Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  “Nice work,” she said

  The reporters clustered around Alma, Jerry stuck in the press, while Lewis went with Mitch to the desk of the Hotel Denechaud to check in. It was quite a place. Everything was marble and velvet and gold mirrors, just like pictures of palaces from newsreels, though none of them were in living, vibrant color like this. It made Henry's house look normal.

  "Sure is something," Lewis said to Mitch under his breath.

  "Yeah." Mitch always managed to look more confident than Lewis felt, probably because he was a university man, but even Mitch looked wary and uncomfortable today.

  Lewis signed the register carefully, "Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Segura, Colorado Springs, Colorado." This time it was 100% true.

  The desk clerk handed Mitch two keys. "You and Dr. Ballard have adjoining rooms with a shared bath," he said. He leaned forward confidentially, dropping his voice. "Mrs. Sorley has already checked in."

  "She has?" Mitch blinked.

  "Yes, sir. Several hours ago." The desk clerk twitched an eyebrow. "She said she wished it to be a surprise."

  "Oh," Mitch said.

  "What?" Lewis said.

  "Mrs. Sorley?" Mitch said.

  "Yes, sir." The desk clerk seemed to be expecting a tip, probably for giving them the keys, so Lewis gave him two bits.

  "Thank you," Lewis said, taking his own key. "Let's give Jerry his."

  "Right," Mitch said. He looked confused.

  "What the heck?" Lewis asked. "Mrs. Sorley?"

  "Probably some racing fan," Mitch said. His brow furrowed. "Or somebody working for another team who wanted to get in our rooms."

  "We don't keep anything important in our rooms," Lewis said. "Anybody who wanted to sabotage the plane would be at the field."

  "What else could it be?" Mitch said. “It can’t be the countess, anyway.”

  Lewis lowered his voice. That was an unwelcome thought, all right. “We do still have the necklace —“

  “Yeah, but she’s on her way back to LA.” Mitch actually sounded faintly sorry about that, but Lewis was careful not to look surprised.

  "A reporter, maybe," he said. He paused. " You don't actually have a wife, right?"

  "No, of course not." Mitch scanned the massive lobby again. "I don't think."

  Lewis stopped short of Alma and the crowd of reporters. "You don't think?"

  "I don't. I'm not married." Mitch squared his shoulders and plunged in among the reporters. "Jerry, here's your key. Lewis and I are going to check the rooms."

  He turned away before Jerry could ask, and Lewis frowned. Something was not ok — well, something was wrong with Mitch as well as with the rooms, but he knew better than to push. Trying to push Mitch was like pushing a brick wall.

  They rode up to the fifth floor in silence, the elevator operator deferentially silent. Lewis took a deep breath before he flung his door back fast, but there was nothing in the room except two beds piled high with pillows and expensive-looking linens. Feeling increasingly foolish, he checked the bathroom and the closets, and then under the bed. There was nothing, not even a scrap of paper, and he opened the door again to see Mitch peering out of the room opposite.

  “Anything?”

  Mitch shook his head. “Not even a mash note. Must’ve been a reporter.”

  “Jerry’s room?”

  “Nothing there either.”

  “I don’t like the idea that someone’s got a key to your room,” Lewis said.

  “Me, neither. Maybe we can change rooms,” Mitch said. He pulled the door closed behind him, and tested the door. “Damn reporters.”

  “Yeah.” Even as he spoke, Lewis felt the hairs prickling at the base of his neck. Something was definitely wrong — but at least they’d be getting rid of the necklace tonight, handing it over to Henry. That would be one less thing to worry about.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There were no rooms to spare at the Hotel Denechaud. The entire hotel was booked because of the race, and after a long conversation with the front desk clerk, Mitch had decided it was too much trouble to try to find people willing to switch with him and Jerry. It was only for one night, and if it did have something to do with Henry’s necklace, well, they were giving it back to Henry tonight anyway. It wasn’t like anyone was going to try to attack them, not in a place like this. And besides, he didn’t really want to have to explain about the key and the person who claimed she was his wife, especially not when Jerry was listening. Because if it was Miss Rostov — though of course it couldn’t be. She was on her way back to LA, and even she wouldn’t have tried a lie like that. Even Gil wouldn’t have tried something that outrageous, though it would have been kind of fun to see how Miss Rostov would have tried to pull it off. He put that thought aside with unexpected reluctance. It was five thirty, and he just had time for a shower before the evening got started. It felt good to stand under the hot water, to let the steam ease all the kinks in his back out, to ease the aching muscles in his belly from so many long flights back-to-back.

