Belladonna, page 12
Malone made a sound of indifferent acknowledgment, leaving it to Bella to nod and say, “It’s very nice.” She darted a quick look at Malone’s back, hesitated, then lowered her voice and added discreetly, “Uh, would you happen to know where the Harper Funeral Parlor is? Ronnie— the man who owns this place—doesn’t have a phone book, and I couldn’t get clear directions out of him this morning.”
The man scratched his head. “Let me see. I think it might be that funny green brick building just off Castro.”
“That’s the Murray Harper Rest Home,” Malone said in a dry tone. “I know where the funeral parlor is, Bella.”
“Thank you anyway,” Bella said politely to the man. She smiled, wished him Happy New Year and, the moment he was gone, rounded on Malone, whose back was still toward her. “I don’t want you to go with me,” she said, then gasped out loud when he turned to face her. “My God, you look like death.”
“Yes, we shook hands early this morning. What time is it?”
He was three feet from the stove clock and apparently unable to focus on it. “Eleven fifty-five.” Bella fought a grin. “Monday morning,” she added just to provoke him. He deserved it for turning her down flat last night. “I’m leaving at twelve with or without you.” She propped her elbows on the table. “What were you drinking at three in the morning that has you looking so hung over nine short hours later?”
He shuddered, squinted out the window, then probed the area over his left eye with tentative fingers. “Ask Ronnie. All I know is it was potent as hell.”
“Like drinking a cup of the devil’s ale?” Bella longed to stroke the rumpled hair back from his forehead, but pride kept her in her seat.
“I take it you’ve been hung over before.”
“No, but Irish Max has, and my father….” She disclosed the last uncertainly. Where had that come from? She knew her mother had been an actress once; she knew that a “prat” was an ass, and now she knew that her father had been hung over. Yet as quickly as the knowledge came to her, the source of it vanished. The information itself remained; the wellspring was too fleeting for her to retain. The previous night’s dream returned to the forefront of her mind. “My father,” she said slowly. “He was there. And another man. And a woman.”
Malone’s fingers stopped their rubbing motion. “What about your father?”
“I had a dream last night. There were two men and a woman arguing in it. I couldn’t see them. I’m not sure if I recognized their voices or not. But I remember now that my father was one of the men. I think.”
Malone came to stand in front of her, setting his hands on her upper arms and causing a tiny flutter in her chest. “Think or know, Bella?”
“Think,” she maintained. Easing free of his grasp, she circled the butcher-block table. “It was just a flash, Malone, nothing tangible. I can’t picture his face. But I think his name was Robert.”
“Robert what?” Malone leaned over the table too quickly. He gave a groan of pain and immediately backed off.
“I don’t know.” She hastened to his side, catching his arm. “Are you all right?”
“No, but I’ll drive you to the funeral parlor anyway.”
She retreated to the safety of the sink. “I can drive.”
“So can lots of people, but not my car, not without a long list of dos and don’ts.
“That’s sexist, Malone.”
He raked exasperated fingers through his hair. “For God’s sake, Bella, I said ‘people’ not ‘women.’ Now get your things if you want to go. I’m not in the mood to argue.”
If she’d been within punching distance of his nose, Bella might have given in to temptation, but for Lona’s sake, she let logic prevail and picked up the black raincoat she’d borrowed from the front-hall closet.
“Ready when you are, Mr. Malone. I assume you’re not planning to go barefoot.”
The look he shot her was not a promising one. “Wait in the car. I’ll be out in two minutes.”
More like ten, Bella thought, but she refused to respond to his snappish tone. “Better watch out for Mrs. Bellinsky’s dog,” she cautioned in parting. “Ronnie says he likes to jump on people.”
“Yes, well, if he jumps on me we’ll both go down.”
Men were such babies, Bella mused in his wake.
She would have found his grumpy attitude humorous if her dreams hadn’t begun crowding in on her again as she walked down the driveway. Parrots with pointy, stick tails; a violent three-way argument; her mother trying to coax her out from under the table; the rapt look on her face in the mirror as the parrot on a stick turned into a pink knifenone of it made any sense. And yet, somewhere in a cobweb-filled corner of her mind, Bella suspected it did.
