CHAPTER SIX

1

The next morning at eight thirty, Catherine pulled into the parking lot of the discreetly named Aurora Falls Center. The two-story brick building sat somewhat isolated on a quiet, tree-lined street and looked more like a home than an office building with its white shutters and long, roofed front porch and neat lawn. The area had been strictly rural when the building was constructed, but as Aurora Falls grew in population Catherine knew that soon the “city sprawl” would reach the area, costing the center its sense of privacy. She regretted the changes that would come but knew one had to accept the inevitable.

The beautiful weekend had been a blessing whose time had ended, Catherine thought as she hurried toward the building beneath a low, gray sky dribbling cold rain. A quick look at the weather report this morning had told her the rain would increase as the temperature dropped throughout the day. She groaned. She hated dreary days under ideal circumstances. The last few days had certainly been less than ideal.

Catherine rushed up the two porch steps, put a key in the door lock, another in the dead bolt, and swung the door open to see the thick, moss green carpet brightened by golden oak-paneled walls and matching office furniture. Behind the reception desk sat the efficient secretary Beth Harper. Catherine knew that Beth had, as always, arrived promptly at eight fifteen, although she kept the doors locked so patients wouldn’t walk in until either Dr. Hite or Catherine had come. As usual, Beth had started a fresh pot of coffee. “Good morning, Dr. Gray,” she said cheerfully.

Catherine poured a fresh cup of coffee for Beth, one for herself, and then checked the appointment book. Three patients this morning, she thought with a slight sense of dismay. Only three. She had hoped for a more auspicious beginning, but she often reminded herself she’d only joined Dr. Hite’s practice in the summer. Good word of mouth over time would establish her reputation and build her list of patients.

When Dr. Hite hired Catherine, he’d told her the first month might be uncomfortable because his wife insisted the office needed redecoration. The project added sour lines to his pudgy face, but he admitted she was probably right—the last redecoration had been thirty years ago. To Catherine’s surprise, he had given her free reign when it came to her office, and the room reflected her personality, making her feel more comfortable and at home. Her closed office door bore a bronze nameplate reading: Dr. Catherine Gray in black.

She entered the room with its expanse of restful tan carpet and contemporary armchair and couch upholstered in matching vanilla and light brown tweed. A maple coffee table sat in front of the couch and an end table by the chair. Her large maple desk faced the sitting area and sat out from the wall bearing two long windows set six feet apart. Between the windows hung a large print of Renoir’s Boating on the Seine with its vivid blue sun-dappled water and two passengers sitting in an orange-gold canoe.

A fifteen-inch-tall gilded porcelain temple jar adorned with delicately painted green vines and pink, blue, and white flowers sat toward the right side of the credenza behind her desk. Ian Blakethorne had dropped by week before last and presented her with the jar for her newly decorated office. She’d protested that the gift was far too extravagant, but he had insisted she accept it and she couldn’t say no without insulting him. Besides, she loved the jar. She also loved Ian, who in his young life had gone through so much with such grace.

The two had formed a bond years ago when he’d spent weeks in the rehabilitation center of the hospital after he’d been in the car wreck that killed his mother and nearly took his life, too. That summer Catherine had been sixteen and a volunteer in the rehab unit at the hospital where her father was a surgeon. She’d taken a special interest in the ten-year-old boy who’d bravely suffered through the pain of recovery. Catherine had spent hours reading to him, watching television with him, and teaching him chess. They’d maintained a friendship ever since, in spite of the age difference and all the time Catherine had spent in California.

Now Catherine glanced at her tidy desk, adorned with only a desk pad, a gold pen set, and the tall milk-glass vase that held the dozen long-stemmed coral pink roses James sent every Monday. Then she retrieved the files of her morning patients.

At precisely 9:01, Catherine’s first patient seemed to blow through the front door, slamming it behind her and demanding, “Is Dr. Gray here yet? I really need to see her fast.”

“Of course Dr. Gray is here, Mrs. Tate,” Beth answered in a pleasant voice. “She’s always early.”

Catherine walked to her open office door and looked at the woman standing in the middle of the waiting room, her wrinkled beige raincoat buttoned unevenly as she flung raindrops off her large, partially open umbrella. Beth said, “I’ll take that for you,” as droplets of water hit her desk. The patient clung to it, and for a moment Catherine thought Mrs. Tate and Beth might battle over the contraption. The woman finally released it when Catherine diverted her by smiling as she said, “How nice to see you this morning, Mrs. Tate, but you look chilly. Would you like a cup of fresh coffee?”

