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

by Adrienne deWolfe

  But as she exited the stairwell, she was intercepted by Collie, in what might have passed for a disguise. He'd stuffed his bleached hair under a slouch hat and draped a ratty duster over his buckskin coat. Sadie hiked an eyebrow, wondering if he'd stolen his battered duds.

  "We got trouble," he greeted gruffly.

  She sighed in exasperation. Vandy was nowhere in sight.

  "What did the coon do this time?"

  "Vandy ain't the problem."

  He jerked his head toward the Windsor's registration counter. Two bellhops had replaced the usual clerk. Although they raced frantically around their post, neither of them seemed to be as effective as the man they'd replaced. A disgruntled crowd was clamoring for the valuables they'd stored inside the safe. A pair of steely-eyed constables prevented them from storming the business office.

  "I'm being watched," Collie whispered, slapping a rolled newspaper into her hand. "Don't believe what you read. Keep your window open. I'll send Vandy with updates."

  Fifteen seconds after he'd hailed her, the boy was stalking off, looking older and graver than his 17 years.

  Uneasily, Sadie ducked behind the tobacconist's wooden Indian to read the headlines:

  Can No One Stop the Daredevil?

  Audacious Felon Nets $500K from Windsor's Safe

  Sadie's stomach clenched. Dear God. Someone set up Cass!

  By the time she tracked Rex to the Grand Central Hotel, the clock in the Methodist Church tower was chiming half-past eleven. Sadie despaired of catching the Ranger commander asleep in his bed. However, the hotel register had been signed, "Mr. and Mrs. Robinson," in Rex's bold, slanting scribble. That could only mean one thing: he was traveling with Wilma. And Wilma was a night owl who rarely rose before noon.

  Sadie banged hopefully on the lovers' hotel door.

  "C'mon," she muttered, checking her pocket watch for at least the tenth time. With any luck, neither Rex nor Wilma had seen the Rocky yet.

  But luck failed her. Mace threw open the door.

  "Oh good," he greeted dryly. "You saved me the trouble of hunting you down."

  Alarm bells tolled in her head.

  "Well?" He hiked an eyebrow. "Are you going to join us or turn tail and run?"

  Donkey butt.

  Warily, Sadie shoved past her boss's broad shoulder. She spied Rex standing by the drawn shutters of the window. The handsome, pewter-haired Ranger commander was dressed in his Sunday best, sporting a black vest and matching string necktie, although he'd refused to trade his beloved Justin boots for "city shoes."

  Wilma was also stylishly attired. The sheen of her navy satin day dress coaxed midnight-blue shimmers from the dark curls piled so elegantly on top of her head. She perched demurely in an armchair by the writing desk, a sheet of paper in her gloved hand, an envelope in her lap.

  "Where's Cass?" Sadie demanded.

  "That's what we want to know," Mace countered.

  The Ranger shot the Pinkerton a glacial glare. "Has anyone told you you're an ass, Ryker?"

  "Daily." Although Mace was 17 years younger than Rex, he wasn't intimidated by the Ranger's Alpha Wolf growl. "That's why I run the tightest ship in the agency. Let's get down to business.

  "Sit," he told Sadie, sweeping his hand toward the only other chair in the room: a spindle-backed affair with an embroidered seat cushion that still bore the impression of his rump.

  Sadie obeyed, but only because she didn't want to rumple the quilt. It had been tucked tightly enough around the bed to bounce a quarter. She suspected Rex's handiwork.

  "Where were you between 11 p.m. and midnight?" Mace demanded.

  Sadie eyed him resentfully. "Why?"

  "Answer the question."

  "Am I on trial here?"

  "You'll be an accessory to a crime if you don't cooperate," he said flatly.

  She darted a furtive glance at Wilma. The Pinkie Chief didn't look happy. In fact, she was glaring daggers at Mace. Sadie breathed a little easier, knowing Wilma was on her side.

  "I was in my hotel room."

  "Can anyone verify your statement?"

  "Cass was with me."

  "When did he arrive?"

  "I didn't check the clock," she snapped.

  His cool green stare was uncompromising. "You can do better than that, detective."

  She wanted to kick him. "Church bells were tolling," she conceded. "It must have been midnight."

  "Interesting." Mace scribbled something in his notebook.

  "What's interesting?"

  He ignored the question. "Describe how Cassidy was dressed."