  And it felt even better to be in first place. Into New Orleans at 3 pm, six hours and eight minutes out of Little Rock. When they'd left the airport the second place team hadn't even gotten in yet, more than an hour behind. Yep, Mitch thought. Alma's plan was solid and they were going to roll this race up. Two more legs to go — a short stunt run to Pensacola, and then the long leg from Pensacola to Miami — but with the kind of lead they had somebody was going to have to sprout rockets to catch up.

  It would be a beautiful evening in New Orleans, carefree and fun with that $25,000 prize almost in reach. There was a party in the main ballroom of the Hotel Denechaud, which looked like it would live up to its reputation as one of the finest hotels in America, and they were the guests of honor. This was pretty much what it was like to be on top of the world. He ought to try to relax and enjoy it.

  Mitch turned off the water and got out, reaching for the towel. He rummaged around in his shaving kit for his toothbrusth and toothpaste. The tube wasn't there. And now that he thought about it, he could visualize just where he'd seen it last — sitting on the edge of the sink at the hotel in Little Rock that morning. "Aw, damn," Mitch said. Well, Jerry wouldn't mind if he borrowed his. Tying the towel around his waist, he went out into the other room. Jerry's suitcase was on the stand, the shaving kit on top. He unzipped it. Where did Jerry…? There was the familiar Colgate tube.

  A silk handkerchief twisted, dislodged by his hand, and fell to the floor with a heavy sound, the molten thud of something in it. Mitch leaned over and picked it up. It was the necklace, smooth links of wrought iron like flowers, cool and dark, like the scent of jasmines on a rainy night. It was beautiful.

  And familiar. He'd seen it before. He'd seen it before so many times.

  Mitch picked it up, weighed it in his hands. The scent of jasmine, the sound of the rain…

  Rain like a drum. Rain coming down and down and down, washing blood into rivulets on the street, sliding down the storm drain toward the river. The river just rolled on, oblivious to blood or night or anything. Rain crushed the jasmines, leaving them bloodless and pale against the cobblestones…

  And then there was nothing but rain.

  "Al, have you seen Mitch?"

  Alma was putting her shoes on to go to dinner when Jerry barged into their room without knocking. "No. Should I have?"

  Lewis looked over from the dresser where he was dealing with an uncooperative Windsor knot. "I thought he went to take a shower."

  "That was hours ago," Jerry said.

  "Maybe he went down to the lobby or something," Lewis said.

  "He's gone," Jerry said. "Suit, shoes, hat, and Henry's necklace."

  Alma jumped up, one shoe on and one off. "What?"

  "The necklace is gone," Jerry said. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. "It was in my shaving kit wrapped up in a silk handkerchief. The handkerchief was on the floor next to my suitcase. The necklace is gone. And so is Mitch."

  Lewis frow
ned. "Maybe someone stole it and he went after them."

  "Without calling us?" Alma stood on one foot to fasten the straps on the other shoe. "Mitch wouldn’t do that." She looked at Jerry. "That thing exerts a powerful pull."

  "That's what I'm worried about," Jerry said, meeting her eyes.

  "Oh crap," Lewis said.

  "He's not a woman," Alma said sensibly. "Putting it on won't kill him."

  "But who knows what it wants him to do?" Lewis said.

  Alma felt the dread expanding in her stomach. "I don't know, but it can't be anything good. We need to find him right now." She looked at Jerry. "Before something awful happens."

  There was a streetcar and then another. Dusk crept in, and lights shone down from windows above, shadows barred from the louvers of each shade. He walked through the city just as he had so many times, alone in the dusk, listening to the devil's music. The sound of jazz followed him, dip and turn, wail and recall, and the sweet soft notes of a woman's voice.

