A white tie hung loose around Charles Butler’s open collar. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to the elbow, and his foot tapped in harmony with a Vivaldi mandolin concerto.
The kitchen was his favorite room, and today it fed all his senses. Sunlight brightened the yellow walls, set copper pots to gleaming and sparkled off chrome pans and spice jars. The air was ripe with the smell of fresh-baked bread slathered in garlic butter, and the aroma of roast turkey wafted up from the oven door. As Charles reached for the basting brush, he realized that his guest held an empty glass.
„Sorry, Nick.“ He searched the countertop, hunting for the recently uncorked wine amid the jumble of jars and plates, but the bottle was gone. Perhaps someone had taken it into the front room. He reached for another one from the case on the table.
„No need, Charles.“ The older man shook out a large dinner napkin, laid it on the chopping block, and as he delicately used two fingers to draw up the material, an open bottle of red wine materialized at the center of the wooden square.
Just like old times. Charles had been a small boy the last time Nick Prado came to dinner. Thirty years ago, this man’s hair had been lustrous black. Now it was a sparse iron gray. And his dark Spanish eyes had faded to an ordinary brown.
„When is Malakhai coming?“ Nick’s Latin accent was gone without a trace, and this was another disconcerting effect of time. The flavor was leaving every aspect of the man.
„Malakhai phoned his regrets.“ Charles filled two wineglasses. Though he towered over most people, it felt odd to be looking down at Nick, trading statures with the elder man who had once bowed his head to speak with a child-size Charles.
Nick turned to the wall rack of cooking utensils and admired his reflection in the chrome of a frying pan lid. Though he could well afford cosmetic dental work, he still had his natural teeth, evidenced by the gaps of receding gums and the yellow stains of a lifelong tobacco habit. Judging by the smile that showed every tooth to the frying pan lid, he must perceive his aged enamel as a sign of continuing virility, for despite the fading, the graying and the yellowing, this was still authentically Nick Prado in all his original parts. Apparently, the paunch at his belt line did not adversely affect this good opinion. He patted it now in a compliment to himself.
Another guest appeared in the kitchen, but only his head and a stretch of neck as he checked round the edge of the door to see that no one was there before he opened it wider. Franny Futura smiled, and his eyes became slits of gray, disappearing into the folds above them and the bags below. He stepped into the room and lightly tap-danced across the tiles, as if the floor might be hot. He was led to the oven by an upturned sniffing nose. „Oh, Charles, it smells wonderful.“ On a sadder note, he added, „We’re out of hors d’oeuvres again.“
The Frenchman spoke perfect English. And he was such a clean man, as if some insane housekeeper had been at him with an arsenal of solvents and powders, scrubbing his skin to a raw pink and scouring his dentures until they were too white to pass for the real thing.
Charles had met him only one week ago, but he guessed there had never been much of a chin to support Franny Futura’s face, and now the flesh fell past it to hang in a loose wattle. The slicked-back hair of his scalp was white, but his thick eyebrows had been made young again with black dye.
Franny stood at the kitchen counter, refilling his wineglass and carefully rolling the bottle to avoid spilling a single drop. „That lovely girl has disappeared.“
„Mallory?“ Charles dipped his basting brush in a pan of melted butter. „She’s probably in her office across the hall. She’ll be back.“
„An office across the hall?“ Nick Prado reluctantly turned away from his reflection. „But you said she was a real police detective. What’s she – “
„She’s a silent partner in my consulting firm.“ Of course, the word silent stood for covert. NYPD frowned on moonlighting and flatly forbade outside employment that required investigative skills.
„So, Charles, how does that work again?“ asked Nick. „This business of yours?“
„Well, institutes and universities send me people with interesting gifts. I evaluate them, and Mallory does all the computer work and background checks. She takes the raw data and – “
„Fascinating,“ said Nick.
