Finny contented herself with a vague sound. Corinne definitely had a thing about dear old Emeline.
She scanned the program, startled to find Twee's name at the front. With deep thanks for all her efforts on behalf of the Denver Arts Consortium, the premiere of Carmen is dedicated to Twee Garrett. Finny closed the booklet. Les must have been responsible for that. He really did like Twee.
At the initial tunings of the orchestra, the conversational hum in the room first increased, then began to die. The lights came up on the stark structures of the set and the auditorium lights dimmed slowly.
The conductor walked to his podium to a spatter of applause. After a quick glance at his score he lifted his baton and the overture began.
Finny relaxed, letting her gaze wander over the audience. Behind her she could hear someone whispering but soon the soft rustling noise died away and she drifted into the music of Carmen. She surfaced briefly to cough when the cigarette girls filed onto the stage, all of them smoking like locomotives, then succumbed once again to the magic. Don Jose was magnetic, his acting as good as his voice, and Carmen flamed. Not even the simultaneous and sometimes strange translations in lighted displays on either side of the stage could distract her.
As the house lights came up, Finny returned to the present with a start. She had thought to come up with some kind of plan to find Les. So much for good intentions.
Corinne was on her feet and determinedly making her way toward the aisle. "Come on, Finny," she said impatiently. "If you want something to drink, we've got to get out there."
The Broncos should hire her, Finny thought. The rapid path Corinne blazed through the less-decided members of the audience would have translated well into broken field running—particularly after they lost the smokers who had slowed to pull out cigarettes, pipes, and cigars with frenzied speed.
Corinne couldn't quite belly up to the bar—she was too short—but that didn't impede her effectiveness. "Finny?"
"Uh, white wine."
Corinne turned back to the bartender and Finny watched as the rest of the thundering herd caught up with them. Abigail Hunter, flanked by both men and women, was walking through the mob as if on a stroll through the park, heading straight for her. Before Finny could cut and run, Abigail had seen her and was on her way.
Smiling brilliantly, stunning in black silk, Abigail approached for a social kiss. "I'm going to hold you by the heels over an open fire." She whispered in Finny's ear. She pulled back and announced that she wanted scotch, straight up.
While several of her entourage scurried to fulfill her wishes, she glared at Finny. "You made a deal with me, and you haven't paid off. Do you know what I could do to you?"
Corinne was looking up at Finny anxiously. "Is anything wrong?"
"No, it's all right, Corinne." Finny grabbed Abigail by the arm and tugged her away from the clutch of listeners at the bar. "Listen, there's more at stake here than your damned column. It's called a murder investigation, and until it's over, you'll have to wait for your scoop."
"I won't wait forever, I'll tell you that." She was scrabbling through her tiny purse for cigarettes, finally pulling a small gold case from it.
Before she could find matches, a large hand holding a platinum lighter presented itself in front of her. "You need a light, ma'am?"
"Woody?"
He flashed a smile down at Finny. Resplendent in a tux, restraining his individuality to burgundy bow tie and cummerbund, he winked and turned back to Abigail. "I don't believe we've been introduced," he drawled. Abigail straightened, lifting her chin just a little.
Finny edged away. Saved.
She and Corinne had nearly finished their drinks when Woody found them. He grabbed Finny by both shoulders for a French salute. "You didn't tell me you were coming tonight." He beamed down at her, flushed with pleasure, especially his nose, which glowed with a life of its own under limpid blue eyes. His thick gray hair fell over his forehead. "Last time I paid attention, your definition of a good time involved paint or manure, maybe both."
"You can't insult me, Woody. I'm too grateful for being rescued."
"From that young flower of womanhood?" Woody grinned. "I'm meeting her for a drink after the fat lady sings."
"Watch your back."
The end of intermission signal chimed, calling them back to their seats. Finny waggled her fingers at Woody, venturing forth ahead of Corinne. This time she could protect her.
