Without A Trace: A totally addictive thriller packed with twists, page 2
It took several minutes and every bit of her Logan courage to pick up her pencil and sketch pad. But she still couldn’t shake the feeling that a hurricane of horror was slowly building… and it was headed straight towards her.
At midday, she fortified herself with a lemon gelato, then continued her sketch—three nuns in full habit from the order known as the Poor Clares of Perpetual Adoration. Suddenly, the feeling of being watched became so strong she knew she was in the crosshairs of something out there, someone whose selfish intent sent chills through her.
Across the plaza, a swarthy man with a generic baseball cap hiding his upper face sat alone at his table, staring straight toward her. Was it a stalker? An obsessed fan? Both familiarity and danger pulsed around him. Did she know him?
Without warning, he aimed his cell phone at her and began to walk aggressively in her direction. Fear whispered through her, followed by indignation. Whatever happened to asking if he could take her picture? Whatever happened to courtesy? Respect?
She rose from her chair, her blood pumping so furiously she could almost hear the beat of her heart. The man moved closer—threatening, bold—as if he had the right, as if she were some kind of public property he owned.
Make yourself big enough to scare a bear.
She stretched herself up to her full five feet, nine inches. “What do you want?”
He didn’t answer, just moved irrevocably toward her, his cell phone still aimed and recording, his face dripping with sweat. Anticipation? Anxiety?
“Don’t come any closer!” She jerked up the only weapon she had and raised it above her head. “I know five ways to kill a man with this pencil.”
Annie stared the man down, pencil poised to do major damage. She knew how to weaponize it, too. Her beloved brother-in-law, Rachel’s first husband, had taught her self-defense, before he had become a fallen soldier himself.
Doubt bloomed across her stalker’s face. He stopped between two tables and lowered his cell phone. The four couples at the tables shrank back, their expressions stony.
Heads turned to watch the stand-off, but nobody intervened. Nobody wanted to get involved.
There was a horrible moment when she thought her bluff might not work. Annie’s fear ratcheted up. If this man was her online stalker, he had vowed to make her pay. But for what?
“Back off! Now!” She made herself sound mean and ugly, a woman who meant what she said. To disguise the fact that she was shaking inside, she stormed toward him, waving her arms. “Leave me alone.”
Thankfully, the man spun around and hurried off in the direction of the Hotel Giotto, though not before he called her a string of names so unflattering that a mother standing at the gelato stand bent to cover her toddler’s ears.
Still shaking, Annie sank into her chair, her desire to sketch gone. Had the man in the piazza been a manifestation of her dream? Was he the man who threatened her online? Or had he merely been an overzealous fan who spewed out his venom at her for spoiling his rude invasion of her privacy?
An artist’s muse will vanish in a twinkling when threats and chaos appear. Hers had probably leaped continents and oceans to cower somewhere in the frozen Tundra.
Still, she tucked her fear and the warnings into a corner of her mind, refusing to let the man ruin her day. Dismissing him as an overzealous fan, she packed up her supplies and walked to the Basilica di Santa Chiara in the heart of the city. The cathedral was vast and peaceful, a perfect place to vanish in plain sight. She chose a pew in a corner at the back of the nave, and closed her eyes to meditate. Finally, she found her quiet center and returned slowly to her flat.
A letter waited in her box. Her spirits lifted when she saw the return address. New Orleans, Louisiana, USA. She only had time for a quick read and a light evening meal of pears and cheese before she had to dress for her art show.
The letter was from Antonia “Toni” Delgado, the woman who had almost destroyed Jen’s life and then, ironically, had become a best friend to Annie with one simple act of grace and kindness. In the aftermath of the nightmare in Gulf Breeze last spring, Toni wrote to all of them—Jen and her husband, Gran, and even Annie—sincere, heartfelt letters of apology where not one word rang false. The rest of the family accepted the apology and moved on. But for Annie, it was the beginning of a friendship that grew stronger with each phone call and letter.
Toni’s latest was little more than a handwritten note, but it felt like an omen.
