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  Kathleen’s expression had grown steadily more deranged with each flashback, the knife even longer, her stance more menacing. Add to that the potential of Fortier’s betrayal and Shel was fortified for her mission, determined not to be left without her bounty, even if it meant taking it herself. A woman of Kathleen’s means would not be without a stash of money or jewels. Even middle-of-the-road jewelry would fetch some value in a pawn shop.

  A preliminary search of the kitchen yielded a few orchard green plastic plates and a handful of mismatched glasses, reinforcing the thrift store notion. She rummaged through the pantry, going so far as to shake boxes of macaroni and even a coffee can. No hidden money there. She poked into the refrigerator, but there discovered only juice and a carton of milk. She closed the door and turned around, her eyes landing on a childproof lock looped over the only low cabinet she hadn’t checked. She went to work on the contraption, finding it ironic that although she could successfully pick the door lock, she was having difficulty disarming a piece of looped serrated plastic. At last it gave and she yanked the cupboard open. A single jug of wine sat on the only shelf. Puzzled, she waved her arm around the deep recesses of the cabinet but found only dust.

  “That is what you’re protecting…?” Shel angrily replaced the lock and stood, making a final glance around the kitchen. “For all your money, Mrs. Fortier, your food selection is repulsive and your wine is cheap.”

  Shel marched across the living room, pausing to check a tiny flowered wood box on the shabby coffee table. She flicked back the lid to reveal childish trinkets—plastic rings, fake baubles, and a myriad of paper hearts with “mom” scrawled on each in a childish hand. Shel slammed the flimsy lid shut as if touching the box might threaten her resolve. She set it back in its place and continued on her mission.

  A narrow hallway just beyond that led to two small bedrooms. The smaller contained a full-size bed with a drab coverlet, a nightstand, and simple chest of drawers. The furnishings were spare, a half step up from prison issue.

  “Sixth grade camp was swankier than this,” she muttered. In the corner, a sweater was draped over the mirror attached to the chest. Shel ran her hands through the soft fabric of the pockets. Nothing. She opened the closet door and examined the few items dangling from hangers. The clothing was airy, plain and very simple, the exact opposite of what she’d seen in the woman’s New Orleans closet. No tightly wedged wardrobe here. No suitcases or trunks, only a single pair of canvas, no label tennis shoes that may well have come from Walmart. Shel stared at everything which was…nothing.

  She closed the door and went to the chest, opening each of four drawers, but finding only a few pairs of shorts and T-shirts. The topmost drawer contained cotton panties. Shel stared at them for a bit before reluctantly scooting them aside. She tried not to notice the soft fabric or imagine what they looked like when they were not laying in the drawer…

  She swallowed hard and slammed the drawer shut. She checked beneath the bed. In all she found nothing.

  “Where do you keep your precious jewelry, Mrs. Fortier? Family heirlooms—anything.” Shel was simultaneously growing more curious and angry. “Where are you hiding the good stuff?”

  She yanked open the nightstand drawer and found a box of store brand tissues. Everything about the room said she was as transient as Shel, and again she wondered if the woman was only on a stopover for a job.

  Shel stormed out of the room and directly into the child’s room, which was larger and significantly brighter than the other. In fact, it was the only room in the house painted a color other than institutional white. The walls were sunny yellow, adorned with several paintings that froze her in her tracks. Although she needed no additional confirmation that she’d found the missing mother-daughter duo, several original Kathleen Fortier paintings of those funny New Orleans houses hung on the walls, complete with the infamous curling K signature.

  Shel set about snapping camera photos of the paintings. Some of the houses had stars sparkling in the windows while others had hearts and rockets bursting from their chimneys. Each bore the trademark yellow sliver of a moon. Shel shook her head at her good luck. She’d give Fortier all the evidence he needed that she’d located his child.

