“You know what I mean.” I punched him on the shoulder and opened the door. “C’mon. We’re already late.”
Getting into character, I sashayed across the floor toward the bar, craning my neck to spot Seth Johnson. Dan stuck by my side, his muscular good looks and slicked-back blond hair attracting a lot of sidelong looks from the women we strolled past. Shame on them . . . for all they knew he could be Catholic and celibate.
“What’s your poison?” the bartender asked when we reached the front of the line. I opted for white wine, and Dan chose club soda and lime. He was driving.
“Will you be in trouble with your congregation if someone spots you at a gambling party?” I asked as we circled the room.
“Episcopalians are all about good causes,” he said, “especially those that involve drinking and gambling. Care to try your luck?” He ushered me toward a blackjack table with only two people seated in front of the dealer. One was a black-hatted Western villain, complete with paunch, oiled mustachios, and spurs. The other man wore a gingham-checked shirt, modern jeans, and a watch with enough dials and gadgets to launch a space shuttle.
“Mind if we join you gentlemen?” I asked, trying to channel Jodie Foster in Maverick.
“Certainly, ma’am,” the villain replied, scooting over one stool. “Take my seat, padre.”
The dealer shuffled and slid cards toward us. I barely looked at my cards and placed a bet at random with the chips I’d bought at the door. I was too busy looking for Seth Johnson to pay attention to the cards.
“Take a hit.” Dan nudged my elbow.
His body was warm and solid just inches from mine, and his breath held a pleasant hint of lime from his club soda. For a moment, I let myself be distracted by his smile; then I motioned for another card. Twenty-one. I flipped my cards, and the dealer paid up. The thrill of winning trickled through me, and I kissed Dan on the cheek.
“You must bring good luck,” I said. Before he could reply, a familiar laugh caught my attention, and I swiveled to see Seth Johnson seated at a poker table situated near the entrance to one of the galleries. Four other men and a woman with dyed ostrich feathers tucked into a mass of ringlets were ranged around the table, concentrating on their cards.
“Don’t leave now, little lady,” the black-hatted man said as I slipped off the stool. “You’re winning.”
Dan started to get up, too, but I motioned him back. “This’ll probably go better if I can get him one-on-one,” I said. “You stay here and make my fortune.” I pushed my small pile of chips toward him.
“I guess he can’t be much of a threat in this crowd,” he said, after a narrow-eyed look in Johnson’s direction. He subsided back on the stool, catching my wrist as I turned to go. “Be careful.”
I nodded, squeezed his hand, and strolled across the room until I was within spitting distance of Seth Johnson. Dressed in white from the top of his ten-gallon hat to his snakeskin boots, Johnson looked every inch the nineteenth-century marshal, only without the chaw and bad teeth. A large gold star gleamed on his chest, and his belt sported a turquoise buckle the size of a salad plate. A pearl-handled revolver, either a genuine antique or a good fake, hung from a holster slung low on his hips. He nibbled on one edge of his gingery mustache as he studied his cards. I wondered if the woman beside him was his date, then decided she couldn’t be because she was clearly over thirty—about ten years past her sell-by date as far as he was concerned. I watched the gamblers play a couple of hands, taking care to stay just outside Johnson’s peripheral vision. A rocks glass with an inch of amber liquid sat to his left, and he sipped from it occasionally. The snick of the cards as the dealer dealt them and the occasional terse bid were all I overheard. Unlike most of the revelers laughing and groaning as the cards or the roulette ball dictated their fortunes, the players at Johnson’s table looked grim and serious. Their expressions made me wonder what kind of stakes they were playing for.
When it became clear that they weren’t going to take a break anytime soon, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Swaying my hips to make the satin skirt swish against the net underskirt, I strolled up behind Johnson and slid my arms around his neck. “Seth, honey, I’m here to bring you good luck!”
He practically choked on his drink, jerking his head around to look at me. His brows snapped together. One of the other male gamblers, a Wilford Brimley look-alike, gave me a big grin, but two of the men frowned, obviously irritated at having their concentration broken.
