Watching Eagles Soar (22 page)

“Hear, hear!” A chorus of voices sounded over the crystal flutes clinking together.

“May I add a personal note,” the prince said. “You have been very kind to interest yourselves in the misfortune that my daughter and I have suffered at the hands of an unscrupulous manager who intends to take possession of the Orlovsky estate that has been in my family for five centuries.”

Several women gasped at this, and even Louise's eyes had gone wide for an instant, Molly was sure. Compared to five centuries, the estates of everyone at the soiree were practically brand-new. J.J. had discovered gold in the Little Jonny Mine two years ago, and most of the other estates were built only a decade or so earlier, after some ancestor had struck a rich vein of silver or gold. Even the oldest estate—that of Crawford and Louise Hill—dated back only thirty years to when Crawford's father had built a string of smelters to take advantage of the ore pouring out of the mountains. Prince Orlovsky represented real money, so old that nobody remembered where it had come from, and all of the trappings and sophistication and cultured society that Louise Hill and everyone else in the room, including herself, Molly realized, longed to be part of. Everyone except J.J.

Molly tried to focus her attention on what the prince was saying, something about the expectations that he and his dear daughter had counted on having been dashed. “The bankers in this fair city,” the prince said, “hold the same opinion as the bankers in New York and Chicago. They are unwilling to accept this beautiful and rare black diamond”—he reached out and stroked the gem at the base of his daughter's neck—“as collateral for the loan we need to save the estate. We shall depart for San Francisco tomorrow in the hope that the banks of that fair city will grasp the opportunity we offer.”

“But if they do not?” Alarm sounded in Louise's voice.

“Ah.” The prince spread his hands in a gesture of despair. The princess let her head drop until Molly could see the fine line of gray roots at the crown of her black hair. “I cannot bear to think about such a circumstance. A diamond worn by Cleopatra herself! Warmed by the palm of Napoleon's hand. Touched by the lovely Josephine's chest. Surely someone will see the value . . .”

Behind her, Molly heard J.J. clear his throat. “If I may . . .”

Louise Hill interrupted. “Your Highness,” she said, moving even closer to the prince. She held her head at least an inch higher. “May I be so bold as to say that my husband and I have concluded that the fine people in Denver society could never allow you to endure another disappointment as you endured today. We apologize for the bankers who do not realize the historical importance of your daughter's diamond. Would twenty-five thousand dollars suit your needs?”

“My dear Louise!” Astonishment and relief mingled in the prince's expression. “Am I to hope . . . ?”

“More than hope,” Louise said. “I would be honored if you would allow me to assist you and your lovely daughter by purchasing the diamond.”

Everyone seemed to start speaking at once. The guests might have broken into a dance the way they were turning about, nodding and exclaiming. Through the cacophony of noise and excitement, Molly heard J.J. clearing his throat again. She squeezed his hand, fearing that he would make a higher offer, an affront that Louise Hill would never forgive. There would never be an invitation to the annual Christmas party at the Denver Country Club, never an invitation to the summer garden parties at the Hill mansion where women in white linen dresses and floppy hats and men in sand-colored linen suits played croquet. “Let her have it,” she whispered.

J.J. turned to her. “She pays too much,” he said, his voice so low that Molly had to lean close to catch the words. She had been wrong. J.J. had no intention of bidding higher. He had intended to inform Louise of the diamond's value.

“I must let her know the truth,” J.J. said.

Molly shook her head. “She will be the only one in Denver to have Cleopatra's black diamond. Let her pay what it is worth to her.”

“Indeed, you do us a great honor.” The prince's voice rose over the other voices that had subsided into the droning noise of bumblebees.

“Then you will come to my home first thing tomorrow, and we will settle the matter,” Louise said.

Molly found herself running a finger over her bare neck. She could have worn the aquamarine necklace, or even one of the diamonds that lay cushioned in black velvet cases in her bedroom chiffonier, but it had seemed as if only the black diamond belonged with the red gown.

