Final Masquerade (18 page)
Authors: Cindy Davis
She poured a glass of wine and sat in the dark, long into the night.
Morning dawned brisk and clear, the air heavy with the scent of fall. Paige exited her apartment at 7:15 for her first day of work and stood on the sidewalk, inhaling the crisp autumn air melded with the aroma of exhaust and the ever-present scent of Chinese cooking. Though she'd spent most of the night lying awake, thinking of the near-encounter with Chris the morning before, she felt exhilarated, a feeling not unlike her first sexual encounter when she was fifteen. She forced thoughts of sex and Chris—or sex with Chris—from her mind and headed for the Bagel Stop a few blocks away. While she walked she scanned the faces of the crowd. She didn't expect to see him. He was probably long gone. But that didn't stop the urge to observe every person.
The University campus teemed with college students of all ages. Paige smiled at a pair of middle-aged women carrying books and chatting about sociology. They returned the smile, probably assuming she had come back to school after many years of raising children and keeping house. If they only knew.
Paige's first day at work passed uneventfully. Agatha seemed like a good boss, not expecting Paige to do anything she wouldn't do herself.
That evening over a plate of shrimp in lobster sauce and fried rice, she pored over the college catalogue, so many courses were new since her school days. Maybe she could study criminal justice and go on to become a lawyer. She could spend the rest of her days putting away people like Stefano—maybe even Stefano himself. She frowned and took another sip of wine.
No, law was not for her. Frustration over mob influences and the unlimited extension of their power would soon send her running. Maybe she could study landscape architecture, then go to Canada and open a place across from Chris.
She put the catalogue away and took out the quilt-to-be. She'd attended another class at Joy's shop; all six women had put down their own projects to help Paige with the fine art of cutting out the pieces. The companionship and camaraderie was something she'd never experienced. Even back in her high school days and her escapades with friends, Paige never felt truly accepted.
She laid the pieces of fabric on the coffee table, spreading them out in the order they'd be assembled into squares that would later be assembled into an entire bedcovering. Paige intended to quilt with fine hand stitches just like those used by Marlene Gay. Marlene's quilt was exquisite. Joy already had it tagged for exhibition in next summer's annual quilt show at the Bingham-Waggoner Estate in Independence, a few towns away. And, best of all, Marlene had promised to show Paige some of the finer points of hand quilting.
Burt and Paige sat on the grass at one side of the Plaza Courtyard crowd. She wore a new paisley print jacket and a smart navy beret atop her natural hair. She leaned forward, arms clasped around bent knees, toes tapping in time to the jazz emanating from the quartet on the bandstand, occasionally grabbing at maple leaves wafting on the late October breeze. Tonight she would definitely tell him they were breaking up. Did adults call it breaking up? She didn't know.
The final chords wound down. Paige rubbed her fingers together to ease the chill. She unfolded her arms, leaned back and stretched her legs in front of her, groaning in relief. “I was so mesmerized, I didn't even notice how stiff I'd gotten. It's amazing how different jazz is from the other music, isn't it? Sometimes it seems as though the beat's all gone haywire, and then you're toe tapping all over again."
Burt stretched an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. She thought of resisting, but didn't want a discussion to develop here. She allowed him to ease her back so she sat between his legs, her spine nestled against his chest, a bony chest compared to Chris'. The image of Chris holding her protectively in his arms after her terrible nightmare caused her nipples to come erect. She sighed and focused her mind on the pair of toddlers playing with some empty Coke cups. The little blond boy tipped one up as if waiting for the last drop to come tumbling at him while the little girl punched hers into oblivion. Paige smiled at the girl, who lowered her eyes in shyness.
The crowd stood, stretched, and began to make their way to whatever destinations they had. Paige and Burt remained seated a while longer. Dusk had fallen. The horizon behind the bandstand displayed striates of pink and dark gray-purple. The sun, now just a memory, left the merest orange tint to the line just across the treetops.
Burt rose, grasped her hands and helped her to her feet. They walked, hand in hand the two blocks to where he'd parked his Audi.