“You can bring me some luck, sugar,” Wilford said, patting his lap.
I sent him a saucy smile but remained draped over Johnson’s shoulders. Leaning close, I whispered in his ear, “We need to chat about some fingerprints the police found in Elizabeth’s apartment. A little birdie told me they might be yours.” I smiled brightly at the other players.
He stiffened and then folded his cards together, tossing them on the table. “Gentlemen, Maggie, I’m going to sit out a round or two.”
Wilford chuckled knowingly as Johnson rose, clamping an arm around my shoulders, and walked me back into the gallery behind the table. I waggled my fingers at the poker players as we turned a corner. We stood in a small square gallery, with huge abstract canvases, one per wall. Each was lit to show the play of colors and texture. For some reason, they struck me as angry.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Miss Swift?” Johnson said, swinging me around to face him, his hands on my shoulders.
“I could ask you the same question.” I wrenched away from his grip. “I’ve learned a lot about you in the past couple of days. I have to admit I thought you might have fathered Elizabeth’s baby—maybe raped her—but rumor says that’s a virtual impossibility, so what took you to her apartment this summer?”
His face went white at my veiled reference to his impotence, and his eyes blazed with a fury that knocked me back a couple of steps.
“I believe I warned you when you came out to the ranch,” he said from between clenched teeth. “You only get one warning.”
Quick as a rattlesnake, his hand flashed out and grabbed my upper arm. He jerked hard, twisting me as he pulled so my back thudded against his chest, and clapped his hand over my mouth before I could do more than squeak.
I bit his finger hard and jabbed my elbow back into his gut. He let out a small “oof,” and his grip loosened slightly. Ripping the unsecured gun from the holster at his side, I ducked under his arm and spun to face him, the gun leveled at his stomach. My hair flopped into my face, and my heart thudded in my chest.
Johnson raised one hand to shoulder height and held the other one up to inspect the damage I’d done to his finger. His posture was relaxed, and I sensed that the ungovernable fury that had seized him had faded. Pulling a hankie out of his pocket and dabbing at his finger, he said, “You don’t really think I’d keep an antique like that loaded, do you?”
No, I didn’t really. My reactions had been reflex. I popped the cylinder and inspected it. No bullets. Well, the revolver was heavy; I could use it as a club if he came at me again.
“What’d you think I was going to do, woman? Shoot you here in the museum and bury your body in a shallow grave at the ranch?” He laughed unpleasantly. “Not my style.”
My thoughts had been running along those lines, but I didn’t admit it. I stayed silent, letting the gun drop to my side but remaining alert.
“No, killing is messy. Besides, I don’t fancy ending up in jail over a no-account nuisance like you. No, I’ve got other methods.”
Although I tried to keep my face impassive, he must have caught the stiffening of my muscles, because he laughed again. “I understand your business isn’t doing so well, and that your lease is coming up for renewal. You’ve also got a partner who’s in desperate need of money, if my sources are accurate—and I’m sure they are. I’m sure she’d be amenable to a buyout offer. I could be your new partner.”
Gigi, heretofore the bane of my professional existence, was sudden
ly looking like Abbott to my Costello, Ginger Rogers to my Fred Astaire, Cagney to my Lacey, the queen of partners. “You don’t seem like the investigator type,” I said calmly.
“Oh, I’m not. I’d sell off the assets, unless you could afford to buy me out?” When I stayed silent, he nodded. “Didn’t think so. I’d say you’ll be out of business in a couple of weeks. You’ll have to leave the state to start up again because I’ll make damn sure no one in this neck of the woods will hire your sorry ass. Say—don’t you own a house you’ve been renovating? I sure hope you’ve been pulling all the correct permits, darlin’, because every building inspector in the county is about to descend on you. And if I ever see so much as the tip of your snoopy little nose again, I might just have to find out who holds your mortgage and buy it up. If you’re ten minutes late with a payment”—he snapped his fingers—“I foreclose.”
