Authors: Phoebe Conn
“You have exterior cameras. Let’s see those too,” the detective asked.
Henry found them. “There he is, exiting the limo.”
Ana didn’t see anything to help them. “The car in front of him blocks the plates.”
“Unfortunate. Let’s see the following day,” Cazares urged.
This time the chauffeur walked into the camera’s view, but the limo was parked down the block. “Do you think he’s gotten more cautious?” Ana asked.
“Probably, although I can’t be certain. You did have the name of one florist?”
Ana had brought the tag downstairs. “Do you suppose they have security cameras?”
“I’ll call them and ask. Let’s look at the other deliveries.”
Henry scanned the camera footage, but commercial delivery trucks had brought the potted plants and chocolates. A man driving a van with kittens painted on the side had delivered the kittens. Ana murmured softly, “Gatitos Bonitos. Maybe the owner remembers who bought them.”
They went upstairs to her apartment to make the calls. Ana opened the door carefully, but Fatima had shut the kittens in the bathroom as planned. She offered coffee, but Cazares refused politely.
He chose the floral wing chair and opened his notebook. “I never rush anyone. Often people know more than they realize.” He called the florist, but there were no security cameras there. The friendly owner remembered the white roses and speaking to Ana, but could barely recall the chauffeur who’d made the purchase.
“Don’t be discouraged,” the detective offered when he ended the call. “The man who raised the kittens will have paid more attention.” He found the number for Gatitos Bonitos and made notes as he interviewed the owner, a Mr. Güerra. He smiled as he ended the call.
“Mr. Güerra recalls the man vividly because he took his time deciding which kittens to choose. He was around six feet, had wavy dark hair with gray-blue eyes. Güerra thought he was in his late thirties, or early forties. He was dressed in a suit that looked expensive. Güerra operates his business from his home and has no security cameras. Does the description sound like anyone you know?”
“It would fit half a dozen advertising executives, but they couldn’t keep a secret if they tried, let alone send me gifts anonymously. Does he remind you of anyone, Fatima?”
She stood in the kitchen doorway. “No one I recall. Where could he have bought the beautiful shoes?”
Ana opened her laptop and did a search for Lucien Lamoreaux. His website featured his beautiful high heels, and the store that handled them exclusively in Spain was there in Barcelona. There was no photo of him, however.
“If the shoes are sold only through a single store, the clerks will undoubtedly recall the man who made the purchase. May I take the shoes with me?” Cazares asked.
“Yes, do. May I go along?”
The detective closed his notebook and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “You’ve received flattering gifts, but it’s possible the sender’s motives aren’t benign. I can’t allow you to walk into a situation that could prove dangerous.”
Fatima gasped. “Should Ana hire a bodyguard?”
“No, not yet. Let me see what I discover. You’re well-known. He could simply have a crush on you and mean you no harm. I’ll speak to you later in the day.”
Ana felt worse after he’d left than she had before she’d called him. Unable to simply sit, she called a couple of the advertising firms she worked with regularly, but neither had done any commercial work for Lucien Lamoreaux. Paul Perez wasn’t familiar with the name either.
“Shoes are an odd thing to send a woman,” the agent said. “It has a Cinderella feel to it, but maybe he has a foot fetish and hopes to see you wearing the heels.”
“Then he’d plan to watch me,” Ana replied. “Thank you for that unwelcome thought. I’ll talk to you next week when I come home from Mallorca.”
“Yes, do. I’m sorry if I was short with you this morning, but you have such tremendous potential, and you mustn’t waste a speck of it.”
“Thank you.” She ended the call and walked into the kitchen to speak to Fatima. “I should have talked to Mr. Güerra when Mr. Cazares had him on the phone. Maybe he’ll take back the kittens.”
“Let’s leave them in the bathroom while you eat lunch. You can decide what to do with them later. I made your favorite salad, and the oranges are especially good. I’ll get more at the market before I come in tomorrow.”
Ana had forgotten to tell her she’d be out of town for several days. “It’s on my calendar. Please check it to make certain you’ve made a note of everything, but that’s the only new job that wasn’t already listed.”
