A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  Albert shrugged apologetically. "I got roped into backing it, too. I thought I'd better check out what sort of fellow he is. I'm not too impressed, I must say." He sipped at his drink and raised his eyebrows at Lilah in a manner that managed to be superior without being condescending.

  T.S. hated the fellow on sight. He pegged him at once as a CEO or president of his own company, one who had started with inherited money but then made a huge success out of—probably doubling or quadrupling—the family fortune. Now he was in his early fifties, all tanned and exercised into good health, probably with one wife behind him and a newer model floating around somewhere. Plus a girlfriend, three secretaries and a legion of toadying employees. T.S. knew the type well. What was he doing at Lance Worthington's party? Surely he had better investments of both time and money to make. Especially if he moved in that world of old money that intimidated T.S. so much—the same world Lilah had grown up in.

  It was the one thing, T.S. reflected sadly, that might conspire to keep them apart. All that money. Or a man like Albert. In a sudden flood of insecurity, he silently directed his hostility toward Albert.

  If Lilah thought Albert's presence at the party was odd, she tactfully kept silent. But she could sense T.S.'s discomfort and looked so uneasy that T.S. relented. He decided that he would be gracious and attempt small talk after all. "Wonder where our host is?" he asked their new companion.

  Albert shrugged, bored, and T.S. took it as a personal insult. "Probably in the back bedroom," Albert finally replied. "He seems to be spending a lot of time there."

  As if on cue, Lance Worthington appeared in the back hallway, a familiar blonde on one arm. "There he is," T.S. nodded toward the darkened interior. "And he's got that woman with him. Red dress."

  "Sally St. Claire," Lilah murmured. "Although I'm sure that's a nom deplume of sorts. It would be the perfect name for the madam of a bordello."

  "You know Sally?" Albert inquired a little too casually and T.S. knew at once that he had a more than passing familiarity with Sally St. Claire's more intimate attributes. T.S. had interviewed people for a living for thirty plus years and picked up a few pointers on the inability of humans to keep silent when it would greatly behoove them to do so.

  "We've been spotted," Lilah murmured sweetly. She turned away, but it was much too late. Lance Worthington made a beeline across the apartment, brushing rudely past other guests in his haste to reach what he thought was the wealthiest trio in the room.

  "Mr. Hubbert. Ms. Cheswick... I'd given up hope!" The producer was maniacally animated, his eyes wide and his lips smacking nervously between sentences. He fidgeted beside them and tugged at his tiny chimpanzee ears. "Silly of me. I thought you'd backed out or something." Unwilling to let anyone answer, he continued with his rapid patter. "I see you've met Mr. Goodwin here. He's one of my most generous backers, aren't you Al? In for nearly twenty points. We're talking about a healthy six-figure investment, but don't worry." He patted Albert's hand and failed to notice the wincing reaction the gesture provoked. "You'll find it's a good bet, indeed."

  The producer turned his attention to Lilah and T.S., darting glances between the two as if not sure which one had the most money and so deserved the most of his attention. "Don't be put off by the… uh, exuberance, shall we say, of the party," Worthington ordered with mock seriousness. "We all like to let our hair down now and then." He gave a laugh that sounded far more unpleasant than even he had intended, for he hurried on before anyone else could react. "It's all quite legitimate," he assured them, though no one had suggested otherwise. At least not out loud. "Just take a look at those men in the pit, as I call it. Some of the more respected names in city industry are here." He began to point out each man, citing his position and the amount he was investing in the play. T.S. was appalled at his vulgar breach of etiquette. He also wondered why these otherwise successful men, these "captains of industry" as Lance Worthington declared, would be sinking from $50,000 to $200,000 apiece in something as risky as a musical about Davy Crockett's life? It just didn't add up.

  "Enough about that," the producer finally declared, winding up his four-minute speech on the lucrative nature of his show. Mercifully, little of it had been heard by either Lilah or T.S. At least the loud music was good for something. "Let me refresh your drinks," Worthington demanded suddenly. He grabbed the glasses out of their hands and hurried away before they could protest.

  "Good grief." T.S. took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "That man talks a mile a minute. Is he on some sort of medication?"

