"I know as much as you do, carino."
He didn't look convinced, but apparently, he had more important matters on his mind.
"Wyntir's eyes were red. Why was she crying?"
Sadie shrugged, trying to look like she was discussing some triviality with her bombastic cousin. "She's remembering things."
"Useful things?"
"Si."
Several well-coifed guests promenaded past. Mace bowed and murmured greetings. Too canny to demand details in such a public setting, he let the subject drop. "So... what's that bulge in your reticule?"
Sadie was secretly impressed. Mace's sharp, pine-needle green eyes missed nothing. "A young woman's private reminiscences," she said lightly.
Like the fuse of a firecracker, anticipation flared between them.
"Brava," he murmured.
"Grazie."
"By the way, you lost a dangle."
Damn! Sadie's hands flew to her earlobes. Wilma was going to kill her! "How long has it been missing?"
Mace looked amused. "The last time I saw it, you were pitching a glass of 20-year-old Bordeaux at the waiter." His voice grew husky-warm with approval.
Her cheeks heated. Uncomfortable with their chummy new familiarity, she averted her gaze. That's when she spied Goddard, strolling out of the library. As if by magnetic force, their stares locked. She'd been in the process of removing her orphaned earring.
A mocking little smile curved his lips. He inclined his head.
She did the same.
Finally, he released her from the dark fires in that burning gaze. Air whooshed from her lungs. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath.
"What's wrong?" Mace raised his eyes in time to see Goddard turn toward his office. Mace's face darkened. "How'd he get past me?"
"You must have been distracted."
"Like hell. I've had a clear view of the upper landing since you climbed the stairs. Is there another entrance to the library?"
"Not that I saw."
"There has to be."
Sadie battled a frisson of panic. Did that mean Goddard had eavesdropped on her and Wyntir? That he'd found Cass hiding in the rafters?
Mass didn't miss a single nuance of emotion, flickering across her face. "All right, we're leaving."
"But we'll look suspicions if—"
"It's too late for that," Mace said grimly. "He knows."
The memory of Mace's words pounded like a death knell in Sadie's head.
He knows.
Was it any wonder she couldn't fall asleep?
Cass, where are you?!
Anxiously, she checked the time. The mantel clock read 3:12 a.m. Except for its monotonous ticking—and an occasional, creaking timber—the hotel was quiet. Too quiet for a woman who'd spent half her life in a brothel. At this hour in Dodge's Long Branch Saloon, she would have expected to hear banging headboards, whooping cowboys, smashing bottles, and the occasional gun fight.
Sighing, she glanced at her bedside lamp. The flame had been burning for hours. Now it was running low on oil. She'd been hoping Cass would brave the snow and climb through her window. But she couldn't blame him if he didn't. The wind was howling like a hellhound.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was Mace. Her annoying bulldog of a boss had insisted on watching over her for the rest of the night. When she'd protested, he'd offered her a choice: he could spread his gear in the hall, or he could camp on her chaise lounge. So in essence, he'd given her no choice at all.
But Cass didn't know that. Nor did Cass know that Mace, in his overbearing but well-meaning way, was trying to protect her rather than ambush him.
Feeling restless, Sadie punched her mound of pillows and repositioned her spine against the headboard. Wyntir's open journal beckoned on the quilt beside her lap. So far—by reading between the lines—Sadie had learned how Goddard had ingratiated himself with Edmund Greyfell; how he'd moved into the manor to take advantage of an old man's pain; how he'd started stealing sterling and jewelry; and how he'd pinned the thefts on the butler and two maids.
Throughout these early entries, Wyntir was often impatient with Goddard, whom she'd described as "handsome enough" but "priggish." Then one morning, she woke up—literally—with a whole new regard for the man who'd been "such an angel of mercy to my poor, bereaved papa." On that particular date, the fervent mantra, "I love him; I can't live without him," first appeared in the journal. To see the declaration scrawled in black and white gave Sadie the creeps. She couldn't prove it—she would probably never be able to prove it—but she felt as certain as a hanging judge that Goddard had planted that mantra in Wyntir's sleeping mind.