They were nearly to the stairs when Finny glimpsed Ty and Paige. Apparently any pretense at mourning was at an end. Blooming in a vivid red cocktail dress, Paige was holding Ty's arm tightly. He moved beside her with assurance, guiding her smoothly. Nice contrast to the all-star wrestling bit that afternoon, Finny thought dryly. Somebody somewhere would undoubtedly say they'd been the making of each other.
Paige's glance crossed Finny's and she stiffened, Ty looked down at her and then raised his eyes to find Finny. They both turned their heads away with the precision of a drill team, sweeping up the carpeted stairs.
"They're a blatant pair, the two of them."
Finny swung around, her heart pounding at the cadence of the accent. Les Trethalwyn observed the departing couple, bitterness in his eyes, his jaw tensed.
"You seem angry," Finny said softly.
He stared after them. "She's a bitch, you know. She wouldn't know real emotion if she tripped over it."
"She seemed upset at Judge Sarandon's death."
Les snorted. "Bloody hell."
"Were you a close friend of William Sarandon's?" Finny watched him expressionlessly.
"No, not close." Les glanced around. "Don't you think you'd better get back to your seat?"
The foyer was nearly empty. "I guess I'd better. Shall I see you later?"
Les nodded. "I'll look for you."
The music had already begun when Finny found her way back to her seat. "What happened?" Corinne whispered.
"Nothing, I just saw someone." She settled in for the second act. As always, things were not going well for Don Jose.
The spell had been broken. Finny found her thoughts straying to Les Trethalwyn. Could he have had an affair with Paige Dexter? From what Woody said, it wouldn't be outside the realm of possibilities. That could explain Les's bitterness. And, possibly, why he kept trying to implicate Ty in Sarandon's death. What better way to get rid of a rival than to have him charged with murder? Especially after you'd gotten rid of an inconvenient husband yourself for helping you lose your money. Revenge a la mode.
The stage lights brightened for the scenery change before the third act. Finny had just turned to Corinne when she saw MacKenzie Bartholomew helping his companion up the aisle. His arm was tightly around the woman's shoulders and she leaned on him heavily. They were nearly even with Finny's row when she realized the woman was Twee Garrett.
"My God!" She got to her feet and followed the two of them out, barely aware of a startled protest from Corinne.
It didn't take long to catch up with them. Twee was walking very slowly, each step an effort.
"Good evening." Finny spoke quietly. "Could you use some help?"
Twee looked blankly into her face, not recognizing her. "A shadow game," she mumbled thickly. She was struggling for breath. "Always look for the silent partners."
Finny put her arm around Twee's back in support. "Goddammit," she said sotto voce to MacKenzie Bartholomew. "What kind of insanity made you bring her here? How'd she get out of the hospital?"
Bartholomew's forehead was dotted with sweat; he was supporting most of Twee's weight. "I couldn't dissuade her. She said she'd started all this and she was going to finish it."
"Let's get her to the lounge."
By the time they reached the women's rest room, Twee was gasping, her face gray. "Help me get her inside. I think there's a bench or something."
"But—" Bartholomew gestured at the ladies sign.
"Fuck that," Finny growled. "Help me."
They half carried Twee ins
ide, easing her down onto the shiny vinyl sofa outside the lavatory. Finny caught a glimpse of the attendant's black uniform in the other room. "You'd better phone for an ambulance," she told Bartholomew. He stood looking at Twee as if he hadn't heard her.
"Dammit, go call for help!"
Bartholomew stumbled from the door out to the hall.
"Can you bring me a towel?" Finny called to the attendant.
She heard the rustle of the uniform and held out her hand, her gaze on Twee's face. If anything, she'd become even paler, and her breathing was fast and shallow. When she had the cool cloth on her hand, Finny put the towel across Twee's forehead.
"You'll be all right, Twee," Finny was saying in a low voice. "Take it easy now, you'll be fine. An ambulance will be here soon. Just relax."
Twee's eyes opened and she looked into Finny's face. "I'm perfectly fine," she said. "Don't worry."