Annie, my new job at the New Orleans DA’s office is a dream come true, and I have a new apartment in the Vieux Carre (French Quarter) that I can see myself living in forever, growing old alongside an even older but adoring husband and lots of great-grandchildren. You HAVE TO COME! You can no longer say I don’t have a place to put you. Get your gorgeous self on a plane and have an old-fashioned American Thanksgiving with me. Call and say yes. XO Toni
P.S. I LOVE that we have a proper correspondence with letters and photos we can store in a box to show our children!
She would definitely call Toni, but what would she say?
Yes or no?
THREE
GALLERIA LE LOGGIE
That evening, murmurs of bella artista followed Annie through the cobblestone streets. Stars shot sparks of fire through her auburn hair, and moonlight turned her white wrap and signature white dress to silver as her skirt and cape floated around her.
She was head and shoulders taller than the locals. Add her four-inch stilettos, and she topped six feet. People turned to watch as she walked toward the Galleria Le Logge where her latest watercolor collection would be featured this evening: A Study of Sunflowers, swirls and bursts of yellow glowing against backgrounds of azure sky, silver moonlight, stark stone walls, mists of fog and rain, the primitive carts of street vendors, a country kitchen table, a handwoven basket in the arms of a child—all appealing in her trademark detail and finely tuned colors, similar to the naturalist James Audubon but with a technique all her own.
Inside the venue, Rocco Salvatore, the balding owner of undetermined age who managed to be both dapper and portly, had displayed her work under lights and placed massive bouquets of her favorite white calla lilies on tables filled with Italian delicacies and fine wine. Though Annie usually wove her way through a crowd, tonight she chose to remain near her favorite painting in the center of the gallery, her back turned to the wall so no one could surprise her from behind.
Rocco noticed and headed her way. “You aren’t mingling tonight. Is something amiss?”
“Everything is perfect,” Annie said, smiling. Though she was still shaken from the morning’s events, she smiled to show she meant the compliment. “It has been a long day. I thought I’d let the crowd come to me.”
“Perfect.” His smile showed dazzling teeth, a little too large for his mouth and blatantly false. “You anchor, I’ll mingle.” He scooted off toward the refreshment table.
The crowd flocked to her, and she took the time to chat and answer their questions about her work. With her natural charm and her ease with the art lovers, no one would have guessed the elegant artist was not fully present.
Her mind was still on the horrible incident in the piazza. Digging deep for the fearlessness that had allowed her to live alone for years in a foreign country and thrive, she dragged her mind off her problems and focused on answering questions about her art.
Suddenly, Annie’s senses went on full alert. The crowd had shifted her away from the wall, and someone was approaching her from behind. When a hand closed around her arm, she whirled, her heart hammering.
A tall man with blazing black eyes and white hair held her in a vise grip. She swallowed back a scream, and told herself she was in a room filled with art patrons and the security Rocco always hired for events. What could happen?
“Annie, you are very beautiful.” His gaze was predatory, his voice too silky, too intimate.
Cold shivers went through her, and she took a step back. Thankfully, he released her arm. “I’m sorry... I don’t recall your name.”
“You don’t know me. I buy your work for a client in Mandeville, Louisiana.”
Near Mom’s childhood home. Annie caught the flash of sun on green water, knife blade on a bare throat. A waking dream. A nightmare that pelted her with fear. Was this man somehow connected?
Still keeping his identity hidden, the stranger gestured toward her watercolor of the Hermitage of the Cells, tucked among the slopes of Mt. Subasio and shrouded in fog, a dark brooding piece that matched the way he made her feel.
Fortunately, Rocco came to close the sale, and escorted the strange man off while Annie chatted with departing guests. When Rocco returned, the gallery was empty except for the two of them and a few lingering guests.
“Annie, the show is a sell-out. Tell your hard-nosed American agent to put me at the top of the list for your next art show. Whenever you’re ready. I’ll clear the calendar.”