  A thick pile rug in the center of the room had a few dolls scattered across it. The toddler bed was a huge downgrade compared to the swank one in the child’s former nursery, yet captivating as it had been hand-painted with whimsical yellow moons, stars and smiling flowers. Shel spun a slow circle in the center of the room, taking silent inventory. It appeared the paintings were the only jackpot to be discovered and they were, in fact, worth far more than the grand total of the house’s entire contents. Taking them would be pointless. Art was tricky; if additional paintings surfaced on the market, Shel would look like the obvious thief. Should anything happen to Kathleen and her daughter, Shel would also be subject to that scrutiny.

  She noted that the kid had nicer clothes than her mother. A row of tiny shoes and sandals lined part of one wall and the only closet was nearly filled with simple sundresses. It looked like the child was clearly priority in the house, which didn’t support Kathleen’s odd behavior or her husband’s nasty description of her.

  Shel glanced at another row of blue marbles lining the high windowsills.

  “Why so paranoid, momma? Someone after you?” With some humor, she quietly added, “Besides me?”

  The thing about paranoid people was that they usually hid their valuables. It angered Shel that she’d been unable to strike pay dirt. She checked under the toddler bed then the mattress before returning to Kathleen’s room. She drew back the sheets and swept her hand under and between the mattresses. Replacing the covers, she felt a hellish level of frustration.

  She made another pass through the living room and the kitchen table with two mismatched chairs. She felt under the table to see if anything had been taped there and again she came up empty. Basic furnishings, minimal clothing, no personal effects to speak of—it was hardly a suitable setup for a millionaire’s wife. Even the silverware was metal with plastic handles, the kind one would use for a picnic. Shel double-checked everything to make sure she hadn’t missed a trick. There was still one more room. She headed for the small bathroom.

  It was in this room she discovered her exit strategy. The only window in the entire place that wasn’t lined with blue marbles was also five feet off the ground, over the bathtub, and certainly no easy way to leave the premises.

  “Jesus,” Shel muttered to no one. She proceeded to check the cabinets, empty a travel bag, even checked the tank on the toilet. “This is…unbelievable.”

  There was nothing to do but leave. She stepped up, placing one foot on each side until she was straddling the bathtub. She unlatched the window, but it didn’t budge. She dug her fingernail into the line of caulking and began peeling it back, littering the porcelain below with white, rubbery slivers. She pounded the heel of her hand against the window until it opened a few inches. Working the stiff rusty bend, she was almost breathless by the time it was fully open. Shel dropped down into the tub and gathered all the discarded bits of caulk and shoved them into her jeans pocket. She looked back at the high window and groaned. “This should be fun.”

  She again straddled the tub and pushed off with her toes, slowly, but effectively lifting herself in a chin-up. Shel swung her leg high and boosted herself the rest of the way, hunching low to get through the long, skinny window. She shimmied across the threshold then fell to the ground outside, knocking the wind clean out of her lungs.

  She caught her breath and stood, hobbling first, then made the reach on tiptoes to push the window shut. It made a whoosh-thunk sound, probably showering the tub with caulking particles all over again, but now she was too angry to care. She limped back around the house, to her own place across the street.

  Shel didn’t go inside for fear that she’d lay down and never get up again. Instead she got into her rental car and headed toward the beach. She parke
d outside Naples Seaside Resort and within seconds she was standing in front of the concierge’s desk.

  “Welcome back, madam. How can I assist you today?”

  That he said welcome back and didn’t call security said that her ludicrous charges from her previous stay went through the powers that be at American Express Black. She withdrew the card and her driver’s license and handed both to the man.

  “What’s the max I can draw off this thing?” Shel asked him. Then, if only to add an ounce of intended credibility, she added, “I want to restock my wine cellar back home.”

  He looked thoughtful as he examined the card. In a quiet voice he told her, “This is the highest order card one can receive, as you know. I’m sure the benefits are substantial. Would you like me to find out for you, madam?”

