all. She shrugged off the wishful thought and chucked the card into her jeans pocket.

  She hiked the rest of the way back to the hotel, toting the awkwardly wrapped painting and contemplating its cost. In New Orleans, a Kathleen Fortier work would have easily gone for ten grand, yet she’d just picked up an incredibly similar piece for a measly five hundred bucks. She would spend hours that night comparing the painting she’d bought at Loyola to the one she’d picked up that day. Not that she was an expert, but the brushstrokes looked to be the same, and the colors matched identically. It made sense, Shel reasoned, that an artist would have her favorites. Obviously the subjects would have to change, or else Kathleen would risk immediate exposure. But certainly some things wouldn’t change, like technique and style. Also particular colors or subjects would be a devastatingly hard artistic habit to deviate from.

  Still, the obvious differences glared at Shel; the houses were different types and the signature was altogether missing. It felt like she was trying to talk herself out of believing it was Mrs. Fortier’s work. It was worth hanging around Naples a few days to try and argue the point with herself.

  * * *

  First thing in the morning, Shel was at City Dock on Naples Bay in front of the gallery listed on the business card Silvia had given her, a relatively quiet part of town compared to noisier tourist sections. Having only been in Naples a few days, she was quickly getting acquainted with its neighborhoods. A few blocks from the City Dock was the Third Street South District, a livelier area boasting expensive eateries serving seafood, craft beers and fancy drinks created by a “mixologist,” rather than a bartender. Patrons sufficiently dosed with Marga-tinis and Key Lime infused cocktails could be found toddling down the famous Naples Pier for the best view of sunset on the Gulf shore. A few blocks in the opposite direction was Fifth Avenue, a sort of West Coast Rodeo Drive for the over sixty set who loved a good pinot, prime steak and valet parking. Sandwiched between the competitive shopping districts was an authentic glimpse of old Florida, the rustic City Dock. Naples was indeed an interesting town, bigger and better versus older and quainter, proving the seaside town had a real case of architectural schizophrenia.

  The street leading up to City Dock was lined with a few hotels, a handful of nautically themed shops, a pizza joint, and two art galleries, the latter few housed in what appeared to be revitalized fishing shanties. The Thomas Taylor Gallery was one of these, a smallish shop bulging with Floridian paintings. There were beaches, beach shacks, docks and piers, and enough parrots and margaritas to keep Jimmy Buffett safely in paradise for the rest of his days. Front and center in the main window stood one of those sweet pastels Shel was becoming an expert at recognizing.

  The front door was propped open, and Shel quietly slipped inside and browsed the tiny shop. The limited space was utilized to capacity with paintings hanging from floor level all the way up to the very high ceiling. Multiple bins placed around the room contained an assortment of plastic encased prints that one could flip through like a filofax. As rough count, Shel figured about a quarter of all the work contained within the shop was Kathleen Fortier’s. She was craning to see the topmost paintings when she heard a man’s voice behind her.

  “Looking for something special today?”

  Shel spun to see an older gentleman with white hair, and enough fat on his frame to make him appear downright jolly. He further sealed the deal when he smiled, revealing apple cheeks and dimples. He reminded her of a postcard she’d once see of Santa vacationing on an island during the off-season. He extended a hand her way, “Thomas Taylor, I own this little hodgepodge of a place.”

  She shook his hand firmly. “Nice to meet you. Your shop is lovely.”

  “Thank you. Can I answer any questions?”

  “No, but binoculars might be helpful,” she said, indicating the highest row of paintings hanging almost a full story above them. They chuckled. “You’ve got nice stuff here, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Thank you. I’ve been painting my whole life and a good life it’s been.”

  Shel’s smile was genuine. He emanated a contented peacefulness that felt utterly foreign to her. She forged ahead. “Is everything here your work?”

