Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Wyntir nodded, her eyes brimming with gratitude. "Yes," she whispered, dashing a tear from her cheek. "Yes, you are right. Thank you, Fiore. Of course, Dante must put his patients first." She straightened her spine in her chair. "And I couldn't be prouder of him for dashing off to help Lilybelle. What do you suppose she meant about Sheridan, proving her stupidity?"

  Thoughtfully, Sadie turned her attention back to the orchestra level, where the Welbourns were making a scene. Wortham gripped his mother's left arm; Mendel Baines gripped her right. Wearing masks of grim determination, the two men were dragging the protesting dowager through the lobby doors. Sheridan was nowhere in sight.

  "I cannot begin to guess," Sadie said as the houselights dimmed. And it's going to be an excruciatingly long evening before I learn the facts.

  Around 2 a.m., after leaving Wyntir in the protective custody of her Dobermans, Sadie returned to the hotel to find an encrypted message from Mace. It read:

  "Cassidy botched the stakeout. Learn what you can

  about the Welbourns' relationship with Baines,

  and Sheridan's attempt on Dolce's life."

  Sadie was pretty sure her jaw hit the carpet. Sheridan tried to kill Dolce?!

  The other gaps in Sadie's knowledge were filled in by the morning edition of the Rocky. The newspaper reported the entire, salacious incident on the front page, along with this malicious quote:

  "What possible reason would Sheridan Welbourn have to steal a necklace?" said her attorney, Jason Abercrombie. "Mrs. Welbourn's heirloom jewelry collection, a gift from her husband upon their marriage, is valued at close to a million dollars. Mr. MacAffee, on the other hand, is a drifter from Kentucky with a lengthy history of theft charges. No doubt he stole Mrs. Welbourn's cape and planted it in Miss LaRocca's dressing room to divert suspicion from himself.

  "If I were the district attorney, I would question how this boy is associated with Maestro or Daredevil. The two thieves have been flagrantly one-upping each other for weeks, not to mention publically plotting to steal Miss LaRocca's necklace in this very newspaper."

  Sadie groaned and tossed aside the rag. After the debacle at the opera house, Maestro wouldn't have trouble linking Vandy and Collie to Cass. Nor would the police. The newspaper might have quoted Dolce, praising Collie and his "adorable raccoon" for saving her life from "that mad woman," but Sheridan's attorney would get the police to poke around. With Maestro out for his rival's blood, Cass could no longer take refuge from local tin-stars in the underground.

  Sadie drew a shuddering breath.

  It was time to bring that jewel-thieving bastard to his knees.

  * * *

  The bell tower in the Methodist Church was chiming 11 a.m. when Sadie sailed into Rothchild's Auction House in full contessa regalia. To attract her quarry, she'd chosen her most advantageous color, green, and she'd boosted her bosom a tad higher than social convention allowed. Her piece de resistance was Mace's obscenely large topaz, glittering like a supernova from her décolletage. If Maestro didn't come sniffing around her skirts before the auction's end, then he would have to be dead.

  Or female, she amended, thinking of Sheridan.

  Pasting on an appreciative expression, Sadie strolled through the exhibition hall, pretending to examine the auction items. The displays included a barn-wide tapestry, elaborately depicting the dust, sweat, and blood of a chariot race; a sundial, hammered from pure gold; and a dark green humidor, featuring ivy-wreathed satyrs, dancing with nymphs to the plinking, mechanical melody of an old Italian drinking song. She figured Maestro would be targeting that humidor.

  However, the most popular items, by far, were the naked statues. Sadie was amused to note the vivid imaginations of Italian artists, particularly when depicting their ancient gods below the belt. She was surprised to see so many of Denver's fair sex, gawking at the physiques of Apollo, Jupiter, and Mars.

  As if on cue, she heard a peal of laughter from an especially curvaceous blonde, who'd craned back her head to gaze at a sword-wielding Hercules. When the woman turned, her face was veiled by black net, but Sadie recognized the flashy, diamond cross on the blonde's chest. Hastily, Sadie ducked behind a case of Legionaire armor and buried her nose in her program as Mattie Silks and Cort Thomson strolled by.

  Whew! That was close.

  Around 11:15 a.m., Mace entered the building. As usual, he managed to appear beneath everyone's notice. How he accomplished this feat mystified Sadie, since he wasn't a small man. Or a shy man. He wasn't even a plain man, with those piercing green eyes and that hooked beak of a nose. When he combed his hair the right way, he could be downright attractive. Especially when his chin softened in a dimpled grin.

