The Impostor

by Cassie Miles

  Chapter Seven

  With the pitiful bunch of flowers clenched in his fist, Dash looked so sheepish that she almost forgave him on the spot. But then she remembered his patronizing arrogance. Even if he was here to apologize, she wouldn’t let him off the hook easily. Her gaze was arch, aloof and chilly as an iceberg.

  “Yes?” Liz said.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Make it fast. I’m a little busy. You left me with a great deal of unfinished business.”

  “I left you?” He closed the office door. “My recollection, sweetheart, was that you bounced me.”

  “Maybe you deserved it, Bungee Man.”

  “I didn’t come to apologize,” he said. Dash knew he’d been right in emphasizing the danger of her situation. Besides, when he earned his wings, he had passed beyond repentance in the accepted human sense. Not that he was without flaw, but he didn’t have to be judged by regular standards. In some ways, being an angel meant never having to say you were sorry.

  “I can accept that. No groveling is required.” A falsely innocent smile tickled the corners of her lips. “I assume you’re here because you realized the error of your ways and you’re ready to accept me as your partner.”

  “I don’t like this, precious. I’d rather have you and your cute little assets out of town and away from danger.”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere until this case is solved.”

  “Then I guess I’m stuck with you.”

  “Like superglue.” She stood and stuck out her hand. “Partners?”

  He clasped her slender fingers. “Deal.”

  As quickly as possible, he broke contact. After last night’s sloppy work, he wasn’t going to let himself get distracted by her touch or the snappy way she looked or the fragrance of her perfume. He was here to do a job. That was all.

  Since he’d goofed it and gotten her involved, he had to keep track of her. He figured it would be easier to protect her if he knew what she was doing. But that was all! No kissing, no touching and definitely no sense of lust.

  Dash could handle the assignment. His willpower was strong. He’d never let himself get sucked in by a dame. That kind of thing had happened to other Avenging Angels, and the consequences were grim.

  He tossed the posies on the desktop and lowered himself into a chair. “What’s the latest scoop? You find anything?”

  She told him about her strange conversation with Gary Gregory and the accountant’s statement that Jack would let Hector get away with murder. As she talked, her eyes flashed vivaciously. “It sounded like Gary knew something,” she said. “I thought of blackmail.”

  “That’s a sharp observation, cookie.” He pushed his fedora off his forehead. “Blackmail, eh?”

  “The perfect crime for an accountant.” She leaned back in her swivel chair. “Now it’s your turn, partner. Tell me something about the crime. Let’s stay with Gary as a suspect.”

  He shrugged. “Beats me. Why suspect the bean counter?”

  “He’s motivated by money, but he didn’t inherit when Agatha died…unless he was romancing Sarah way back then in the hopes they’d marry and he’d get the house that way.”

  “Sounds too complicated,” Dash said.

  “Well?” She looked at him expectantly. “Do you have anything to add?”

  “Don’t rush me, kiddo. I’m not used to sharing.”

  “Not much of a nineties guy, are you?”

  “Not a wimp, if that’s what you mean.” He frowned, unaccustomed to talking about his reasoning process aloud. Finally, he said, “Here’s the thing about Gary. Roses.”

  “What about roses?”

  “Not the flowers, but the chemicals he uses to grow them.”

  “I thought Gary was purely organic.”

  “Then you weren’t paying attention last night when he was talking. He doesn’t use any prepared treatments, but he has a regular laboratory where he concocts magic grow potions. Special stuff with long names. Stuff like oxyhydronitrogenous. I don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s a good bet that Gary’s not killing aphids with kindness. Know what I mean?”

  “Poisons.” Liz grabbed her purse and took out the sheet with Gary’s name at the top. She added the word “poison” to “blackmail” and “tablet.” “Oh, yes,” she said. “Gary also had a yellow legal tablet on his desk, just like the one I wrote my list on.”

  “Like the one you’re writing on now? Like the ones that are all over this office?”

  “Yes,” she said, a bit defensively.