I felt the ground slipping out from under me, like sand on an unstable dune. All I could think about was getting to Gigi, begging her not to sell out. I locked my eyes on his. “Money can accomplish a lot, but it can’t stop rumors. And if I don’t have a business to run, I won’t have much else to do with my time besides investigate your business dealings and look into your wife’s death a bit more closely. They may all be on the up-and-up—which I doubt—but you know how people are. ‘If there’s smoke, there’s fire.’ You may find the governor isn’t quite so eager to be your buddy once word of your obsession with young girls gets out—and I’ll make sure it gets out.” I was proud of myself for keeping my voice hard and level. It didn’t tremble with the fear threatening to overwhelm me. I had nothing without Swift Investigations, my house . . .
Johnson’s eyes narrowed. We stood facing each other like two gunslingers at either end of a dusty cow-town Main Street. If we drew, we’d both end up dead.
“Charlie, I thought you’d ditched me.” Dan stood just inside the doorway, his black-clad figure silhouetted against a canvas of swirling reds and purples and golds. He spoke easily, but his hands were balled into loose fists at his sides, and he moved like a lion ready to pounce. His eyes flashed to the gun in my hand. “Trying to steal her away, Sheriff?”
We made an uneasy triangle. Johnson’s eyes jumped from Dan to me and back again. He and Dan were about the same height, but Dan outweighed him by a good twenty or thirty pounds, all of it muscle.
Johnson faked a laugh. “Hell, no, Father. Just having a little conversation about law and order on the frontier. I can’t let the action at saloons and gambling parlors get out of hand, but I’m not against a little free enterprise, either. Keeps the cowhands happy, if you know what I mean.” He winked.
I kept my eyes on him, wondering if he’d just agreed to a standoff. Dan put his arm around my shoulders, but I couldn’t relax.
“My gun?” Johnson held out his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, I put the gun in it. My palm was damp with sweat where the butt had rested.
Ostentatiously wiping the gun off with his handkerchief, Johnson restored it to the holster. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a poker game waiting,” he said. He spun on his booted heel and left.
I stayed still until I could no longer hear his footsteps clomping down the hallway. Then I collapsed against Dan, shivering. He held me against his chest, not saying anything until I regained some control.
“Want to tell me what that was all about?” He leaned back just far enough to study my face.
I blurted out the entire scene. I summed up with “So I learned nothing, and now he’s out to destroy my business.”
“This is what happens when you poke a rattlesnake with a stick,” he said.
“Very helpful.” I pulled away and glared at him.
“Do you think Gigi would sell to him?” he asked, ignoring my temper.
“Of course! She doesn’t really want to be an investigator, and he can afford to make a tempting offer. And I’ve been a bitch to her,” I added, almost as an afterthought. In reality, awareness of my less than welcoming treatment of her had been haunting me since Johnson first hinted at buying her out. It would serve me right if she sold her share of the business.
“Maybe she’ll surprise you,” Dan said, nudging me toward the doorway. “Look, unless you want to gamble the night away—”
“I’ve already gambled too much.”
“Let’s go home.”
“What’d you do with my chips?” I asked.
“Turned them into a fortune, of course,” he said, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “Isn’t that what you told me to do?”
“Really, how much did you win?” If he’d turned my fifty dollars into a hundred, I’d be impressed.
“About five hundred.”
“Dollars?” I stared at him.
“Uh-huh.” He grinned at my astonishment. “I might have learned a thing or two about gambling in my misbegotten youth.”
“And just where would this have been?”
He tapped his forefinger on my nose. “That’s a story for another time.”
On our way out the door, he dribbled the chips—all except my original stake of fifty dollars’ worth—into the kettle set up to receive donations for the museum. Oh, what the heck . . . I tossed my chips in, too.
