Swift Justice (29 page)

“In my office with the door open! Jesus! Do you realize what you’re suggesting, what that kind of accusation would do to my career?” He tossed back the rest of his water as if wishing it were straight vodka.

I held up my hands placatingly. “Okay, okay. I’m not making any accusations. I had to ask. My instincts have been wrong before.”

“Oh, so your instincts told you I wasn’t a child molester? Is that supposed to make me feel better?” He stood, careful this time not to brush against me. Slapping a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, he stalked away.

“Are we still on for Friday?” I called after him, already knowing the answer. He shoved the door open with a rigid arm. Sunlight poked into the dim room before the closing door strangled it.

I pivoted on the stool to face the bar again. Glumly, I swallowed the last of my margaritatini.

“Damn, girl, that was one mighty fine lookin’ man,” Albertine said. She stood in front of me, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “Mighty fine. Why’d you have to go and piss him off?”

“It’s a gift,” I said.

“More like a curse, I’d say. How long’s it been since you had a date?”

“I suppose this doesn’t count?” I gestured at Jack’s abandoned glass.

“Nuh-uh. Not even close.”

I considered. “About an eon or two. Roughly since triceratops walked the earth.”

“Well, I can see why, if you go around accusin’ all the potentials of being child molesters.” She placed our glasses in a tub filled with soapy water and swabbed at the bar’s polished surface with a damp rag.

“His words, not mine. Wait, I paid Montgomery off for
some info with dinner last night. Does that count as a date?” I looked up hopefully.

“Gettin’ warmer,” Albertine admitted. “Did you let him get to first base?”

“We didn’t even get into the ballpark.” I pushed away the thought of Montgomery’s hard kiss as he left.

“Girl, there is no hope for you.” Responding to a signal from the pair at the end of the bar, Albertine rang up their tab and waved good-bye as they left. She drifted back to me. “Why did you accuse that gorgeous hunk o’ man-flesh of improprieties, anyway?”

I filled her in on my search for Olivia’s father, toying with the plastic sword I’d filched from my drink.

“So, did the baby look like her daddy was black?” Albertine asked when I finished.

I sucked air in through my teeth and sheepishly admitted, “I didn’t look at her that closely. You know how I am with babies. I think her hair was dark.”

Albertine rolled her eyes. “And you call yourself a detective. Girl, you are hopeless.” She flicked the bar rag at me.

I was halfway tempted to agree with her and order another margaritatini when my phone rang. Albertine drifted over to the cash register as I answered.

“Swift.”

“Is this Charlotte Swift of Swift Investigations?” The voice was halting and female.

“Yes.”

“My name is Mina Downey. I’m calling because you left your card in my door today with a note asking me to call?”
Curiosity colored her voice, and I envisioned a UCCS coed happy to postpone studying by making a phone call.

I straightened on the bar stool, plugging my left ear with a finger so I could hear better. “Yes, Ms. Downey, thanks for calling. It’s about your neighbor, Lizzy Jones. Did you know her?”

“Yes?” She offered the word tentatively, as if afraid of answering wrong on a game show and losing out on the mega prize.

“Great!” Now I sounded like Bob Barker. And our next prize package is . . . “I’ve been hired to assist with some issues related to her baby’s paternity, and I wondered if you could help me out.” Not giving her a chance to refuse or hang up, I continued, “Were you friendly with her?”

“Uh . . . sorta. We did our laundry together sometimes, at the Laundromat. Once in a while we watched a little TV in the evenings.
Survivor.
It’s not like we were friends, though. I mean, I’ve got a job and everything, and a boyfriend.”

As if possessing a job and a boyfriend meant one couldn’t have friends. Although I thought I knew what she meant: She and Lizzy were at different life stages and probably didn’t have much in common. “I know what you mean,” I said. “But when you got together, did she ever talk about the baby or the baby’s father?”

Silence for a moment while Mina thought. “Well, she talked about the baby some. It was going to be a girl. I asked her if she had a name picked out, but she just kinda shrugged.”

Because at that point she was still planning to hand the baby over to the Falstows.

