"I owe you a slug, boy!" a Midwestern accent bellowed from the cottage. "For putting a hole in my bowler!"
Even as Collie recognized Hank's voice—and realized The Ventilator had been the sniper on the grocer's roof—the bourbon bottle shattered in his fist. Collie swore. There wasn't a damned thing he could do to retaliate. His .45 was out of firing range.
Why would Hank try to plug Baron if Baron's paying him hush money?
Maybe Tito was the real target in the Square...
But why finger me for Tito's murder? Hank doesn't know me—at least, not well enough to hate me...
Wait a minute. Hank must have an accomplice. An accomplice who doesn't like me.
I'll bet it's Pendleton!
His mind racing with allegations, Collie ran for the cover of a mausoleum. He had some half-formed plan to pick the lock and hide inside. But he'd barely charged through the porch's skeleton dolls and marigolds when his gut started burning. The pain came out of nowhere; he thought a shell had hit him. He clutched his stomach. He doubled over. When he didn't feel blood, he realized he was sick.
The churning in his gut reached volcanic proportions. Helpless to stop the fiery surge to his throat, he spewed gingerbread, blood, and other chunky matter that he dimly recognized as dinner. He had a moment to be mortified; another to realize he'd been poisoned.
Pendleton isn't Hank's accomplice.
Poppy is!
Then the second wave of nausea hit. Collie's retching sounded like the roar of a locomotive to his ears. Even though the rifle blasts had stopped, he figured he was doomed. Hank was probably listening, enjoying the sound of a stomach turning inside-out in a graveyard on Devil's Eve.
Feeling like his innards were exploding, Collie toppled face down beside his vomit. His tongue had swollen. He was struggling to breathe. By the time stars started spinning inside his head, his toes and fingers had grown numb. He was completely helpless. He couldn't hold onto his .45. It bounced down the mausoleum's steps.
The squeal of an opening door was the last thing he remembered before the vortex claimed him.
Chapter 17
Halloween dawned beneath ominous, gray clouds pierced by jagged spears of light. In Lampasas, most people rejoiced to see the thunderheads and prayed the drought had finally come to an end.
Jazi was among the contrary folks, who prayed for another dry rain. As she watched Sadie apply her make-up in Wilma's cave, Jazi confided, between coughs, that she wanted to dress as a Mambo, go trick-or-treating, and maybe even sing for soul cakes with Joaquin, the shoe-shine boy, who'd told her about Tejano traditions. Jazi had set her heart on getting twice as much candy by celebrating both Halloween and the Day of the Dead.
"I thought you were afraid of witches," Sadie teased. Her whiskey alto was raspier than usual after standing in the woods last night—with wet hair—and arguing with Cass.
"Not any more. Cass said he'd save me from the witch," Jazi confided with an impish grin. She broke the seal on a fresh tin of Serenata's pastilles and offered one to Sadie.
Shaking her head at this newest evidence of her lover's Coyote Charm, Sadie politely refused a lozenge. When her singing voice became strained, she favored a brand called Fishmerman's Friend. Its base ingredients of menthol and eucalyptus were rare, because most modern-day nostrums relied upon cocaine to relieve discomfort. Sadie shunned opiates. In the immortal words of her field agent manual, "A Pinkerton must keep her wits about her."
"Are you still going to sing in the Halloween show?" Jazi asked wistfully, propping her derriere on the vanity. "Even with a sore throat?"
"You know what they say, 'The show must go on,'" Sadie said, dusting powder over her freckled nose. "As a matter of fact, I need you to run upstairs and remind Cotton to hail me a hack. I'm due at rehearsal in half an hour."
Jazi's brow knitted. She was triple-wrapping the cord of her gris-gris around her fingers. "I wish you and Mama could be friends. Then you could visit us in New Orleans."
Sadie fixed a pleasant smile on her face. An act of God would be required to make her and Randie friends. However, Jazi didn't need to know that. On impulse, Sadie dragged off her pearl necklace and draped it over the child's sausage-style curls.
"For me?" Jazi breathed. "To keep?"
"Forever and ever."