“I’ll do that right now.”
Javier Cazares returned in the afternoon. “The clerks at the Lamoreaux shop hadn’t seen these shoes. They exclaimed over them but thought they must be from the holiday collection that wouldn’t reach the shop until fall. I picked up one of their brochures. Mr. Lamoreaux is on the front. Does he look familiar?”
Ana took the brochures. Lamoreaux was a dark-haired man with a sprinkling of gray and striking blue eyes. He stood in front of his Barcelona shop, and his dark suit fit his trim build perfectly. “I don’t know him, but he does fit Mr. Güerra’s description.” Although the cat fancier hadn’t mentioned how handsome Lamoreaux was.
“I thought so too, so I went to see Güerra. Lamoreaux is the man who chose the kittens for you, and he paid with cash.”
Fatima came forward to look at the brochure. “Why didn’t he just ask Ana to model his shoes?”
“This may not be about shoes,” Cazares warned. “His real interest may be Ana herself.”
“Fine.” Ana sighed. “What do you suggest?”
“Don’t wear the shoes,” the detective advised. “I’ll locate Mr. Lamoreaux, and we’ll decide how to approach him then.”
“I’ll ask my agent to represent me,” Ana replied. “If he’s looking for a model, fine. If he wants something personal, Paul will set him straight.”
“Do you frequently receive unwanted gifts?” Cazares asked.
“Yes, she does,” Fatima answered.
“It isn’t all that frequent,” Ana argued. “Gifts usually go to my agent’s office. I don’t post my home address anywhere.”
“But Lamoreaux found it,” Cazares emphasized.
Ana sat back on the sofa. “I’ve never heard of him, so he must have begun designing shoes recently. Perhaps he believes his approach was a polite way to introduce himself.”
“It helps to be positive,” the detective agreed.
“But it isn’t often wise,” Fatima countered.
Ana feared Fatima was right.
Chapter Four
Wednesday afternoon, Ana flew to Mallorca with Galen Salazar. The designer was always in a rush, and his long, sandy hair continually blew into his face, while his dark drooping eyebrows made him appear perpetually morose even when he laughed. Ana knew the other two models. Valeria had flaming red hair and alabaster skin that gave her an ethereal glow, while Lourdes had a Gypsy’s dark beauty. Along with the crew who’d work the shoot, there were seven of them altogether.
Galen had made arrangements to shoot in the Palau de l’Almudaina in Palma. The Moorish palace was the perfect backdrop for his fashions, but they had to begin early Thursday morning to be finished before the museum opened to tourists. After they’d checked into the Hotel Feliz, Leticia, who handled Galen’s fashions, immediately set to work steaming them to perfection.
Valeria went for a nap to the room she’d share with Lourdes, while Lourdes was insulted she hadn’t been given her own room and headed for the bar. “Will you keep an eye on her?” Galen asked.
Ana grabbed her carry-on bag. “Sorry, I’m dropping this in my room and going out for a walk. You’re not paying for my time until tomorrow.”
At five-eight, he was used to looking up at his models, but he shook his head sadly. “You always behave in a professional manner, but if my clothes didn’t look so good on Lourdes, I’d never hire her again. I’ll have to watch her myself. We’ll all meet later for dinner.”
“I’ll see you then.” Ana shared a room with Mimi, a makeup artist devoted to Galen who never caused anyone a particle of worry. Ana left her carry-on bag on the bed by the windows, pulled on her hat and dark glasses and went out to find a tourist shop with postcards so she could mail one to Alejandro and her mother and stepfather. She also looked forward to taking some photos of her own.
She walked down Avinguda D’Antoni Maura, found postcards, and entered a café for tea and an ensaimada, a delicious local pastry spiral sprinkled with powdered sugar. She shuffled through the half-dozen cards she’d bought, looking for the perfect one for Alejandro. She’d made a mental note of his address when they’d entered his building on Sunday and wrote it on a photo card of the Moorish palace where they’d be shooting tomorrow. Her message was a simple one about the beauty of the island. It probably wouldn’t reach him before she got home, but she’d send it anyway.
