Last Known Victim (18 page)

Saturday, May 5, 2007
8:25 p.m.

I
t'd been a quiet week. Blessedly so. No notes or packages from the Artist. No mysterious women claiming to be somebody's mother stealing keys or breaking in.

Yvette wondered if the reconstruction in the paper had scared him off. If he had, indeed, murdered Jessica Skye, maybe knowing she had been found and that the police were investigating had made him decide to take off.

She hadn't exactly lowered her guard, but she had relaxed it.

She'd spoken to Autumn. The dancer remembered Jess, but like Gia, didn't recall her saying she had a freaky fan or that she was feeling threatened or uncomfortable about anything.

Autumn hadn't heard from the other dancer since Katrina, but figured she'd blown out of town as Katrina blew in. Like just about everyone else in the Big Easy.

Yvette had shown her the likeness from the newspaper, but Autumn had been less certain it was Jessica. The description fit, but she remembered Jess being much prettier.

Yvette had vowed to put all thoughts of the Artist aside for the evening. She had taken a day shift so she could have the night off. It was the last Art Walk of the season, when the galleries throughout the art district coordinated their show openings, serving wine and cheese to art lovers who strolled from one exhibit to the next.

Yvette loved Art Walks. She loved the diversity of the crowd, from the young and old, rich and poor, traditional to pretty damn whacked—and everything in between. The only common thread between them, an appreciation for the arts.

And she totally got off sipping wine with strangers and pretending to be someone she wasn't—sophisticated and smart.

Yvette left the Gallery 1-1-1 and started toward Pieces. She walked with a couple she had been chatting to about the previous gallery's exhibit of Katrina-inspired monoprints.

She acknowledged to herself that she'd had too much to drink. Her head buzzed pleasurably and her feet felt light as air. She parted from the other couple and made her way into Pieces.

Works by Shauna M.

The paintings were big, bold and energetic. Yvette decided right off that she wanted to buy one, though it would have to be a small one—she was simply running out of wall space.

She caught sight of the featured artist, who was easy to pick out as she was surrounded by admirers. Yvette tilted her head. Pretty and petite, with dark hair and a brilliant smile, Shauna M. didn't look that much older than her.

Yvette gazed at the other woman, a pinch of envy in the pit of her gut. She used to draw a lot. When she was supposed to be listening to her teachers. When her parents left her alone. After her mother's accident, to escape her sorrow—and her fear.

She had dreamed of being an artist one day.

It would have been a stupid thing for her to pursue. She didn't have the talent. Her drawings had been little more than childish doodles. When she'd made the mistake of sharing her dream, her father had told her so. To spare her the pain of wishful thinking, he'd said.

It hurt to remember. How pitying he had been. And how amused. He had teased her for years afterward.

Swallowing hard, Yvette shifted her gaze. A man was with Shauna M., his hand possessively on her shoulder. He was intensely handsome, with dark hair and eyes. Angular, chiseled face. An artist himself, she would bet. He had the “look.”

She wanted that, Yvette acknowledged. To be Shauna M. To have what she had—the show, the accolades, the guy.

Suddenly the man turned his head. His dark gaze seemed to search her out. They stared at each other. She felt her face flood with color. As if reading her thoughts, his lips lifted in a mocking smile.

Embarrassed, she turned quickly away, pretending to look for someone. She spotted the bar and started for it. Halfway there, she heard a voice she recognized.

Detective Killian.

Yvette stopped and turned in the direction of the voice. The woman stood not twelve feet from her. Detective Malone was with her. They seemed to be admiring a painting. Seemed to be. Could they be following her? But why would they be?

She studied them. They stood close, too close for colleagues. While she watched, Malone laid a hand on the small of Killian's back, the gesture familiar and intimate.

They were a couple, she realized. For all she knew, they could be husband and wife.

For all she knew.

Everything Brandi had told her had been a lie.

The pleasure drained from what remained of her evening. To hell with this. She was out of here. She'd go have a drink where she fit in, with people like her.

