The man pivoted slowly, facing me, his nose scrunched. "You seriously do not see what is wrong with this set?" He stretched out his arms.
I looked around again, this time noticing that the six contestants were there, but each one was hiding next to a prep station or crouched behind the nearest counter. Pleading, wide-eyed gazes locked with mine as I scanned from one to the next.
I looked back at him, shrugging my shoulders. "I'm sorry, sir. Whatever it is, I'm sure we can get it fixed before taping starts."
He shook his head, his lips puckering into an ugly snarl. "Mon chéri," he spat sarcastically, "my viewers demand cohérence. I was promised an identique set. I demand an identique set, or I will pack up and abandon this charade."
Alfonso Malone's voice boomed from behind me. "Bastien Dubois, what an honor it is to have you in our casino. What can we do for you?"
I turned to see our director of operations filling the entryway. Dressed in his trademark black suit, shirt, and tie, his choice of wardrobe blended seamlessly with his dark hair and deeply Italian complexion. A faint scar running across his cheek and a slightly crooked angle to his nose were the only remnants of the hard life he'd left behind to become my dad's right-hand man. Now he was all expensive suits, strict adherence to gaming regulations, and a strong hand when it came to running his security crew. He'd bailed me out of my fair share of tight spots in the short time I'd been in charge, and I felt better knowing he was there.
And I must not have been the only one, as Dubois pulled out a smile like he'd just hit triple sevens. "Monsieur Malone," he drawled as he walked over to shake Alfie's hand.
"What seems to be the problem, Chef?" Alfie peered over the shorter man's head, giving me a hard look that clearly let me know he was begrudgingly there to bail me out yet again. "Whatever it is, consider it fixed."
"Do you see it?" Dubois asked, his voice calm but an octave higher with hope as he waved toward the sink.
Sure, give Alfie a hint. This was so not fair.
Alfie nodded knowingly. "I was hoping you'd miss that. We have a new faucet coming. That was as close of a match as we could get for you locally. I just checked the shipping details, and it'll be here this afternoon."
"Oh-ho-ho," Bastien laughed, releasing a large sigh. "I can practice with this, yes. You had me very worried, mon ami. I was wondering how to work with a faucet a un centimètre—" He held his fingers a small fraction apart. "—shorter than the one I use."
A centimeter? For real? The coffee was no longer just something I wanted. I needed it or there would be consequences that would not make this situation any better.
Alfie clamped a hand on my shoulder and whispered, "Smile."
It was then that I realized I was glaring. I popped on my professional, toothy smile and bubbled, "Well, you obviously have this handled, Mr. Malone. Is there anything else I can help with, Chef Dubois?" I asked, emphasis on the title.
He locked a narrowed gaze with mine and flicked his hands in a little shooing motion. No words, no thanks—he just dismissed me. It was my turn to bristle with anger as I stomped out of the soundstage, across the lobby, and right into the Java Joust.
"Venti vanilla latte with an extra espresso shot," I pleaded at the barista.
The lanky teen behind the counter gave me an understanding glance as she quickly backed away to start my coffee. The whir of the espresso machine calmed me some, but it was the intoxicating aroma of the brewed beans that brought me back to non-murdering notions. She handed me the drink, and I dropped a tip in her jar. Smiling, I slowly raised the cup to my lips and took the first glorious sip.
"He's harmless," Alfie said directly in my ear from behind me.
I snorted part of my coffee in surprise. After regaining my composure from a coughing fit, I muttered, "He's still a jerk." I scanned my general area for anyone else who might be lurking, before taking another drink.
"If you could have attended to the situation sooner, maybe it might not have gotten so out of hand," Alfie chided. "Since when does 'now' mean in twenty minutes?"
"Don't push your luck," I mumbled, taking another sip.
Alfie raised an eyebrow at me, but he was wise enough to drop it until I got some caffeine into my system. Instead he motioned toward a table with a view of the courtyard.