Malone never locked his car, doubtless because of that long list of dos and don’ts he’d mentioned. What chance would a thief have of making it go? Bella had to tug three times before she could get the passenger door to open.
Her task accomplished, she slid in and contemplated the lowering sky. To call this daylight was stretching a point. The clouds overhead were bruised and angry, although they paled by comparison to the ones hanging over the bay. She’d never seen such a sinister, overcast day. If it had been midnight in Scotland in the dead of winter, the sky couldn’t have been any blacker.
A man’s voice reverberated gently in her head. She detected an English accent. “Come, Belladonna, come and see this. A winter night in the north is like the inside of a chimney, as black and sooty as a footprint made by the devil himself….”
She concentrated hard. Did she recognize the man in that memory? Had he been in her dream last night? Had she heard him somewhere before? Last night on the Sun Sen perhaps? Good Lord, had the second man in her dream been Hobson Crowe?
Possibly, and yet there was something about his voice now that was different from the one in her memory. She couldn’t picture his face, either, which bothered her. But Robert— yes, she was sure now that Robert had been her father’s name. Robert what, though?
Eyes squeezed shut, she leaned back in her seat. The driver’s door opened and closed. Eyes still shut, Bella said, “Not bad, Malone. That took less than two minutes.”
“Glad you approve, angel.”
She jerked upright so fast that she almost banged her head against the windshield. There in the driver’s seat, grinning at her around the stub of his unlit cigar, sat Larson Rudge.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he apologized cheerfully, “but as they say, all’s fair, especially in my line of work.” With one hand he connected the wires that Bella hadn’t noticed dangling under the dashboard. The other hand, casually resting on the steering wheel, held a Magnum that was aimed not so casually at her head.
When the engine roared to life, Rudge’s smile widened. Dipping into his coat pocket, he removed a loosely wadded handkerchief. “Happy New Year, Bella Conlan. Chuckling, he brought the handkerchief toward her. “I’m about to get my money for the second time around. And you, pretty lady, are about to meet your match.”
Chapter Ten
“He’s got her,” the woman crowed triumphantly. “Did you hear that, Hobby? Rudge is bringing her in. So much for that idiot, Tic-Tac.”
Legs crossed, Hobson Crowe regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup. “You seem happy,” he drawled.
She whirled away from the mirror. She was still thanking God that her hair hadn’t turned green from the ocean water. “I’m delirious. Soon Belladonna will be history.”
“Then you really do intend to kill her.”
“Of course. Why does everyone keep asking me that? I want Belladonna gone. Period.”
Sometimes she hated Hobby’s unflappable manner. Even Charmaine, for all her composure and self-restraint, succumbed to the odd fit of temper, if only for a few moments. Hobby never lost his head; he never even lost his cool. It was disgusting.
Was it also dangerous? she wondered, then dismissed the notion. Hobby plot a mutiny? Might as well ask Robert to rise from his grave—wherever that might be—return and take back the imperial reins.
She chuckled at the thought. Poor Robert. Stupid Robert, too, but she could still summon a glimmer of pity for him. Men must be the weakest-minded creatures ever to inhabit the earth.
“Where did Rudge find her?” Hobby was asking now. “Surely not at Mr. Malone’s apartment.”
The woman gave an inelegant snort. “He’d be a fool to go back there, wouldn’t he? And something tells me Mr. Malone’s no fool.” She shrugged and went back to rearranging her spiky hair. Maybe she should grow it long, let the dye wear off…. “He mentioned a cousin. Ronald MacDonald, or something like that.”
“Ronnie MacMalkin.”
Surprised, she regarded him via the mirror. “You know the man?”
“I know of him. I did some checking early this morning.”
“Bravo, Hobby. I’m impressed. Maybe I should have sent you after Bella Conlan instead of Rudge.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “Where’s Charmaine, by the way?”
“Still in bed. I believe her arthritis is acting up after last night’s dip in the bay.”