She turned and nearly ran into the dark-haired man who'd been at Shauna M.'s side. He caught her arms to steady her. “Whoa. Sorry about that.”

“It really was my fault. Sorry.”

He smiled, revealing beautiful, perfectly aligned white teeth. She couldn't help but think of Jessica Skye.

“She hardly ever smiled because of them.”

“Rich Ruston,” he said, holding out his hand.

She took it. “Yvette Borger.”

“You like the show, Yvette?”

“Very much.” She ignored the butterflies in her stomach. “Are you a friend of the artist?” she asked.

“I am. Are you?”

“Just an art lover.”

“Not an artist?”

She hesitated, then replied that she wasn't, wishing with all her heart that she could answer differently.

“You are, though.”

“I am.” He smiled again. “How did you know?”

“I just did.”

“Can I get you a glass of wine?”

“Thank you. White.”

He returned a moment later with two plastic cups, one red and the other white. He handed her the chardonnay. She took a sip.

“Would you like to see my favorite piece in the show?” he asked.

He led her across the gallery. She felt unsteady on her feet and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. How many glasses of wine had she had?

They stopped in front of the small piece, not more than ten inches square. She sipped the wine again. And again. Someone jostled her; wine sloshed over the rim of her cup.

She turned and blinked.

The woman was here, the one who had claimed to be both her and Nancy's mother. The woman who had used those lies to gain access to her apartment.

“…a jewel,” he was saying. “Powerful and intimate.”

Head buzzing, she watched as the woman crossed to Malone and Killian and hugged them.

Hugged them?

What was going on? A cop conspiracy? Were they playing a game with her?

“What is it?” he asked as she swayed against him. He cupped her elbow. “Are you all right?”

“That woman,” she managed. “I recognize—”

She brought a hand to her head.

“Yvette? Are you…Perhaps you should si—”

“Fi…jus'a bi'too much wi—”

The buzz in her head became a roar. Her knees went weak, then gave out.

Her world went black.

Saturday, May 5, 2007
9:00 p.m.

W
hen Yvette came to, she lay on the floor, a half dozen people staring down at her. She blinked, confused. She'd been talking to that cute guy…Rich…She'd seen the woman…the one who—

“Yvette? Are you all right?”

That came from Detective Malone. She looked at him, focusing. Vision clearing. Detective Killian knelt beside him.

She didn't answer, moving her gaze over the cluster of faces. Rich's wasn't among them. Neither was the woman's.

“You fainted,” the detective said.

“I saw her,” she said. “She was here.”

“Who?”

“The woman who broke into my apartment.”

The two detectives exchanged glances, then turned toward a kind-looking woman hovering nearby. “June, let's give her some air.”

The woman nodded, then shooed everyone off.

“She
was
here,” Yvette said again, struggling to get up. “You're letting her—”

Then she remembered the woman hugging them both. “You know her!”

“Calm down—”

“You hugged her!” She struggled to her feet, feeling light-headed. “What is this, some weird cop game?”

Her voice rose. She realized her shirt and pants were wet. When she'd fainted, she had spilled the remainder of her wine on herself.

Detective Killian took a step forward, hand out. “Take it easy, Yvette. You've had a shock.”

“You're damn right I've had a shock!” She backed up. “Get away from me, liars.”

She knew she sounded like a crazy person but didn't care.

The woman named June laid a hand on the detective's arm. “You're upsetting her more,” she said softly. “Let me take care of this.”

They backed off, and she stepped forward. “My name's June Benson. This is my brother, Riley.” She indicated a tall, curly-haired man. “We own this gallery. Can I do something to help you?”

Yvette became aware of the number of people still in the gallery, of them looking at her. Of the artist's horrified expression. Heat stung her cheeks. “Keep them away from me. Please.”

“Done.” She smiled reassuringly. “How about a glass of water or a Coke?”

“Thank you. A Coke.”