To his credit, Edmund Greyfell was also suspicious of his daughter's abrupt change of affections. At least, that's what Sadie intuited when Wyntir wrote about her father's quarrel with Goddard. Greyfell threatened to cut off Goddard's retainer and kick him out of the house for "inappropriate overtures" toward Wyntir. About 12 hours later, Greyfell committed "suicide." The implication was all too clear.
Sadie tasted bile.
Turning grimly to Wyntir's journal, she braced herself for the worst.
Sunday, Sept. 23:
On the most awful day of my life, a ray of sunshine pierced the gloom. My sweet, childhood friend, Minta Merripen, arrived for Papa's funeral. Her visit was the most welcome of surprises! We hugged and cried for hours. She was the one who gave me this beautiful new journal, lovingly constructed by her own hand and smelling like mint—just like the one from graduation! Strange, isn't it? I still can't find that most beloved of journals. It vanished so thoroughly, I had to start writing in this one...
Monday, Sept. 24:
Dante doesn't want Minta staying in the house. He was perfectly beastly about it. He said he found her nosy and impertinent—an unholy influence on me! The gall of that man!
Minta was gracious and offered to stay at a hotel, but I wouldn't hear of it. I told Dante if he didn't like it, he could sleep with Wind Chaser in the stables...
Tuesday, Oct. 2:
For my sake, Minta finally made peace with Dante. Yesterday evening, she wouldn't stop praising his musical virtuosity. At breakfast, she hung on his every word when he commented on some boring old medical article about conditioned response—whatever that means. Is it any wonder he seems to have a new regard for her? She's killing my darling with kindness!
This afternoon, unfortunately, I suffered one of my wretched headaches. I couldn't attend the new botanical exhibit with Minta. Since Dante didn't have any patients scheduled, he agreed to escort her in my place, which was très galant of him, considering how little interest he has in flowers...
Thursday, Oct. 4:
While Minta and I were shopping for new, Halloween chapeaux, we ran into Prof. Baines. He was so understanding about all my cancelled appointments since Papa's funeral. I finally confessed how Dante forbade me to have any more hypnosis sessions because they were dangerous.
"Poppycock," the professor said. (I always want to laugh when Prof. Baines says, Poppycock!) "Hypnosis is nothing more than deep sleep. It has no risks whatsoever—unlike the sedatives your so-called guardian prescribes for your night terrors."
Minta was intrigued by what Prof. Baines had to say. Especially when he urged her not to let Dante drive away all my friends. (Such a peculiar thing to say!) Minta volunteered for one of the professor's experiments...
Friday, Oct. 5:
This afternoon, I caught Minta in Papa's study, rummaging through his desk drawers. I can't imagine how she opened them, since only Humphrey has the key. She said she was hunting for a stylus, because she wanted to write a letter to Geoffrey...
Monday, Oct. 8:
One of Dante's patients cancelled. I already had an appointment for a dress-fitting. Poor Minta was bored out of her mind. She invited Dante to go riding. They returned in high spirits, even though Minta took a fall. Her hair was mussed, her riding jacket was grass-sta
ined, and her bodice was missing a button.
At dinner, Minta announced she couldn't possibly impose on my hospitality any longer. Despite my heartfelt pleas to change her mind, she insisted on staying at the Grand Central Hotel...
Friday, Oct. 12:
Today, I caught Minta in the most outlandish lie! We were having tea in the parlor, when a gullible young man (a violinist from the opera,) called for her. He asked for a Claudia Dunlap.
Humphrey tried to turn him away, but the caller was lovesick and duly persistent. I approached the door. My intention was to prove I was not Claudia. However, the gentleman spied Minta, peeking through the parlor doors. He identified her as the one and only Claudia, a reporter who'd interviewed him for the Leadville Democrat.
Minta turned white at this pronouncement. Truthfully, I thought she was going to faint. She called him a half-baked loon and stormed into the foyer to slam the door in his face. I was stunned by her behavior. A lady of breeding would never treat a suitor that way! What is happening to my poor, dear Minta?
