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  She’d check for the faxes, and if nothing looked promising, she’d turn in her rental car and hop another plane, this time to Savannah. The investigation was taking too long. She didn’t like it. Maybe she was growing more impatient with age.

  She felt funny being so antsy about work, given that her former life as an undercover narcotics cop required ultimate patience, which she’d been good at. She had the pain in her back to prove it, a not so subtle reminder of a night long ago when she’d been forced to lay still for an hour, playing dead with a bullet lodged in her lower back. She remembered the sensation and horror of her blood pooling around her…

  Something she noticed hanging on the wall before her snapped her out of her reverie with such urgency, she sprang to her feet. In her hurry, the flimsy metal chair screeched loudly across the floor and her tiny table wobbled a dangerous circle. She reached out a hand to steady it, but her coffee cup jumped off the ride and crashed to pieces near her feet.

  The place went quiet. Only faint canned music could be heard coming from the swinging metal doors leading to the kitchen. All eyes were on her, but she ignored the curious gazes and remained focused on the painting hanging above the very table where she’d been seated. How she hadn’t noticed it before now was beyond her. The painting depicted a row of tiny pastel houses, different from those oversized New Orleans mansions, but with the distinctive sunshiny windows and silvery moon hanging in the sky. She took a step closer to examine the picture, blinking several times as if each new look might have her changing her mind about what she felt she was seeing. No signature, no curling K, but those colors and that moon…

  Shel heard an admonishing tongue click behind her. She realized she needed to say something. She spun around, her shoulders hunching slightly, and hurried to the counter. All hope for a confidential question-and-answer session was out the door since the silence she’d created would permit everyone in the shop to hear every word.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about that.” She shot an apologetic and somewhat shy smile at the gaping counter clerks. She motioned in the direction of the painting. “That piece caught my eye. Can you tell me where you got it?”

  The counter ladies’ glances seemed to move in unison, slowly and warily shifting from her to the mess she’d created to the painting, then returning to her again.

  “That one’s not for sale. It’s one of the owner’s favorites.” The older of the two women pointed a hygienic, plastic-gloved finger at some other paintings hanging on an adjacent wall. These were composed of boxier subjects, paralyzingly intense color, and poor scale. “Now, those ones over there are for sale. They’re painted by the owner’s son, if you want me to get you a price.”

  Shel desperately tried to tamp down her excitement. Her chest surged with a hopefulness she hardly recognized and dreadfully missed. She found her cell phone and hurriedly snapped two pictures of the painting, aware that the counter ladies—in fact, everyone in the shop—were still observing her curious behavior. She again stepped closer, examining the painting’s clean, nice borders and colors that blended with subtlety. There wasn’t a signature in sight, which seemed peculiar, but she’d bet her entire wad of cash and a black AmEx the work had been painted by Fortier’s wife.

  Shel looked back at the counter ladies. “Is that a Kathleen Fortier?” Clearly clueless, the ladies shrugged simultaneously. They’d obviously worked together far too long. Even their bored expressions were the same. “Do you know if the owner ordered that one or bought it around here?”

  “That one’s fairly new. Owner only buys local. He hires local and buys from local bakers and growers—everything.” The older woman broke from her bored expression and issued Shel a thin smile. She nodded toward the mess she’d left behind her on the floor. “That twelve dollar mug you broke was also made local.”

  “Gotcha.” Shel felt herself shrink under the woman’s subtle chastisement. She quickly collected the remnants of her cup and saucer, and set the pieces on the counter. She peeled a twenty off the top of her wad and shoved it into the tip jar she’d earlier ignored. “Thank you, ladies.”

  “You’re welcome.” The woman’s grin was wide and looked quite genuine. She was obviously pleased with the effectiveness of her ill-disguised tip solicitation. “Come again soon, now.”

  Shel left the shop.

