Paige's sculpted cheeks darkened. She had been featured prominently in both Denver dailies that week, and not by accident.
"Well," Twee said uncomfortably, "perhaps we'd better spread you around a little more, Finny."
"Sic transit mayonnaise." Finny nodded to Les Trethalwyn. "Happy to meet you." Her polite smile shifted into sincerity at the twinkle in his brown eyes. "Ms. Dexter."
Finny touched Twee's arm as they neared the next group. "I need a quick break: I think I'll visit the restroom. Shall I meet you back here?"
"Oh, uh, yes." Twee's usual ebullience was dimmed. "I'm sorry," she said. "About Paige, I mean. She can be rather abrupt at times. I'm sure she didn't mean—"
"Don't worry about it. Maybe she's having an off night. I'll be back in a bit." Finny wove her way deftly through the snarls of people, toward the beckoning refuge of the powder room. Twee could kid herself all she liked. Paige Dexter was a third-rate imitation of Morgan le Fay, and the only hired help she would ever need was a full-time PR agent to help her avoid cutting her own throat with her serrated tongue.
She'd nearly made good her escape when a hand clamped onto her arm, stopping her in her tracks.
"Well, as I live and breathe." The smooth voice was as unexpected as a burst of swamp gas, and every bit as salutary. "Finny Aletter, the Wonder Woman of Seventeenth Street."
Chapter 2
Finny looked into the face from the past without revealing how unwelcome it was. "Hello, Ty."
Ty Engelman was a reminder of a particularly dead-end time in her life, when her work at Lakin & Fulton had been the only thing between her and the kind of slow-slide depression expressed in too much booze and bad-judgment sex. She'd met him at a retirement party and had been impressed by both his ambition and his flair. Denver was just a way station for him, and Wall Street wouldn't know what hit it when he got there.
But things never went Ty's way. He was the kind of man drawn to self destruction like a leech to warm flesh. He'd told her his plans during that year he worked down the street, as constant as a vulture, always on the lookout for a lunch date, always ready with the lure of concert tickets or that perfect late night hideaway. And he was always on the verge of the one magical deal promising to reinvent his world, unlocking the door to Arbitrage Heaven.
He had drifted away soon after Finny bought her house. It had taken her a long time to figure out that she'd lost her usefulness as a co-conspirator in Ty's self-sabotage.
It surprised her to see how healthy he looked: his blue-black hair, combed away from the narrow forehead in a wave, was untouched by silver. A streamlined bone structure was the underlay for pale, still-supple skin; his poetically large, dark eyes glowed with an inner flame. It was almost as if no time had passed between their meetings. A pact with the devil, perhaps, speculated Finny.
More likely a close relationship with a talented plastic surgeon.
"I heard you quit L and F," TV was saying. "Did you take Twee with you when you left?"
"Nobody 'takes' Twee anyplace." Finny glanced around for one of the drink trays the waiters had been carrying through the crowd periodically. "She's decided to make me the new fashion in carpenters."
"Carpenters?" Ty's lips curled in amused disbelief. "What's the scam?"
"No scam. I renovate houses now."
"Oh, sweetheart, pull the other one." He laughed, loudly enough to draw the eyes of those around them. "You had ambition leaking out of your ears. What happened—you get sacked when the recession hit?"
"Like you?" Finny watched with satisfaction as the jeering amusement in his eyes flashed into anger. "No, I just got bored with the rat race. Such a cheesy life." Why did such conversations always spring upon you when you didn't have a drink? "Uh, what are you doing now?"
The wrinkle across Ty's forehead smoothed. "A little of this, and little of that. The economy's been a real bitch, hasn't it? The prospects are good—we just have to wait it out."
"You were always something of a BS artist," Finny said. "It can't have been too bad for you."
"Not so bad that I had to go into construction."
She might have deserved it, but she didn't have to stick around for more. "Well, it's been real." Finny extended her hand for the farewell grasp, only to have it pushed out of the way as Paige Dexter glided between her and Engelman, her own hand outstretched.
"Ty, how good to see you again."