The child squealed, jumping up to admire her reflection. She looked flushed and glassy-eyed, and Sadie hoped that excitement, not another bout of sickness, was the cause.
"I'm beautiful!"
"I told you you were, silly."
Jazi threw her arms around Sadie's neck and sniffed back tears. "Thanks for being my friend, Maisy."
Sadie's heart warmed as she watched Jazi dash for the stairs on her errand. As much as Sadie hated to admit it, Randie couldn't be all bad. She'd raised a darling child.
With a furtive glance to make sure the trap door was closed, Sadie concentrated on arming herself—a task that Jazi's visit had forced her to delay. She fastened a pistol to her thigh and slipped a stiletto into the sheath sewn beneath her collar. She snapped plump caps onto the buttons of her bodice; they were easily detached when she needed a smoke bomb. Her cameo could do all kinds of damage, not the least of which was spray ink into an assailant's eyes, and her belt buckle could be "unsheathed" as a knife.
Like her daddy's pendant, her Pinkerton ring hid a secret compartment. Today, she'd chosen a sapphire cabochon. Depending on the color of her gown, the stone could be exchanged for a ruby, emerald, or topaz, all of which snapped closed over a tiny needle that injected a powerful sleeping draught.
But Sadie's handiest weapon, when she was forced to wear a skirt, was her .32. It was attached to the sliding mechanism beneath the right sleeve of her jaunty, bolero jacket.
Satisfied her arsenal was in good working order, she gathered her hat and reticule and headed upstairs.
As her private hack rolled down Third Street, Sadie could see pedestrians in trousers and petticoats shopping up a storm, no doubt hoping to avoid the merciless heat as the sun crept higher. The bargain hunters were haggling with street vendors over last-minute purchases, primarily sugar skulls, although crosses, candles, and ritual toys were also flying off handcarts bedecked with orange marigolds and yellow chrysanthemums.
The Day of the Dead was actually a 72-hour period, from All Hallows' Eve through All Souls' Day. A popular time to build altars, decorate gravesites, and honor departed loved ones, the tradition was dear to Tejanos and Mexican immigrants. But Día de los Muertos had also been heartily embraced by Lampasas rowdies, who wanted nothing more than an excuse to wear a mask and make mischief for three days.
This notion caused an image of Cass to flash through her mind. Last night, after she'd ended their argument, he'd initiated another round. The fracas had started when he'd insisted she ride Pancake with him to fetch her mare.
"Mount up." Blocking her path, he'd shoved the buckskin's leads into her hand. "I'm taking you back to town."
"I prefer my own horse."
"Quit being so mulish. You don't know what's waiting out there in those dark woods. Or who."
"I can fire a gun as well as any man."
He snorted. "Except me, and Hank, and Collie and Sterne—"
"I can fend for myself!"
"Tell that to Collie after he saved your ass."
Incensed to hear him use her confidence against her, she snapped, "I think you're forgetting who wears the badge around here!"
He backed her into his horse's flank. She sucked in her breath. His eyes were fairly smoking.
Facing Cass, when he took on the Lucifire persona, was an unnerving challenge. At six feet, two-inches, and dressed entirely in black, he towered over her like an Olympian-sized spike, forged on some fire god's anvil. The shadows cast by his hat brim only seemed to make the sapphire flames of his soul burn brighter in that unyielding glare. She had to square her shoulders and ball her fists to keep from cringing.
"Either you mount up willingly," he s
aid in a low, fierce undertone, "or I'll truss you up like a turkey and throw you over that saddle."
Tyrant.
To add to his growing list of sins, Cass had somehow found Rex before she had. The Ranger had been waiting for her, pacing Wilma's boudoir like a caged wolf. Rex had fired the opening shot by demanding to know why she hadn't hidden her Pinkerton badge better. The debriefing had gone downhill from there. She'd been too angry to spare Cass by hiding the truth about his snooping, and Rex had turned florid at her description of the Bowie knife stuck through her handbill's nose.
Wilma hadn't taken the news much better. She'd quickly deduced that her "secret" tunnel wasn't so secret and that Collie was responsible for her missing bottles of Wild Turkey. To keep Collie in Wilma's good graces, Sadie had been forced to describe how the boy had saved her from Hank—or rather, from The Ventilator. Apparently, Cass had already guessed Hank's alter ego. Rex was the one who'd enlightened her.
