Death by Devil's Breath

by Kylie Logan

  “That’s a lot of happy couples,” I said.

  The reverend didn’t exactly laugh. It was more of a snort. She kept stamping away. “Half of all marriages end in divorce,” she said, finishing up with the papers on one side of a table and starting down the other. “My guess is that the rate is higher for marriages I perform here in Vegas.”

  It was a surprisingly candid—and skeptical—comment from a woman I expected to be anything but.

  “Wow.” I looked over the sea of papers. “That’s a lot of couples who may not make it. Doesn’t that make you sad?”

  The reverend glanced up from her work. “Welcome to the real world.”

  Maybe I looked stricken by her cynicism. Maybe that was why the reverend smiled. “I didn’t really mean it!” She patted my shoulder. “You don’t think I’m that much of a curmudgeon, do you? I actually do believe in happily ever after.”

  It was nice to know, but hey, I understood. When it comes to romance, I’m pretty cynical, too.

  * * *

  The note was waiting for me when I got back to the Palace.

  It was a single sheet of paper, and the letters that had been glued on it were cut out of newspapers and magazines. Some of them were black and white. Some were colorful and glossy. The whole thing was such a hodgepodge that after I pulled the note out of its envelope, it took me a few moments of staring before I could focus.

  By that time, Sylvia was already standing at my side, reading over my shoulder.

  If u want to see the Chick again, I must talk to Jack.

  “Are you kidding me?” The way my voice ricocheted from the rafters, I don’t think kidding had anything to do with it. My hands shook so badly, I had to set down the note or risk tearing it to tatters. “That crazy woman is holding the Chick for ransom!”

  “She doesn’t know Jack is missing.”

  Oh, how I hate it when Sylvia says something that I hadn’t thought of myself.

  The idea brought me up short, and thinking, I narrowed my eyes and propped my fists on my hips. “You might be”—I had to swallow hard before I could get the word out—“right. That’s what this whole thing has been all about. She thinks Jack’s avoiding her. That he’s here somewhere and he’s dodging. She thinks that if she does enough weird stuff, he’s bound to show up to talk to her about it. And when he doesn’t, she ups the ante. That’s why she stole the Chick. She doesn’t know Jack is missing.”

  “But she does know where the Chick is.” Was that blue fire I saw shoot from Sylvia’s eyes? In all the years I’d known her (and that was all my life), I’d seen Sylvia be calculating and sly. I’d seen her annoyed at the things I’d done to her (real and imagined), and I’d seen her royally pissed. Just a few short weeks earlier, I’d seen her scared and vulnerable when she was arrested for murder.

  But I’d never seen the fire of righteous indignation in her eyes.

  At the same time I marveled at how amazing it was that she cared as much as I did about the Chick, I worried about the fact that Sylvia and I might actually agree about something. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up admiring her for her convictions.

  The thought sat on my shoulders like a too-tight jacket, and I twitched and shrugged to get rid of it, and when that didn’t work, I cleared a ball of uncomfortable emotion from my throat. “We’ll get the Chick back,” I promised my sister. “We have to. She’s the symbol of everything Jack did in his career.”

  Too late, I realized just how literally Sylvia would take my words. Oh yeah, the Chick was a symbol of Jack’s work, all right. The way he worked to steal Sylvia’s mother’s heart, and the way he worked (I hear it didn’t take him long) to cast her aside so he could win my mother over. The Chick was a legend on the chili cook-off circuit and I’d never thought of it before, but some of what was legendary had more to do with Jack’s love life than his chili spices.

  I held my breath, waiting for Sylvia to remind me of all this in her snippy Sylvia sort of way, but instead, all she did was sigh. “It would be awful if we never saw the costume again. But now that we’ve got the note . . .” When I put a hand out to pick it up again, she stopped me. “Fingerprints,” she said. “We’ll give it to Nick and he’ll give it to the cops and they’ll for sure find out who took the Chick.”

  “We don’t need to find out. We know. It’s crazy Bernadette.”

  No truer words had ever been spoken because just as I said them, I glanced out the window and pointed.

