by Beth Ciotta
The memory of her dancing in his arms quickened his pulse. It was strange. Ordinarily he would never consider a girl like Grace in a sexual way. Her legs didn’t stretch up to the pointed chin of her heart-shaped face. She was probably only as tall as some of the legs on women he’d dated. He doubted she even owned a dress, let alone high heels. Most glaringly, she didn’t look at him as if she knew exactly what to do with him.
She was squirming in her seat as he watched her. Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she slowed the car at the sight of Laguna Vista up on the left. She continued to creep along the deserted road, casting him furtive sideways glances all the while.
“What?” he said. “Just say it.”
“I need a partner.”
“Excuse me?”
“For my act. How would you like to wing-walk on my airplane?”
He blinked, stunned. “You want me to stunt with you?” Jesus, he would have been happy talking loops and death dives over coffee. Real coffee. Instead she was offering him a chance to act out a boyhood fantasy. Wing-walking! Hanging by his knees from the axle. Swinging from a rope ladder. Free. Soaring. “I’m a regular daredevil.” Bookman wouldn’t approve. Neither would his mother. He shoved the finger-wagging duo from his mind.
She flicked an impatient hand. “Never mind.”
“Why not ask your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she growled. “Besides, Mick doesn’t like heights.”
“So why me?”
She paused. “No one else will fly with me.”
“That doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“I’m a damn good aviatrix.”
“Then why won’t anyone fly with you?”
She shifted. “Something happened.” Drummed her fingers some more. “Tuck Cagney happened. He lied about an incident to the newspapers, and of course, everybody believed it was the woman’s fault.” She shot him a glance. “It’s been the talk of the East Coast for three weeks. I don’t know how you missed it. Oh, that’s right. Amnesia. You probably read it but forgot.” She grunted. “Anyway, now no one trusts me. But I’m not going to roll over and die. Turner survived a whopper of a scandal this past year. If he can bounce back, so can I.”
He ignored her sarcasm and thought back on the biography he’d read. She must be referring to the criminal charges pressed against Roscoe Turner and his stunt partner, Harry Runser. The team was charged with conspiracy and receiving stolen government property. “Do you think Roscoe was guilty?”
She jammed on the brakes, right in the middle of the road, spitting gravel. She turned to him, indignant. “If you knew Turner, you’d know there isn’t an indecent bone in his body. There are hundreds of surplus warplanes on the market. Turner and Runser had no reason to doubt that marine’s word. Too bad Runser put the blame on Turner to beat jail time. I wouldn’t blame Roscoe if he never spoke to Harry again.”
Rufus squashed the impulse to tell her she was right, Turner never would talk to Runser again. Nor did he tell her that Roscoe was given a presidential pardon.
“A partnership is sacred,” she said, those blue eyes needling into him. “Trust is everything.”
He shook off an uneasy feeling. He hadn’t been truthful with her about anything other than his being a pilot. “Tell me about Tuck Cagney. The incident. Maybe I can help.”
“You can walk on my plane. As for any other help, I can take care of myself.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need you or Mick—”
“Who said anything about Mick?”
“—hauling me around like some helpless female. Just because I danced with you doesn’t mean I’m suddenly stupid.”
“I don’t think—”
“Just be your dashing self. That’s all the help I need.”
“You think I’m dashing?” He was genuinely surprised. She, unlike most women, seemed immune to his charm. Not that he’d actually been trying.
She shrugged, then eased the car onward, toward Laguna Vista. “Not really, but Izzy and every other dame at the speak thinks so. That’s enough for me. Your kisser plus hoards of female gawkers equals top billing.”
Ouch. “Wait a minute. You’re telling me that you asked me to team up with you because of my looks?”
“Basically.”
It was as if all his years of dogging models and actresses in Manhattan had suddenly caught up with him. “Well, hell.”
“Don’t look so insulted. It helped that you dove out the tower window. Showed you possess a bit of derring-do.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
She pulled into Laguna Vista’s circular drive. Half of him yearned for a soft bed while the other half yearned for another hour with Grace. Even better, an hour with Grace in a soft bed. Too bad she didn’t feel the same. Or did she? He reflected on their kiss. The way she’d welcomed his tongue into her mouth and melted against his body. Her actions belied her words. So why the denial?
A woman like Grace wouldn’t play hard to get. She was too straight-on. Shy? Inexperienced? Both qualities hard to reconcile with her. Both qualities far from his comfort zone. “So when do we start?”
“In the morning. When it’s light. When you’re sober.”
His head suddenly grew heavy. He’d been awake for close to twenty hours. He’d worked a full day at the office before he flew his Cessna down to A.C., talked ghosts with Bookman over two glasses of scotch. Pleaded with a ghost, only to be knocked back in time by an angel. That’s where the dead people came in. Izzy, Grace, and James. Only they weren’t dead. He was the oddity here, as Bookman had pointed out. A twenty-first century man stuck in 1923. A man wrung out on time travel, moonshine, and the potent charisma of Grace LaRue.
He dragged a hand over his bloodshot eyes. “It’s a date.”
Silence.