  “Gentle visitor, I’ve been fortunate to create and sell a lot of work in my life.” He lazily strolled along the wall, pausing to study an occasional painting now and then. “Nowadays, I’m semi-retired. I’m painting less, drinking more wine, having some laughs, and enjoying the gifts of new artists.”

  Shel took a step closer to the wall, nodded toward one of the funny guesthouse paintings. “I like this one.”

  “That work belongs to a new discovery, a young woman who has a great eye for whimsy.” He glanced back at Shel, who nodded. His eyes returned to the painting and he slightly tipped his head as he continued his analysis. “Before she blessed us with her talents, this shop was mostly sand and seascapes. It’s different from our usual fare, but different is good.”

  “She local?” Shel tried not to sound too hopeful. “Looks like you have a lot of her work.”

  “She is local, and if there’s something you fancy, I am happy to pass along your requests, thoughts, or ideas to Ms. James.”

  “Ms. James,” Shel repeated. She sheepishly grinned. “I must confess, I saw some of her art in the park yesterday afternoon. That’s what drew me to your shop.”

  He appeared happy to hear this. “She’ll be pleased to receive the compliment.”

  Shel’s heartbeat accelerated in sync with her hopefulness. “Is she around, by chance? Ms. James?”

  Thomas Taylor neither blinked nor stammered. His answer was simple and frank. “I happily honor her request to remain in the background. I respect every aspect of the creative process.”

  “I see,” Shel slowly answered. “I guess some people are better with people and others are better with a paintbrush.” She gave a nod toward the house painting, reaffirmed, “Clearly she’s good with a paintbrush.”

  “I see you also respect the process,” he said, seemingly pleased that further explanation was not required. “I always recognize a good spirit when I encounter one.”

  With that assessment, he quietly returned to the same comfy chair where he’d been sitting upon her arrival. The Santa Buddha, Shel mentally dubbed him, but certainly he was not as wise as he believed himself to be. No one had ever used the word good to describe her, not even when she was a child.

  Shel pushed the depressing thought out of her head and milled through the bins of paintings for several minutes and generally nosed around the shop. When it was clear that Kathleen either wasn’t in the shop, or wouldn’t be making an appearance, Shel thanked the kindly Summer Santa and made her exit.

  She set up temporary headquarters at a bistro table outside the next-door self-service pizza joint where she sipped iced tea, and for a few hours pretended to consult a map. She was hanging out on the off chance that Kathleen Fortier might show herself. At noon, she ordered a slice of pizza. At three o’clock, she ordered another along with a lager of beer. By five, she was ignoring the glares of the bistro workers who surely wanted her to free up a table for the steady influx of cu
stomers. Meanwhile, her patience for the project had completely evaporated.

  Thomas Taylor’s words rolled through her mind about Addison James remaining in the background, which had given her a morsel of hope that Kathleen was actually on the physical premises. But the longer she waited, the more foolish the notion seemed, and Shel had to face the possibility that Kathleen might never see the inside of the gallery. For all that, she might never even visit Naples, despite what he said about the woman being local. It could be a ruse to sell paintings to tourists.

  Finally she was forced to remind herself that it might not even be Kathleen Fortier’s work. There could actually exist a woman named Addison James, a socially phobic, talented artist who, by some coincidence, had a knack for designing similar funny-shaped, pastel houses. Weirder things had happened. It was Shel’s gut feeling that had her waiting around. The very fact that she’d managed to rouse her long-dormant instincts was even stranger than the possibility of finding Kathleen Fortier in Naples.

  She hoped asking the shop owner about the artist’s Naples residency wouldn’t prove detrimental to her case. No way would she want to risk scaring the woman further into hiding with so much money at stake. Shel realized she was often thinking about the woman in terms of being scared and not wanting to be found, and she wasn’t sure why she kept ending up there in her mind. She hoped it wasn’t that instinct because she could use the money. Shel’s stomach churned every time she thought about it. All this talk of change had her wanting to employ other changes, too, like trying her hand at a life with a semblance of honor.