  “You’re not taking notes again, are you?”

  “I have to, Dash. Or else I might forget something. But I’m being more careful now. I’m stashing my notes in my purse.”

  “Which you leave in your desk drawer when you wander around the office.”

  “I’ll lock the drawer.”

  He leaned forward to check the desk and shook his head. “A two-year-old kid with a bobby pin could pick that lock.”

  “Fortunately, we have a dearth of two-year-olds in the office.” She dug deeper in her handbag and produced the gun. “I’ve also brought this.”

  “It’s not going to do much good in your purse. You need a shoulder holster.”

  “Swell plan,” she said sarcastically. “You might not have noticed, but a loaded pistol isn’t considered proper office attire.”

  “You want to be a private eye, you got to look the part.”

  She studied him carefully. From his snap-brim fedora to his polished wing tips, Dash looked like a detective. A Humphrey Bogart tough guy from the 1930s. “Like your costume?”

  He spread his hands wide. “This is who I am. Take it or leave it.”

  She’d take it. Weirdness, arrogance and all, he was the most intriguing man she’d met in a very long time. Liz was glad to be working with him, to know that somebody else was on her side. “Dashiell Divine,” she said. “Is that your real name?”

  “Suits me fine.”

  “What did you mean, that first night when we met, when you said you were an angel?”

  “Exactly what I said. An avenging angel. I’m on the side of justice, and I’m here to make sure the right thing gets done.”

  “That’s quite a metaphor, Dash. You’re poetic when you want to be.”

  “A poet? Don’t make me gag.”

  She pulled the second sheet of paper from her purse. “I also talked to Sarah, and I made an appointment to go over to the house at one o’clock, supposedly to find a photograph so I can remember Agatha. I thought it might be a good time to search for the clue you said Agatha had left behind.”

  “That’s the ticket. Now we’re making some progress.”

  He rose from the chair. For a big man, she thought he moved with uncommon grace. No creaking joints. No lumbering limbs. He was as lean as a greyhound, built for speed.

  “I’ll meet you there, at Sarah’s place. One o’clock.”

  “You know, Dash, as long as I’m searching for this object, it might help if you told me what we’re looking for.”

  “Sure thing, sweetheart. It’s a little statue, about eight inches tall. It’s a falcon.”

  As he strode from her office, Liz was gaping. The Maltese Falcon. That was one of Bogart’s most famous detective movies. Surely Dash was joking. They couldn’t possibly be on the trail of the famous black bird. Or could they?

  LIZ PARKED on the street outside Sarah’s house at five minutes before one o’clock. Jack and Hector had not managed to show at the office, and she’d left a message with the receptionist that she could be reached at Sarah’s house in case of an emergency.

  As she approached the entryway, she looked around for Dash’s car, but only saw a battered van with a bumper sticker that proclaimed, Woman Driver And Proud Of It. Liz was quite sure that statement didn’t reflect Dash’s personal philosophy. Was he late?

  When she reached the front porch, he came up behind her. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “Where’d you com
e from?”

  “I was just floating around, waiting for you.”

  “I don’t see your car. How did you get here? In a cab?” She recalled the incident at the park when they’d met. Sarcastically, she asked, “Or did you fly?”

  He pushed the doorbell. “There’s somebody else visiting Sarah. A couple of ladies.”

  “Sarah mentioned something about another meeting. I think they’re from the battered women’s shelter.”

  “The women who want this house,” he said.

  When the door opened, her ears rang with the echo of high-pitched female laughter. In contrast, Jack—who stood in the doorway—was red-faced and panicky. He looked like he’d been tiptoeing across flaming embers. Averting his gaze from Liz, he appealed to Dash. “You’ve got to help me, man. They’re ganging up on me.”

  “Who is?”

  “The shelter women. One of them is a feminist, the other is a nun.” He pulled Dash inside. “It’s been a solid ten minutes of men-are-jerks jokes.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Liz said, gliding around the two males to enter the living room.

