"We live in such a small world," the psychiatrist said, "thanks to steam ships and railroads. I daresay if a man waits long enough, the very thing he desires can be transported straight to his hands."
Cass's eyes narrowed. He was trying to decide whether that last comment hid a double meaning when Goddard executed a perfunctory bow.
"A pleasant day to you, Mr. Cassidy."
Cass's jaw hardened at the memory. If Goddard really was Maestro, he was too adept at lying to tip his hand. At least, in casual conversation.
That's why Cass was chomping at the bit for Saturday night and Wyntir's birthday party. He wanted to break into Greyfell Manor and search the upper stories. He figured Wyntir's party would give him the perfect opportunity to sneak into the manor.
In the meantime, Cass watched darkly as his rival escorted Sadie and Wyntir through the crowded lobby and into the glittery hubbub of the auditorium.
Sadie didn't bother to look his way.
A knife twisted in Cass's heart. Trying to ignore it, he directed his thoughts back to his quarry.
Yesterday in the newspaper, the contest between Maestro and Daredevil had escalated to the next level. The Rocky had printed the following headline:
Maestro Strikes Back!
Master Thief Beats Daredevil to Ruby Parure Valued at $150K
Flipping eagerly to the classifieds, Cass finally found the challenge he'd been waiting for:
"Dance, Devil. You're playing my tune.
In your case, it's a dirge."
Snorting, Cass promptly dashed off a counter-challenge so Boone could print it in the classifieds:
"Mess with Mephistopheles, and you'll get burned.
Keep your greedy mitts off my rocks, Opus Dopus."
After a taunt like that, Cass figured Maestro would have to save face and snatch Dolce's necklace. The thief was running out of time. Her show closed on Sunday.
Unfortunately, tonight was Thursday. That's why Cass wanted Dolce to leak the news of Daredevil's theft in the morning. In good conscience, Cass couldn't let Dolce serve as bait any longer than dawn.
Doing his best to fit in with the opera buffs, Cass tipped his hat to a prune-faced matron, who snubbed him with a haughty snap of her fan. Among the stately swallowtails and jewel-toned gowns of the lobby's milling crowd, his immaculately brushed Stetson and coarse wool duster made him stand out like a tumbleweed in a rose garden.
Not that I care.
Resorting to his usual defense—swagger—he strolled into the auditorium, where the stench of a thousand perfumes made his temples throb. A mincing, nose-waving usher demanded to see a ticket, so Cass demonstrated the clever mechanism attached to his forearm. When the .38 slid into his fist, the usher stammered an apology and fled, most likely to rustle up a posse of liveried Nancy Boys like himself.
Cass's amusement was fleeting.
If ever there was a fish out of water, he was it. Sadie's accusation, that he was little more than a "rutting hooligan," haunted him every time a common store clerk or bank teller harrumphed at his duds. The memory of Lilybelle's admonition, that he should get a haircut, made him wish he was guzzling rotgut at the Bust-a-Gut Saloon. Even Dolce had suggested—with the utmost politeness—that he get a shave before the performance.
But then, she had no idea that he was hiding his mug because he was wanted for three counts of stage coach robbery.
Women.
Cass sighed, wishing he was guarding Dolce's dressing room with Collie. Somehow, the tedium of door-watching seemed more pleasant than wading through the horde of wasps, who buzzed, tittered, and sneered at his rustic attire.
Craving a cigarette, he stuck a match in his mouth instead, and watched the gaslights flicker, signaling the orchestra. He'd chosen a hiding place close to the stage, behind a massive cherry wood column. However, with more than a thousand people in attendance, and the glittery, cut-glass chandelier growing dimmer in the dome, surveillance was proving more complicated than he'd anticipated.
He did manage to spy Enoch Fowler. Standing beside his ward, the preacher was chatting with one of his plumper, richer donors in the orchestra section. Rebekah's eyes were glued to the carpet. She looked the very model of docility. Cass smirked to recall Collie's claim that the mousy woman-child had cursed him.
Lilybelle sat in the front row with Wortham Welbourn on her right. Cass suspected that the snooty, brunette beauty on Wortham's other side was the infamous Sheridan—or Harridan, as Lilybelle liked to call her. Mendel Baines sat beside Sheridan.
