Amanda Stevens - Unauthorized Passion

He glanced up in alarm. “Attacked? By whom?”

“I didn’t ask his name,” the older woman snapped. “Nor did I get a good look at him. It all happened too quickly.”

“Oh, dear, are you sure you’re all right? Perhaps we should call an ambulance. After all, one can’t be too careful…” At your age.

“No need for that.” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard’s tone was positively frigid by now. “I’m not the frail old lady you seem to think I am. If you would just help me up…”

But, in spite of her bravado, it soon became obvious that she needed a good deal more than a hand up. She couldn’t put any weight on her ankle, nor was she able to balance herself using Lyle as a crutch. “Allow me,” he said with a little half bow, then, despite his thin stature, swept the woman into his arms with no effort whatsoever. He was much stronger than he looked, and he walked with the kind of grace and agility that made Cassie think of a dancer.

She expected the older woman to protest, but instead Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard peered over Lyle’s shoulder into the shadows. “Where’s my Chablis?” she demanded. “I can’t leave her out here. She’s probably frightened half to death, poor baby. I doubt either one of us will get a wink of sleep tonight.”

“I’ll bring her along,” Cassie said, reaching for the Maltese, who did not look in the least distressed by the evening’s events. If anything, she appeared thoroughly besotted as she gazed at Mr. Bogart with doe-eyed intensity. When Cassie had finally corralled the dogs, the pair happily cavorted side by side back to the hotel.

The whole party took the elevator to the third floor, and after Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard handed Cassie her key card, she unlocked the door and held it open while Lyle carried the injured woman inside and placed her gently on a green silk divan.

“Are you sure you won’t go to the emergency room?” he asked anxiously.

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard gave him a scornful glance. “You can stop all that fussing. I don’t intend to sue. I’m not the litigious sort.”

Lyle assumed a wounded air. “A lawsuit was the furthest thing from my mind. My only concern is for you.”

“How sweet.” She made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her tone. “You’ll be happy to know, then, that I have a friend in town whose husband is an orthopedic surgeon. Rest assured if the ankle isn’t better by morning, I’ll give him a call. Now be a good boy and run along.” She shooed him off with the back of her hand. “I don’t need a thing more from you tonight.”

“In that case,” he said huffily, “I should get back to my desk.”

“Wait a second. Both of you, just hold on a minute,” Cassie said.

They examined her with surprise, as if they’d forgotten all about her presence.

“Don’t you think we should call the police?” she asked.

“The police?” they repeated in unison.

Cassie frowned. “Yes, the police. You were attacked, Mrs. Ambrose. I mean, Mrs. Pritchard…Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just call me Evelyn.”

Cassie nodded gratefully. “You said you were afraid your assailant was going to kill you.”

“Did I say that?” The woman shifted on the sofa. “I was distraught and in a great deal of pain. I’m afraid I may have overreacted. But there’s no need to involve the police.”

“I think there is,” Cassie insisted. “I don’t know if either of you are aware of this or not, but a woman was murdered a few blocks from here tonight. And earlier, I saw a strange man lurking in the alley. He could have been your attacker…or even the killer.”

“Oh, dear,” Lyle murmured. He gave Cassie a sheepish grin. “I’m afraid you may have seen me.” At her surprised look, he nodded. “I was in the alley earlier. As a matter of fact, I saw you standing on your balcony.”

Was that why he looked familiar to her? Cassie wondered. They hadn’t met until tonight, but perhaps she’d caught glimpses of him around the hotel. “Do you mind telling me why you were out there?”

“Not at all. There’s really no mystery to it. Some of the kitchen staff saw someone going through the Dumpsters. I assumed it was Old Joe and decided to go out and have a look for myself.”

“Old Joe?” Cassie asked doubtfully.

“He’s harmless. He stays in a shelter on Montrose, but every now and then he drops by here to go through the trash. If I’m on duty, I give him a hot meal and a little cash, and he disappears, sometimes for weeks or months at a time. I wanted to head him off tonight before someone called the police. He can be a nuisance, but as I said, he’s harmless and I’d hate to see him hauled off to jail. Poor old guy isn’t in the best of health.”

And she’d attacked him with her purse, Cassie thought guiltily. Although she didn’t have the impression that Old Joe was exactly ancient or fragile. Judging by the way he’d sprinted down that alley, he still had a lot of life left in him.

“Well, that explains everything,” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard said in satisfaction. “Undoubtedly, this Joe person is the man I encountered in the alley.”

“But you said he attacked you,” Cassie reminded her. “I’d hardly call that harmless.”

“Perhaps he didn’t mean to. I probably frightened the poor creature half to death, and when he tried to flee, he knocked me down.”

It was a logical explanation, but Cassie’s suspicions were aroused. She had her reasons for not wanting to involve the police, but what were Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard’s? Or Lyle’s?

“Well, now that everything has been cleared up, I really do have to get back to work.” He turned to Cassie. “I’ll have another look in the alley just to make sure nothing is amiss, and I’ll alert the staff to be on the lookout for any strangers lurking about the hotel. If anyone notices anything the least bit out of the ordinary, we’ll notify the proper authorities immediately.”

“Thank you.”

After he left the room, Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard fell back against the cushions and sighed. “That man is exhausting.”

“I should go, too, and let you get some rest. You’ve had quite an ordeal tonight,” Cassie said. “Is there anything I can get you before I leave?”

“I wouldn’t mind a shot of vodka,” the woman said candidly.

“Shall I call room service for you?”

“No, there’s ice in the bucket and a bottle of Cristal in the fridge. I know Grey Goose is all the rage with you young folks, but I’m old-fashioned. I like my champagne French and my vodka Russian.”

Cassie listened idly as she filled a glass with ice, poured in a generous amount of vodka, then carried the drink to the injured woman.

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard took a sip and sighed. “Oh, that hits the spot. The Russians do know their vodka. One can almost forgive them for that messy little affair in Cuba back in ‘62…”

Cassie didn’t have the faintest idea what the woman was talking about. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard eyed her over the rim of her glass. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Of course, I do. We met briefly in the lobby a few days ago.”

“We met before that,” the woman said slyly. “But I could tell you didn’t remember.”

Cassie’s pulse quickened. First Lyle Lester and now Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard. Evidently, her cousin wasn’t quite as unknown as she’d let on to Cassie. And what was it Celeste had told her on the phone that day? “Don’t worry about running into friends or acquaintances at the Mirabelle. Most of the people I know could never afford to stay there.”

“I’m sorry,” Cassie murmured, not really knowing what else to say.