Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (5 page)

“Look, dear, just to refresh your memory. The basic
idea is for a guy to enjoy good booze, beautiful arm candy and
maybe do a few lines of nose candy. If a man gets lucky with his
date, that’s icing on the cake.”

“Just a nice evening in the country?”

“Yes. And that’s all it’s meant to be. Greene isn’t
as smart as he thinks he is. These people know what they’re
doing.”

There are Mercedes 500s and Jaguars parked before a
long, low stone building. Cliff pulls into a vacant space, then
turns to me. “Oh, yes. And this is very important. You speak only
to me. No other man. Especially not the man dressed in red and
wearing a big hat.”

I’m about to ask why when a masked valet opens my
door and offers his hand.

We enter the building and step into a candlelit room
with paneled walls and an intricately carved coffered ceiling. At
one end is a full bar. The room is empty except for Cliff and me
and several masked wait-staff dressed as pages.

One page bearing a tray of champagne glasses is
right behind the man who takes my coat.

A third page leads me to the far end of the room and
ushers me into a small but beautifully appointed compartment.

Walls of pale peach silk rise to a pleated ceiling.
A comfortable chair in a peach-and-green floral design sits in
front of an oval mirror that appears to float. On closer
inspection, I can see it is attached to the ceiling with fine piano
wires.

In minutes, a woman dressed as a French maid
carrying several Harlequin masks enters. She hands me one after the
other to try, then pronounces, “This one is perfect, don’t you
agree?”

She’s right. The mask made of opalescent feathers of
forest green and gold is attached to a gilded wand. It’s the most
exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.

When I raise the mask to my face, I’m transformed
into a kind of fabulous fairy tale bird. A shiver of delight runs
through me. Who would have ever thought a hick chick from Lampasas,
Texas, would be playing a part like this?

“Enjoy the evening. Please use the restroom before
your escort arrives. There are only a few facilities on the first
floor of the building.”

I take a sip of the bubbly, then think better of
taking a second. No time to be dimwitted. I’m on assignment.

I’ve just dumped the rest of the champagne in the
sink when there’s a knock on the door and Cliff, wearing a mask in
iridescent blue with gold leaves, steps into the room.

The mask conceals most of his face. His tux is
covered with a damask cape accented with leaves the same design as
those on his mask.

“Can you breathe in that?”

He raises his head so I see his nostrils. “Would you
recognize me if you didn’t know who I was?”

The helmet-like mask dips downward at the ears to
cover his hair and neck. I peer into the eyeholes but can’t see
much. His mouth is very visible, but I don’t know him well enough
to be familiar with it.

I shake my head. “It’s a pretty good disguise.
Whoever thought this up did a great job on the design.”

————

We’re the only ones in the jitney that crawls up a
winding lane. When the bus makes one last turn, I can’t help but
gasp. Angela was right. It
is
a castle, three stories high,
complete with turrets connected by crenelated battlements,
showcased with golden floodlights.

I lean into Cliff and murmur, “What is this? Disney
New Jersey?”

He gives a poor imitation of some TV celebrity he
thinks I should know. “Oh, Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

AS WE CLIMB THE STAIRS to the arched entry a man
cloaked in black with a crimson mask steps from a group of chatting
guests and barks, “Please make your way to the assignment table.
It’s almost time to begin.”

He turns away, then whirls to face me and points his
finger. “Hey. Don’t I know you?”

Unsure of what to do, I raise my mask to cover my
face.

Cliff steps to my side and puts a protective hand on
my arm. “You know better than to speak unless it’s been
arranged.”

When the man lowers his gaze Cliff says, “I’ll
overlook your breach this time, but if you break the code again,
you know what will happen.” His threat hangs in the air.

After the man disappears into the crowd, Cliff turns
to me. “I’m not real happy about running into him. He must have met
Angela.”

“So what does that mean? Is my cover blown?”

“What cover? Look around you. Half the women don’t
have their masks covering their faces. Your arm will soon tire of
holding up your mask. That’s why there’s a loop at the end to slip
over your wrist.”

He leads me into a long, two-story gallery where
three enormous Venetian chandeliers hang from elaborately carved
domes.

