Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (26 page)

Acting on a hunch, he ripped off his gloves, grabbed a lantern, and crawled beneath the vanity's belly. Supple fingers, well-practiced in palming cards, picking locks, and other thieving skills, probed for concealed seams. The work was painstaking in such cramped quarters, but eventually, he was rewarded. He heard the click of metal and the rasp of sliding wood. Warily, he felt inside the secret compartment until he withdrew a thick and cumbersome envelope.

Cass's hands shook as he opened what proved to be a letter of commission. Air whistled past his teeth as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the crisp, white vellum. There was no mistaking the embossed insignia of the famous Chicago-based detective agency. It matched the polished, brass badge that accompanied the letter. Both were imprinted with the words, Sarah Jane Michelson—Sadie's given name.

Chapter 13

Cass knew.

Sadie's heart beat a nervous little tattoo as she stood in the cave, staring at her outlaw lover's calling card.

A 10-inch pigsticker, with an elk-handled grip, was buried in the frame of her vanity's mirror. The blade pierced one of her casino handbills—through the nose, no less—and the following ransom note was scrawled in red lip paint across her face:

Want to see your daddy's button again, tin-star? Then get your freckled hiney to Aquacia Bathhouse at midnight. Come alone, or you'll be sorry. P.S.

She was forced to wrestle Cass's Bowie knife from the wood before she could turn the page and read his post script:

You owe me $800. Don't make me come and get it.

"You mean $400, swindler," she muttered, referencing their poker game. "And you owe me a new vanity!"

She flung the knife and message into a drawer and slammed it closed. How Cass had learned about the cave wasn't clear, but he'd obviously searched the vanity. And since he'd been the one who'd taught her how to create a trick latch in the first place...

Panic welled inside her. Dropping to her knees, she dove under the counter to inspect the sealing wax she'd affixed to a seam in the hidden drawer. It was broken, all right. After some frenzied pawing, she was able to unlatch the compartment and search its contents. To her relief, the badge and letter of commission were still in place.

Reprobate.
Now she knew how Cass had been spending his time since intermission!

But Cass wasn't the only one who'd left the event early. Baron and Collie had, too. She couldn't help but wonder if the boy had relayed her message to the senator. She'd waited futilely for Baron to wade through the sea of admirers, mobbing her dressing room. Finally, after shooing the lovelorn from her quarters, she'd dragged on trousers and sneaked out the backstage door to update Wilma about Baron.

Not that there's anything to tell,
she thought irritably.

The furtive creak of stairs made her jump. Like a gun-slinging veteran, she grabbed for her pocket pistol.

Another heartbeat passed before her eyes discerned the shadowy, female figure with bottled red hair. The bawd was standing on the third step beneath the kitchen landing, her voluptuous length sheathed in a slinky, black negligee.

"Poor Cassie." Her voyeur
tsked.
"Talking to herself. That's the first sign of madness, you know.
"

Sadie scowled. She would have recognized Randie's silvery, sniping soprano anywhere, even with the new, Cajun accent.

"Shouldn't you be humping a shark or something?" Sadie retorted acidly.

"Sorry to disappoint you,
chere,"
Randie taunted, continuing her descent. "I gave up sharks for bigger fish."

A memory of the shadowy redhead in Cass's doorway flashed through Sadie's mind. Her lip curled, and she cocked her gun hammer. "That's far enough."

Randie halted, arching a finely plucked eyebrow.

"What are you doing here?" Sadie demanded in iron tones.

"Talking to a ghost, it seems. So you're the Maisy my Boo has been sneaking off to visit."

Randie was Jazi's mother?

Mira. Miranda.
The names made sense now.
Ballsy bitch.

Randie had yet to bat an eyelash at the pistol, pointing with such unwavering accuracy at her chest. Her Cajun accent was even more believable than her Texas one, which made Sadie wonder if the bawd was really a native of New Orleans—or
N'awlins
, as Wilma liked to pronounce it.

"I must say," Randie drawled, "you're not being very hospitable. With manners like yours, one might think you were born in... well, a cave."

Hilarious.

Sadie refused to take her thumb off the gun hammer. Never mind that Wilma had vouched for this "Mira." Never mind that one of Wilma's
gris-gris
hung from Randie's neck. Sadie didn't trust Randie. As far as Sadie was concerned, Randie had plenty of motive to want her dead, and she had lots of shady admirers. Any one of them could have locked Sadie's door from the outside or hurled Greek Fire through her window at the Satin Siren.

"Intruders don't deserve hospitality," Sadie fired back.

"Well, if it isn't the pot calling the kettle black. Now you know how I felt after you and Dietrich destroyed everything I worked for."

"I nearly got crispy-fried because of you!"

"Me?"
Indignation stained Randie's porcelain cheeks. "If my prayers had that kind of power, my husband would never have died. My Boo would never have suffered malaria. And I sure as hell would never have set foot inside the Satin Siren!"

Sadie's eyes narrowed.

"Now Tito is dead," Randie continued grimly. "His body was found in the woods. According to Marshal Wright, Tito's death wasn't an accident. I think whoever was gunning for me back in Galveston followed me here."

"You?"

Her chin raised a notch. "What, you think you're the only diva who ever made an enemy? Not everything's about
you,
Cassie. The bomb was tossed through my bedroom window. Or at least, it
was
my bedroom window, up until the morning of the fire. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all."

Sadie frowned. Randie could be suffering from delusions of grandeur.

