Christie And The Hellcat Part 22

With a last smile and wave of the hand, they retrieved their bags from Dusty and headed off down the street. Zee tipped back her hat and watched them go.

"We gonna stand here forever in all this glare?" asked Jane, jostling Zee with an elbow. "I'm parched."

"Quiet, you." She tightened her grip and gave Christie an apologetic glance. "Gotta get going, darlin'. Got one prisoner to deliver and another to identify."

"Well, don't take too long."

"What's the rush? Got some entertainment in mind?" Zee leered at Christie. Jane rolled her eyes and pretended to puke.

"Yes, but it's not what you think." Christie smiled and patted Zee's arm. "I'm taking you to the theater."

Chapter 8.

Christie paced her hotel room for the umpteenth time. Where was that aggravating woman? She had last seen Zee heading up Central Avenue toward the town jail, argumentative prisoner in tow. That was two hours ago. Since then, Christie had had a snack, a long soak in the capacious bath, and a refreshing nap.

She glanced at her pocket watch. If Zee didn't hurry, they were going to be late. The sound of the door handle turning brought her to a halt, and she swiveled on one heel.

Zee stood in the doorway, hat in one hand. "Sorry I'm late, darlin'." She threw her Stetson unerringly at the hat stand and kicked the door closed behind her. "Sheriff Coogan sure likes to talk." She appraised their surroundings. "Nice room."

She crossed to the large bed, sat on it with a groan of relief and, after giving it an experimental bounce, began to pull off her boots.

"What are you doing?"

Zee froze, her boot half off, and looked up. "Huh?"

Christie put her hands on her hips. "The Theater. The matinee.

Vesta and Dan's guests. Remember?"

"Oh, that." Zee finished taking off the boot and started on the right one. "Thought you were joking. 'Fraid I just ain't in the mood for Shakespeare, darlin'."

"Who said anything about Shakespeare?" asked a surprised Christie. "It's Vaudeville."

In other circ.u.mstances, the expression on Zee's face might have been funny, but Christie was too busy getting her to wipe her boots with a damp cloth, brushing the worst of the dust off her Levi's and vest, and running a wet comb through her glossy black hair to think about that.

144.

At last she stood back. "You'll do." She reached for her drawstring bag. "Now let's go. We'll just about make it."

"But I was planning to take a nap," protested Zee, still fighting a rearguard action even as Christie shooed her down the stairs, into the lobby, and out of the hotel's double doors. "You know. You, me, a nice soft bed . . ."

Her smile filled Christie's stomach with b.u.t.terflies, and for a moment she was tempted to turn round, head back to their room, and spend the rest of the day ravishing Zee. She took a deep breath and steeled herself. How often did they get free tickets to the Vaudeville?

"Later," she promised.

"I'm counting on it."

GIF.

Zee stared at the spotlit figure on the tiny stage and tried not to fidget. She'd much rather be in bed with her girl than sitting here listening to a coa.r.s.e comedian tell an endless series of double enten-dres. She glanced at Christie who was holding a gloved hand to her open mouth and seemed torn between shock and enjoyment.

A program lay open on Christie's lap. Zee squinted at it. Garish red type proclaimed: "Ferdy Leybourne's Company of American and European Novelties." So far, they had seen four comic acrobats who rolled round the stage like tumbleweed, and two Irish la.s.ses who sang plaintive ballads that didn't leave a dry eye in the house (except for Zee's). The plump comic currently regaling the guffawing audience with off-color humor was Ferdy Leybourne himself.

"I thought Dan and Vesta were supposed to be in this," she grumbled.

"Sh." Christie's gaze was riveted to the stage. "They are." A gur-gle of laughter escaped her and her cheeks turned crimson. "Oh my!

Did he really say what I think he did?"

Zee reached for the program and ran one forefinger down the list of acts. Next on was "The Incomparable Vesta Vance and the Ribtickling Dan Corri. All the way from England."

Guess those are their stage names.

A roll of drums from the band and a loud round of applause made her look up in time to see Ferdy Leybourne running into the wings.

Onto the stage in his place strutted a dandy wearing Eastern garb.

145.

He stopped center stage, stroked his beard, and lit up a cigar. There was something oddly familiar about the fellow. Maybe it was just that the checked trousers, high collar, and trimmed goatee reminded Zee of Fred Younger, Christie's ex-beau. Next onto the stage danced a plump little dairymaid, complete with ap.r.o.n, frilly bonnet, and milk pails. The face under the pigtails was instantly familiar.

She blinked. "Isn't that?"

"Dan," confirmed Christie, as the little Englishman capered around the dandy, then curtseyed to him, provoking a ripple of laughter from the audience. "No wonder he doesn't even have sideburns."

He struck a pose and broke into song.

The singing was all right, thought Zee, if you liked that kind of thing. Dan had a pleasant enough tenor voice. But his lyrics were all about a milkmaid's troubles with l.u.s.tful farmers, and, though on the surface innocent, were couched in the most suggestive language Zee had ever heard (and she'd heard quite a bit). She was tempted to put her hands over Christie's ears, but far from being shocked, Christie seemed to be enjoying herself.

All the while the milkmaid sang and capered, the Eastern dandy continued smoking his cigar and regarding "her" with a supercilious air. The song ended, and the dandy made a "be off with you" gesture.

The milkmaid thumbed "her" nose, curtseyed, and scampered off.

Alone on stage once more, the dandy crushed his cigar under his boot-heel, stepped forward, struck his own pose and began to sing.

