A Cast of Killers (38 page)

"Wait. I see a redhead over there." Lilah
nodded discreetly toward a short hallway. Sure enough, an extremely
tall redhead slouched into view, tugging at her waist in an effort
to keep her pantyhose from riding down her long legs. Her face was
elongated and drooped with stupor or boredom. She started to the
right, stopped abruptly to get her bearings, then lurched to the
left and perched on the edge of one of the leather couches where
she proceeded to absently ruffle the thinning hair of a tubby
businessman. His existing blonde companion looked up indignantly,
ready to squawk, but kept silent when she spotted the redhead.

T.S. stared more closely at the balding
businessman. His face— red and perspiring from too much drink and
too many female hormones hovering nearby—looked oddly familiar. But
T.S. could not pinpoint why. Surely they had met previously.
Perhaps before T.S. had retired? Or had it been more recently? It
was maddening not to be able to recall.

"No one looks very happy at this party,"
Lilah said suddenly. "Am I right or am I insane?"

"No, you're definitely right," T.S. agreed.
"Everyone seems a little bit too desperate for another drink. Even
those men on the couch, clutching those women, don't seem
particularly thrilled to be here. And the women are clearly bored.
They're patting those men on the heads like they're puppies." He
searched the interior of the apartment carefully. "I wonder where
Lance Worthington is?"

"Lilah Cheswick! What on earth are you doing
here?" It was the first cultured voice of the evening and it
belonged to an extremely distinguished-looking man who had
apparently been hiding out in the kitchen behind them.

"Albert!" Lilah was two parts shocked at
seeing someone she recognized and one part embarrassed at being
caught at such a freewheeling party. "I'm here with my friend,
Theodore. He's looking into backing one of Mr. Worthington's plays.
Something about Davy Crockett. What on earth are you doing
here?"

Albert shrugged apologetically. "I got roped
into backing it, too. I thought I'd better check out what sort of
fellow he is. I'm not too impressed, I must say." He sipped at his
drink and raised his eyebrows at Lilah in a manner that managed to
be superior without being condescending.

T.S. hated the fellow on sight. He pegged him
at once as a CEO or president of his own company, one who had
started with inherited money but then made a huge success out
of—probably doubling or quadrupling—the family fortune. Now he was
in his early fifties, all tanned and exercised into good health,
probably with one wife behind him and a newer model floating around
somewhere. Plus a girlfriend, three secretaries and a legion of
toadying employees. T.S. knew the type well. What was he doing at
Lance Worthington's party? Surely he had better investments of both
time and money to make. Especially if he moved in that world of old
money that intimidated T.S. so much—the same world Lilah had grown
up in.

It was the one thing, T.S. reflected sadly,
that might conspire to keep them apart. All that money. Or a man
like Albert. In a sudden flood of insecurity, he silently directed
his hostility toward Albert.

If Lilah thought Albert's presence at the
party was odd, she tactfully kept silent. But she could sense
T.S.'s discomfort and looked so uneasy that T.S. relented. He
decided that he would be gracious and attempt small talk after all.
"Wonder where our host is?" he asked their new companion.

Albert shrugged, bored, and T.S. took it as a
personal insult. "Probably in the back bedroom," Albert finally
replied. "He seems to be spending a lot of time there."

As if on cue, Lance Worthington appeared in
the back hallway, a familiar blonde on one arm. "There he is," T.S.
nodded toward the darkened interior. "And he's got that woman with
him. Red dress."

"Sally St. Claire," Lilah murmured. "Although
I'm sure that's a nom deplume of sorts. It would be the perfect
name for the madam of a bordello."

"You know Sally?" Albert inquired a little
too casually and T.S. knew at once that he had a more than passing
familiarity with Sally St. Claire's more intimate attributes. T.S.
had interviewed people for a living for thirty plus years and
picked up a few pointers on the inability of humans to keep silent
when it would greatly behoove them to do so.

"We've been spotted," Lilah murmured sweetly.
She turned away, but it was much too late. Lance Worthington made a
beeline across the apartment, brushing rudely past other guests in
his haste to reach what he thought was the wealthiest trio in the
room.

