The Impostor

by Cassie Miles

  A couple of the other Avenging Angels waved a greeting and called out his name. Dash nodded to the handsome, fiery young angel named Kiel. The kid always seemed to be brooding, and Dash could tell that he was only a step away from trouble.

  A curly-haired young man sat at the grand piano. As Dash strode across the richly figured Oriental carpeting, the angel plunked out a tune, “As Time Goes By.” You must remember this, a kiss is…

  “Knock it off,” Dash said. The music reminded him of Liz, of the shimmer in her eyes when she’d quoted Casablanca lines to him.

  Dash hurried up the stairs to the second floor, where a balcony overlooked the large front room. Before entering the office of Angelo, who supervised this branch, Dash lit a Camel. It wasn’t that he wanted a cigarette, but his habit annoyed Angelo, who was a stickler for the rules and regulations surrounding angels. Angelo was a bug on vices.

  Dash strolled into the supervisor’s inner sanctum, enveloped in a pungent cloud of smoke.

  “Cute,” Angelo said curtly. Then, uncharacteristically, he grinned. “I understand that you’ve promised to cut back.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, no, you promised that woman, and angels honor their promises.” He chuckled. “She’s a handful, Dash. You’d better watch out or she’ll domesticate you.”

  “Fat chance, buster. All I need from Liz Carradine is an intro to the suspects and some background.”

  Angelo gestured to the computer screen in front of him. “When are you going to step into the 90s? Why not use the technology available?”

  “I don’t work like that.” He knew that Angelo couldn’t argue with his methods. Dash’s success rate in solving the crimes assigned to him was one hundred percent. “Why’d you call me to the office?”

  “The boss wants to see you. St. Michael is waiting in the corner office.”

  Dash nodded and left. To most angels, a meeting with St. Michael, the patron of cops, was cause for fear and trembling. But not for Dash. He and Mike went way back.

  Dash strode through the open door and closed it behind him. For an instant, when he faced the saint, Dash was overwhelmed by the power and glory of his presence. Mike had a glow about him, a nimbus. He could disguise it when he went out in public, but here—among the angels—he didn’t bother.

  When he spoke, his voice rumbled like thunder. “Dashiell,” he said. “You’re having doubts about this case.”

  “It happens, Mike.”

  “Not to you. You’re one of my best operatives. A natural investigator with a clear sense of justice.”

  “Might be best,” Dash said, “if you pull me off the case.”

  “They say temptation is good for the soul.” He fixed Dash with a burning glare. “Is it evil that tempts you?”

  “Evil? No.” He didn’t think of Liz as evil. Not in any way. “It’s the woman. Elizabeth Carradine.”

  “Ah, the temptress.”

  “That’s not it. She’s a good person. A little bit lonely. A little sad. But she’s not a victim. She’s a tough cookie.”

  “Women can be a problem,” Mike said. “I’d like to lift your burden, Dash, but there is…Agatha. She refuses to allow me to reassign this case.”

  Dash raised his eyebrows. Where did Agatha Orben get this kind of pull? She must have some big connections upstairs.

  St. Michael waved his hand and a form materialized in the chair opposite his desk. Dash recognized Agatha Orben from her last visit to the office, but she was different now. The first time he’d seen her, she was bent and stooped, an aged creature. Now her spine was ramrod straight. Her bearing was regal. She was almost beautiful.

  She turned to Dash and said, “You are the best detective in the Rocky Mountain region. I’m well pleased that you have been assigned to solve the mystery of my demise. Have you made any progress?”

  “Not much.” He smiled. “You’re looking sharp, Agatha.”

  “Thank you. I’m so delighted that the good works I did on earth have made a difference. I was never quite sure that they would, you know. In any case, that’s not why I did them.”

  “She’s a good soul,” Mike said. “One of the best. And we’re very unhappy about the fact that she was murdered.”

