Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  “That’s where we surrender the car. We have to go inside the building to pick up our masks. Then we board a small bus for the rest of the trip.”

  “And whose house is this?”

  Cliff lets out an exasperated breath. “For Chrissake, will you stop with the third degree?”

  “But I need to know these things. I’m supposed to have been here before. What if they find out I’m not really Angela?”

  “Look, dear, just to refresh your memory. The basic idea is for a guy to enjoy good booze, beautiful arm candy and maybe do a few lines of nose candy. If a man gets lucky with his date, that’s icing on the cake.”

  “Just a nice evening in the country?”

  “Yes. And that’s all it’s meant to be. Greene isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. These people know what they’re doing.”

  There are Mercedes 500s and Jaguars parked before a long, low stone building. Cliff pulls into a vacant space, then turns to me. “Oh, yes. And this is very important. You speak only to me. No other man. Especially not the man dressed in red and wearing a big hat.”

  I’m about to ask why when a masked valet opens my door and offers his hand.

  We enter the building and step into a candlelit room with paneled walls and an intricately carved coffered ceiling. At one end is a full bar. The room is empty except for Cliff and me and several masked wait-staff dressed as pages.

  One page bearing a tray of champagne glasses is right behind the man who takes my coat.

  A third page leads me to the far end of the room and ushers me into a small but beautifully appointed compartment.

  Walls of pale peach silk rise to a pleated ceiling. A comfortable chair in a peach-and-green floral design sits in front of an oval mirror that appears to float. On closer inspection, I can see it is attached to the ceiling with fine piano wires.

  In minutes, a woman dressed as a French maid carrying several Harlequin masks enters. She hands me one after the other to try, then pronounces, “This one is perfect, don’t you agree?”

  She’s right. The mask made of opalescent feathers of forest green and gold is attached to a gilded wand. It’s the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.

  When I raise the mask to my face, I’m transformed into a kind of fabulous fairy tale bird. A shiver of delight runs through me. Who would have ever thought a hick chick from Lampasas, Texas, would be playing a part like this?

  “Enjoy the evening. Please use the restroom before your escort arrives. There are only a few facilities on the first floor of the building.”

  I take a sip of the bubbly, then think better of taking a second. No time to be dimwitted. I’m on assignment.

  I’ve just dumped the rest of the champagne in the sink when there’s a knock on the door and Cliff, wearing a mask in iridescent blue with gold leaves, steps into the room.

  The mask conceals most of his face. His tux is covered with a damask cape accented with leaves the same design as those on his mask.

  “Can you breathe in that?”

  He raises his head so I see his nostrils. “Would you recognize me if you didn’t know who I was?”

  The helmet-like mask dips downward at the ears to cover his hair and neck. I peer into the eyeholes but can’t see much. His mouth is very visible, but I don’t know him well enough to be familiar with it.

  I shake my head. “It’s a pretty good disguise. Whoever thought this up did a great job on the design.”

  ————

  We’re the only ones in the jitney that crawls up a winding lane. When the bus makes one last turn, I can’t help but gasp. Angela was right. It is a castle, three stories high, complete with turrets connected by crenelated battlements, showcased with golden floodlights.

  I lean into Cliff and murmur, “What is this? Disney New Jersey?”

  He gives a poor imitation of some TV celebrity he thinks I should know. “Oh, Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

  Chapter 9

  AS WE CLIMB THE STAIRS to the arched entry a man cloaked in black with a crimson mask steps from a group of chatting guests and barks, “Please make your way to the assignment table. It’s almost time to begin.”

  He turns away, then whirls to face me and points his finger. “Hey. Don’t I know you?”

  Unsure of what to do, I raise my mask to cover my face.

  Cliff steps to my side and puts a protective hand on my arm. “You know better than to speak unless it’s been arranged.”

  When the man lowers his gaze Cliff says, “I’ll overlook your breach this time, but if you break the code again, you know what will happen.” His threat hangs in the air.

