Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (38 page)

"Where
is
Mira?"

"Questioning the cook." Wilma shot Sadie a suspicious glance. "Why?"

"No reason."

"Bien."
Wilma didn't look fooled. "Just to be clear: you are forbidden to scratch out any eyes or bite off any ears until further notice."

"You really know how to take all the fun out of a full moon," Sadie said dryly.

"Coming?" Wilma was walking to the staircase.

"Sure. Just as soon as I find a suitably ghoulish mask to cover what's left of my face."

"Bottom drawer of the chiffonier," Wilma called as her head descended out of sight.

Sadie waited until the creaking of the stairs faded into the buzz of gruff male voices and husky female laughter in the parlor, below. Then she hurried to the far end of the hall and lowered the staircase to the attic.

Time to see if Miranda Reynolds sent me that basket of poison.

The more Sadie thought about Randie's presence in Lampasas, the more she thought it was suspicious. Why was the bawd hiding in the brothel's attic? Why wasn't she earning her keep like the rest of Wilma's girls? Surely there was more to the mystery than Jazi's childhood innocence.

Sadie thought back to all the investigative reports she'd read about the Galveston blaze: Mace's, the fire marshal's, the police chief's, the insurance adjuster's. An important fact stood out in her mind: in every document, Baron had vouched for Randie's character. So just how well did Baron and Randie know each other?

To answer that question, Sadie began to search through the meager belongings Randie and Jazi had shoved into carpetbags for their trip to Lampasas. Despite Randie's claim she had brought her daughter to convalesce in the baths, Sadie could find no bathing gown anywhere in the cramped and stifling quarters.

What she did find on Jazi's cot were a toy pony with Baron's ranching brand embroidered on its flank; colorful satin hair ribbons, much like those that had decorated Poppy's hotel altar; and a dog-eared edition of
Little Women
, which had been inscribed,
"Happy Birthday, Sugar Plum... Papa B."

Sadie's eyes narrowed as she recalled how Baron used "Sugar Plum" as an endearment.

Then she remembered something Jazi had said in the cave:

"I never told anyone who really paid for my medicine when I was sick."

So Randie must be the mysterious mistress who'd been "competing" with Chantelle O'Leary for Baron. But just how far would Randie go to eliminate a female rival?

Sadie crossed to Randie's side of the room. The elder Reynolds had arranged her prized bottles of perfume on a whitewashed, pine vanity. Grimly, Sadie began the methodical task of tugging stoppers to inhale three scent-aphrodisiacs known to bawds: cinnamon-vanilla, jasmine-rose, and patchouli.

No violets.

Sadie released a ragged breath. So Randie hadn't forged Cass's signature. But some woman had. The question was, why?

She turned back toward the center of the room. A small yellow sphere on the floor caught her attention. Then another. Frowning, she crossed to a trunk, where she found a toppled tin of Serenata's nostrums, along with a few crushed throat lozenges in the shape of a man's boot heel. Uneasily, she crouched. Floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she stretched a finger and tasted some pastille powder with her tongue.

The residue had a cloyingly sweet taste. More like molasses than lemon. She spit it out.

"Boo?
Tu'est ce que tu fais?"

Sadie nearly jumped out of her skin to hear Randie's hopeful voice calling from the second floor.

"Boo?" Randie called more insistently. "Are you up there?"

Now the attic's ladder was shaking. Sadie muttered an oath as Randie climbed to the third story. Caught in the act of snooping, there was nothing Sadie could do except straighten her spine, hike her chin, and fire the first bullet.

"Is Senator Westerfield Jazi's real father?" she demanded the minute Randie's dyed curls bobbed into view.

The older bawd grew pale, despite her exertion.

"You!"

"In the flesh."

"What are you doing in my private quarters?"

"Searching for Boo. Like everyone else."

Randie didn't look convinced. Her eyes narrowed as she gestured toward the shiner. "Did Cass give you that?"

"Don't be absurd. Cass doesn't slap women, unless they're naked and begging for it. But then, I don't have to tell
you
what Cass is like in the bedroom."

Randie blew out her breath and climbed the remaining rungs of the ladder. "Honestly, Cassie. Or Maisy. Or Sadie. Or
whatever
your name is today. Cass is the last person on my mind. So kindly slink back to your dungeon. I've got my own problems."

"You mean like Papa B?"

Randie's cheeks mottled. She snatched
Little Women
from Sadie's hands. "You have no right to pry into my daughter's affairs!"

"I think you mean your affairs."

Randie's chest heaved. Her usually perfect coiffure was slipping from its French braid, and the powder on her face had smeared, as if she'd recently shed tears. "I don't have time to argue. My daughter is missing!"

"And yet,
chere,"
Wilma interceded, her voice floating up from the second story, "you will answer the question. For I, too, am curious. Especially about this patron, who insists you hide your face by day and rendezvous with him after midnight—in some establishment other than mine."

Randie looked like she might like to crawl under a bed.

"I told you," Randie whined as Wilma climbed to the attic. "He swore me to silence. If I break his confidence, he'll be angry—"

"
I'm
angry," Wilma snapped. "You've broken
my
confidence. And I deserve to know why you've been lying to me."

"But Wilma, I didn't have a choice—"

"C'est n'importe quoi!
"

Even Sadie winced to hear the thunder in the Mambo's voice. Randie looked on the verge of tears.

"You don't understand! He's trying to protect me and Boo!"