  Sadie was rapidly losing what little patience she'd walked in with. "Tuxedo and top hat."

  "What was he carrying?"

  "How the hell should I know? My lamp was doused." God only knows what would happen to Cass if I confess he entered my room with a lock pick! "Before I answer another question, I demand to know why I'm being treated like a suspected felon!"

  Mace wasn't in the least bit daunted. "You want to be treated like a Pinkerton? Prove you deserve it. What do you know about the theft of Dolce LaRocca's necklace?"

  "I know what I read in the Rocky."

  "Which is?"

  A muscle ticked in Sadie's jaw. "Sometime last night, the Windsor's vault was robbed. The heist was estimated at half a million dollars. The perpetrator escaped with small valuables, mostly jewelry."

  "You mean Cassidy escaped," Mace challenged.

  "Like I said, Cass was with me."

  Mace flipped a page in his notebook. "According to Rex, Cassidy left the Grand Central Hotel around 11:15 p.m. The attendant at the Windsor's livery claims Cassidy stabled his horse around 11:40 p.m. If he arrived at your room at midnight, that leaves 20 minutes unaccounted for. Twenty minutes is plenty of time to crack a safe."

  "Or smoke a cigarette," Sadie fired back. "Or bribe a stableboy."

  "All right. I'll bite. What's your theory?"

  "Cass was set up—or rather, Daredevil was. It's no secret that Daredevil and Maestro have been one-upping each other in the Rocky. Maestro's not the type to suffer a rival. In fact, he likes to eliminate human complications. My guess is, the hotel clerk was working for him. The clerk cleaned out the vault, gave the jewels to Maestro, then obeyed Maestro's orders to hang himself."

  " Zut alors," Wilma muttered, blanching. "But why would the clerk do such a thing?"

  "Maestro uses some combination of hypnosis and drugs to elicit mindless obedience. Then he gets rid of witnesses. That's why Baines shot himself, and Renfield hanged himself."

  Mace hiked an eyebrow. "You have proof of this?"

  "I'm working on it."

  Mace grunted. "That's what I figured." He ignored her blistering glare. "Your theory doesn't account for Sheridan Welbourn. She's still alive."

  "For now," Sadie said grimly. "And that doesn't mean I'm wrong about Renfield and Baines. But what I really don't understand is why the Rocky would print that cockamamie story about Daredevil."

  "You mean, because the most recent anonymous tip didn't come from Boone Wylie?" Mace's smile was mirthless. "Yes, I interrogated the muleskinner this morning. Wylie claims Cassidy hasn't communicated with him. By the time Wylie learned about the Windsor story and tried to quash it, 200 papers had hit the streets. Dolce read one and went through the roof. She marched into our office around 9 a.m., demanding that we recover her Tiffany necklace."

  So Dolce sicced the Pinkertons on Cass? Sadie bit back an oath.

  "Brodie took her statement," Mace continued dispassionately. "She described how Cassidy impersonated a law officer to gain her trust. She said he persuaded her to put Mephistopheles's Jewels in the hotel vault. He urged her to wear one of a half dozen fakes for her protection. Then he surrounded her with guards and sneaked out of the opera house around 10 p.m. She claims he stole her jewels and rode out of town."

  Sadie's chest heaved to learn how Cass's Maestro trap had backfired. She didn't doubt that Cass had jilted an international si
nging celebrity, since discarding women was the Rebel Rutter's way. But he didn't ditch Dolce to steal her necklace. He ditched her because I sent for him!

  "As for the hotel clerk, Mr. Jonathan Stewart," Mace said, heedless of Sadie's growing upset, "he left no suicide note. No wife. No family. He slept in a room behind the Windsor's office and devoted himself to the hotel's guests. Everyone I spoke to said he was an exemplary employee. Tabor was grooming him for manager. Suicide makes no sense, but I agree with Sadie. Murder might. I want Cassidy for questioning."

  Sadie's jaw dropped to hear Mace use her theory to incriminate Cass. "That's ridiculous! Cass wouldn't kill an unarmed man! He's a U.S. Marshal now."

  "I don't give a rat's ass if he's president of the United States. He's a suspect." Mace drilled her with a no-nonsense glare. "Where is he?"

  "How should I know?"

  "You sleep with him."