  “It’s crazy Bernadette!” I said when I caught sight of her outside in the street. “The woman has more nerve than a bad tooth.”

  “Maybe. But, Maxie, you’re not—”

  I didn’t wait around for Sylvia to tell me what I was not going to do. Before she could stop me, I stomped out of the bordello and into the dusty main street of Deadeye.

  By now, Bernadette was two storefronts down from the Palace.

  “You’re a no-good Chili Chick rustler,” I called out, and when I did, she stopped in her tracks.

  Slowly, she turned to face me. That day, Bernadette was dressed all in black in vivid contrast to me in my khakis and a shirt the flaming red color of a Satan’s Kiss pepper.

  She stood tall in her black boots. “You can’t possibly be talking to me,” Bernadette said.

  I took one step forward. “You know I am. And you know why. You kidnapped the Chick.”

  Bernadette took a step in my direction. “Did I?”

  “You can’t deny it. I know you did. And you’d better give her back.”

  “Or what?” She laughed and something about the brittle sound attracted attention. Before I knew it, the people who’d been browsing the shops of Deadeye were lined on the wooden sidewalk, watching the scene. Sylvia stepped onto the walk in front of the bordello. Gert walked out of the general store. I didn’t have to see Nick to know he was outside of the sheriff’s office with his eyes on me. I could feel the waves of heat coming from that direction, like the sun at high noon.

  Bernadette hooked her fingers in her belt. “Even if it was true, what could you possibly do about it, Maxie? What could you do if you thought I had the Chick?”

  “I could call the cops. I have called the cops. That costume’s worth a bundle. Stealing it is a felony.”

  “That’s too bad for whoever stole it. If the cops ever find the person.”

  The way the anger seethed in me, it was impossible to keep still. I took another step toward Bernadette. “Too bad for you, you mean. If you hurt the Chick—”

  “Who said anything about hurting her? If all it takes is for Jack to make an appearance—”

  “Aha!” I pointed my trigger finger at her. “I knew it was you. Only the person who wrote that lame ransom note would know that’s what it said. You want to see Jack. You’ll only give back the Chick once you talk to Jack.”

  I guess she thought it was a real possibility because her gaze flickered over the crowd, hungry and searching. When she didn’t see Jack anywhere and looked back my way, she frowned. “Prove I took the costume,” was all she said.

  “The cops will search your house. They’ll go over to Bibi’s Bump and Grind and—”

  “And you think I’m that stupid?”

  This was not the time for honesty. I drew in a breath and held it deep in my lungs, then forced myself to let it out slowly. “It’s not going to happen,” I told Bernadette. “You’re not going to see Jack.”

  “Avoiding me is that important to him?” She tried for a laugh but it didn’t fool me; I heard the way her voice clogged with emotion. “Can he really be that mean? That’s not . . . that’s not the Jack I remember.”

  “He isn’t mean.” I stepped closer to her. “There’s something you need to know, Bernadette. Jack . . .” I coughed away the sudden tightness in my throat. “Jack is missing.”

  She threw back her head and swaggered nearer. �
��Oh yeah, and I should believe that from the world’s biggest liar!”

  “I was. I was a liar,” I admitted. “But give me a break, that was a long time ago, and I was just a kid, and besides, I had my reasons.”

  “Like you hated me.”

  “Like I hated the thought of losing Jack.” Unconsciously, I’d mirrored her stance, my fingers hooked in the waistband of my khakis, my shoulders back. “I finally figured it out, Bernadette. It didn’t matter who it was, you or some other woman. I would have done the same thing. I couldn’t take the chance of losing Jack.”

  “But now you say . . .” We were still twenty feet from each other, but she swallowed so hard, I saw her throat jump. “You’re telling me that he’s not here? That he’s gone?”

  “He hasn’t been with the Showdown since back in Abilene. So I guess you wasted your time being in the Devil’s Breath contest. That is why you did it, isn’t it? That is why you used one of Jack’s old recipes. You thought for sure he’d be here, that he’d see you. That he’d realize you were still in love with him. You need to understand that’s not going to happen.”