Sadie frowned. She remembered Baron's talk of Poppy's "talent" for revenge. She remembered his outrage when he'd described how his wife had found a strand of red hair in his underwear drawer. Then she remembered how Poppy had tried to hide her tins of lemon lozenges behind her back.

Maybe Baron really
was
trying to protect Randie!

Uneasiness flurried through Sadie's gut.

"Neither Wilma nor I want harm to come to you," she told Randie. "We want to help."

"You
want to help?"

"Enough," Wilma interceded. "You will answer questions.
Now.
When did Senator Westerfield learn about Boo?"

Randie fidgeted, averting her eyes. "Last spring. When Boo was sick. I was desperate! I couldn't afford her medicine! I begged Baron for a loan. We rekindled our affair. Then he got it into his head Boo might be his daughter..."

"So you let him believe the lie," Wilma accused.

Randie's chin quivered. She hiked it. "You know what a whore's life is like. I want more for my daughter. Boo
deserves
more. But I never dreamed Baron would take matters as far as he did. I never dreamed he'd add her to his will!"

Wilma's eyes locked with Sadie's.

"When did Mrs. Westerfield learn about the change in Baron's will?" Sadie asked, beginning to piece together a new motive for several unsolved crimes.

Randie shrugged. "About two weeks later, I suppose. Baron was pretty shaken up about the fire. He leaped to the conclusion that some granger faction or political rival wanted him dead. No amount of rationales could dissuade him otherwise.

"But I didn't know anything about the will until Tito met me at the train depot. When I reached Lampasas, he confided he and Cass had witnessed the signing in private, while Mrs. Westerfield was out of town."

Which explains why someone might want to steal Tito's and Cass's signatures from a hotel register.
"So you followed Baron to Lampasas," Sadie said. "A rather rash move for a mistress, when the patron's wife is in tow."

Randie's eyes flashed like emerald lightning. "I was
invited
to Lampasas. I received a letter from Baron, encouraging me to bring Boo for the mineral baths. But when I sent word we'd arrived, Baron flew into a rage! He said he'd never written a letter! He accused us of trying to sabotage his re-election campaign. So naturally, I showed him the page with his signature."

"And what did Baron say?" Wilma demanded.

"He... he said he'd get to the bottom of the matter."

"And has he?"

Randie winced. "I don't know. I've been afraid to ask. He's been on edge. Especially about that sniper. And Tito's death... "

"Understandably so." Sadie folded her arms across her chest. "Apparently, someone has been forging his signature. This 'someone' stands to lose a great deal of money if Baron gets any sicker and Jazi remains in his will. My guess is that 'someone' is Poppy."

"Tito
was
poisoned," Wilma interjected thoughtfully. "And poison is a woman's weapon."

"And Poppy favors violet perfume," Sadie said, recalling the gift card inside the Halloween basket. "The scent of violets accompanied at least one document that I can prove was forged."

Randie's complexion turned ashen. "But surely you don't think Poppy would hurt Boo! She loves children. She has always wanted children!"

"Oui.
Children of her own," Wilma said grimly. "Not the child of her husband's mistress. What you may not realize,
chere,
is that Mrs. Westerfield used to clerk in her father's law office. She is more than capable of writing a credible will."

Randie cried out, covering her mouth with a shaking hand. "Oh God, this is all my fault." Tears were streaming down her face as she pulled a crumpled paper from a pocket in her skirt. "About 20 minutes ago, I found this letter on my pillow. I thought it was a joke. A Halloween prank."

Frowning, Sadie took the page and read it aloud for Wilma's benefit:

"If you want to find your daughter, look in the cemetery. Come alone, or you'll both become permanent residents."

Wilma plucked the paper from Sadie's hand. A moment later, she dropped the page as if she'd been burned. She was muttering invectives and making arcane gestures.

"What?" Randie cried. "What did you see?"

"Blood on the moon. There's no time to lose. I will alert Marshal Wright. Sadie will go with you."

"But the paper said—"

"Irrelevant." Wilma waved this protest away like it was smoke. "You will wear identical costumes. You will work as a team to lure the madwoman out."

"We must operate under the assumption Poppy has an accomplice," Sadie said. But she refrained from mentioning the crushed pastilles. She figured Randie would escalate from fear to hysteria if she thought Jazi had been drugged—or worse. "We should wear bullet proof vests."

Randie frowned. "There's a vest that stops bullets?"

Sadie's neck heated as she realized she'd just betrayed the true nature of her work. "Uh... yeah. Rex wears them. We can borrow a few of his."

Randie looked like she was about to question the efficacy of this plan, but Wilma interceded.

"Dépêche-toi!"
The Mambo was herding them like goslings toward the ladder. "You're burning daylight, as Cass would say!"

Chapter 21

Cass had a roaring in his brain, a burning in his gut, and a weight on his ankles that kept trying to drag him into the darkness. Dimly, he realized he tottered on the edge of the abyss. If he let go, he could ooze into a deep dullness. No pain. No worries. No struggles. An eternity of nothingness yawned before him.

But to an adrenaline junkie like Cass, "nothingness" was the definition of Hell. So he fought his way back to the surface. Scratching and clawing at shreds of shadow, he embraced the pain. He welcomed the nausea. He opened to the flashing cyclone of light, funneling through his brain.

"Damnation," he groaned as pinpricks of sensation became screaming nerves. He was lying on his side, staring at a lumpy, stinking puddle that he suspected was vomit. Maybe even his vomit. None of his limbs worked.