Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (10 page)

I make an attempt but the room rocks. “No way I’m
going anywhere right now.”

I crack one eye. The room seems to be as it should
be. Then I open the other and the room tilts. Bad mistake. I
suppress a rising gag. “I’m really dizzy. Maybe some water would
help.”

“You do look a little pale. Don’t move. I’ll be
right back.”

The Cardinal’s return draws me from my fog. “Seems
they’ve locked us in. This doesn’t bode well at all.”

He grabs my hand. “Let’s get you in that chair.”

I shake my head and snatch out of his grasp. “Wait a
few, will you?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t play games with me. That champagne was
drugged.”

He glances toward the bottle, then back at me. “What
on earth are you talking about?”

“I took maybe four sips of that stuff and I feel
like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck.”

“But, my dear, the bottle was here when we arrived.
I opened it, remember?”

He helps me into the chair, then drags the bottle
from the cooler, holds it in mid-air for a second and jams it back
into the ice. “Damn. I should have suspected something was up when
they looked so surprised to see me.”

He lets out a long breath and settles in the other
chair. “The meeting didn’t go well at all. Without Larry’s support,
there was little I could do to stop what they call ‘progress.’
Those young men have crossed the line. They want to make illegal
drugs available to anyone who’ll pay.”

I lick my parched lips and then murmur, “Maybe they
already have.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe they’re selling drugs upstairs.” “Upstairs?
How can you know that?”

I shrug and look away.

He doesn’t seem to notice my evasion. “Larry handles
all the activities on the second floor and runs a tight ship. No.
You must be mistaken about the drugs.”

I bite my tongue on that one. “Maybe. But what about
the prostitutes?”

“Prostitutes? Oh, I wouldn’t call those darling
lovelies names if I were you. They’re our guests here at The
Castle. Most of them are college girls just looking to have a good
time.”

“Oh, I just bet they are.”

My tongue seems to have swollen to twice its size
but I manage a slurred, “If they locked us in, we better find a way
to get out.” I shine my mag on the fake bookcase. “Might want to
get a closer look.”

He walks to the wall, runs his hand across the bogus
book spines and turns to face me. For the briefest instant his face
seems to divide. In the half-light, his steely eyes look almost
evil. Sure that I must be hallucinating, I rub my own with the
heels of my hands.

His words slide through my haze. “This house was
built before the Civil War by an abolitionist family. It was part
of the Underground Railroad.

“As boys Larry and I spent countless hours looking
for the rumored secret passages. Several years later, Larry’s
father took us through them. But, sadly, the thrill of discovery
was lost on us since we were no longer children.

“And, if I recall—” He presses the mantle and the
door slides open to reveal a dark hallway.

“Stay behind me and don’t make a sound.”

The Cardinal throws his cape over his shoulders,
jams the hat on his head and disappears into the shadows.

I grab my purse and mask and stagger into the
passageway. When I pause to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, I
hear the measured squeak of the Cardinal’s patent-leather tux
shoes.

There’s a muffled, “What the deuce?” followed by a
thud and a scuffle.

I wobble forward until I reach a wall and look to my
left. Silhouetted against an open doorway, two men are struggling.
The shorter of the two is wearing what looks like some sort of
oriental mask that I’ve seen before.

The man raises his arm. I see a faint glint as it
plunges downward and the Cardinal crumples to the floor.

HEART JAMMING MY THROAT, I stumble the few steps
back to the library, grab the protruding edge of the door with both
hands and yank. It doesn’t budge. Then I give it a frustrated whack
with my fist and the false bookcase whispers across the opening. I
sag against it, my breath hard and ragged, relieved that I’ve
bought a little time.

Still, I can’t stop shaking. What if that man saw
me? If he did, and he can open the passage from the other side, I’m
as good as dead.

I lurch across the room and try the door to the main
hall. Locked.

The wing chair seems to be the safest place in the
room. I tuck my feet and dress beneath me. In one hand, I clutch my
purse with the lifeless cell phone. My silver mask, the one the
Cardinal so proudly presented to me, in the other.