June Benson led her into a back room of the gallery that looked to serve as an employee lounge.

“Sit down. Please.”

Yvette did, grateful.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded.

“Have you fainted before?”

“No, I…no.”

“Do you have any idea why you did tonight?”

Yvette frowned. “I'd probably had too much wine, but…this has never—”

“Have you eaten?”

“Enough. Cheese and crackers on the Art Walk. A bowl of cereal before I left home.”

“What were you doing before you fainted?”

“Talking to Rich Ruston. He brought me a glass of wine.”

“Really?” She frowned. “Could he have slipped something in it?”

“He could have, but why would—”

Stupid. She knew why. A date-rape drug. She was an easy mark. Woman alone. Already tipsy.

Why had she thought an art opening would be any safer than a bar?

Riley Benson appeared in the doorway. He looked concerned. “You okay?”

“Yes, thanks. Sorry for making such a scene.”

“Don't worry about it. It wasn't your fault.” He shifted his gaze to June. “Nell Nolan from the
Times-Picayune
is asking for you. Wants a quote.”

“Nell Nolan? The social-scene writer?”

“The very one. With a photographer.”

“Can't you—”

“You're much better at those sound bites than I am.” When she hesitated a moment more, he waved her on. “I'll stay.”

She agreed, though she didn't look thrilled. “I'll be back. Drink that Coke. The sugar will help.”

“She's sweet,” Yvette said.

“As pie,” he responded, though something in his tone led her to believe he didn't agree. No doubt Big Sister didn't hesitate to break Little Brother's balls whenever she thought he needed it.

“I should go,” she said. “I feel fine now.”

“Finish your drink first. Let the crowd thin a bit more.”

So they didn't stare at her when she left.

Tears stung her eyes at his kindness. Silly to be affected that way, she supposed. But the truth was, people usually weren't all that kind to her.

“Did you like the show?”

“What I saw of it, yes.”

“Shauna's a friend. I've known her since we were kids. She's really talented.”

Not knowing how to respond, she sipped her soft drink.

“What do you do?”

“I'm a dancer.”

“Cool.” He smiled at her and she decided he had one of the nicest smiles she'd ever seen. Really warm. Cute. He even had a dimple in his right cheek.

“They say all the creative arts are intertwined. Writing, music, dance, visual arts.”

“I used to love to draw.”

“There you go.”

She didn't have the heart to tell him her “creative art” involved taking off her clothes; no sense spoiling his perfectly good theory.

“It's gotten quiet,” she murmured.

“I'll take a peek.”

He stood, crossed to the door and looked out. He grinned back at her. “A few stragglers. Nell's looking the other way.”

She returned his smile and stood. “Thanks.”

“I'll walk you to your car.”

“I cabbed.”

“Then I'll drive you home.”

“I've already taken too much of your time.”

“It's no trouble. After all, you nearly died in my gallery.”

She laughed at that. “If you insist, but it's really not—”

“I do insist.”

They exited the gallery back room. June stood talking with Shauna and a tall thin man who sported a goatee and a spiral-bound notebook.

Shauna saw them, excused herself and crossed to them. She smiled at Yvette. “Are you okay?”

Her face heated. “I'm fine. I'm so sorry for disrupting your show. I don't know what happened.”

The artist's smile looked a little stiff. “It's not your fault. Really.”

“I like your work, by the way. It's great.”

“Thanks. I'm—”

“Shauna?” June joined them. “Why don't you see Robert to the door. He may have another question or two.”

“Art critic for the
T-P,
” June said as Shauna walked away. She turned her gaze on Yvette. “You're feeling better?”

“She is,” Riley said, answering for her. “She doesn't have a car, so I'm going to drive her home.”

The woman frowned slightly. Yvette jumped in. “I don't want to cause any more troub—”

“It's no trouble,” he said. “Trouble would be waiting an hour for a cab. After all, this
is
post-Katrina New Orleans.”