  With orange and white striped barricades effectively sealing off Fifth Avenue from car traffic, the place had been transformed into a pedestrian paradise. Vendors busily carted their wares toward endless rows of uniform-sized white tents. The day was coming alive to the sounds of clinking pottery, the ring of delicate wind chimes, and the four-piece bands warming up their instruments, getting ready to perform for tips. The smells of funnel cakes and deep fried seafood hung thickly in the humid air, completing a carnival-like atmosphere, except here the crowd wore Ralph Lauren, white Capri pants, Coach handbags carelessly drooping from their forearms.

  She headed for the first tent. Judging from the watercolor houses depicted in tiny frames, she had a dim hope she’d already struck pay dirt. On closer inspection, she realized the differences—darker colors, kitschier subjects, exaggerated waves, and not a shotgun house or sunshiny window in sight. She approached various individuals manning the tents and showed the picture she’d snapped in the coffee shop, but nobody seemed to be familiar with the woman’s work. Time and again she was disappointed. No one seemed to have ever heard of Kathleen Fortier.

  The central art themes seemed to be of watercolor beach cottages or large pink castles, glasses of vino, jazz instruments, and then there was beach photography… She continually consulted the photo on her phone, worried she’d forget what she felt certain she was looking for. Somewhere around the tenth tent of similar paintings, she figured she had her work cut out for her. She was almost relieved when she came to the tents containing wind chimes, stepping stones, and abstract bronze figures just to have an excuse to walk past them.

  The balance of Sunday afternoon was spent analyzing painting after painting in a never-ending chain of tents. As the day became hotter, she grew frustrated with her task, tempted to flash her badge and simply start showing a picture of Kathleen herself, rather than that of her painting, but worried that doing so might send the elusive woman further into hiding—if the woman was in Naples to begin with.

  By four o’clock, bands were breaking down and vendors packing up, preparing to cart their works back to wherever they’d come from. Shel bought a tall cup of sweet tea and sat on the curb in a bit of shade to formulate her next move.

  Apparently, the office supply store kept only a three-hour day on Sundays, and she’d missed that by a few hours. So much for the entire reason she’d come to Fifth Avenue in the first place. She was ready to give up and more than ready for something stronger than iced tea. A twinge in her back told her it was time to call it a day.

  She pushed off the curb and caught sight of an older couple headed across the street, toting a large painting as if it were a prized find. Zeroing in for a better look, she was struck by an exposed section not covered by paper—a silver moon in a swirl of sky. Forgetting her aching back, she rushed over to the pair.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, sir,” she said, interrupting their playful conversation about who made a better fettuccini—Rosso Italia or Bella Café. They halted in their tracks and eyed her with an appropriate level of suspicion. Given her dark clothes in an otherwise pastel beach town, she was clearly an outsider. Add to that her wind-mussed hair, and to them, she probably looked homeless. Her suspicion was confirmed when the gentleman’s free hand went for his pocket, perhaps with the intention to either giving her a buck or to mace her. She picked up the pace of her inquiry. “I’m sorry to bother you. I wanted to ask about your painting.”

  His brow furrowed and his hand came out of his pocket. He edged the painting slightly back and out of her reach, and his wife touched his elbow. Shel wondered if the seventy-year-old pair thought they could fend her off so easily. Another twi
nge in her low back quickly deflated her momentarily inflated ego. Their combined haughtiness was off-putting, but Shel could afford to waste no time being offended. She softened her stance, smoothed her hair, and forced as warm a smile as she could manage.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—I dirty down a bit when I’m shopping for my boss. Between us, he’s a bigwig in town, but a legendary tightwad. I find I get a better price for him this way.” She broke into a grin and added in an exaggerated whisper, “And when the boss is happy…well, I’m pretty damned happy.”

  To add credibility to her presentation, she briefly fished the wad of money out of her jeans pocket and gave it a little squeeze before putting it away again. The performance, though seemingly over the top, seemed to work on the pair. They looked relieved. Perhaps the wad of money made them feel right at home, or perhaps they were simply grateful she had her own cash and didn’t want theirs.

