Читать книгу Perfect Timing - Джулия Кеннер, Джулия Кеннер - Страница 9

TUCKER LEANED AGAINST the railing and watched the swirling, whirling melee below him. His sister, intent on garnering a reputation for throwing the best parties in Beverly Hills, had gone all out with this one. Everyone who was anyone had been invited, and even more had breached the door without invitations. The masquerade theme was fitting, allowing the guests to quaff the illicit alcohol with less fear of recognition. And, surely, the family’s social position assured that they would not be troubled.

Mostly, though, Tucker knew that the guests had come to slide into the oblivion of amusement and temporarily forget the undertone of fear that so recently colored the neighborhood. Fear of a killer who had attacked the community’s women. The Ragtime Strangler they were calling the beast, and the very thought made Tucker’s blood boil, his hatred of anyone who would so intentionally cause pain to a woman cutting at him like the blade of the knife the killer had wielded.

With effort, he forced himself not to think of that, turning his thoughts back to the party and his sister. He looked down, surveying the scene. Women in white with gossamer wings. Men with harlequin collars, their faces painted with black and white greasepaint. And everyone dancing, flirting, laughing. And, of course, drinking.

Honestly, he should be down there with them, but somehow he couldn’t quite work up the energy. He didn’t begrudge his sister her need for entertainment, but he didn’t feel lighthearted enough to join in the fun. The horrors he had seen during the Great War had robbed him of a certain ability to escape into mindless fun. And the specter of the Strangler made him wary, unlike his peers who danced and drank to forget.

Mostly, though, Tucker was occupied with his own worries. Specifically, his mind was whirring, busy plotting ways to kill off Detective Spencer Goodnight, Los Angeles Police Department.

He needed something spectacular, of course. Something that did justice to Spencer’s illustrative career. Something that pitted Spencer against a formidable enemy, like Holmes against Moriarty.

Too bad Tucker had never created a Moriarty-like character within the Goodnight: Los Angeles cast. An astonishing lack of foresight on his part, but he’d certainly never planned on ending the show. Why would he? Of all the radio shows broadcasting from Los Angeles, his was one of the most popular. Families tuned in each week for Spencer Goodnight’s next adventure. Certainly Tucker would never get another job in radio after pulling the plug on such a popular—and profitable—enterprise.

That sad fact weighed on him, but bearing down equally hard was the fact that he had no choice. His father had spoken. And in the Greene household, the Colonel’s word was law.

Some things, it seemed, were simply too good to be true. And some dreams were destined to die.

As, apparently, was Spencer Goodnight.

Perhaps an ocean liner. Something along the lines of Titanic. Goodnight could be on a pleasure voyage. A deb murdered in a grisly fashion. Goodnight finds her killer. But the victory is bittersweet when the ship hits an iceberg and—

“Desperately dull, isn’t it, love?”

Tucker jumped, yanked from his fantasy by his sister Blythe. She took a long drag on a cigarette, precariously settled at the end of a silver holder. She tapped the holder against the railing, releasing a flurry of ashes to the crowd below as she watched him, her expression filled with ennui.

“My dearest Blythe, if the hostess is bored, whatever does that say about the quality of the entertainment?” He knew, of course, that his sister was far from bored. With their parents in London for the summer, Blythe had made sure that the Greene family’s Beverly Hills estate was the after hours destination for anyone who was anyone.

“The entertainment is just fine,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye.

Two flappers ran behind them, giggling as two fellas chased them, champagne sloshing from crystal flutes as they ran.

“Must be me then,” Tucker said, turning away from his sister to watch the crowd below him.

“Darling, it’s always you.” She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “You’re supposed to be mingling, you know. Playing the host.”

“And steal your spotlight? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She laughed, then snagged the sleeve of a passing woman. “Lizzy, be a love and find me a drink. I’m positively parched.”

Blythe’s former school chum winked at Tucker, then disappeared into the crowd, returning momentarily with two flutes of champagne. “The best the host has to offer,” she said.

“And the hostess has very good taste,” Blythe said, lifting her flute.

“I have good taste, too,” Lizzy said, sliding an arm around Tucker’s waist. She batted her lashes, then pressed her hip flirtatiously against his crotch. Lizzie had suffered under an infatuation with him since she’d been in diapers and Tucker in short pants. Never once during those years had he returned her admiration. Even so, since Tucker was neither dead nor a saint, he found himself immediately standing at attention, his body suddenly interested in the young woman who’d never before captured his eye.

Lizzy noticed, of course, and cupped his crotch. Then she giggled, and he had to wonder just how much naughty salt had tickled her nose. Not that the effect would lessen her appeal in bed. Quite the opposite, actually. A happy side effect of the powder was a certain exuberance among the women in his bed.

Blythe took a sip of her champagne, arched an eyebrow and made a graceful exit, leaving Tucker and Lizzy alone.