Finny was amazed at the transformation of the woman. Her words were as formal as the proffered hand, but the Nefertiti profile had melted, replaced by a woman whose warmth escaped from the stiff image as rays of light beam from an eclipsed sun. Paige flicked an ill-feigned glance of surprise over one shoulder. "Oh, are you still hawking your wares, Miss—what was your name?"
"Never mind." Finny smiled pleasantly. "Mustn't overload the circuits." She looked at Engelman, and her smile died. His eyes were trained on Paige Dexter with painful intensity. "See you around, Ty," she said. He didn't hear her.
Finny do-si-doed her way through the gaggle: "Excuse me, I beg your pardon, oops, sorry," bouncing like a pinball from one conversation group to another.
"—served in the corner and the linesman called it—"
"—ermine, my you-know-what. She couldn't tell ermine from—"
"—too Club Med, my dear, and the service was shocking-"
Mouths were in motion under eyes surveying the room like lighthouse beams. Finny caught the incurious gazes that glanced off her and moved on to the next variation on the scene. What qualifications were required to rate a look of recognition, let alone to light up a face with welcome? Whatever they were, she didn't have them.
Tonight would drive a stake through any errant kindly memory she might have of life in the express lane. She changed direction at the nearby sound of Twee's dulcet tones, jostling the drinking arm of a silver-haired pinstriper. Burgundy splashed an instant Rorschach test over the snowy white of his shirt and did nothing to enhance the pattern of scalloped shells on his pale yellow tie.
"Oh, hell, I'm sorry." Finny glanced up at the man's face: it was rapidly turning the same hue as the spilled wine. She looked around quickly for a napkin. "Perhaps if there's some club soda," she began.
"Don't trouble yourself. I doubt if your club soda will work on silk." Reddish gray eyebrows matching his thick, conservatively cut hair bent over the brown eyes glaring fiercely at her. "My dear young woman," issued from tight lips. "It's considered good manners to look where you're going."
"Dad, it was an accident," said the young woman beside him. She was elegant in her simplicity, smooth ginger hair curved around delicate features, a flowing ivory shirt tucked into a long purple gathered skirt emblazoned with a geometric pattern along the bottom edge. Then she smiled at Finny, and her face broke from elegance into cockeyed charm, mischief in the one twisted corner of her mouth, humor in her brown eyes. "I'm Cuffy Sarandon. This is my father, William Sarandon."
"Mr. Sarandon—"
"Judge." He pulled furiously at the handkerchief hiding from him in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
"I really am sorry about the spill," Finny continued quietly. "Of course I'll take care of the cleaning expenses."
"That won't be necessary." One narrow hand dabbed ineffectually at the livid stain. "I see no reason to further our association." He pushed through the clutch of suits and designer togs next to them, marching toward the doorway behind the refreshment table.
Cuffy Sarandon shot a look of embarrassed disbelief after her father. "I'm sorry. He usually prides himself on his manners."
"That makes it even harder to deal with clumsiness." Finny glanced down at the yellow rug: no stains, thank God. "At least I can replace his shirt."
"Don't count on it." Cuffy's smile folded at the corners. "I think he orders them from Europe—specially woven by Austrian silkworms or something."
"Hell." Finny met her gaze. "What can I do to make amends?"
"Believe me, one shirt's not going to make
any difference. He's got enough shirts to last him till judgment day. Ah, the relief column's in sight."
Finny's gaze followed hers to the waiter skirting the edge of the crowd with a tray of stemware brimming with champagne. Cuffy signaled and they exchanged their empties for full ones.
"These dos of Twee's get bigger all the time. I don't know where she finds the energy."
The champagne glow allowed Finny to smile. "I haven't been to any lately. I think the main reason Twee got excited about my new career was it gave her an excuse to party."
Knowledge registered on Cuffy's face. "You're the lady carpenter. I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."
"Finny Aletter. Considering your father's feelings, you probably ought to forget it again."
"You really don't have to feel so guilty, you know. He's not upset about the shirt." Cuffy sipped at the champagne. "He's taken a real beating this week, what with the papers and TV people hounding him."
