Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

„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.“