  "What the hell does that have to do with anything? Your entire case against Cass is built on an anonymous tip—which any halfwit can see came from Maestro—and the vindictive rant of a jilted lover. A woman like Dolce would be desperate to remain the darling of the press. If her American tour got cancelled, she'd have to pay back her thousand-dollar-a-performance price tag!"

  "Maybe," Mace said grimly. "And if you're right, Cassidy has nothing to lose by turning himself in. Just like you have nothing to lose by telling the truth."

  "I am telling the truth!"

  "Cassidy is my responsibility," Rex interceded. "I'll find him."

  Air whistled past Sadie's teeth. "Y-you don't believe he's innocent either, Rex?"

  Something primitive and volatile flickered in the Ranger's slate-gray eyes. Was the emotion worry for her? Fury with Cass? Sadie couldn't say. All she knew was that Rex turned his face away. He strapped on his holster and reached for his Stetson. "When I have him, I'll bring him to the office."

  "What office?" Sadie demanded.

  "Colorado District. U.S. Marshal."

  Mace nodded, tucking his notebook into his breast pocket. "The Pinkertons will want routine updates. I'll send a messenger to the office. One you can trust. You'll know him by the code word, Slammer." He threw on his cape.

  But before Mace followed Rex out the door, he paused on the threshold. He locked stares with Sadie. Something human flickered inside those hard, gemstone eyes. Regret, maybe? A reluctant sympathy? She wasn't certain.

  In the next moment, he was all business. All Pinkerton.

  "If that hillbilly kid comes sniffing around for information, keep your mouth shut," he said gruffly. "And don't make matters worse by getting in the way. Or else, you'll leave me no choice."

  "No choice but what?" she fired back.

  "To put you under house arrest."

  She gaped.

  The door slammed behind him.

  This is bad. This is really, really bad...

  Sadie was shaking. There was a roaring in her brain, a burning in her eyes. She bit her lip, tasting blood, vowing she'd bite it off before she cried.

  "Come, chere," Wilma crooned, reaching for a porcelain tea pot. "Let us have refreshment."

  "How can you possibly think of tea at a time like this?!"

  Wilma extracted a dainty silver flask from a pocket in her skirts. "Because it goes so well with bourbon."

  Sadie blew out her breath. Wilma considered hospitality next to godliness. All in good time, and all in its proper order. That was Wilma's motto, unless, of course, she was staring down the barrel of your gun. At that point, you had better kill her—and fast—because Mambos could make life one big, endless torment while they had enough breath to curse you with. According to Wilma, "There are worse fates than hell."

  Impatiently, Sadie waved away the cup the octoroon offered. If Sadie was going to drink bourbon—and she still might before the morning was over—it wouldn't be diluted with tea.

  "Cass didn't do it, Wilma. He might be a loose cannon and a philandering jackass, but he didn't steal Dolce's jewels. And he certainly didn't put a noose around that clerk's neck!"

  Wilma inclined her head in her gracious, southern manner. Whether she believed in Cass's innocence was unclear. Wilma knew him as well as Sadie did: every heroic impulse, every unexorcised demon. In fact, it was Wilma who had given birth to his Rebel Rutter legend back in Dodge, in a moment of whimsy, after his youthful stamina had accomplished what no other man had ever been able to do: win her wager to earn free ruts in her brothel.

  "I am sure this matter will be resolved soon," the Cajun soothed in her husky, buttered-toast voice. "In the meantime, we have our own case to solve, n'est-ce pas?"

  Setting down her cup, Wilma reached for the spectacles that hung from a delicate, gold chain around her neck. That chain was one of her few concessions to Father Time. A madam's most cherished secret was her age, and Wilma guarded hers more fiercely than most—with charms, incantations, and herbs.

  "I received a letter from Minx."

  Sadie struggled to concentrate. "But how—?"

  "Her older brother, Geoffrey, brought it to my attention. Apparently, this is the last family letter she wrote."

  Every hair on her scalp prickling, Sadie dragged her chair closer. She recognized Minx's handwriting. The letter was dated Oct. 15, which also happened to be the day the young Pinkie had sent her last telegram to headquarters, proving she was alive.

  Sadie's eyes narrowed. "When did you get this?"

  "Two days ago. Apparently, Geoffrey was away on business when the letter arrived at his home. He traveled to San Francisco immediately after Minx's funeral. He didn't know about the letter until he returned to his estate last week."