The oak-paneled walls are covered with formal oil
portraits punctuated by mirrors over half-moon tables.

To one side of the gallery a graceful stair lined
with tapestries rises to a second level. A gold rope that bears a
small sign reading: “By invitation only,” is strung between the
elaborately carved newel posts.

I remember Angela saying that’s where Caro looked
down. Up those stairs. Where the action was. I’m going to be damn
sure I don’t make that trip.

The floor peeking from under several palace-sized
Oriental rugs is inlaid wood—old and expensive.

Only two envelopes remain on the round marble table
beneath the first chandelier. Cliff grabs the one with his name on
it, yanks out the card, and curses beneath his breath. “The Garden
Tent. Damn it, I’ve been demoted.” “Where were you last time?”

“In the ballroom.” He jams the envelope in his
pocket. “Let’s head for Siberia.”

Beneath an elegant tent draped in silk and dotted
with Japanese lanterns, the guests are arranged in two circles.

When the band strikes up, everyone dances. Each song
is played through only once and when the music stops, some couples
move to the right while others move in the opposite direction.

Cliff swipes a glass of champagne from the nearest
proffered tray, drains it and grabs my hand. “Maybe this isn’t
Siberia after all. Which way do you want to work? To the left or to
the right?”

————

After participating in this mindless charade for
over half an hour, I can honestly say these are the most boring
people I’ve ever met.

Between each dance, a couple from each circle
mingles. This lasts for about five minutes during which the men
communicate with each other in some sort of abbreviated lingo and
look the women over like they’re picking out merchandise from
Victoria’s Secret or a prime cut from some steak house. I fully
expect to have my teeth checked before the evening’s out.

We women do nothing but smile at the men and stare
through each other. And as far as the women’s masks are concerned,
Cliff was dead right. The masks hang from their wrists while they
dance and are raised only when a new couple is introduced.

At the first conversation break I try talking to a
brunette in a burgundy velvet dress that seems to have almost no
front or back. A deep vee rises from her bikini line, widens to
reveal her navel and climbs her large, well-shaped breasts to
barely cover her nipples. When she turns, the same effect is
repeated in the back.

It’s a construction miracle. Sheer gauze, the exact
shade of her skin, holds the dress together. One too-quick move and
she’ll lose the whole enchilada.

“Great outfit,” I offer.

“Tanks. So’s yours.” The “yours” came out
“you-ahs.”

She is definitely from another venue. I step a
little closer, chumming up. “Been coming to these things for a long
time?”

At that, she raises her mask studded with amethysts
and turquoise, opens her over-glossed mouth and lets out a startled
bray. “Don’t break the rules or it’s off with you-ah head.”

I remain mute after that. No point.

Between dances, I feast on canapés of Maine lobster,
bay scallops, planked salmon and caviar. I’m parched, but pass up
the bubbly. Sober as I am, I feel a tad giddy but chalk that up to
my assignment.

Cliff and I have just finished a brief samba and are
moving to greet yet another scintillating twosome when I feel
someone staring at me. It’s the man Cliff warned me about. The one
I’m not supposed to speak to.

He’s tall—tall enough to dwarf me. Beneath a
scarlet, wide-brimmed cardinal’s hat, an ornate silver mask covers
his face. On closer inspection, the eyebrows and lashes are
minutely detailed.

A scarlet cloak conceals this man’s body, but he
moves beneath it like a tiger. His lady is an attractive blonde
also in scarlet. She carries a mask of iridescent black feathers
studded with jewels.

I noticed this couple standing on the terrace when
Cliff and I joined our circle and watched them take their place
several groups behind us. Now they’re joining the couple we just
left.

I poke Cliff. Not a good idea. He’s talking to a
short, chunky man caped in heavy black brocade with red silk
piping. His blacklacquer mask with red tracings resembles a Chinese
Foo Dog.

When I peer around Cliff, he abruptly turns
away.

I cover my face with the mask and mutter, “I have to
talk to you in private.”

Cliff turns to me. “In a minute, darling.”

During the course of the evening I’ve learned that
no woman has a name. They are called “darling” or “precious” or
some other inane diminutive.