“Do I look like I need caffeine?” the woman demanded as she finally released her death grip on the umbrella handle.

“I guess that’s a no to the coffee,” Catherine managed with a smile. “Please come in my office. I’m all ready for you.”

Mrs. Tate swept into the office and thumped down on the couch, placing her ever-present huge, black vinyl tote bag beside her. Catherine had never seen such a large tote bag. Nevertheless, the woman kept it full to the point of bulging.

At thirty-four, Mrs. Tate had been married for six years, had no children, and was convinced her husband was having his third affair. Her overbleached hair frizzed to her shoulders, her iridescent purple eye shadow and slash of shocking pink lipstick glared under the overhead lights, and she glowered at Catherine. “I know I look like hell. You don’t have to tell me. Those damned bright office lights of yours show every wrinkle in my face. They’re also hurting my eyes.”

“Then I’ll fix the lighting for your comfort, not because you have wrinkles,” Catherine said diplomatically as she flipped off the two bright ceiling fixtures and left on the large, soft-shaded lamp sitting by the chair. She sat, opened her notebook, and looked seriously at her patient. “You don’t seem to be feeling well this morning. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been up half the night, that’s what’s wrong! My husband didn’t come home!”

“All night?”

“Not until around midnight. Midnight when he said he had to be at work at eight today instead of nine!”

“Did he say where he’d been until midnight?”

“Helping his best friend fix a water heater. He said the guy couldn’t get a repairman on a Sunday night and had to have hot water for family showers in the morning. I called the friend. He backed up my husband’s story, but then he would. I asked to speak to his wife for confirmation of his story, but he said she was asleep. I think she just wouldn’t come to the phone and lie. Then my husband left at seven thirty this morning—the early day at work, he claimed. I think he was meeting her for coffee.”

“Her being his secretary.”

“Of course. Who else?”

“I see. Are you certain he didn’t go to work? Did you follow him?”

Mrs. Tate’s bloodshot eyes slid away. “I tried, but he must have seen me, because he went to his office. She was probably lurking in a back room, waiting for him.”

“Did you see her car?”

“Well, no, but she could have parked anywhere. I don’t see so well in this damned rain.”

“You would if you’d wear your glasses.”

“I hate my glasses! I look awful in them! And I’ve told you I can’t wear contact lenses! Didn’t you write down all that stuff?”

Catherine suppressed an impulse to sigh. Sometimes talking to this woman was like having a conversation with a thirteen-year-old.

“Mrs. Tate, do you have any real proof that your husband is having an affair?”

“Proof is everywhere. You just have to be observant, like me. It’s wearing me out, but I’m on the ball all the time! Nothing gets by me!” She sagged slightly as if in defeat. “But I think I do need a cup of coffee after all. I’m running out of steam.”

No wonder, Catherine thought as she poured the coffee in a china cup. Then she motioned to a plate of candy sitting on the coffee table. “How about a snack? They’re an Italian candy called Perugina Baci—baci means ‘kisses’ in Italian. They’re chocolate with hazelnut filling—”

“Italian!” Mrs. Tate leaned forward, glaring at the silver-wrapped candies decorated with dark blue stars. “I don’t eat foreign food. Nothing but American fare for me.”

“Oh.” As the woman took a couple of sips of coffee, Catherine wondered if Mrs. Tate thought the coffee beans had been grown in the United States, not Colombia. Apparently, she hadn’t given the matter any thought, because she had no qualms about emptying the cup and asking for a second one.

After a few minutes, Catherine said carefully, “Mrs. Tate, you’re obviously suffering a great deal of anxiety. I’m a psychologist, not a medical practitioner, so I can’t prescribe medication. I think you’d benefit from some mild tranquilizers to help relax you, though. I can refer you to a family physician or even a psychiatrist who could give you a prescription for some.”

Mrs. Tate looked at her in near horror. “That’s what my husband told me to do! Get tranquilizers. Strong ones, he said. He just wants to keep me so groggy I don’t know what’s going on. Well, it won’t work. I’m not taking anything except an occasional drink or two before bed. I’m not turning into some zombie. And I’ll never divorce him. I plan to make his life as miserable as he’s made mine!”

“I see.”