She couldn’t confide any worries to her mother because the dear woman would simply remind her of how hard they’d worked to give her such a lucrative career. As Ana saw it, she’d been the one who’d done the work. She wrote only that she was on Mallorca for a fashion shoot. It was a blessing her mother was so happy with Andre, and Ana was thankful for it every day.
Still hungry, she bought an orange and peeled it slowly. When she noticed a couple staring at her, she nodded. The woman came to her table. “You look so much like Ana Santillan, you ought to be modeling too.”
“Thank you. That’s very flattering.” She wondered how long it would take Alejandro to recognize her. Men noticed the sexy models on billboards even if they never saw a fashion magazine, but she didn’t want to push her luck any further. It would be easier to call him tonight and tell him who she was while she didn’t have to face him, but it would also up the risk he’d quit seeing her before they really got to know each other.
The waiter put her empty teacup on his tray. “You are too pretty to look so sad. I could show you around Palma and give you a very good time.”
She picked up her bag. “Thank you, but I’ve other plans.” She mailed the postcards and had started back to the hotel when their photographer, Jaime Campos, overtook her.
“I’m glad I found you so we can talk privately. Let’s stop here.”
Ana didn’t want another cup of tea, but sat with him in the outdoor café. He ordered a beer and leaned back to enjoy it. “How many times have we worked together, Ana?”
Jaime had the haggard look of a photo-journalist, and she’d heard he’d worked in Iraq. He always wore baggy khaki shirts and pants and dusty boots as though he’d be ready if a war broke out that afternoon. He was a fine fashion photographer, however, and she enjoyed working with him. “Half a dozen times, I suppose.”
He nodded. “You’re one of my favorites, and I’d like to work with you on some art photography for a gallery show.”
Ana raised a brow. “Are you talking about nudes?”
“A woman’s figure is a glorious subject, and with your long hair, you’d never look completely undressed.”
She glanced away. It was such a beautiful afternoon, but she wasn’t in a warm mood. “Jaime, you do excellent work, but I don’t do nudes, ever.”
“Has anyone else asked it of you?”
“Not since I let it be known that I’d not consider it. I do fashion, not so-called ‘art photography’.”
“But I plan a serious study of the female figure—everything elegant with artistic backgrounds. Nothing tacky like a cheap girly calendar.”
Growing more emphatic, Ana rested her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. She kept her voice low. “I wish you good luck with the project, but I won’t be part of it.”
His lower lip bulged in disappointment. “I’ve always made you look as beautiful as you are, but if I let a shadow fall across your face each time you pose tomorrow, you might be cut from the final ad.”
Ana grabbed hold of his sleeve and, nearly shaking with anger, twisted hard. “Are you threatening me? It’s a very bad idea when I could shred your career with every designer I know. If your work isn’t up to its usual high standard tomorrow, I’ll tell Galen why not.” She stood and tightened her hold on her bag. “Let’s forget this conversation ever took place. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Jaime stared as she walked away, his mouth agape.
Ana knew she’d probably overreacted, but Jaime must have finally gotten her message. She walked back to the hotel and around to the courtyard. She sat down on the garden wall and called Alejandro while she was too mad to realize it wasn’t a good idea. “Hi, it’s Ana.”
“Hi, Ana. How are things going on Mallorca?”
She smoothed her hair behind her ear. “Not all that well, but I hope they’ll run more smoothly tomorrow.”
“Sounds interesting. Do you want to add a few details?”
She bit her lip, then burst out with it. “Not about that, but Alejandro, my black hair is a wig. I’m blonde.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
She sucked in a deep breath. “You don’t like blondes?”
He laughed. “Blondes are fine, redheads, whatever. You could show up bald, and I’d still like you.”
“That’s comforting.” Now that she’d blurted out the least important thing about herself, she grew cautious. “The crew is having dinner together tonight, and I need to get going.”