Ask a Shadow to Dance (3 page)

When he neared the front door, sadness came flooding back. Fran would not be there in the kitchen with breakfast ready. Alyssa would not be home from school this afternoon, eager to nestle in his lap.

Gone.

Such a terrible, harsh word.
But never would the guilt or the longing be gone. And never the emptiness.

David went inside, straight to the shower. Twenty minutes later, he sat at the table, reading
The Commercial Appeal
, drinking a cup of black coffee, scanning pictures of the dance on the riverboat. There, as brilliant as the morning star, was Marilu, dancing with Phillip, looking every bit the fashionable young woman she aspired to be.

He was about to put the paper aside when something caught his attention. The photographer, aiming at Marilu and Phillip, had inadvertently captured another figure as well.

Lisette. Standing in the shadows.

The features weren’t clear, but David had no doubt it was she. The sound of her voice and the perfection of her features came back in a rush of emotion and warmth.

It hadn’t been a dream—at least meeting her hadn’t been.

He thumbed through the telephone book until he had to admit there was no listing for either Jacob Morgan or his daughter—and no listing in the yellow pages for Morgan Enterprises. One phone call to a J.C. Morgan verified it wasn’t the same man. They must have an unlisted number or just a cell phone.

There wasn’t a lot of investigating he could do on Sunday, but he had to try. For a reason he couldn’t name, he knew he had to find Lisette Morgan again, if for no other reason than to prove he hadn’t imagined her.

He spent an hour that afternoon in the main library at Peabody and McLean, searching without success all the telephone books for Memphis and every suburb and town within a hundred miles. He even checked the listings as far away as Little Rock and Nashville.
Nothing. Any further search would have to wait until Monday. The clerk at the front desk asked if he wanted to look in the Memphis room, part of the history section. He told her he was looking for someone who lived in Memphis now, but thanked her for the suggestion.

Marilu called after supper to tell him again how wonderful he was and how dreamy Phillip had proven to be. She’d been home at ten of one, earning Joe’s approval, and Phillip had asked Marilu for a date the following weekend. Life couldn’t be better.
He half-listened, thinking about Lisette while Marilu chattered on and on.

He didn’t sleep much that night, either.

* * * * *

Monday morning, David called the Chamber of Commerce, the telephone company, and the public utilities, just to see if they had a customer by the name of Jacob Morgan. There were no listings. He had no idea what to do next. He hurried through hospital rounds and got to his office fifteen minutes late.

“Morning, Lana.”

“Good morning, Doctor Stewart.” She took one look at his red eyes and said, “Big weekend?” David didn’t answer. She called the first patient.

He worked steadily until noon, met Joe for potato skins, wild rice and shrimp, downtown at The North End—one of their favorite restaurants—then saw another steady stream of patients until a little after five o’clock.

He always checked with Lana before leaving. She had run the office for the past four years and he depended on her. She could have held him up repeatedly for raises, and he would have caved in and agreed without a single protest. He gave her bonuses twice a year, hoping to keep her working happily for years to come, but that could change soon.

Before Greg Chandler had entered the scene, David had taken her to dinner a couple of times, but nothing had ever come of it. He thought it best to keep their relationship strictly professional. This new boyfriend made it easier—and harder, too. A pediatrician just out of residency, Greg would soon be David’s partner, giving David more free time and Greg a chance to establish his practice in Memphis. David had no idea what effect that arrangement might have on Lana’s loyalty.

“Busy day.”
She filed the last of the case folders. “Tomorrow’s better.”

“When’s the first one coming in?”

“Not until after lunch. I decided to give you a chance to sleep late. There were only two in the morning, so I rescheduled them.”

“Bless you, my child. Does it show that badly?”

“Let’s just say I’ve seen you look brighter. Get some sleep, Doctor, and don’t call me in the morning.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow afternoon.” David’s only thought was hot water and the Jacuzzi.

At home, he fished the newspaper from its usual resting place in the junipers and went straight to start the water filling the huge tub—a luxury he’d never regretted installing after they bought the house—then to the kitchen to find something to eat. At this rate, he’d be in bed early—barring any emergency calls. He had to come up with a new strategy to find Lisette. Sleep was essential for clear thinking.

He grabbed a cold beer and a chunk of leftover roast beef from the refrigerator, then took everything back to the bathroom and turned on the Jacuzzi. Easing into the turbulent hot water felt wonderful. He lay back and soaked for a while, sipping and chewing, before reaching for the paper.

In the Living Section was an article about a riverboat. David read it with interest.

THE NIGHT THE
CAJUN STAR
VANISHED

Many a ship has sailed from port, continued over the horizon and disappeared forever. Ships have been doing this since sailors first started sailing, and it has occurred in practically every ocean and sea in the world.
Possibly the weirdest disappearance of all regards the
Cajun Star.

It was considered by many to be the finest afloat on the rivers of America, and families used to drive for miles just to watch the luxurious, palatial boat pass by, with her great paddle wheels churning, fire blazing and smoke streaming from her high smokestacks like black velvet ribbons edged in crimson.

The Cajun Star left Memphis on November 21, 1885, headed down river to New Orleans. All that evening, she rushed down the great Mississippi toward her port. Passing lesser ships, she saluted them with thunderous blasts from her steam whistle. Then the whistle fell silent.

Days later, when the riverboat was twelve hours overdue, her New Orleans owners began to worry. They telegraphed upriver for news. She’d last been seen just before midnight on the twenty-first.
After that—nothing. A search was started immediately. The riverbanks were examined for wreckage and survivors. People along her course were questioned. Had they heard an explosion or seen a fire?

