Both of the other women were working tonight, so she planned to speak to them before their shifts ended.
The rest of the evening crawled by. Yvette now understood what it meant to be on pins and needles. She felt as if her every nerve was on the alert, waiting for Tonya to signal that “he” was here. As she danced, her thoughts were consumed with him. Was he watching her? Planning his next move? Sensing her fear, getting off on it?
Tonya’s signal never came. A part of her had been relieved, another part frustrated. She wanted to see him for herself, look into his eyes and know what she was dealing with.
Tonight she would have to content herself with talking to Gia and Autumn. She caught Gia first, sitting at the bar after closing.
Yvette took the stool next to hers. “Hi, Gia.”
“Hey, Vette,” the woman responded, her voice a soft, deep drawl. “You had a good night?”
“Not my best, but decent. How about you?”
“Same. Beats the hell out of what I’d make at Dillard’s,” she said, referring to a local department store chain.
“Got a question about a girl who danced here before Katrina. Jessica Skye. You remember her?”
“Sure, Jess was a sweetie.”
“You ever hear from her?”
“Nope. She left for the storm. That’s the last I heard from her.” She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Why?”
“I’m getting letters from this dude who calls himself the Artist. Tonya’s thinking he used to request Jessica a lot.”
“Tonya said that?”
Yvette nodded. “I wondered if he sent her the same kind of letters.”
“She never mentioned it to me. We didn’t have that kind of relationship.”
“She never said anything about being stalked, creeped out or anything?”
“Sorry.”
“She have a boyfriend?”
“Not that I know of. Hard to do what we do and have a real relationship.” Gia took a last drag on her smoke, then drained her cocktail. “I’m beat. See you tomorrow.”
As she stood to go, Yvette touched her arm. “Autumn still around?”
“She took off already.” The woman frowned slightly, then leaned her head toward Yvette’s. “Word of advice?”
Yvette turned slightly and met her eyes. She nodded.
“I wouldn’t trust Tonya farther than I could throw her. She’s in it for Tonya. Always.”
Long after the other woman walked away, Yvette sat at the bar, nursing her drink, the things Gia had said ringing in her head.
I wouldn’t trust Tonya farther than I could throw her. Hard to do what we do and have a real relationship.
And not just a romantic one but any relationship. She didn’t have any friends. Not real friends, anyway. The kind you trusted and turned to for understanding and support. No family. No boyfriend.
She thought of Marcus and wanted to laugh. There’d been no affection there, no respect. The attraction for her had been money, for him sex. Or something like it.
The guys she met were either already in a relationship and looking for some action on the side, or were freaks, like her buddy the Artist.
And if a regular Joe stumbled in here, he wouldn’t want someone like her.
What’s your girlfriend do? She’s a dancer down at the Hustle.
And if the guy was proud of that-or worse, turned on by it-he was a creep. If he approved of what she did because of the money, he was a pimp and a creep.
Problem was, for a woman who made a living shaking her tits and ass, she had some pretty conservative ideas about love.
But maybe they all did. They operated outside the mainstream but longed to live-and love-inside it.
Tonya took the stool next to hers. “You talked to Gia.”
It wasn’t a question. Yvette answered, anyway. “She remembered Jessica, but Jessica never mentioned the Artist or receiving any creepy letters.”
“What about Autumn?”
“I missed her.”
“She’s dancing tomorrow night.” Tonya stood. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift home.”
Yvette hesitated.
I wouldn’t trust Tonya farther than I could throw her.
She opened her mouth to ask why the woman was being so nice to her, then shut it, question unspoken. Fact was, she needed someone to trust-and nobody else was available.
32
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Noon
Yvette hadn’t slept well. She had tossed and turned, troubled by nightmares of faceless women running for their lives. In each dream, when they’d had nowhere left to run, Yvette had realized she was the woman. And that she was going to die.
Thunder rumbled in the dark sky outside her kitchen window. It had been raining since long before daybreak. The weather certainly wasn’t lightening her mood.
The front intercom sounded. Yvette answered.
“It’s Tonya.” The woman’s voice shook. “Can I come up?”
“I’ll buzz you in.”
The woman was winded and wet when she reached Yvette’s apartment. She clutched part of a newspaper to her chest. “You have anything to drink?”
“Juice or cof-”
“Something stronger. Bloody Mary?”
“No tomato juice. Screwdriver?”
Tonya collapsed onto one of the kitchen chairs. “Make it strong.”
Yvette did, quickly adding vodka to a glass of orange juice. She set it on the table in front of Tonya, then took a seat across from her.
The woman picked up the glass, gulped down half the drink, then carefully laid the newspaper on the table, facing Yvette.
It was the Metro Section. Yvette looked at the newspaper, no clue as to what Tonya wanted her to see.
Tonya reached across the table and tapped the paper. “That’s her. Jessica, the girl I told you about.”
Yvette stared at the image. Not a photograph. A police artist’s rendering, in clay. She scanned the paragraph that described the woman. The police were trying to identify the “Jane Doe” and asking the public for help.
Yvette dragged her gaze from the image to look at Tonya once more. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’m so freaked out.”
“But that means she’s-”
“Dead.” Tonya drained the drink. She held up the empty glass. “Mind if I refill?”
She told her to help herself, though it seemed obvious the one she had just guzzled hadn’t been her first. Did she always drink like this, or was she that rattled?
Tonya mixed the drink, then looked back at Yvette. “And not just dead, murdered. Otherwise they wouldn’t be trying to ID her.”
Yvette stared at her a moment, the reason Tonya had rushed over here sinking in. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You don’t think he…that the Artist killed her, do you?”
“Maybe. He liked her. She disappeared. And you think he killed Marcus.”
Yvette felt ill. “You’re sure it’s her?”
Tonya nodded. “Read the description. It fits her to a T. Age, height-”
“But lots of women-”
“No. Read that again. Jessica had really crooked teeth. She hardly ever smiled because of them. They make a point of mentioning them.”
Tonya sipped the drink, expression intent. “She was beautiful except for those teeth. She talked about getting braces but was afraid they’d turn the guys off.”
Yvette pushed the paper away, unable to look at the representation a moment longer. She realized she was shaking. And that she was scared.
“What do we do now? Go to the police?” Even as she asked the question, she wondered if Tonya’s word would be enough to convince them.
The other woman’s response seemed to echo her thoughts. “We need proof that the creep writing you those letters was also writing Jess.”
“How do we do that?”
“You talk to Autumn tonight, and I’ll do a little snooping.”
33
Saturday, May 5, 2007
8:25 p.m.
It’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.
34
Saturday, May 5, 2007
9:00 p.m.
When 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?”
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