Bea Lowenstein would be by flattered at the hard-nosed tag. She was stubborn, and credited her success to toughness. She worked hard to keep her reputation that way.
“I’ll tell her.” Annie linked her arm through his and stood by the door to thank each guest for coming.
Being accessible was a big part of any artist’s life, and one Annie usually enjoyed. Her whole childhood, she’d been schooled by the best, Victoria Logan, who was always the center of any ranching circle she traveled throughout the state of Colorado, and her mother, Delilah, the toast of every lover of jazz throughout the world who had the privilege of hearing her sing in her brief career in music. Tonight, though, had been an exercise in patience, if not a full-blown trial of her ability to present a serene façade to the public while the scared little girl inside her wanted to run screaming back to the safety of Colorado and a grandmother who would die to protect her.
As Annie left the gallery, the town was still alive with tourists. Assisi was a major religious pilgrimage site, and they poured in and out of shops and restaurants and thronged along the meandering streets to catch a glimpse of the lighted Basilica de San Francesco with its massive bell tower under moonlight. Still cautious from her disturbing encounter at the piazza and her fright at the gallery, she pulled up the hood of her cape and strode toward a small, quiet café, her glance frequently sweeping the crowd for suspicious characters.
Unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching her, she mulled over defensive moves. If she needed a weapon, her strappy silver stilettos would do. She could sink the heel deep enough to make someone think twice about attacking Annie Logan.
The shop bell over the door tinkled as she entered the café. She scanned the area for watchers, then found a table in the back. Fortunately, nobody paid attention as she sat with her back against the wall. A young waitress took her order for hot chocolate, and when she was out of earshot, Annie placed a call to her agent’s personal number.
Bea answered on the first ring, her voice raspy from the cigarettes she smoked. The tinkle of ice against glass indicated she was enjoying a bedtime drink, probably while wearing her outrageous lime green robe printed with cabbage roses. “Annie, I hope this is good news about the gallery show this evening.”
“It was great.” She passed along Rocco Salvatore’s request, and told Bea about the stalker in the Piazza del Commune.
“That’s unacceptable. Did you report him?”
“No. I thought he was just an overzealous fan.” Annie startled at a commotion near the door, and whirled in that direction. But it was only a couple of rowdy teenagers.
“File a report. You can’t be too careful these days.”
“I’ll do that tomorrow. Are you sitting down, Bea?”
“What? There’s more bad news?”
“I hope it’s good. I’m heading to New Orleans for a few weeks. Can you book a gallery showing?”
Annie had a favorite collection she had been reluctant to sell. She called it Meditation—cathedrals with vaulted arches and ancient frescoes, small stucco churches with a single bell tower, both primitive and ostentatious naves, hidden gardens, and quiet retreats all over Italy. Letting them go seemed a small price to pay for finding her mother’s family.
“I’d be happy dancing, but sourpuss is my middle name. If I can get a small gallery to take you on such short notice, I can coordinate blanket publicity that will pull in the holiday crowd. It’s doable.”
“Thanks, Bea.”
“It’s my job. What time is it over there?”
“After midnight.”
“Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll be back in touch… And, Annie, take care of yourself.”
“Thanks, Bea. You, too.”
But instead of leaving, Annie ordered another hot chocolate. Since her dark bayou dreams started, sleep had been elusive. Add the threatening comment on her social media, plus the stalker in the piazza, and she felt like Alice who had tumbled down the rabbit hole. Anything could happen next. Even the most bizarre and unimaginable things possible.
Being an artist who felt every emotion was enough to set her apart as different. Add her technicolor dream warnings and the public personae that made her easy to track, and she might as well be walking around with a target on her back.
By the time she headed home, the temperature had dropped, thunder rolled, and clouds blotted out the stars, giving the night an ominous feel. Though she knew November in Assisi was notorious for frequent showers and thunderstorms, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the approaching rain was a precursor of worse to come, that something unknown was gathering force to destroy her. The first drops began to fall just as she reached her flat.