I poke him again. Harder.

Cliff whirls and mutters, “Excuse me,” then says
through clenched teeth, “What is it?”

I put my mouth to where his ear should be. “It’s
that man in red. The one you said I shouldn’t talk to. I think he’s
trying to catch up with us. Let’s get out of here.”

Cliff steals a look to the side, then points to the
terrace. “The ladies’ room is to the right just inside the
gallery.”

Bastard. He’s hanging me out to dry. Has he decided
it’s too dangerous to go along with the plan? Am I on my own? I
can’t see his eyes—can’t read his thoughts. Then I see a flash of
scarlet and realize I have only a few seconds’ lead.

I thread through the throng and skip up the steps
afraid to look back.

Can I make it to the bathroom in time to hide in a
stall until the music starts up? Then what? If only I knew the
drill.

I enter the main hallway and veer right. The door,
bearing a small brass outline of a Colonial Dame, is only three
steps away, when a firm hand grasps my shoulder.

Cliff whirls me around to face the silver-masked man
in the red hat. “The Cardinal has asked to take you home.”

He twists my wrist so hard I drop into a painful
curtsey.

The Cardinal bows in response. “Lovely. Lovely. I
see you’ve trained her well.”

He turns to the woman still glued to his side and
murmurs, “Jay Three will take you home, my dear.”

She nods and steps away as Cliff places my aching
hand in the man’s cool, dry grasp. Then, after a slight bow in the
Cardinal’s direction, he steers his new date into the crowd.

“THIS WAY, MY DEAR.” The Cardinal leads me toward
the front entry and down the steps to the waiting bus.

I fight the urge to yank my hand away and run like
hell. Then I curse myself for thinking I could pull off something
so impossibly daring. I’m going alone with this stranger who maybe
killed Caro—who would maybe like to carve an X on my breast. I feel
like I’ve just stepped into a nest of fire ants—a few bites can
cause extreme pain—too many bites kill.

At Station Two the Cardinal signals to a black,
late-model Mercedes 500 with Jersey plates.

Still masked, he turns on the dome light while he
leans forward to converse with the driver.

I get hold of myself and do a little sleuthing.
Hands have always fascinated me. His are slender with long,
tapering fingers, the hands of a man who has avoided manual labor.
He wears a heavy oblong signet ring with a family crest.

We’re well out of the gates before he leans back
into the seat and says, “I’m sorry about the mix-up last week.”

Tiny icicles boogie down my spine. Angela didn’t
mention a Cardinal.

“I hope Jay Three explained why we couldn’t make the
switch then. My date was feverish. I felt I should take her
home.”

So, Cliff knew who he was trading me to all along! I
can’t wait to get my hands around his slimy neck.

After the driver negotiates the Mercedes onto the
New Jersey Turnpike, the Cardinal says, “I presume you live in
Manhattan.” From that question it looks like he isn’t going to kill
me and dump my body in the Newark Bay quite yet. And wait a
minute—wouldn’t he know where I live if he were Caro’s killer?

“My roommate and I share a townhouse on Ninety-Fifth
between Lex and Third.”

He leans forward, his smooth exterior cracking a
little. “You have a roommate? Jay Three didn’t mention that.”

Again, those arctic tickles and that small voice on
the far side of my mind nudges me and I burble, “She’s gone for the
weekend.”

Not quite a lie. Poor Caro.

“Wonderful. I was hoping for a cup of coffee and a
brief chat. It’s so much easier in private.” He relaxes and leans
into the cushions.

When the car pulls to the curb and the chauffeur
opens my door, I hesitate.

The Cardinal must see me stiffen because he gently
taps my bare arm. “I promise—only one cup. I have a long drive
ahead of me.”

I hesitate for only a second. This may be my sole
opportunity to get the information Greene needs.

“Then one cup it is.” I slide out of the car, hurry
up the steps and into the outer foyer. When I turn, a distinguished
gray-haired man in his late sixties or early seventies with
startling steel-gray eyes stands unmasked beside me.

As the outer door groans shut, he steps forward and
pulls me to him. “I’ve been wanting to hold you close since I first
saw you. You took my breath away then, but tonight—”