“I also don’t want to take medicine. He could substitute pills and dope me, poison me, make it look like suicide!”

Paranoia? At least the appearance of paranoia. Catherine was certain Mrs. Tate was not above acting dramatic to get sympathy. Still, better to be safe than sorry. Better to calm the woman, she thought, to ease the fear that might drive her away from any professional help. “I certainly won’t force you to take medication if you’d rather not,” Catherine said calmly. “That is your choice.”

“I knew after our first session you were exactly what I needed!” the woman announced triumphantly. “You don’t treat me like I’m crazy. You don’t bully me. You treat me with respect.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t you ever worry, Dr. Gray—I’ll never stop being your patient! I’m faithful and loyal and stuck to you like a tick on a dog!” Mrs. Tate looked at her with near threat in her tired eyes. “I’ll be back next week and the next and the next and maybe just forever!”

Five minutes later, Mrs. Tate marched through the waiting room, unfurling her umbrella and flinging more water drops before she’d even opened the door. After a brief struggle, woman, huge tote bag, and umbrella made it safely to the porch. Catherine had followed her, closed the front door, and tossed Beth a rueful smile. “I suppose you heard some of that.”

“I always do. I don’t know how you manage to keep your patience with her.”

“I keep my patience because she’s one of my few patients.”

“Well, Dr. Hite always says it takes time to build a practice. Don’t give up yet.”

Catherine’s next patient was suffering family problems because she couldn’t bring herself to put her live-in, late Alzheimer’s stage grandmother who’d raised her into a nursing home. Catherine needed to talk the woman out of her guilt before the elderly woman’s constant needs and often dangerous behavior caused her granddaughter’s husband to leave, taking their three teenage children because he worried for their safety, but Catherine could tell that today she’d made no progress with the woman.

The third patient, a sixteen-year-old girl, suffered from bulimia and refused to say anything except a vague, “I’m not sick.” Her gaze never met Catherine’s. Instead, it strayed almost hungrily around the room, making Catherine glad she’d remembered to remove the dish of candies.

By noon, she felt as if she’d accomplished little for half a day’s work. Still, she was relieved her cases hadn’t been more challenging. Distraction about the events of the weekend and James’s nightmare about Renée—the hatred in his voice when he’d said the name of a woman recently murdered—had severely weakened Catherine’s focus. She touched her hand, slightly bruised and sore from James’s grasp last night. What exactly had he been dreaming about Renée? When Catherine had asked, he’d said he didn’t remember. She wasn’t sure she believed him.

In a weak effort to fight the dreariness of the day, Catherine had chosen to wear her cheerful, new red trench coat. She’d brought a sandwich and pudding cup to eat for lunch, but suddenly she knew she had to get out of the office for a little while. She pulled the bright coat from the closet, grabbed her purse and red umbrella, and hurried into the waiting room. “I’m going out to lunch,” she told Beth. “I think I’ll try that new café on Foster Street.”

“I’ve never seen you wear so much color! You look great! Good idea about the café, too. I’ve heard the food is good and I’m sure you could use a break.”

“So could you. It’s so gloomy and quiet today. We have a window of freedom while Dr. Hite’s not here. Why don’t you join me?”

Beth smiled, reaching for the sack lunch she always brought to the office. “A secretary’s work is never done. I need to be here to make appointments, which reminds me, your one o’clock canceled half an hour ago. He said he broke a tooth and has an emergency appointment at the dentist in a couple of hours. He sounded like he was in pain.”

“Poor thing. I’m glad he could get in to see a dentist so soon.” Catherine reached in her pocket, pulled out a red flowered chiffon scarf, and tied it around her head. “I don’t want my hair to get wet in the rain. I hate having damp hair.” She almost flushed at her lie. Damp hair hadn’t bothered her until the last two days, when she couldn’t stop thinking of Renée’s wet hair wrapped tenaciously around her fingers. “Marissa talked me into all of this red, but I have to admit the coat, umbrella, and scarf make me look downright festive.”

Catherine, usually bad with directions, used her GPS system and drove directly to the Café Divine. The place had a cozy, old-fashioned atmosphere with hardwood floors, exposed brick walls painted creamy beige, dark green booths, pots of lush, healthy plants hanging above the mirror-backed bar, and a large vintage jukebox sitting at the back playing songs from the fifties and sixties. The place was nearly empty. She quickly chose a booth halfway down the length of the narrow room, and a smiling waitress immediately appeared with a tray holding a tall glass of ice water and a menu.