  Grimly, Sadie took the page from Wilma's hands and scanned it. Much of Minx's reminiscences had to do with social gatherings, as might be expected. To protect her secret mission, she'd told her brother she'd traveled to Denver to visit an old school friend—"Wynnie" Greyfell.

  Sadie caught her breath at this revelation. In all their conversations, Wyntir had claimed not to remember a woman of Minx's description!

  Uneasily, Sadie read further:

  "So sad, the news about Wynnie's father. The poor darling is devastated. She fired her papa's lawyer. Can you believe it? Benjamin Hoyt was like a second father to her! He served Edmund Greyfell for 26 years! Apparently, Hoyt counseled Wynnie to assign the bulk of her cash inheritance to a trust fund..."

  Goosebumps scuttled over Sadie's scalp.

  "What else did Geoffrey know about Wynnie—or rather, Wyntir?" she demanded.

  Wilma was pouring more tea. "You know this woman?"

  "I developed a relationship with her."

  Sadie explained how Wyntir's blackouts led her to consult with Baines behind Dante's back.

  "Interesting." Wilma lowered the teapot. "You are fond of this Dante."

  Embarrassment burned its way up Sadie's neck. "No more than any other man."

  Wilma didn't look convinced.

  Sadie shot her friend a withering look. "You were telling me what Geoffrey knew about Minx."

  Wilma nodded. "He calls her Minta. In a fit of rebellion, Araminta dubbed herself Minx when she left home to become a Pinkerton."

  Somehow, the name change didn't surprise Sadie, given what she already knew about the adventure-seeking debutante.

  "It is my understanding," Wilma continued, "that Geoffrey is unacquainted with his sister's friends. He is nearly 20 years Minx's senior. But Geoffrey did say, that on graduation day, Minx gave her friends a hand-made journal as a special memento. She was quite proud of it; she sent Geoffrey one too. Apparently, she pressed the pages from a special pulp mixture made, in part, from her trademark mint leaf. If this Wyntir is a friend of Minx's, she couldn't fail to remember such a gift."

  "Not necessarily," Sadie said grimly. "Wyntir's memory may have been altered. She submitted to hypnosis on numerous occasions at the hands of our chief suspect."

  Quickly, Sadie told Wilma everything she knew about trance states. How Maestro's
puppets appeared to be triggered by music. How Fowler and Baines had argued over the musical humidor. And how Sheridan Welbourn had been in a trance when she tried to rob—and then kill—Dolce LaRocca at the opera.

  "From the beginning, Minx suspected Fowler was Maestro. Somehow, he stayed one step ahead of us at every turn. He even knew you were coming to Denver!"

  Wilma hiked a coal-black eyebrow. "Impossible. My decision was made at the last minute."

  "I'm telling you, Wilma, he knew. Last week, he said straight to my face, 'Consult with your lady friend from the bayou. Her insights will prove most valuable when she arrives.' I think we have a mole in the agency!"

  Wilma's expression remained placid. But few things flustered Wilma. Sadie had seen the older woman face a knife-wielding ruffian and teach him respect with her whip. Wilma's reputation as a dominatrix and a Mambo was usually sufficient to keep predators in line—which was fortunate. Only a handful of men knew she was a Pinkie Chief.

  "Very well," Wilma said. "I shall take your concerns under advisement. What's next?"

  "Wyntir's birthday party is tonight. I'll question her about Minx."

  "And Fowler?"

  Sadie glanced at the mantel clock. "It's 12:15," she mused, doing some rapid calculations in her head. "Fowler should be hosting one of his spook shows. If you could confirm—"

  A polite knock on the door interrupted her.

  She tensed, her eyes locking with Wilma's.

  "Company?" Sadie whispered.

  "No one's supposed to know Rex and I are here except Collie."

  Wilma started to rise, but Sadie waved her back to her seat. After all, Wilma wasn't the one dressed as a man with a shoulder holster hiding under her coat.

  Unbuttoning her duster, Sadie drew her .32 and crossed to the door. But when she spied the visitor, waiting so patiently in the hall, her jaw hit the carpet.

  "Oh, hello, Contessa." As if encountering a bearded woman with a cocked pistol was an everyday occurrence, Enoch Fowler doffed his bowler and flashed his congenial smile. "I hope I'm not too late. I came to see the Marshal. To turn myself in."