Dante overheard the entire exchange from the landing. I swear, he's always lurking behind a potted plant or a bookcase or something. Anyway, he confided to me later, in his professional opinion, that Minta is suffering delusions. He blamed Prof. Baines's hypnotism experiment. But Dante assured me he would take care of her...
Saturday, Oct. 13:
Minta is acting stranger than ever. After dinner, while Dante was playing his violin, I accidentally bumped her elbow. She'd been pawing through her reticule, and a tiny gun dropped to the floor! I was stunned. I think Dante was too.
Minta laughed it off. She said the derringer was a gift from Geoffrey. Since he couldn't accompany her to Denver, he'd wanted her to have protection.
I still don't understand why she would bring a derringer to my house...
Monday, Oct. 15
I just woke from the most disturbing dream. At least, I think it was a dream. Things are sort of fuzzy in my mind; but then, they always are after I faint!
Dante was with me when I woke. He said I fell and struck my temple. That would account for the bruise, I suppose. I asked him where Minta was, and he reminded me she'd become a guest of the hotel. He said she hadn't called at the house all day—which was a huge relief, considering my dream!
It started with me and Minta in the library. She asked if Dante had left the house. I said, "Yes, he's not expected back until dinner." Then she shooed away the servants, claiming they couldn't be trusted. She called them spies for Dante's "great evil."
That comment was a bit off-putting, even from Minta!
But I swallowed my annoyance. I tried to be supportive. When I asked what was troubling her, she burst into tears. She confessed Dante has been coming to her hotel room every night for the last week—and she let him stay! She begged my forgiveness for being a horrible friend and a fool.
As if that wasn't shocking enough, she said I wasn't safe in my own house. She insisted that I must leave Dante immediately. She called him the worst kind of predator, and she said she had proof. She quoted something Prof. Baines supposedly said about Harvard. How Dante conducted unethical experiments, using real human subjects. How he got wind of an inquiry, so he framed Baines.
I couldn't help but wonder if Minta was having another "episode"—which is what Dante calls delusions. I mean, if she was really his lover, she would have every reason to make me want to leave him. How can she expect me to believe such preposterous tales about my danger?
I don't remember much else about the dream. I heard footsteps behind me. Then I heard a lovely lullaby. It sounded like Brahms.
Tomorrow, I think I'll invite Minta to lunch. Then we can have a good laugh about my dream...
Tuesday, Oct. 16:
I felt compelled to leave the house today. Since Minta never responded to my lunch invitation, I guess I was lonely. I spent the morning and afternoon at the orphanage, reading to the children. Then I dined with the Moffets in their home. I was glad for the diversion. It was lovely to join a large family, carving jack-o-lanterns and making candy apples till well after eight bells.
I forgot to mention: I did stop by the hotel before dinner, just to check on Minta. The clerk didn't remember seeing her all day, but I suppose that's to be expected. The poor fellow sees so many faces pass through his lobby. He did promise to give Minta my updated lunch invitation.
As I write this entry, I can hear the clock chiming 10 bells. I haven't seen Dante since the same hour last night. That's when he examined me. He was so concerned about my vision after I fell. To test my eyesight, he made me count backwards, ticking off the number of times his pocket watch spun on its chain. But that was 24 hours ago! Where could he possibly be?
I wonder if he really is having an affair with Minta...
Wednesday, Oct. 17:
Something horrible is happening! I can't find Dante, and I don't know what to do. Am I going mad? I keep hearing screams—a woman's screams—coming from the old dumbwaiter shaft. It sounds like Minta, calling my name!
None of the servants can hear the screams, or the spooky footsteps on the other side of the wall. It's as if my whole household went deaf! Cook said the noise must be rats. Humphrey said it could be the wind. When I ordered him to search the basement, he said sternly, "We must never go to the basement, miss."
And I said, "Why?"
And he said, "It is forbidden."
So I said, "By whom?"
And he looked me straight in the eye and said, "God."
The creepiest part was, he wasn't joking.
So tonight, after everyone falls asleep, I'm going to search the basement for myself.
I hope Humphrey's right. About the wind...
Sadie thought she might be sick. The journal abruptly ended with that entry.
