If she hadn't been so hurt—and angry—she might have been amused by his game. Their long history of "whipping cream wars" had begun in Dodge, when she'd been suffering one of her perennial diets to fit into a slinky, fishtail stage costume. He'd brought her a lavish dessert; she'd thrown it at his head; and they'd spent the next half hour scraping goo off the wall and smearing it on each other's private parts.
She sighed at the memory. "You'd better leave."
"That doesn't sound better for anybody."
"Don't push your luck, smartass. I woke with a very itchy trigger finger."
He tsked. "Sounds like drastic methods of persuasion are required. Fortunately, I have just the thing."
He stooped again. More clanging and clanking echoed in the mysterious depths of the serving trolley. Finally, he emerged from the linen tent with a rectangular black box. Careful not to disturb the turquoise bow that partially obscured the lid, he set the present next to the pie.
She hiked her chin. "And what's that supposed to be? A guilt gift?"
He smiled pleasantly and ignored the bait. "A music box. To replace the one I borrowed."
Borrowed, my ass.
"Take it back." She folded her arms across her chest. "I don't want it."
"Then maybe you could send it to Minx's folks. The original box belonged to her, right?"
Sadie was secretly impressed by his deduction. By the time she'd arrived in Denver, Minx's personal belongings had been packed by Brodie, who'd catalogued every item in painstaking detail, right down to the missing glove that Tabor had eventually found in his wall safe. The only item Brodie hadn't been able to match against Minx's expense reports had been a black music box with a striking, enamel peacock. Mace had given the novelty to Sadie with the instructions, "Find out where this came from."
Her best guess had been the Sears & Roebuck catalogue. But Sadie knew better than to report such an obvious conclusion. Mace wanted her to dig into the box's significance, and he wouldn't settle for a hunch. Facts were the only things Mace cared about.
'So why would Minx buy herself a music box?' Sadie mused privately. While Pinkies were on assignment, they were under orders not to introduce into their lodgings any item that might broadcast personal preferences, which could be used against them.
As if guessing her thoughts, Cass said, "A fence told me Maestro favors musical novelties. He's supposed to be interested in one of the Italian humidors that Rothschild's is auctioning."
Sadie's eyes narrowed in speculation. "Minx asked questions about Maestro around the opera house. She was fraternizing with a violinist. Maybe she was on to something."
"Well, you can't ask questions around the opera house. Not with those golden eyes and that fake Italian accent. Dolce LaRocca will expose you as a fraud."
"I'm perfectly aware of that," she snapped.
"Good thing I have a plan, huh?"
"You have a plan?"
"Yep." Cass was grinning from ear to ear.
"Do I want to hear this plan?"
"Probably not."
"Is Daredevil involved?"
"Like I said." Cass's wink was roguish. "You're better off not knowing. That way, you won't have to lie to that big-knuckled gorilla you work for."
She exhaled in exasperation. "Detective work isn't a game, Cass. Real people in this case have lost their property and their lives. Maestro needs to be stopped."
"That's what I aim to do. Stop Maestro."
"How?"
"You'll have to trust me."
"Trust you? After the stunt you pulled?"
"Okay. Bad choice of words. But—"
"Don't try to placate me!"
"Have it your way. Would you rather I hogtie you? Or kiss you into submission?"
She was seriously tempted to bean him with the pie lid. "If you try either of those tactics, Rutter, your new nickname will be Eunuch Bill."
He laughed.
"You think that's funny?"
"Look. I get it, Sadie. You're still pissed at me, but—"
"No, buts! What you did was cruel and childish. More than that, it was unconscionable! Dante Goddard would never treat a woman that way. Even Mace wouldn't treat a woman that way! And you know why? Because Dante and Mace are gentlemen! You're little better than a rutting hooligan!"
A dark stain crept up Cass's neck.
"In case you're forgetting," he retorted, "Doctor La-Di-Da didn't run into the alley to take a bullet for you last night. And neither did Agent Knuckle-Dragger. I was the one who had your back at Mattie's place."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Did my damsel-in-distress routine interrupt your orgy?"
"No," he bit out in gravelly tones, "I was looking for Minx's killer, the same as you."