“She mentioned moving to Virginia and going to college after the baby was born, but she never said anything about a boyfriend. I figured he’d knocked her up and hit the highway, you know?”

I felt a little let down, even though I hadn’t really expected her to be able to name the baby’s father. “Well, thanks anyway, Mina. Oh, did Lizzy ever have any friends over, any visitors that you noticed?”

“Just her mom.”

What? Patricia Sprouse had told me she hadn’t seen Elizabeth since the girl left home back in the spring. “Her mom? Are you sure?”

“Well, she didn’t introduce me, if that’s what you mean—but she was an older woman, and she always brought Lizzy stuff when she visited. You know, maternity clothes and groceries and stuff like a mom would bring. Come to think of it, though, she didn’t look much like Lizzy. I mean, Lizzy’s hair was dark, and she was on the short side. This woman had red hair, and she was really tall, taller than me.”

A tall redhead. Jacqueline Falstow. Who had lied to me about not knowing where Elizabeth lived.

“Did you see her a lot?”

“A couple of times, both in the evening when I was headed out to start my shift.”

“When did you last see her?”

Another pause. “Maybe two or three weeks before Lizzy . . . you know. She brought peanut butter cookies, and Lizzy offered me some the next day, but I’m allergic.”

I started to make good-bye noises, but Mina stopped me. “Is the baby okay? I was worried . . .”

“She’s doing great,” I said, warmed by Mina’s concern. I got her contact information, thanked her, and hung up.

“Trouble?” Albertine asked, plonking a glass of water in front of me.

Absently, I drank. “One of my witnesses has lied to me, not once but twice.” Falstow had lied about not knowing where Elizabeth lived, and again about Elizabeth calling to say she wasn’t going to give up the baby. Two strikes.

“Say it isn’t so,” Albertine said, feigning astonishment.

“Sad, isn’t it?”

I dialed the Falstows’ number but got an answering machine. I didn’t leave a message. The element of surprise might serve me better, and I decided to make the Falstow house my first stop in the morning. It was time to meet Stefan, too. He was a strangely shadowy figure to me still, despite, I presumed, his equal partnership in the contract with Elizabeth. The Falstows and I were going to have a little come-to-Jesus meeting about the true nature of their dealings with Elizabeth Sprouse. Right now, though, I needed a date for the Wild West Casino Night.

I explained about the fund-raiser to Albertine and invited her to go along, but she shook her head. “Can’t. I’ve got to close here tonight. My manager left early for his daughter’s choir recital. How ’bout that cute policeman? I’ll bet he’s already got a six-shooter.” Her lips curved in a wildly suggestive grin.

I rolled my eyes at her but dialed the phone. Detective Montgomery was out at a crime scene, a polite officer told me. I hung up and, after a moment’s hesitation, dialed again.

The party was in full swing when Dan Allgood and I strolled through the doors of the Fine Arts Center. The huge Chihuly chandelier of topaz, orange, and gold glass squiggles glowed over an anachronistic crowd of saloon girls, cowboys, Indians, miners, and gamblers. Father Dan was the only priest in sight, fitting in with the Western atmosphere perfectly in an ankle-length black cassock and wire-rimmed spectacles, cowboy boots on his feet and a Bible tucked under one arm.

“Don’t you think a priest with a saloon girl is a bit strange?” I’d asked when he came over to pick me up. I hitched up the fishnet hose I’d bought at Victoria’s Secret on my way home and slipped on simple black pumps, not having any turn-of-the century footwear. I’d cinched the red satin skirt Gigi had lent me with a couple of safety pins at the waist and used Grandy’s old cameo brooch to pin up a section of the skirt at midthigh to show the black netting underneath.

Dan applauded as I tried out a cancan step. “I’m trying to save you, of course,” he said, thumping a hand on his Bible.

“Well, you have saved me, and I’m grateful,” I said, tucking
the tickets Gigi had given me into the low-scoop-necked black blouse I’d found at the back of a drawer. No way was Gigi’s blouse going to fit me. “I’d’ve looked conspicuous on my own.”