But Charles could tell it was not at all interesting to either man. He was boring his guests. „Now Mallory’s regular job is miles more intriguing. She’s a – “
„Pretty girl, fabulous eyes,“ said Nick. „And that hair. I’ve always been partial to blondes. Is she married?“
„Oh, right, you old fool.“ Franny Futura grinned. „As if you had a shot.“
Charles hoped they would not speculate on his own chances with Mallory. He could imagine the sad shake of their heads as they estimated the great size of his nose in inverse proportion to his slim prospects. Not that he was overly sensitive about the large hook growing in the center of his face, but he was constantly aware of it. No matter where he turned his eyes, there it was.
Nick Prado was uncorking another bottle. „So, why didn’t you introduce her last week? At Oliver’s funeral?“
„What?“ Charles turned away from the chore of basting. „I didn’t see her there.“ And since she had never met Oliver Tree, he had to wonder why she was there. „Are you sure it was Mallory?“
„Oh, yes. I saw her, too.“ Franny opened the door. „She was in the back of the crowd taking photographs.“
Nick picked up the wine bottle as he followed his friend out of the room, saying, „I wonder if she got any good pictures of me.“
When Charles had finished with the turkey and closed the oven, he glanced through the open doorway for a narrow view of the dining room. Mallory had returned. She was walking around the long table. He watched her resetting the plates and silverware with machine precision. If he took a ruler to the place settings, he knew they would be equidistant to within the smallest fraction of an inch. And all the knives, forks and spoons would make perfect right angles with the edges of the lace tablecloth.
Nick Prado approached Mallory, holding a full wineglass in each hand. He sucked in the paunch at his belt and vamped her with a slow smile, displaying all the gaps between his nicotine-stained teeth, no doubt believing that she would find this attractive, possibly seductive, for they were his own teeth, weren’t they?
Mallory accepted a glass of red wine, then resumed the chore of compulsive silverware straightening.
„May I call you Kathy?“ Nick was asking.
„No one calls me Kathy.“ Done with the silver, she turned her back on him and walked away, probably off to straighten the picture frames in the next room.
The smile evaporated. Nick must see Mallory’s behavior as incomprehensible rudeness. When he got to know her better, he might appreciate the fact that she had used five words instead of the standard no. She was evidently on best behavior for the holiday.
Charles waited a tactful minute for the older man to recover his dignity, to rationalize away her rejection, perhaps assuming that the woman who owned three guns was merely shy. When Nick had walked off to rejoin the rest of the company, Charles carried a plate of appetizers through the dining area and into the front room. Four tall windows flooded the parlor with afternoon light, enriching the colors of Tiffany lampshades and the Oriental pattern of the carpet. Large canvases of abstract art hung on every wall, blending remarkably well with the antique furnishings.
Detective Sergeant Riker sprawled at one end of the Belter sofa, all settled in with his beer and cigarettes. He looked more natural now that he had undone his tie and further creased his suit. Half an hour ago, when Charles greeted him at the door, the policeman’s fine new coat had created the immediate impression of a rich man whose hat and shoes had been in a terrible accident.
Pointedly ignoring Riker, Mallory settled into an armchair opposite the couch. Charles wondered if he was reading too much into the strained behavior of the two detectives. They had arrived together and not – awkward as strangers meeting in a hallway for the first time.
Mallory was speaking with Franny Futura. She had already trained him to call her by her last name, sans Miss or Ms. „You were the one who did the parade stunt with the crossbow.“ This was not phrased as polite conversation.
„Well, I staged it, yes.“ Franny’s head wobbled a bit, suddenly insecure on its pinion. He had no way to know that Mallory was egalitarian, regarding everyone with equal suspicion.
„Why a crossbow?“
„You think it might have been a bit much?“ Franny moved back, pressing his body into the couch upholstery. „I mean – the similarity to Oliver’s death.“
„That was the idea, wasn’t it?“
Franny flinched, as if she had accused him of something more heinous. Charles hovered over the man’s chair, wondering if he should run interference. Mallory had a difficult time switching out of the interrogation mode for social occasions, so she never bothered to try.
