Bone Cold

Ben thought of his patient, of his dashing good looks. Benjamin Walker look like Rick Richardson? In his dreams. Ben studied his reflection. Medium height and build. Medium-brown hair, brown eyes. Glasses that made him look as bookish as he was.

He would never be a lady-killer. He would never make women swoon. Or drool. Or faint.

Which was okay. That wasn’t what he was about.

Smart. Steady. A good son. Someday, when he found the right woman, a faithful husband and a devoted father.

He was comfortable in his own skin, with the man Ben Walker had become, the choices he had made, his life.

With a wry grin, he snapped off the office light and stepped into the waiting room, locking his office door behind him.

His was a one-person outfit; he didn’t even employ a receptionist. He didn’t need one. He made his own appointments, an answering service picked up his calls when he was in session and a computer program helped him with his bookkeeping. As of yet, his contact with insurance companies had been minimal. He was totally self-sufficient. A far cry from the Atlanta group with its plush offices and staff of twenty.

Truth was, he didn’t miss it. This was where he belonged.

He supposed as he became busier, he would require an employee. A part of him, a big part, would regret that day. His office was located in half of a Garden District double; the other half served as his residence. It was cozy. Intimate and homey. The inclusion of another would change that.

But change, he acknowledged, was an unavoidable, intrinsic part of life.

Ben crossed to the coffee table to straighten the magazines, only then did he notice the manila envelope propped against one of the sofa cushions. He picked it up. His name had been printed neatly in the upper left-hand corner of the otherwise unmarked envelope.

Curious, he opened it. Inside he found a hardcover suspense novel by Anna North, an author he didn’t recognize. As he turned the book over in his hands, a note fluttered to the floor. Short and cryptic, it read:

Tomorrow. 3 p.m. E! Entertainment Network.

Ben drew his eyebrows together, intrigued. Who had left this for him? Why had they left it?

He flipped through the book, but found nothing to indicate an answer to either of those questions. It seemed logical to assume one of his patients had either brought the book for him and forgotten to mention it or had dropped it off while he was in session.

Ben thought back. He had seen six patients today. He ticked off each in his head and saw no reason any of them would have left the book. If one of them left it. Anyone could have come in while he was in session and left the package.

Still, the question was, Why?

A mystery, he thought, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. One to read. And one to solve.

He would begin tomorrow at three, by tuning in to E!

7

Saturday, January 13 The French Quarter

Just after 2:00 p.m., Anna arrived home from her half-day shift at The Perfect Rose. She shivered and glanced up at the gray sky, wishing the sunshine predicted by the Channel 6 meteorologist that morning would make its promised appearance. Winter had only just begun and she was already ready for it to end.

After her lunch with Jaye on Thursday, Anna had returned to work, unsettled by Jaye’s revelation that somebody had been following her. She had even considered calling Jaye’s foster mom or the police, then had rejected the thought. First off, Jaye would have been furious with her, and secondly the girl had agreed they would go to the police if she saw the man again. Although not completely comfortable with her decision, Anna had decided that for now she would let it drop.

Anna retrieved her keys from her purse. In addition to her concerns about Jaye’s safety, she had been preoccupied with thoughts of Minnie and the discomfiting “He” of the girl’s letter.

Deciding that Jaye had been right about Minnie needing a friend, Anna had responded to the child’s letter. She had kept it light and chatty, working in a couple of subtle queries about Minnie’s parents, about her relationship with them. Now she hoped they had been subtle enough. She worried that Minnie’s folks would see right through them.

And come down on her like a ton of bricks.

Anna opened the gate to her apartment building’s courtyard, pausing to wave at old Mr. Badeaux from across the street. A neighborhood character, Alphonse Badeaux spent most of his days on the front steps of his shotgun double with his ancient, one-eyed bulldog, Mr. Bingle.