"Do you really expect me to believe that? To believe anything you say? You betrayed me with a Judas Kiss!"
Her voice broke. To her utter mortification, a tear slipped past her lashes.
He swallowed hard.
"Sadie." He looked considerably paler now. "You have to understand. I've been crazy worried about you! No lawman worth his salt would expect a woman to act as bait in a murder investigation. Pinkerton put you in real danger! When you wouldn't listen to reason, I had to do something to make you see sense—"
"You succeeded," she interrupted bitterly. "You opened my eyes. Now get out."
She turned away. She couldn't bear to look at him. Against all her warnings, all her counseling, her heart had lowered its defenses. It had dared to trust him in a way it had never trusted a man before. For that immeasurable act of bravery, her heart had been crushed—not once. Not twice. But three times.
Cass had left her as an adolescent in Texas, and again, at the age of 21 in Kansas. Still, the pain she'd suffered those times had been possible to rationalize, mostly. He'd been running from the law. She'd been indentured to white slavers. He couldn't afford to buy her brothel contract, and if he had helped her escape, the greatest kindness the bounty hunters would have dealt him was a swift death.
But in Denver? When he'd planted that Judas Kiss? He'd jeopardized an aging whore's last hope of keeping a roof over her head. He never planned to marry her; they both knew that. Otherwise, he wouldn't have accepted a Ranger commission. Cass could offer her nothing but excuses and farewells. He didn't have any right to tell her how to earn a living!
"I can't forgive what you did, Cass."
A moment passed. An eternal, aching moment filled with a deafening silence.
"Ever?"
She didn't trust herself to answer. She heard the creak of leather chaps. She smelled the spice of clove tobacco and his favorite sandalwood soap. He stepped close behind her. The heat of his palm hovered over her shoulder, hesitating. Waiting for some sign of capitulation, perhaps? She squeezed her eyes closed. When his skin finally connected with hers, she winced.
"Please go," she whispered hoarsely.
Vandy whined. The sound was plaintive and worried as he pressed against her shins.
At long last, Cass obliged. Her bedroom door swung closed with a lonely, hollow click.
Chapter 10
Sadie kept telling herself she'd be better off if she forgot she'd ever met Cass. But the scoundrel wasn't making it easy. The next day, she found an arrangement of chrysanthemums and a bottle of perfume outside her door. The following day, she found a sterling breakfast platter, heaped with gingerbread, blueberry muffins, and French lavender soap. The next evening, a rollicking raccoon scrambled through her window, his collar sporting a new gold chain to replace the one she'd tossed into the snow. Vandy was also carrying a love poem. The rhyme was a reprise of her Ballad of Lucifire. Cass had penned:
"Lucifire they call him,
His heart is broke to bits
Because the Devil's Siren,
Continues to resist.
The riches of his kingdom,
Are nothing more than Hell,
'Cause Sadie won't forgive him–
Doesn't want him
Doesn'
t need him;
'Cause his Sadie cannot love him,
He is ash inside a shell."
Hardening her heart, she crumpled the poem and tossed it in the hearth. Vandy galloped merrily after the paper ball and retrieved it from the grate.
She scowled. "I'm not playing fetch!"
He dropped the poem at her feet and blinked expectantly at her.
She pointed sternly at the window. "Go home!"
The varmint flopped on his back, kicked his paws in the air, and tossed her a furry grin.
"I am not feeding you!"
Rolling on his belly, Vandy wriggled closer and licked the toe of her slipper.
She sighed. I think I'm losing this battle.
But Sadie forced herself to ignore her traitorous female impulses. Yes, she secretly missed Cass's teasing quips and playful seductions. But she couldn't let the yawning emptiness of her bed tempt her to call him to her arms. Her lover had put her mission at risk. Right now, finding Minx's killer had to take priority over erotic love-making with Cass.
So the next morning, Sadie dressed for battle. She boosted her breasts. She primped and perfumed. She donned a form-fitting gown that was only one shade darker than her stunning, golden tiger eyes. With Mace's topaz glittering from the deep recesses of her décolletage, her appearance was guaranteed to make men drool.
Today, by God, I'm going to meet Enoch Fowler.