"Mr. Hubbert. Ms. Cheswick... I'd given up
hope!" The producer was maniacally animated, his eyes wide and his
lips smacking nervously between sentences. He fidgeted beside them
and tugged at his tiny chimpanzee ears. "Silly of me. I thought
you'd backed out or something." Unwilling to let anyone answer, he
continued with his rapid patter. "I see you've met Mr. Goodwin
here. He's one of my most generous backers, aren't you Al? In for
nearly twenty points. We're talking about a healthy six-figure
investment, but don't worry." He patted Albert's hand and failed to
notice the wincing reaction the gesture provoked. "You'll find it's
a good bet, indeed."

The producer turned his attention to Lilah
and T.S., darting glances between the two as if not sure which one
had the most money and so deserved the most of his attention.
"Don't be put off by the… uh, exuberance, shall we say, of the
party," Worthington ordered with mock seriousness. "We all like to
let our hair down now and then." He gave a laugh that sounded far
more unpleasant than even he had intended, for he hurried on before
anyone else could react. "It's all quite legitimate," he assured
them, though no one had suggested otherwise. At least not out loud.
"Just take a look at those men in the pit, as I call it. Some of
the more respected names in city industry are here." He began to
point out each man, citing his position and the amount he was
investing in the play. T.S. was appalled at his vulgar breach of
etiquette. He also wondered why these otherwise successful men,
these "captains of industry" as Lance Worthington declared, would
be sinking from $50,000 to $200,000 apiece in something as risky as
a musical about Davy Crockett's life? It just didn't add up.

"Enough about that," the producer finally
declared, winding up his four-minute speech on the lucrative nature
of his show. Mercifully, little of it had been heard by either
Lilah or T.S. At least the loud music was good for something. "Let
me refresh your drinks," Worthington demanded suddenly. He grabbed
the glasses out of their hands and hurried away before they could
protest.

"Good grief." T.S. took out a handkerchief
and mopped his brow. "That man talks a mile a minute. Is he on some
sort of medication?"

Albert stared at him strangely. "Medication?"
he repeated, casting an amused glance at Lilah, who had the good
grace to pretend not to notice.

It incensed T.S. nonetheless. He suddenly
wanted to be anywhere but where he was. Lance Worthington was a
sleazeball. These people were joy seekers. The women were tramps.
And Albert was the worst of them all. He was a supercilious,
conceited and pompous jerk. So what if he felt out of his element
here? He should be proud he did not fit in. And Auntie Lil could
just forget the murder investigation if it meant he had to hang out
with this crowd. Lance Worthington was a nasty can of worms, but
T.S. saw no connection to Emily's death here and he wasn't going to
waste any more time than necessary subjecting himself to aural
assault and being humiliated by some wealthy nitwit. As soon as he
could swing it, they were leaving.

So indignant were his thoughts that he
automatically grabbed the healthy drink offered by a returned Lance
Worthington and gulped down a fourth of it.

"I'll leave you to enjoy yourselves,"
Worthington murmured. He backed away and headed for a plump mogul
in a pin-striped suit who was having a little trouble maneuvering
up from the deep leather couch. The fact that he was stone cold
drunk did not add to his sprightliness.

"Could I speak to you alone?" Albert murmured
to Lilah behind T.S.'s back.

T.S. took another gulp of Scotch and turned
his head just in time to see Albert grip Lilah's elbow and nod
toward the kitchen. T.S. simmered. Should he let this well-bred
interloper steal Lilah from his grasp like that? Was he a man or a
mouse or what? Would it be totally appalling to punch Albert in the
nose? There was, after all, a first time for everything.

Inaction forced the issue. "Theodore," Lilah
whispered into his ear. "I need to talk to Albert alone for a
moment. Would you excuse me?" She squeezed his arm briefly but did
not wait for a reply. Albert guided her smoothly toward the
kitchen. T.S. watched as the pair withdrew into a corner by
themselves and began to whisper.

Well, he wouldn't dignify such proceedings by
standing there and spying. He moved away into the sunken living
room and found a seat on the edge of one of the leather couches. A
small blonde who was curled up on the floor next to the passed-out
man eyed T.S. carefully, then slithered up closer. "Where's your
date?" she asked in what she probably thought was a seductive
manner but, instead, made T.S. feel as if a snake were crawling up
one of his legs.

