Devil in Texas(40)

"He comes here at night—" she stopped talking long enough to blow her nose "—and other times when he's thirsty."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yep. I like to meet him with sandwiches and apples, and pralines for Vandy. Kind of like a picnic. I don't think Collie gets to eat much during the day. You know, 'cause Vandy beats him to all the food."

Cass did a masterful job of keeping a straight face.

"Anyhow, me and Collie swore a pact. I told him I wouldn't rat him out for stealing Wilma's liquor if he tells me a bedtime story. So last night, he told me about moonshining. And the night before that, he told me how to pick a lock."

Cass cleared his throat to disguise laughter. "So let me get this straight. Collie sneaks in here, steals Wilma's Wild Turkey, and tells you things that would raise every hair on your mama's head?"

"Uh-huh." Beaming, Jazi returned Cass's soiled bandanna. "And someday, we're going to get married."

Cass's grin turned lopsided as he imagined Collie ragged out in a bowtie and swallowtails. "Does Collie know about your wedding plans?"

"Of course, silly! He said we'd walk down the aisle when ducks whistle. Won't that be a lovely wedding march?"

Choking back laughter, Cass shoved his bandanna into his back pocket. "That sounds mighty fine, all right. But maybe I should talk to the rascal for you. Get him to speed things along. Otherwise, you might be waiting at the altar for a good, long spell."

"Naw." Jazi popped another praline into her mouth. "Collie still needs some training around womenfolk. I figure I'll let you do the hard work while I'm growing up. After all, I've got my hands full with Mama. She thinks I should marry a banker. Or maybe a grocer." Jazi stuck out her tongue and made an unladylike sound. "Wouldn't that be the most boring life ever? Pinching pennies and squeezing melons?"

Cass was trying so hard not to laugh, his eyes were swimming with tears. "You have a point."

"But you can't tell Mama about my wedding plans! Promise?"

"Cross my heart. We can swear a pinky oath to make it official."

Jazi looked confused. "You can't swear a Pinkie oath. You're a boy."

"Sure I can! Boys swear pinky oaths all the time."

"But boys can't be Pinkies."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Lady Pinkerton agents," she emphasized, as if he were as dense as a slug of lead. "Why else would a woman own four sets of whiskers and a broach that sprays ink?"

Cass was pretty sure he was gaping like a guppy. "You mean... "

No. He shook his head, laughing a little at the notion. That's not possible. Womenfolk don't sign up to be undercover tin-stars!

So why did Sadie's behavior suddenly make a whole lot of sense?

Suddenly, Jazi jumped, as if a bee had stung her. "Uh-oh. I hear Mama calling. I have to go!"

Launching into a frenzy of activity, she hopped off the crate, tore off her hat and gew-gaws, shrugged out of the silk remnant that had once been Sadie's nightgown, and shoved all this grown-up plunder inside her throne. Then she gathered her patched, blue calico above her knees and dashed for the kitchen stairs.

"Be sure to blow out the lanterns, Cass," she called down in an urgent undertone. "Nobody wants another fire."

Jazi blew him a kiss. A flash of impish dimples was his last glimpse of the child before she lowered the trapdoor and latched it over his head.

For a long moment, he stood alone in that cavernous storage chamber, his mind spinning, his heart pounding hard enough to crack a rib. He couldn't believe he was seriously considering this lamebrain idea. But if Sadie really was a Pinkerton, then she had to have something that gave her immunity from prosecution. Something that would keep her safe from arrest if she fired a gun in the line of duty. No lawman worked without one.

His sniper's eyes probed every shadow, corner, and cobweb before his gaze alighted once more on the vanity. Standing on toothpick-style legs, it was constructed of whitewashed pine and painted with pink and yellow butterflies. Gingerbread frou-frou framed its beveled mirror, and the drawers were dominated by daisy-shaped knobs. The contraption looked like something out of a wealthy schoolgirl's nursery. It was the antithesis of anything Sadie had ever owned and was ever likely to own, if given a choice.

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.