I walked to it, staring out the window at the melting snow spotted with patches of bright-green grass. Spring was my favorite of all seasons, more so in the Lake Tahoe area, where there was actually a big change in the scenery, than in my previous home of San Francisco, where the changing seasons only vacillated between blue skies and foggy ones. I loved to see the grass and flowers fighting through the dissipating snowbanks, bringing splotches of color to the bland grayscale of the winter palate. From a business standpoint, we were hitting the tail end of the hustle and bustle of ski season, too, which meant a nice pause from the breakneck pace. The months between the end of ski season and the beginning of summer usually slowed and brought a more relaxed crowd, here to enjoy the gorgeous views of the mountain range, lounge poolside, and take boat tours on the lake.
Of course, that also meant a drop in the number of visitors to our hotel—a fact that I hoped the board would not pin on their new chairperson. Assuming I was still owner after their shareholders' meeting.
Alfie pulled out my chair, and I sat.
"About Dubois…" he started.
I gave him a hard stare. "Please don't defend that pompous celebu-chef's behavior."
He snorted a laugh as he sat across from me. "Never. But he is a necessary evil. His pompous self is bringing in a lot of revenue. Besides, you'll probably be dealing more with James Sicianni, the producer of the show. You'll see that his wit and charm will more than offset Dubois. He's got quite a way with the ladies, from what I've heard." Alfie waggled a bushy brow and almost smiled, his eyes glinting just a bit.
"The more naked the better, from what I've heard."
A real smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. "You heard about the strippers, huh?"
"Me and every other patron on the fifth floor."
Alfie chuckled. "I'll make sure Sicianni keeps his visitors on the down-low from now on."
"Good," I said, taking a heavenly sip that did wonders for my mood. "I'd appreciate that."
Alfie paused, and I could tell there was something else he'd sat me down to talk about other than Mr. Sicianni's appetite.
"What?" I asked, staring at him over the rim of my cup.
Alfie narrowed his eyes, as if sizing me up, before he asked, "Have you gone to see him yet?"
My cup froze. I was pretty sure I knew who he meant, but I asked anyway to stall for time. "Who?"
"You know who. Your father."
Damn. I had to pick now to start being right. I looked deep into my coffee cup to avoid eye contact.
"You visited his grave yet?" Alfie pressed.
I shrugged, trying my best at nonchalance. "Not lately."
"It's one year on Saturday."
I took a deep sip of coffee that now tasted like bitter sludge. I didn't need Alfie to remind me of the anniversary of my father's death. It was something I'd been pushing to the back of my mind for weeks, watching the days tick down on the calendar and feeling the same emotions of grief, guilt, and regret that I'd felt at his passing all suddenly being rubbed raw again. I'd done a bang-up job of burying them in work during the past year, and the last thing I wanted was Alfie digging them back up again.
"I'll go soon."
"Good," he said with finality that thankfully meant he felt he'd done his duty as my dad's right-hand man. "Take Britton with you."
"Sure," I said, waving him off.
"I mean it," he said, stabbing a finger at me. "You'll regret it if you don't go see him."
I nodded, though I knew deep down what I would always regret was not seeing enough of him when he was still alive.
Thankfully, Alfie stood, letting
me off the hook for now. But he paused before he walked away. "I, uh, I wanted you to know I'm going to be putting in for some personal time off soon."
My head shot up. "Why? What's wrong?" I immediately asked. Alfie and personal were two words that didn't go together in my mind. Alfie lived for the casino. He ate, slept, played, and worked here. If I had to guess, he'd made marriage vows to the poker tables long ago.
He made a big show of crinkling a napkin and tossing it into the nearby garbage can, not meeting my eyes. "Nothin'. I'm just taking some time off, is all."
I opened my mouth to delve further, but he didn't give me the chance, turning his back to me and quickly walking away.
* * *
I spent the rest of the morning knee-deep in accountants, going over the numbers for the previous quarter's returns in anticipation of my board review. To say they weren't pretty was like saying a bulldog needed a facelift—obvious to even my own untrained eye. I sorely hoped that the Battle Buffet finale was a hit, or else the Royal Palace might be saying its final adieu right along with Dubois's season.