„But the stunt wasn’t my idea,“ said Franny. „Nick hired him. The boy was supposed to aim the crossbow when the float rolled past the first television camera. But then this camera crew set up right next to the…“ His words trailed off as she looked away, losing interest in him.
Nick Prado was her new target. He was settling into the chair next to hers when she turned on him. „Why did you hire that crossbow shooter?“
„Considering the way Oliver died, that was in poor taste, wasn’t it?“ He smiled in self-congratulation. „I’ve prostituted my talents as a publicist.“ Indeed, Nick was a self-described publicity whore and the owner of the largest public relations firm in his hometown of Chicago.
„You knew he was Oliver Tree’s nephew,“ said Mallory, as if she had already caught him in a lie.
„Of course I did,“ said Nick. „The boy needed money. And the stunt gave his uncle a few more minutes of fame on the evening news.“ He leaned toward Mallory with a delicious stage leer.
This was a tense moment for Charles. Nick’s face was entirely too close to Mallory’s. With great relief, he left the room to answer the doorbell. When he returned to the parlor with the last dinner guest, another Frenchman, Nick Prado was still alive, and Mallory was focused on Franny again.
„You were the one who got hit by the arrow.“ This was a fact, but she had fashioned it into an accusation.
„Was he?“ The late arrival, Emile St. John, entered the circle of conversation, looming over everyone but Charles. This was the eldest magician, close to eighty, but he seemed younger than his two friends. A deep tan and the faint outline of ski goggles gave him a look of robust good health.
There had been no time for formal introductions at the parade, and now, as Emile shook hands with Riker, Mallory was frankly appraising the man’s silver hair styled by a master barber, and he had changed his parade costume for a gray suit tailored by another maestro.
Emile sat down in the George III side chair, creating a buffer between Mallory and her interrogation subject. His placid blue eyes settled on Franny with a smiling benediction, instantly calming the smaller man. „I thought Nick was supposed to get shot this morning.“
„Well, he wouldn’t get up on the stage,“ said Franny in a voice of complaint. „So I had to do it.“ He offered Mallory a weak smile of solicitation, seeking only to appease her. „The crossbow trick was perfectly harmless – really it was. We weren’t being reckless with public safety.“ His hand drifted up to his mouth. „Oh, sorry.“ Apparently, he had just remembered that the young detective stood accused of being wildly reckless in public.
Nick Prado edged his chair closer to Mallory’s. „You upstaged us with that chase scene. It was wonderful publicity for the magic festival.“
„Oh, yes.“ Franny brightened. „And when you shot the balloon – “
„I didn’t shoot the balloon,“ said Mallory.
„No, of course you didn’t.“ Franny inched down the sofa toward the more amiable Riker. „So sorry to have brought it up.“
Mallory faced Nick. „You weren’t on the float when that gun went off. What did he mean when he said you wouldn’t get on – “
„Am I a suspect?“ Nick seemed delighted at the prospect. „All right, I shot the big puppy. I’m yours.“ He held out his wrists, awaiting manacles. „Take me away – please? No?“ He grabbed up her hand with the intention of kissing it, but she was faster, jerking her arm back.
For a moment, Charles feared that Mallory would wipe her hand on a cocktail napkin. She seemed to find the man that distasteful.
Smiling and serene, Emile St. John looked up as Charles passed him a plate of hors d’oeuvres. „Malakhai’s not here yet?“
„He’ll be in late this evening.“ Charles sat down beside Nick Prado and worked over the cork of another wine bottle.
Birdlike, Franny Futura cocked his head to one side. „Why is Malakhai coming?“
„He was invited to the festival.“ Nick reached over Mallory’s lap on the pretext of robbing the hors d’oeuvres plate. His arm brushed her thighs. Her expression was lethal, but she did nothing to harm him.