“Good—I mean, what a shame. What about those two shipments from South America?”
“All taken care of.” Hobby finished his coffee, then, uncrossing his legs, rose from the sofa. “Still, it’s best to stay on top of them.” His expression blank, he inquired, “When does the boat for the Orient sail?”
“New Year’s Eve.” The woman plucked peevishly at her bangs. She couldn’t see long hair flattering her more, but maybe she should do a quick mirror check anyway. “Is it full yet?” she asked, referring to the boat.
“Getting there.”
She halted halfway to the wall safe. “What does that mean? How full is ‘getting there’?”
“Two thirds at last count.”
She pulled an oil painting of a brightly colored peacock away from the wall and spun the lock. “Fill it, Hobby,” she ordered darkly. “I want a full delivery made. And tell TicTac or someone to get me some belladonna, will you?”
Hobby’s brows went up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Deadly nightshade. Poison.” She gave the small brass handle a twist, peered inside and drew out a green shoe box. “I have an idea.”
“I hate to think.”
“Hah!” The woman sniffed. “Bella Conlan should be flattered that I’m the one who’s going to get her. Charmaine… well, she won’t do it right. Bella would be dead before she even knew the reason why.”
Hobby said nothing to that, merely offered her a vague half smile, inclined his head and walked out of the office.
“You can be such a spook sometimes, Hobby,” she said after him. But her thoughts didn’t linger on that point. Tossing aside the top of the shoe box, she drew out a slightly disheveled wig and, returning to the mirror, settled it over her own hair.
Not bad, she thought, eyeing her reflection critically. But she’d have to alter her makeup—oh, and get rid of a few things, too. Amanda had told her once that life was a sea of endless possibilities. Of course, a free spirit like Amanda would say that.
Still, the idea had merit. All she herself had to do was take the possible and turn it into a reality. She removed the slender pink weapon from her sleeve and smiled at it. One way or another she would blot out the name Belladonna. Forever.
THE ROAD UNDER THEM felt rough, as if it were comprised solely of potholes and ruts. Bella’s head spun in lazy, druginduced circles. Sometimes those circles would spiral into blackness, but then the car would jolt and she’d snap back. Not to consciousness, but to a certain level of awareness.
Rudge had chloroformed her again, must have done so. Her mind lurched every time the car hit a bump, hopping from Malone to the Birds, from parrots to pink knives, from Ronnie to Robert.
Ronnie was Malone’s cousin; Robert had been her father. Her father was dead now—she knew that instinctively. She didn’t know what he looked like. In fact, she had no memory of him at all, not even a vague impression of his face.
“Hell of a burn last night,” Rudge was saying conversationally. “Nah, don’t close your eyes and try to fake me out, sweetheart. I didn’t give you a big enough dose to put you under completely. I just wanted you docile.”
“Go to hell, Rudge,” she managed to retort in a slurred voice.
“Docile but gutsy.” He gave a rough laugh. “You dove off that railing like a pro. Me, I went in feetfirst. Tock just belly flopped.” He laughed again. “Yeah, it sure was a great burn.”
Bella smelled the smoke again in her mind. She saw the parrot from her dreams flying into that smoke, squawking, “Beware the Birds.”
“Who are the Birds?” she asked Rudge.
It took him a moment to understand her fuzzy question.
“The what? Oh, the Birds. Parret, Crowe and Madame X?” He chuckled as if at some private joke. “Man, she took a dive, too—Madame X, I mean. She’s got a good figurebetter than yours, I’d say, but then I like my women curvy. If you ate better, you’d look more like her.”
Where was Malone? Bella wondered bleariry. Had he seen the bounty hunter take her? “How do you know what I eat?” she demanded, afraid to let her eyes close all the way. Where were they? Heading for Chinatown, by the looks of the blurry buildings. Chinatown and one very nasty storm, if the black sky was any indication.