Nothing.
Absolutely nothing! No news of any kind, except from a boy who claimed to have seen the boat explode, and several survivors pulled from the water who told similar tales. But no trace of passengers, crew, cargo or debris was ever found. No explanation of the disappearance of the huge river palace could be offered.

Only “Ole Man River” knows, and he don’t say nuthin’ at all!

David finished the beer and roast,
then washed his fingers in the soapy water. Interesting, he had to admit. He scanned the rest of the article—something about a commemorative dance being held November 21 on board the
Memphis Queen III
in memory of the
Cajun Star
—and found the list of people who had been on the boat when it disappeared. There might be a surname he’d recognize—a relative of someone he knew.

There was nothing unusual until he got to the top of the second column. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He read it again.

David Ingram Stewart

Someone on the
Cajun Star
with his name. Not just close, but exact!

He shivered. The water seemed to have cooled quickly. He dropped the newspaper on the floor, turned off the Jacuzzi, then stepped out onto the rug. Water dripped onto the newspaper, staining it with dark circles.

He shrugged on a terry robe, released the drain on the tub, retrieved the damp paper and went to the living room. Instead of turning on the television, he read the article again, all the way to the end this time, then went back to the passenger list and read it, name by name. Two entries mid-way down the second column made his heart pound.

Jacob Morgan

Lisette Morgan Westmoreland

Westmoreland? She hadn’t mentioned that name. But it had to be her.
No, not her, someone with her name. And her father’s name. But, how could that be? Grandparents, maybe? One coincidence could be accepted, but three? Practically impossible.

David scanned the article for the information number at the Memphis Queen Riverboat Line and dialed it, hoping Jim would still be there.
An answering machine. He’d have to wait until tomorrow. Damn!

The phone rang just after he hung up. Joe.

“Just wanted to thank you again for taking Marilu to the dance. I hope you weren’t too bored.”

“Not at all.”

“We’re having a barbecue at our house. Shawna said to lean on you to come.”

“Pass.”

“If Shawna asks, I pressured you for an hour.”

“Got it.
Listen, Joe, I need you to—” He stopped. Joe would think he was crazy. Or would he? Joe was exactly David’s opposite in temperament. When they were growing up, Joe had been the aggressive, impulsive brother, always in trouble, while David stood by, innocent, wishing he could be more like Joe. If David told Joe about Lisette—

He responded immediately. “What?
Anything. Marilu hasn’t stopped talking about ‘wonderful Uncle David’ since she got home. And that boy who brought her home—the one you know?—I couldn’t have picked a nicer kid.”

“The one I know? You mean Phillip?”

“Marilu said he’s one of your patients. That’s why you let him bring her home.” Joe hesitated. “That’s right, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have let her ride home with a complete stranger?”

Damn. What could he say? “Not to worry, Joe. Phillip is a fine young man.” At least he seemed that way at the dance. And he got her home on time. That said something for him.

Joe laughed. “You had me going there for a minute. Now, what was it? You need me to do something for you? Name it.”

“Uh … it’s nothing, really. I’m glad Marilu had a good time. I think someone’s at the door.
Gotta go.” David hung up, hating to lie, but he had to think about this further before springing it on Joe or anyone. David checked the list again to be sure he’d read the names correctly. There was no mistake.

He sifted it through his mind. There had to be an explanation for those names being on that list.

He struggled with the emotions that had surfaced since meeting this woman. For five years, he’d managed to keep them in check, denying all but the grief that had swallowed him whole. The idea that he might be capable of feeling desire for a woman other than Fran—without guilt—scared him in a way. He could try to forget he’d ever met Lisette, but he didn’t want to. Sappy as it might sound, there was a link between them. The list of passengers proved it.

He made his choice, then and there.
To learn the riddle of the
Cajun Star
.

To find Lisette.

Chapter Two

Lisette stepped through the door, waited for the handsome doctor to close it, then turned around, intending to take his arm, but didn’t see him. Had he stayed outside on the landing? She went toward the door, then swayed, dizzy and disoriented. Andrew appeared at her side. After her husband’s funeral, she had intended to leave New Orleans and everything associated with the Westmoreland family, but her stepson, Andrew, had managed to board the
Cajun Star
just as it pulled away from the dock. His presence was repugnant. His behavior after his father’s death never could be excused.

“What’s wrong, Lisa? You look pale. Did you catch a chill outside in the wind? The night air can be quite cold in November, even in the south.” He took her arm and practically dragged her across the room, his fingers pressed to the pulse on the inside of her wrist. As soon as her head cleared enough to stand alone, she pulled away. As always, Andrew’s sweaty hands felt clammy against her skin. She shuddered at the memory of those hands on her body, not one full day after his father’s death. His insistence on calling her Lisa made her skin crawl. If these people had any idea of Andrew’s true nature, they’d gladly help her drop him over the side, into the dark, cold waters of the Mississippi. It would be better treatment than he deserved. As vile as his father had been, Andrew was worse.
His black, lifeless eyes peered from beneath unkempt black hair that curled around his ears and forehead. His moustaches, always impeccably trimmed, made his mouth look pouty, but his lips, curled into a permanent snarl, betraying his complete lack of morals or conscience, ruined any chance he might have had to be considered handsome.

“There is no need to simper, Andrew. I am quite capable of standing on my own. I’ll thank you to leave me alone.” Lisette turned away, trying to dismiss him, but he persisted in following at her elbow.