  Today, Sarah was dressed in emerald stretch pants and a patterned turquoise and emerald over-blouse with a matching scarf tied in her cascade of red hair. Though the outfit was conservative for Sarah, she was a peacock compared to her guests. One wore jeans and a T-shirt, the other was clad in a navy blue skirt and cardigan. Sarah introduced Marlena and Sister Muriel.

  “M and M,” said the sister as she beamed at Liz. When she looked at Dash and shook his hand, a curious expression illuminated her round face. Behind her wire-rim spectacles, her eyes widened. Her voice was a little breathless. “Don’t I know you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her plain, unadorned hands clasped at her waist. “But I will come to know you, won’t I?”

  “You can count on it, Sister.”

  For some reason Liz couldn’t explain, a peaceful silence spread within her. She had a sense that all was right with the world. But why? All she had witnessed was a first meeting between a private investigator who thought he was Bogie and a nun who worked at a battered women’s shelter. Yet Liz felt strangely…blessed.

  Beside her, Jack muttered, “Damn, how’d he do that?”

  “Do what?” Liz asked.

  “These females had their claws out and now…look at them! Three purring pussycats.”

  “Maybe you did something to set them off,” she suggested.

  “Me?” He tapped his broad chest. “You know that’s impossible, Liz. In spite of the way I behaved last night, I can be charming. And I know how to handle women.”

  Dryly, she said, “Maybe your charm threatened them. Gosh, Jack, maybe you’re just too sexy for a feminist and a nun.”

  “That’s got to be it.” He hitched up his loose-fitting trousers. He was dressed casually, apparently not planning to check in at the office. “How about some coffee, everybody?”

  Marlena, the feminist, nodded. “Sure, that would be nice.”

  Jack flopped down in a Queen Anne style wing chair. “Sarah? How about it?”

  When Sarah hesitated, he pursed his lips. His disgust was palpable. “Oh, I suppose you want me to get it.”

  “No, no, that’s fine, dear. You stay right there.” To everyone else, she said, “Jack has had a terrible day. We’ve been arguing about my intention to be married.”

  Sister Muriel turned to him. Her round little body stiffened, and it was obvious to Liz that the sister had a backbone of tempered steel. “Why would you object to the holy sacrament of matrimony?”

  “Sarah’s my cousin, and I need to look out for her best interests. I’m just not sure the guy really loves her.”

  Sarah defended him. “Jack really does have good intentions.”

  “Besides,” Jack said, “ever since Sarah inherited this house, everybody thinks they deserve a piece. Even you. Am I right, Sister?”

  “Charming,” Liz muttered. She decided that right now was the best time to make an exit. “Don’t bother with coffee for Dash and me. If you don’t mind, Sarah, we’ll just head up to the attic, find a photograph of Agatha and leave.”

  “That’s fine, Liz.” Sarah dug into the pocket of her over-blouse and produced a large, old-fashioned key. “The attic is up from the second floor. There’s a stair—”

  “I know where it is,” Liz said. “Once, when I was visiting, Agatha sent me up there to find some old records for OrbenCorp.”

  “All that paperwork is gone. Boxed up and warehoused at OrbenCorp.”

  “Where?” Liz asked. She knew there was no file storage room at corporate headquarters in downtown Denver.

  “At the roasting and packaging plant in Aurora. That’s where it belongs, after all. In the attic, I’m sorry to say, there’s no organization to the storage. I can’t tell you where the photo albums are located.”

  Liz took the key. “We’ll find them.”

  She watched carefully as Dash bade a friendly farewell to the women and turned to her. “Let’s go, precious.”

  He led the way to the front stairway but gestured for her to go first. She saw him exchange a wink with-Sister Muriel before they climbed the stairs.

  On the second-floor landing, she asked, “What was all that about?”

  “All what?”

  “There was something going on between you and Sister Muriel. Some kind of chemical reaction.”

  He chuckled. “You think I got the hots for a nun?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What then? She’s got the hots for me?”

  “Never mind,” Liz said as she fitted the key into a door at the end of the hall. Though she was certain Sister Muriel and Dash had some kind of connection, the very idea was ludicrous.