He pulled her close, then crushed his mouth over hers, the beads of her dress making a satisfying shooshing sound as it scraped against his suit. He grabbed her, his hands tight on her soft rear as he pushed her toward him, their bodies grinding together. So easy, he thought. So easy to lose himself in her. A little sex, a little dance, a little drink. And maybe he could forget his problems. At least until the sun came up.

“Why, Tucker,” she said, when they came up for air, “I didn’t know you cared.”

She was teasing, of course, but the words struck him in the gut, knocking him off-kilter. Because he didn’t care. Not about the business he was being forced to inherit from his father. Not about the parties his sister lived for. Not about this girl.

He cupped her face in his hands, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Go find Roger, Liz,” he said, referring to the boyfriend she’d tossed aside a mere two days ago. “Tell him you want to dance.”

“I—” Her wide eyes, painted with blue and gold, blinked at him, full of hurt.

Tucker couldn’t help himself. He smiled. “Darling Liz,” he said. “It’s not me you want. It’s this.” He took her hand and pressed it against his crotch. Then he swept his arm to encompass the room. “And there’s a lot of that out there.”

He held his breath, afraid he’d pushed her too far, expecting the sting of her palm against his cheek. It didn’t come. Instead, the corner of her mouth lifted, and then she laughed.

“Tucker, darling, you are a wonder.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then left in a shimmy of beads and feathers, leaving Tucker not sure whether he should be relieved that she left so easily or insulted that she didn’t get into a snit.

He decided to go with relief. Much easier, especially since it was true. Honestly, it wasn’t Blythe’s party that bored him so much as it was the guest list. Particularly the guests of the female persuasion.

Although they put up a good show—as did he, of course—he had yet to find a woman who was truly interested in him. His money, yes. Or the bit of celebrity that came from writing the Spencer Goodnight broadcasts.

Mostly, though, the girls were interested only in getting in his bed. As if he were there to be conquered.

To a certain extent, he supposed that was true. For that matter, he wasn’t entirely sure why he minded. The good Lord knows he’d conquered his share of females. Lately, though, he’d found himself restless. And the idea of bedding another flighty female simply held no appeal.

“Tucker, old man. There you are. Why the devil are you hiding out up here?”

Tucker turned to see Jonathan Straithorn coming toward him, his arms out wide. Jonathan’s family lived a few doors down, and he tended to appear whenever Blythe threw one of her parties. A nice enough fella, though Tucker couldn’t say he knew the man well.

“So many lovely women for the pickings. Or men, if that’s your particular poison.” Jonathan cocked his head, indicating the far side of the gallery and the two Ethels, heads so close together Tucker could practically see the heat rise between the two men, so obviously infatuated with each other.

“It’s not,” he said succinctly.

“Nor mine,” Jonathan agreed. “If those two aren’t careful, they’ll end up in the papers. Rumor is that the Tattletale is here. Along with a crasher toting a camera.”

“Bloody hell,” Tucker said, irritated that the infamous gossip columnist had crashed the party. He leaned over the rail, scouring the crowd for an unfamiliar face or anyone carrying a camera or a flash pad. The exercise was futile, of course. No one looked familiar. And considering the density of the crowd, he probably wouldn’t notice a photographer until the flash powder ignited.

“Bloody hell,” he repeated. “You would think with the Strangler still roaming the city the news hounds would have better things to do than chase gossip.”

“Ah, but the Ragtime Strangler’s a mystery,” Jonathan said. “Nothing but questions. Who is he? When will he strike next? Who will be his next victim?” He shrugged. “Not much to report there. But the loves and affairs of the social elite? That, my friend, sells newspapers.”

Tucker eyed him curiously. “A very passionate speech. I’d almost think that you are the mysterious Tattletale.”

Jonathan chuckled. “I assure you, I am not. Though I will admit to having some secrets.”

“Do you now?” Tucker asked, smiling at his neighbor. “You pique my curiosity. Be careful, or I’ll have to enlist Blythe’s aid. She could coerce a secret out of a priest.”

“I imagine she could,” Jonathan said with a tight smile. “And I could only dream of being so lucky as to be the subject of your sister’s coercive tactics.”

“Jonathan, I’m sorry,” Tucker said earnestly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” Jonathan said, but his face was still tight and he didn’t quite look at Tucker.

Tucker wanted to kick himself. How stupid of him to have suggested getting Jonathan and Blythe together, even in jest. The extent of Jonathan’s admiration for Blythe was no secret. Nor, unfortunately, was Blythe’s stout refusal to be wooed by the man. “He may be a neighbor,” she’d told Tucker, “but I don’t like him.” No explanation, no second chances. And that, quite simply, was that.

Tucker cleared his throat. “Been two weeks since the Strangler last attacked,” he said in an effort to change the subject. “I expect there will be another incident soon.”