  “Well, now, that’s just plain smart,” the man said, his attitude toward her visibly improving. Strands of white, downy hair encircled his semi-sunburned head. He had a spectacularly easy smile and clearly liked to show it off. “You must be quite a businesswoman yourself.”

  “Yes,” the wide-eyed wife dutifully agreed. “Clever indeed.”

  “Thank you,” Shel said, treading waist high in the lie. She turned her attention to the painting that had inspired her ruse in the first place. “Anyway, that looks like a Kathleen Fortier. Is she showing here?”

  “Fortier?” The gentleman shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. This is a local artist, but she’s actually quite good.”

  “My bad,” Shel said, both confused and hopeful. “Could I have a look?”

  “Be my guest.” The man pulled off the rest of the flimsy paper covering and held the painting out for her inspection.

  She studied its folksy aqua and peach hues and perfect light, its swirling skies, waves, and silver sliver of a smiling moon. A quaint, rustic cottage stood where a shotgun house would have in an older version. She’d bet her life that it was Kathleen’s work, despite the missing shotgun and signature with the curling K. She paced her words to avoid sounding too hopeful. “My mistake. In any case, I think the boss will like this artist. He’s always looking for the next big deal.”

  “As are we,” the wife excitedly told her. “And we’ve gotten very lucky at these art fairs over the years.”

  “Splendid to know,” Shel said. She looked past the couple at the workers wrapping their wares. Her pulse quickened. “Do you think you could point me in the right direction?”

  “There are a few tents scattered in the park. You’ll find her work under the striped canopy south of the band shell.”

  “Wonderful. I’d better get a move on since they’re closing up shop.” She started away and doubled back briefly, offering one last improvisation. “By the way, Rosso Italia has top-shelf gnocchi.”

  They thanked her, obviously surprised they had one more thing in common.

  Shel hurried across the street. She shrugged off the latest lies as easily as she had the others. She quickly formulated a new rule: lies told for the sake of finding the child would not count heavily against her. Her reemerging, single-minded determination made her quite a competent command performance liar and smiler. Holding tight to a particularly sore spot low on her back, she jogged past a bricked courtyard and down a narrow alley in the direction the man had indicated. Indeed, there was a park on the other side of a large public restroom, none of which she’d realized existed before now. She chastised herself for having missed hours of opportunity to better scour the place. Volunteers were now rushing to close the festival down. She quickly spotted the band shell and beyond that, a green and white striped canopy.

  Jackpot.

  She broke into a light jog toward the canopy where a good concentration of volunteers was gathered, already at work packing and carting away the work. She scanned a row of remaining paintings, noting their funny, brightly painted guest houses with sunshine in the window and perfect light.

  She glanced around the area for Kathleen Fortier while considering the fact the woman could possibly be wearing her hair back or hiding behind plate-sized sunglasses. In photographs, the woman wore a snooty smile, and she was beautiful enough to warrant any feelings of conceit; therefore Shel doubted Kathleen Fortier would alter her appearance beyond anything superficial. She’d barely bothered to alter her pictures, for heaven’s sakes—if these paintings belonged to Kathleen…

  An African-American woman was giving directions to volunteers and transferring money from a cash register to a canvas zipper bag. She was tall with an athletic build, her perfectly long braids pulled into a thick, lovely ponytail. Shel was struck with a case of nerves when the woman smiled brightly and cordially greeted her, not only because the woman could easily have been a model, but also because she was clearly not Kathleen.

  She forged ahead. “Lovely stuff. Are you the artist?”

  “No. I’m a friend to the artist, but I’ll pass along the compliment. Thank you.”

  “Pity.” Hope resurged within her. “I was hoping to pick up a thing or two on my boss’s behalf.”

  Proceeding with the lie she’d forged on Fifth Avenue, Shel reached into her pocket and barely flashed the wad of dough. She’d gotten more mileage out of that money than she had her fake badge of late and figured she should have made a roll of cash part of her routine long ago.

