Bonefire of the Vanities (30 page)

“Let’s check it out and split. This place is creepy.” I didn’t mention Amanda, but I felt a great sadness for the young woman. “If Amaryllis is down here, she’ll be scared to death. Let’s find the lights.”

“Good idea.”

I would never admit it out loud, but I was glad Oscar was with me. I flipped the light switch. For a moment, illumination filled the darkness; then the lights stuttered and went dark. In the brief flare of light, I saw a figure at the end of the hall near the séance room.

“Saint Paul in a nun’s habit,” I whispered.

“Have you lost it, Sarah Booth?” Oscar asked.

“I’m trying not to curse. I’m creating vivid and provocative images.” I spoke in a whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because I don’t want the person at the end of the hall to hear me.”

Oscar’s hand gave me support. “Who’s there?” Now he whispered, too.

“I couldn’t identify him, but he’s tall, dark, and dark.”

Oscar stepped in front of me. Just what I always wanted. My best friend’s husband as a human shield.

I tried to pull him back, but he shook me off. So it was okay for him to put himself in danger, but I couldn’t. I’d have to deal with the machismo later.

My total focus zeroed in on the end of the hall. Moving slowing and quietly, Oscar and I crept forward.

We passed another light switch and I flipped it. Nothing. Either a fuse had blown or someone deliberately cut the power to the lights in the basement. I voted for the second scenario.

A soft moaning emanated from the end of the hallway. My mind leaped instantly to the classics of horror written by Edgar Allan Poe. This was a moment the melancholy master would employ to great effect. Corpse in the wall, living person in a coffin, pendulum. Black cat! Had Pluto made his way to the basement? If so, who was he tormenting?

“No, help.” The words were distinct, echoing from the black void. “Please, help.”

I leaned toward where I assumed Oscar’s back would be. The hall was pitch black and I was disoriented, but I recognized the voice. “It’s Palk.”

“You’re sure?” Oscar asked.

“I’m positive. Even when he’s begging for help, he still sounds like a dick.”

The moan came again. “Get me down, now. Someone help me.”

“He sounds hurt,” Oscar said.

“Good things happen to bad people.” We inched closer to the end of the hallway.

“We need a flashlight.”

“There are candles in the séance room.” Dozens of them. Feeling down the wall, I found the knob, twisted it, and stepped inside, trying to remember the placement of the furniture. I stumbled a few times, but I found the candles and the lighter, left just where I’d last placed them.

The flint clacked as I spun the Zippo, and the flame gave me some relief from the darkness. I lit four candles. Doing my best to avoid dripping hot wax, I took them to the hall.

Holding up the candles in front of us, we cast wavering illumination into the inky hall.

Oscar gasped and backed into me. I almost set his hair on fire with my candles, but I managed only to drip hot wax down the collar of his shirt.

“What the hell?” Oscar said as he stepped forward again, candles extended.

Palk stood on tiptoe on a stool in the middle of the hall, a noose around his neck, wearing black fishnet stockings, a garter belt, and the Hannibal Lecter mask over his face. Every other part of him was naked as the day he was born.

“Help me. If I move, I’ll strangle.”

“If you move and expose anything else, I may throw up.” Wrong though it was, I enjoyed the sight of Palk brought to such a humiliating pass.

“You’re in a predicament, my man,” Oscar said. “I hate to say it, Palk, but this is a cliché. Uptight butler, kinky sex fetishes.”

“Get me down this instant.” Palk reached for authority but fell short.

“How about a
please
?” I asked.

“I refuse to beg you, a maid, for help.”

“Fine by me. Let’s head upstairs, Oscar. I’m sure Mrs. Littlefield and Mr. Graf need our services.”

We turned around and walked. I stopped. “By the way, Palk, who put you up on your stool? Was it an insurrection of the household help, sort of a symbolic hanging of your overbearing authority complex?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Oh, so it was a personal matter. “How did Yumi talk you onto a three-legged stool when your … vital statistics are dangling precariously? She must be very persuasive.”

“Could be he’s a perv,” Oscar offered. “Judging by the height of the stool and—”

“Stop!” I knew where he was going.

“Autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong.” Oscar was proud of himself.

“I was not alone,” Palk blurted.

“I’ll send Mrs. Westin down here to cut you loose.”