„Well, he’s always invited to these things,“ said Franny. „But he never actually shows up.“
„Malakhai?“ Riker roused from his comfortable slouch and leaned into the conversation. „I know that name – Charles’s friend. He lives in the bughouse, right?“
„Please don’t call it that.“ Charles freed the cork and poured out a glass for Emile St. John.
„Sorry – the nuthouse.“ Riker smiled at Mallory. „And you thought I wasn’t well brought up.“
She had yet to acknowledge, by glance or word, that Riker was in the same room.
„Malakhai owns the building,“ said Nick. „Quite an impressive old mansion. He leases it to a private hospital and keeps a suite of rooms for himself. Lives there with his dead wife.“
Riker sipped his beer. „So he’s still crazy.“
„No!“ said Charles.
„Oh, yes he is.“ Nick laughed. „Mad as they come, but in a very original way. The dead wife was part of his magic act.“
„Neat trick,“ said Riker. „But highly illegal.“
„There was no corpse on stage.“ Emile St. John set his glass on the coffee table. „The audience couldn’t actually see Louisa.“
„An invisible woman.“ Riker slugged back the last of his beer. „Crazier and crazier.“ He wandered off toward the kitchen in search of the six-pack he had brought with him.
Franny called after Riker, „He knows Louisa is dead. It’s an act.“
„Is it?“ said Nick. „You haven’t seen Malakhai since the war, have you? He lives with that dead woman. He sleeps with her, too.“ He inclined his head toward Mallory and flashed a wide smile. „He even makes love to her. She’s younger than you are, and he’s well into his seventies. It gives one hope.“
Riker returned with a full beer can and sat down beside Franny on the couch. „How long has this been going on?“
„As I recall,“ said Emile St. John, „he put Louisa into the act right after the Korean War.“
Mallory inched her chair away from Nick and closer to Emile. „Charles said the wife died in World War II.“
„Oh, she did,“ said Emile. „But years later, Malakhai found her again in a Korean POW camp.“
„Korea. That was my dad’s war,“ said Riker.
Mallory stared at Emile, still behaving as though Riker did not exist. „What do you mean he found her?“
„Torture,“ said Riker, insisting that he did exist on the same planet with Mallory. „My dad came out of one of those camps with a few strange quirks. So that’s how Malakhai lost his marbles. Poor bastard.“
„Perhaps.“ Emile seemed to ponder this. „But I might argue that he’s saner now. At least, he’s more at peace. Between those two wars, Malakhai was the saddest man on earth.“ He turned to Mallory. „It’s hard for an American your age to imagine the aftermath of a global war. Your cities didn’t turn into craters, did they? None of your roads or landmarks disappeared.“
Emile paused to sip his wine, and the rest of the company waited on him. Even Mallory recognized the authority of a natural storyteller. It was as old as the cave.
„In postwar Europe, so many souls were unaccounted for – misplaced in relocation camps, dead – or wandering. Refugees were on the road for years, hunting family members. You might be walking down a busy street in London or Rome, and you’d see one of these people staring into every face on the sidewalk – looking for someone lost in the war.“
„Malakhai was like that in the late forties and early fifties. It was painful to watch him perform on stage. Sometimes he just stared at the audience. He’d gone blank, lost his place in the act. And then I knew he’d seen some red-haired woman sitting out there in the dark. Louisa was long gone by then, years dead, and he knew that. But he was still looking for her in every crowd.“
„In the next war, he found her in a North Korean prison cell, five feet square. No room to stand up or lie down. They kept him in that cage for a year. He went into it alone and came out with the lovely Louisa. What a wonderful magician.“
Franny was nodding. „She was lovely, wasn’t she?“ He turned to Riker. „And a musical prodigy. Thank God, her concerto survived the war.“ He lifted his glass. „I propose a toast to Louisa and her music.“
„And to increased record sales,“ said Nick. „May Louisa’s Concerto pay royalties forever.“
Mallory joined the toast, still nursing the same wine that Nick had fetched for her. She never drank more than an ounce of alcohol at one sitting. Charles guessed she was unwilling to lose any amount of control to inebriation.