As soon as Catherine looked at the menu, her nervous appetite kicked into gear again. She ordered a garden salad, a “Double-Thick Hamburger,” a piece of coconut cream pie, and an iced tea. She wanted French fries, too, but decided the hamburger would provide enough fat for one meal.

Catherine had finished her salad and begun eating her hamburger when over a dozen people arrived within ten minutes. They occupied nearly every stool at the bar, and she heard the voices of two women scooting into the booth behind her. Catherine lingered over her meal, enjoying the hum of conversation rising over the music pouring from the jukebox. For the first time that day, she was able to put the events of the weekend out of her mind and pretend this was just an ordinary day as she concentrated on the simple pleasure of good food.

She was finishing the hamburger when the song “Runaround Sue” ended. Apparently, no one had selected more music, because the jukebox went silent and Catherine clearly heard the women behind her talking.

“Did you hear about the dead body found at the Eastman cottage on Saturday afternoon?”

“Sure I heard!” answered the other in a loud, authoritative voice. “Someone told my husband it was a woman. The police claim they can’t give out the name of the victim until there has been next-of-kin identification, but everyone knows it’s James Eastman’s wife, Renée.”

Catherine went rigid. Was the woman exaggerating, or had identification of Renée as the deceased woman been leaked to the public? How many people in Aurora Falls knew Renée was dead?

“Who’s James Eastman?” the woman’s companion asked.

“The lawyer whose family owns the cottage. You must remember the flap a few years ago when his wife Renée disappeared.”

“Well, not really—”

“Renée came from New Orleans and she didn’t like it here,” the loud-voiced one began excitedly. “I’m not surprised. She wasn’t the type to be an Eastman—they’re very classy, but she was awful, brash, flashy, drank way too much, never saw a man she didn’t like. She and James were married about a year before they started arguing in public.

“Then they had a really bad fight at a party, and the next day Renée vanished.” The woman halted dramatically before saying slowly, “The police suspected foul play. They investigated, but they never found Renée.”

Catherine took a bite of her coconut cream pie and had trouble swallowing. At that moment, the waitress stopped by and Catherine ordered a cup of coffee, trying to smile casually. “Iced tea doesn’t really go with pie,” she explained unnecessarily. “I want coffee.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” the waitress said. “I like coffee with dessert, too. Is the pie good?”

“Delicious. Just … yummy.”

The waitress hurried away and Catherine hoped no one put on more music for a few minutes. She knew she should leave, but leaving felt almost physically impossible. She had to know what else people were saying about James and Renée.

“You know, some of it is coming back to me now,” the softer-voiced woman said.

“Well, I should think it would unless you’ve had your head in the sand!”

“I seem to remember something about a fight at a housewarming party?”

“That’s the party I was talking about—the one where they had the real blowout!” The loud one’s voice rose a notch. “Renée was immoral as all get-out, but at first she had the sense to try being secretive. Then she got more open with her shenanigans and then just brazen. At that housewarming party, she’d gone into a bedroom to get her coat. Someone went in and caught her lying on top of a pile of coats kissing the host! I heard that James was so furious he nearly dragged her out of the house. Well, he didn’t drag her—he’s sort of a gentleman—but everyone knew she was going to catch hell on the way home. Still, she left the house laughing. Laughing, for God’s sake!”

The waitress stopped at their booth and they both ordered coffee refills before the loud one picked up the subject of Renée again. “It was right after that party when she vanished. Immediately, like the next day.”

Catherine’s coffee arrived and she took a large, scalding gulp. The coffee burned her tongue, but she took another bracing sip nevertheless.

Meanwhile, the woman who seemed to know all about Renée took a deep breath and asked loudly, “Have you been to Nicolai Arcos’s exhibit at the Nordine Gallery?”

“Who’s Nicolai Arcos?”

“Don’t you keep up with any local news? He’s a local artist. At least he’s the only one who’s getting any real attention from the art experts. Anyway, I heard that Renée had an affair with him before she left. Now he has a big exhibit at the gallery. Didn’t you read about it in the Gazette?”

“I only read hard news, not society stuff.”