  When she opened the door leading to the attic, they were hit with a blast of warmish stale air. Her nose wrinkled. “Yuck! Smells like death warmed over.”

  She hit the switch by the door, and the dim glow of distant bulbs shed light on the narrow stairway. As she hiked up, she told Dash to close the door behind them. “I don’t think Sarah would appreciate having that stink through the whole house.”

  It was at least ten degrees hotter in the attic. The sloped ceiling at the eaves of the house was lined with pink insulation. The floor was unpolished wood. And the vast space, as large as the entire house, was filled with artifacts, the detritus of Agatha’s life.

  Liz sighed. “How are we going to find anything up here?”

  “Welcome to detective work, sweetheart. This is the main job. Dull stuff. Digging through rubble. It’s slow. It’s boring. It’s a pain in the neck.”

  “It might help,” she said, “if you told me what we are looking for. And don’t start that nonsense about the Maltese falcon.”

  “It’s truth.” Dash leaned against an old love seat. “Okay, maybe it’s not a falcon. Maybe it’s more like a painted bluebird made out of china. It’s a hollow figurine with a little hole in the bottom.”

  “And why are we looking for it? What’s the clue?”

  “Right before Agatha died, she figured out what was going on. Somebody had tampered with the capsules she took every day for high blood pressure. They had done it over a period of months, gradually upping the dose of poison, allowing her body to assimilate the stuff, making her slightly sicker and sicker. Real slow. Day by day. Week by week.”

  As Dash spoke he felt the familiar anger building within him. He hated the injustice of murder. More than the death itself, he despised the deed. Whoever had murdered Agatha Orben had been cruel in their methods. The good woman had suffered unnecessarily.

  Liz amplified his thoughts with expletives Dash, being an angel, could not speak. She ended with, “That sick, twisted son-of-a—”

  “That’s right,” he said. “You see why I want to put this scum away? And the bird can help us do that. Inside the bird statue is tangible evidence, the kind of evidence that will convince a judge and jury that she was murdered. A capsule. It’s one of
the poisoned capsules this sleazebag fed to Agatha.”

  “We’ll find it.” Liz dug right in, checking out the cardboard boxes with inked notations on the sides describing the contents. She picked one up and shook it. There was a rattling and the rustle of crumpled newspaper. Liz carefully peeled back the tape and opened the box. “You’d like this,” she said, pawing through the contents. “Looks like an entire box of ashtrays.”

  Dash watched as she sealed the box and meandered deeper into the dusty attic. With utter disregard for her tan slacks, she sat on the wood floor and checked the contents of a cardboard box marked miscellaneous. Again, she found nothing important.

  After twenty minutes of digging through the attic, Liz was disheveled, but her dogged pursuit of the task at hand had not diminished one whit. She had an admirable streak of determination, Dash thought. Seldom had he encountered a mortal with such a firmly developed sense of justice. On some future day, he thought, Liz would make an excellent Avenging Angel. But that time would be a far day from now, way beyond his comprehension. And, by then, Liz might have changed. So much could happen. She might be married and have children.

  A twinge of despair, almost painful, yanked at his angel heart. He had no right to think of her future. Or his own, for that matter. He moved from case to case. In a way, he was timeless.

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Aren’t you going to help?”

  He’d already been through the stuff in the attic. That was the first place he’d looked when he was put on the case. Though he’d found nothing, Liz might have more luck. “I’ve already searched up here for the falcon.”

  “The bluebird,” she said firmly. “It was a bluebird, not a falcon.”

  “Whatever. Anyhow, I already cased the attic.”

  “You searched? When?” Her blue eyes flashed with sudden comprehension. “Dash, are you telling me that you broke into this house and searched?”

  “You might say that.” He’d been invisible, of course. Gliding through the pieces of Agatha’s life as quickly and easily as a breeze filters through a field of autumn straw.

  “Breaking and entering? I can’t believe you did that. It’s illegal.”