  “Yeah, I would,” she said, already feeling relieved. “Will that take long?”

  “Not too long,” he politely replied. “Would you care to wait in the lobby or the bar?”

  A flurry of workers was wrestling around a project in the main lobby, and Shel nearly told the concierge she’d be in the bar. But then she saw her. Kathleen Fortier was in a small huddle of uniformed hotel workers, framed art all around them.

  “What’s going on in there?” Shel didn’t attempt to mask the surprise in her voice.

  “The hotel features art from a variety of local artists. They’re making the monthly switch at this time.” He pointed toward the bar. “If it’s too noisy for you, feel free to have a complimentary drink in the bar. I’ll come find you there when I have your information.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she said, still staring at the workers and their appointed artistic ringleader. She was already walking toward them as she said, “I’ll make my way back around to you.”

  Shel slipped through the lobby and settled into a corner library-style nook seat with high leather backs, designed to provide its occupants utmost privacy. She had a limited view of Kathleen and watched her from a safe distance. The woman appeared to be laying out directives, pointing at the walls, and showing her new minions something on a clipboard. Shel couldn’t believe the coincidence. She recalled her conversation with the local art gallery owner and his nice little speech about respecting people who wished to remain in the background. At the memory, Shel smirked. Kathleen Fortier was hardly in the background now. In fact, this particular hotel was heavily concentrated with wealth and society. Thinking about Fortier’s warnings about his wife, Shel wondered if Kathleen was presently on the hunt for another sucker to scam. If so, it would go far to prove Fortier was telling the truth about other things concerning his wife and Shel could catapult past her infatuation with the woman, turn over her location without a guilty feeling in the world.

  She stared at the beauty with the clipboard and sighed. If only Shel had help—someone who could pose as a mark to see if Kathleen would take the bait.

  The soaring ceilings and marble floors created an echo that made it impossible to hear what was being said no matter how hard she strained; however, she overhead a closer conversation and instantly recognized the voice. She made the decision to capitalize on a previously played bluff.

  Shel quietly milled through the rows of ultra-private booths until she found Bartender Rob. Dressed in a French terry shirt and white tweed shorts, he was deep into whatever role he was playing for the older woman sitting across from him. His smiling, beautiful face practically melted to tears when he saw her, causing Shel to wonder what he was up to. The place seemed to be ripe with scammers. He quickly excused himself and approached her.

  “What’s up?” he asked her in an impatient whisper. “Did I do something? Why are you back?”

  “Did you do something?” she asked, putting his fear to good use. Paranoia seemed to be the soup du jour. After a second she patted his shoulder. “Relax, Rob. I’m only admiring your work. You really know how to get the ladies, don’t you?”

  Clearly frustrated, he said, “If that’s all you wanted you could have admired my work from across the room.”

  “Not really. Would you get a load of the size of these things?” She pointed at the towering units with hand-carved shells all around them. She leaned to one side and gave a little wave to his friend still seated in the cozy booth. “Cute,” she said, her voice ripe with sarcasm. “So, what kind of money you expect to make off her?”

  “What can I do for you?” he more begged than asked.

  “And what’s with this getup?” Shel said, ignoring his inquiry. She pinched his expensive sleeve. “Mr. Peterson would be plenty interested to know you’re a kept man many times over, all courtesy of his hotel. If I’m not mistaken, that makes him like…your pimp or something. Big trouble there…”

  The mention of his boss’s name seemed to visibly shake Rob. In truth she’d never laid eyes on the man except for the labeled picture in her welcome brochure.

  “I’m cooperating.”

  “Who’s the dame?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend.” She sounded like Officer Milford, but didn’t pay it notice. She was preoccupied with a move she was formulating on the spot. “I need a little favor. Now.”

  He looked put out. “Seriously? I’m in the middle of something here.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure it pays well,” she said, giving him a look. “You got more of this kind of thing here? These snazzy rich-guy duds? Something that doesn’t look like you just rolled off the tennis court?”

