Chapter One
Ritzy! That’s the only word to describe this event. Pass the salmon popovers lightly drizzled with dill sauce—save a bonbon with crème de cacao center. This is a party with style and substance. Even if it weren’t for the food, the artwork is excellent. Especially this lovely watercolor of Dumaine Street after a spring rain. See the magnificent little calico kitty sitting on the third-floor balcony. She looks exactly like my Clotilde did when she was a sprite of a kitten.
It must be my advancing age, but this New Orleans artist, Liza Hawkins, looks like a child. But judging by her beautiful paintings, she’s a grown-up. There’s a certain sensuality in the watercolors, and a bit of sadness. Very interesting. As is the woman herself. Those long curls remind me of the tale of Rapunzel, and her long legs remind me of a runway model. The way she pays such close attention to everyone tells me that she’s not the typical egomaniac artiste. Those big brown eyes look as if she’s—haunted. Sad and haunted. I’ll have to keep a close eye on Miss Liza Hawkins. This is her night to shine and I get the feeling she’s about to burst into tears. As a cat who smells a mystery, my whiskers are a-twitchin’.
LIZA HAWKINS WAS ALMOST afraid to glance around the crowded reception room of LaTique Gallery. The drone of conversation bouncing off the historic old brick walls was almost more than she could bear—not the noise, but the fact that so many people had come to the opening of her show. The success of the event was so stupendous that she was terrified it was all a dream. Any moment, she’d awaken to discover she was in her bed on the third floor of the gallery.
Alone.
As she had been for the past five years.
“Liza, darling, the show is superb.”
She turned to speak to Anita Blevins, the art critic for the local newspaper, The Times Picayune. “Thanks, Anita. I’m in shock.”
“You’re on your way to the top,” Anita predicted. “I’ve decided to use a photo of this opening on the section front. I know this isn’t a good time for in-depth questions, so let’s have lunch tomorrow for an interview.”
“Sure.” Liza felt as if her fairy godmother had waved a magic wand. She was thirty-five and had been painting for twenty years. No one had ever predicted success for her—except Duke.
Even the thought of him was painful. She tried to control the frown, but it was too late. She’d been caught in a moment of pain—and her manager was bearing down on her.
“Liza dear, wipe that sour expression off your face and mingle.” Pascal Krantz’s face was a mask of pleasure, but his voice was iron. “I’ve busted my chops to get your show this much coverage. Your pleasant lifestyle is due to the fact that your work is now selling for big bucks. Look, the television cameras are on us. Smile!”
Liza obediently smiled up at her manager. “Thanks, Pascal. I do appreciate it. It’s way beyond all expectations. Look at the people. How did you get Delta Burke and Gerald McRaney to come?”
“They live right around the corner. Everyone likes to support a talented artist, Liza. I just had to make sure they realized how talented you are.” His hand squeezed her arm. “And you are talented. The problem is that you don’t believe it.”
Liza nodded. She hated to talk about herself. “Thank you for arranging this. And the way the pictures are displayed is beautiful.”
“You have your friend Eleanor Curry to thank for that. She recommended the artistic director for the show. And here the Currys are.” He stepped back as Eleanor and Peter walked up.
“At last,” Eleanor said, giving Liza a hug. “The paintings are incredible, Liza. Simply beautiful. I knew from the first time I saw your drawings in college that you were destined for great things. And now I can tell everyone you were my college roommate.”
“It’s a dream come true,” Liza said. She was staring at her longtime friend but shifted her focus to Eleanor’s handsome husband, Peter Curry. “I understand the black cat came with you.” She pointed to Familiar, who was on a chair perusing the buffet table.
“He heard there was good food,” Peter said. “We tried to leave him behind, but—”
“The television cameras love him!” Pascal said. “I couldn’t have thought of a better ruse myself. Let him be. He’s welcome to all the food he can eat. And the way he wanders around viewing the paintings. It’s almost as if he were capable of judging art.”
“I wouldn’t want to try to stop him from eating,” Eleanor said with a laugh.
“He’s the cat who was responsible for bringing you and Peter together, isn’t he?” Liza asked. Her old roommate had been far luckier in love than she had. Eleanor and Peter’s marriage had resulted in a beautiful daughter, Jordan, and a strong family unit. And Liza hadn’t been told, but it seemed to her that Eleanor had a very telling glow. They’d have plenty to talk about when the gallery opening was over and they could have some privacy.
“Yes, Familiar was the instigator of our relationship,” Eleanor said dryly. “He’s, shall we say, unusual.”
“Bring him with you Friday. We’re scheduled for lunch, aren’t—” Liza’s gaze was drawn by sudden movement outside the gallery windows. LaTique was located on St. Ann Street in the French Quarter, not exactly the most lively part of town. Though the raucous Bourbon and Royal streets were only a few blocks away, St. Ann was basically residential. The building she occupied was three stories, a narrow structure with her gallery on the first floor, her studio on the second, and her apartment on the third.
“Yes, Friday at Napoleon’s,” Eleanor confirmed. “I want to hear all about your career, the future, the museums and galleries where your paintings are now hanging. You’ve come into the homestretch of success, Liza, and it’s about time.”
“Yes.” She heard her friend’s kind words and immediately sought a change of subject. Her success was phenomenal—and troubling. Instead of the total satisfaction she once expected upon achieving success, she’d found emptiness.
At one time, she’d been driven to paint the street scenes of New Orleans that had recently made her the darling of art patrons. Now, though, the watercolors were less important. Her artistic passions were something else, something darker. Something that she had to keep a secret even from her oldest friend, Eleanor Curry, who’d come all the way from Washington, D.C., for her opening.
A dark flicker of a moving shadow outside the front window of the gallery caught her attention once again. Her heart rate tripled, and she felt the flush of blood to her skin.
“Liza