  Either way, until Shel knew the score, it was vital that Kathleen not know anyone was looking for her. If the woman was biding her time, holding the kid for money and Shel’s clumsy search inadvertently caused a sudden spike in that ransom, her bottom line was sure to go down. She’d be starting a new life, all right, but without money it could feel much like her old very quickly.

  Shel pushed her bangs aside and wiped the sweat off her forehead. Naples was every bit as humid as Louisiana, but with the addition of real heat, and she seemed to be suffering the climate change more than she’d suspected she would. She was thinking about this when a tiny Volvo station wagon pulled curbside. Silvia, the woman from the art sale, emerged from the car wearing a large, stylish bag slung over her shoulder.

  Taken aback, Shel reacted by raising a plastic menu to shield her face. She watched Silvia practically disappear into the backseat and reemerge with a brunette, curly-haired child on her hip.

  Shel’s heart felt like it turned a somersault. What happened next made the entire wait worthwhile: a woman came from inside the shop to greet them on the front stoop.

  It would have been hard to recognize her had Shel not permanently etched the missing woman’s delicate features in her mind. Gone were the long, dark tresses, replaced by a bleached blond pixie haircut. In place of the expensive designer clothing, she now wore a funny bohemian skirt presently covered by a paint-speckled apron. None of the getup did much to flatter her smaller than life, boyishly thin frame. Without makeup, jewels, or any other sign that she was the wife of a wealthy millionaire, Kathleen Fortier looked like the girl next door, a semi-believable disguise. But all the wardrobe and hair colors in the world would do nothing to mask those haunted eyes.

  The woman swept the little girl into a quick embrace before ushering the child into the shop.

  Shel watched as lovely, smiling Silvia followed them to the doorstep and exchanged parting remarks with mother and daughter. Then quickly she returned to her car and drove away. Shel viewed the entire scene from behind the safety of the plastic menu. After a few minutes, she lowered it, only to snap it right back up again when Kathleen reappeared, rolling a beach bike alongside her. The blond woman strapped her helmeted daughter into the back child seat and away they rode.

  Shel all but hurdled over a flowerbed to get to her rental car, figuring anyone who noticed the strange action would take her for a stalker. She could live with that. She easily caught up to them and continued to tail them at a safe distance while Kathleen coasted the bike through the connecting neighborhood.

  Shel’s mind was alive with the fact that the hair, the makeup and clothes—all of it—were long gone. At first blush, it didn’t look like the woman was in a hurry to return to New Orleans, Richard Fortier, or the life of prestige she’d once led, and that had Shel curious. No matter how conniving and no matter how good an actress the woman may be, Shel couldn’t imagine why Kathleen would go through the trouble of such an elaborate change in location, income and appearance.

  Despite her lack of understanding, Shel’s skin prickled with excitement at the prospect that things were finally getting good.

  Kathleen turned down Third Avenue North. As she drove, everything Richard Fortier said about his wife echoed in her head—Kathleen was a dreadful, dangerous mother; she was a scammer to the nth degree.

  Tempted as she was to place a phone call, collect her money and scram, the vow she’d made to herself in New Orleans now had her firmly in its grip. The desire to lead a better, more upstanding life both teased and tortured her. She didn’t want to go forth, money in pocket, having thrown a sheep to the wolf. Only who was the sheep? The wolf…? Damn her sudden case of conscience.

  Shel rolled down the car windows letting the hot breeze blast her face, the scent of every tropical flower assaulting her senses. She coasted far behind the bike, watching the woman’s gypsy skirt bob with her pedaling, flowing behind her like a ribbon. The little girl, thoroughly masked by the large helmet, waved tiny hands, as if she were attempting to physically catch the gentle wind as they zipped silently along the increasingly quiet neighborhood.