Jonathan eyed him curiously. “Do you?”

“Seems like a reasonable guess to me,” Tucker said. “Like you said, the bastard’s getting no press. And my guess is he craves attention. From the world, and from the women he attacks.”

“Careful there, Greene. You’re turning into your Detective Goodnight.”

“I think not,” Tucker said. “But the conclusions don’t seem out of sorts, do you think? All of his victims have been women with a certain breeding. More, they’ve all been the types of young women you might see described in the Tattletale’s column. Not young women studying abroad or living in a convent.”

“Flappers,” Jonathan said agreeably. “Women who share our gin. And our beds. Loose women,” he added. “Or that’s what my father would say, anyway.”

Tucker looked at him sharply. “And do you agree?”

Jonathan waved the question away as if it were smoke. “That stuffed shirt? The man has ticker tape where his blood should be. But his attitude does suggest a question. What did the victims do to attract the Strangler’s attention?”

“Figure that out, and we can bait the bastard,” Tucker said.

“Tell me you’re not serious.”

“I’m not,” Tucker said, though in truth he wished he did have the wherewithal to see such a plan through. That a man was so vilely and violently violating and then murdering Beverly Hills women…well, it made his blood burn.

He’d seen horrors during the war, of course, but those horrors spoke to an ideal. Even though he had been conscripted, and would not care to repeat the experience, he understood and agreed with President Wilson’s motives for joining the Allies in the conflict. The vindication of human right, the President had said. And Tucker agreed. To now hear tales of women torn about in the manner of the men he’d crouched with in the French trenches—men less fortunate than he, who had not come home—well, the horror made him ill.

“Speaking of loose women,” Jonathan said, unaware that Tucker’s mind had wandered. “Isn’t that Talia Calvert?” He pointed toward an older woman in orange with an overly large ostrich feather protruding from her head scarf.

Talia Calvert—also known in the gossip magazines as the woman who shared home and hearth with motion picture director R. J. Calvert—tossed her head back in response to something her companion was saying and laughed with delight. She opened her eyes, saw Tucker and waved. Then she aimed her cigarette at him and mouthed, Don’t move.

Ten minutes later she’d worked her way through the room and up the stairs, flirting and laughing and generally beaming at every male within a fifty-foot radius. She pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks. “Tucker, darling, I’m paralyzed with happiness to see you. And who is your absolutely delicious friend?” she asked, turning to Jonathan.

After Tucker made the introductions, Jonathan pressed a kiss to Talia’s hand, sparking a delighted tinkle of laughter. She hooked an arm around his waist and scooted close, apparently claiming Jonathan as hers for the evening. “Have you thought any more about R.J.’s offer?” she asked, tossing her husband’s name into the mix even while her hand slid down to knead Jonathan’s ass.

Tucker tried to keep a straight face, pointedly looking at Talia’s eyes and not the direction of travel of her nimble fingers. “R.J. and I have had this conversation, Talia. I’m not leaving radio to move into film. I’m leaving radio to take the helm of my father’s empire.”

“Empire,” she said with a laugh and a wave of her hand. “Darling, the war is over, or hadn’t you heard? Leave the munitions as your father’s legacy and move on.”

“He’s diversified,” Tucker said, forcing his voice to stay calm and reasonable even though he wanted to scream at her to drop the damn subject. He had no interest in stepping in to fill his father’s shoes. But what choice did he have? He’d been born to this life and, as his father had said, it was his obligation to protect it and the family. Just as it had been his obligation to fight for his country in the war. He’d pursued his own dream for the past four years, writing radio plays. Now it was time to look to duty.

“Diversified?” Talia asked.

“Most of my father’s days now are spent overseeing his portfolio.”

At that, Talia actually snorted her gin, which had the side effect of forcing her to remove her hand from Jonathan’s tush so that she could dab at the front of her dress. Jonathan, always a gentleman, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it over Talia’s breasts.

“You?” Talia said, pressing her hand over Jonathan’s to stop his dabbing, and forcing him to cup her left breast. “Darling, I really can’t imagine you spending the day in a dreary room reading a ticker tape.”

“I hardly expect you to imagine me at all, Talia,” Tucker said, pointedly dropping his gaze to her chest. “I should think you’d have many other things to fantasize about.”

“Indeed,” she said, apparently knowing when to end a conversation. Or, perhaps, simply ready to find a dark corner. “Too bad, though. You have such talent. R.J. will be disappointed.”

Tucker looked at Jonathan. “Yes. I imagine he will.”

“Tucker!” They all looked up as Blythe rushed toward them, causing curious guests to turn in her direction as she sped past.

“Darling, what is it?” Tucker asked as his sister clutched his arm, her chest heaving.

“There’s a woman on the floor in the drawing room,” she said. “I think she may be dead!”