  But this afternoon, Mace wasn't smiling. When he was on the job, he was as focused as a tournament chess player. If he engaged in chit chat, flirted, or sucked down suds, his behavior was calculated to get him one thing: information.

  Sadie wasn't surprised to see her boss breeze past her without a glance. He'd slicked his hair flatter than a flapjack, so his nose was especially prominent beneath his high brow—not his best look. With his Inverness cape fluttering around him like wings, he reminded her of a hawk, fiercely silent, always circling, always hunting prey.

  She shivered.

  For today's stakeout, Mace was posing as the agent of a wealthy, absentee bidder. She heard him mimic a New York accent as he surrendered his outer wear at the hat check counter. Declining champagne, he moved through the hoity-toity art patrons with a casual gait. Nobody hailed him; but then, nobody was supposed to know who he was. Mace had the enviable ability to forgo elaborate disguises. He could stoop and stammer, limp and shuffle, and pass himself off as any number of characters, ranging from a hayseed to a foreign general. He possessed all the theatrical skills a Pinkerton needed to survive, but he rarely used them. His greatest concessions to today's alias were a drooping mustache and a well-trimmed beard. They made him look commonplace—of little consequence.

  Thus, while Denver's elite snubbed him, Mace was left to do his detective work in peace. Sadie, on the other hand, had to deal with Lilybelle.

  Clearly relishing the ripple of whispers generated by her arrival, Lilybelle blew kisses to her detractors, who were scandalized that she hadn't cloistered herself at home to share her family's shame. The scrappy dowager confided to Sadie, "I came to see what all the fuss was about. According to the Rocky, Vesuvius erupted to punish the citizens of Pompeii for carving dillywhackers out of marble.

  "But then, anyone who writes for that rag is a half-wit," Lilybelle said tartly. "The reporter from the opera house painted Harridan as an absent-minded ditherer, who got lost on the way to the privy. Horse feathers! Everybody knows she's a greedy, grubbing witch. And get this: Harridan claims she can't remember a thing that happened last night." Lilybelle snorted. "Too bad the raccoon didn't bite her.

  "Oh look." With an impish grin, she elbowed Sadie in the ribs. "There's Bacchus rutting with a goat."

  After a quarter hour in Lilybelle's company, Sadie began to suspect she'd misjudged the dowager. Lilybelle wasn't senile; she was cannier than her fox. A mischief-maker at heart, Lilybelle liked to shock people for attention. More than that, she liked to watch the nouveau riche scratch and claw for her approval—which was the highest rung on Mile High City's social ladder.

  "Come meet the Duchess. She's just ducky!" Lilybelle crowed whenever one of Denver's jewel-spangled matrons wandered by. "Fiore's got more money than I do. And I've got more money than God!"

  Sadie fixed a smile on her face and gave up trying to explain to the gold diggers that she was a contessa, not a duchess, and she wasn't in line for any thrones.

  But even Lilybelle didn't have much patience for brown-nosers. Eventually, the Queen Bee would command in disgruntled tones, "Get along now. Those statues aren't gonna buy themselves." Then she'd roll her eyes behind the retreating offender's back.

  "I am curious, signora," Sadie said as the 91-year-old spitfire latched onto h
er arm for another stroll around the exhibit cases. "Why haven't you shooed me off as well?"

  "Your turn will come, Toots. Say, is that Dante?" Lilybelle's grin turned lopsided as she straightened her spectacles. "Hot damn! He's looking fine!"

  Sadie hid her amusement. Even a professional seductress, like her, had trouble staying immune to Dante's charms. He was the kind of man she'd dreamed of in her school-girl days: sophisticated, chivalrous, and swoon-worthy handsome.

  As usual, he looked like he'd stepped off a fashion plate in the Saturday Evening Post. Today, he'd opted to wear charcoal-gray pinstripes with dove gray gloves and spats. In truth, everything about Dante was a pleasure to look at: the sable curl that spilled over his intelligent brow; the golden flecks of fire in his intoxicating eyes; the adorable dimple in his scrupulously shaved chin. If his hair had been longer—and he'd been wearing a toga—he would have resembled the sculpture of Hercules.

  Sadie wondered wickedly if Dante was Hercules's twin beneath the sword belt too.