  Albert stared at him strangely. "Medication?" he repeated, casting an amused glance at Lilah, who had the good grace to pretend not to notice.

  It incensed T.S. nonetheless. He suddenly wanted to be anywhere but where he was. Lance Worthington was a sleazeball. These people were joy seekers. The women were tramps. And Albert was the worst of them all. He was a supercilious, conceited and pompous jerk. So what if he felt out of his element here? He should be proud he did not fit in. And Auntie Lil could just forget the murder investigation if it meant he had to hang out with this crowd. Lance Worthington was a nasty can of worms, but T.S. saw no connection to Emily's death here and he wasn't going to waste any more time than necessary subjecting himself to aural assault and being humiliated by some wealthy nitwit. As soon as he could swing it, they were leaving.

  So indignant were his thoughts that he automatically grabbed the healthy drink offered by a returned Lance Worthington and gulped down a fourth of it.

  "I'll leave you to enjoy yourselves," Worthington murmured. He backed away and headed for a plump mogul in a pin-striped suit who was having a little trouble maneuvering up from the deep leather couch. The fact that he was stone cold drunk did not add to his sprightliness.

  "Could I speak to you alone?" Albert murmured to Lilah behind T.S.'s back.

  T.S. took another gulp of Scotch and turned his head just in time to see Albert grip Lilah's elbow and nod toward the kitchen. T.S. simmered. Should he let this well-bred interloper steal Lilah from his grasp like that? Was he a man or a mouse or what? Would it be totally appalling to punch Albert in the nose? There was, after all, a first time for everything.

  Inaction forced the issue. "Theodore," Lilah whispered into his ear. "I need to talk to Albert alone for a moment. Would you excuse me?" She squeezed his arm briefly but did not wait for a reply. Albert guided her smoothly toward the kitchen. T.S. watched as the pair withdrew into a corner by themselves and began to whisper.

  Well, he wouldn't dignify such proceedings by standing there and spying. He moved away into the sunken living room and found a seat on the edge of one of the leather couches. A small blonde who was curled up on the floor next to the passed-out man eyed T.S. carefully, then slithered up closer. "Where's your date?" she asked in what she probably thought was a seductive manner but, instead, made T.S. feel as if a snake were crawling up one of his legs.

  "If you're asking if I need a date, I can assure you the answer is no," T.S. answered firmly. She pouted and withdrew, glaring at him with wounded pride.

  My, how time flies when you're having fun, he thought glumly. Already his drink was empty. The thought had scarcely formed in his mind when Lance Worthington popped into view. "New drink!" the producer called out gaily. "Allow me, please." T.S. could hardly protest. He didn't have the time. The glass was jerked from his hand and Worthington gone before he could blink. He waited for the return of his by now necessary anesthetic and surreptitiously stole a glance into the kitchen area. Lilah and Albert were still deep in conversation and whatever Albert was saying, T.S. didn't like it. The man's face had a deep scowl on it and he was gesturing with one hand. Who was he? How did Lilah know him? What was he doing here and who did he think he was to snatch Theodore Hubbert's date right out from under his nose?

  Good breeding or not, T.S. had half a mind to go ahead and punch him in the nose after all. In fact, he was seriously contemplating such an action when Lance Worthington appeared with a
new drink. "Bottoms up!" he said cheerfully, bestowing the fresh glass on T.S.

  "Need company? We've plenty to choose from." He let his tiny hands flutter over the living room area. "Live and let live, I always say."

  Live and let live unless your name is Albert and you're after Lilah, T.S. thought sourly as he gulped down his new drink. Lance Worthington left him to his misery. Halfway down to the bottom of the new tumbler, T.S. realized he had made a terrible mistake. First there had been wine at what was an enormous and highly spiced dinner, and now he'd topped it off with glasses of Scotch. His stomach lining began to tingle and went numb. While contemplating this, he grew dizzy and was almost certain that he was about to be sick. He was just wondering where the bathroom was when the tall redhead that he had noticed earlier suddenly reappeared. She perched on the edge of the couch near him and leaned forward suggestively, linking one arm through his and pulling him against the straining bodice of her skintight dress. He did not have the strength to protest.

