Behind The Mask. Metsy Hingle
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hand.
“If you find Beth, would you give her something for me?”
“Sure,” Michael said.
The older woman disappeared into a back room of the sprawling house. When she returned, she handed him a photograph. It was of Elisabeth Webster and her son, Timmy. Only, the woman in the snapshot didn’t look anything like the glamorous creature in the studio photo Webster had given him. This woman wasn’t wearing diamonds. Nor was her hair a curtain of long blond silk that fell to her shoulders. Her lips weren’t pulled into a sexy pout and painted a bold red. And she wasn’t wearing a strapless gown that revealed milk-pale shoulders and cleavage that would make a man’s mouth water for a glimpse of what lay beneath the sheer black lace. Instead, the woman in the snapshot was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt that only gave a hint of the curves that lay beneath. Instead of looking sexy, she looked wholesome seated in the center of a pile of leaves. Her hair was pulled up into a lopsided ponytail strewn with leaves in various shades of orange and gold and brown. Her lips were bare and the smile on them totally lacking in artifice as she clutched the laughing little boy in her lap.
“I took that the day before she left. She and Timmy were raking the yard for me, and they were having such a good time. I remember thinking how happy they looked that day,” she said, her expression softening with the memory. “I thought Beth might like to have the picture, to remember her time here with me.”
“I’ll see that she gets it,” Michael promised, and tucked the photo into his pocket.
Later that night in his hotel room Michael made a series of calls and planned a trip to Elisabeth Webster’s grandmother’s old neighborhood, then he stretched out on the bed. Pulling the snapshot out of his shirt pocket, he stared at the woman whose green eyes had haunted him from the moment he’d first seen them in the framed photograph on Adam Webster’s desk. While he’d found the sexy Elisabeth Webster appealing, it was this softer version of the woman that intrigued him. “Who are you?” he murmured to the fragile-looking woman in the photo. Was she the calculating, coldhearted gold digger who’d drugged her husband and stolen his child? Or was she this innocent-looking creature who pitched in to help a sick old woman in need?
The sound of his cell phone ringing pulled Michael from his disturbing thoughts. He tossed the photo onto the nightstand and snatched up his phone. “Sullivan.”
“I got your message. You said you had some news for me. Have you found Elisabeth?”
Michael gritted his teeth at the sound of Webster’s voice and reminded himself that the man was paying him to do a job. “Not yet. But I’m getting closer. I talked to some people in Arkansas who knew her as Beth. She left here about two and a half months ago.”
“I’m not interested in where my wife was, Mr. Sullivan. I want to know where she is now.”
“The best way for me to find her is to retrace her path so I can get an idea of where she was headed. Thanks to the bozos you sent after her, getting people to talk hasn’t been easy.”
“If finding my wife was easy, I wouldn’t be offering you such a large sum of money to find her, now, would I?” He paused. “Of course, if you don’t think you can find her—”
“I’ll find her, and the boy, too. I talked to the owner of the boardinghouse in Arkansas where they stayed and was able to get a more recent photo of her and your son.”
“I want to see it,” Webster demanded.
“I’ve already overnighted a copy to you. I’m headed for Alabama in the morning to check out a lead.”
“What kind of lead?”
“The lady who ran the boardinghouse said your wife mentioned visiting one of her grandmother’s old neighbors.”
“But Elisabeth’s grandmother has been dead for more than ten years. She’s had no contact with any of those people,” Webster told him.
“Like I said, I’m checking out a lead.” What he didn’t tell Webster was that the lead would take him to New Orleans.
“It sounds like a waste of time to me. Just be aware that the clock is ticking on our agreement, Sullivan. You said you could find my wife within thirty days. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I’ll deliver on my end of the bargain. You just make sure you have the rest of my money ready,” Michael said, then he cut the connection.
Tired, Michael lay back down on the bed. But when ten minutes had passed and he was no closer to sleeping than he’d been when he’d lain down, Michael sat up. Might as well get a head start for Mobile and then get on to New Orleans, he decided. And after grabbing his bag and jacket, he picked up the snapshot. He took another long look at it, then shoved it into his pocket and headed out the door.
“Mommy, I no feel good,” Timmy whined to Lily as she settled him into the big, comfy bed at Gertie’s house.
“I know you don’t, baby,” she soothed, and pressed her hand to his forehead. “It’s because you have chicken pox. But the shot and medicine Dr. Brinkman gave you is going to make you feel all better real soon.”
“I’m going to fix you a special treat this afternoon,” Gertie Boudreaux promised as she came into the spare room and joined the pair.
“Cookies?” Timmy asked hopefully.
“Something better than cookies,” Gertie assured him. “But you need to be a good boy and take a little rest now while your mama goes to work.”
“I not seepy,” Timmy informed her.
“I know you’re not, sweetie. But if the medicine is going to work and make you feel better, you need to rest,” Lily told him.
“You bring me ’prize?” Timmy asked her.
“All right. Mommy will bring you a surprise.” Lily kissed his forehead. Then she planted a kiss on his teddy’s forehead, as it was her custom.
“And ’prize for Teddy, too,” Timmy added.
While she knew Timmy was pushing it, there was no way she could refuse him. “All right. Two surprises. One for you and one for Teddy. But that means you need to be a really good boy, and do what Gertie tells you until Mommy comes back.”
“’Kay,” Timmy told her, and hugging his teddy close, he snuggled beneath the covers and closed his eyes.
She sat on the edge of the bed a few minutes longer until his breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. But even when he’d dozed off, Lily found herself reluctant to leave him.
As though sensing her thoughts, Gertie placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, child. What he needs now is to rest.”
With leaden feet, Lily stood and followed Gertie out of the room and into the kitchen of the small cottage. But her thoughts remained with her son. “The doctor said it’s a mild case, but he looks so sick.”
“If you ask me, you look a lot worse than he does.”
“I’m all right.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why you look as though a strong gust of wind could knock you over. I bet you didn’t sleep a wink last night. And you were probably too worried about that boy of yours to bother eating anything this morning, weren’t you?”
Lily saw no point in telling her that when Timmy had awakened her saying that he didn’t feel well during the wee hours of the morning, she’d panicked upon discovering he had a fever. When she noted that what she’d thought was a rash during his bath had spread to his belly, she’d been terrified. The emergency call to the pediatrician, and his diagnosis by phone that it sounded like chicken pox, did nothing to ease her worries. She’d been unable to sleep a wink after that and had sat beside her son’s bed until morning, when she’d taken him to the doctor.
“You better sit down before you fall down,