They walked up to one of the bars and ordered drinks, champagne for Cassidy, Cutty and water for him. Another tavern wench and pirate couple stood a few feet away, the man with a patch over one eye and a head full of dreadlocks that would give Jack Sparrow a run for his money.
Among the reasons they had chosen their outfits was the hope other couples would be dressed the same way, providing even more anonymity. A third pirate and wench duo stood on the far side of the room.
“So far we’re right on track,” he said.
Cassidy glanced down at her wristwatch. “We’ve got twenty minutes before they call us in to dinner.”
“Let’s keep moving. Five more minutes and I’m heading for the men’s room.” More precisely, to a door down the hall that led outside the building.
As head of marketing for Texas American, he had been to Westhaven a number of times. Plenty of business done on the golf course. He didn’t play often enough to be very good, but he had a natural knack for sports. He could play to a twelve handicap and at least not embarrass himself.
They moved toward one of the high tables and set down their drinks, smiling and flirting with each other as if they wanted to be left alone, which they did. Even with the head scarf and mask, there was a chance he’d be recognized.
The group was large and boisterous. Two hundred costumed couples in Roman togas, medieval garb, uniforms, hoop skirts, and pretty much any costume you could think of. It was impossible to tell if one of the costumed men was Malcolm Vaughn.
As the minutes ticked past, his nerves kicked up another notch. On the surface Cassidy seemed relaxed, but Beau figured she was nearly as edgy as he was.
Another minute passed. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear. “I’m heading out.”
She looked up at him, whispered, “I’ll phone if there’s trouble.”
His cell, in a case on his belt, was set to vibrate. He nodded, turned, and walked quietly away.
When he’d driven in, he’d left the surveillance devices in a paper bag under a row of hedges at the edge of theparking lot. He walked down the hall toward the restrooms and spotted the back door, which led to a cement walkway out to the golf course. Once outside, he ducked off the path toward the hedgerow at the edge of the lot, bent and retrieved the small paper bag.
Staying in the shadows as much as possible, he kept walking. The Mercedes was parked up ahead, two more rows and off to the right. The clouds were growing thicker and darker, the wind coming up, blowing trash and leaves across the lot. As he neared the vehicle, he took a pair of latex gloves out of the bag and pulled them on.
The Mercedes loomed ahead. Beau prayed the car actually belonged to Malcolm Vaughn.
* * *
Cassidy took a sip of champagne and continued her conversation with an older woman in a silver wig and an eighteenth-century gold brocade gown spread over wide panniers. Her husband wore a curly wig and gold satin knee breeches.
“Costume parties are so much fun,” Cassidy said, needing to mingle so she wouldn’t stand out.
“Oh, yes. And this one’s for such a good cause. Roger was dead set against wearing a wig, but I think it makes him look handsome.”
Roger’s lips curled into a sneer. He merely grunted.
“Now, dear, don’t be a spoilsport.” The woman, Opal, looked to Cassidy for help.
She managed to glance at the dainty gold wristwatch that had belonged to her mother. Time was ticking away. Beau had ten minutes to install the devices, get back to the front door, and have his car brought up. She would meet him there and they could leave before the guests were seated for dinner.
She forced herself to concentrate. “I think the wig makesyou look very distinguished, Roger. After all, men like Washington and Jefferson wore them, all the great men who formed our country. What could be more distinguished than that?”
Roger looked mollified. He stood a little straighter. “Maybe you’re right. I hadn’t thought of it quite that way.”
“Oh, look, dear! The Denbys are here. Let’s go say hello.” Opal straightened her gown and the panniers holding it out on the sides, and took his arm. “It was nice talking to you, Maryann,” she said as they wandered away.
Since standing there by herself wasn’t a good idea, Cassidy glanced around in search of someone else to talk to until it was time to meet Beau. She took a step, bumped into a man dressed in a long white toga next to a woman similarly garbed. Matching laurel wreaths crowned their heads. Like a number of partygoers, they had removed their masks.
Cassidy’s stomach dropped out when she recognized Malcolm Vaughn.
* * *
Beau pressed the black box against the door to the Mercedes, heard the click of the locks, and pulled open the door. As he slid into the driver’s seat, he withdrew a small penlight, opened the glove box, found the registration and held it under the light.
A sigh of relief whispered out. The car belonged to Vaughn.