"If you're asking if I need a date, I can
assure you the answer is no," T.S. answered firmly. She pouted and
withdrew, glaring at him with wounded pride.

My, how time flies when you're having fun, he
thought glumly. Already his drink was empty. The thought had
scarcely formed in his mind when Lance Worthington popped into
view. "New drink!" the producer called out gaily. "Allow me,
please." T.S. could hardly protest. He didn't have the time. The
glass was jerked from his hand and Worthington gone before he could
blink. He waited for the return of his by now necessary anesthetic
and surreptitiously stole a glance into the kitchen area. Lilah and
Albert were still deep in conversation and whatever Albert was
saying, T.S. didn't like it. The man's face had a deep scowl on it
and he was gesturing with one hand. Who was he? How did Lilah know
him? What was he doing here and who did he think he was to snatch
Theodore Hubbert's date right out from under his nose?

Good breeding or not, T.S. had half a mind to
go ahead and punch him in the nose after all. In fact, he was
seriously contemplating such an action when Lance Worthington
appeared with a new drink. "Bottoms up!" he said cheerfully,
bestowing the fresh glass on T.S.

"Need company? We've plenty to choose from."
He let his tiny hands flutter over the living room area. "Live and
let live, I always say."

Live and let live unless your name is Albert
and you're after Lilah, T.S. thought sourly as he gulped down his
new drink. Lance Worthington left him to his misery. Halfway down
to the bottom of the new tumbler, T.S. realized he had made a
terrible mistake. First there had been wine at what was an enormous
and highly spiced dinner, and now he'd topped it off with glasses
of Scotch. His stomach lining began to tingle and went numb. While
contemplating this, he grew dizzy and was almost certain that he
was about to be sick. He was just wondering where the bathroom was
when the tall redhead that he had noticed earlier suddenly
reappeared. She perched on the edge of the couch near him and
leaned forward suggestively, linking one arm through his and
pulling him against the straining bodice of her skintight dress. He
did not have the strength to protest.

"You look like someone I'd like to know
better," she cooed in a throaty whisper. She wore so much perfume
that T.S. was forced to hold his breath, an act that did not
improve his dizziness.

"Don't be shy," the woman ordered
breathlessly. Up close, T.S. noted with distaste, it was obvious
that she wore what must have been a full inch of pancake makeup.
Bad skin lurked beneath and her cheeks were scarlet slashes. Her
mouth undulated in front of his eyes in evil, ruby-colored ribbons,
like poisonous worms dancing closer and closer.

"I've been watching you," she whispered. Her
voice deepened even more and her hot breath brushed against his ear
as she insisted with husky conviction, "You've got the
heebie-jeebies, haven't you, darling?"

"What?" T.S. asked in sudden alarm. But his
tongue was not behaving, it lolled thickly in his mouth and the
words came out in a jumble. What had this creature said? That he
had the heebie-jeebies?

Something had gone wrong. His tongue would
not move at all. The numb feeling in his stomach spread and he felt
as if a beach ball were inside his gut, swelling slowly until it
could explode.

"You need another drink, darling," the
redhead suggested. Her red lips met and a large, hideous tongue
flicked out from between them. She dabbed it delicately over her
upper lip and T.S. watched in fascination as it moved in slow
motion, dragging a small trail of red across the cosmetic
landscape. And who had put on a new record?

This one was warped. The notes raced and
slowed with distracted abandon, tunes tumbling and disappearing,
fading in and out. Surely someone would notice it soon. What was
worse, someone was spinning the room. What nonsense, he corrected
himself. Rooms did not spin. Only, look at those walls. They were
turning. Objects and people began to flow together, to blur as if
in high speed. He was on a train that was rushing faster and faster
and he was unable to tear his eyes from the small window opening in
front of him.

"Put him in the back bedroom," T.S. heard a
sly voice order. Hands groped under his armpits and he felt himself
lifted. The redhead had hold of his body and was urging him
forward. She was as strong as a man. T.S.'s near-dead weight did
not faze her.