Chapter 17
"Hands up!" Sadie barked, waving Fowler into the room.
Wilma hiked an eyebrow. "And who is this?"
"Permit me to introduce myself, madam. My name is—"
"Shut up," Sadie snapped, yanking him around. Her heart was crashing against her ribs. There was no telling what insidious weapon Fowler had hidden under his coat: Guns. Dynamite. Lethal drugs.
"Hands on the wall. Legs spread." She forced his skull forward, so his forehead butted against the rose-patterned paper. "Frisk him, Mrs. Robinson," she said, careful to maintain Wilma's cover.
"I assure you, ladies—" Fowler's chin was tucked in his collar, so his voice sounded muffled "—I am quite harmless—"
"Did I say you could talk?" Sadie growled, her gun hammer clicking by his ear.
He sighed.
"He's not armed," Wilma concluded after patting down his clothes.
"Check for bombs. It would be just like Maestro to send someone here to blow us up."
"Nothing's ticking," Wilma advised, wrestling his shirt tails from his waistband.
Sadie was relieved to see no wires or timing devices strapped to his torso. "All right, cuff him."
Peeking over his shoulder, Fowler gawked as Wilma hiked her skirts to produce a pair of manacles—the all steel, all Pinkerton kind.
"Goodness. What a clever place to hide—"
"Shut up!" Sadie smacked the back of her prisoner's head. So help me God, if he gets a hard on, I'll bust more than his chops. "Sit." She shoved him into the spindle-backed chair.
At last she felt safe enough to step back and take her thumb off the gun hammer.
Wilma hiked a questioning eyebrow.
"Enoch Fowler," Sadie supplied finally. "Or more likely, Maestro."
"May I speak now?" he asked.
"When spoken to," Sadie fired back. She glowered at the disheveled preacher, whose expression was far too complacent for her peace of mind. "If I had my way, you sack of turds, I'd be handing you to a female lynching mob, not an all-male jury."
"I'm sure I would feel the same way, if—"
"Don't try to placate me!"
Wilma cleared her throat. "Mr. Fowler—"
"Reverend," he corrected her politely.
"Very well. Reverend Fowler, did I hear you correctly? You came here to turn yourself in?"
"Yes, madam. To save us all a bit of time. Someone is going to arrest me anyway."
Sadie sneered at this gall. "You got that right."
Wilma hiked an eyebrow. "And why would someone want to arrest you, Reverend?"
"Let's just say I have enemies. People who don't like to hear the truth."
"Because you blackmail them with it?"
Indignant, Fowler stiffened in his chair. "Madam, whatever you may think of my sources, I assure you, I am nothing more than their channel. I told as much to your young colleague before her death. Now I understand that individuals within your organization—" he tossed Sadie a pointed look "—are trying to implicate me in that tragedy. The only way to prove my innocence is to help you catch the real culprit. That's why I'm here."
"So you've been listening at keyholes," Sadie bit out.
An unmistakable challenge gleamed in Fowler's intensely blue stare. It locked with hers. "Your ragdoll is buried with your twin. At the time, it was your most treasured possession."
Sadie's breath whistled past her teeth. For a moment, she was so astounded, all she could do was gape. How the hell could Fowler know something so private about her childhood? She'd never told that story to Cass or Wilma. She hadn't even told it to Mama!
In fact, Mama had forbidden her to go near the casket. Mama had blamed her for Maisy's death. Sadie had been forced to sneak Dolly inside the pinewood box so Maisy wouldn't be scared to go to heaven alone.
Wilma was frowning. She waved Sadie to a circumspect silence. "Tell me, Reverend. What exactly do you think our line of work is?"
"Most recently? Undercover investigations."
Sadie and Wilma exchanged uneasy looks.
"And you believe this because—?"
"My dear madam, I do not wish to offend. Only to help. Oh, good," he continued with unmistakable relief. "There's the marshal now. I wasn't too late, after all."
As if on cue, Rex's spurs jingled in the hall and his key scraped in the lock.
"Blast. I grabbed the wrong—" His explanation trailed off as the door swung open.
"Badge," Fowler finished for him. "Yes, good sir, you left your marshal badge in your duster. Left breast pocket."
Rex gaped to see Sadie drawing a bead on a handcuffed man. "Who the hell is this?"