I was just leaving the conference room, visions of a lunch at the Castle Cafe dancing in my head, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I briefly contemplated not answering it. But the truth was that whoever was on the other end knew where I lived. The hazards of living where you worked.
"Tessie King," I answered.
"This is Maverick in security."
"Yes?" I asked.
"We have a small disturbance at the slots."
"Define disturbance."
"Mr. Taylor's passed out again."
I glanced at my phone read out. It was just past noon. "Already?"
"'Fraid so."
"I'm on it," I said into the receiver as Maverick directed me to the particular bank of The Price is Right themed machines holding the snoozing vintner.
I glanced down aisle after aisle of clanging devices until I found him slumped against one at the far end. One of my regulars, Mrs. Schnatz, was standing in the middle of the row, arms crossed tightly over her chest and erratically tapping the toe of her Velcro-strapped tennis shoe.
"Finally!" the older woman said, jutting her meaty arm out toward Mr. Taylor. I tried not to look as the under part of her arm took way longer to stop moving than the rest of it. "That's my machine. He can nap in his room."
I set a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Give me just a minute, and it's all yours."
It was a little early in the day for a bender, but it didn't exactly surprise me either, considering the situation he'd outlined for me the previous night with LeAnna.
But as I approached him, something didn't look right. His complexion was blue, almost purple, and his drink was spilled on the floor. He would never allow that, no matter how many he'd already downed. Adrenaline-infused panic flooded my body. Instead of nudging him like usual, I put my fingers to his neck. His skin was cold and clammy, and his pulse was nonexistent.
"Call 9-1-1," I yelled to a now alarmed-looking Mrs. Schnatz. She complied, pulling out a cell. "Tell them we need an ambulance at the Royal Palace Casino."
She nodded, turning away as she put her phone to her ear.
I bit my lip, forcing myself to face the truth. It was too late for an ambulance. I tried to pat his face, and his head shifted toward me, revealing a small pair of scissors protruding from the side of his neck.
And blood.
A thin line of it trailed down the side of the slot machine, pooling between it and the neighboring machine.
I heard a scream that very well could have been mine.
CHAPTER THREE
Once uniformed officers had secured the crime scene (which was going to be just dandy for business) and medics had taken Mr. Taylor's body away, I tried my best to falsely assure the remaining casino patrons that everything was under control. Then I made my way to where the detective in charge of the investigation had set up camp to speak with witnesses in my dad's office.
Wait, my office.
After I'd taken over the casino, one of the first things I'd done was girlie up the office a little bit. I'd gone with some lighter paint, replaced the random liquor decanters with framed photos and flower vases, filled the bookshelves with novels a little more to my taste, and moved the Vermeer painting from the penthouse to the wall behind the desk where it sat as a reminder that someday I might have time to take up painting again. I'd also upgraded the outdated, clunky PC with a slim little laptop I could take with me anywhere. But even with all of those changes, every time I sat at the massive, dark cherrywood desk, I always felt like I was twelve years old and would get in trouble if I got caught there.
I opened the door and found the police in full interrogation mode, and LeAnna bawling and slobbering into the scarf I'd left on the lounge chair in the corner where she currently sat. I forced myself to feel sorrier for LeAnna than my poor pashmina. A man in a suit sat next to LeAnna, asking her questions as he scrolled through an electronic tablet in his hand. I could only assume he was the detective in charge of the case. Alfie paced the room behind him, monitoring the scene carefully.
A man I'd never met stood by the bookcase. His tailored dress shirt hugged his muscular frame, the unbuttoned collar showing a hint of smooth, tanned skin, and an undone bowtie hung from his neckline. He turned toward me, his impeccably styled salt-and-pepper hair sparkling in the light. He looked a lot like George Clooney, but I was pretty sure he wouldn't be in my office with the cops.
A girl could dream though.
