The Willful Wife. Suzanne Simms
Thump.
The sound of footsteps came again.
Without switching on the bedside lamp, Desiree threw back the summer-weight covers and sat up. As a girl her feet had dangled over the edge of the high English-style bed. Now they were firmly planted on the cool hardwood floor.
Thump.
“Enough of this nonsense,” Desiree grumbled under her breath as she reached for her bathrobe and made a beeline for the door.
Despite the twenty years since her last visit, for she had stopped coming to the Stratford after the death of her great-grandfather, she knew the guest room, and the entire apartment, like the back of her hand.
Without a sound Desiree turned the knob, opened the door a crack and peered out into the corridor. Vintage lights, strategically spaced every ten or fifteen feet, cast a garish glow on the flowered wallpaper and claret-colored carpeting.
She stepped into the hallway and quietly slipped along in her bare feet, double-checking each juncture as she came to it.
There was nothing.
There was no one.
There was no sign of whoever had been there.
Not that Desiree was particularly surprised by the results of her impromptu investigation. She had scarcely expected to peer around the corner and catch the culprit red-handed.
“Utter nonsense,” she announced aloud, her voice echoing in the empty corridor. “I’m going to bed.”
It was at that moment that Desiree noticed the door to her great-grandfather’s study was ajar. Surely she had closed it when she’d finished working for the night.
Hadn’t she?
She made a split-second decision. Under the circumstances, she wasn’t going to take any chances. Reaching around the corner, Desiree grabbed one of Jules Stratford’s traditional English walking sticks from the brass umbrella stand. She firmly grasped the “weapon” in one hand and groped for the light switch with the other.
Flicking the switch, she blinked several times in rapid succession and gave her eyes a second or two to adjust to the change. Then she quickly looked around.
The room was filled with rich mahogany furniture and glass-fronted barrister bookcases, Edwardian-era oil paintings and mementos from her grandparents’ days in India, and shadows.
Thankfully, the room was also vacant.
Desiree quickly crossed to the opposite side of the spacious study and opened the door into the adjoining parlor. The formal room beyond was also unoccupied.
After closing the parlor door, she turned. At a glance the study appeared to be exactly as she had left it two hours before. She lowered the silver-tipped walking stick and approached the massive mahogany desk. That’s when she realized something was amiss.
Desiree spun on her heel and stared at the wall behind the desk where her great-grandfather’s sword and dagger, presented to him upon his retirement from active military duty, had been displayed for as long as she could remember.
The dagger was gone.
She was almost certain ... she was certain ... that the dagger had been there earlier that evening.
Who could have taken it?
Why take it?
Where was it now?
Then, out of the corner of her eye, something else caught Desiree’s attention. She slowly pivoted. As the object came into focus, a chill spiraled down her spine. For a moment she couldn’t think. She couldn’t move. She didn’t even breathe.
Finally collecting herself, she encircled the desk, all the while being very careful not to touch anything.
Perhaps Uncle George was right.
Perhaps it was a good idea for a security expert to inquire into the peculiar goings-on at the Stratford.
Admittedly, when her godfather had telephoned that afternoon to inform her that he had called in a “hired gun,” Desiree had argued the point with him. She had recited to him a dozen good reasons why she didn’t want and didn’t need extra security at the hotel.
Now she was relieved that she hadn’t managed to talk George Huxley out of his plan. As a matter of fact, it was of some consolation to her just knowing that the man was scheduled to show up first thing in the morning.
For there, directly in front of Desiree Stratford, firmly embedded in the top of the desk, its tip neatly slicing through a sheet of thick, cream-colored writing paper embossed with the family coat of arms and with the single word forewarned block-printed across its surface, was her great-grandfather’s dagger.
Three
Rashid Modi hovered in the doorway of what had once been the night manager’s office. He discreetly cleared his throat. “A thousand pardons, Ms. Stratford.”
Desiree looked up from the most recent financial statement submitted by her accountant—it was not good news—and said rather absently, “Yes, Mr. Modi?”
The hotel manager squared his shoulders. “There is someone here to see you.”
“Who is it?” she inquired of the capable young man who had been in charge of the day-to-day operation of the Stratford and its few remaining staff members since the death of her step-great-grandmother, Charlotte, last winter.
“He did not give his name.” Rashid Modi remained standing at attention. “He said you would know who he was.”
Desiree glanced at the antique cloisonné timepiece on the bookcase opposite the desk. It was precisely eight o’clock. Perhaps her caller was the security expert retained by George Huxley. The security expert she wasn’t supposed to mention to anyone, at least not by profession. If so, the man was punctual. First thing in the morning evidently meant first thing in the morning.
Rashid Modi lingered. “You are busy. Do you wish for me to send him away?”
Desiree tidied the stack of papers in front of her and slipped them back into the large official-looking envelope in which they had been delivered the day before. “Thank you, Mr. Modi, but that won’t be necessary,” she said as she stashed the envelope in her briefcase. “I’ll see the gentleman.”
“As you wish,” he acquiesced.
Desiree sensed a certain hesitation on the part of the Stratford’s manager. “What is it, Mr. Modi?”
Rashid Modi was the absolute soul of discretion. He was well-dressed, well-spoken, well trained and well liked. There was no doubt in Desiree’s mind that he would go far in his chosen career as a hotelier. In fact, the only surprise to her was that he had accepted a position with the Stratford which was, frankly, no longer on the “A” list of Chicago hotels. The man could have aimed higher, much higher: the Tremont or the Whitehall or even the Raphael, and he could certainly have commanded more money than Charlotte Stratford—and now Desiree—could afford to pay him.
Mr. Modi hemmed and hawed, and then, with a decided flair for understatement, disclosed, “The person waiting to see you isn’t exactly a gentleman.”
This unexpected announcement got Desiree’s attention. “What is he, then?”
The young man paused, brushed at a nonexistent speck of lint on his lapel and said, “A cowboy.”
“A cowboy?” Uncle George—as she had called George Huxley for as long as she could remember; he had been one of her father’s best friends since their undergraduate days at Harvard—hadn’t mentioned anything about a cowboy. Desiree was admittedly curious. “How do you know he’s a cowboy?”
Typically a man of few unnecessary words, Mr. Modi gave a succinct answer. “Cowboy boots. Cowboy hats.”