  "You look like someone I'd like to know better," she cooed in a throaty whisper. She wore so much perfume that T.S. was forced to hold his breath, an act that did not improve his dizziness.

  "Don't be shy," the woman ordered breathlessly. Up close, T.S. noted with distaste, it was obvious that she wore what must have been a full inch of pancake makeup. Bad skin lurked beneath and her cheeks were scarlet slashes. Her mouth undulated in front of his eyes in evil, ruby-colored ribbons, like poisonous worms dancing closer and closer.

  "I've been watching you," she whispered. Her voice deepened even more and her hot breath brushed against his ear as she insisted with husky conviction, "You've got the heebie-jeebies, haven't you, darling?"

  "What?" T.S. asked in sudden alarm. But his tongue was not behaving, it lolled thickly in his mouth and the words came out in a jumble. What had this creature said? That he had the heebie-jeebies?

  Something had gone wrong. His tongue would not move at all. The numb feeling in his stomach spread and he felt as if a beach ball were inside his gut, swelling slowly until it could explode.

  "You need another drink, darling," the redhead suggested. Her red lips met and a large, hideous tongue flicked out from between them. She dabbed it delicately over her upper lip and T.S. watched in fascination as it moved in slow motion, dragging a small trail of red across the cosmetic landscape. And who had put on a new record?

  This one was warped. The notes raced and slowed with distracted abandon, tunes tumbling and disappearing, fading in and out. Surely someone would notice it soon. What was worse, someone was spinning the room. What nonsense, he corrected himself. Rooms did not spin. Only, look at those walls. They were turning. Objects and people began to flow together, to blur as if in high speed. He was on a train that was rushing faster and faster and he was unable to tear his eyes from the small window opening in front of him.

  "Put him in the back bedroom," T.S. heard a sly voice order. Hands groped under his armpits and he felt himself lifted. The redhead had hold of his body and was urging him forward. She was as strong as a man. T.S.'s near-dead weight did not faze her.

  Without warning, Lance Worthington's face popped into view and began to fuzz and bounce in front of T.S.'s own. The producer was laughing and pounding him on his back. T.S. wanted to cough but his mouth would not move.

  "I've got a special treat for you," an unctuous voice urged and T.S. realized that it belonged to Worthington. "Just leave it all up to me. Live and let live, I always say." Something had gone wrong with the producer's voice; it sped up to the chatter of a chipmunk then slowed suddenly like a record on the wrong speed.

  It was all T.S. could do to open his eyes. When he did, there was the redhead inches away, staring back at him while her red-slashed cheeks danced in the field of his vision. Behind her, silver wallpaper pulsated to the beat of the pounding music. His stomach cramped and T.S. was sure he would vomit.

  "Steady there, sir," a deep voice interrupted. "Where are you taking this gentleman? He looks like he needs to go home." Strong arms pulled him away from the talon-adorned hands of the redhead and, suddenly, breaking through the madness, the face of the elderly bartender swam into focus. Coal skin gleaming in silver light; small eyes piercing through his own; lips pressed together, worried and tight: the bartender's face stopped, fixated in perfect clarity before T.S. Behind him, the room spun in circles and the silver wallpaper sent starbursts tumbling across the hallway. How had he gotten so far? What was he doing in the hall?

  "Sir? Sir? Shall I fetch the lady?" It was a golden voice, a trustworthy voice, far preferable to the rest. T.S. leaned, seeking the source of that comfort, and managed to drape both arms over the bartender's shoulders. There he clung, unwilling and unable to let go.

  An argument ensued but the voices were too jumbled to decipher. It sounded instead as if small animals were quarreling at his feet. T.S. was vaguely aware that they were arguing about him, that the deep-voiced bartender wanted to take him away from the madness. T.S. clung harder, trying to tell the kind man that he was right, that he wanted more than anything to leave. Hands tugged at his jacket and he felt the sharp fingernails of the towering redhead scrape his back through the thin cotton shirt underneath. The bartender's weight shifted as he attempted to fend off the others. Without warning, T.S. lost the strength in his arms and began to slide to the floor.

  Just as he was ready to fall asleep, new hands were there, helping him up. Two more pairs of hands: one strong, the other cool and fluttering.