I pull out my cell. Eight forty-five. That can’t be
right. Then I remember it’s Houston time. Add an hour and that
makes it well past nine.

The breaks in between songs must be synchronized so
the couples in both places can chat, then move on at the same time.
Unfortunately, the blasts coming from the tent just outside the
library fight with the blare from the ballroom across the hall. Now
that the drug-laced champagne haze is wearing off, I have a raging
headache.

The lock clicks softly and the library door opens. I
shrink into the protection of my high-backed chair, hoping whoever
is there will go away. No such luck. Footsteps approach. I cringe
and clamp my eyes shut until I feel a light touch on my
shoulder.

There stands the Cardinal, masked and caped with his
wide-brimmed hat at a jaunty angle. This can’t be—or can it?

WHEN HE REACHES FOR MY HAND, I hesitate and check
his left glove. No outline of a signet ring. My stomach caves.
Someone else is wearing the Cardinal’s costume.

“Wait just a minute. I’m not going anywhere until
you explain—”

The man in red grabs my hand and pulls me to
stand.

I struggle out of his grasp and fall back into the
chair, clutching the arms as tightly as I can. “Sorry. No can do. I
was instructed to wait here.”

He ignores my feeble protest and manages to get a
good enough grip on my arm so that he can hustle me through the
study door and into the crowded hall.

Every few steps, I try to resist by digging my heels
in—but he hauls me along behind him, nodding this way and that to
the masked men and their “arm candy,” who nod back and part to let
us through. Not one of them seems to notice my distress or if they
do, not one seems to care.

We lurch down the front steps, turn left onto the
circular driveway. Once we’re past the tent, he drags me across the
broad lawn and to the building at the water’s edge.

Inside, a single bulb sways beneath the rafters
giving off enough light to reveal three boat slips with a speedboat
in each.

The man in red releases his hold on my arm, then
rips off his broad hat and silver mask. Bill Cotton stands before
me.

At first, I don’t know whether to slap him or hug
him, but even though my heart wins, I stifle the urge and manage a
squeaky, “You? What in hell were you doing? Dragging me around like
a bratty kid. All you had to do was say who you were.”

He lowers his eyes for only a second. “I couldn’t
let you know when we were in there. Believe me—it was for your own
safety.”

“I knew it. You’re the DEA mole. But what are you
doing in the Cardinal’s costume?”

He ignores my question and tosses the mask and hat
into the stern of the nearest boat. “Later. We have to hurry.”

Bill releases the line from its cleat, jumps in and
helps me down beside him. Once I’m settled, he presses the silver
button on the dashboard, and the motor hums to life.

The boat glides into the channel and moves slowly
past The Castle ablaze with lights. In the tent, shadows gyrate to
a raucous mambo-beat.

But, what about the Cardinal’s outfit? How did Bill
get it? I shake away the thought, not wanting to think about the
answer.

I watch as he notches up the throttle, and we speed
through the night.

When a bright light blinks from the shore, he arcs
the boat landward. “There’s the signal. Right on schedule. It won’t
be long now.”

The next few minutes are spent docking the boat,
then we follow two men dressed in tuxes carrying Uzis to a waiting
sedan.

Bill helps me into the back seat, then slips in
beside me. “We don’t have long. In fact this might be the only time
we’ll have together. The situation is too dangerous.”

He gathers me to him and his lips softly search
mine. Despite the thousand questions that beg to be asked, I can’t
pull my lips away.

When the kiss ends, neither one of us speaks. Though
I’m sad the kiss is over, I feel as if I’ve reached an oasis in the
desert after a very long march.

Bill’s voice resonates against my ear. “I’ve missed
you, Allie. I can’t count the times I picked up the phone to call.
And then when I saw you the other evening with Danes—so close. I
could have reached out and touched you. God help me, I almost
did.”

I think back to that first night: the dumb,
overdressed women, the men in masks to conceal their identities.
There was only one man besides the Cardinal that I can clearly
recall—the man in the Foo Dog mask. I worry for only an instant,
and shove the thought away. It couldn’t have been Bill. That man
was much shorter.