"That's my girl." Finny had to force the words past the lump in her throat. "Keep fighting."
"You know, Finny," Twee's eyes closed for a moment, then reopened. "Paige should have ordered the gazebo. It would have been quite striking."
"It's okay, Twee. Don't worry about it. Could you make sure the ambulance is on its way?" Finny said over her shoulder to the attendant. There was no answer and, after a quick glance over the room, Finny realized no one was there.
"I'm sorry, Herbert," Twee said quite clearly. "It never occurred to me that he was involved. I thought he was our friend." Her eyes closed.
"Oh, God." Finny bent over her. "Twee, hold on. Don't die on me, Twee."
Twee exhaled on a long sigh, and Finny's heart nearly stopped. Then she took a short, jerky breath and began to breathe normally. "You were right, Finny."
Dammit, where was the ambulance? Finny craned to look into the bathroom. Where the hell, for that matter, was the blasted attendant?
Five eternal minutes later, Finny shot out of the lounge into the passageway. Jesus, they'd had time to call a dozen rescue units. She went out into the deserted foyer. She could hear the music rising behind the closed doors of the concert hall. What had happened to Bartholomew? Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Les Trethalwyn exit from the passage entrance on the other side of the hall.
MacKenzie Bartholomew came around the corner. "Miss Aletter." Pallor had made his face roughly the shade of his shirt.
Finny turned on him. "Where've you been? Did you call the paramedics?"
"Miss Aletter, I must talk with you." He grasped her arm and tugged her toward the stairs. "It's most important."
"Are you crazy?" Finny shot a frantic look back over her shoulder toward the women's lounge. "I've got to get back to Twee and—"
"No, you must come with me." He steered her to the stairs.
Finny searched the still-gray face. He was flicking little glances from side to side under heavily frowning brows, and his mouth was tight with strain. Maybe the stress of Twee's illness had stripped his gears. "Did I miss something?" she asked gently. "Don't you think we'd better stay with Twee until the paramedics get here?"
"You're very cool under pressure," Bartholomew said in a flat voice. "I admire that." He started up the empty staircase, pulling her along with him. "You needn't pretend anymore. The paramedics won't be coming."
Finny stumbled over one of the steps, and her mind flashed for an instant to the loose runner on Corinne's stairs. Bartholomew steadied her through the inexorable pull upward. "You don't have to pretend any longer," he repeated. "I assume that Twee told you."
"Told me what? I don't know what you're talking about." Except that, suddenly, she did know. It was what Twee had been saying about looking beyond the surface. And she'd apologized to Herbert for not knowing "he" was involved. Even Woody had mentioned his name as a possible investor in Ty Engleman's scheme but she'd been so focused on Les Trethalwyn.
Her mind clicked with admirable, if belated, efficiency. Abigail had mentioned silent partners in the crooked land deal that had destroyed Herbert Garrett. And she, herself, had asked the most pertinent question: how could William Sarandon have pulled off such sleazery while on the bench? It was easy if you had a partner. Me and my shadow...
"But why? Why kill Sarandon if you were in it together?" Finny had stopped dead on one of the stairsteps, gawking at him on the step above her.
"He wanted out. He started believing his own press notices—the controversial judge—even started talking about running for the legislature." His voice dripped contempt. "William would have thrown me to the wolves if any hint got out. And of course it would have gotten out." He turned to take another step.
"No." Finny held her ground, pulling back against the tight grasp on her arm. "I don't feel like going with you."
In a smooth, deadly motion, Bartholomew slid his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a small gun and pointed it at her. She could see little more than the round, dark hole of its barrel. "Yes, you do."
Finny looked wildly around the empty foyer below them. Les had been at the other end of the long room moments before. Where was he now?
Bartholomew's disapproving eyes grew colder. "We are leaving here and you are going to give me the negatives." Finny's arm jerked under his hand and he bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile. "Yes, you know all about those pictures, don't you? It was bad enough when that pathetic excuse for a photographer came to me for a payoff. A cheap blackmailer..." he trailed off into curses, his hand clamping so tightly on her arm that her fingers tingled.