  "Theodore? Theodore? What's the matter, Theodore?" Lilah's voice cut through the crashing sounds exploding in his brain. Lilah was there. What was happening to him?

  "He's taken sick," the kind voice said from a great, hollow distance. "I'll help you get him into a cab."

  "No need," T.S. heard Lilah say. She, too, seemed far, far away. "I've got a car downstairs. Could you help me get him there?" Why did she sound so upset? Where was the problem? He should be helping her, T.S. thought vaguely, not slumped here like a dead man propped for one last good look against the wall.

  He was aware that Albert was beside him as well, tugging him forward on one side while the bartender pulled him along on the other. It was hateful to be so helpless and in Albert's power, but there was nothing T.S. could do. His brain still functioned, albeit slowly, but his feet would not work, his arms were as limp as wet noodles and a small fire flared in his stomach. Somehow he was heading toward the door, though his legs dragged behind him like the support poles of a litter. His coat was thrown over his shoulders.

  "Hurry! Hurry!" he heard Lilah say. He tried to walk faster and managed to move his legs. He pulled away from Albert before crashing into the door.

  He did not remember the elevator ride downstairs, but surely he had taken one. Because the next thing he knew, he was leaning against the cushions in the backseat of Lilah's limo. Ah, safety. He was home free. And away from that whirling crowd, those darting red tongues and those hideous serpentine glances. And here was Lilah, dear, dear Lilah, whispering gently to him as she brushed the hair off of his brow.

  "Shhhh," she was saying, still from a place far, far away. "Don't try to talk." A cool wetness covered his brow, it swept over his face like a balm. Ice. She was patting him with ice. What a wonderful thing a limousine was, he thought thickly. Full of ice and glasses and liquor and… liquor. Ugh. The very word sickened him. His back stiffened and his stomach began to spasm.

  "Grady!" Lilah shouted in sudden alarm. "Pull over. I think you'd better pull over."

  What was this? Who was bothering him now? Someone was trying to pull him from the safety of the limo. Strong arms grabbed at his shoulders and he was halfway outside. He fought, pushing away the arms, struggling to be free.

  "Just do it," he heard Lilah's sharp voice command. "Throw up, Theodore. Forget that I'm here. Just throw up."

  Throw up? How odd. He was dreaming again. Lilah, acting as a cheerleader for him to be sick? He did not have much time to think about th
e absurdity of it because the nausea finally hit, overwhelming him and stripping him of any strength he had left to resist. He gave up his struggle and stopped fighting the feeling. With a sense of relief, he felt his stomach lurch again and again, jumping beneath his shirt like some sort of small animal trapped inside. I'm sick, T.S. thought vaguely, I'm throwing up in the gutter. People walking by are watching, but what can I do? Another wave of nausea hit and he gave himself up to it.

  When he was through, strong arms leaned him back into the car, against the firm leather cushions. The cool balm returned and he could feel the purr of the motor beneath him. With his stomach calm again, Lilah's murmur began to soothe his soul. "They did this to you," she was whispering angrily. "I just know it. Oh, Theodore. What an awful place. What an awful, awful party."

  His lips moved. He wanted to speak. Thought formed without sound until finally a half squeak came out. "Albert?" he cried and was silent.

  "Albert's not here," Lilah assured him. "Don't worry about Albert. Albert's just a friend. He helped you to the car."

  "A friend," T.S. repeated, his head lolling back. The nausea was gone but now a terrible black cloud descended on his head. His temples were pounding and pulsating, and there were needles being jabbed into his eyes.

  "My head," he groaned. Oh, my head."

  He felt Lilah's hands on his body, patting him down. What was she doing? Had she turned into one of them?

  "What?" he asked woodenly. "What are you doing?" His tongue hung to one side like a dead slab of meat. Would none of his body cooperate?

  "Your handkerchief is bigger," she explained. "Here it is." She pulled it from his pocket and filled it with ice, fashioning a makeshift pack that she held up to his throbbing temples. He lay back, helpless and unable to respond. The coolness spread across his forehead, distracting him from the pain. He managed to raise an arm and grasped Lilah's hand.