Just as he was about to open the passenger side door, her attention was drawn to a tall, thin man wearing a felt hat pulled low on his forehead. He leaned against a light pole across the courtyard.
The waning daylight cast dark unreadable shadows beneath the brim of the hat. His body language said he was waiting for someone. Paige couldn't make out his features or tell where he was actually looking. Suddenly he nodded. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed an almost imperceptible nod from Burt in response.
The stranger took a step away from the pole. That all-too-familiar feeling of panic and despair surged through her. Without a word or a backward glance, she broke from Burt's grasp and sprinted up Pennsylvania Avenue, away from the man in the hat—and Burt.
"Ernie, what's wrong? Where the hell are you going?” Burt shouted.
She ran blindly for several blocks not bothering to check if she was being followed. The doors to the Wash-O-Mat stood open. She sprinted inside, eliciting inquiring glances from the patrons and an interrogating stare from the manager as she whooshed in, the perfumes of fabric softeners, hot moist air, and chlorine assaulting her senses.
"Can I help you?” His tone was more symbolic of her intrusion into his domain than true concern for her wellbeing. She leaned against a stainless steel folding table, catching her breath, shaking her head. “I need help ... A back exit ... Please."
The man scowled, wiped his hands on his jeans, and wiggled two fingers in the air. He kicked a green plastic laundry basket out of the way, led her down a narrow corridor past a closed door marked Management Only, and out a back door. A tiny dumpster, heaping with clumps of lint and empty plastic laundry detergent bottles was set against the wall. The man waved her away as if she were one of the flies buzzing around the dumpster and slammed the door shut.
Paige circumvented the main street via back alleys and bolted along side streets, making a beeline south toward her apartment building, hoping her followers would assume it was the last place she'd go. Thankful that her ribs were nearly healed, she ignored the stitch in her side and her burning lungs for the three blocks to her place.
At the corner pharmacy, she flipped through the yellow pages of the phone book, searching for a taxi service. Public transportation was scarce in Kansas City in the evening. She drummed her fingers on the shelf beneath the phone as the phone rang, three, then four times.
"Come on..."
On the fifth ring, an irritable female voice picked up, “Yellow cab."
"I need a cab at the corner of West 49th and Wornall."
"Fifteen minutes."
Inside her apartment, Paige rescued her stash of money from beside the sink, dropping it twice before she was able to toss it on her bed. She packed it around the bottom of the suitcase the same way it had arrived more than a month ago. She heaved clothing on top and into the canvas satchel she'd purchased for her quilting supplies, and into a paper shopping bag with string handles.
At a sound in the hallway she stiffened. The thump of approaching footsteps sent her scurrying to the bathroom closet, the only closet in the tiny apartment, bags and belongings in tow. She pulled the door shut with a raspy click just as the living room doorknob rattled. Heart pounding so hard she couldn't hear anything outside the small chamber, Paige leaned her ear against the door.
The tips of her fingers froze in place on the suitcase when the apartment door opened. She had locked it, hadn't she?
Burt was in her living room. And he was speaking to someone. Their voices were too muffled to understand anything they said but she convinced herself they were preparing to take their prisoner back to Santa Barbara, a place not only of fabulous wines, but also a place thick with deceit and murder.
The voices moved closer, accompanied by the faint closing click of the living room door, shutting out potential witnesses to murder or possible assistance from her neighbors. Neighbors she'd made no attempt to know. Neighbors who barely acknowledged each other as they passed in the hall.
Had Stefano's men somehow coerced Burt into turning her over to them? Worse, maybe he'd been one of them right from the beginning. So, why had he waited so long to take her down? All that talk about her traveling with him had been a ruse.
That's when Paige knew what had bothered her about Burt for quite some time. He hadn't gone to Santa Barbara to research the winemaking community, he'd been in conference with Stefano, gathering information with which to capture ... and maybe kill her.
The bathroom floor creaked. That spot just inside the door that she'd learned to step over every time she went in. The spot Burt had planned to mend, but never thought of stepping over when he was in the apartment.