  After the man disappears into the crowd, Cliff turns to me. “I’m not real happy about running into him. He must have met Angela.”

  “So what does that mean? Is my cover blown?”

  “What cover? Look around you. Half the women don’t have their masks covering their faces. Your arm will soon tire of holding up your mask. That’s why there’s a loop at the end to slip over your wrist.”

  He leads me into a long, two-story gallery where three enormous Venetian chandeliers hang from elaborately carved domes.

  The oak-paneled walls are covered with formal oil portraits punctuated by mirrors over half-moon tables.

  To one side of the gallery a graceful stair lined with tapestries rises to a second level. A gold rope that bears a small sign reading: “By invitation only,” is strung between the elaborately carved newel posts.

  I remember Angela saying that’s where Caro looked down. Up those stairs. Where the action was. I’m going to be damn sure I don’t make that trip.

  The floor peeking from under several palace-sized Oriental rugs is inlaid wood—old and expensive.

  Only two envelopes remain on the round marble table beneath the first chandelier. Cliff grabs the one with his name on it, yanks out the card, and curses beneath his breath. “The Garden Tent. Damn it, I’ve been demoted.” “Where were you last time?”

  “In the ballroom.” He jams the envelope in his pocket. “Let’s head for Siberia.”

  Beneath an elegant tent draped in silk and dotted with Japanese lanterns, the guests are arranged in two circles.

  When the band strikes up, everyone dances. Each song is played through only once and when the music stops, some couples move to the right while others move in the opposite direction.

  Cliff swipes a glass of champagne from the nearest proffered tray, drains it and grabs my hand. “Maybe this isn’t Siberia after all. Which way do you want to work? To the left or to the right?”

  ————

  After participating in this mindless charade for over half an hour, I can honestly say these are the most boring people I’ve ever met.

  Between each dance, a couple from each circle mingles. This lasts for about five minutes during which the men communicate with each other in some sort of abbreviated lingo and look the women over like they’re picking out merchandise from Victoria’s Secret or a prime cut from some steak house. I fully expect to have my teeth checked before the evening’s out.

  We women do nothing but smile at the men and stare through each other. And as far as the women’s masks are concerned, Cliff was dead right. The masks hang from their wrists while they dance and are raised only when a new couple is introduced.

  At the first conversation break I try talking to a brunette in a burgundy velvet dress that seems to have almost no front or back. A deep vee rises from her bikini line, widens to reveal her navel and climbs her large, well-shaped breasts to barely cover her nipples. When she turns, the same effect is repeated in the back.

  It’s a construction miracle. Sheer gauze, the exact shade of her skin, holds the dress together. One too-quick move and she’ll lose the whole enchilada.

  “Great outfit,” I offer.

  “Tanks. So’s yours.” The “yours” came out “you-ahs.”

  She is definitely from another venue. I step a little closer, chumming up. “Been coming
to these things for a long time?”

  At that, she raises her mask studded with amethysts and turquoise, opens her over-glossed mouth and lets out a startled bray. “Don’t break the rules or it’s off with you-ah head.”

  I remain mute after that. No point.

  Between dances, I feast on canapés of Maine lobster, bay scallops, planked salmon and caviar. I’m parched, but pass up the bubbly. Sober as I am, I feel a tad giddy but chalk that up to my assignment.

  Cliff and I have just finished a brief samba and are moving to greet yet another scintillating twosome when I feel someone staring at me. It’s the man Cliff warned me about. The one I’m not supposed to speak to.

  He’s tall—tall enough to dwarf me. Beneath a scarlet, wide-brimmed cardinal’s hat, an ornate silver mask covers his face. On closer inspection, the eyebrows and lashes are minutely detailed.

  A scarlet cloak conceals this man’s body, but he moves beneath it like a tiger. His lady is an attractive blonde also in scarlet. She carries a mask of iridescent black feathers studded with jewels.

  I noticed this couple standing on the terrace when Cliff and I joined our circle and watched them take their place several groups behind us. Now they’re joining the couple we just left.