  She looked as stricken as if she’d been shot. “Missing?” The word escaped her lips on the end of a moan. “You don’t think he’s—”

  I refused to let her say it. “I thought maybe you could tell me. I thought maybe you knew—”

  “No.” Bernadette shook her head back and forth, faster and faster. “You can’t believe I’d ever have anything to do with something like that! I love Jack. I always have. And I haven’t . . .” She swallowed her tears. “I haven’t seen him in years. And now you’re telling me . . .” By this time, she was breathing hard. Her voice rose, a soft, high keening that echoed through Deadeye like the cry of a banshee. “Missing?” When she looked at me, Bernadette’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Maybe if you would have let him be happy with me, he’d still be here.”

  It was my turn to clutch my chest. A second later, I knew there was only one way to handle both my pain and Bernadette’s. I raced forward and pulled her into a hug.

  Dang. I wish there weren’t so many people standing around watching. I’d hate for word to get out that I actually have a heart.

  CHAPTER 14

  I didn’t care if Sylvia liked it or not (and believe me, Sylvia did not like it), after that scene with Bernadette I needed to get out of Deadeye, and fast.

  Desperate to clear my head and avoid the looks I was getting from the crowds who’d watched my close encounter of the uncomfortable kind with Bernadette, I darted outside and regretted it instantly. Hot. It gets hot in Las Vegas. And that Saturday afternoon it was sizzling enough to melt the soles of my sneakers to the pavement. Unwilling to go back into Creosote Cal’s, where people were still pointing at me and whispering about how wonderful it was that I’d consoled Bernadette over her broken heart, I started off across the street. There was another hotel over there and a sign outside flashing out the news that the IADL & C was having its annual meeting there. I had no idea who or what the IADL & C was; I only knew that, with any luck, no one there would recognize me. And the AC would be cranked up, too.

  When I stepped into the lobby and a wave of cool air washed over me, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  That sigh stuck in my throat when I realized I was surrounded.

  Dolls.

  There were dolls everywhere. Armies of them were displayed in glass-fronted cases around the lobby. Posters of them hung on the walls. There was a doll bigger than me (and dressed as a bride . . . eesh!) standing near the hotel registration desk and another doll (this one a giant pseudo-Barbie in a pink bikini) near the entrance to the ballroom, where a sign welcomed conventioneers and visitors alike to the International Association of Doll Lovers & Collectors annual meeting. Personally, I would have much preferred a stop at the bar for a chilly one, but remember that cute little doll in Reverend Love’s office? And now this? Never let it be said that I don’t know a sign when I see it. Even if I don’t always know what the heck it means.

  Curious to find out, I strolled into the ballroom, where conventioneers mixed, mingled, and swarmed a few dozen vendor booths devoted to dolls, doll clothes, books about dolls, calendars that featured dolls, and even pieces and parts of dolls. I passed a booth where doll eyes stared at me from jars and plastic and porcelain doll arms and legs hung like so many sides of beef in a butcher shop. Bad enough, and even worse when I saw the display of doll wigs. Real human hair? They use real human hair to make the higher-priced doll wigs? If I wasn’t already completely creeped out, believe me, that would have put me over the edge.

  The good news is that—grossed out—I spun the other way, and when I did, I saw that the booth directly across from the pieces/parts store was manned by a guy who looked awfully familiar.

  George Jarret, the guy I’d seen first lurking around, then sneaking into, Dickie’s dressing room!

  More curious than ever, I strolled over in his direction and checked out the sign suspended above his table: Jarret Collectibles, Dolls of Distinction.

  Obviously, dolls weren’t the only things in his inventory. A section of his table was draped in black, and in the center of it was a framed photograph. It was surrounded by piles of the same photograph of none other than the late, great (hey, that’s what the sign that leaned against the framed picture said) Dickie Dunkin.

  So I was right about Jarret’s felonious ways! I saw him walk out of the dressing room with the pictures of Dickie, and now he was selling them for fifteen dollars each. Fifteen dollars for a picture of a guy in a plaid sport coat!