“Like you don’t look conspicuous now?” His left brow flew up, and he grinned as his eyes ran from my modest cleavage to the not so modest length of fishnetted leg. My dark hair wisped around my forehead and neck despite my attempts to secure it atop my head and corral it with the feathered band Gigi had supplied. I’d layered on the mascara, used a bright red lipstick, and drawn a Cindy Crawfordesque beauty spot near the corner of my mouth with brown eyeliner. I felt like a cross between a saloon hooker and a flapper girl.

“You know what I mean.” I punched him on the shoulder and opened the door. “C’mon. We’re already late.”

Getting into character, I sashayed across the floor toward the bar, craning my neck to spot Seth Johnson. Dan stuck by my side, his muscular good looks and slicked-back blond hair attracting a lot of sidelong looks from the women we strolled past. Shame on them . . . for all they knew he could be Catholic and celibate.

“What’s your poison?” the bartender asked when we reached the front of the line. I opted for white wine, and Dan chose club soda and lime. He was driving.

“Will you be in trouble with your congregation if someone spots you at a gambling party?” I asked as we circled the room.

“Episcopalians are all about good causes,” he said, “especially those that involve drinking and gambling. Care to try
your luck?” He ushered me toward a blackjack table with only two people seated in front of the dealer. One was a black-hatted Western villain, complete with paunch, oiled mustachios, and spurs. The other man wore a gingham-checked shirt, modern jeans, and a watch with enough dials and gadgets to launch a space shuttle.

“Mind if we join you gentlemen?” I asked, trying to channel Jodie Foster in
Maverick.

“Certainly, ma’am,” the villain replied, scooting over one stool. “Take my seat, padre.”

The dealer shuffled and slid cards toward us. I barely looked at my cards and placed a bet at random with the chips I’d bought at the door. I was too busy looking for Seth Johnson to pay attention to the cards.

“Take a hit.” Dan nudged my elbow.

His body was warm and solid just inches from mine, and his breath held a pleasant hint of lime from his club soda. For a moment, I let myself be distracted by his smile; then I motioned for another card. Twenty-one. I flipped my cards, and the dealer paid up. The thrill of winning trickled through me, and I kissed Dan on the cheek.

“You must bring good luck,” I said. Before he could reply, a familiar laugh caught my attention, and I swiveled to see Seth Johnson seated at a poker table situated near the entrance to one of the galleries. Four other men and a woman with dyed ostrich feathers tucked into a mass of ringlets were ranged around the table, concentrating on their cards.

“Don’t leave now, little lady,” the black-hatted man said as I slipped off the stool. “You’re winning.”

Dan started to get up, too, but I motioned him back.
“This’ll probably go better if I can get him one-on-one,” I said. “You stay here and make my fortune.” I pushed my small pile of chips toward him.

“I guess he can’t be much of a threat in this crowd,” he said, after a narrow-eyed look in Johnson’s direction. He subsided back on the stool, catching my wrist as I turned to go. “Be careful.”

I nodded, squeezed his hand, and strolled across the room until I was within spitting distance of Seth Johnson. Dressed in white from the top of his ten-gallon hat to his snakeskin boots, Johnson looked every inch the nineteenth-century marshal, only without the chaw and bad teeth. A large gold star gleamed on his chest, and his belt sported a turquoise buckle the size of a salad plate. A pearl-handled revolver, either a genuine antique or a good fake, hung from a holster slung low on his hips. He nibbled on one edge of his gingery mustache as he studied his cards. I wondered if the woman beside him was his date, then decided she couldn’t be because she was clearly over thirty—about ten years past her sell-by date as far as he was concerned. I watched the gamblers play a couple of hands, taking care to stay just outside Johnson’s peripheral vision. A rocks glass with an inch of amber liquid sat to his left, and he sipped from it occasionally. The snick of the cards as the dealer dealt them and the occasional terse bid were all I overheard. Unlike most of the revelers laughing and groaning as the cards or the roulette ball dictated their fortunes, the players at Johnson’s table looked grim and serious. Their expressions made me wonder what kind of stakes they were playing for.