He thought about that for a minute. “Do I look like the kind of guy who asks you to paint his portrait?”
“Not really, though everyone is different. Anyway, maybe it’s not your own portrait you wanted painted. Maybe it was someone in your family. Your wife or your kids.”
He held up his left hand. “No ring, no white line where one has been.”
“Lots of hardworking guys don’t wear rings,” she told him. “Maybe you work with big equipment, like at a mill or something. And if you have a wife, she must be wondering where you are.”
“One would hope,” he said, and they stared at each other for a few seconds, the silence broken when the door opened and a petite blonde nurse bustled into the room.
“Time for our meds,” she chirped.
Kinsey straightened up. “I’d better go,” she said.
Zane heard a note of relief in her voice. How could he blame her? He caught her hand and squeezed it. “Thanks again, Kinsey.”
She stared at their linked hands for a second before raising her gaze to his face. “When your memory returns, let me know, okay?” She took a pen from her purse and scrawled her phone number on the back of the detective’s card.
“If you’re in this neck of the woods tomorrow, drop in and say hi,” he told her as she handed him the card. “For all intents and purposes, you’re the only friend I have.” He winced and shook his head. “Did that sound pathetic enough?”
“You’re going to be fine,” she told him, her dark eyes soft, her voice barely a whisper.
The nurse handed Zane a small paper sleeve with a pill nestled inside. She picked up his water glass, shook it until the ice inside rattled. “I’ll go get you more water. Back in a sec.” As the door closed behind her, Kinsey spared Zane one last smile and then she was gone, too.
He laid his head back against the pillow and studied the pill. He hoped this was the one that would help him sleep and he welcomed the prospect. Maybe tomorrow he’d wake up a new man...or rather the man he used to be.
But before he took that pill, he was determined to get on his feet and walk. Something inside urged him to remain strong and vigilant. He hoped the nurse didn’t give him any flak.
* * *
AS KINSEY WALKED to the parking garage, she dug her cell phone from her purse. She’d silenced it when she arrived at the hospital and now she turned the sound back on.
As expected, there were several calls from Marc. Not expected were the three from her mother. Marc’s messages were all the same: come back to the gallery! Her mother left no messages. And there wasn’t one from Ryan, either, who always called when he got into town. The absence of that call coupled with his earlier questions made Kinsey nervous, but why? There was probably a harmless explanation, and she intended on finding out what it was. She called Ryan’s cell number and left a message when the phone switched immediately to voice mail.
By now the show at the gallery was over. The crew engaged to clean up after the gala would be hard at work. Kinsey called her boss, half wondering if he’d fire her on the spot.
“It all turned out okay,” Marc said. In the background, Kinsey heard voices and the tinkling of glass. It sounded as if Marc had gone out to eat after the show. “We sold eight of her paintings. Everyone loved her once she lightened up.”
“I’m sorry I had to leave,” Kinsey said as she unlocked her car door.
“Couldn’t be helped,” Marc said. His voice was muffled, as though he had covered the phone to speak to someone else, and she waited a second or two before he got back to her. “Listen, it’s time to order and I’m starving. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Food. When had she last eaten, lunchtime? Her stomach growled.
She contemplated calling her mother and decided against it. There was one phone in the old house. Her mother was and always had been something of a night owl, but the man she took care of would be asleep by now and Kinsey didn’t want to wake him.
Those three calls were worrisome, though. Had Ryan somehow found out where she lived and, heaven forbid, had he visited her?
That would not do. If there was one thing Kinsey knew, it was her mom didn’t like strangers. Frances Frost was obligated now to Mr. Dodge, but the poor old guy couldn’t live forever. Sooner or later, she’d be free to wander off again and perhaps if pushed, would do so sooner rather than later.
Three calls meant something had gotten to her. Kinsey knew she’d never be able to sleep if she didn’t see her mom in the flesh and make sure everything was okay. At the last second, she stopped at the small grocery located about midway between the Dodge house and the art gallery to pick up something—anything—to eat. She was met at the door by the Chinese owner, Henry Lee, who was getting ready to turn the open sign to closed.
“Can I grab something really quick?” she asked. “I’m famished.”
“Sure,” he said, allowing her to enter though turning the sign to discourage further patrons.
Kinsey grabbed a premade po’boy sandwich and a bottle of iced tea. A basket on the counter held bananas and apples and she added one of each.
“I heard the show was a good one,” Mr. Lee said as he totaled her purchases.
“I didn’t get to attend much of it,” Kinsey admitted as she handed over a twenty-dollar bill. “You heard about the accident down the street?”
“I heard one of those courier guys went berserk and drove into a crowd of people,” Mr. Lee said as he counted out Kinsey’s change. “I can’t tell you how many times one has come close to clipping me.”
Kinsey gave Mr. Lee an abbreviated rundown of what had really happened, causing the man’s faint eyebrows to arch in surprise. But then his forehead wrinkled. “Did you say the victim wore a cowboy hat?”
“Yes, a tan Stetson. Why?”
Mr. Lee swore under his breath. “I knew there was something I wanted to tell you. A man was in the store earlier today. A cowboy. I swear, he stood right where you are asking questions about someone named Smith. Mary Smith. I think that was the name. Maybe it was Sherry. Anyway, I told him I didn’t know anyone by that name. Then he asked about Mr. Dodge’s housekeeper.”
“By name?”
“No. He called her a housekeeper.”
“What did you tell him?” Kinsey asked, trying to remain unflappable. She wasn’t sure Henry Lee knew she was even related to the Dodge housekeeper.
“I didn’t tell him anything. You have to understand that back in the day, Bill Dodge used his money to do a lot of good in this neighborhood for people like me. You’d have a hard time meeting a kinder man, and I wouldn’t send trouble his way for anything. He deserves to live out his life in peace, and as far as I’m concerned, that housekeeper of his allows that to happen. Without her to shoo people away, that worthless nephew of his would walk off with half the house. Anyway, the cowboy guy asked a couple of questions. He was holding up the line in back of him and people were getting restless. He asked about other contacts he could talk to. I recalled seeing you and the housekeeper chatting with each other one day—it’s the only time I ever saw that woman talk to anyone in here—so I wrote your name on a piece of paper and said you might know something. Frankly, I was trying to get rid of him. He got busy on his cell phone, I suppose looking you up, then he left. That’s it.”
“Did you indicate my connection to the gallery?”
“No. I just gave him your name and told him to phone you. You have to understand, it was really crowded in here. I didn’t have time to be answering questions, especially when the Gastner sisters started arguing about which one of them got the last