Then Rex dropped another bomb: he'd recruited Cass.
"Wait a minute. You sent him after Hank?" Sadie quailed at this news.
"He'd already made up his mind. I just made sure he wouldn't get arrested for it."
Sadie didn't like this plan, mostly because she was afraid Cass would come back in a pine box. But how could she protest? He was finally living his Ranger dream. She'd thought she would feel better, knowing he was on the right side of the law. Now she wondered how she would cope with the fear.
As if sensing her turmoil, Rex raised an eyebrow. "You have a problem with Cassidy going undercover?"
She steeled herself against a show of womanly weakness. "Of course not. We need a mole in Baron's organization. Cass can follow him back to the Rocking W. I can't."
Rex grunted. She didn't like the way those keen, gray eyes were assessing her, probing for the truth.
"The badge is a probationary measure. He'll have to prove himself."
"He will."
"You're that sure, eh?"
"Being a Ranger is all Cass ever cared about. You just made his life complete."
"What about you? And what you care about?"
A slow heat rolled up her neck. She felt betrayed by it. She didn't want Rex or anyone else know how she used to keep the fragile dream of marriage locked in the deepest, darkest chambers of her heart. Every now and then, during an especially maudlin bout of sentiment, she would drag out that cherished fantasy, polish it, admire it, and try it on for size—rather like a glass slipper.
But Sadie was a realist. Cass was a Ranger now. He couldn't marry her, and no other man could possibly want her as the mother of his child. Not after he learned how she'd lived 11 years of her life as a whore. Or how she'd let her five-year-old, twin sister drown.
"I'm a businesswoman," she answered coolly. "Money is my freedom. It lets me live the way I choose. That's what I've always wanted."
Rex darted a speculative glance at Wilma, who was careful to avoid Sadie's eyes. Annoyed with them both, she stalked from the room to pour a stiff drink.
Recalling that restless, sleepless night, with no one to hold except José Cuervo, Sadie was grateful when her hack finally rolled beneath the elaborate, wrought-iron gateway to Hancock Park. She was looking forward to dress rehearsal. She needed the diversion.
Unfortunately, when she reported to the Grand Park's stage, she learned her accompanist was running behind schedule. A quarter of an hour later, she was still pacing her dressing room floor, waiting for the slacker to show up. Since the chamber was small and cluttered with furniture, her bustle and cumbersome skirts left little space to work off her annoyance.
She glared at her unabashedly feminine surroundings: a butter-cream wardrobe and folding screen, painted with blush-colored roses; a matching vanity with a pink marble top; a velvet chaise lounge with swan fabric; and the inevitable vases. Dozens of vases. Each emerald-and ruby-colored vessel was stuffed to overflowing with last night's tribute-bouquets.
When space had run out on the furniture, the floor had become the next logical place to sow her garden. Some enterprising hotel worker had even arranged her posies by color. Her chaise looked like a boat, floating in an orange-gold sea of hellenium, dahlias, and witch hazel. The assault of fragrances was making her nose itch.
Suddenly, she noticed the festive orange and black basket, brimming with Halloween goodies. Some knucklehead had put it on the floor instead of making space for it on the vanity.
Great. It'll probably be swarming with ants.
But it wasn't.
Her curiosity piqued, she reached for the attached card. "Chantelle O'Leary" had been etched across the envelope in Cass's sloping scrawl.
Interesting. When did Cass have time to send me an apology basket?
Torn between annoyance and delight, she broke the seal on the flap. The message read:
'Destined' to be a perfect ending! Brava, show-stopper!
~ Cass
Her eyebrows knitted.
"Brava?" That was it? Not, "You were right about Hank, and I'm a dog for ever doubting you?"
Or "I was wrong to think Baron could be trusted."
Or "Can you ever forgive me for being so bossy, ornery, and cussid?"
Now she really was pissed. Didn't Cass remember anything she'd told him over the years? He should at least know better than to send her dessert. Back in Dodge, she'd blistered his tender, 21-year-old ears about the realities of fishtail skirts and how they showed every ripple of unsightly fat in the stage lights.