“Oh, you do not! Don’t try putting on airs with me. Anyway, the showpiece of the exhibit is a portrait called Mardi Gras Lady. Ken Nordine, who owns the gallery, didn’t invite my husband and me to the opening exhibit, so my husband got mad and wouldn’t go see it later. The mayor’s wife—we’re very good friends—told me that although the woman in Mardi Gras Lady is wearing a mask and Nicolai Arcos won’t admit that woman in the painting is even anyone he knows, she’s certain it’s a portrait of Renée Eastman. She says no one who’d ever seen Renée would be fooled and Arcos meant for everyone to know it was her. He was crazy about her.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So this Arcos person actually painted her when he was having an affair with her? Or was it after she disappeared?”

“I don’t know when he painted it. He just did.”

“Is he married?”

“No. Never has been.”

“But Renée was and he didn’t care even though everyone knew about the affair. My goodness, what nerve!”

“I’ll say he has nerve! But he’s an artist, and we all know how eccentric and arrogant they are,” the loud woman pronounced with confidence. “I don’t know him except by sight. He’s tall and thin—all angles and penetrating eyes—and has black wavy hair. He wears crazy jewelry—always the same, a hoop earring with what I swear is a real diamond, a huge tiger’s-eye ring—and these long leather coats. He must be in his early thirties or so. You’d never forget him if you’ve seen him. I’ve heard that the exhibit might put him on the map in the art world, but the painting Mardi Gras Lady is the one that has everyone talking.” She hesitated and then added excitedly, “We should go see it! Maybe tomorrow—I’m too busy today, but I really want to go! My husband would be furious, but I won’t tell him if you won’t tell yours.”

“It’s a deal,” the other woman answered. “Now I can’t miss seeing that painting for the world!”

And neither can I, Catherine thought guiltily as she drained her coffee cup. Neither can I.

2

Catherine glanced at her watch. Quarter of one. Her next patient would not arrive until two o’clock. She quickly ate her last bite of pie, finished her coffee, left a generous tip, and walked to the register before the waitress had returned with Catherine’s check. While she waited to pay her bill, someone put more money in the jukebox. She left the café to the sound of Petula Clark singing “Downtown.”

It was almost like Petula knew where she was going, Catherine thought as she left the Café Divine, walked hurriedly in the rain to her car, and drove four blocks to the Nordine Gallery, located in what had once been the center of the city. She remembered almost five years ago when a new Aurora Falls citizen—thirty-year-old Ken Nordine—bought the remains of a long-vacant three-story building in the now-neglected part of the town, razed it, and built a beautiful four-story art gallery.

The Gazette had assigned Marissa the story and she hadn’t been able to resist researching the new owner in greater depth than needed for the newspaper article. Marissa had learned that Ken Nordine’s father—a talented artist of temporary fame named Guy (pronounced “Gē”) Nordine who’d been born and lived in Aurora Falls—moved to the Midwest in his late thirties. Shortly afterward, Guy’s wife deserted him and their young son, Ken. Guy had fallen into depression and drinking and never fully recovered. His career dwindled and then completely failed. He’d died young, barely earning a living as a housepainter. His son, Ken, however, had vowed that the people of Aurora Falls—as well as the world—would never forget his beloved father’s early, excellent artistic works.

Marissa had known Guy’s estate could not have paid for the gallery and she’d discovered Ken’s numerous business ventures had not been successful. She learned he’d married Dana Hanson, whose father owned a successful chain of home-improvement outlets in Utah, Nebraska, and Iowa. Dana had grown up privileged and even in adulthood seemed to be denied nothing by her doting, wealthy father.

In true reporter fashion, Marissa had immediately dispatched her research about the enigmatic Mr. Nordine to Catherine, whom Marissa considered cut off from the exciting activities of home while she attended graduate school in Berkeley, California. Catherine had devoured the information with the gusto of a champion Aurora Falls gossip and had been looking forward to visiting the gallery when she returned home. Before she’d had a chance, though, she’d heard from several people that Ken Nordine also had been one of Renée’s lovers. Catherine’s curiosity about the gallery hadn’t died, but she’d been determined not to set foot in the place. Until today.

As usual, Catherine felt awe as she drove past the pale stucco gallery whose contemporary circular lines seemed to spiral skyward like a dove rising gracefully amid a stand of dingy dark-brick towers. Luckily, she found a parking space nearby and rushed to the door of the gallery just as a man unlocked the front door and swung it open, smiling.

“What luck for me! My first visitor of the day is a beautiful lady! Hello. I’m Ken Nordine.”

