Technically, the painting was expert. The artist had a keen appreciation of force and energy, light and shadow, color and shading. That was part of the picture’s horrifying impact. The rest came from the enjoyment of pain that radiated from the demon’s cruel smile.
With a shiver, Christy turned away, feeling chilled to the center of her own bones. She could no more have lived with that demon-ridden painting than she could have used a corpse as a coffee table. She hurried away from the ghastly art.
An open door farther down the hall led to what was clearly a guest bedroom. The decor of the room was as expensive and impersonal as a suite in a five-star hotel. The room was so clean and orderly it felt like it had never been used.
A second door opening off the hallway was locked. At the end of the hall she tried a third door, found it open, and let herself into a large master suite. Expensive men’s clothing hung in the walk-in closet.
Hutton’s quarters.
An odd, half-familiar scent tickled Christy’s memories. She breathed in deeply, trying to place it.
Baby powder?
Not very likely. She inhaled again.
Baby powder.
Even with the smell of a nursery in the air, there was a decidedly masculine feel to the bedroom. The decor was lean and sinewy, dramatic, red and black with silver accents.
Another intense work by the artist who put ghouls in his rain clouds hung over the bed. The gleaming silver-white of skeletons and lightning from the hallway painting appeared as accents in small sculptures around the room.
It was like walking into hell.
How could anyone sleep here?
Off to one side of the room she saw another door. It led to the adjoining room. This door wasn’t locked.
The next room was another bedroom. A life-sized nude photo of Jo-Jo dominated the wall of this room. The color combination of creamy skin, pink lips and nipples, golden hair, and emerald eyes echoed in the off-white walls, the pink-and-gold fabric of the canopy bed, and the emerald accents supplied by carved crystal perfume bottles placed in artful disarray across the white-and-gilt dresser.
The effect of the room was rather like Jo-Jo herself—creamy, sensual, with gemlike flashes of temper.
Gotcha, sister mine.
Chapter 10
Christy started to close the door behind her, but thought better of it. There might be an automatic locking system. Very carefully she left a finger’s width of space between the edge of the door and the frame.
Then she took a deep breath and looked around quickly, reviewing Hutton’s house in her mind. The French doors off of Hutton’s room opened onto the cantilevered deck that overlooked the grounds. There weren’t any doors like that in Jo-Jo’s room. Even better, the curtains had been drawn against the night.
She wouldn’t be spotted by anyone wandering around outside.
Feeling both elated and foolish, she headed for the white lacquered jewelry box on top of the dresser. It didn’t take long to go through. Jo-Jo had always known instinctively that her aura of primal sexuality was undermined rather than enhanced by flashy accessories.
Gramma’s necklace wasn’t there.
“Liar,” Christy whispered. “You hocked it after all.”
But she wouldn’t give up until she was certain. She had come this far and she was damned if she’d tuck tail and run until she’d searched all the usual places.
And a few of the unusual ones while she was at it.
It wouldn’t be the first time Christy had searched her sister’s room for forbidden fruit of one kind or another. But, with luck, it would be the last.
The ornate, vaguely Louis XIV dresser held enough sexy lingerie to stock Frederick’s of Hollywood. Christy ran her hands underneath the drawers, checking what had once been Jo-Jo’s favorite hiding place for small things. All Christy found was that the dresser undoubtedly was expensive, but it hadn’t been finished worth a damn. The wood was rough enough to leave splinters.
She made a quick run through the bedside tables, the bed, and between the mattress and springs before she turned toward the double doors that shielded the walk-in closet. A huge, knobby, old-fashioned brass key rested in a scrolled brass keyhole. A single turn opened the lock.
Inside, the closet was filled with the sharp aroma of cedar. The faintly astringent odor was pleasing after the room full of cream and gilt, perfume and lingerie, lorded over by Jo-Jo’s naked perfection.
After a bit of fumbling, Christy located a light switch. Lordy, lordy, as Gramma would have said.