“Don’t do this, Miss Booth.”

Even though it was a command, it was the nicest he’d spoken to me since my arrival. “Why did Yumi run off and leave you like this?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. We enjoy role-playing. I know it’s hard to believe, but being a head butler is a wearisome burden. I need a little relief. Yumi is a woman who knows how to … persuade a man to do things he might not otherwise do. She heard something. Some noise. She said she’d be right back. I’m afraid something awful has happened to her.” Even though she’d gussied him up like a pimp’s Halloween delight, he longed for her. Amazing. The human animal could always surprise me.

“You’ve found your fashion niche, Palk. A garter belt, stockings, and a Hannibal Lecter mask. Sort of
Rocky Horror Picture Show
meets
Pretty Baby
. Have you considered the possibilities of a reality TV show?
Born to Boogie … Man
.”

I wasn’t about to let Palk off the hook easily, and I had Oscar holding his sides, he was laughing so hard.

“
Please
get me down,” Palk snapped.

He’d finally used the magic word. “Your wish is my command.”

My first impulse was to kick the stool, but Oscar wouldn’t approve. I hurried forward to find the rope pulled through a sconce and tied off. The knot was professionally done, easy to untie. Maybe Yumi meant to release him, but why had she left him? I tugged the rope and Palk was free.

When the rope fell around his feet, Palk removed the mask and stepped to the floor. For a man who spent his days with a broomstick up his … he was certainly nimble.

“Where are my clothes?” He was clearly panicked.

The area around him was bare—just like his … I shut that train of thought down before it reached a destination. “Tough luck, Palk. You’ll have to hoof it to your suite à la pervert.”

“My keys.” He didn’t attempt to hide his worry. “She took my pants and jacket.”

“Yumi?” Call it instinct or contagious panic, but my heart squeezed. If she had Palk’s master keys, Yumi had access to every locked door in the house.

“She constructed this entire scenario. She called me down to the basement for a game, but she took my clothes. I have to find her. On top of everything else, Mrs. Westin will be furious. I should have been in the dining room checking the dinner setup ten minutes ago. I told Yumi we didn’t have time, but nothing would dissuade her.” He started to brush past me, but I blocked him.

“Where’s Yumi?”

“Check the kitchen or her room. You know where it is, you little snoop. Tell her taking my clothes wasn’t amusing. Nor was leaving me tied up like a Christmas goose.”

“What did Yumi hear?” My brain drilled out a
red alert! Red alert!

“I don’t know. My mind was elsewhere.” His forehead furrowed. “Actually, I think it was a woman’s voice.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“One of the guests, calling for Stella. Strange.” The furrow grew deeper. “Why would Amaryllis wish to speak with a laundress?”

Lazarus on a trapeze! “And that’s when Yumi left you?”

“She said she’d be right back. Something must have happened to her.” His mouth thinned. “But why did she take my clothes? And why didn’t she come back? I’ve been down here for ages. Do you think she’s injured?”

He was actually worried about her. She’d left him in a situation where he might have hanged himself, yet he would ultimately forgive her. He had it bad for the chef. The faces of love were myriad and, in his case, terrifying.

“Did you hear anything else?” I asked, keeping my cool.

“Nothing. What should I have heard?”

I might fault Palk for being slow on the uptake, but I had to tar myself with the same brush. “We have to find Yumi and Amaryllis,” I said. The puzzle had clicked into place. Yumi had worked in Washington, D.C. She was handy with knives, and I’d seen her impressive physicality. I believed I’d found the assassin hired to kill Amaryllis.

18

Oscar, admirably silent about the whole sordid scene, kept watch on the first floor so Palk could run to his apartment and find suitable clothes. While I’d have given a hundred dollars to witness Brandy’s reaction to his choice in lingerie, I was more concerned for Amaryllis. For the moment, her safety was my priority.

If my deductions were correct, Yumi had been sent by Lucas Faver to eliminate Amaryllis. Sleeping with political figures could be righteously dangerous in the climate of intolerance that had brewed up in America. For a politician with a super-conservative base, killing a troublesome mistress might prove more appealing than owning up to her. Especially if he’d killed his wife and was about to be exposed.