Catherine fell silent, for the first time coming face-to-face with the gallery’s strikingly handsome owner. His well-cut, honey brown hair waved back from a classic face that showed intelligence and humor, punctuated by electric blue eyes that were both serious and rakish. For a moment, she stood mute before she found her voice. “Hi. Catherine Gray. I’m afraid I’ve never visited the gallery before today.”

“What a shame, but we’ve gotten you here at last. Please come in.” He flashed a self-deprecating grin. “You’ve beaten the afternoon crowd.”

“I’m glad.” Catherine started to shake rain from her umbrella, but he gently took it from her and vibrated away the rain before closing it.

“Sorry about the water,” Catherine said.

“Don’t worry. The floor is granite,” he said, looking at the tan ceramic flooring punctuated here and there with dark brown and blue mosaic-patterned tiles. “Second-hardest stone to a diamond. We don’t care about some water on the floor. It’s also micro-etched, so don’t be afraid of slipping.”

“Ken, you’re bragging again.”

Catherine looked up to see a woman descending the wide, four-floor curving staircase leading to the pointed skylight on the roof. From above, the woman looked slender, glamorous, and about thirty years old. As she reached the first floor and approached her, though, Catherine could see she was bone thin and she bore the tightly stretched face of a woman who’d had too much plastic surgery. She had glossy, shoulder-length mahogany brown hair with blunt-cut, eyebrow-length bangs and not a strand of gray. Her careworn dark eyes and the slight lines circling her thin lips, though, put her age at early forties.

“Hello, I’m Dana Nordine.” She smiled to show perfect teeth, obviously veneers, and extended a thin right hand with prominent veins. “Welcome to the gallery. Escaping the weather?”

“Not at all,” Catherine said easily. “I have a long lunch break today and thought I’d take advantage of my extra time. I was near, and I’ve never been here before, although I’ve certainly been curious.”

Ken gave her a natural and pleased smile, then a slowly dawning look of not-so-genuine puzzlement. “You’re Catherine Gray? Marissa’s sister?”

Catherine nodded.

“Marissa did a wonderfully thorough and long article about the place!” Dana exclaimed. “We were so elated I think we bought about fifty copies of that issue of the newspaper.”

Ken gave Catherine an admiring smile. “I saw your picture in the paper when you opened your counseling practice, but the photo didn’t do you justice.” He paused. She stared. “I thought you’d visit the gallery before now since you’re Marissa’s sister and she seemed impressed with the place.”

“She was—is—but when you opened I was still in California finishing my psychology degree. When my mother died, she left the family home to Marissa and me, and I’ve moved back in with her for now, but I still haven’t managed to get completely settled.” Catherine knew she was talking too much, but she felt awkward and slightly guilty for being here. She could have kicked herself for going on. “I’ve also been establishing my practice with Dr. Jacob Hite. But then you know that if you saw the article in the newspaper.”

Dana tried to frown, but Catherine could see the woman had obviously paralyzed the muscles around her forehead and eyes with Botox. She asked without facial expression, “So you’re seeing patients now, Dr. Gray?”

“Yes. Since August.”

“How enterprising to begin so soon. Don’t you agree, Ken?”

Dana’s husband merely gazed at Catherine. Dana gave him a long, wearily knowing look before he finally swung into action. “Well, Dr. Gray, we’re just standing here like we’ve never had a visitor, leaving you in your wet coat and scarf. Shed some of those wet clothes and I’ll offer you something to drink before we show you around.”

Catherine was not as outgoing as Marissa, but she’d never been shy or socially awkward. She felt reticent and guarded in spite of the Nordines’ welcoming warmth, though. Her unusual stiffness made her self-conscious, and she wondered if they were being extra-friendly because she was so clearly ill at ease.

Then she looked up and met the shrewd gaze of Ken Nordine, who was staring at her with the knowledge of someone who was not a stranger. Although James rarely talked to her about his ex-wife, Renée, after Catherine started seeing him a few people couldn’t resist the oh-so-well-meaning impulse to tell her that art lover Renée Moreau Eastman had had an affair with the handsome, charming, married Ken Nordine. James had chosen to ignore the rumors, in public at least, but then that was the way of James Eastman. It didn’t mean he didn’t believe the affair existed.