  From their prior conversation, Dash knew roughly how the murder was done, and he knew that Agatha had left behind a tangible clue that could lead to conviction for the perpetrator of the crime. But nobody—not even Agatha—knew the murderer’s identity. In this case, none of their otherworldly abilities could help. There are dark crevasses in the human heart that are invisible even to angels.

  Agatha turned her head and stared at Dash. Her gaze was firm, unwavering. Her voice was dulcet, yet imperial. “Is there a problem?”

  “Liz Carradine,” he said.

  “Oh, no, Dash. You’re on the wrong track. Liz is a wonderful girl. She never would have hurt me.”

  “She’s not a suspect,” Dash said. “And I agree with you. Liz is pretty wonderful.”

  “Oh.” Agatha packed a wealth of innuendo into that single syllable. “You’re attracted to her. Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised. She’s charming, intelligent and lovely. I don’t know how you could avoid being interested.”

  “Don’t play matchmaker with an angel, lady.”

  Dash knew what happened to angels who broke the rules. They got removed from their choice assignments and shipped to lesser positions, like guard duty for the Cherubs. He shuddered to think of that consequence. All those little kids. All those heavenly diapers. “I want off the case.”

  “But you’re the best,” Agatha said. “I want you.”

  But he didn’t want to take the risk. “There’s something else,” he said. “Liz wants to play detective with me. This could be dangerous for her. I want out.”

  He turned to St. Michael, who rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and sighed. “Where’s the wisdom of Solomon when you really need it?”

  “What’s it going to be?” Dash asked.

  He knew that Mike wasn’t one of those philosophical saints who pondered ethics and weighed alternatives. St. Michael made quick decisions from an unerring sense of right and wrong.

  St. Michael looked him straight in the eye and said, “You stick to the case, and you solve it. That’s your job, Dash.”

  Dash bobbed his head once. He didn’t like Mike’s decision, but he knew better than to argue with the boss. Dash had his orders, and he had to make the best of them. Take the lemons and make lemonade.

  He pivoted, almost military in his bearing, and strode toward the door. “See you around, Mike. Nice talking with you, Agatha.”

  “Dash!”

  He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “What is it, Mike?”

  “Be careful. You know the consequences for lust.”

  “To tell you the truth, it’s not lust I’m worried about.” Dash turned slowly. He faced the saint and the elegant elderly lady. “Liz Carradine is one gorgeous female. No doubt about that. But I’ve been around beauties before. Movie stars. Socialites. Women with perfect faces and hourglass figures that knock your socks off. But I’ve got willpower. You know me, Mike. I’ll never take the fall for some dame.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Mike inquired.

  Dash frowned and shook his head. He couldn’t put his feelings into words. They didn’t make sense.

  “I know what it is,” said Agatha. “His attraction to Liz isn’t carnal. It’s pure. Maybe even good. I do believe Dashiell is falling in love.”

  She had the nerve to sound pleased about it.

  Chapter Three

  Liz paced in the confines of her office. The distance was exactly seven steps from file cabinet to file cabinet. As never before, she felt trapped in this small cubicle on the fourteenth floor of a downtown skyscraper. The space had never felt so claustrophobic. The air had never tasted so stale. When Dash had spoken of murder, investigation and private eyes, she’d caught a whiff of adventure, and she longed to inhale deeply
of the fresh, rich atmosphere beyond the scope of her ordinary life.

  He’d said that he never worked with a partner.

  Well, she’d just have to change his mind!

  She paced, turned and paced again. All her life, she’d done the sane and sensible thing, hoping that someday, someone would notice and give her a chance to fly. No more waiting! Liz didn’t intend to spend another ten years hanging around while someone else decided whether she was capable of handling a challenge. She was capable, dammit! And her patience was gone.

  Seven more steps. She could be a private eye—a great private eye! She was intelligent and well-organized. And she most definitely had the ability to creep through various situations without attracting attention to herself. The invisible woman, she thought. So average it was painful.

  But Dash had noticed her.

  She stopped and rested her arms on the file cabinet.

