Читать книгу Tall, Dark...And Framed? - Cathleen Galitz, Cathleen Galitz - Страница 9

“Sebastian Wescott has been arrested.”

The news spread through the Texas Cattleman’s Club like a wildfire devouring prairie grasslands during a season of drought. Muted whispers set in motion beneath an array of mounted glassy-eyed animal heads grew in intensity until the gleaming Tiffany chandeliers overhead nearly shook from the force of its membership’s outrage. It didn’t take long for a select group to abandon games of poker and pool where enormous sums of money were at stake to make their way quietly into one of the tasteful private meeting rooms at the back of the club. Here behind closed doors where the lingering odor of expensive cigars was less noticeable, discussions of the most serious nature took place.

A silver samovar with piping hot coffee stood untouched beside a set of fine bone china embossed with the club’s distinctive crest. Nothing less than hard liquor was warranted as the rumors resonated from room to spacious room in the nearly one-hundred-year-old building. Members in this time-honored, elite institution were more than social acquaintances. Few would have guessed from its modest exterior that the club was actually a front for a prestigious social enclave working on covert missions. Placed in situations in which the members were often forced to rely on one another for their very lives, they considered themselves closer than actual blood brothers.

Word of Sebastian’s disgrace hit everybody hard.

His own half brother, Dorian, appeared inconsolable as he related to the group the events leading up to Seb’s arrest. It was no secret to anyone there that Dorian had been deeply worried about Sebastian for the past several weeks. His concern had been the topic of conversation on more than one occasion and had been so overdone that it had put some of the members off. The club was a place where they came to relax at the end of a stressful day, not to wallow in unsubstantiated gossip about one of their own.

Only now it appeared Dorian’s fears were not unfounded.

“If only there were some way of helping Sebastian without somehow jeopardizing the anonymity of the club,” lamented William Bradford. As Sebastian’s partner at Wescott Oil Enterprises, he was fiercely protective not just of the business they ran together but also of his old friend Jack Wescott’s son.

“Sebastian says he was out of town on business the night Eric Chambers was murdered, but I understand he refuses to provide his attorney with an alibi,” Dorian interjected, anxiety deeply etched on features that reminded everyone present of his half brother.

It was only at Sebastian’s insistence that the members of the club had unanimously inducted Dorian a short time ago. As a full-fledged member, he was privy to the workings of their brotherhood, but he hadn’t been there long enough to have knowledge of the details regarding the daring missions that sometimes called club members away for indeterminate lengths of time.

It was all Jason Windover, the retired CIA agent, could do to refrain from explaining to this ninny that Sebastian often used his business as a cover. He had been wary of Dorian from the start, and time, unfortunately, hadn’t improved his first impression of the man. In fact, Jason had only reluctantly agreed to participate in Dorian’s induction ceremony as a favor to Sebastian. Not wanting to endanger a friendship that spanned so many years, he had set aside his misgivings and gone along with his friend’s request without giving voice to his qualms.

Jason supposed his suspicions stemmed from his background as an agent. Looking at Dorian now, it was certainly hard to doubt the sincerity of his feelings.

“I say the least we can do is put up his bail,” William Bradford suggested, not bothering to clear up any misconceptions Dorian might have about his brother’s whereabouts on the night in question. “It’s best if no money from Wescott Oil Enterprises is involved, since those funds are under such intense scrutiny at the present.”

Dorian gasped as William’s intention dawned on him. “Are you suggesting that we somehow come up with half a million dollars in bail money between us?”

“Pocket change,” exclaimed Keith Owen. As the owner of a computer-software firm, he didn’t so much as blink at the amount mentioned. “Count me in.”

“Me, too,” Jason said. As rich as Midas, he would have given everything he owned to support his old friend.

When Dorian sputtered in disbelief at their overwhelming generosity, they assured him that no one was taking an actual risk with their money. No one among them believed Sebastian would forfeit bond by running out on them. For that matter, no one doubted his innocence.

Lamenting that he personally had little money to put up, Dorian told them all, “I wish there was more I could do. I wish I could have somehow convinced that hotheaded brother of mine not to try solving his problems all by himself. Well, you all know how he is—so worried about depending on others. He’d rather take matters into his own hands than accept help from calmer heads even when the situation demands it. Lately he’s been more short-tempered and violent than usual. I swear if I didn’t know better, I might be tempted to believe that—”

Dorian stopped in midsentence as if realizing that he may have said more than he intended. He had the grace to look ashamed.

“I apologize for rambling on like this,” he told the men assembled in the room. “It’s just that I’ve been so worried, I guess—”

Eager to put an end to the conversation, Jason interrupted and quickly changed the subject. “No apology necessary. Unfortunately there is one item of business that we can’t continue to ignore. Considering that the organizer of our annual Cattleman’s Club Charity Ball is under arrest, I think it best if we simply cancel this year’s bash altogether.”

No amount of alcohol could wash away the bad taste that announcement left in everyone’s mouth. Aside from the fact that some very worthy charity would be adversely affected by this vote, none of the men assembled wanted to tell their wives and sweethearts that they were responsible for canceling the event of the year. The number of places in Royal where designer evening gowns and diamonds were standard dress was limited, and the ladies were sure to be disappointed. It was a point not lost on William. As the first member out of the five friends who had made the bet to succumb to the allure of marriage, he didn’t fancy the idea of breaking the news to his lovely new wife. After enduring a period of restricted confinement to keep her safe, Diana had really been looking forward to this year’s ball. With so many club members attending, Will had figured the ball would be a safe enough event for Diana to attend.

“Heck of a way for Seb to avoid paying up on his bet,” Keith volunteered, hoping to lighten the mood.

Of all those present when Sebastian posed his now infamous bet about who would be the last bachelor standing at the ball in question, only three remained in the running.

“You would have lost, anyway,” Jason told him. Recognized as the club’s premier playboy, he had no plans of ever tying himself down.

The ensuing bantering lacked the usual lightheartedness. The thought of Sebastian behind bars put a definite damper on what had started out as a pleasant evening. Beyond posting bail as quickly as possible, there was little any of them could do to help their old friend besides pray.

Each did pray in his own private way, passing one by one beneath the iron-studded sign that hung over the entrance door. It proclaimed the club’s motto for all to see: Leadership, Justice and Peace. Men willing to risk their own lives to promote those ideals were at a loss as to how to help one of their own.

Perhaps, Jason mused, Faith would have to be added to that venerable old sign.