With a sudden tingle like a small electric shock, Catherine thought Ken Nordine had recognized her the minute she arrived and he knew she was involved with James, which was why she and James had never visited the gallery. Worst of all, she had the distinct sense Ken was being overly charming because he was maliciously amused by her obvious discomfort and excuses for not visiting the gallery sooner.

Catherine realized she might have been overanalyzing, but she felt oddly certain she was correct. She tried to give Ken an “I don’t give a damn what you think of me” smile, but she knew it wasn’t successful when his expression didn’t change. She hadn’t a clue as to what Dana thought of her or her visit. The woman with her frozen-muscled face was a cipher. Catherine wished she could immediately leave, but she couldn’t think of a graceful exit. With an inward sigh, she decided her only option was to get through her ill-advised tour of the gallery with as much composure as possible.

“Your sister seems to be our muse,” Ken told Catherine as they circled the first floor of the gallery. “She did another excellent newspaper piece on our latest exhibit—the work of Nicolai Arcos. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

“Yes, I have. He’s supposed to be very talented.”

“He’s remarkable,” Ken said. “He was already well-known by his mid-twenties. I don’t remember seeing you at his opening exhibit, though.”

“No, I couldn’t make it that night. I was coming down with the flu,” Catherine lied again, and this time didn’t care if she sounded as if she was lying. After all, she had no doubt Ken Nordine knew Arcos’s relationship with Renée was the real reason Catherine hadn’t attended the Arcos exhibit opening.

“What a shame! It turned into an even bigger night than we expected, didn’t it, Dana?” Dana had not left Catherine and Ken alone for a moment, keeping close behind them, as if they would forget she existed. Ken rarely acknowledged her, but Catherine made a point of glancing back at Dana’s narrow, searching eyes. Catherine recognized and sympathized with insecurity when she saw it. “We think the success of the showing was partly because of Marissa’s newspaper article.” Ken added.

“She likes writing hard news, but I think she’s best at feature writing,” Catherine said. “They always seem pleased with her features at the Gazette.”

“No wonder! She’s an excellent writer.” Ken gave Catherine another dazzling smile. “Let’s begin by showing you some of Nicolai’s work.”

He started swiftly across the gallery toward a painting. Dana raced to keep up, no small feat in her skintight black designer jeans and turquoise platform pumps with what Catherine guessed were four-inch heels. Dana had tightly cinched her turquoise silk blouse with a wide silver belt. She looked as stylish and whip slim as a model. She also looked winded.

Catherine slowed slightly and Dana dropped back with her. Ken didn’t appear to notice either of them. He stopped about four feet from the painting and stared at it. ‘This is Eternal Wait. It’s one of Nicolai’s earlier paintings. What do you think?”

Catherine gazed at the oil portrait of a boy sitting on a boulder under a sky the color of smoke, gazing at a restless dark gray sea with a film of hovering fog. The child appeared around ten years old, his pale face shown in bleak profile, his near-shoulder-length black hair blowing back from high cheekbones and large dark eyes.

Although far from being an art expert, Catherine had seen portraits of this style before—sad, misty studies painted mainly in shades of gray and usually featuring a lonely-looking child. She recognized that in Eternal Wait Nicolai Arcos had captured a true melancholy with the child’s rounded shoulders and hopeless eyes gazing at the slightly silvery mist above the intemperate sea.

“The boy is Arcos, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, it is,” Ken said. “He was born in Romania in a small village on the coast of the Black Sea. He never knew his father and his mother ran away before his first birthday. He lived with his grandparents. Thank God they considered him a gift from God and he adored them.” Ken sighed. “It could so easily have worked out just the opposite, since the daughter gave birth only four months after her marriage and her parents were very religious.

“Nicolai’s grandfather worked on a fishing ship that traveled the Black Sea,” Ken continued. “When Nicolai was twelve, the ship never returned. People in the town thought well of his grandparents and of Nicolai. He’d sketched before then, but I believe that’s when sympathetic townspeople managed to give him some canvas, brushes, paints, and he began his work in earnest. His grandmother died when he was fifteen, and that’s when he made his way illegally to the United States.”

Catherine nodded, thinking the narrative sounded as if Ken had told it word for word many times. She didn’t blame him for perfecting the story of Nicolai’s background that made the painting even more poignant.

“The style seems mature,” Catherine said. “You said it was one of Arcos’s early works. How old was he when he painted it?”

“Oh, about eighteen,” Dana piped up. “After he came to the United States and began formally studying painting.”