  Dash had noticed. He’d cared enough to ask about her injury, and when he’d taken her hand, she felt the most incredible warmth emanating from him. They had connected. In some strange way, she felt close to him. Her mind easily conjured up a picture of his face, his eyes, his hands. A private eye. Imagine that!

  She resumed her pacing, back and forth, wearing a rut in her carpet. With each step, her curiosity grew. Who did Dash work for? Who had hired him? Why did he tell her that crackpot story on the night he accosted her in the park about being an angel? He must have been joking. But why? He must have thought she’d be spooked by the idea that he was a private eye. But an angel? Why, why, why?

  She paused to stare through her narrow office window, a mere eighteen inches wide, at a limited vista of the distant, snowcapped front range of the Rocky Mountains. If he was going to convince Dash that she could be his partner in crime-solving, she needed to stop skittering back and forth like a gerbil in a cage. She needed to organize her thinking.

  Sitting behind her desk, she pulled out a fresh yellow legal pad and made a note across the top in the precise penmanship that Sister Elaine had praised so highly when Liz was a straight A student at Holy Cross grade school.

  Liz wrote, “Premise—Agatha Orben was murdered. Method—poison.”

  Was such a thing possible? Given the teams of highly paid, sophisticated doctors who had attended Agatha, how could poison go undetected?

  Liz reached for the Rolodex atop her desk, flipped to D for doctor and dialed the office number for Dr. Clark Hammerschmidt. During the six months Agatha was ill, Liz had spoken to dear old Dr. Clark a number of times. He was a homey, white-haired guy, fussy about his patients and full of gossip. Most of his conversations with Liz had revolved around how on earth they could keep Agatha from charging out and working until she dropped.

  The receptionist at Dr. Clark’s office informed her that the doctor was busy but would call back as soon as possible.

  As Liz replaced the receiver, she wondered if she should have gone to see Dr. Clark instead of settling for a phone call. In a telephone interrogation, she would miss the important visual clues of body language. She wouldn’t notice if he shifted his eyes or hunched his shoulders. On the other hand, a personal visit would surely arouse suspicions.

  Being a detective would be a whole lot easier, she thought, if Dash had agreed to help her instead of making a dorky suggestion that she ought to wear a dress tonight so he could get a better look at her legs. She could have used some on-the-job training.

  When the phone on her desk rang, she jumped and answered quickly, “Hello?”

  “Liz? This is Dr. Clark. How’s everyone at OrbenCorp?”

  “Fine.” Except that somebody here is possibly a murderer.

  “No illness?” the doctor inquired. “I saw Jack a few weeks ago for a checkup, and he was in good shape.”

  “Was he? Oh, good.” She vaguely recalled that it was time for Jack’s annual physical, a requirement for the company insurance.

  The doctor continued in his folksy manner, “And I hear Sarah and that fellow from accounting are getting married.”

  “Really?” Liz hadn’t known about that. “You mean Gary Gregory?”

  “I think that’s his name. Gary.” Dr. Clark paused. “What about you, Liz? Any special man?”

  She hesitated. Did Dash count as a special man? She probably ought to say he was even if he wasn’t, because she was taking him to Sarah’s dinner party. Tonight, he would be impersonating a date and—

  “Liz?”

  “Yes, I’m seeing someone.”

  It felt good to say that. For once, she wouldn’t have to endure the sympathetic tsk-tsk of a kindly, well-meaning acquaintance.

  “Wonderful!” he said enthusiastically. “Anybody I know?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I wish you the best, dear. Now, why did you call? What’s on your mind?”

  “I was just thinking about Agatha.” What questions should she ask? “Kind of remembering, you know.”

  “That’s good, dear. It’s important to process your grief. At least, that’s what psychiatrists tell us.”

  “When she first got sick,” Liz said. “It was a flu, wasn’t it? Upset stomach. Vomiting.”

  “I really don’t remember all her symptoms.” The kindly old doctor sounded slightly impatient. “Why?”