The pieces fell into place. Judge William Sarandon had overseen a particularly nasty rape trial for the past two months. A young woman had been taken captive by a sex offender who was out on parole for the second time. He had abused her both sexually and psychologically for three days and had subsequently pleaded innocence by reason of temporary insanity. After weeks of acrimonious testimony from both prosecution and defense witnesses, the beleaguered jury had voted to convict the accused on all counts. The media had been filled with issues raised by the trial: insanity pleas, the parole system, even the political battle shaping up over increasing state spending on prison space.
At the guilty verdict, the relief and vindication of the victim and her family had turned to shocked outrage when Judge Sarandon announced the sentence. After pointing out that the victim had participated in her own attack by not attempting to escape from the apartment where she'd been held, the good judge had imposed the minimum mandatory sentence. The brouhaha mushrooming in the wake of the judge's stab at Socratic wisdom was reminiscent of the lynch mob justice of Colorado's earlier history.
"The Elena Parmetter case," Finny said. What a pity she hadn't had a barrel of wine. She would have delighted in pushing the judge into it.
"Uh-huh." Cuffy's eyes met Finny's gaze with elaborate unconcern. "That's your cue to leave if you want to. Associating with a Sarandon isn't the best strategy for someone trying to give her business a boost."
"You aren't your father. Why should I blame you for what he did?"
"You'd be surprised at how many people think they can get to him through me." Cuffy's smile twisted. "A fat lot they know."
"People think they own you when there's some notoriety about you," Finny said. "Even if it's not your own. It's as though you owe them something for bringing yourself to their attention."
Recognition tinged the touch-me-not expression in Cuffy's eyes. "And you'd better not try to withhold payment."
"Sometimes it's better just to keep a low profile. When it comes right down to it, people have a hell of a short attention span."
"Is that what you did when Elliot Fulton was killed?"
"You remember that? Yeah, that's what I did." Finny glanced from her empty glass to Cuffy's. "You want some more champagne?"
"Sure. I can get it."
"Let me." Finny lifted Cuffy's glass out of her hand. "Stay put or I'll drink it all myself."
"It's a deal."
TRIP WIRE
She clutched the small white apron, now twisted at the waist of her black uniform. Her breath came in short, hard gasps.
His hand clamped onto her arm with the power of fear. "Bianca! What the hell happened?"
The girl brought one trembling hand up to her heart. "He started touching my... my breasts." Her swallow was loud in the quiet. "I do not like this, Miguel."
"Dammit, that was the whole point. He had to be doing something or the pictures wouldn't mean shit."
Her voice was a thread. "Comprendo, but—"
After a moment her breathing slowed, and she noticed he was rubbing his fingers. "You hurt your hand? When you hit him?"
"Yeah. It was worth it." They both looked down again at the man lying at their feet.
There was a whisper of sound, and Bianca cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward the back door. She could see the dull sheen of the aluminum screen door, but no one was standing there; no one was watching. Shivering, she was grateful for the thick shadows that seemed to crouch around the green glimmer of the pool. "You think he saw you?" she asked in a thready voice.
"I don't think so." His glance skittered around the yard. "We'd better move it."
She touched his arm. "What do we do now?"
"I'd like to kill the cabron."
"Miguel!"
"He deserves at least that for the damage he's done to Elena." He took a deep breath. "Come on, we can't do the pictures now. Let the sonofabitch sleep it off."
"You think he will make trouble when he wakes up?"
"He won't even remember your face." He urged her along the flagstone walk, then up the terraced deck to the back door of the house. He stopped to pick up the camera he'd left on the top step, nudging her through the open door and toward the kitchen. "To them, you're part of the furniture. They don't know you're alive."
"Senora Garrett, she isn't like that..." Their voices blended into the party sounds leaking from the doorway.
The soft lapping of the pool accompanied a cricket's musings. After a few minutes a shadow separated itself from the edge of the shade cast by the house and glided across the flat carpet of the lawn. The hazy light from the bottom of the pool reflected off the narrow shining surface of the skewer swinging like a pendulum at the shadow's side.