Alphonse, a two-time widower, chatted with everyone who came, went or passed his front steps. Anna had learned that if she needed to know anything about anyone on this or the immediately surrounding blocks, Alphonse was her man.

“You got a package today,” he called to her, standing then moseying over. “Saw the man deliver it. Don’t know who it’s from, though. None of my business.”

She fought a smile at that. “Did they toss it over the gate?” If no one in the building was available to buzz a delivery in, packages were often thrown over the courtyard gate. That practice worked out well except when it rained unexpectedly. Considering how often that happened in New Orleans, Anna had received a number of soggy packages.

“Nope.” He scratched his head. “Somebody buzzed him in. Came and went in about four minutes. Don’t know who, though. None of my business.”

“Thank you, Alphonse. I’ll look for it.” She glanced across the street to where the old bulldog lolled on the porch steps. “You and Mr. Bingle been feeling okay?”

“Pretty good.” He ran a hand across his face, skin leathery and lined from age and years exposed to the south Louisiana sun. “Don’t like the cold, though. Goes down deep, into my bones.”

“I know what you mean,” she agreed. “It’s so damp.”

He nodded and jerked a thumb toward his dog. “Doesn’t seem to bother Mr. Bingle. Cold or hot, wet or dry, old Bingle doesn’t seem to notice the difference.”

The dog lifted his head and looked at them with his one good eye. Anna smiled and touched her neighbor’s arm. “Come up for a hot chocolate one day. If I do say so myself, I make a pretty mean cup of the stuff.”

“That’s mighty sweet of you, Miss Anna. I’d like that. You watch out for that package, now.”

She told him she would, then let herself in through the gate, locking it behind her.

Like many of the old buildings in the French Quarter, or Vieux Carré, hers had been built around a central courtyard. In days gone by, the courtyards, with their brick walls and lush vegetation, had offered New Orleanians a respite from the stifling heat of summer; today, they served as an oasis from the city that lay beyond their vine-covered walls.

Anna made her way up the narrow staircase to the second floor. As her neighbor had warned, a padded mailing envelope sat propped against her door. She retrieved it, unlocked her apartment and stepped inside. After dropping her purse on the entryway table, she took a closer look at the package. It was addressed to her but unmarked in any other way. No return address, postmark or shipper’s label.

Odd, Anna thought. She tore open the envelope and drew out a videotape marked Interview, Savannah Grail.

Her mother. Anna smiled. Of course. Last time they’d spoken, her mother had mentioned that her agent had called about a couple of opportunities. This must have been one of those.

Anna turned on the TV, popped in the tape, then wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water and a handful of crackers. Her mother missed working. She missed the limelight, the adulation of fans. She missed being a star.

Although, she hadn’t been one for a long time now. For a while after the kidnapping, her mother’s already waning career had been revived. It hadn’t lasted. She had already been forty-five at the time, the age when Hollywood’s sex symbols began metamorphosing into movie moms. Those roles went to Oscar-caliber actresses. Something her mother had never been, not even at the zenith of her acting career.

The sad fact was, her mother had now reached an age where, save for an occasional television commercial or local theater production, there simply wasn’t any work to be had.

It had been hard for her mother to accept, though she had survived. When her marriage to Anna’s father had ended, she’d left southern California and moved back to her hometown, Charleston, South Carolina.

There, she was still a star, still the Savannah North—the part she had been born to play.

Smiling with anticipation, Anna settled on the floor in front of the TV and pressed the play button. A moment later the screen was filled with her mother, gorgeous in a peacock-blue silk suit and diamonds.

Anna smiled and munched on her goldfish-shaped crackers, watching as her mother came to life before the camera, preening for the interviewer, every bit the celebrity. She was still so beautiful, Anna thought. Still the flame-haired, green-eyed bombshell that the American public—particularly the male public—had loved to ogle.

The interviewer went to work. He remained unseen. From growing up around cameras and taping, Anna knew it would be easy to piece in the interviewer later. Many taped interviews were done exactly that way.