Woodson, with a lit cigar smoldering away, narrowed his eyes. “That, Mr. Burton, sounds very much like a threat.”
“No threat at all. It’s fact. I’m sure the sheriff might be interested in what kind of game you’re running in this room, Woodson. And how many other players you’ve fleeced.”
It was as he stretched down across to bundle up his markers, and the rest of the hefty pot, that the derringer, slipped out from under his vest, appeared like a flash in Woodson’s be-ringed hand.
“You’ll leave, Mr. Burton, with your coat and nothing else,” he said coldly. “You’ve lost. Now let me see the back of you, on your way out the door.”
“Or you’ll what? You’ll shoot me?” Nathaniel, staring down his opponent, demanded with scorn. “Then you’ll have something far more serious to deal with than mere cheating at cards, won’t you? You’ll have—”
The shot snapped out without warning. There was the smallest hint of discharge, a puff of smoke, and utter surprise on the face of the victim. And then he was struck by a second shot.
Nathaniel’s eyes widened as realization hit with the force of each bullet that rocked him back on his heels. He’d never even seen it coming.
He glanced down. A small red stain had begun to spread over his powder blue waistcoat. Oh, man. Cammy would throw a hissy fit over that.
Oddly enough, there was no pain. Not yet. But his fingers tightened over the back of the chair as he struggled for balance. Although the room seemed suddenly darker and colder, he clearly heard Woodson’s chilling announcement.
“The man’s done for. And we have what we wanted. Get rid of him.”
“Get rid of him?” repeated one of his startled cohorts. “Where?”
“You fool, I already gave you your orders. Take the back way out, and dump his body in the alley two doors down. Anyone stumbling across him will think he’s been set upon by pickpockets and thieves.”
Nathaniel had enough time for one astonished thought, I wish I had just gone straight home.
And then he crumpled slowly, without grace, to the floor.
Chapter Two
“OH, MY DEAR MISS BURTON, I am so sincerely sorry for your loss. What a shock to everyone.”
With a small grimace of distaste for the circumstances, Camellia Burton turned to face one of Lukas Street’s very tony widows, dressed to the teeth in sumptuous weeds. “Thank you, Mrs. Dillard. It was good of you to come and pay your respects.”
“Tell me,” the lady went on, in a lowered voice that conferred more intimacy upon the moment than it deserved, “is it true your poor father was actually found face-down, shot through the chest, in an alley behind a row of—well, you know...what they call the dens of iniquity?”
She was a purported sympathizer, a professional mourner, calling at the funeral parlor to express her regrets—or exhibit her raging curiosity. Mrs. Persephone Dillard, unfortunately a neighbor situated amongst all the others throughout their upper-class retreat, could not easily be snubbed. Her position in society and her superior attitude forbade any such behavior.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Dillard,” Camellia offered once again, with her chilliest expression. Still polite, of course. Must be polite, at all
costs. “All of us appreciate your stopping by.”
“And I heard,” the tone fell even softer, as its speaker leaned in, “that there was—oh, my... gambling involved, and possibly—possibly—opium?”
Camellia’s jaw set into an unlovely line. “You mustn’t believe everything being bandied about, Mrs. Dillard.”
“Oh, but, of course, I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear Miss Burton.” The elderly lady bridled a little, like a restive horse. “In my years upon this earth, I have certainly been forced to ignore much of what people are discussing. Although, I do wonder—well, do you know if there is any hope of catching the murderer, and finding justice?”
“I understand the police are doing their best. Which is all that we can hope for.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly. A most sensible attitude. And then there are your sisters to be considered, in addition. What on earth will you girls do with yourselves? Will you be able to maintain your lovely house? How is everyone holding up?”
Nosy old hen! As if I would confide in you any of the worries that are weighing me down! “As well as can be expected, I should say. If there’s nothing else at the moment, pray excuse me, I have a few other people to see...”
Making a smooth but determined escape from the clutches of this harpy in shoe leather, Camellia found her way to a deserted anteroom where she could catch her breath. She didn’t need the glimpse she caught of herself in the gold-framed hall tree mirror to realize how unbecomingly unpresentable she looked in heavy mourning.
Making no bones about it, she appeared, in fact, like a moldering old crow. With her shining black hair dulled by the net of a cumbersome veil, and her complexion whitened to mask-like pallor, and her fine blue eyes slightly swollen and reddened from grief, she presented a picture that no one would want to see. Let alone deal with.
“Cammy. Here you are.”