He turned to her, one eyebrow raised. “Having second thoughts?” He hoped not. If he had to deal with Izzy, he should at least get some kind of reward. Like flying a vintage World War I trainer. Or seeing just what Grace wore under her tomboy togs.
“Once I make a decision, I stick with it. Listen to your gut and follow through. No hesitation.” She said it with ferocity. “Rule Number One.”
“Check.”
“My job is to keep you alive. I always do my job. Rule Number Two,” she said, “I’m the pilot. You’re the wing-walker. That is our relationship. No more slow dancing. No more kissing.”
She almost sounded mad. He refrained from pointing out that she’d dragged him onto the dance floor, that she’d ordered him to kiss her.
“Erratic emotions equal body parts taken away in buckets.”
He opened the door and forced his exhausted body out of the car. “Roger.”
“Who’s Roger? Is he who you’re hiding from?” She still sounded mad as he weaved his way to the mansion’s front door.
He managed a half-sloshed grin. Wing-walking with a cute-as-hell aviatrix. Maybe this nightmare wasn’t so bad.
Chapter Eight
RUFUS WOKE WITH a pounding headache. He cracked open heavy eyelids, licked dry lips, and wished he were dead. He’d had hangovers in his time, but this was a new breed of misery. He rolled over. Empty bed. He blinked at a peculiar puffy lamp. Oranges. Butterflies. Fly away.
Laguna Vista.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, then cursed his rolling stomach and the sunlight blazing through the giant arched window.
West tower.
The clean, fresh-painted, decorated-to-the-hilt west tower. The brand-new 1923 west tower.
A part of him felt disappointed. The other part relieved. He pulled his cell phone and digital watch from under the mattress. He’d meant to check in with Bookman last night. Instead he’d passed out. He checked the watch. Seven forty-five. Plen
ty of time to shower and dress before meeting Grace. Amazing he remembered he was supposed to meet her. He pressed the power button on his cell phone. While he waited, his mind cleared some more.
Wing-walking.
He’d agreed to meet Grace this morning to join her flying act.
No parachute.
Christ. Even though the kid in him wanted to walk on the wings of a World War I retired trainer plane, the other half knew the era’s aircraft were rickety and unreliable. Not to mention, he was a pilot, not a circus performer.
No parachute.
Jesus.
He called Bookman. “I’m still here.”
“Where . . . all night . . .”
“You’re breaking up, Professor.”
“Just a . . . I’ll move . . . window . . . How’s that? Better?”
“Much.” Rufus sighed. “You’re not going to believe the night I had.”
“From the sound of your voice, I imagine it involved heavy drinking.”
“Among other things.” He thought about Grace. Dancing with her. Kissing her. He focused on Izzy. “We went to a speakeasy last night. Roy Tadmucker was there.”
“Who?”
“The saltwater-taffy tycoon. Izzy’s third husband. Only as far as I can tell, she doesn’t know he’s alive yet.”
“So?”
“So, he was an important person in her life. She was married to him the longest. Had his kid. Maybe he’s the key.”
“To what?”
He gawked at the phone, then put it back to his ear. “The key to unlocking Izzy’s mystery. To helping her cross over. Remember?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean you don’t think so? Have you learned something? Did you get into the west tower? Into Izzy’s trunk?” Rufus glanced around. He was in the west tower. Albeit eighty years before Bookman’s time. His time.
“I gave up on the trunk.”
“What!” He bolted upright. His head nearly split in two.
“When I opened it again, Isadora winged one crystal ashtray after another at my head. There must be something hidden in there. Now she’s camped out on top of the thing. She won’t let any of us near it. She won’t even talk to us. She’s seething. I don’t know what else to do. I guess she has to face this on her own.”
“Then why the hell am I here?”
“I’m not sure. I thought it was to help her along. But now I think, well, there might be more to it.”
He massaged his throbbing temples. “Like what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Jesus, Bookman, what the hell have you been doing?”
“You mean aside from researching time travel, picking the brain of one ghost, and contending with the fury of another?” He sounded irritated. Definitely tired. “The question is, what the hell are you doing?”
Rufus forced himself to stand. Started peeling off the clothes he’d slept in. “Playing it by ear. Trying to find clues. What else should I be doing?”
“Why are you focusing on Tadmucker? Have you forgotten the snapshot? The reason Izzy threw a tantrum in the first place? Grace. You should be focusing on Grace. She’s the key. Not Tadmucker. Grace.”
He stood in Jonas’s boxers, the same man’s trousers pooled around his ankles, a burst of fireworks flashing in his hazy brain. “Don’t get your shorts in a bunch, Professor. Grace has my full and undivided attention.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.” Pause. “What did you do?”
He kicked away the trousers and started fumbling with the buttons on the wrinkled shirt. “I didn’t do anything. She kissed me. Used me to make her boyfriend jealous.”
“Grace has a boyfriend?”
“The thug.”
“The man J.B. wrote about in his journals? The one who hung out with Grace and Izzy? The troublesome trio? That thug?”
“The same.”
“She didn’t give him the boot after one look at you?” Bookman chuckled. “Guess there’s one woman immune to your movie-star magnetism.”