„Oliver loved Louisa, too. He adored her.“ Emile’s glass was rising again.
„To unrequited love.“
Charles lifted his own wineglass to Mallory, hoping the gesture would be lost on her, for she had been known to laugh on two or three occasions. Though she never laughed loudly, not with a fully involved set of lungs. Another control issue, he supposed.
Riker hoisted his beer in salute, and then let it hang in the air for a moment. He had suddenly remembered to ask the eternal policeman’s question.
„How did Louisa die?“
„No one knows,“ said Nick. „She could’ve been shot for a spy or hit by a bus.“
Riker was incredulous. „You never asked?“
Mallory showed no more interest in this conversation. She had already heard the punch line to this setup. Charles had told her long ago, and now he repeated it for Riker. „No use in asking. Malakhai can’t tell anyone how his wife died. That’s spelled out in his recording contract. The music company thought a mystery would sell more copies of Louisa’s Concerto.“
When they were all gathered in the dining room, Charles sat at one end of the table, directing the traffic of bowls, platters and bottles of wine. Emile St. John sat at the other end, which instantly became the head of the table. The man had an aura of authority that did not fit the magician’s trade.
Leaving this puzzle for the moment, Mallory looked across the table at Riker. He was only picking at his food, shifting with discomfort and looking sad.
Well, good.
Though never one to complain about betrayal, Mallory did keep score. She was done punishing him for siding with Coffey and the dead rat, but she would be slow to forgive. As he passed her a platter of dark meat, she met his eyes for the first time this afternoon. „That was real smart, Riker – wearing a pre-spotted tie to dinner.“
„Yeah.“ The detective looked down to admire the red stain, a souvenir of another meal. „It takes all the work out of being a slob.“ He was relaxing now, taking her sarcastic overture as a truce. He turned to Emile St. John, who was flanked by Franny Futura and Nick Prado. „So they’re letting Malakhai out of the nuthouse. Is he bringing his dead wife to town?“
„He never goes anywhere without her.“ Emile passed a salad bowl to Mallory. „She was a gifted composer, a wunderkind. I’m sure Charles has mentioned Louisa’s Concerto?“
She nodded. Charles had done more than mention it. He had raved about it, going on at great length, believing that she might be paying attention. He loved only classical pieces. She loved everything else. Thanks to her insanely musical foster father, Mallory could name every bandleader of the swing era, every jazz musician of note, all the blues artists and the stars of rock n’ roll, but she did not know a concerto from a sonata. If one could not dance to the music, it was not in Mallory’s vocabulary.
„I knew Louisa during the war,“ said Nick Prado. „World War II, now that was a time. Oh, Emile, you’ll love this. Malakhai’s doing his old act at Carnegie Hall. A symphony orchestra is going to play the concerto.“
„But Malakhai wasn’t mentioned in the advance publicity,“ said St.
John.
„Late booking.“ Charles rose from the table. „Some diva caught a cold and canceled a performance. Back in a minute. I’m just going to change the record.“
Mallory was watching Riker’s face. She could guess what was going on behind his bloodshot eyes. He was probably mulling over the events of the day. Had he put it together yet, the conflict of motive and style? The money motive for Oliver Tree’s nephew, who loved drugs, didn’t fit her earlier profile of a thrill kill for the love of spectacle. Her partner must be wondering if she had spun him a story during the parade this morning. Or did she spin one for Lieutenant Coffey this afternoon? Might both versions be fairy tales?
Confused, Riker?
The music was playing at the low level of a backdrop for dinner conversation. The ancient record player had been brought up from the basement so Charles could play requests from Max Candle’s store of vintage albums. She dated the last Artie Shaw album to 1943. Now she was listening to Lady Sings the Blues, automatically crediting lyrics to the singer Billie Holiday, and the music to Herbie Nichols.