It was two in the morning. Past the witching hour of foretelling dreams, which had been her intent. She washed her face, put on silk pajamas, and propped herself on pillows to read Toni’s letter once more, just in case she had missed something. Her friend had enclosed a photo of the view from her New Orleans’ residence on the third floor of the Upper Pontalba Apartments—Jackson Square, lush greenery, artists and musicians lining the sidewalks, glimpses of intriguing shops and restaurants that would sell the shrimp po’ boys Delilah had talked about but never tried to recreate in her kitchen on the ranch in Colorado.
The photo seemed to come alive in Annie’s mind, beckon to her, whisper to her. Satisfied she’d made the right decision, she tucked it back into the envelope with Toni’s note, then snapped off the light and snuggled under her covers, hoping for a dreamless sleep.
The dreamworld of mysterious bayous and dark secrets didn’t come to her softly, as it always had, with mists and swirling green water and a deep male whisper for help. It slammed through her, a deluge of furious, foaming red that soaked her hair, her pajamas, her skin. It roared through her with screams that pierced the night, high-pitched and terrifying. A woman begged for her life even as her butchered body turned the bayou into a river of blood.
The dark water sucked the young woman under, while ribbons of scarlet poured from her wounds and twined around her. The bayou went quiet. Not a sound could be heard, not even a peep from the singing frogs. The moon vanished and stars disappeared, as if a giant hand had snatched them from the sky.
Annie’s dream-self wept at the poignance of Nature mourning the death of a beautiful woman who died far too young. The silence was so deep, it seemed to announce the end of the word. And then, suddenly, the stillness shattered and the dark water spit her out again. She floated, face-up, her eyes staring sightless at the sky.
The dead girl’s face was Annie’s.
FOUR
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
Toni navigated the streets as if she had been born in New Orleans instead of New Jersey. Because of her pants and jacket, the baseball cap atop her pixie haircut, and the daredevil, tomboyish way she handled her bicycle, you might have mistaken the figure pedaling toward Jackson Square for a teenage boy if you didn’t notice her dark eyes with impossibly long lashes or the vivid slash of red on her lips.
Make no mistake about it, Antonia “Toni” Gloria Delgado was all fiery Sicilian woman and proud of it. Cross her at your peril. Underestimate her intelligence at your own risk. And never, ever come to her table with a puny appetite. She won’t invite you back if you don’t eat heartily of the abundant meals she prepares in her kitchen using the recipes passed down from her ancestors in the home country.
She was a woman on fire, and she was reinventing herself.
One of the things she loved best about her new job as an attorney at the DA’s office in New Orleans was the laid-back casual vibe of the city. The ambience, plus the proximity of her office to her apartment in the French Quarter, confirmed that her move from Gulf Breeze had been smart. She was an easy fifteen-minute bike ride from work, a bit longer in the late afternoons when people began to pour from their offices and congregate in shops and restaurants around the square.
Artists and street musicians gathered there to display paintings and play the blues that sprang from the cotton fields of the Mississippi Delta and found its full voice in the sassy trumpets, growling trombones, and moaning saxophones of the hard-luck, broken-hearted jazz musicians who gravitated toward the Crescent City where pirates once roamed.
The lively commotion was a balm to her heart. Though she cherished her independence, she missed her big, affectionate, and lively family in New Jersey.
Toni heard the music before she saw the square, the haunting melody that could only come from the silver trumpet of one man. The blue notes ripped her heart in half then promised to put it back together again. Would it? she wondered. Would she even dare let it try?
“Definitely not.”
People turned to see who she was talking to. Let them look. She was done caring what other people thought, especially guys with heartthrob looks and a sad story to tell.
He was on his usual corner facing the historic St. Louis Cathedral, his trumpet pressed to his lips as he watched for her red bicycle and her baseball cap. His name was Brick, of all things. A darker version of the handsome actor Paul Newman in Tennessee Williams’ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Brick Beaufort, the prodigal son of some big-wig Louisiana senator and plantation owner who disdained music and despaired that his youngest son chose the rocky, uncertain career path of a musician.