16
(Thursday)
I woke the following morning, heavy-eyed and worn-out, after a night of tossing and turning. I’d wanted to call Gigi as soon as I walked in the door, but it was after midnight. With the sun promising another hot day, I pulled on dark green twill slacks and topped them with a yellow silk-and-cotton-blend top in an effort to add some light to my tired skin. I tried phoning the office before I left the house, but Gigi wasn’t in yet. I debated between heading straight to the office to wait for her and pursuing the case. Reluctantly, I opted for following up with Jacqueline Falstow.
A VW Beetle painted in the green and yellow of a local cleaning service blocked the Falstows’ driveway when I arrived a little after eight. A fortyish Hispanic woman wearing green uniform slacks and top and a utility belt laden with feather duster, spray cleaner, paper towels, and other tools of the cleaning trade was lugging a vacuum from the car to the house.
“Mrs. Falstow is not here,” she said when I asked. She set the vacuum down and tweaked her short ponytail to tighten the elastic. “She volunteers at the Humane Society every Thursday morning, and Fridays, too, I think.”
Good for her. Maybe abandoned animals were a baby substitute for her. “Is her husband here?”
She stared at me as if I’d asked if the sun rose in the west. “No. Of course not. I’ve never even seen Mr. Falstow. He is always at work.”
Jacqueline it was, then. I returned to my car and pointed it in the direction of the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak Region, west of 1-25 off the road to Manitou Springs. Made of a warm reddish wood and lots of glass, the Humane Society facility looked more like an upscale medical or dental building than a home for unwanted or abused pets. Glass doors gave way to neutral-colored tile and pale walls in the lobby. A bulletin board and a rack of flyers sat on the right, and an information desk dominated the left half of the reception area. Despite the antiseptic effect of the tiles and clean walls, an animal odor lingered, not completely obscured by a lemony air freshener. A slight young man with hair in a braid down his back looked up as I approached the desk.
“I’m supposed to meet Jacqueline Falstow here,” I said with my winningest smile.
“In the kitty condos,” he said, jerking his head toward a hallway. His eyes dropped back to the ledger he was studying.
“Thanks.” I strode down the hall as if I knew where the hell I was going, enjoying the view of trees and grass through the huge plate glass windows that marched down one side of the hall. Pushing through a door, I found the cat area easily by following the mews. The ammonia scent of used kitty litter grew stronger as I opened another door into a room lined with what I guessed were the “kitty condos”: wire cages stacked one atop the other with slide-ou
t pans containing the litter. The room was well lit and cheerful, not depressing as I’d thought it might be. A glassed-in play area with carpeted steps and platforms held a variety of kittens busy pouncing on each other, leaping from level to level, or chasing their tails. A gray-striped kitten saw me and came to the glass, reaching up a paw as if to invite me in. Cute, even tempting, but I didn’t need a pet.
“Can I help— Ms. Swift, what are you doing here?”
Jacqueline Falstow, clutching a long-haired white cat in her arms, stared at me, her eyes as green and unblinking as the cat’s. They mirrored astonishment and maybe a little trepidation. Good.
I was in no mood for beating around the bush. “Looking for you. I talked to someone who overheard Lizzy’s phone call to you after Olivia was born. She wasn’t making arrangements to turn the baby over; she called to tell you she’d decided to keep her.”
Jacqueline turned away to stow the cat in his condo, but not before I caught the leap of fear in her eyes. When she straightened from securing the cage door, her cheeks were flushed. “Is that the same ‘someone’ who thought Stefan and I hired Lizzy as a surrogate?”
Score one for her. I ignored the question. “Another witness has identified you as visiting Lizzy at her apartment on at least two separate occasions. You brought clothes and peanut butter cookies,” I added to forestall the lie I saw coming. “Why did you lie to me and tell me you didn’t know where she lived?”
“It was none of your business,” she said heatedly. White fur clung to her camel-colored T-shirt and jeans beneath a canvas apron. She brushed at it with gloved hands. “It still isn’t.”
“Not if you don’t know anything about who the baby’s father is, or how Lizzy died,” I agreed, “but your lies make me suspect you do.”
Swift Justice: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Books) Page 20