No wonder Lilybelle looks grumpier than a bullfrog in a dried up puddle.
Cass next spied Wyntir Greyfell. Dripping with sapphires, the young heiress stopped by the front row to chat with the Welbourn party. Cass watched her curtsey to Baines and whisper in Sheridan's ear.
Where's Wyntir's escort? Shouldn't she be on her way to her seat?
Cass scanned the gilded proscenium boxes, with their lace lambrequins, mohair cushions, and tapestry-covered ceilings. He finally spied the slicked-back, well-heeled Goddard, sitting comfortably between two chairs. One was vacant. The other held a chestnut-haired firecracker with a sparkling tiara.
A muscle ticked in Cass's jaw.
At that precise moment, the gaslights flickered again. Preacher Fowler bowed gallantly over his sycophant's hand and led Rebekah to their seats.
Wyntir waved good-bye to the Welbourns and hurried toward the proscenium stairs.
Lilybelle kissed the snout of her stole and settled the fox in the empty chair on her left.
Goddard reached into Sadie's lap to take her gloved hand.
As darkness swallowed that cozy theater box, Cass ground his teeth hard enough to crack one.
* * *
Collie grimaced as the first tenor aria reverberated through the opera house, making the roof in Dolce's dressing room quake.
"You'd think rich folk would have better taste in music," he groused to his faithful, ring-tailed companion. "I can't hear a single jaw harp through all that yodeling. And I can't hear any jugs, spoons, or washboards, neither. Can you?"
Hiding behind a silk dressing screen, Collie was using his whittling knife to peel the apple Vandy had swiped from a fruit basket on the vanity. The basket had been smuggled into the room by a pudgy Dolce-admirer, who'd been wearing a red soldier's costume. The thespian had arrived about five minutes after the diva had sailed out the door in a ruffled, white night gown—presumably for the stage.
But Collie couldn't be too sure about Dolce's destination, considering all the shenanigans that went on backstage at an opera house. Girl dancers with bare buttocks bounded around like jackrabbits; big-bellied men with heavily rouged cheeks ordered other men to lace them up in corsets; and some fussy soprano in britches kept complaining about the "lunkhead seamstress" who'd left a pin in her codpiece.
Those eyebrow-raisers were just for starters. While Collie and Vandy had been cooling their heels behind the screen, five intruders had barged into Dolce's dressing room. One had snatched a rose from a vase and fled; another had grabbed a gown from a costume rack; two more had carried out a padded bench with rolled arms; and the fifth had turned the wall clock forward eight minutes. Apparently, Dolce was notorious for dawdling during intermission.
As a life-long sinner with a talent for scrounging, Collie considered himself a good judge of thieves. That's why he didn't seriously believe any of these theater folk were Maestro. A master jewel thief wouldn't have wasted his time stealing roses, gowns, or furniture.
Collie glanced once more at the clock and sighed. Act II was still crawling by.
"Do you really think Maestro will take Cass's newspaper bait?"
Vandy whined eagerly in response, his dark eyes shining like chocolate stars as he watched Collie nip a slice of apple from his knife.
"Me neither," Collie confided. "Fact is, he'd have to be a halfwit to come to the opera house. All of Denver—including those lamebrains at the police station—are following the rivalry bet
ween Daredevil and Maestro in the classifieds."
Vandy rose on his hind legs and begged for fruit.
Collie hiked an eyebrow. "What's your problem?" he taunted. "Didn't I feed you last week?"
Dropping to all-fours, Vandy galloped in circles, snapping at his tail.
"Liar," Collie scoffed. "Don't you think I see those crumbs on your snout every time you crawl out of Sadie's window?"
Vandy flopped to his side, heaved a sigh, and grew still.
"Stop that! You are not starving to death, you big faker! 'Sides. You licked all the peanut butter outta my tobacco tin, remember?"
Vandy suddenly lost interest in the apple. Bounding to his paws, he pricked his ears and pointed his snout at the door.
Collie cocked his head. By coon standards, he was practically deaf, but by human standards, he was an expert eavesdropper with weasel ears—at least, that's how Cass described him. Sometimes, Collie worried that Cass had fired too many trick shots over his left shoulder.