The arrival of a second car sends Bill to greet it.
Whoever is behind the tinted windows doesn’t emerge. Bill leans in,
has a few words, then hurries back to the car.

“Kingsley-Smythe’s suffered a massive coronary. They
have him on life support but it doesn’t look good. Damn. This
really complicates the issue.”

The scene in the dim passageway replays. There was
something about the other man—something I remember quite clearly
now. He was wearing a Foo Dog mask.

But maybe the man didn’t stab him. Maybe the
Cardinal was in the midst of the attack and he was trying to help.
I file that thought away for later.

“When did it happen?”

“Does it matter? The poor man is probably dead by
now.” Bill slides in next to me. “This is a major setback for my
participation in the case. Kingsley-Smythe graced me with his
mantle. But now—”

It’s then I remember the jewels. I touch my hand to
the necklace. “These belong to Kingsley-Smythe.”

Bill leans forward, fingers the necklace, then moves
away. “I can’t deal with that now. Hang on to them, will you?”

“But they don’t belong to me. Isn’t there some way I
could get them to his wife?”

He leans away into the shadows. “Not through me.
I’ve only met Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe on a few social occasions.”

He’s lying. I can feel it in the depths of my gut.
But why? Bill motions to one of the men, who comes our way.

When he starts to exit the car, I grab his arm.
“Hey, wait a minute. When will I see you?”

“I don’t know. Not for awhile.”

He slides back in, holds up a hand, and the man
stops a few feet away. “Listen carefully to what I’m about to
say.”

I look into his face, trying to read his mood, but
the night makes that impossible.

“Go back to Texas. You’ll be safe there.” His tone
is soft, but his message isn’t.

“I can’t. Not now. I can’t leave until I find out
who murdered Carolina Montoya. I owe her at least that much.”

Bill grabs my shoulders. With each word his grasp
tightens. “Damn it, Allie, I’m begging you to stay out of this. I
shouldn’t be telling you, but I’m in the middle of a major sting
operation. People in high places will be brought down if it works.
These people are deadly. You have to get out of here before they
connect you to me. If they do, I won’t be able to help you.”

“Are the men with the Uzis part of the operation?”
He smiles. “What do you think?”

————

It’s past midnight when I collapse on the sofa. I
want a drink, but I’m too exhausted to make the effort. Instead, I
lean into the cushions and shut my eyes to let the events of the
evening tumble forward.

I revisit the darkened passageway. See the two men
struggling. The Cardinal collapsing. The other man turning my way
for only an instant before disappearing through the open door. Yes.
I’m positive now. He was wearing a Foo Dog mask.

I leave that scene to concentrate on seeing Bill
once again after so long. Feeling his lips on mine. Heaven. But I
have to face it. Bill Cotton is no longer the same man I fell in
love with in Texas.

“On assignment” he said, didn’t he? But what about
Kingsley-Smythe? Bill has to know what happened because he was
wearing the Cardinal’s costume.

That means he’s part of the action. But what part?
The half of me in love with Bill wants to believe he’s one of the
good guys, but the attorney in me is taking bets.

I remove the necklace and earrings and place them on
the end table nearest me, then kick off the heels and prop my feet
on the coffee table.

As sleep fights to win, I replay our brief
encounter. The attraction between us is still as strong as
ever—maybe even stronger. But my last conscious thoughts give me
little comfort. When Bill said those people were deadly was he
including himself?

THE WHINE OF TRUCK-LIFTS, punctuated by the metallic
slams of garbage cans against cement, signals the break of day.
Soon a cacophony of horns drifting from Ninety-Sixth Street will
add their fugue. The ever-beating pulse of Manhattan is a far cry
from roosters in Lampasas or the soft swish of distant freeway
traffic in Houston.

I fall back into a dream-filled sleep, and it’s past
ten when I lurch down the hall to the bathroom, peer in the mirror
above the sink and let out a small “Erk.”

My eyes could easily be the “Before” in the Visine
ad. The smeared mascara and blotchy skin remind me of an old Texas
adage: “That gal’s been rode hard and put up wet.” Worse still,
both my shoulders ache like hell.