Finny was remembering all too clearly the details of Mike Guiterrez's injuries. Had Bartholomew inflicted them, or had he hired someone? Did she really want to find out?
"Stop stalling." Bartholomew jerked her arm sharply upward and Finny cried out. "Be quiet."
That night in the kitchen, Finny was thinking starkly. He had been looking for these negatives. "I don't have them," she said.
He stopped, one more step to go, to scan her eyes.
"How could I?" Finny spoke softly, urgently. "I didn't know Guiterrez. What makes you think I have them?"
"Excuse me, senor?"
Bartholomew whirled round. At the top of the stairs was a woman, one of the rest room attendants by the black uniform she wore. She held out an envelope. "Is this what you're looking for?"
Finny bit back a gasp. Bianca Lopez met her gaze for an instant and then looked back at Bartholomew.
He was staring at the envelope. "What are you talking about? What's this?"
"Someone left it for you, senor." She opened up the envelope and took out a photograph, tilting it toward him.
He let go of Finny's arm and snatched at the colored square and the envelope it came from.
Finny had time to take one step up the stairs.
Bianca released the small packet and, in a smooth, deliberate motion, put both hands against MacKenzie Bartholomew's chest and pushed. He cried out as his arms flew upward in fruitless reflex, falling backward, his face frozen in terror.
The muffled swell of music from the concert hall could not drown out the arrhythmic thuds his body made as it fell to the bottom of the stairs.
FINISH LINE
For you, jito, she said silently to her unborn child, and then she turned away. She found a shadowed corner and waited until she could control the shaking of her body.
Now she had to get away.
The sounds from downstairs were getting louder. She pushed herself away from the wall and walked down the middle of the corridor, glancing casually over the rail in time to see Twee Garrett carried out on a stretcher. Several people were gathered around the broken figure at the base of the stairs, and she realized that MacKenzie Bartholomew must be dead. Good.
They would be searching for her soon. She had brought clothes to change into and had left them in the employee lounge. The Aletter woman knew who she was, but with different clothes, if she put her hair up, maybe she could leave unnoticed.
She waited until people began to leave the theater, falling in behi
nd a group going down the stairs. Her eyes flicked over the scene below, catching sight of the Aletter woman, who stood beside a small, old woman in black.
As she watched, a man, the tall police lieutenant, pushed through the revolving door, striding over to the two women, embracing the younger.
Bianca came to the bottom of the stairs and walked toward the door. She glanced to her left and saw Finny Aletter, looking with the tall man at the photographs Miguel had died for. As she passed, Finny looked up, her gaze meeting Bianca's. She nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Bianca walked through the glass doors out into the warm night.
The End
Want more from Yvonne Montgomery?
Page forward for an excerpt from
SCAVENGER HUNT
A Finny Aletter Mystery
Book One
Excerpt from
Scavenger Hunt
A Finny Aletter Mystery
Book One
by
Yvonne Montgomery
Finny's little car eased around the sign and went to the end of the pavement. The tires bumped over the washboard dirt road that petered out beside railroad tracks, where gravel and dirt were piled in mounds about ten feet high. Finny braked in front of two traffic barriers. Their orange blinking lights made the mounds look as though they were moving.
Leila opened the passenger door and shifted her bulk out of the car.
"Wait a minute." Finny was regretting going along with this. "I don't think we ought to get out. You had that medicine and all—" The door slammed on her words.
Finny stuffed her handbag under the driver's seat and turned off the headlights. As she left the car, the cold wind eddied, flinging the resurgent snow at her. She took a quick look at the huge old bridge looming overhead, and snow fell between her neck and the collar of her shirt.
The bridge stretched across the shadowed railroad yards and the attendant buildings strung throughout the lowlands near the South Platte River. The lonely light at the end of the pavement lit one tower support soaring into the shadows above her like the leg of a concrete Colossus.
Obstacle Course Page 18