In any event, Collie could hear better than Cass, which was why he soon detected a light step in the hall, accompanied by the rustle of skirts. Figuring a dancing girl was hurrying toward the stage, Collie popped another apple wedge into his mouth.
Vandy's ears swiveled.
The footsteps halted outside Dolce's door. But that didn't worry Collie. Half the theater troupe had passed through the diva's dressing room at some point tonight.
For a long moment, nothing happened in the hall. Collie licked his knife clean. He snapped it closed and tossed the last apple wedge to Vandy. But the coon ignored the treat.
Now that was worrisome.
His heart quickening, Collie wiped his sticky hands on his dungarees. Just as the roof shook with deep, pounding drum rolls, Dolce's door whispered open. Collie wrinkled his nose. He smelled a light, floral fragrance—lilac. The female on the other side of the screen couldn't possibly be Dolce. The diva liked woodsy scents.
The door clicked closed.
Now the intruder was creeping around the room. Judging by her attempts to search the wardrobe without turning up the gaslights, he felt certain she was up to no good.
So Maestro's a skirt?
It figures.
Women always seemed to be the villains in Collie's life. The orphanage had been run by one. The school had been run by one. And a couple of weeks ago in Texas, his boss's wife had tried to poison him.
Just another normal day in Collie Town.
He slipped the tether from his Colt and strained to catch a glimpse of Maestro's face. The thief was wearing a dark cape that shrouded her weight and build. Maestro's hair, which was neatly twisted and pinned to the back of her head, appeared brown in the flickering gaslight.
At last, he glimpsed her profile. She was wearing a golden mask that stretched from her hairline to the tip of her nose. He decided she must be a member of the theater troop. In preparation for Act II, at least a dozen dancers had hooked glittery masks behind their ears, thanks to the Props Master, who'd bellowed down the hall, "Don't forget your masks for the Golden Calf number!"
Uh-oh. Collie frowned. Something ain't right about this skirt.
Maestro had caught the hem of her cape in the wardrobe's door. Surely, she had to feel it tug in resistance, but she just kept walking. She didn't look back. As she approached the vanity, the garment slid from her shoulders.
When she shoved aside a vase of roses, she scratched her hand but didn't flinch.
When she shook open a box of face paint, powder exploded all over her shimmery silk dress. She didn't cough or curse. She didn't even gasp.
Collie hiked an eyebrow. What skirt doesn't wail about a ruined evening gown?
As if in answer, she turned toward the floor mirror. Too late, he noticed his reflection in the glass. Without batting an eye, she whipped a pistol from her pocket. Once, twice, three times, she fired. As waves of applause rocked the chamber, she unloaded the entire cylinder at his reflection.
Then, as calmly as any church lady, she turned her back on the glass fragments, tinkling off the frame, and started rummaging through Dolce's vanity.
The clock ticked off another few seconds of Collie's life.
Finally, he loosed his white-knuckled grip on his revolver. He'd come close—damned close—to peeing his pants.
Vandy tossed him a sideways look as if to say, "That skirt's bonkers."
Collie couldn't have agreed more. He was seriously considering telling Vandy to bite her.
Unfortunately, it occurred to him that Maestro might have another gun. Or a head full of poisonous snakes. Or a gaggle of blood-sucking harpies at her command.
As the applause thundered on, sweat trickled down his temple. He was trapped in a cluttered box of a room, in the empty cast hall, where no one could hear him scream. He didn't think it was fair that some stupid etiquette rule said he wasn't allowed to shoot Maestro, just because she was a woman. From where he was sitting, Maestro looked like his worst nightmare: a flesh-eating zombie with breasts.
In a fit of desperation, he tried an experiment. With the stealth of the wild creatures he'd befriended in the Kentucky backwoods, he eased Dolce's paste necklace from the shelf of masks, gloves, and fans at his elbow. Little did Maestro know that Dolce had four strings of fake beads. The Props Master was a fussy little fellow who prided himself on preparing for every catastrophe: smashing, melting, chipping, and loss.
Good thing he doesn't prepare for coon theft. Otherwise, me and Vandy might be maggot food right now.
Moving with the silence of a stalking panther, Collie stepped to the edge of the screen and hooked the necklace over Dolce's peach-chiffon dressing gown. Then he ducked into the shadows with Vandy to watch.