"Reverend Enoch Fowler," Wilma said dryly. "Apparently, he talks to spirits."
Rex hiked a bushy gray eyebrow. "Talking to spirits is a crime now?"
"It's a little more complicated than that," Sadie snapped. "Fowler's the chief subject in Maestro's crime spree, including the murder of Minx Merripen."
"I thought Minx jumped off a bridge."
"Her murder will be difficult to prove," Fowler said sadly.
Sadie was sorely tempted to hit him again—and a lot lower this time.
Meanwhile, Wilma was rummaging in the left breast pocket of Rex's duster.
"For God's sake," Sadie told her, "you can't seriously believe—"
The Mambo's expression grew grim. She withdrew her hand to display the marshal badge.
Goosebumps tiptoed down Sadie's spine. "Lucky guess," she insisted stubbornly. "He probably saw Rex take off the star and slip it into his pocket. Or maybe one of his followers did. God knows, hundreds of them are polluting this town."
Fowler shot her a reproachful look. "My dear young woman, a little faith wouldn't hurt you. Surely, you don't think you survived that brothel fire simply because of your lock-picking skill. Meg and Maisy watch over you."
This dig incensed Sadie. "Just Mama and Maisy?" she sputtered, desperate to poke a hole in his eerily invasive insights. "Not the ghost of my father?"
"Your father isn't dead."
"Liar!"
Rex blanched. Lunging between her and Fowler, he plucked the gun from her fist.
"That's enough," he growled. "Unless you have some evidence to charge him, you can't cuff this man and hold him against his will."
Sadie hiked her chin. "He turned himself in."
"Is that a fact?" Rex drilled Fowler with his steely lawman's glare. "You have a confession to make, padre?"
"Yes, marshal. I confess I speak to spirits. They have information that can help you solve Maestro's crimes."
"And these spirits are just piping up now, are they? Convinced you to be a Good Samaritan, did they?"
"What would you have me say, sir? You're the law, and you don't believe me, even though I just proved I know the unknowable. Such is my fate among lawmen. Nevertheless, I do try to help in my way.
"When I foresaw Maestro's coming, I urged Lilybelle Welbourn to hide her jewels and hide them well. I cautioned Malcom Renfield not to work alone in the museum after dark. I warned Mendel Baines to rid his home of musical novelties—" he hiked a challenging brow at Sadie "—as you'll no doubt recall, since you were eavesdropping. However, he called me a crackpot.
"I don't have to tell any of you what happened when Professor Baines ignored the spirits' advice," Fowler continued with an unpleasant hint of righteousness. "Now I fear for Wyntir Greyfell. She is young. She is impressionable. And she will inherit a fortune at midnight."
Sadie wasn't sure what to believe. Fowler was the consummate showman. He could be lying through his teeth.
Her troubled gaze flicked to Wilma. The Mambo was staring at the window, as if she could see past its latched, wooden shutter. She'd grown unusually quiet. Sadie fidgeted, wondering if her outburst had offended Wilma. In all their years of friendship, Sadie had schooled herself to discretion, outwardly tolerating Wilma's arcane practices: the tattoos of writhing snakes on her hands; the pouch of protective herbs around her n
eck; the little straw poppets dressed like friends—and enemies. But secretly, Sadie was spooked by Wilma's Voodoo.
"Tell me, Reverend." The Mambo was winding the cord of her gris-gris around and around her forefinger in the most disturbing way. "Are your financial affairs in order?"
Fowler stiffened.
Wilma's dark, compelling stare finally fastened on the preacher. "You are a gifted clairvoyant, m'sieu. Of this, I have no doubt. Your visions warned you about the Federal agents combing the Windsor for you, even as we speak. The Denver police cannot prevent your arrest for tax evasion. But a U.S. Marshal? Perhaps he can."
A dark flush rolled up Fowler's neck. But he didn't deny the accusation. "Madam, I cannot pay the penalty. They will throw me in prison and lock Rebekah in an asylum. I can't let that happen to her. If your spirits are good and true, then they've shown you her fate. The child will not survive another institution."
Rex shot Wilma an exasperated look. Sadie knew him well enough to understand his frustration. Rex didn't have the freedom to interpret the law. All he could do was enforce it.