  I poke Cliff. Not a good idea. He’s talking to a short, chunky man caped in heavy black brocade with red silk piping. His blacklacquer mask with red tracings resembles a Chinese Foo Dog.

  When I peer around Cliff, he abruptly turns away.

  I cover my face with the mask and mutter, “I have to talk to you in private.”

  Cliff turns to me. “In a minute, darling.”

  During the course of the evening I’ve learned that no woman has a name. They are called “darling” or “precious” or some other inane diminutive.

  I poke him again. Harder.

  Cliff whirls and mutters, “Excuse me,” then says through clenched teeth, “What is it?”

  I put my mouth to where his ear should be. “It’s that man in red. The one you said I shouldn’t talk to. I think he’s trying to catch up with us. Let’s get out of here.”

  Cliff steals a look to the side, then points to the terrace. “The ladies’ room is to the right just inside the gallery.”

  Bastard. He’s hanging me out to dry. Has he decided it’s too dangerous to go along with the plan? Am I on my own? I can’t see his eyes—can’t read his thoughts. Then I see a flash of scarlet and realize I have only a few seconds’ lead.

  I thread through the throng and skip up the steps afraid to look back.

  Can I make it to the bathroom in time to hide in a stall until the music starts up? Then what? If only I knew the drill.

  I enter the main hallway and veer right. The door, bearing a small brass outline of a Colonial Dame, is only three steps away, when a firm hand grasps my shoulder.

  Cliff whirls me around to face the silver-masked man in the red hat. “The Cardinal has asked to take you home.”

  He twists my wrist so hard I drop into a painful curtsey.

  The Cardinal bows in response. “Lovely. Lovely. I see you’ve trained her well.”

  He turns to the woman still glued to his side and murmurs, “Jay Three will take you home, my dear.”

  She nods and steps away as Cliff places my aching hand in the man’s cool, dry grasp. Then, after a slight bow in the Cardinal’s direction, he steers his new date into the crowd.

  Chapter 10

  “THIS WAY, MY DEAR.” The Cardinal leads me toward the front entry and down the steps to the waiting bus.

  I fight the urge to yank my hand away and run like hell. Then I curse myself for thinking I could pull off something so impossibly daring. I’m going alone with this stranger who maybe killed Caro—who would maybe like to carve an X on my breast. I feel like I’ve just stepped into a nest of fire ants—a few bites can cause extreme pain—too many bites kill.

  At Station Two the Cardinal signals to a black, late-model Mercedes 500 with Jersey plates.

  Still masked, he turns on the dome light while he leans forward to converse with the driver.

  I get hold of myself and do a little sleuthing. Hands have always fascinated me. His are slender with long, tapering fingers, the hands of a man who has avoided manual labor. He wears a heavy oblong signet ring with a family crest.

  We’re well out of the gates before he leans back into the seat and says, “I’m sorry about the mix-up last week.”

  Tiny icicles boogie down my spine. Angela didn’t mention a Cardinal.

  “I hope Jay Three explained why we couldn’t make the switch then. My date was feverish. I felt I should take her home.”

  So, Cliff knew who he was trading me to all along! I can’t wait to get my hands around his slimy neck.

  After the driver negotiates the Mercedes onto the New Jersey Turnpike, the Cardinal says, “I presume you live in Manhattan.” From that question it looks like he isn’t going to kill me and dump my body in the Newark Bay quite yet. And wait a minute—wouldn’t he know where I live if he were Caro’s killer?

  “My roommate and I share a townhouse on Ninety-Fifth between Lex and Third.”

  He leans forward, his smooth exterior cracking a little. “You have a roommate? Jay Three didn’t mention that.”

  Again, those arctic tickles and that small voice on the far side of my mind nudges me and I burble, “She’s gone for the weekend.”

  Not quite a lie. Poor Caro.

  “Wonderful. I was hoping for a cup of coffee and a brief chat. It’s so much easier in private.” He relaxes and leans into the cushions.

