Cowboy Incognito. Alice Sharpe

That’s why I’m telling you.” He took a deep breath and added, “On top of that, I’m afraid we have a more immediate problem than a snoopy boyfriend.”

      “Don’t keep calling him my boyfriend,” she protested. “We haven’t known each other that long and he’s only in town—”

      Marc held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you know what I mean. Our star artist is holed up in the ladies’ room.”

      Still reeling over news that Ryan had been asking about her family, Kinsey shook her head. “How long has she been in there?”

      “Forever. Someone from the newspaper showed up and wanted an interview and she refused. Turned all shy, refused to have her picture taken or anything. Thank goodness you’re here. She’s supposed to say something meaningful about her muse in five minutes. Remind her that’s why I’m doing this show, to sell her work, not be her therapist.”

      “I know, Marc. I’ll get her back out here.”

      “Tell her the newspaper guy left.”

      “Did he?”

      “Yeah. I tried to get him to stay, but art shows aren’t exactly a huge draw, even when the paintings are as good as these.”

      The opening seemed to be well attended, for which Kinsey was thankful. She’d sent out over a hundred invitations and it looked as if about half had decided to come, packing the narrow, trendy space with well-dressed people sipping wine. Of course, it was a heck of a lot cooler in the gallery than it was outside, so maybe that helped account for some of the attendees.

      As she moved through the room, greeting people as she went, she noticed several discreet sold signs. That should make Marc happy.

      Once inside the ladies “lounge,” Kinsey found Ellen Rhodes sitting forlornly on a velvet bench, staring at her hands.

      “Congratulations, you’re a hit,” Kinsey said with a giant smile.

      Ellen looked up with nervous blue eyes. “I can’t do this. I don’t like all these people looking at my work.”

      “Isn’t that the point of a show?” Kinsey asked gently.

      “I didn’t know it would be like this. So many people...”

      “You’ve already sold several paintings,” Kinsey said. “You’re a hit.”

      “I just want to go home.”

      “Listen, I get it, you’re not into the publicity side of things, you’re not a media hound. But Marc has a lot at stake here. He believes in your work or he wouldn’t have offered you this show. Most artists work for recognition, you know. Buck up, now.”

      “You sound like my mother,” Ellen said, but at least there was a little snap in her voice.

      “That’s because I’m channeling my own,” Kinsey said. “I’ve heard versions of this speech my whole life.” Like when she’d come home from a school she’d only attended a month to find her mother packing...again. No matter how much Kinsey pleaded to stay in one place, they inevitably moved on. When Mom got it in her head it was time to go, they went. Period.

      Until a few years ago, that is. As soon as Kinsey had announced her independence and settled down in New Orleans, her mother had followed suit. She now took care of a sickly elderly man who had once been wealthy but was no longer, and she seemed almost content.

      “Is that newspaper guy still out there?”

      “No. Marc gave him an interview and he left.” Kinsey’s cell phone rang and she slipped it out of her pocket, answering hesitantly when she didn’t recognize the number. She listened for a minute or so before responding in a soft voice.

      “Is everything okay?” Ellen asked as Kinsey pushed the end-call button.

      Kinsey dropped her phone into her evening bag. “Huh? Oh, yes. And no.” She made a decision and added, “I’m really sorry, but I have to leave.”

      “You can’t,” Ellen squealed.

      “I have to. That was the police.”

      “The police!”

      “They want my help with an accident victim. I have to go to the hospital right away.”

      Ellen started to protest, but Kinsey hustled her back into the main gallery and steered her toward Marc, who couldn’t hide the look of relief that flooded his face.

      “Are you feeling better?” he asked Ellen.

      “I was until Kinsey said she’s leaving.”

      Marc’s smile drooped as he turned his attention to Kinsey. “You can’t leave. You just got here.”

      “I’m sorry, but the man who was hit earlier this evening is conscious and the police asked me to come see him.”

      “Why you?”

      “They didn’t say.”

      “But you don’t even know him!”

      “I know,” Kinsey agreed. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she called as she raced outside, car keys in hand.

      A half hour later, she stepped out of the elevator onto the third floor of the hospital. She immediately spotted Detective Woods standing at the end of a short corridor as though waiting for her.

      “I can see I took you away from something special,” he said with an appraising glance at her dress. He himself wore the same light blue sports jacket he’d worn earlier.

      “I was at a work-related event,” she explained.

      “Well, it was good of you to take time out for this. We appreciate it.”

      “I don’t know what I can possibly do to help,” she said. “Is he in this room?”

      The detective glanced at the door in front of them. “Yes, but I’d like to speak to you for a moment before we go in. Can I get you a cup of coffee or a glass of ice water?”

      “No, thanks.”

      The hospital had placed two chairs by the window at the end of the corridor and he gestured for her to sit. “First of all,” he began as they settled into the chairs, “you were right. The cyclist you and the others saw wasn’t a messenger for Speedy Courier. The real one claims he’d just finished a delivery and was stooping to unlock his bike when someone bashed him over the head. He’d left his helmet looped over the handlebars while he made the delivery. Anyway, when he came to, he found his bike, helmet and vest were missing. He has no idea who did it. He showed up back at the Speedy office to report it about the same time we showed up asking questions.”

      “So the guy we saw was a phony,” Kinsey said.

      “Yep. We’re retracing the real messenger’s trail to see if anyone he made deliveries to noticed anything peculiar. By the way, he’s a very thin, small young man. I imagine the thief couldn’t get the zipper up on the vest and that’s why it was open. Oh, and the phone video showed just what you surmised. The guy was wearing slacks and loafers.”

      “The real messenger is okay?”

      “He’s got a bump, but he’s fine.”

      “And how about the little girl the cowboy saved? Is she all right?”

      “Released an hour or so ago. The woman with her and her sister was the new au pair. I think she was more traumatized than the kids. By cowboy, are you referring to our John Doe?”

      “That’s how I thought of him,” she said, nodding toward the room. “Because of the hat and everything. Wait a second, John Doe? You don’t know who he is?”

      “No.”

      “But his wallet—”

      “Is missing. We think the cyclist must have taken