Chapter 3
Waiters couldn't have been scarcer if they'd been on the endangered species list.
Finny tightened her hold on the glasses and slid around one chattering group and aimed for the bar. Cuffy seemed far too nice to have a Neanderthal like William Sarandon for a father. She grimaced. Sins of the father and all that rot.
She made like a sardine through the packed bodies, the noise a living thing now, blue tendrils of smoke here and there, the acrid fumes competing with clouds of Poison and Opium and Calvin Klein.
A tinny burst of laughter attracted Finny's attention. Hilarity reigned between the two couples who could have been fulfilling an acting class exercise: Sleek Young Couples Cavort. "Oh, Timmy, you're so single-mindedly wicked." The feather-haired brunette pouted enchantingly at her escort.
Timmy exchanged a man-to-man glance with his tall friend who was braced against the body of an anorexic blonde in a metallic blue dress clinging as tightly to her as she did to him.
The nearly floor-to-ceiling Cubist painting behind them observed their antics with geometric calm. Finny's mouth curved in a sympathetic smile until she caught the angled, phallic representation Timmy was pointing to and heard the snickers of his friends.
A few feet away, a photographer snapped a shot of their self-conscious enjoyment, and Finny winced at the flash of light. The man lowered his camera, his jutting eyebrows aslant over deep-set eyes filled with contempt.
Finny moved on. If she hadn't agreed to get a drink for Cuffy she'd find Chris and get out of here. Her eyes caught the flutter of Twee's fingers waving at her from across the room where she loomed over a slender man in white. Finny waved back tepidly. Surely Twee would consider her good deed done by now.
She crested the marble steps, glanced around, saw Barelli standing at the bar beside a short, redheaded woman. He saw her as she approached and said something to the redhead, who turned toward Finny, her hair swirling about her shoulders, her deep green dress draping gracefully over a knockout figure.
"So, you're the guest of honor tonight. I had wondered." The sultriness of her voice was enough to change Colorado's semiarid climate into a tropical zone.
"This is Abigail Hunter," Barelli said. "She's the society reporter for the Post, so watch what you say."
"You can't be t
hat hard-up for quotes." Finny put the glasses on the bar with a quiet word to the bartender. "It's nice to meet you. I'm surprised you'd cover something like this."
Abigail Hunter laughed lightly. "You know Twee. She was determined to go all out, and it was unusual enough for me to drop in."
"I suppose so." Finny glanced around at the noisy room. "Twee must've invited almost everybody she's ever known."
"No, just the important ones." Abigail's shadowed eyes narrowed a little. "What kind of relationship do you two have anyway?"
"We're friends. Why?"
The shiny green material of her gown shimmered as Abigail shrugged. "Just that I would've sworn that nothing less than blackmail would have gotten some of these people to show up. Twee does love to step on people's toes and make them like it."
Finny picked up the full champagne glasses from the bar. "You couldn't prove it by me," she said. "Unless you think Twee's using me to step on those toes. Or she blackmailed you to show up."
Abigail shook her head a little at the dry note in Finny's voice. "Now don't misunderstand me. Twee's a love, a real oasis on the scene. I was just curious."
"An occupational hazard, I'm sure." Finny looked past her at Barelli. "I need to deliver this and then I'm ready to go. How about you?"
"Sure."
Finny left Barelli and Abigail to brave the crush once more. She finally caught sight of Cuffy's copper hair.
"Excuse me." Finny eased her way between two men attempting to pass as CPAs. "Take one of these before I do any more damage," she told Cuffy, extending a glass.
Cuffy took it. "I was beginning to think you'd—" The mischievous smile disappeared, and her gaze fixed painfully on something behind Finny.
Finny turned to look behind her.
"How long have you been here?" Kit Landauer's sapphire eyes were electric with anger. "I didn't see you come in."
Cuffy shrugged and lifted her glass to her mouth. The faint trembling of her hand disturbed the bubbling surface of the champagne. "There's no reason why you should have," she said in a colorless voice.
Obstacle Course Page 2