"A plea bargain might be possible," he conceded in grudging tones. "But you can't go to court spouting mumbo-jumbo, padre. Hard evidence. That's what a judge wants. And the district attorney will want Maestro's conviction."
"I am prepared to do whatever I must. For Rebekah," Fowler added staunchly.
"You have taken the first step, Reverend," Wilma soothed. "Now you must trust the process."
Tears filled his eyes. "Please, madam. Watch over my ward. Without me, she has only the spirits to protect her. And sometimes, spirits aren't enough."
"My friends will rally around her," Wilma assured him. "The child will be well guarded. You have my word."
"Thank you," Fowler whispered hoarsely.
As Rex caught the preacher's arm and helped him from the chair, Sadie struggled with a surge of guilt.
Maybe I really did misjudge Fowler. Maybe he really does care about Rebekah.
Then again, murderers weren't immune to love. Crimes of passion produced corpses all the time. Fowler could be playing them all for fools.
As if sensing her skepticism, Fowler glanced over his shoulder. Their eyes met.
"Eat nothing," he urged suddenly. "Drink nothing at the party unless it is poured by your own hand. He will be watching."
"Who?" Rex demanded, yanking Fowler's arm so hard, the preacher nearly stumbled to his knees.
"She knows," Fowler gasped.
"You think that's the kind of talk that'll make you friends in court?" Rex growled, shoving his prisoner out the door.
Sadie shivered, avoiding the speculation in Wilma's all-too-knowing eyes.
Sadie did indeed know whom Fowler had meant.
But she didn't want to believe it.
* * *
"Psst!"
Cass hiked an eyebrow at the snow-dusted bush, hissing so urgently at him beside the porch of the Bust-a-Gut Saloon.
"You talking to me, Four Eyes?"
The young Pinkerton blew out his breath. "I'm supposed to be disguised," Brodie grumbled.
Cass hid his amusement. Little did the intrepid, junior detective realize, he might as well have been waving a red flag above his stakeout. Little puffs of steam were rising above the dark, green leaves of the boxwood's foliage.
Strolling through the slush, Cass propped his derriere on the railing beside the bush. Yes, Mace Ryker isn't the only one who can recruit allies from the other side.
Night was creeping over the mountains, and the temperature was rapidly dropping as Cass fished in his duster pocket for his tobacco. Leaning his shoulders into the corner of the building, away from the wind gusting across the river, he lit a quirley, mostly for an excuse to sit and talk to a bush.
"Sterne's still hunting for me, I reckon."
"Oh, no, sir!" Brodie protested. "Not anymore. I threw him off your trail. I told Ryker you were spotted out by Union Station."
"So Sterne and Ryker both think I fled by train? Much obliged."
Brodie grew pink with pleasure. "I want Maestro caught as much as you do, sir. Did you win the $200?"
Cass shoved a jingling leather pouch through the branches. Brodie sucked in his breath.
"Jeepers! That's $500!"
Cass smiled to himself. Brodie might be four years older than Collie, but he possessed the street smarts of a toddler.
"Wait a minute," the junior agent said suspiciously. "Is this a bribe?"
"Can you be bribed, son?"
"Absolutely not, sir!"
"And Pinkertons, Rangers, and Marshals are all on the same side, right?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Then it can't be a bribe, now can it?" Cass blew out a lazy stream of smoke. "So tomorrow, I want you to dress as Don Dom's valet and take 200 of those dollars to Miss Wyntir. The rest will buy you a horse and tack."
"But I already have a horse."
"No. You have Dumpling."
Brodie's sigh was wistful. He clutched his plump new money bag a wee bit tighter. "Giving Dumpling a new name sure would be a lot cheaper."
"A nag's a nag, son. Changing her name won't turn her into a runner—or even a walker. 'Sides. If working magic was that easy, I'd have re-Christianed Pancake. Named him something useful, like Bountiful Springs of Whiskey."
Brodie's muffled cough sounded suspiciously like a snicker. "I suppose Dumpling isn't much of a deputy's horse. Or even a valet's, I reckon," he added, testing the unfamiliar Westernism on his Hoosier tongue.
"Son, a crippled monkey wouldn't ride her."
This time, Brodie's strangled laughter came out as a snort.
"Shh!" he whispered fiercely, pocketing his bribe. "You want folks to wonder why this bush wasn't here 20 minutes ago?"