  "Yoo-hoo! Dante!" The irrepressible Lilybelle dragged a handkerchief from her reticule and fluttered it like a banner.

  The handsome physician noticed her. He inclined his head. But when he noticed Sadie, the dark fires in his eyes kindled in the most flattering way. He began to make his way across the room.

  Lilybelle winked at Sadie. "Looks like we roped ourselves a stud pony."

  Sadie had a hard time keeping a straight face.

  "Good morning, ladies." Dante's bow was flawless, like everything else about him.

  "Buongiorno," Sadie purred.

  "Where's Wyntir?" Lilybelle demanded.

  "I left her at home to make last minute arrangements for her party. My ward's innocent, young mind shouldn't be exposed to erotic art."

  Lilybelle snorted. "Your ward turns 21 tomorrow. That gal needs the kind of education that isn't found in books—unless you've got a better idea how to teach Wyntir to be a wife. And that reminds me." Lilybelle's sky-blue eyes twinkled with mischief. "I need to snap Harridan out of her mope." Opening the auction program, she shoved a page under Dante's nose. "I can't read this tiny print. Which one of these gods has the biggest willy?"

  Dante reddened in the most endearing way. "My apologies, dear lady. I haven't previewed the statuary."

  "Aw, c'mon. A red-blooded fella like you? Surely you sneaked a peek at Venus, doing the wild thing with Mars by the door!"

  Sadie decided to help Dante save face. "Perhaps I can read the program for you, signora," she said dryly.

  "Eh?" Lilybelle hiked a bushy white eyebrow. "You read American?"

  Too late, Sadie realized she'd risked her cover. "I practice whenever I can," she recovered gracefully, "but I do not promise perfection."

  "Oh." Lilybelle seemed to lose all interest in her prank, possibly because Dante had recovered his composure. "Nevermind." She shoved her program inside her reticule. "I think I'll buy that green cigar box instead. The one Buggerhead Baines keeps drooling over. That'll be a sweet revenge."

  Sadie glanced around the hall, with its cherub-painted ceiling, plush Brussels carpets, and armed, private security at every entrance. Finally, she spied Baines. With his hands clasped behind his back, he kept circling and re-circling a towering metal cage. The sign on the display read, "Musical Humidor. Satyrs and Fauns. Verde Malachite. 18th C. Florence."

  Sadie's eyes narrowed speculatively.

  "And what on earth will you do with a cigar box?" Dante chided Lilybelle.

  Her craggy cheeks creased in a sparsely-toothed grin. "I'm gonna stuff it full of peyote. So I can smoke my pipe."

  Dante frowned. "A hallucinogen?"

  Lilybelle feigned innocence. "What's that?"

  "You know very well. And contrary to Navajo rhetoric, I'm not convinced it cures rheumatism."

  Lilybelle waved away his concern. "If it ain't killed me after 76 years, it ain't gonna. Say! Do you think Harridan stole a pinch from my peyote pouch? That would sure explain a few things. Especially about last night."

  "Without Wortham's permission to examine his wife," Dante began in long-suffering tones, "I couldn't possibly diagnose—"

  "Yeah, yeah." Lilybelle patted his arm. "You're a dear boy. But my son is a troll; his wife is a hag; and they're not gonna pay you diddly. I keep telling them, you're a real doctor, and Baines is a blithering idiot, but they won't listen to me. They won't listen to anybody! At dinnertime yesterday, Brother Enoch stopped by, and Harridan threatened to sic the dogs on him."

  Sadie's ears pricked at this news. "The dogs, you say?" She was careful to keep the irony from her tone. "I should think the messenger of God would be a comfort to your family."

  "That's because you don't know the greedy grubbers like God does. In any event, Enoch rode up the drive just as the soup got served. He claimed he had a message from Emmanuel, and he warned Harridan to stay away from the theater."

  Dante raised his eyebrows. "Fowler threatened her?"

  Lilybelle snorted. "Enoch? Hardly. But Harridan's superstitious. She doesn't believe in angels—just demons. Last night, after she went bonkers, she claimed Enoch put a curse on her." Lilybelle rolled her eyes. "And she thinks I belong in the loony bin."

  As if on cue, the self-proclaimed Shepherd of Men's Souls entered the hall. Fowler was dressed in his usual, immaculate black, except for the starched white of his cleric's collar. Displaying the steely nerve of a confidence man, he stopped to exchange pleasantries with a security guard, who was stationed by a gold-and-lapis ring, bearing an intaglio of Julius Caesar. Then Fowler weaved through jewel-toned skirts and jet-black frockcoats until finally, he stepped into the auction room.