June didn't respond, though Yvette could tell she wasn't happy about the turn of events. Yvette thanked her again and left with Riley.

He led her across the street to a small, private parking lot. Using a remote, he opened the electronic gate, then led her to his vehicle, a sleek, black Infiniti sedan.

He helped her in, then went around to the driver's side. “Where to?” he asked.

“Not far. Dauphine and Governor Nicholls. In the French Quarter.”

He looked disappointed and she drew her eyebrows together. “What?”

“I was hoping you lived clear across town.”

Yvette steeled herself against the warmth that stole over her at his flirting and changed the subject. “Your sister didn't want you to do this. I could tell.”

“She's a bit overprotective.”

“She thinks you need to be protected from me?”

He laughed. “You're right. Let me amend that. She's a bit controlling.”

“But nice.” She leaned back in her seat. The leather was pure luxury.

“We're fifteen years apart. And since both our parents were dead by my sixteenth birthday, she was stuck raising me. I guess she's earned the right to be controlling.”

“I guess she has.”

“You want to get something to eat?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Okay.”

“Camellia Grill's open late.”

She said that sounded great and ten minutes later they were seated across from each other in a booth, hungrily considering menu choices.

After they'd ordered, she said, “Shauna was angry at me.”

“She wasn't.”

“How do you know? She looked—”

“A little pissed. She was. But not at you. Her boyfriend. The guy you were talking to when you went down.”

“Rich?”

“Yeah, Rich.”

His tone made it clear he didn't have a high opinion of the other man. They fell silent a moment. Finally Yvette cleared her throat. “He came up to me. I didn't approach him.”

“I know. I saw.”

She gazed into her coffee, wondering if he had seen the way she had looked at Shauna—with yearning to have the things she had. With envy.

“You didn't do anything wrong, you know,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

“I knew he was with her, but I let him bring me a drink and—”

“He's a dog, Yvette. Not a nice guy. I've told Shauna that. Tonight she saw it for herself.”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?” He frowned. “You say that a lot.”

“Don't judge by tonight. I had reason to.”

“I disagree.”

She ignored that and reached for her water.

“Besides, I'm sorry for her. I've been there. It hurts.”

“Yeah, it does.”

They fell silent. Yvette sipped her water and Riley gazed out the window. “What was all that about? With Spencer and Stacy?”

“Who?”

“The detectives. Spencer Malone and Stacy Killian.”

“You know them?”

“Sure. They're old friends. Well, Spencer is. He's Shauna's brother.”

The “M.” Now she got it. Great.

“How do
you
know them?” he asked.

“A guy I knew was murdered. They questioned me.”

“About the murder?” His eyebrows shot up. “They don't think you had any—”

“Anything to do with it?” She shook her head.

“No, nothing like that. I occasionally showed real estate for him. They wanted names of business partners, stuff like that.”

“You're talking about Marcus Gabrielle, aren't you?”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “How did you know?”

“They questioned June and me. Gabrielle was listing some property for us. We knew him because he was one of our clients.”

“Small town.”

“And a lot smaller since the storm.”

The waitress brought their food, big plates of greasy hash browns with onions and peppers, covered in cheese. He had two fried eggs and toast with his.

As they dug in, he asked, “So what was the deal? At the gallery you said something about seeing the woman who broke into your apartment?”

Yvette considered telling him she'd been confused, but decided on the truth instead.

She trusted him, though she didn't know why. There was just something about him that inspired it.

She laid down her fork and leaned toward him. “A woman claiming to be my mother tricked my neighbor into giving her a key to my apartment. I caught the woman just as she was leaving, though I didn't realize it.”

She quickly filled in the details, then added, “She was at your gallery tonight. She hugged Spencer and Stacy.”

“What did she look like?”

“Medium height and trim. Short reddish hair. Fiftyish.”

He took a forkful of the potatoes, expression thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. “You're talking about Aunt Patti. You have to be.”

“Aunt Patti?” she repeated, feeling as if she had been sucker-punched.