Parlor Games: A Novel Part 30

May I see you for a private conversation? I have an important and confidential business matter to discuss with you. Meet me at Morelos Cafe this morning at 11.

Most sincerely yours, Reed Dougherty I folded the note. The muscles of my extremities twinged with panic. I never should have a.s.sumed I'd be safe from Dougherty, even in Mexico.

Alonso stopped mid-brush, holding a shock of my hair in his hand. "Is there a problem?"

"It's an old business acquaintance," I said, not wishing to alarm Alonso. "He wants to see me."

"How did he find you here?"

"I wish I knew." I looked at Alonso in the mirror. His expression looked askew-perplexed and perturbed. Or was it merely a distortion of the mirror?

"Should I go with you?"

"No," I said, fingering my collarbone. "It's best if I see him myself."

He released my hair and dropped a hand to my shoulder. "You are upset."

"I didn't expect to hear from him. Especially not here."

"I will not have anyone making trouble for you."

"You needn't worry about that. I can handle him."

Commanding myself to pluck up, I dressed and took a carriage to the Morelos Cafe. Reed Dougherty, as lanky as ever, stood beside the front door, leaning against the building as if he owned it. It appeared he'd already spent a week or two under Mexico's clear skies: A roseate tan flushed his gaunt face. And he wore the regional apparel-a casual beige suit rumpled from wear. Then again, he never had shown any interest in tidiness. He still sported his signature downturned mustache, and had added a beard, perhaps in an attempt to dignify his odd looks and underhanded ways.

Descending from the carriage, I composed my shawl over my shoulders and ambled toward him.

He pushed himself away from the building with his shoulder, as if sloughing off a bothersome hand, and approached, a mischievous gleam overtaking his narrowed eyes. "Miss Walker, is it?"

"Mr. Dougherty," I said, not offering my hand. "You never change."

He chuckled. "No, I've kept the same name."

"Well, shall we get this over with?"

"I've asked for a quiet table for us." He motioned to an outdoor table set apart from the others under an awning. "Will this do?"

"As well as any," I said, leading the way and taking a seat.

Dougherty raised a hand, calling for a waiter. We ordered coffee.

He slung his arm around the back of his chair. "Thanks to you, I'm becoming the most traveled detective in the world."

"Why do you insist on intervening in my personal affairs?"

"You think I manufacture these affairs just to make your life miserable?"

"It certainly seems that way." I could see his face all too clearly across our platter-sized table-those penetrating dark-brown eyes, and the long nose that plunged down from his high brow and lent his expression a homely dolor.

"Well, it is rare in my line of work to enjoy such a ... shall we say ... involved relationship as you and I share."

"It sounds as if you've missed me, you fool."

"A fool for missing a woman of your many charms? On the contrary, my dear Miss Walker."

I had no stomach for this ludicrous banter. "Who has sent you this time?"

"The Mexican government."

"Why ever would they care about me?"

"You know very well. For starters, there's no Florence Walker in the employ of Iron Mountain Mining."

"I can't imagine the Mexican government cares about such a trifle."

"Perhaps not, but they do care about the mining contract."

"All that was quite straightforward," I said with a toss of my hand. "The highest bid won."

"And it was a relative of yours," he said, smirking.

"Of what consequence is that?"

"Don't you think other parties would be interested in how that contract was won?"

"They were obviously outbid."

Dougherty whipped out a paper and spread it on the table-my notes about the bidding. "You spied," he said. "And compet.i.tors do not consider that a legitimate way to do business."

Nausea ripped through my belly. But I forced calm into my manner. "We're in Mexico, Mr. Dougherty, where they do business just as they please."

He folded the paper and tucked it inside his suit jacket. "And where Mexican interests expect to win domestic contracts."

"The deal is closed. I can't see why the government cares in the least about me."

Dougherty reared his head back, like a horse pulled to an abrupt halt. "Because you've been gadding about with the son of the Secretary of Resources, and Secretary Elvira Perez cannot risk any exposure."

"I will leave Mexico when I please."

"You will not only leave Mexico, you will never again see Alonso Elvira Alamo."

"You can't have me jailed for spending time with a man. That would only expose the matter."

Dougherty pressed a finger over his mouth, as if deep in thought. "Hmm, jailing you could be an option."

"You wouldn't dare have an American citizen jailed. People know where I am. And my husband wouldn't stand for it."

"Neither would your husband be pleased to hear about your Mexican lover."

I stiffened my spine and raised my chin. "You, sir, pretend to be on the side of righteousness. But your actions were directly responsible for the suicide of Johnny Graham. Have you no conscience?"

"I sleep quite well, thank you."

"Because you're a heartless reptile."

"What happened to John Graham was tragic. It's unfortunate you exploited the young man."

Without a word, the waiter placed our coffees before us and breezed away.

"Exploited? How dare you. I loved him."

Dougherty eased the cup toward his mouth and sipped the steaming brew. "I don't believe it."

"I don't care what you believe." I shoved my cup aside. "We planned to marry. Because of you and his father, I never had the chance to meet his family, to show them how much in love we were."