Unbelievable.
Jo-Jo had always loved clothes. Finally she’d been able to indulge that passion. Rank after rank of costumes hung on padded hangers—sports outfits, cocktail dresses, winter sweaters, slacks, skirts, and some swirls of fabric whose name Christy couldn’t guess.
Shoes, boots, sandals, and slippers of every color stood in rainbow array in an alcove made just for the purpose. A full set of Hartmann luggage was stacked at the back. The soft leather cases were scuffed, which meant that Jo-Jo would be shopping soon. She’d never understood that even the most beautifully made tool was supposed to be used.
The order in the closet told Christy that a maid had straightened it. No matter how great her passion for clothes, Jo-Jo had no patience for picking up after herself. That chore had been left for Gramma or Christy to do.
She dismissed the clothes and went to the built-in chest. The top three drawers held socks of all colors and fabrics. She patted the carefully matched pairs. Nothing was hidden inside or beneath. She ran her hand beneath the drawers. Nothing.
The fourth drawer was full of starched and ironed Hutton dress shirts, man-styled but in the soft colors Jo-Jo preferred. Nothing concealed underneath the shirts.
No necklace.
The fifth drawer held jeans, ironed, no starch. Nothing between the folds. Nothing on the bottom of the drawer.
Nothing.
Damn it! Did you really sell that necklace just to get back at me for something I never did?
Christy’s flying fingers almost missed the key taped beneath the sixth drawer. She hesitated, caught between disappointment that it wasn’t the necklace and triumph at finding anything at all. If Jo-Jo had taken the trouble to hide the key, it was important.
Maybe she’d trade it for the necklace.
Gently Christy eased the drawer free of its tracks, turned it upside down, and peeled off the tape. The key had the blank anonymity of a public washroom. Plain steel, not a curlicue or flourish of gilt anywhere.
Hardly Jo-Jo’s style.
The key showed signs of long casual use, as though it had passed through many hands. Clearly it didn’t fit a lock in any of Jo-Jo’s fantasy bedroom furniture.
Frowning, Christy replaced the drawer, wondering where the lock that fit the key might be. She moved closer to the closet light and held the key up. The metal was so worn she couldn’t make out the words that had been stamped in it. No matter how hard she stared, a vague “…SP…” and a faint “…ot Dupl…” was all she could read.
Then she heard the sound of someone walking down the tiled corridor from the main part of the house. Without stopping to think, she flipped off the light switch and held her breath like a child sneaking through a graveyard on a dare.
The sounds came closer, then stopped.
She guessed that whoever had made them was still in the corridor. Maybe it was just a bored guard walking a beat that included the display cases and the ghoulish but undoubtedly first-rate paintings on the walls.
Breathing very softly, she listened with every bit of her concentration.
She didn’t hear anything.
Cautiously she opened the closet door and tiptoed across the bedroom to the hall door. Putting her ear against it, she held her breath. All she heard was the blood roaring in her ears. It didn’t make her feel better.
Necklace or no necklace, it was time to get out of Jo-Jo’s fantasy.
Christy shoved the key into the p
ocket of her black slacks and headed for the hall door straight from Jo-Jo’s room. She didn’t want to face the demons in Hutton’s bedroom again. As she reached for the doorknob, she noticed the rheostat on the wall. When she twisted it cautiously, the light in the room dimmed. She twisted a bit more and then even more until the room slowly slid into darkness. With great care she turned the door handle, praying it wouldn’t squeak.
It didn’t.
Letting out her breath in a soundless rush, she eased the door open just enough to peek into the hall.
The man was huge.
He stood with his back to her, a darkness that seemed to fill the hallway from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. His face was hidden by the straight brim of a big Stetson.
Frozen by shock, she watched the man kneel in front of the locked door that lay between the display room and the entrance to Hutton’s bedroom. When he moved his hand, small pieces of metal glinted and rang softly.