  What should she say next? How should she ease into the subject without raising suspicion? “Of course, Agatha didn’t die from flu symptoms, did she?”

  “Her heart failed. Happened in her sleep. It was a peaceful death.” He cleared his throat. “What’s this about, Liz?”

  “Oh, gosh, I don’t know.”

  She cursed herself for handling this conversation so clumsily. She could almost hear the doctor writing her off as a hysterical female, a woman caught in the throes of PMS. This detective business was harder than she had thought it was—there wasn’t enough time to think things through. She had to react, go on instinct.

  “I need to go now,” the doctor said. “Say hello to everyone for me, and try not to worry too much.”

  “Was Agatha poisoned?” Liz blurted.

  There was a silence on the other end of the phone, and Liz held her breath. Why had she said that? It was a huge mistake. A clammy, nervous sweat broke on her forehead. She was handling this so badly!

  Then Dr. Clark chuckled. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, Agatha had always been healthy as a horse, and then she failed so suddenly.”

  “She was almost eighty, dear. These things happen.”

  Having made the initial goof, Liz blundered on, “Supposing she had been poisoned—”

  “She wasn’t. Now, let’s have no more of this nonsense.”

  “You must have run blood tests,” she said.

  “My treatment procedures are none of your concern.”

  “But you did run tests, didn’t you? You must have checked for poison. I was just wondering what kind of poison would produce the symptoms she suffered from? I mean, I know she was taking high blood pressure medicine. Is it possible that she had a reaction to something else?”

  “I don’t appreciate the tone of this conversation. Not at all, young lady. I did everything I could for Agatha.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting malpractice.” What was he afraid of?

  “I certainly hope not. Now, I have to go. Liz. I suggest you get counseling to deal with your grief.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said meekly.

  She hung up the phone and groaned. This private-eye stuff was hard. On her yellow legal pad, she wrote, “Dr. Clark says no poison.”

  But he’d never answered her question about blood tests, and he seemed angry that she’d asked. Had he been remiss in the thoroughness of his treatment? Had Agatha’s very expensive care been given short shrift because of her age?

  She flipped to another page and began writing. Her pen paused, mid-stroke, as she sensed presence in the room. Though she hadn’t heard the door open or close, someone was here. Surreptitiously, Liz peeked through
the fringe of her eyelashes.

  No one was in the room.

  In her mind, she clearly heard Dash’s voice. “What have you done?”

  “Dash?” she whispered.

  There was a swift rap on the door, then Dash pushed it open and strode inside. One glance told her that he was angry, very angry. His eyebrows were pulled down. His lips were a thin, straight line, and he led with his jaw.

  As he paced the same route she had followed—the only route possible in her fourteenth-floor cubicle—he seemed to have sparks flying from his heels, but there was a darkness all around him, as if a thundercloud had invaded her office.

  He tore off his fedora and dragged his fingers through his short-cropped hair. This was the first time she’d seen him without his hat, and she stared. He looked different, much younger. His hair was a deep, rich mahogany brown.

  He halted on the opposite side of her desk, stuck his hat on his head and stood there, waiting for her to speak first.

  “What?” Liz bolted to her feet. “What’s the problem?”

  Still, he said nothing. His eyes glared. They shone like dark, molten coals.

  His words echoed, though his lips did not move. “What have you done?”

  For the first time, she realized that Dash could be a dangerous individual. Yet Liz would neither back down nor apologize. She’d had ten years of waiting, and now, with adventure within her grasp, she wouldn’t let go without a fight.

  She jabbed a finger at him. “You’re not going to intimidate me, Dash. I have as much right as you to investigate.”

  He inhaled sharply. “Look here, sweetheart—”

  “Liz. My name is Liz.”

  “I don’t want you involved in this. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Dash. I only talked to Dr. Clark Hammerschmidt, and he’s a kindly old doctor. He wouldn’t kill a fly.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He’s a sweet old man. He’s like Wilford Brimley. He’s Marcus Welby, M.D. Dr. Clark wouldn’t kill Agatha.”