"Instead, you showed it by draining his bank account."

How this man curdled my blood. "What do you know, you self-righteous c.o.c.kalorum? Johnny spent as he wished. I did not rob him."

"You robbed him of his future."

I sprang up and swung my open hand at him, slapping his cheek with all my might.

His head careened from the blow. He righted himself and drew a hand to his reddened cheek, then looked up at me, the oddest expression of delight twisting his features. My G.o.d, I thought, the man fancies me.

Over Dougherty's shoulder, I spotted Alonso crossing the street and hurrying toward us. I flashed a hand at him, hoping to stop him, but he continued, his jaw set with outrage.

I grabbed my purse and stepped around the table. "I've heard enough. Good day, Mr. Dougherty."

Dougherty jerked around to see whom I had signaled. He shot to his feet and spread his arms, blocking my departure. "And besides letting the Baron know about your lover, I will inform Alonso of your marriage. Unless you are out of Mexico by January 6. I must inform you the Mexican government will not abide your presence after that."

HEARTACHE ON HEARTACHE.

MEXICO CITY TO ARKANSAS TO NEW YORK-JANUARY-FEBRUARY 1903

I had nine days to leave Mexico. And Alonso. Nine days tortured by the agony of knowing I must leave him, fears about how much his father knew, and incessant worrying about what to tell him. In the end, only one viable solution presented itself-a sudden and stealthy departure. Alonso and I had returned to Mexico City, he to his work and I to the Gran Hotel. Before he could call on me the afternoon of January 5 I checked out and left a note for him at the desk.

My dear Alonso,

I have tasted wonders with you. But I have built a life elsewhere and cannot turn my back on it. I will forever treasure the memories of my time with you. Please understand: It is best for you to seek happiness here without me.

Your once in Mexico love, Florence Then I took a carriage to the train station and stole away. My first impulse was to travel to Michigan, to see Maman. What comfort it would be to yield to her loving embrace, hear her chatter about the goings-on in Menominee, and smell the meat-and-potatoes broth of her beef stew wafting through the hallways. But it was such a long train ride, and in the middle of winter a snowstorm might well strand me in some backwoods town. Arkansas was not far off the track, however. I could stop off there on my way to New York and pa.s.s some time with Gene. He didn't offer the kind of solace Maman did, but I could count on him for entertaining diversion and, at the same time, check on the hotel sale.

I arrived in Hot Springs without having wired ahead, more because I lacked the initiative to do so than out of any design to surprise Gene. I hired an automobile in Hot Springs-an open 1902 Rambler that bounced me mercilessly over the country roads-and arrived, depressed and irritable, at the Potash Sulphur Hotel mid-afternoon. At the check-in clerk's request, the bell-hopper slipped down the hall to summon Gene for me.

"Well, my goodness, look who's here," said Gene, rushing up to me and wrapping his long arms around me.

I held him tight, clinging hard long after he'd relaxed his grip, taking comfort in the familiar scent of cigar smoke on him. Gene, perhaps sensing my need for comfort, swayed me in his arms.

Letting go and stepping back, I looked up at him. "How about a drink?"

"By all means, Baroness. First allow me to help with your bags."

I'd asked for my favorite room, a quiet suite on the second floor that overlooked the river behind the property. We paused there long enough for me to survey the decor. "I like what you've done here-the peac.o.c.k wallpaper, the ivory drapes and bedspread, the modern furnishings-all very sophisticated."

Gene bowed to me. "As you commanded, m'lady."

We strolled to the wood-paneled dining room, commandeered a corner table, and ordered highb.a.l.l.s.

Gene leaned back in his chair and said, "Tell me about your Mexican adventure."

I looked around at what had formerly been a bright room with a creaking wood floor. Now a puddle-deep Persian carpet softened the guests' footfalls and the kitchen racket. Wooden shutters on the windows let in mere slits of light. The mahogany-stained dining tables matched the darkness of the wood paneling, lending the room a cloak-and-dagger atmosphere. "You've completely changed the look of this room."

"It suits the clientele." Gene picked up his drink and swung it toward the room's guests. "You know, the gambling type."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it does." I'd signed off on all these changes, but now I missed the homeyness of the old breakfast room, with its cheery yellow walls, morning light streaming in the wide windows, and hospitable, well-worn chairs. "Do you ever hear from the old owners?"

"Oh, they came around for the grand opening, ogling the place like a couple of b.u.mpkins. They complimented me, but I doubt they approved of what they saw."

I nodded. "No, I don't suppose they would. It's lost that country charm."

"But you can't argue with success. The reservations are rolling in."

"Wonderful, wonderful," I said, barely managing any lilt in my delivery. In my mind's eye I saw the hotel from afar, as if it were a dollhouse, its front cut away and its cubicles stuffed with shiny toy furniture and figurines in tailcoats and flouncing dresses. It was my dollhouse-to oversee and decorate and sell-but a dollhouse I'd somehow outgrown, a nuisance to be disposed of, an investment to turn a profit on.