But when the elevator doors rolled open in the lobby, Sadie was arrested by the sound of a haunting melody. She recognized the tune: it was a lover's lament. The ballad had been popular several years ago. In fact, she used to sing the song by request for lonely cowboys, who'd come to drown their sorrows at Dodge City's Long Branch Saloon:
"In moonlit dreams, I called thee mine,
A silv'ry fey, who charmed my heart..."
She strained her ears above the normal, lobby hubbub of rattling luggage carts, dinging counter bells, and murmuring voices. The mechanical plinking of the melody led her to the tobacco shop. Curious, she hid behind a life-sized, wooden Indian to peek inside the store. She spied Mendel Baines, his face unpleasantly bruised and swollen—probably from his tussle with the bellhops. Sighing soulfully, he stood over an ivory humidor. The cigar box was playing the music.
Sadie frowned. Why on earth had the hotel doorman let Baines back inside the building?
The answer to Sadie's question rustled forward, wearing a scarlet-silk walking dress and an exquisite parure of rubies and pearls.
"Do you like it?" Wyntir asked like an eager-to-please child. "Oh, please let me buy it for you, professor. It's the very least I can do after your brilliant suggestion to play Mama's music box so I could fall sleep. Not even Dante could cure my night terrors. That lullaby saved my life!"
Sadie's eyes narrowed speculatively. So Wyntir was still consulting with Baines behind Dante's back? And Baines was prescribing music-box therapy?
A sudden, unnerving possibility occurred to Sadie. Maybe Baines had given Minx the peacock jewelry box. Maybe he'd hypnotized her, and that innocuous-looking novelty had been the trigger!
Sadie shivered to think that music—something that brought her so much joy—could be perverted to serve a madman's scheme to kill. The music-box theory would certainly explain why Minx had stolen the Heart of Fire and jumped off the 19th Street bridge!
Baines, meanwhile, was blushing under his bruises. "I shall return your loan at the earliest opportunity, Miss Greyfell."
"Oh, no. You mustn't! The humidor is my gift."
An accusatory eh-hem sounded behind Sadie. Flushing with guilt, she turned and saw Rebekah, who'd sneaked up on her. The adolescent was wearing her Puritan stage costume and her usual, gargoyle's scowl.
Sadie tamped down irritation. "Si?" she demanded.
Rebekah snorted. "That's your problem. You don't see."
Insolent pup.
"But you are speaking of the spirits, yes? " Sadie rallied in woeful tones. "The angels who advise your papa? That is why I wish to consult with him. To communicate with my dear, departed Luigi."
Rebekah didn't look the least bit sympathetic. "Wyntir is my friend. I won't let you hurt her. Or Papa, either."
Sadie's brow furrowed. "But why on earth would you think—"
Raised voices were coming from the tobacco shop now. Distracted by the argument, Sadie peeked inside. Wyntir was biting her lip and wringing her hands. Baines was clenching his fists and turning florid. Before him stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black frockcoat and a white cleric's collar.
"I assure you, professor," Fowler was saying in his resonant, soothsayer's voice, "you don't want this humidor. And you mustn't let Miss Greyfell buy it for you."
"I don't recall asking for your advice!"
"You misunderstand, professor. The advice isn't from me. The spirits are urging you to remove all musical novelties from your residence."
"The spirits, huh?" Baines curled his lip. "No doubt the spirits also told you this humidor is one-of-a-kind, and you won't be able to buy another one like it in the city."
"That is not the point, my good fellow—"
"Listen here, you crackpot. What Miss Greyfell does with her money is none of your business." Baines snatched a brown-papered bundle, wrapped in twine, from the hands of the nervous tobacconist. "I suggest you and your demons return to the hellbroth that spawned you!"
Rebekah sucked in an outraged breath. Like an avenging angel, she swept into the tobacco shop.
"Mendel Baines, you are a wastrel, a dullard, and a swine!" she bellowed in her Emmanuel voice.
"Rebekah," Fowler chided mildly. "Come, daughter." He held out his hand. "Professor Baines has been quite clear. He does not wish to hear the word of God."
"You both should be locked in a padded cell," Baines flung back. "Forgive my outburst, Miss Greyfell, but I can't be responsible for my behavior if I hear another word about God from these two hucksters. Good day!" Baines stalked out of the store with the package under his arm.