She’d never seen a set of lock picks, but she was certain she was seeing them now.
The man was working on the locked door, but he wasn’t having a lot of success. A metallic snap, a muttered curse. Metal gleamed and clicked as he tried a new probe.
Somewhere in the house a door closed and boots rang like shots on a tile floor. The steps were confident, open, loud, and headed from kitchen to display room.
The huge burglar straightened, listened, and glanced down the hall in Christy’s direction, a man looking for a fast, silent exit.
The confident footsteps came closer, then muffled when they went from tile to one of the Navajo rugs scattered around the display room’s floor. The sound of the steps became clear again, then faded.
Obviously one of Hutton’s guards was making a circuit of the display room. It took no particular brains to figure out that the hallway paintings would be next on his rounds.
The burglar sure thought so. He stood swiftly and stared toward the display room.
The instant the man’s attention shifted, Christy eased Jo-Jo’s bedroom door shut. Heart pounding, she headed for Hutton’s bedroom. The escape route through the French doors onto the deck was her only hope of avoiding a discovery that would be embarrassing—and, with the burglar around, dangerous.
She was reaching for the knob of the connecting door when she heard one of the French doors open and shut. Someone else had just entered Hutton’s bedroom. The burglar’s escape route was cut off.
So was hers.
She spun around and felt her way through darkness back to Jo-Jo’s closet. When she opened the door, her hand brushed against the oversized antique key in the lock. She pulled out the heavy brass key and shut the door quietly behind her. Working in the dark, she tried to insert the key quietly into the back side of the lock.
Her hand was shaking too hard.
By steadying one hand with the other, she managed to fit the key into the thumb-sized opening. As she turned the key, she prayed that the lock was as old-fashioned as the key itself.
It was. The key turned and the mechanism clicked. Anyone who tried the door from the outside would find it locked.
The key slipped out of her shaking fingers and fell to the carpet. She stood in the dark and shivered with the adrenaline racing through her body. Her heart was beating so fast and hard she was afraid it could be heard all the way to the barn.
The hall door into Jo-Jo’s room opened and closed, followed by the sounds of someone blundering around in the dark. The burglar, no doubt. A guard would have turned on a light.
She held her breath and desperately wanted to be invisible.
Chapter 11
“Jack, where the hell are you?” a guard yelled.
“Hutton’s bedroom. Anything in the hall?”
“I thought I saw someone go into Jo’s room.”
“Check it out.”
A light switched on. A shaft of brightness poured through the closet’s empty keyhole, piercing the darkness with light.
Shouts and curses exploded.
By the time Christy dropped to one knee and peered through the keyhole, the brief struggle was over. Two of Hutton’s security guards faced the big burglar. One of the guards was Deputy Hammond, who had ridden with her from the gate. The other guard was older and had his gun out. Both guards wore the bright silver stars of Remington County deputies.
“Turn around, you son of a bitch,” the older deputy said. “Hands on the wall right now. Do it!”
The guard underlined his orders with a wave of his chrome-plated revolver.
The prisoner shrugged, then turned and faced the wall.
“Frisk him, Jack.”
Hammond stepped forward and patted the burglar down, careful not to get in his partner’s way.
When the prisoner looked over his shoulder at the deputies, Christy saw that the man was Native American, darkly handsome. A scar ran from beneath his eye to the point of his chin. The cut had gone deep. The right side of his face didn’t move when he spoke or smiled.
“Hey, Jack, I’m just looking for a head,” the burglar said to Hammond.
“Bullshit, Johnny,” Hammond said. “You know where the heads are.”
“Check it out, man,” Johnny said.
“Crap,” Hammond said in disgust. “Hutton would never invite a no-account Moki poacher like you to his party. What are you doing up here?”
“Aw, c’mon, I was just—”
The big Indian started to turn away from the wall as he spoke, but Hammond stepped in close and delivered a quick, hard kidney punch.