  No one turned to watch him. Why should they? He was an ordinary-looking man in a gray suit, a plain fedora, clean shoes. No one noticed Mitchell Sorley.

  The clear blue notes of a tenor sax drifted out into the street and he paused. The devil's music for certain, it crawled under your skin, wiggled into your brain with promises that even New Orleans could not fulfill. The world is full of promises that can't come true. The world is full of things that begin only to die, flat and faded and utterly pointless. There are hungers wine can't quench, that friendship can't quiet. Jazz celebrates them all.

  He used to love to dance. He remembered that. He loved to move with someone's arms around him, loved the sweet scent and the pressure of a woman's hands, loved grace and fire and dawning need — whoever she was. They were all beautiful, whether they were pretty or plain. Dancing made them beautiful. And in jazz anything was possible.

  Almost anything.

  Mitch leaned against a wrought iron railing, listening to each note washing over him. Cold iron, cold as disappointment, cold as forgetting. In New Orleans you could forget anything. He crushed out a cigarette on the pavement and went on.

  Lewis, Alma and Jerry rushed along the hotel hall.

  "Where the hell could he have gone?" Alma demanded. "Did he say anything to you, Jerry?"

  "Not a word," Jerry said, leaning heavily on his cane and hitting the button for the elevator. "The last thing he said was that he wanted to clean up. That's all."

  "Where would he go? Does he know New Orleans?"

  "I have no idea," Jerry said. "He never talked about it if he does."

  "Wait," Lewis said, catching Alma's arm. He put his finger to his lips and pulled her away.

  Jerry's eyebrows rose, but he followed after as quietly as possible.

  Lewis held up one finger. Wait. He quietly backtracked a few steps to a door marked "Linen". Alma stood to one side as Lewis reached for the handle and whipped it open.

  A woman fell out. She'd been leaning against the door, and now she stumbled out onto the carpet. She was wearing a smart gray silk dress and strappy heels, but the finger waves were unmistakable, even before she picked herself up from the floor.

  "You," Alma said, advancing on her. "What have you done with Mitch?"

  "I thought we left her in Flagstaff," Jerry said. "The countess, or whoever she is."

  "So did I," Lewis said grimly.

  Alma dragged her to her feet, shoving her back against the wall roughly. "Where is Mitch?"

  "Darling, how should I know?" the countess gasped.

  "Don't darling me, and don't play stupid," Alma said. "You know perfectly well that necklace is a cursed article of malevolent power, and you've done something with both it and Mitch. Now you'd better start talking before I lose my temper. These gentlemen may be too well bred to sock you, but I'm not."

  "I know what it is," she said. "But I don't have it!"

  "Where is it?" Alma gave her another shove. "Where is Mitch and what have you done with him?"

  "I haven't any idea where he is," the countess said. "I haven't laid eyes on your Mr. Sorley since the speakeasy in Flagstaff!"

  "What speakeasy in Flagstaff?" Lewis demanded.

  Jerry let out a long breath. "The one Mitch went to after we all went to bed."

  Alma shot him a sharp look. "You let Mitch go to a speakeasy by himself?"

  "He's a grown man!" Jerry snapped. "I'm not his chaperone! He wanted to go get a drink. He went. He came back forty-five minutes later and went to bed. Why would I do anything about that?"

  Alma tightened her grip on the countess' arm. "What happened in the speakeasy?"

  "Nothing. We had a drink. We talked for a few minutes. I swear I didn't do a thing to him," the countess squeaked, her voice going up with injured innocence that Alma didn't believe for a second. "He loaned me a few dollars for the train back to LA."

  "And yet here you are in New Orleans," Jerry observed. "In a very pretty new dress that you didn't seem to have on the plane in Flagstaff. And here Mitch isn't. And oh, coincidentally the necklace is missing again, which it seems to be whenever you're around."

  "And I mean to search her," Alma said. "To the skin." She dragged the countess down the hall to her room, Lewis at her shoulder. "You can let me search you. Or you can let Lewis do it. Your pick."

  The countess tossed her head. "As if that were a choice."