Rudge shrugged. “I saw you earlier this morning. You pick at your food, pretty lady. You eat like a bird, while, as far as I can determine, the Birds eat like pigs.” He lit his cigar, puffed, then continued, “I wonder how old Hobby Crowe is today. The headwaiter practically had to throw him into the water. He kept trying to put out little patches of fire with an extinguisher.”
“He should have tried Gulliver’s method,” Bella said, too sleepy to be frightened. Had Malone heard his car start up? she wondered. Had he seen it drive off?
“Gulliver.” Rudge blew smoke through his teeth. “Is that the giant who got shipwrecked on an island of midgets?”
“Lilliput.” Bella propped her eyes open. “Why are you doing this, Rudge?”
“Money, of course.”
“Don’t you have any morals?”
“Not many. Lilli—what was that again?”
Her head cleared slightly. “Lilliput. Jonathan Swift wrote the book.”
He puffed on his cigar. “Swift. I’ve heard that name before. American?”
“British.” Irish, actually, but who except Malone would care about the difference? She closed her aching eyes and prayed for Malone to be close behind them.
“This Swift guy—did he write anything else?”
“A Modest Proposal.”
He chuckled. “Sounds dirty.”
Rudge was assessing her through half-closed eyes, Bella noticed. Wisely, she let her head bob. “Maybe it was,” she agreed. “Maybe he was a perv—” Her eyes snapped open midword. Swift! Jonathan Swift. He was the author, but there was another Swift—Robert Swift, who’d been her father.
Fortunately, Rudge was watching the road now. Even so, he was canny enough to remark, “I think maybe you’re waking up, pretty lady.” He slid her a sidelong look. “Are you waking up?”
Bella heard him but didn’t answer. Her father had been Robert Swift. She had a name, a real name. Not Bella Conlan, not Romaine, but Swift. Belladonna Swift.
She thought for a second. She didn’t like it. Bella Conlan had a much nicer ring to it. Or Bella Malone….
As her thoughts cleared, fear began to haunt her. What if Malone didn’t know that Rudge had taken her? Could she escape from him on her own?
Aware that he was watching her again, she abandoned contemplation in favor of reason. “How can you do this, Rudge? You’re not like Tock. Malone said you weren’t.”
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn what Malone said, lady. I’m a bounty hunter. You’re bounty. It’s my job.”
“But you must have a conscience,” she persisted.
“No morals, no conscience. Now shut up before you piss me off.”
“They’re going to kill me, you know.”
Swearing, he slammed the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Knock it off, will you?”
“I don’t want to die, Rudge.”
“Damn!” Squealing to a halt on an eerily still side street, he brought out the handkerchief again, holding it up threateningly. “Knock it off or you’ll be asleep. Just sit here, keep your mouth shut and prepare.”
“For what?” she challenged, eyeing the cloth.
“For a shock, lady.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “One hell of a nasty shock.”
“YOU STILL HERE?” Ronnie wandered into the kitchen, where Malone was hunting through his jacket pockets for his keys. “Nice leather,” he said in passing. “I thought I heard your car just now.”
“Must have been Mrs. Bellinsky’s dog,” Malone retorted with ill-concealed irritability. He was digging through his inner pockets when something clicked in his brain. “’Your place and three others five houses down this street,’” he repeated. His head came up. “Oh, my God!”
“Hey, what’s your hurry?” Coffee slopped onto Ronnie’s hand as Malone wheeled around and ran for the back door. “The dog won’t hurt her.”
“There’s no dog,” Malone muttered. He grabbed Ronnie’s keys from a hook by the door. “I’m borrowing your Bronco.”
“Yeah, sure but be careful of the—”
Malone didn’t catch the last word. He was halfway down the overgrown driveway before the door slammed shut.
How could he have been so stupid? Hangover or not, he should have picked up on the milkman’s remark. Ronnie had heard his car start. Had he himself heard it, too, without realizing it? He’d definitely seen something out there early this morning, and where there were no Bellinskys there would be no dog.
Cursing his mental reflexes, he yanked open the door to his cousin’s aging Bronco. Sure, his Jaguar had its quirks, but the truth was Bella could have driven it, no problem. And so could Rudge or Tock.