Wyntir's face puckered. She looked on the verge of tears.
"There, there," Fowler soothed, patting her gloved hand. "You mustn't let that crass, uncivilized man disturb your peace. You were doing a charitable act, motivated by self-less kindness. The spirits know your heart is true."
A muscle ticked in Sadie's jaw. Like Baines, she couldn't tolerate much more of Fowler's pretentious posturing as a heavenly messenger. Deciding to rescue Wyntir from the charlatan's clutches, Sadie strolled through the door.
"Oh mio dio," she greeted lightly. "So much noise for such a small shop."
"Oh, Fiore," Wyntir sniffled, tugging a handkerchief from her reticule. "I am so glad you're here. The most awful thing has happened—"
"She knows," Rebekah said tartly. "She was eavesdropping outside the door, like a great, big spider."
Sadie pasted on a strained smile. Somebody's backside is in dire need of a paddle.
"I could not help but overhear an angry gentleman shouting about a cigar box," Sadie agreed smoothly. "You must be Brother Enoch. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Fiore Torchia, the Contessa di Montaldeo. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, signore. For many days now, I have been trying to schedule a private consultation with you."
Fowler hiked an eyebrow at Rebekah. The adolescent had the good grace to blush.
"I told you about her," Rebekah whispered behind her hand. "The little red-haired angel, remember?"
"Ah yes." Fowler flashed his toothy smile. "Did you find what you were looking for on the fourth floor of the hotel, contessa?"
Sadie's heart skipped. He knows I searched his room? "I'm not sure I understand," she countered warily.
"No matter." His tone was as pleasant as a balmy summer day. "I trust things will become clearer soon. In the meantime, I suggest you consult with your lady friend from the bayou. I believe her insights will prove most valuable when she arrives."
Sadie's eyes narrowed. What did that mean? Was he referring to Wilma? Surely n
ot! Wilma wasn't planning a trip to Denver.
Too spooked to protest, Sadie let Fowler sweep a bow and step past her with a gloating Rebekah.
"Um, Fiore?"
Sadie started. She'd forgotten about Wyntir.
"Would you care to join me for brunch? I hate to eat alone."
Grasping at the shreds of her composure, Sadie smiled. "What a lovely idea, carina! I accept your kind invitation."
And you can tell me everything you know about that shyster and his juvenile moll.
Brunch turned into shopping, and shopping led to the requisite stop inside Greyfell Manor for afternoon tea. Wyntir just had to have the contessa's opinion about her Thanksgiving decorations. The grieving heiress so desperately missed her father that she chirped for 45 minutes about Papa Greyfell's holiday traditions.
Despite her misgivings about the hour, Sadie found herself listening attentively. She ached to recall her own father, Roarke Michelson, whom she'd adored to the point of worship. Before he'd been lynched by the Ku Klux Klan, Daddy and she had developed holiday traditions, too: on Halloween, they would bob for apples; on Thanksgiving, they would break a wishbone; on Christmas, they would leave a festive wreath on Maisy's grave.
Sadie blinked back tears.
Wyntir tugged a handkerchief from her cuff and sheepishly dabbed her eyes. "You must forgive me for rattling on, Fiore. It's just that you're such good company. And I've so desperately missed talking to a woman..."
Sadie forced a smile. "Not at all, carina. I am touched you would open your heart to me."
They sat knee-to-knee on an elegant, horsehair settee, the cooling tea and buttered cinnamon cakes forgotten on the sterling tray that the parlor maid had left on a low, cherry wood table. Dante, who was presumably unaware of her visit, was upstairs in his office, writing patient reports.
"I'm so grateful you're my friend, Fiore. No, better than my friend," the lonely young heiress gushed. "You're like the sister I never had! Can I tell you a secret?"
Sadie sighed inwardly and glanced at the mantel's clock. Wyntir's school-girl secrets weren't exactly the intelligence a Pinkerton hoped to wring out of an informant. Sadie was anticipating yet another dreamy recounting of Dante's virtues: How charming he was. How considerate he was. How he cared about lost puppies, stray kittens, and muddy urchins who picked pockets on the street. If one could believe everything Wyntir said, the psychiatrist should be canonized.
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 13