  Looking aghast, he looked behind him at his awaiting date, giving her the one-minute sign. He faced Shel again, his friendly demeanor gone, but his exasperation intact. He admitted, “I might be able to get my hands on something.”

  “Make it fancy. And expensive,” she added. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m going to need a minute,” he whispered. “I can’t just leave her.”

  “Tell her you’ll meet her in an hour.”

  “But she’s my…” He shrugged, nodded, and made several foolish looking gestures to indicate money.

  “Oh, she’s going to hook you up with the duds?” Shel pretended to be impressed. She winked. “Smooth. Gotcha.”

  He made his reluctant proposal. “Meet me outside the gift shop in fifteen minutes.”

  “Don’t be late.” As he started to go, she whispered loudly, “Shake your moneymaker.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the boutique that was hardly a modest gift shop. Wearing a pair of white, freshly minted slacks and an upscale polo shirt, he looked every bit the part of one of the patrons rather than a tiki bartender. She made a low whistle. “Bling?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Fancy watch? Like a Rolex? You need to look very legit for this assignment.”

  They walked down the marble hallway until he broke off and ducked into a smaller, private hall. There he exchanged a few words with security, an older woman—his specialty—and within moments she’d buzzed him through another door.

  He returned shortly and caught up with Shel. Unable to hide his pride at what he’d accomplished, he proudly displayed his arm for her to see.

  She squinted at the watch, sounded disappointed when she asked, “What is that?”

  “It’s Harry Winston,” he told her. “On loan from the main safe, so I have to hurry or it’s my ass.”

  “They didn’t have a Rolex?”

  His eyebrows practically hit his hairline. “It’s Harry Winston,” he repeated, as if she’d possibly misheard him.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” Quickly getting over it, she laid out her warning. “Now, this woman knows her rich shit, so don’t try to have a conversation about anything unless you truly know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Okay,” he nervously agreed.

  “Do you know anything about art?” He shook his head. Shel went on. “That’s okay. You’re the lonely, sexy, wealthy guy who wants to learn everything there is to know about it and you want to learn it from her. Don’t come on strong like you normally do.
This requires subtlety. She’s an operator, much like yourself, so don’t get too familiar or she may call your bluff.”

  They rounded another corner. An older woman had linked arms with her husband, but when they passed, she shot Rob a flirtatious glance. He waved at her.

  “You’re despicable, you know that?” Shel said before quickly shifting back to his mission and its accompanying directives. “That baller stuff may work with the older dames, but not this one. For this one, you’re a sensitive loner with all this damned money. Make yourself appear downright vulnerable—I need to catch her trying to scam you, you understand me? Do not screw this up.”

  “If you don’t have faith in me, why did you come find me?” He stopped walking, forcing her to do the same. His impatience was showing. “Maybe you want to stick your hand up my ass and make me your puppet.”

  “I don’t relish the thought, but it would be easier,” she admitted.

  He rolled his eyes. She walked on and he reluctantly followed her to the main lobby. They stopped near the back, watching workers unwrap art and situate displays.

  “The funny little guest house and alleys paintings are hers. Don’t compliment anything on that wall unless it’s hers, you understand me? You’d love it on every wall of your pretend big-ass house.”

  He nodded.

  “And do not talk about money, you hear me? Do not—”

  “Baby, the only people who talk about money don’t have enough of it.” He was suddenly at ease, owning the role. Shel breathed a soft sigh of relief.

  “Good luck. She’s over there.” She pointed out Kathleen Fortier. He seemed to look right past her.

  “Where?”

  “The beautiful one, genius,” she mockingly told him. “With the blond pixie.”

  Shel studied the woman wearing gauzy white pants and a simple yellow T-shirt. Her bleached hair was stylishly mussed and wrapped in a matching sheer scarf that fell to the backs of her knees. How could he not know which one?