If Congressman Faver thought Amaryllis suspected him of murder, she could be in serious danger. If he figured she’d rat him out to the police, she could be a dead woman walking. Normally, I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the political scene, but I knew Faver’s story. He was a media darling, a poor boy risen from a hardscrabble background to rule key committees. His supporters bought into his devout religious hyperbole. Based on his press, all he needed was a civil war and a top hat to rise to the level of Lincoln. He wouldn’t give up power without a struggle, and like many elected officials, he’d begun to believe he was above the laws he was paid to write.

This development required Internet access and a willingness to spend hours sifting through Web sites and newspaper articles.

Damn the Westins and their obsession with isolation; I needed help. I pulled out the cell phone Coleman had given me and dialed the sheriff’s office. The dispatcher told me Coleman and DeWayne were working a shooting in a rural river community, but she would radio them and Coleman would be in touch. I hung up and called Cece.

I told her what I thought was happening. She went dead silent.

“Are you there?” I feared my connection had been disrupted.

“I’m here. I’m on the Internet, checking into the congressman and his wife. Oh, I’ve found the car accident where she died. Photos of him nearly crumpling to the ground at her funeral. Whatever else the man is, he’s a genius at playing the political moment. He’s feasting on public sympathy. If he killed his wife to accommodate his mistress, this is the sickest thing I’ve seen.”

Oh, I could match that and up the ante with Palk’s lovefest. “Any evidence he killed the wife? Any hint of a scandal?” I waited—impatiently.

“There’re no news reports about infidelity, no rumors. Which could mean he’s either innocent or a very careful man. I’ll keep researching.”

“Thanks, Cece. I’ll be in touch.”

“Oh, you will indeed. I should head out to Heart’s Desire. I’m worried. Half of Zinnia is there, and if something gruesome occurs, you may need my muscle.”

I didn’t want to involve Cece in dangerous situations. “Take care of Sweetie and Chablis. That’s the best help of all. I think we’ll resolve this soon, and I’ll call you the minute we do.”

I hung up and darted up the stairs to Marjorie’s room. And stopped. Roger Addleson slithered out of Amaryllis’s room. He held something in his hands, but I couldn’t see clearly what it was. He saw me and almost jumped out of his skin.

“Where’s Amaryllis?” I asked.

“I have no idea. She’s not in her room.”

I waited silently, an invitation for him to continue. When he didn’t, I asked, “What did you take from her room?”

He tried to hide it behind his back. “Step aside. Don’t make me call Palk. I’ve never heard of a personal maid who dared question a guest. I’ll have you dismissed.”

“Give it your best shot.” I was tired of being treated like a second-class citizen. I had a new respect for the arrogance of the wealthy and the awful way they treated those they labeled inferior.

I made a grab for the object wrapped in a shirt. Too late, I realized he meant to fight. Like a linebacker, he stiff-armed me. My foot slipped on the edge of the top step, and I fell. For a few seconds it was like flying, but then I hit the treads and my world went black.

*   *   *

“Sarah Booth! Wake up!”

Tinkie’s face slowly came into focus. Behind her, Oscar wore an expression of concern. “She’s coming to.”

Indeed I was. And I was gunning for Roger Addleson. I pushed up on an elbow with a groan. “Where is the bastard?”

“Who?” Tinkie asked. “What happened to you?”

“Roger Addleson pushed me down the stairs.”

“You could have broken your neck,” Oscar said. “I’ll get Graf.”

“No!” Tinkie and I spoke in unison.

“There’s no point dragging Graf into this. He’s with Sherry.” I tried to get up, but my body protested. Nothing was broken, but I’d sure as hell been banged around.

Oscar offered a hand, and I let him pull me to my feet. “I’m okay.” I wanted to curse and weep—and kick the daylights out of Roger Addleson—but I maintained a stiff upper lip.

“One day, Sarah Booth—”

Oscar was cut short. “Don’t even say it.” Tinkie rounded on him. “Don’t you say something bad is going to happen to Sarah Booth. She was pushed down a flight of stairs by a coal company CEO. That’s not something anyone would expect and has nothing to do with our case.” She turned back to me. “Why did Addleson push you?”

I tried to piece the chain of events together. “He had something in his hand he’d taken from Amaryllis’s room. I tried to grab it and he pushed past me.” I had to be honest, though the temptation to paint him guilty was strong. “I don’t know that he meant to knock me down.”