„For Malakhai,“ said Charles, returning to the table. „This is one of his favorites.“
Apparently, the absent Malakhai had a penchant for dead women, but he had at least ventured into the fifties. Mallory could place this recording in the autumn years of the artist’s short life.
Franny Futura had downed two glasses of wine and lost his nervous mannerisms. With a table between himself and Mallory, he was less the mouse. She handed him a peace offering, a bowl of cranberry sauce.
„Tell me how long you’ve known Oliver Tree.“ She had softened her voice to make this sound less like an order.
„I knew him when we were teenagers in Europe.“
„Europe?“ Riker turned to the man seated beside him. „I thought the little guy was a carpenter from Brooklyn.“
„Yes, by way of Paris,“ said Futura. „But Oliver was originally from Nebraska. When his parents died, he was sent to France to live with his grandmother, Faustine. We all started out at Faustine’s Magic Theater. Max Candle and Malakhai too.“
„So Oliver Tree had a lot of experience in magic.“ Mallory directed a condescending smile at Riker. This killed his theory of death by incompetence. „He was a good magician.“
„Oh, no. He was the worst,“ said Nick Prado. „A good carpenter. He made fine props. But Oliver was terrible at magic.“
And now Riker was smiling, and Mallory was not.
„Right you are,“ said Futura. „Oliver never could get the timing right for a stage illusion. Couldn’t do sleight of hand either.“
„The crossbow – the one from the parade stunt,“ said Mallory. „Wasn’t that a prop in his act?“
Futura seemed confused by the shift of context. „Oliver’s act? Oh, you mean Max Candle’s Lost Illusion? Oh, no. That routine uses repeaters. But I’m sure the single-fire crossbow was one of Oliver’s. Of course, his collection was nothing like Max Candle’s. Years ago, I wanted to buy a few props, mementos from the old days. But Max’s widow wouldn’t sell.“
„Dear old Edith.“ Nick Prado’s acid tone implied anything but endearment. „Is that woman dead yet?“ And now he wore a pained expression. „I’m sorry, Charles. I’m sure you were very close to her.“
„No need.“ Charles didn’t seem shocked. Apparently, he knew that his cousin’s wife had no admirers in this gathering. „And yes, she’s dead. A heart attack. It happened a month ago.“
The old men seemed pleased with the death, barely suppressing smiles all around the table. Prado was the most cheerful. „Charles, I hope you inherited the lot – all the stuff in the basement. You’ve got Max’s platform, right?“
„Yes, but it hasn’t been out of the crate in thirty years.“ Charles turned to Mallory. „Oliver’s platform was very faithful to the original. Max totally mechanized it to do away with assistants and human error.“
Riker looked up from his plate. „So the cops weren’t in the original routine?“
„Well, yes,“ said Prado. „But they’re just window dressing. A police presence assures the audience that the weapons and handcuffs are real. Charles only means that Max did away with Edith. She was his assistant when he had that accident in Los Angeles. Remember that, Emile? It laid him up for a year. That’s when he built the platform.“
Mallory sat up a little straighter. „You think Max’s wife tried to do him in?“
Prado seemed to be considering this. „That would explain a lot.“
Charles’s knife and fork clattered to the plate. „Mallory, that’s enough. First Oliver, and now Max. Sometimes people do have accidents.“
Mallory wasn’t listening. She was assessing her suspects by their tailoring or the lack of it. Nick Prado was obviously doing well, and so was Emile St. John. But Franny Futura’s tuxedo did not fit him properly. Perhaps it was rented. He might be hard-pressed for cash. She loved money motives best of all.
„So none of you liked Edith Candle,“ said Riker.
„Well, no.“ Prado sipped his wine. „But I’m not sure Max liked her all that much either. Sorry again, Charles.“ He lifted his glass higher. „It’s the wine talking.“
„But Max stood by her,“ said Futura. „He was very big on keeping promises – vows. Deserting a wife wasn’t his style.“
„Well, he did have an affair with another man’s wife,“ said Prado. „He was no saint.“
Charles dropped his fork again. This was news to him.