  I guess my expression registered my disgust, because Jarret stepped right over, his eyes eager.

  “Collector’s item,” he said, pointing to the photo. “And since the pictures are autographed, sure to gain in value year after year. A real investment. You know Dickie Dunkin was murdered just a couple days ago.”

  “I know you took these photos out of his dressing room.”

  Jarret’s face paled. “You can’t possibly—” Before he could say too much, he swallowed his protest and shuffled from foot to foot. “That’s preposterous.”

  “Just joshing!” I gave him a wide smile. “How could I possibly know anything like that? And why would I possibly care?” To prove it, I inched down the table and away from the pictures of Dickie, looking over Jarret’s merchandise as I went. It included new dolls still in their boxes, plastic baby dolls, and some of those eerie porcelain dolls that are meant to look realistic and instead look like something straight out of a horror movie writer’s warped imagination.

  Still, in the name of my investigation, I would have pretended I was interested, but I never had the chance. Something at the end of the table caught my eye, and before I even realized I was moving, I’d zoomed over there for a better look.

  It was a single doll inside a tall glass display case, and I took one close look and caught my breath.

  She was about a foot high and entirely made of fabric, from her skinny stuffed arms and legs to her big round head. This doll had yellow strips of felt for hair, and she was dressed in a white dress dotted with pink and blue flowers.

  “She’s great, isn’t she?” Jarret mistook the expression on my face for interested-in-doll instead of the interested-in-what-looked-awfully-familiar it really was. The scent of a sale hanging in the air, he rubbed his hands together and closed in on me and the doll. “You have good taste. And you’re knowledgeable. You know exactly what she is, don’t you? Then you also know she’s one of a kind.”

  I thought about my visit to the Love Chapel and the doll I’d seen in Reverend Love’s office. “But I’ve seen another. Not exactly the same, but similar.”

  “Really?” Jarret’s dark eyes lit up. I swear, if there wasn’t a display table between us, he would have pounced. “Where?”

  “Maybe in a book.” I must have been a pretty good liar, because his expressi
on fell. “That must have been it. A book about doll collecting.”

  “Well, I can see how the picture attracted your attention,” he said. He raised a hand toward the glass display case, not quite touching it, but caressing the air around it. “These dolls . . . they’re the Holy Grail of doll collecting.”

  “These dolls? But you said this was the only one.”

  He realized his error and cleared his throat. “Did I say they were a legend?” Jarret laughed. “Just a slip of the tongue. There were more of these wonderful dolls at one time. You probably saw photos of them in that doll collecting book you said you saw. Unfortunately, they’re long gone. If there were more of these dolls, this one wouldn’t be worth as much as it is.”

  I glanced from him to the doll. “And this one’s worth . . .?”

  “Seven-fifty,” he said.

  It took a couple seconds for the number to sink into my brain. “Seven hundred and fifty dollars? For a rag doll?”

  “Handmade,” Jarret said. “One of a kind.”

  I remembered what Reverend Love had told me about the doll I saw in her office. “And this doll was made by a woman named Louise, right?”

  Jarret got that smile on his face, the one I’d seen people sprout when they were about to lecture me about how they were right and—oh, as much as they hated to admit it, they couldn’t spare me from the painful truth—how I was very, very wrong.

  “This is a Noreen Pennybaker doll.” He said this like it was supposed to mean something. Maybe it did in the world of doll collecting, but it didn’t mean squat to me.

  It did, however, spark a memory.

  I bent to peek up the doll’s dress, but because of the glass display case, it was impossible to get a good look. “Noreen Pennybaker?” I glanced up at Jarrett. “Should her name be inside the doll’s petticoat?”

  “I assure you, it’s embroidered there. Along with the doll’s name, of course. That’s how we know Honey Bunch here is authentic. If you’re a serious buyer . . .” He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to. Obviously, if I was serious and had seven hundred and fifty dollars to burn, he’d whip out the doll and throw her skirts in the air to show me the embroidered signature. If not, then I wasn’t worth the effort.