“Don’t move,” the deputy snarled.
“Aw, Jack, you know I’m not going to jump you.”
“Face the wall,” the senior deputy ordered with a wave of his gun. “What were you after?”
The Indian glanced over his shoulder, then spat in the direction of the two guards.
The senior deputy stepped forward and slammed his pistol across the right side of Johnny’s face. Blood sprang from a new cut close to the scar on his face, but his expression didn’t change. It was like the blow had never happened.
Johnny spat blood carelessly. “Do that again and I’m gonna get pissed off.”
“Cuff him,” the senior deputy ordered.
He rested the muzzle of his pistol against Johnny’s neck while Hammond fished a pair of handcuffs out of his hip pocket. The deputy’s motions were awkward. He was more used to putting pigging strings on calves than handcuffs on prisoners, but he got the job done. He snapped one cuff on Johnny’s right wrist and dragged it down into the small of his back.
“Gimme the other hand,” Hammond said.
When Johnny moved too slowly, the senior deputy rammed the muzzle of his gun into the Indian’s throat.
“Do it!”
Unwillingly, Johnny dropped his left hand and let it be cuffed. Hammond closed the metal bracelet in place.
“Tighter,” said the senior deputy.
Hammond squeezed hard until the cuffs bit into flesh. When he was certain Johnny was helpless, Hammond drew his fist back and delivered another kidney punch.
“That’s for that bar over in Montrose,” Hammond said, “when you busted Shorty’s skull.”
This time Johnny groaned softly and went to his knees. “I’ll get you for that, you—”
Johnny’s words were cut off by a gun barrel raking across his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” the senior deputy demanded.
Johnny’s response was a mumbled curse that could have been English or some older language.
Another raking pistol blow stopped the words.
“What are you doing here?” the senior deputy asked again.
Silence.
The senior looked at Hammond, who shrugged.
“I know this ol’ boy,” Hammond said. “You can hammer on him till your arm’s sore and he won’t say nothing he don’t want to say.”
“Autry isn’t going to like this.”
Hammond shrugged again.
The se
nior guard pulled a small portable two-way radio from his belt and spoke softly into it.
The Indian spat blood. “Yeah, call Autry. Tell him I want to talk to him.”
The senior deputy ignored Johnny.
The Indian grinned, exposing bad teeth outlined in his own blood. “You better get Hutton up here, too.”
“Mr. Hutton doesn’t want to talk to your kind.”
“Tell him it’s about Kokopelli’s sisters.” Johnny spat again. “That’ll bring him on the jump.”
The two deputies exchanged puzzled glances.
“Kokopelli,” Johnny growled. “Tell him.”
The guards stepped back a few feet and conferred in whispers for a moment. The senior deputy shrugged, then looked at Johnny and frowned. Hammond went over and jerked the big Indian to his feet.
“Walk or git dragged,” Hammond said.
“I’ll walk. But you gotta get Autry.”
“Yeah. Sure,” the senior deputy said. “Just as soon as we cool you off.”
The two men shoved Johnny ahead of them in the direction of the hall.
Christy drew a deep breath and swallowed hard, fighting the beer and barbecue sauce that were trying to crawl back up her throat. She’d seen bar brawls in her Wyoming childhood, but she’d never seen a bound man deliberately beaten. Even knowing that Johnny was a burglar didn’t make it less sickening.
When she couldn’t hear any more sounds from outside, she groped around on the closet floor until she found the big brass key. It took her three tries to unlock the door, and three more tries before the door locked again behind her.
The blood the big Indian had spat lay bright and red on the carpet.
Her stomach clenched and threatened to rebel all over again. She swallowed. It was past time to leave the horror show behind.
Letting out her breath, she made a wide circuit around the blood, crept to the hall door, and listened. Somewhere at the other end of the house, a heavy door closed. One of the guards came back into the hall from the kitchen. The men’s voices carried clearly in the silent house.