Then again...

"Why would your enemy want to kill Tito?" Sadie demanded. "You think he knew something about the fire? Something he didn't say to the arson investigators?"

"Maybe." Randie's eyebrows knitted. "Tito wasn't incredibly bright. But he always looked out for me. He was infatuated with me, in truth. It was a sticky situation. I just didn't feel the same way. Things got especially tense when... "

Her voice trailed off.

"When what?" Sadie pressed.

Randie's chin raised a notch. "When Boo got sick," she said tartly. "Tito wanted to look out for her too. And be a family."

Sadie eyed Randie speculatively. She suspected the older woman wasn't telling the whole truth. "Have you told Wilma any of this?"

"Good God, no. You know how she is, always fretting about evil spirits. It's bad enough she made me and Boo wear these herbal talismans," Randie added, sniffing her
gris-gris.
She wrinkled her nose and let the pouch flop back between her breasts.

"Besides, it's not like Wilma can do anything—except worry. That's why I paid a call on Marshal Wright tonight. I told him everything I know about Tito, the Satin Siren, and you. So don't be surprised if he comes calling, wanting your side of the story. He'll be trying to piece together any information you can tell him about Tito. If Tito really was murdered here, and his death had something to do with that Galveston fire, then the local law should be looking out for us."

Sadie wasn't moved by this peace overture. She was too busy wondering why so many of the Galveston survivors had found their way to Lampasas.
Almost by design.

"Why did you come to Lampasas?" she demanded.

Randie stiffened. Pink bloomed in her cheeks. "Why does anyone come to Lampasas? I thought the mineral springs might do Boo good. I suppose my timing could have been better. I didn't know the convention had gobbled up all the hotel rooms. As much as I adore Wilma, her house isn't the place for an impressionable child. We'll be leaving for New Orleans just as soon as Halloween is over.

"Mais
well,"
she added briskly,
squaring her shoulders and erecting a façade of aloofness once more. "As lovely as this reunion has been, I have to attend to my daughter. Boo needs her medicine. I can see she didn't leave her tin of pastilles on the crate. So unless you're still planning to shoot me for a crime I didn't commit, I'll continue my search upstairs."

Narrowly, Sadie watched Randie turn and climb the steps. Frustration flurried through her gut as the trap door banged closed.

Sass, class, and the protective instincts of a mother tigress.

No wonder Cass liked Miranda Reynolds.

* * *

Unlike Hancock Pool, with its mule-drawn trolley to the Grand Park Hotel, Aquacia was off the beaten track, about two miles north of town. It was also privately owned, which allowed wealthy patrons to rent the bathhouse after hours.

Remembering the adage,
"Pinkertons can't be too careful,"
Sadie tethered her horse about a tenth of a mile from the building. Beams from a round, amber moon filtered through the tree canopy, lighting her way, but her insistence on stealth made the walk tedious. She was glad she'd tugged one of her oldest, rattiest pair of dungarees from her trunk, because she encountered thistle bushes more than once as she forged a path toward her destination.

Finally, she reached a clearing. The spa was nestled in a park-like setting of golden cedar elms, fiery maples, and broadleaved evergreens called live oaks. Blood-red tiles capped white stucco that made the Spanish-styled structure fairly glow in the moonlight.

The tinkling splash of the courtyard's fountain reached her ears. Tugging her slouch hat low over her bearded face, she flitted past a charming walkway of terra cotta tiles to the moon-drenched sun porch, which was attached to the main pool. No windows had been built into the bathing chamber, just an enormous, stained-glass bubble dome. Nevertheless, if she strained her ears, she could detect a rhythmic flutter-kick beyond the door, which Cass had propped open.

He
was inviting her to be seduced.

Thinking of Randie in his hotel bedroom, she scowled.

Two can play the conquest game, Rutter.

For a long moment, Sadie stood in the doorway, cicada song swelling behind her in the woods. Moonbeams spilled through the skylight, illuminating dust motes that danced like fairy magic over verdant waters. A long, lean swimmer's body was power-stroking through the pool. Completely naked, Cass's exquisite length glimmered like a torpedo-shaped pearl.

She told herself she should arrest him for breaking-and-entering. Unfortunately,
she
was arrested—even mesmerized—by the view: emerald waters sliding over alabaster flesh; corded limbs surging through frothy bubbles; the breadth and power of rippling shoulders, rising above the wave. Most endearing of all was the sight of his own dimpled moons, winking at the celestial orb that peeked slyly through the skylight.

Seeing him so appealingly undressed, Sadie had a hard time repressing a little growl. Cass's exquisite musculature was a sculptor's dream—and a woman's wet fantasy. But then, he'd always been an athlete, taking care to keep his reflexes as sharp as his mind.

Her man-shark hadn't noticed her arrival yet. That gave her time to plot her strategy. She raced him along the pool's longest edge, beating him to the shallows, where she waited triumphantly with a scowl. She was loath to let him know just how much she enjoyed watching his shameless virility cleave her ominous, black silhouette on the water.

When he pretended not to notice her, looming over him like an angry volcano goddess, she tugged his Bowie knife from her belt and flung it. The blade struck the deck's wooden planks above his head with a resounding
thunk.

That got his attention.

He reared up out of the water, tossing back his hair in a gleaming arc of spray that looked like a moonbow around his golden head.

"I stopped by Wilma's place," she announced. Planting her fists on her hips, she straddled that erect and quivering hilt. "What the hell is
this?"