  Speculatively, Sadie watched the handsome grifter disappear through black-velvet draperies. How interesting that a man of the cloth would attend an auction that had been touted, far and wide, for its fornicating statuary.

  "Fiore?" Dante inquired politely.

  Sadie started, her cheeks flooding with heat. Apparently, she'd lost track of his conversation with Lilybelle.

  "Forgive me, carino," she purred. "You were speaking of Gounod's libretto, si?"

  He nodded, his forthright gaze delving into hers. "I was curious what you thought of last night's performance."

  Sadie didn't need to pretend; she was delighted to discuss her greatest joy: music.

  "The symphony was superb. The singing, magnifico! Dama LaRocca delivered a stellar performance as Marguerite. Her exquisite Jewel Song brought down the house!"

  Dante inclined his head. "Wyntir said you appeared to be pleased."

  "Why, of course, carino. Why would I not be?"

  He shrugged. "I did not find Dolce's Marguerite as compelling as her Juliette, when I caught her performance in Romeo and Juliette in Edinburg. And her Lucia di Lammermoor was much more impressive in Florence. But then, Denver has an unsophisticated crowd. Perhaps Dolce thought she might slide by. Che cosa ne pensi?"

  Sadie's heart skipped. Uh-oh. Dante never mentioned that he speaks Italian! Or that he visited Florence!

  Her mind raced. Somehow, she had to diffuse this bomb. She wasn't entirely certain, but she guessed that he'd asked for her opinion.

  "Ah, you are a music aficionado, dottore," she teased in sultry tones. In her experience, if she could get a man to think with his pecker, he'd forgive everything else. "Your ear will not tolerate the slightest imperfection. But the voice, it is not like a piano or violin. It is a living instrument, susceptible to altitude and climate.

  "And speaking of climate," she continued enthusiastically, steering the conversation far away from Europe, which she knew little about, "I hear California is sunny all year round. I am so looking forward to curling my toes through warm, golden sands after trudging through your Rocky Mountain snow. In fact, I purchased my train ticket to San Francisco just this morning!"

  "Bah." Lilybelle wrinkled her nose. "If I wanted golden sands, I'd visit Jamaica."

  Dante ignored her.

  "You're leaving us?"
His voice throbbed with a hint of disappointment. "But surely not before Thanksgiving. My ward would be heart-broken if you did not share our turkey feast."

  "That does sound like a valid reason to prolong my stay," Sadie drawled, parting moist, cherry-red lips in invitation. "Tell me, carino. Can you think of another?"

  To her secret amusement, his eyes dilated.

  "You flatter me, contessa."

  "How charming that you think so, dottore."

  Lilybelle pouted. Apparently, she didn't like being ignored. "All right, Lady Coyote. Your time's up. Dante's coming with me to meet Adelaide Hartwell. Her husband's dead, and she's got a face like a hatchet. Trust me when I say, she needs a psychiatrist more than you do."

  Dante looked bemused when Lilybelle linked her arm through his. "It seems I have little choice." He tossed an apologetic glance at Sadie.

  "That's right," Lilybelle said. "Duty calls. Time to make money." She marched him off in the direction of the chariot tapestry.

  Chuckling to watch the unlikely pair, Sadie turned her thoughts back to her mission—or more specifically, to Baines. He was still pacing around the humidor. She drew a fortifying breath as she considered that she was about to confront her most likely Maestro suspect.

  Show time.

  She set off on a meandering route to intercept her quarry. He seemed agitated, perhaps because he was attracting stares and sneers from the other art patrons. Sadie suspected the Rocky's report about his arrest was only partly to blame. Baines looked like hell—worse, in fact, than he had looked in the tobacco shop. He'd tried to conceal his freshly bruised face with a wide-brimmed hat, tan stage make-up, and a stiff white collar that was high enough to choke a horse. However, these valiant efforts weren't adequate to hide the proof of his brawling.

  For all his education, Sadie thought snidely, Baines is nothing more than a thug.

  Pasting on a smile, she halted on a collision course with the pacing professor. Since he was past the age of puberty—and breathing—she'd expected him to be arrested by the vision of patchouli-scented breasts and the obscenely large topaz nesting between them.