Sure enough, Zombie Queen eventually spied the glitter of fake, translucent gemstones in the low light. Triumphantly, she snatched the prize, shoved it down her bodice, and headed for the door. She didn't fetch her cape. She didn't look back.
Collie breathed a sigh of relief. Now all he and Vandy had to do was tail Maestro until she took off her mask.
But in Collie Town, nothing was ever simple. As Maestro scurried along the hall, voices floated down the stairwell. Apparently, Act II was over. Members of the troupe were clambering down the steps in their golden masks. Collie bit back an oath. Soon, the hall became an obstacle course of petticoats, tin pikes, helmets, and wooden shields.
Moments later, Dolce parted the sea of thespians amidst a rousing round of applause. Cass walked at her side, his arm linked with hers. The Props Master hurried after them like a well-trained hound. Since the diva was too busy batting her eyelashes at Cass to notice anyone else, the mincing little man tugged on her sleeve.
She ignored him.
He tugged again.
She scowled.
About three steps later, the exasperated diva finally turned and lifted a string of glittery, paste jewels from the Prop Master's box.
That's when all hell broke loose.
Maestro stopped dead in her tracks. She drew her pistol and aimed it at Dolce. Sopranos shrieked; baritones ducked behind their wooden shields. Cass thrust Dolce behind him and triggered the .38 up his sleeve.
Visions of nooses danced before Collie's eyes. Before his best friend could ruin his Ranger career by shooting a woman who was gripping an unloaded pistol, Collie grabbed Maestro from behind. Vandy tripped her up, sinking his teeth into her hem.
They needn't have gone to the trouble.
The minute Collie tore the pistol from Maestro's hand, she crumpled to the carpet like a sack of potatoes.
Chapter 12
Before the end of intermission, Sadie heard the rumor: a heroic hillbilly and his raccoon had saved Dolce LaRocca from a thief.
The whole opera house was buzzing with the news. Before the curtain could rise on Act III, Mendel Baines and Wortham Welbourn had started hustling an indignant Lilybelle from the theater. As the dowager passed the proscenium boxes, she hollered up at Dante:
"I alw
ays said Harridan couldn't be trusted! Now that she's been stupid enough to prove me right, why should it wreck my evening? Tell these two knuckleheads I want to watch Mephistopheles ruin Faust in peace!"
Titters and gasps circulated through the audience.
"Poor Mrs. Welbourn," Wyntir breathed, her eyes as big as blue moons.
Dante patted his agitated ward's hand. "It appears Lilybelle needs a friend. Do not fret, my dear. I shall go to her. Fiore, pray forgive me. A doctor's work is never done. If this matter should escalate, do me the favor of escorting Wyntir to Greyfell Manor at the end of the show."
"Of course, dottore."
He flashed his devastating smile, which made Wyntir sigh and Sadie's blood heat. Then he parted the curtains, vanishing into the shadows as completely as the phantom of another, more infamous opera house.
Wyntir wrung her handkerchief and slid onto Dante's vacant chair. "I was so hoping tonight would be different," she whispered, her eyes brimming with crocodile tears.
"Different, carina?"
"Dante never seems to have time for me anymore."
Sadie sighed. She wasn't surprised. Wyntir had turned him away from her bed. Either Dante was exercising gentlemanly restraint by avoiding his ward, or he was punishing Wyntir in a fit of hurt pride. In either event, Sadie suspected Dante had little trouble finding substitute bedmates.
Wyntir toyed with the ringless third finger of her left hand. "I wish I was more like you, Fiore," she blurted out. "You're so wise in the ways of men. And marriage..."
Wyntir let the plaintive word hang in the air. Sadie's heart went out to the younger woman, who'd been left all alone in the world without the guidance of a mother. The real question wasn't, 'Would Dante propose?' The real question was, 'Would he propose because Wyntir inherited a fortune on Saturday night?'
"You've been trained to think of Dante as a parent," Sadie said gently, squeezing Wyntir's hand. "A child expects to be the center of a parent's universe. But a wife understands she must share her husband with children, parents and siblings, colleagues and clients. When Dante is your husband, he will always have patients, who need him more than you do. Your love must be big enough to allow this. A doctor needs a wife with a selfless heart."
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 16
