Don't Dare a Dame (39 page)

   
The pale blue carpet I’d thought so pretty the first time I saw it dragged at me like quicksand. I nearly fell as we reached the door. Hannah’s head rested against my chest. Her eyes were closed. But she was breathing.

   
Breathing poison.

   
I shook her, rousing her a little.

   
“Hannah,” I said thickly. “I have to put you down for a minute.”

   
I propped her against the wall as if she were a doll herself. My fingers fumbled, turned the doorknob hard, then shook it in frustration. Locked. Thoughts floating now, I looked vaguely about. On the other side of the door from where I’d put Hannah, there was a pretty little table with a footed silver bowl. I veered over and peered in the bowl. Inside were a pair of gloves.

   
And a key.

   
It took three tries to fit it in the lock. It turned. Opening the door half a dozen inches brought me to my knees. I reached and pulled it wide in time to see a cop’s puttees. They ran past my head and I felt hands preparing to lift me.

   
“No. Get the kid out.” I pointed. “I’ll be along. I just need a minute.”

Forty-seven

   
I crawled outside and sat gulping air and saying some thank-yous. As soon as my legs would let me, I stood and rested my back on the doorframe. More breathing cleared my head enough for me to see there was only a single patrol car parked at the curb. No sign of Cy Warren being arrested. His car was gone. He could be halfway to his political hangout by now, soon to have an excuse with his lackeys all swearing he’d been back for an hour. If I told how he’d tried to kill me and his wife and his daughter, he’d deny it all.

   
But Tessa might be mad enough that she’d tell on him now. About John Vanhorn, and about today. She was vain and childish and she’d tried to kill me, but Cy Warren didn’t deserve to get away with yet another murder. If I was alive, chances were she was too.

   
I saw more cruisers arriving, one already pulling up with others behind it. There’d be help soon. Drawing a final breath of sweet, clean air, I went back inside.

   
Before I’d gone three steps, I knew I’d made a bad decision. The air was so thick I choked. A hundred miles away, at the kitchen door, I saw movement. An arm came up, and my blurring vision made out a gun.

   
“Tessa, no!” I croaked. “The spark—”

   
I turned and tried to run. Instead, I felt myself falling.

   
The fall accelerated. Everything around me spun upside down. Long seconds swirled past before my sputtering consciousness registered that strong arms had scooped me up.

   
Connelly. My body sensed it. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe the gas had already gotten to me. But I heard a fiercely pounding heart where my head pressed his chest.

   
I saw light. The dwindling of a fall day. Outside. We cleared the front steps and Connelly broke into a run. The patrol cars had gone, parked up the street in front of a different house.

   
Behind us something went
whump
. Connelly pulled me parallel to him and fell on top of me, covering my body with his and tucking the top of my head down under his chin.

   
“Don’t breathe!” he shouted.

   
Searing heat blistered over us, wave after wave. After an eternity I felt Connelly’s form lift a fraction. He turned his head to the side and coughed.

   
“You okay?” he asked hoarsely.

   
I nodded and coughed and gasped some air and coughed again.

   
“Yeah. Thanks.” Once before he’d tried to save me. This time he had.

   
“What kind of fool woman runs back into a house filled with gas?”

   
“What kind of fool man runs in after her?”

   
His whole face hardened. Then he smiled.

   
“Sure you’re okay, then?” He pushed up on his forearms, his eyes taking inventory.

   
“When my head clears, I will be. I was never as glad to see anyone in my life as I was you, Connelly.” He flinched as I have him an awkward pat. “Shite, Mick! The back of your neck’s burned.”

   
“Worth it,” he said with a wink.

   
A pair of cops thundered up. One knelt.

   
“Shall we make a stretcher for her? Sally’s on the way.”

   
“I’m okay,” I rasped. Over Connelly’s shoulder I could see flames shooting skyward. Sally, the City’s only ambulance, operated by the police, couldn’t help anyone now.

   
“The little girl. She’s crying for her aunt. Do you know who that is?”

   
I told him. He and his partner trotted off shouting.

   
Connelly looked down at me

   
“I’ve dreamed of being with you like this more than a few times. Can’t say it ever included a crowd.”

   
Becoming aware of other voices, activity all around us, and sirens coming, I started to laugh. Connelly’s rich, full chuckle resonated in my bones as well as my ears. His hand moved into my hair. Then, as he was maybe fixing to kiss me, Boike ran up.

   
“You two okay?”

   
I felt a faint disappointment. Connelly cleared his throat.

   
“Just need to catch our breath for a minute. That gas we breathed made us both pretty wobbly.”

   
“Don’t take too long, or you’re gonna get trampled. Fire trucks are just turning into the street.” He leaned around Connelly, speaking to me. “Freeze wants to see you, soon as you’re able. Some muckety-muck claims he happened by to talk to Warren about a political matter and overheard him confess to two murders.”

   
So I had heard someone outside.

   
“Make it three,” I said. “Warren’s wife was in there.”

   
Boike went quiet. After a moment he rallied, pointing a finger at Connelly.

   
“And you — you’re in Dutch, telling him you’d swipe a car if he didn’t bring you too.”

   
“Does this mean he won’t want my help with that field demonstration he was starting to tell me about?” Connelly asked wryly.

   
Shaking his head, Boike left.

   
Connelly rolled off me and onto his elbow.

   
“Guess we better not get knocked about by fire hoses,” he said.

   
He helped me up and we sat there awhile, shoulder to shoulder, leaning against each other.

Forty-eight

   
It was Saturday night, and I was celebrating. Cy Warren was in jail and would probably sit in Old Sparky. The Vanhorn sisters had cried some when I’d told them every detail I knew of their father’s fate, but they’d thanked me a dozen times. So tonight I’d thrown caution to the wind and put on lipstick.

   
I stepped into Finn’s and stopped in surprise. The place was packed.

   
Some tables had been moved out to clear space for a motley group of musicians. They were playing at breakneck speed and their faces glowed with joy. A rosy-cheeked girl sat next to my old concertina teacher, both pumping the little squeeze boxes on their knees while their fingers flew. Finn and a woman I didn’t know were playing fiddles. There was a man with a long-necked mandolin of some sort, and another with the right kind of flute.

   
Sitting at the center of them, with one foot tapping, was Connelly with his whistle. His whole being radiated happiness.

   
As if drawn by a signal, he looked up and saw me. His eyes cut to the other players. Without missing a beat, they swung full tilt into a centuries old reel.

   
My throat closed over with emotions so intense I couldn’t move.

   
The name of the tune was
Over the Moor to Maggie
.

The End

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Books by M. Ruth Myers

No Game for a Dame
(Maggie Sullivan #1)

Tough Cookie
(Maggie Sullivan #2)

Don’t Dare a Dame (Maggie Sullivan #3)

The Whiskey Tide

A Touch of Magic

Out of print:

A Journey to Cuzco

Captain’s Pleasure

Friday’s Daughter

Costly Pleasures

Insights

Love Unspoken

A Private Matter

An Officer and a Lady

   
About the Author:

   Ruth is the author of more than a dozen books, in assorted genres, which have been translated, optioned for film and condensed for magazine publication. She and her husband have one grown daughter. They live in Ohio as domestic staff to an over-empowered cat.