Caroline Burnes - Familiar Vows

She slipped through several people staring at the picture and began to lift it from the hooks.

“Michelle, what are you doing?” Marco was at her side.

“It has to come down.” She spoke through clenched teeth as she wrestled with the wire and hook that held it.

“It’s the best of the show.” Marco grasped her elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“This wasn’t meant to be hung,” she said. Behind Marco she saw both television cameras whirring. The news crews had sensed a moment of drama and were capturing everything on film.

Holding up a hand over each lens, she tried to block them. “Stop filming,” she said.

When they ignored her, she felt her temper ignite. “Stop that now. This picture isn’t meant to be shown.”

The crowd, which had been boisterous with laughter only moments before, grew quiet and gathered round her.

“Michelle, darling, come with me to the office,” Marco said. He tried to hold her elbow, but she pulled free from him.

“Get that picture down,” she said. “Please. I don’t have permission—”

Marco smiled at his guests. “I’ve made a mistake by hanging this photograph,” he said smoothly. “Could we all step to the front of the gallery while I have it replaced with the proper picture?”

As he beckoned the people to follow him, Michelle went back to the picture. She wanted to pull it from the wall, but she knew she’d already shown far too much emotion.

She felt something brush against her legs, and she looked down at the cat. He put one gentle paw on her knee and then gave a soft meow.

As crazy as it sounded, she felt as if he sympathized with her situation.

Two workers appeared at her side and gently removed the photograph. Within moments, they reappeared with a still life to replace it.

Michelle inhaled, trying hard to calm herself. It was over now. That the photo had been hung in the show was grounds for a lawsuit, but she’d moved to correct her error instantly. The news crews would likely never use the footage they’d shot. In a city like New York, there were far bigger stories to cover than a photo exhibit.

The damage was minimal. And now she had to get back up front with Marco. He’d gotten everyone laughing at one of his jokes. She needed to prove that she wasn’t some kind of psycho witch. She lifted her shoulders and walked toward the crowd.

As good as room service is in this hotel, I have to say the delicacies at the photo exhibit were better. It was with great reluctance that I left that platter of roast beef crusted with fresh garlic. That gallery owner, Marco, is a man with a discriminating palate. His offer to take me in has a lot of merit. I wonder if I could merely visit. Naturally, I’d never abandon Eleanor and Peter. They adore me, and they need me. But a SoHo party address would be a nice coup.

But enough about my limitless possibilities. It’s time for the news, and I want to be sure that Eleanor is watching. Those cameras were certainly whirring, capturing Michelle Sieck’s moment of high drama as she tried to yank her photograph off the wall.

If this is used in a newscast, Eleanor needs to know—because Lorry could be in danger.

Ah, here’s the local segment of WKPT and the gala crowd at the photo exhibit. They’re using the gallery event as the lead local story. I have a feeling this is going to be bad.

Eleanor doesn’t realize the significance yet, but she will. Let me put my claws in her shin just a little to keep her attention from wandering.

Okay, we’re at the part where Michelle creates a commotion. There’re the photographs. And Michelle makes it all worse by putting her hand over the lens for a moment. She should never have done that. That really torques a cameraman off, and she should know that better than anyone else.

Oh, cupid in a diaper, they’re showing the photograph of Lorry. It is so stunning that people are compelled to study it. The scar on Lorry’s neck is visible. Someone who knew what she looked like could easily recognize her, even through the gauze of the veil.

This is bad. Really, really bad. Eleanor is dialing her cell phone. I can tell from the tension in her body that she’s distressed.

“Hello, Lucas. This is Eleanor Curry. I’m afraid we have an emergency situation. I just saw a photograph of Lorry Kennedy on a New York news station. They were covering a gallery opening, and Lorry’s picture was part of a brouhaha where that photographer woman tried to keep them from filming it. It won’t be hard for the Maxims to retrace that photographer’s steps. I’m afraid Lorry’s cover has been blown.”

THE CELL PHONE WAS CHILLY against Lucas’s ear. Camped on one of the isolated sites on his ranch, he’d hoped the peace of the land and the beauty of the stars would finally lull him to sleep. Deep down, though, he’d had a sense that trouble would come a-calling.

His sixth sense had often saved him from a mouthful of knuckles—or worse, a bullet. He’d been teased by the other marshals, who accused him of consulting psychics and having a hotline to the Jamaican television personality who’d made great claims about her abilities to predict the future.

Lucas, like most of his fellow law enforcement officials, was skeptical about psychic abilities, but he had absolute faith in his gut.

When the cell phone rang, Tazer, his little blue heeler, began to growl. The phone and the dog’s reaction to it made the hair on the back of Lucas’s neck prickle.

This was not good news.

When he realized it was Eleanor, he was relieved and surprised. Until he heard her first statement.

“When was this?” he asked. He began to kick dirt over his campfire.

“Earlier this evening.”

“Damn.” He wasn’t a man who cursed, but this was terrible. He’d been a fool. The redheaded photographer at Lorry’s wedding had played him like a fine fiddle. He’d taken her film, and she hadn’t even threatened a lawsuit. And now he knew why. The film and memory card he’d taken and destroyed had, in all probability, been blank.

“I’ve got to find Lorry,” he said. She and Charles had gone on a honeymoon, and then they were moving, beginning that new life she’d risked everything to have. Though he felt as if Lorry were the little sister he’d never had, he’d let her go without any questions, knowing he’d see her at Antonio’s final appeal. The fewer people who knew where she was, the less the danger of the Maxims ever finding her.

“You find that photographer,” Eleanor said. “Find her, get the film or whatever, and put an end to this. If she’s showing that picture anywhere else, we have to stop it.”

“I’ll book a flight to New York and call Bride Magazine in the morning. I’ll make her editor tell me how to get in touch with her.”

“No need. Michelle Sieck’s work is in Marco’s Gallery in SoHo.”

“How did you happen to watch that particular newscast?” Lucas asked. It was lucky Eleanor had seen it, but what were the odds?

“Familiar made sure I saw it. I told you, he’s a detective. And a darn good one.”

Lucas didn’t have time to argue with Eleanor about a cat’s ability to sleuth out pertinent information. He found it odd, though, that a woman of such high intelligence could believe such a load of poppycock.

MICHELLE BURIED HER FACE in her hands as the news story continued to spill across the screen. The whole business with the Confederate picture had been a comedy of errors. And the bottom line was, she should never have printed it.

Surely, though, nothing truly awful could happen because of the mistake at the gallery. If only the media hadn’t covered the event. If only she hadn’t put her hand up to block the cameras. She knew better, but she’d acted on impulse. The wrong impulse. She stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.