  Hypnotized by the breeze and the flowing, ribbony skirt, Shel felt other senses being gradually tickled awake. A feeling of something that resembled righteousness washed through her, only it didn’t feel as good as she thought it should. It felt like heartburn and headache.

  As they rode deeper into the neighborhood, Shel slowed her pace even more, widening the already lengthy gap between the bike and car. The colorful skirt snapped and flapped in the breeze as they rode farther away from her. Try as she may to resist the notion, Shel couldn’t help but feel it was symbolism. It looked like the promise of her colossal payoff was waving goodbye.

  Chapter Eight

  Shel figured a smarter woman would have turned Kathleen over to her husband, collected the cash, and begun the process of putting it all behind her. It occurred to her at least once a minute throughout her sleepless night. By morning, she could have been back on Richard Fortier’s doorstep with pictures of Kathleen, the kid, and the tiny cottage where they lived. He’d said simply call with her location, but Shel had never been one to take a person at his word, nor did she trust such a large amount of cash to a wiring service. She didn’t even have a bank account where he safely could plunk a hearty deposit. Bank accounts were on the record and the payments she’d collected in recent years were not. To this point, mistrust seemed to be the central theme of her existence. Perhaps with enough money and distance from Shreveport, she could overcome that, too.

  She’d finally succumbed to a bit of sleep around five, only to have it tainted with another horrific flashback to her last night undercover on the Narco unit. This time she saw the bodies with remarkable clarity, could remember how she’d crawled through glass toward the smallest, touched the pale skin, felt the warmth of life slipping away…

  Shel awoke in a cold sweat, marking the beginning of another bleary-eyed day. She’d showered and dressed before making the short drive downtown.

  Shel checked her watch and glanced around at the sparse metal tables, the handful of seated patrons, and the Florida-centric art cluttering the walls of the Coffee Cup. Since discovering Kathleen’s work there, she considered the place her lucky charm. The workers had greeted her with wide smiles that morning—her previous fiasco seemingly long forgotten, particularly in light of another twenty-dollar bill she’d stu
ffed into the jar without concern that the tip was four times the amount of her bill.

  As she waited for her appointment, she again ruminated about turning the pair’s location over to Fortier. The man could have collected his child and Shel’s only concern would be which barstool to wear a groove in and on which island. It could still happen, she told herself, although her already wavering conviction about such had taken an even greater hit upon confirming the identity of the woman with the newly shorn, blond locks.

  The bell jingled for the tenth or so time, and her head swiveled toward the door yet again. She rose out of her seat—with care—and greeted her appointment. Thanks to a real estate brochure, she immediately recognized the sixty-something platinum blond with too much Botox and lip filler and overly tanned skin. A frozen, pink-painted grin greeted her, as per a standard she was quickly getting used to, and Mrs. Junie D’Amico, Realtor Extraordinaire, gave her the outsider’s considered once-over.

  “Ms. Carson?” Junie looked very much like she hoped the answer was no. When Shel nodded, the Givenchy-clad woman rearranged her long, flowery scarf and motioned toward the counter. “I’ll grab coffee and we’ll get right to it.”

  Shel waited by the door, reflecting upon the previous night’s mini stakeout of Kathleen’s house, which turned out to be in the middle of a three block stretch of Third Avenue. Her watch hadn’t yielded much. Nobody entered or exited the premises, and the lights had gone out promptly at nine. Shel had hung around until ten before returning to the hotel.

  Her uneventful stakeout had given her plenty of time to study the neighborhood. Most of the houses had hurricane shutters in place, battened down good, considering there wasn’t so much as a storm in the distant forecast at present. She’d asked Rob the bartender about it upon her return to the hotel. He explained that most residents of the town were seasonal. For six months of the year, a substantial percentage of lavish homes were left in the hands of a house staff, a league of lawn maintenance people, and whatever environmental elements the season dished out. She wondered who on earth could afford to call a Naples beach castle a simple “winter home.” It seemed to her a waste.