"No sweets!" she'd bellowed, throwing a strawberry shortcake at his head. The scapegrace had been nimble enough to dodge it, and for the next 20 minutes, they'd had loads of fun scraping whipping cream off the wall and smearing it all over each other's private parts.
Sadie grinned at the memory.
Then she pouted.
Didn't he at least remember that?
Snot head. She had half a mind to shove a caramel apple up his nose.
She scowled at the arrangement of delectable edibles.
Wait a minute. Is that a soul cake?
Suspicion flurried through her mind. When did Cass start celebrating Día de los Muertos?
She reached once more for the card.
And frowned.
Never, in the 13 years that she'd known him, had she seen him sign a document, Cass. For contracts, he always wrote William A. Cassidy. For a love letter, he scrawled, Billy, his pet name from childhood. Sometimes, when he was feeling his wild oats, he signed a love letter, Reb. But never Cass.
And good God! She sniffed the paper. Is that violet perfume?!
She was just about to start examining the food, when a sharp rap rattled her door.
"Finally," she groused, stalking to the door to throw it wide. "I thought you'd never get here—"
Only her visitor wasn't her accompanist.
Baron stood on the threshold, dressed in impeccable gray-silk morning attire. In his case, the clothes didn't make the man. As wide and brawny as a bull, he used his breadth and his walking stick to force his way inside, ignoring her sputtered attempts to greet him civilly. His size seemed monstrous in such cramped quarters. His bloodshot eyes and gray complexion didn't radiate health. Or lust. All she could sense in Baron's manner was hostility.
She backed up three steps.
He slammed the door behind him.
"What's the matter, Sweet Pea?" His lip curled, part leer, part sneer. "I heard you wanted some company."
Sadie rallied her wits, despite the pounding of her heart, which even a deaf man would have heard slamming against her ribs. After the incident at the bathhouse, she worried Baron intended something violent.
Fortunately, she was wearing an arsenal of Pinkerton gadgets. She consoled herself that she'd handled more than one barn-sized bully in her life.
"I'm honored," she purred. "What kept you so long?"
"Trouble on the shooting range. Bo Bodine's dead. His rifle backfired."
Sadie felt the blood drain from her face. "Th-th
at's awful."
Baron grunted. "It just proves what I've been saying for years: Bodine was a moron. His inane rhetoric used to stall my bills in committee. Now I'll finally be able to get some agricultural legislation passed."
Sadie gaped. Was Baron actually bragging? Was the sick bastard plotting to arrange a "lethal accident" for every prominent sodbuster in the senate?
Meanwhile, Baron's canny gaze was sweeping the room. When his eyes lighted on the Halloween basket, he reached for a chocolate and popped it in his mouth.
"Anyone else here?" he demanded between chomps.
Sadie had to fight nausea to muster a come-hither smile. "Why? Do you prefer threesomes?"
"You do get around, don't you?" He popped another chocolate in his mouth.
"I aim to please."
"That's what I hear. And speaking of Cassidy—" Baron stooped to pick up the gift card, which had fluttered to the floor. Munching on a soul cake, he scanned the note. His brow furrowed, and accusatory eyes bored into hers. "Where's Cass?"
Sadie had trouble hiding her anger when she snatched the paper from his hand. "Don't know."
"I find that hard to believe. Especially since you and he are such close friends."
"Don't let the basket fool you. Cass is friends with lots of women."
"Mostly redheads." Baron's chuckle wasn't reassuring. "Tell me. Are you acquainted with my wife?"
"Can't say I've had the pleasure."
He snorted. "You sure?"
"I think I'd remember."
"Uh-huh." He didn't look convinced. "Let me tell you a little something about my Popsicle. Pleasure is the least of her talents. She's far better at revenge. Turns out, the talent runs in her family."
"Just hers?"
"I suppose every man has his share." An ominous glint entered his eyes. Reaching into his coat pocket, he produced a linen handkerchief. When he unfolded the corners, he revealed a strand of red hair—one that looked alarmingly like hers.
Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) Page 22