Cass suspected that question was rhetorical because Brodie launched into the rest of his report.
"Marshal Sterne took Fowler into custody. Mostly for protection, I think. The rumor is, Fowler has some dirt on Maestro, and he's using it to plea down tax fraud. Since Maestro might retaliate, Miss Wilma sent Collie to protect Rebekah. Collie wasn't too happy about it."
Cass's lips twitched. "I don't suppose he was. And Sadie?"
"Ryker's with her."
A muscle ticked in Cass's jaw. Brodie fidgeted while Cass sucked on his smoke.
"Can I ask a personal question, sir?"
"Shoot."
"Why don't you become a Pinkerton?"
Cass shrugged, tapping ash. "'Cause I'm a showboater, I reckon. Undercover work is for fellas who like to keep to the shadows, where they can't be seen."
Brodie digested this news. "But you've worked undercover before. Besides, Pinkertons can get married. Mr. Allan has a wife."
"You think a lawman can't survive without a wife?"
"No, sir! It's just that... well, I see how you look at her."
"Her, who?"
Brodie snorted.
"Dolce? Mattie?"
"Miss Sadie would claw out your eyes," Brodie protested, aghast.
"You think?"
"And fry your balls!"
Cass grinned. "She does have a fiery nature."
"Like a supernova."
"Sounds like you want to marry our shooting star."
"Me? Heck, I wouldn't know the first thing about keeping a woman like her happy. But Ryker..."
"What about him?"
Brodie grimaced, averting his eyes. "He's not your friend, sir. I don't have to tell you that."
Cass's smile was mirthless. He dropped his cigarette butt. It plummeted like a tiny meteor, sizzling in the slush before winking out. Just to make sure, he ground the stub into the water with his boot toe—imagining it was Ryker's face.
"Did you salt those steaks the way I told you to?"
"Yessir," Brodie said.
The boy pushed a package, wrapped in butcher paper, through the branches. Cass hid it under his duster.
"And the blueprint?"
"I made a sketch. Goddard's offi
ce is in the west wing, on the second floor. The library's on the south side, at the top of the grand staircase. You really think you'll find the Heart of Fire at Greyfell Manor?"
"It takes a thief to catch a thief."
"'Cause they think alike?"
"Now you're catching on, son."
Brodie looked pleased.
Cass winked, pocketing the sketch and saying his farewells. Tugging his Stetson low against the wind, he headed for the hitching post, where he found his buckskin huddled for warmth between two long-legged fillies. Ol' Pancake wasn't the fuddy-duddy Collie liked to think he was.
Cass's smile faded as he swung into the saddle and turned toward Colfax Avenue. The moon would be dark tonight, which he considered an advantage. Wyntir's birthday party would soon be in full swing. Too bad Don Dom had been forced to give his regrets. But Lucifire was looking forward to his rendezvous with a climbing rope and a mansard roof.
Chapter 18
Sadie was struggling to strap her derringer beneath ten pounds of underwear when a knock rattled the penthouse door.
Assuming the caller was Collie, she blew a curl off her forehead. She hadn't seen the boy or his masked moocher all day.
"Just a minute," she muttered. "I'm coming!"
"Ciao, amore mia bella!" came the muffled response from the hall.
Sadie's hands stilled on her thigh holster. Now that voice hadn't been bred in Kentucky.
Dropping her skirts, she approached the door with caution. This morning, she might have appreciated the arrival of an Italian knight in shining armor, whose warm, rich baritone claimed her as his beautiful love—especially while Cass had been running amuck, smashing things.
But at 6:40 p.m., with her nerves as taut as fiddle strings, thanks to her worries about Maestro's mindless minions, she was tempted to shoot first, and ask questions later.
Struggling against the impulse, she stooped to squint through the keyhole. She spied a dashing sash of crimson silk, a trio of glittery medals, and a red rosebud clutched in a white-gloved fist.
What woman wouldn't open the door for that?
Hiding her pistol behind her back, she dared to turn the knob. To her surprise, a man in black swallowtails—with Mace's green eyes—clicked his heels and doubled over in a smart bow. She raised her eyebrows. Her fastidious boss had donned a coal-black wig, waxed a mustache into curly-cues, and fastened mutton chop whiskers to his jaw. He'd also given himself a paunch. She didn't know whether to be amused or annoyed.
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 23