  Alma gave Lewis a nod and closed the door, hearing the comforting familiarity of him leaning against it. "Strip," she said.

  The countess started unfastening her dress. "Why are you so worked up about it? It's not your necklace."

  "Because that thing kills people," Alma said. "Innocent people. And one of my men is missing."

  "Your men." The countess pulled her dress over her head and stood in her slip. "They're all yours?"

  "They're my responsibility," Alma said.

  "As if you were a general?"

  "Something like."

  The countess' brow wrinkled. "Just what do you think you are?"

  "The Magister of their lodge," Alma said sharply. Yes, it was probably unwise to say, but the worry for Mitch crawling inside her loosed her tongue. "Now raise your arms and turn around."

  "Okey-dokey," the countess said, and jabbed out with her elbow, catching Alma in the stomach.

  It hurt. A lot. For a moment she couldn't catch her breath. I've had worse, Alma thought. A lot worse. It's not that bad, not that much. She looked up at the countess, eyes watering, her left arm coming up in a vicious sideways blow that caught the countess in the side of the head and knocked her over, crashing against the dressing table.

  "Ok in there?" Lewis called through the door.

  Alma kicked the back of her knees, dropping her onto her butt. "Fine," she called back. She looked down at the countess. "Now. Cooperation?"

  Lewis winced at every thump. "Think we should go in?" he asked Jerry.

  "Give her five more minutes," Jerry said, glancing at his watch. "Unless someone screams."

  Lewis nodded. "Sounds good."

  In two minutes the door opened. The countess had a bleeding cut at the corner of her mouth and Alma looked like she was getting a black eye. Both of them seemed decently dressed and reasonably sedate. "Come in," Alma said. "Stasi was just about to tell us about the necklace."

  Lewis looked at Jerry and Jerry shrugged. "Let's hear it, then." They came in and sat down side by side on the bed. The countess had the chair, and Alma prowled around the room barefooted. One of her new shoes seemed to be missing its heel.

  "Can I have a cigarette at least?" the countess asked.

  "Sure," Lewis said, and lit one for her.

  Jerry looked at her cynically. "So, is the necklace your family heirloom from the Old Country that you had to get back to comfort your dying grandmother?"

  "No," she said shortly. "I was hired to steal it."

  "By whom?" Alma asked.

  "By a client here in New Orleans, a man named Lanier."

  "Y
ou really are a professional thief," Lewis said, with interest. He'd never met one outside of the pages of a magazine.

  "I do odd jobs." The countess took a draw from her cigarette. "A girl has to make a living."

  "Lanier," Alma said. "Who is he and why does he want it?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "He's got money. He said it was valuable to him, an antique. It's not worth that much on the open market, and he paid me $500 to get it for him. That's good money. There's a Depression, you know."

  "We know," Lewis said.

  "It was supposed to be a very simple job," she said. "Go to LA, break into Kershaw's safe, and walk out with it. Kershaw wouldn't even notice for a couple of days, and by then I'd be in New Orleans delivering it to Lanier. Only I didn’t want to be walking around with it all night, so I stashed it. And then somebody called the police and I had to leave it there, because if I'd tried to walk out with it I would have been caught."

  It couldn't have been that simple, Lewis thought. The office was warded. Which meant the countess knew a few occult tricks of her own, beyond the business with the cards, enough to baffle Henry's wards.

  "You hid it on the plane," Jerry said. The color was high in his face. "And then sneaked on the plane the next morning to get it back. We know that part. What about the part with Mitch and the speakeasy?"

  "I was trying to get one of the other teams to give me a ride to San Angelo," she said. "Your Mr. Sorley came in and we had a chat. He loaned me money to get back to LA. Instead I wired for more cash and took the train to New Orleans." She shrugged. "I knew that you had to fly a longer route. A direct train would beat you here. It's easy to find out where the contestants are supposed to stay, so I checked in as Mrs. Sorley and I was hiding in the linen closet waiting for you to go to dinner. As soon as you did I'd just use the key to let myself in." She took another long draw. "Then I'd nip in, grab the necklace, and be gone before you knew it."

  Alma looked at Lewis. "What do you think?"