* * *

T
he mansion seemed unusually quiet, not even the sound of buggies on the avenue, when Molly arose the next morning. By the time she had bathed in the warm water that Mary had drawn, put on her best morning dress, fixed her hair into a bun, and come down the stairs, every sign of the soiree had been whisked away. Trays of leftover food, Champagne flutes with golden liquid winking in the bottoms, linen napkins and tablecloths—all disappeared. Furniture dusted. Floors mopped. Everything in place, as if thirty guests had not milled about, munching on deviled eggs and lamb kabobs and getting tipsy on Champagne. Some of them, in any case, including Louise Hill, although part of her lurching about and giggling could be attributed to the fact that the black diamond was about to be hers. Both Molly and J.J. had made a point of joining Crawford in ignoring his wife's exuberance.

Molly found J.J. at his usual place at the dining table, the newspaper folded to one side of his cup and saucer. “Good morning,” she said, sweeping past to the sideboard where Mary had set out the usual tray of pastries.

“I don't know what this town is coming to,” J.J. said. She suspected he hadn't looked up from the paper.

“Have our royal guests breakfasted?” Molly poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Another murder. Seems like there's a new one every week.” J.J. glanced up as Molly set the saucer and cup on the table. “Guests?” he said. “They left early. Stanton drove them. I daresay they were eager to complete the arrangements with Mrs. Hill before she had time to come to her senses.”

He went back to perusing the newspaper. “An actor this time, poor fellow,” he said.

Molly turned back to the sideboard and set a lemon pastry on a small plate. “I'm sure all of Denver society will be talking about the soiree,” she said. “Everyone who wasn't invited will be quite envious, especially DiPazza McAllister. She expects to be invited everywhere Louise Hill goes.”

“Murdered in the alley behind the Oxford Hotel.”

“What?” Molly dropped the plate. The pastry slid to the carpet. “DiPazza McAllister murdered behind the Oxford Hotel?”

J.J. dragged his chair around and stared up at her. “Have you not been listening? An actor was murdered.”

“Oh, of course. How dreadful.” Molly picked up the pastry and set it at the far end of the sideboard. Then she helped herself to another pastry and turned back to the table. She was about to sit down when she saw the black-and-white sketch of a man's face near the top of the newspaper. She perched on the chair. “May I see the paper, please?”

“No need to worry yourself,” J.J. said, but Molly had already pulled the newspaper across the table. She stared at the sketch, then lifted the paper and studied the slant of the black eyes, the arrogance in the thin mouth, the black, stubbly beard.

“I know that man,” she said.

“Have we seen him in a performance?”

“The performance of his life!” Molly set the newspaper down. But they must have seen him in a theater performance, she realized. It explained why he had looked familiar. She felt slightly dizzy, as if the room were turning with the thoughts jamming her mind.

“I don't understand . . .”

Molly interrupted. “He's the assassin who tried to kill Prince Orlovsky.”

J.J. was on his feet now, holding the newspaper close to his face. “How can you be sure? The assassin wore a mask.”

“He was the same man I saw in the corridor,” Molly said, feeling more and more certain. She jabbed a finger onto the sketch of the man's face. “I'll never forget the hateful look in his eyes behind that mask he wore, and the way his lips were locked shut. That is the assassin.”

J.J. tossed the newspaper into the center of the table. He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and started pacing up and down along the sideboard. “Good heavens,” he said. “The assassin was only an actor! Hired to play a role, no doubt, and easy to dispense with after the performance.” He stopped pacing and fixed his eyes on Molly. “Come to think of it, I did hear footsteps last night in the corridor. Prince Orlovsky and his daughter, indeed! She is no daughter. He has been visiting her room the last two nights. Cleopatra's diamond, indeed. Why, it is no more than a piece of glass! What a story the so-called prince concocted. An unscrupulous villain trying to steal his estate! Why, we are the ones who have been taken in by an unscrupulous villain and his accomplices.” He threw a glance over his shoulder toward the closed door to the kitchen. “Mary!” he shouted.

In a second, the maid pushed through the swinging door, toweling soapy suds on her hands. “Yes, Mr. Brown?” she said.

“When did the guests depart?”