“You think I’m dashing?”
“Not really.”
Well, hell. Why’d he have to go and remember that?
“She hasn’t seen me at my best,” Rufus said, feeling defensive, not so much against Bookman’s dig as Grace’s casual dismissal. She didn’t find him attractive. Or so she’d said. Then again, she hadn’t seen him at his best. He’d spent the better part of yesterday stumbling over time travel and bootleg liquor.
“What’s his name?” Bookman asked.
“Mick Mahoney. A man as charming as a rat in a kitchen.”
“What’s he look like?”
Rufus recalled the meaty fists. The scowling face. “Mean.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious. Tall, strong build, dark hair. Handsome,” he added grudgingly, “in an arrogant kind of way.”
“Kind of like you.”
“I’m not arrogant.” Although his ego did sting. His hands stilled on the fourth button down. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“Take another look at that photo, Professor. A closer look. Maybe it’s Mahoney. You know, the troublesome trio. Mick has it bad for Grace. Saw it with my own eyes. And Grace, well, she did try to make him jealous. Izzy . . . I didn’t see her with Mahoney. She was off with Elroy—”
“Tadmucker?”
“Not Roy. Elroy.”
“I’m confused.”
“Welcome to my world.” Although his altered world had just taken a spin for the better. If Mick was the man in the picture, then maybe Mick was the connection. Maybe Izzy had made a play for Mick. Could it be that simple? Had Izzy slept with her best friend’s boyfriend? Was that the flapper’s chained-to-ghostly-limbo regret?
“No dice, Sherlock. It’s not Mick.”
“Look closer.”
“I don’t have to. The man in the picture was a drifter, remember? In and out of their lives in a flash. The troublesome trio were together from childhood.”
“Damn.”
“Sorry.”
Rufus struggled with the last button. His fingers felt numb. Espresso with a twist, my ass. “Then why did you ask what he looked like?”
“Just trying to get a handle on all the players. So what are your plans?”
“Plans? How the hell can I have plans?”
“You’re a fast worker, Sinclair. Spill it.”
He shrugged out of the shirt, tossing it on top of the trousers. “Grace asked me to wing-walk.”
“What?”
“Last night. She said she needed a partner for her act. She asked me.”
“Wonderful. Don’t get yourself killed.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I’m serious, Sinclair. We don’t know what effect your death would have on the future.”
Your death. Rufus shivered. Those two words had never been directed at him. But wait, this wasn’t about his death. It was about Izzy’s. He couldn’t die here. Could he? He recalled his hard landing in the bushes yesterday and figured the answer was yes. Still, no matter what breaking his neck might mean—never waking up in the future, being unable to help Izzy cross over—he couldn’t pass up the chance of a lifetime. He shoved his fingers through his hair, his sluggish brain screeching in rusty circles. “I was so sure it was Mick in that picture.”
“I’m still contemplating the possibility that it’s you. Or, rather, a form of you. You’re a dead ringer for the man in that snapshot.”
“It’s not me. Stop trying to ram that reincarnation nonsense down my throat.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “When did James say the drifter showed up?”
“June 1923. Izzy’s parents weren’t at Lagu
na Vista. They never knew. No doubt, that’s why you didn’t read about it in J.B.’s journals.”
Rufus racked his brain, trying to remember what else he’d read. Information pertaining specifically to June 1923. Nothing earth-shattering came to mind. He’d skimmed over twenty chicken-scrawled journals. Six weeks ago. This moment the years, the months, and the Van Burens’ daily dramas spilled together like runny ink. “Maybe the drifter will show up today. Or tomorrow. A new player.”
“You’re a new player.”
“But I’m not the man in the picture.” He’d said it before, but this time he said it with conviction, as though it were fact. “You’re right, Professor, I do work fast. I’m ditching your advice. No offense, but I’m through playing it by ear. I’m taking control. I’m solving this mystery. If that’s what it takes to get home. At the same time, there’s no reason I can’t live out some childhood fantasies.”
“Should I be worried?”
“My first wing-walking lesson is this morning.”
“What else?”
“Maybe see what Grace wears under her men’s-section clothing.”
“That doesn’t sound like a childhood fantasy.”
“You forget. I’ve always been fascinated with pilots.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“If I’m going to be stuck here for a while, I might as well have some fun.” He crossed to the window and checked for the Ford. No Ford. No Grace. He envisioned her pixie face. Her wild hair and I-dare-you fists on hips. His stomach fluttered. Damned espresso.
“One . . . never . . . hazardous . . . business.”
“You’re breaking up again,” Rufus mumbled, crossing back to the bed.
“Damn . . . I . . . hold . . .” Pause. “Can you hear me now?”
“Loud and clear.”
“I said, one should never mix hazardous business with pleasure.”
“Erratic emotions equal body parts taken away in buckets.” He wondered if Grace’s reservations about him had something to do with Tuck Cagney.
A soft-knuckled rap on the door cut the conversation short. Rufus powered off and shoved the phone beneath his pillow. He glanced toward the door. “Yes?”