  When the car pulls to the curb and the chauffeur opens my door, I hesitate.

  The Cardinal must see me stiffen because he gently taps my bare arm. “I promise—only one cup. I have a long drive ahead of me.”

  I hesitate for only a second. This may be my sole opportunity to get the information Greene needs.

  “Then one cup it is.” I slide out of the car, hurry up the steps and into the outer foyer. When I turn, a distinguished gray-haired man in his late sixties or early seventies with startling steel-gray eyes stands unmasked beside me.

  As the outer door groans shut, he steps forward and pulls me to him. “I’ve been wanting to hold you close since I first saw you. You took my breath away then, but tonight—”

  His lips urge mine apart, but I squirm out of his embrace and fish the key out of the silk flowers.

  When I fumble for the lock, he says, “Let me.”

  In one fluid move, he puts his left arm around my waist and jams me to him while snatching the key from my right hand.

  He’s no gentleman, and there’s no doubt he’s aroused. How am I going to get out of this one without a direct knee to the groin?

  We fall into the darkness and it’s all I can do to keep the panic out of my voice. “I better get that coffee going. Remember the long drive?”

  I find the switch and the room fills with light.

  He releases me to take in the pre-war oak floor and the fourteen-foot ceiling. “Not bad. Not bad at all. A few years ago I looked at several townhouses in this area. I might have seen this property then.” He points toward the stairs. “Two bedroom suites? One on each floor?”

  Those fire ants begin to crank up. His description is much too close to the mark.

  His voice breaks in. “How long have you owned this place?” “Almost eight years.” I edge toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.”

  He catches up with me. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m not letting you out of my sight for one minute.”

  What’s he going to think when I start pawing through the cabinets for the coffee? I’m supposed to live here. When I pause at the kitchen entrance, he almost runs me over. I turn and give him a coquettish wink. “As you must know, pre-war kitchens that haven’t been remodeled are very cramped. If you could just give me a few minutes, we’ll be so much more comfortable on the couch.”

  Lucky for me, the coffee is
next to the pot. When I return to the living room, the Cardinal is seated on the couch and beckons for me to sit next to him.

  Once I’m settled, he grabs my hand. “You are so easy on the eyes. I’m glad Jay Three brought you back.”

  “So am I. And I’m so glad we could connect this time.”

  Big mistake. He’s all over me. His tongue greedily mining my mouth while his hand gropes my breast. My first instinct is to bolt. Then I remind myself I volunteered for this duty.

  When he comes up for air, I wiggle out of his clutch and stand. “Coffee’s ready.”

  “Who needs coffee?” he pants.

  “You do.” I make for the kitchen before he can regain his balance.

  It’s in the kitchen that the brilliant idea blossoms: dump the coffee into the Cardinal’s crotch. I take a moment to visualize the scene: the shock on his face, his leap from the couch, his race for the front door. Then the stark realization dawns that it would be a very good reason for him to remove his trousers, and while they were drying—nope. Don’t think I’ll go there.

  Resigned to playing it straight, I carry in the tray, pour a cup for each of us, and ease into the cushions, praying that the threat of scalding coffee will keep him at bay.

  It’s the Cardinal who begins the questions. “I know your last name is Armington, may I ask your given name?”

  I hesitate. Did Cliff say that was okay? Then I remember. I’m not to ask the questions. Just answer. “It’s Angela.”

  “And you are an angel. A Southern angel, I think.” “Yes.”

  “And a high-fashion model? You certainly have the figure for it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I thought I recognized you, though your photographs hardly do you justice.”

  The Cardinal drains his cup and sets it on the coffee table. That means trouble. Sure that only one cup of scalding coffee won’t be enough to blunt his advances, I quickly refill his, shove it back in his hand and chirp, “I don’t know all the rules, but I was instructed not to ask your name.”

  “Yes, that’s one of the rules. It’s for our protection, as are the names we are given.”