  “He’s putting together a sort of kid’s space, and he’s looking for something appropriate to hang on the walls. Anyway, thanks.” She tucked the cash back into her pocket and started to leave, counting silently to herself.

  The woman stopped her before she could hit number two. “The artist has some nice work that you may find to be quite child friendly. You should have a look.”

  Shel expressed doubt. “I can see you’re trying to get out of here. I don’t want to keep you.”

  “No problem.” The woman was already motioning for the volunteers to cease movement in the background. “No problem at all. Have a look around. Take your time.”

  Shel nodded and noticed a few men had unwrapped the very items they’d been preparing to haul off moments earlier. She moseyed along row upon row of unmarked watercolors. “The artist really has a nice eye. Who is he?”

  “She,” the woman corrected.

  Shel burst into a grin and said under her breath so she wouldn’t be overheard, “It’s really you, isn’t it? Why so modest? They’re amazing.”

  “I’m Silvia Frances. Addison James is responsible for the work,” the woman said. “I give her a hand now and then in sales, but I’m no artist.”

  Addison James? Shel’s glimmer of hope threatened to dim. She glanced around her, certain the paintings were Kathleen’s work. “I see.” She was tempted to produce a picture of Kathleen and simply cut through multiple needless charades. She resisted and pushed on. “She from Naples?”

  “Not originally, but then, not many people are,” Silvia answered, her tone indicating she’d rather sell art than make conversation about the artist. Her next sentence solidified that notion. “Is there a particular size or price range you’re looking for, Miss…?”

  Well behind Silvia, Shel saw a sign pointing toward the Morris Park Storage facility. “Morris. Cindy Morris.”

  “Ms. Morris,” Silvia politely echoed the made-up name. “Can I show you anything in particular?”

  “No, I think I’ve seen enough.” She pulled the wad of cash out a second time and peeled off a few bills. She nodded at the closest painting, since they were all beginning to look alike to her. “How much for this one?”

  “Five hundred,” Silvia quickly answered. “Firm.”

  “I wasn’t planning to dicker over price,” Shel said, chuckling. She handed her the cash. “I’m sure my boss will like this painting. Do you have a card in case he would like a few more?”

  “Who is your boss?” Silvia’s brows plunged. She suddenly seemed suspicious.

  “T
ruthfully?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Out came another unrehearsed lie wrapped inside a confidential tone. “It’s for the children’s wing of the hospital. Usually when people learn that, they want more money. I don’t know why people are under the impression that nonprofits actually profit.”

  “I understand. I do a bit of nonprofit work myself.” Silvia’s stance softened. She was obviously more at ease. “I suppose perhaps bad press about exaggerated corporate costs makes people cynical that way. A pity. A few bad seeds ruin things for the good guys.”

  “I suppose so. Anyway, we do like to give credit where credit is due. You know, hang a little bronze plaque below the work. It’s sort of a tribute to the artist and generally a good advertisement for them as well.” Shel shrugged and casually added, “That’s why I had so many questions about your artist. But I can understand if she is a recluse or something. No big deal.”

  “Addison is a very private woman.”

  Behind them, volunteers began wrapping the painting in yards of bubble wrap.

  “Okay.” Shel jammed the remainder of the cash back into her pocket, playfully wriggled her eyebrows, and leaned in closer. “Not much of a looker, huh? Maybe she has a big old hairy mole or something?”

  Silvia laughed, but quickly recovered. In her best serious voice, she said, “I assure you, Ms. James doesn’t have a…” She gestured at her face and burst into giggles that seemed uncharacteristic of such a seemingly cultured lady.

  “Well, I have a pretty nutty imagination.” Shel smiled, enjoying her flirting with Silvia. Straight or not, the woman obviously enjoyed it. “Tell the mole-less Ms. James that her work will be on display in the children’s wing of the hospital, if she cares to stop by sometime and take a look.”

  The volunteer in charge of packing handed her the large painting that had been generously wrapped.

  “Wow, a watercolor burrito,” she said, earning another laugh from Silvia. “If I drop this thing, it’ll bounce.”