“Where did he study?” Catherine asked.

“The University of Arizona,” Ken answered quickly, “but he attended only for a couple of years and received an associate’s degree. He didn’t like Albuquerque. He taught for a while at the local community college just to earn a living. Then someone brought him to my attention.”

Ken couldn’t seem to suppress a slightly smug smile. He turned and quickly pointed to another painting. “This is one of my favorites, Cathedral. I particularly like the play of light on the towering boulders. Nicolai painted it a couple of years after Eternal Wait and I think you can see the growth of his style.”

Catherine cordially agreed that she could see Arcos’s growth of style, although she really couldn’t see much difference. Ken showed her four more paintings resembling Cathedral. She “oohed” and “aahed” appropriately, although she felt certain Dana sensed her lack of sincerity. Catherine knew enough about art to recognize Arcos’s impressive talent, but at this time works like Cathedral didn’t affect her. She hadn’t come to the gallery to see a Nicolai Arcos collection—she had come to see only one painting. As a result, her restlessness and distraction grew with every minute until the fingers of her left hand began twitching, a lifelong sign of nervousness.

Finally, they took several steps to the right and Catherine felt Dana tense and draw a sharp breath before Ken announced grandly, “And here is Mardi Gras Lady, the painting everyone is talking about! I never dreamed it would cause such a sensation, did you, Dana?”

The painting hung with at least ten feet of empty, light bisque wall space on each side, making it a showpiece, and it was twice as large as any others on display. The portrait bloomed with so much vivid color, depth, seemingly inherent life, vivacity, and motion that for Catherine the other works of Nicolai Arcos seemed to disappear, banished to obscurity by the image of a woman.

Catherine thought she’d prepared herself for what she might see by smiling casually at Ken before looking at the painting. To her shock, the image seemed to fill her vision, to overwhelm her, and she couldn’t stifle a gasp.

Mardi Gras Lady gleamed in rich though refined shades of gold. Although the lady was poised at a slight left angle, the viewer could still see at least a foot of her wide, horizontally hooped skirt cinched dramatically at the waist. A corset flattened her bodice, pushing her breasts into creamy, full orbs above the low, square neck of silk damask elaborately embroidered with deeper gold metallic thread and topped by a thin row of ivory lace. A wide, ivy-patterned gold choker embedded with pearls and diamonds circled her neck, and long teardrop pearls hung from gold bezel-set diamonds on her earlobes.

Tight sleeves stretched to her elbows, where below a wide band two layers of ruffles cascaded to her mid-forearms, the second ruffle swooping lower at the back than the first, elongating the arm. The Mardi Gras Lady obviously wore a wig—glossy, black hair upswept nearly six inches in front with long shining coils draped over her shoulder and running nearly to her waist, a slender string of milky pearls gracefully winding their way through the elaborate hairstyle. Her raised left hand held a delicate, unfurled ivory silk fan constructed with what looked like mother-of-pearl gilded sticks. Sequins highlighted the carefully arranged figures of women and men, fully naked and caught in the act of sex in a lush garden setting. Obviously, the vintage fan had been made for the private view of a connoisseur of erotica, not to be flaunted in a formal painting.

Catherine felt every detail of Mardi Gras Lady etching itself on her brain, including its delicate brushstrokes, the textured quality of the oil paint giving the painting a sense of depth, the seemingly flickering light in the background, and the overall haunting quality of the piece.

Most of all, she was entranced by the life Arcos had infused in his subject, especially her graceful, ethereal quality. Catherine had not seen Renée up close since the wedding, but she would never forget that perfect, oval face, the porcelain skin, the delicately curved nose, and the perfectly shaped lips. Especially, she would always remember Renée’s eyes—those dark eyes with tiny burnished gold rings around the pupils and set at a slight, beguiling tilt—haunting eyes with a trace of vulnerability and hurt beneath their blatantly magnetic, enticing siren song of sexual invitation and risqué self-confidence. At the wedding, Renée had sent the full power of those eyes into Catherine’s gentle heather green gaze.

Now, Renée once again directed the full power of them into Catherine, only this time the unmistakable eyes looked out from behind an elegant white and gold half mask with a thin, delicate band of lace around the edges, the mask bathed with a light sprinkle of gold glitter. The most striking aspect of the beautiful mask, though, was the black five-pointed star painted around the right eye.

The eye through which someone had shot a bullet, sending Renée to her death.