The young woman's forehead accordioned. “Best part of an hour ago, I would say. Stanton brought their suitcases down the back steps . . .”

“They left with their suitcases?” Molly started to her feet, upsetting the cup of coffee. She was barely aware of the black liquid blossoming through the white tablecloth. “They must intend to take the train for San Francisco as soon as they . . .” She stopped herself. No sense in informing Mary that Mrs. Crawford Hill was about to be bilked of twenty-five thousand dollars by guests in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Bad enough that it was about to happen. Even worse would be the gossip among all the servants on Capitol Hill. No one in Denver society would speak to them again. There would be nothing to do except return to Leadville. She felt as if the mansion itself were crashing around her, the plaster and pillars, the polished staircase and the gold-tinted ceiling—all falling on her head.

“Tell Stanton to bring the carriage immediately,” J.J. said. He waited until Mary had disappeared into the kitchen and the door had stopped swinging, then drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Seven minutes past ten. The westbound train leaves at eleven. We must telephone the police.”

“Oh, no!” Molly said, unable to conceal the panic in her voice. Louise Hill would never forgive her for bringing the police to her door and turning her into a public spectacle. “We must stop the scoundrels before they can take Louise's money.”

* * *

F
ive minutes later they were hurtling down the avenue, horses galloping, Stanton shouting and snapping the whip, and Molly tossing between J.J. and the hard knobs on the buggy door. Everything had happened so fast: J.J. pulling on his overcoat, swinging the cloak over her shoulders, and she still in her morning dress. There had been no time to find her gloves or scarf, and the cold bit at her hands and worked its way past the cloak into the thin bodice of her dress.

The buggy plunged to a stop in front of the Hill mansion, and Molly had to grab hold of J.J.'s arm to keep from hitting the floor. The door flung open. J.J. jumped out, then leaned in and pulled her after him. She stepped into a pile of ice and snow that invaded her slippers, but there was no time to stop and shake out the snow. J.J. was practically dragging her past the black iron gates and up the curving sidewalk.

“Our only hope is that we have arrived in time,” J.J. said, lifting the brass knocker and letting it drop against the door. He banged the knocker again, then started pounding with his fist.

From inside came the hurried tap of footsteps on a hard surface. The door opened a few inches and the round, reddish face of a young woman with a white cap stuck on top of a mass of brown curls jutted into the opening. “Yes?” she said in a voice imbued with all the confidence that came from serving the likes of Mr. and Mrs. Crawford Hill.

“Mr. and Mrs. J. J. Brown to see Mrs. Hill,” J.J. said.

“Come in, please.” The maid pulled the door back, and Molly stepped into the spacious vestibule with gilded mirrors and fresh flowers in crystal vases on the mahogany tables arranged around the black-and-white-checkered marble floor. Rows of massive closed doors lined the wall on the left, formidable barriers, Molly thought, to the inner sanctum of the Hill mansion. A stairway on the right led upward to a landing that bowed over the vestibule—large enough, Molly had heard, to accommodate the orchestras that played for the balls at the Hill mansion.

“I'll see if Mrs. Hill is receiving other guests,” the maid said, sinking into a half curtsy before hurrying to the closed doors. She rapped once before sliding one of the doors far enough into the wall pocket to slip through the opening. Then she slid it back into place, but not before Molly caught a slice of the drawing room, with an overstuffed sofa and small tables on spindly bronze legs and an array of palm trees in blue and white Chinese vases.

“Other guests,” Molly said. “They must still be here.”

“Then we're in luck.” J.J. studied the face of his pocket watch. “Thirty minutes before the train departs. We can detain them long enough to prevent them from making it.”

The door slid open again and the maid stepped into the entry. “Terribly sorry,” she said. “Mrs. Hill is not receiving at the moment. She suggests you return during her regular calling hours on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”

“The hell she isn't receiving!” Molly shouldered past J.J. and the maid and rammed the door open.

“Please, madam!” the maid said, as Molly strode into the drawing room, conscious of J.J. looming behind her, every muscle and sinew in her body prepared to confront the tall, silver-haired, and goateed phony prince and his paramour with the piece of black glass at her throat.