St. John pushed his chair back from the table. He pulled a platinum cigar case from his breast pocket and tactfully changed the subject. „Mallory, I gather you don’t think Oliver died by accident. Can you prove it?“
„It would help if I knew how his crossbow trick was supposed to work.“
„But nobody knows,“ said Futura. „The Lost Illusion was only performed one time.“ He pulled out a cheap cigarette lighter for his friend’s cigar. „That was what, Emile? Forty years ago?“
St. John nodded, exhaling blue smoke. „A lot of magicians tried to trace that performance, but Max was very careful about staging out-of-town tryouts. The ideal town would be remote and too small to support a newspaper. Sensible precaution – no critical reviews while he was working out the bugs in a new act.“
Smoke was swirling in shafts of late-afternoon sun. Mallory sipped her wine and watched the white-haired men. They were full of food and wine, content and drowsy – vulnerable.
„Did anyone think Oliver’s invitation was a little strange?“ Mallory had their attention as she feigned a moment of forgetfulness. She pulled Charles’s copy from the pocket of her blazer and read the lines aloud, as if she had not memorized them, „ ‘You are invited to the solution of Max Candle’s Lost Illusion, and more than one deadly mystery will be revealed.’ The wording is odd, isn’t it?“
And ominous?
Obviously Riker thought so. He was staring at her, not too happy at the moment, his suspicious eyes saying, You’ve been holding out on me again.
Mallory shrugged a silent, Yeah. So?
He shook his head to tell her he didn’t deserve this, not from her. They were partners.
But where had her partner been when she was left hanging and twisting in the squad room today? He had been with Jack Coffey behind the glass – watching the show.
„This invitation.“ She turned to the old men at the other end of the table. „What does it mean? What’s the other mystery?“
„Nothing odd about the wording,“ said the unflappable Emile St. John. „Oliver worked out quite a few of Max’s old routines, and they were all deadly. He gave them away as gifts to old friends. I got instructions for the hangman illusion and a replica of Max’s old gallows.“
„I got a set of plans and crate of props,“ said Nick Prado.
Franny Futura was nodding. „I got Max’s pendulum illusion. I’m going to do it in Oliver’s little theater.“
Mallory’s partner smiled to say, There goes your new theory – endgame.
Not yet, Riker. „But the illusions were left to you in Oliver’s will.“ Mallory was not asking them, she was telling them. „None of you knew what the invitation meant – not till after he died.“ She looked at Riker, ripping her game point back from his side of the table.
„Oh, I knew what it meant,“ said Nick Prado. „That invitation is months old. The instructions for my illusion arrived long before I left Chicago.“
The others were nodding in agreement. So they had also received the explanatory letters and illusions before Oliver died. Well, maybe one of them was lying – or all of them were.
„Of course,“ said Futura, „I can’t do the pendulum illusion with Oliver’s plans. I’m afraid he botched it – just like he screwed up the trick that killed him.“
Without looking at Riker, she knew he was grinning, a prelude to laughing out loud. He must be loving this, watching her get everything wrong. But he was at a disadvantage: he didn’t know there was a gunman at the parade this morning. If he had believed her, he wouldn’t have confiscated her favorite revolver.
And Riker wondered why she didn’t like to share.
Now she did look at him, surprised that he was not smiling as he stubbed out his cigarette. „You can’t win ‘em all, kid.“
Mallory nodded. Yeah, right. Did he really believe she would take the fall for the balloon shooting and face a charge of reckless endangerment? Not a shot in hell, Riker.
She moved on to another prospect for her gunman, the man missing from this company, the one who lived with a dead woman. Though lunatics seldom made her short list, she was already planting the blame on Malakhai. How did your wife die, old man? And where were you when that gun went off this morning?