His posture, his manner, everything about him was masculine. It was only when a soprano voice rang round the auditorium that Zee realized he was a she, was in fact Vesta.

"Come into my arms," sang Vesta, launching into a romantic ballad and directing it at a pretty girl in the front row. Zee raised one eyebrow, then settled back in her seat and listened appreciatively.

The murmurs of shock had given way to delighted appreciation, as the audience realized how skillfully they had been taken in and happily colluded in the deception. When the song came to an end, and the dandy removed the yellow rose from "his" b.u.t.tonhole and threw it to the young woman, now pink with delight and embarra.s.sment, there was a spontaneous outburst of applause.

"So that's why," said Christie.

Zee turned to look at her. "Why what?"

"Why she was so interested in the way you dress."

146.

"And why Dan's suitcase was full of women's clothing."

"Imagine what the Reverend would have said if he knew." They chuckled at the thought.

The dandy bowed and strolled offstage as Dan returned, dressed this time as a very short, stout, and unconvincing Red Indian woman.

His song was about trying to make the woman's "brave" more amorous and was just as suggestive as his earlier number. Then Vesta came back on, dressed as an army officer with a more than pa.s.sing resemblance to Colonel Gregg. Zee chuckled as the officer courted a pretty girl in the second row.

She was sorry when the Galvins' act came to an end and they took their bows and left the stage. She wasn't interested in the acts that followed, the dancers and comedians, the troupe of trained collie dogs who simulated rescuing a child from a burning house. When the curtain fell at last, Zee was glad to be able to stretch her legsthe theater seats hadn't been designed with her lanky frame in mind.

"Well," said Christie, as they made their way backstage to congratulate their former traveling companions before returning to the hotel. "That was a surprise."

"Mm," said Zee. "And much better than Shakespeare."

Chapter 9.

"Are you gonna be much longer?" asked Zee.

Christie suppressed a grin, gave her hair a final stroke, and placed the hairbrush on the hotel dresser. She stood up and crossed to the big bed.

"You can help speed things up." She turned until her back was facing Zee. The creak of bedsprings signaled that Zee was sitting up.

Moments later, she felt her stays loosening and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thanks." She pulled the uncomfortable undergarment off and folded it, then placed it with her dress. Just because Zee tended to throw her clothes all over the floor didn't mean she was going to. She turned to find an appreciative gaze raking her from head to foot.

"Don't know why you decided to wear a corset again." Zee leaned back against the pillows, putting her hands behind her head and crossing her long legs at the ankles.

"You have to dress up for the Theater," said Christie. She stripped down to her drawers, conscious that Zee was watching her every move and slowing her disrobing deliberately.

"Get over here, you little tease," growled Zee at last.

Christie laughed, draped her stockings over a chair back and went to join her, giving Zee's big toe a tweak.

"What on earth do you do to your socks? They need darning again."

Zee dismissed the hole. "I'm a growing girl," she said. "Come here."

Christie was only too willing to be pulled into Zee's embrace.

Playful wrestling escalated into heated kissing before the need to breathe made them pull back.

148.

"Mm." Christie nestled into Zee's arms. "This is the perfect end to a very strange couple of days."

"Yeah. Who knew there were so many women pretending to be men out there?"

"And men pretending to be women," added Christie. She was pensive for a while. "Why do you think they do it?"

Zee shrugged. "It's a mighty fine disguise if you want to rob a stage."

"But Vesta and Dan . . ." She trailed off as she considered the English couple's act. Dan had made her laugh until she cried, but Vesta . . . well Vesta's act had both confused and intrigued her, and, she wouldn't mind betting, a lot of the audience felt the same. A nibble on her neck brought her out of her reverie.

"Does there have to be a reason?" asked Zee. "Maybe that's just who they are."

The nibble became a delicious suction, and Christie knew she would have to wear a scarf tomorrow. She pulled back her hair, revealing more of her neck for Zee's attentions, and mulled over her reply. Inescapably, her thoughts turned to her brother. Will he ever accept that this is just who we are? She sighed.

Zee stopped what she was doing. "You all right?"

Christie looked at her and brushed one tanned cheekbone with her forefinger. "Do you think Blue will ever come around?"

"Yeah." Zee took her hand and kissed its palm. "Wanna know why? I think he's angry, mostly. A lot at me, a little at you. A woman, an ex-outlaw, no less, seduced his sister, his friend's fiancee." She raised a sardonic eyebrow. "If I didn't know better I'd be shocked myself."

"But it wasn't like that," objected Christie.

"But that's how it seems to him, darlin'. And it's a lot to swallow."

Christie's shoulders slumped. "So there's no hope then?"

"Sure there is." Zee hugged her. "Once his anger wears off, he'll want to see his little sis. I guarantee it. You love each other, always have, always will. All those memories of your parents, all that shared history . . . that's a lot to ditch. He'll come to his senses, and sooner rather than later."

"But he said," Christie's throat was suddenly clogged with grief, "as long as I'm living in a brothel" She stopped, taken aback by Zee's grin. "What?"

149.

"I was saving this piece of news for when we get back, but now's as good a time as any." Zee released her, rolled over, grabbed her shirt from the hotel's plush green carpet, and began delving in one pocket.

"What news?"

Zee pressed a much folded, legal-looking doc.u.ment into Christie's hands. She opened it and stared at its contents.

THE OLD BARN, SCHOOLHOUSE LANE, BENSON.