"Ernie? You here?” he called, just inches from her ear.
She clenched the doorknob and her package of money so tightly the muscles in her neck ached. She wished she'd thought to get a weapon.
"She's not here,” Burt said. “I can't imagine why she ran off like she did, what frightened her so."
"Maybe we should wait for her to come back,” came a second voice, deeper and more powerful than Burt's. “She left the lights on."
"I wouldn't be surprised to find she's scared of the dark. Look, we made plans. Let's get on with them. She's a big girl with problems. More problems than I sometimes feel I can handle."
The door shut and their footsteps receded.
Paige counted to a hundred, her mind running wild. What if they were still there, waiting for her to come out? She held her breath and listened for their breathing. She counted to fifty now and then opened the door, inching the knob around slowly so it wouldn't make a sound.
The apartment was totally black. No breathing, no rustle of fabric, no sensation of someone's presence. Paige stepped over the creaky floor board and allowed herself a deep, cleansing breath. She flicked the overhead switch. Just as quickly, she shut it off recognizing the possibility that the men were on the sidewalk below, watching her windows. She moved to the kitchen area and turned on the tiny nightlight beside the stove. The scent of roses from the attached air freshener assailed her nostrils. This time it didn't soothe her. Quick as she could, she finished packing.
How to get out of the building? They were sure to have both exits covered. Paige thought of the heavy metal door at the end of the laundry room. She'd never seen it open. She assumed it led to the back alley. Wasn't it a law there was at least two ways out of every building?
She tiptoed downstairs carrying her purse, suitcase, canvas, and paper bags. They held as many of her new possessions as she could cram inside. She crept toward the laundry room. The familiar swoosh of the street door opening and shutting sent her diving into the shadows of the rear hallway.
Heavy footsteps made their way to the stairway and went up. She knew Burt's steps well, and they weren't his. She relaxed somewhat but still didn't dare walk the twenty odd feet to the cellar.
She stepped out of her hiding place. From her time spent gazing out the back window, she'd memorized a path through the debris and out between two buildings further along. This would be her route if need be.
Maybe Burt and his accomplice had truly left. This thought didn't calm or relax her. They couldn't be far.
She pushed open the back door, eased into the moonlit alley, and crouched behind a dumpster. No movement from the building. No sounds at all, except a dog barking in a nearby apartment. She waited, listening so hard she thought she'd hear a toilet flush a block away.
A sound. A light sound, that was not squelched, but continued scraping and scratching across the alley. A sound Paige was finally able to assign to a rat. She shivered and stepped from behind the dumpster, sending the rat into a state of immobility. Paige inched through the debris, careful to stay in the shadows cast by the buildings. The plan was to exit about forty feet away, where she knew the alley opened onto Wornall Road.
Another movement. This coming from the exact spot she planned as an exit. A shadow, elongated in the moonlight, belonged to a different sort of vermin. Paige hugged the shadows, slipping back to her building and in through the door.
Sounds came from apartments on the ground floor and up the stairwell. Paige attempted to open the cellar door, but it was locked. She considered returning to her apartment, cast off the idea, and eased out the front door to the sidewalk. The street was deadly quiet.
Paige turned left hoping to intercept the cab when a voice spoke from behind her. “Well there you are! Ernie, wait. What the hell's going on? Why did you run away?"
She sucked in a breath and turned around.
"What's—?” Burt said and then seemed to notice her bags. “Where are you going?"
"Away,” she said, glancing behind Burt, and peering behind him for the dark stranger.
"I thought we—” He nodded. “I see. Can we at least talk about it?” He reached out. “Let me have your bags. We'll go somewhere to talk."
Paige jerked out of his grasp and screamed. “Help! Someone help me."
Burt's fingers bit into her upper arm as he dragged her to his Audi. He muttered soothing words in her ear, opened the drivers’ side door, and forced her inside. He climbed in beside her, pushing her across the seat with his butt, but kept hold of her arm.