My God, my God, what did he do to you, Minx?
Shuddering violently, Sadie reached for her gun and made sure every chamber in the cylinder was loaded. She decided to keep the holster by her pillow, rather than on the nightstand.
Now the clock read 3:30 a.m. There was no way she was going to fall asleep after reading Wyntir's last few entries. She considered waking Mace and telling him what she'd learned, but he'd already given her crystal-clear instructions:
"If you want an arrest warrant for that unholy bastard, consider carefully. No judge wants to be dragged from his children—or his Maker—on a Sunday morning. That journal needs to say something that will hold up in court.
"So if you don't want to make an enemy of a hanging judge, make double-damned sure you're not wasting his time."
Fighting tears, Sadie gazed at the cheerful, green message stitched upon the journal's cover: "You're the Sister I Always Wanted. Love, Minta."
Could the ramblings of a wide-eyed school girl convince a judge to sign a search warrant for Greyfell Manor? Sadie honestly couldn't say. She didn't know the nuances of the law—or the personalities of the local judges—the way Mace did.
Her biggest fear was that some fork-tongued lawyer would convince an all-male jury that Wyntir was a delusional young woman, who suffered nightmares and recorded fiction for posterity.
If Goddard got acquitted, he'd disappear. He'd change his name, alter his appearance, and start a new reign of terror on some other, unsuspecting heiress!
Rubbing bleary eyes, Sadie reached for the bottle of tequila she'd ordered Brodie to smuggle into her room.
Somehow, Goddard had to hang. Maybe Cass had the evidence she was looking for...
* * *
Cass was dreaming of Lucifire.
And Hell.
Only Lucifire's Hell wasn't the fiery abyss of legend. It was a dank, cold place. A clanging, glaring place. The air stank of rats and urine, chemicals and burnt flesh.
Although this Hell held no fire or brimstone, it held pain. The shrieks went on and on, like some demonic fury was teetering on the brink of madness. The only way to end the torment was to obey the Fiend in the white lab coat.
&n
bsp; "Kill," the Fiend said.
So Lucifire aimed and fired. He pulled the trigger again and again, until his palms blistered, his fingers bled, and his eyes were seeing double. The revolvers were never loaded. They couldn't strike down the Fiend. And that, perhaps, was the greatest torment of all.
In this hellish dream, the Fiend determined the targets. They were porcelain dolls with fancy clothes. Each of the dolls possessed names. Some of those names were known to Lucifire. But his hatred ran deep. He imagined another doll, wearing charcoal pinstripes. He dubbed this target, "The Fiend."
But soon even that secret rebellion was denied him. Struggle was futile; screaming brought no relief. The only release was to surrender to the darkness of oblivion...
Cass woke with a start. Something wet, smelling of horse, nuzzled his cheek. He groaned, pushing a slobbery muzzle away from his face. Pancake snorted. The sound was loud enough to wake a hibernating bear—in the next county.
No wonder my ears are ringing.
Cass curled into a ball and tried to go back to sleep. His head hurt. His arms hurt. His stomach wanted to heave. He was pretty sure he was half dead.
No sense waking up for that.
Pancake nudged his shoulder.
"Don't have apples," Cass mumbled. He was trying to reach the fuzzy, dark place. The haven deep in his brain where time and torment didn't exist. In the Dark Place, the sky was black; the black was quiet; and no creepy-crawlies were winding up their tails to strike.
I hate scorpions.
Cass wasn't sure why. He just did.
But Pancake was persistent. He stomped. He jingled his bridle. He swatted Cass's backside with his tail. When all else failed, the gelding reached his great yellow teeth for Cass's hat brim.
And Cass let him.
Wait a minute.
Black, wispy tendrils were inviting him to dive into the Dark Place, to surrender his will and deaden all sensation in the fog. But something was wrong. Pancake was chomping his Stetson. His prized Stetson!
I should be madder than a teased rattlesnake right now.
"Bad pony," he rasped.
Pancake nickered affectionately.
"You wanna become wolf bait?" With a Herculean effort, Cass opened his eyes. And instantly regretted it.
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 27