Forcing a half smile to his face, he extended his hand. "You must be Tessie King. I'm Gerald Taylor."
I shook his hand, but I couldn't help looking around the room as though someone was going to break away from a murder investigation to clarify things for me.
"Oh," he interjected, "you must know…" His words trailed off as he swallowed hard then took a deep breath. "You must have known my father. I'm Gerald Taylor Junior. Please, call me Jerry. And, uh, excuse my disheveled monkey suit. I was at a charity function at Edgewood when I got the text from LeAnna. I'm renting a house in the Keys, but I didn't want to backtrack to change."
I had to admit that the family resemblance was certainly there.
He must've seen me scrutinizing his features as he added, "I'm told I look a lot like him, but I personally never saw it."
"I'm so sorry for your loss," I told him.
His forced smile fell, shoulders sagging. "It's just tragic. I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill my father."
Clearly I had no answer for that one, so I did my best to give him a sympathetic smile and nod.
LeAnna's wails cut through our conversation from across the room. "What do you mean they were my scissors? Why would I kill my husband? What possible motive would I have?"
I looked over my shoulder as LeAnna blew her nose into my scarf. I was fairly certain she didn't want me to rattle off my list of possibilities, so I turned back toward Gerald's son. "So, you're her…"
"Her stepson?" he answered in more of a question, his top lip ticking up with a tiny bit of distaste. "I guess it is what it is. And, as it turns out, it sounds like I'm about to have a brother who would be young enough to be my…" His words trailed off as his face fell into a dark scowl. "Well, you've met LeAnna," he finally ended, spitting out the last word with what I could only describe as disgust.
I nodded, both in sympathy and genuine agreement.
"Jerry," LeAnna whined. "Please come tell these awful men that I'd never ever hurt your father."
"If you'll excuse me…" Jerry nodded toward me then reluctantly wound his way through the room to LeAnna's side.
I watched as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, which she immediately latched on to, rubbing her cheek against his fingers. Yeah, so not polite of me, but I couldn't help it. Her stepson was at least a decade older than she was, possibly two. Damn gorgeous, but still. It was a lot to process. A text from Britton pulled me from staring.
Penthouse STAT!!!
I quietly excused myself and made my way to the elevators. When I got to the penthouse, Britton pounced, grabbing me by the shoulders as soon as I stepped through the door.
"What's going on? Who killed Mr. Taylor? How did he die? Is there a killer on the loose in the casino!?"
"Pause. Take a breath," I instructed and gently navigated her toward the sofa.
"Ohmigod, ohmigod. I can't believe this is happening. What are we going to do?"
"We are not going to do anything. The police are going to find out who killed Mr. Taylor, bring them to justice, and everything will be fine," I told her, going for my most soothing voice, even though I wasn't sure I entirely believed that statement.
"Do they have any ideas who could've done this?"
I shrugged, thinking of the interrogation I'd overheard in my office. "If I had to guess, I'd say they're focusing on his wife at the moment."
If it was possible, Britton's panic level rose. "What? No, there is no way they can possibly think LeAnna had anything to do with this. I know she would never!"
"Wait—" I held up a hand in front of me. "You know LeAnna?"
"Honey, everyone knows the Taylors." She sighed, putting on her mother knows best look. The woman was only a couple of years older than I was, but she had a habit lately of slipping into this mode when it served her. "Your dad, God rest his soul," Britton mumbled, pausing to cross herself for the first time in, well, ever, that I'd seen, "liked to spend personal time with his high rollers, like Mr. Taylor. He and Gerald go like way back, like even before LeAnna came on the scene. Anyway, after he married LeAnna, she and I totally hung out every time they were in town. It's super scary how much we have in common."
Britton had married someone old enough to be her father, and LeAnna had married someone old enough to be her grandfather. I could see the bond.
"Anyway, I know LeAnna, and I know she couldn't do this. She wouldn't hurt a fly." She jumped up and began to pace the floor of the living room in a bright neon-green blur of spandex topped off by leg warmers. Either she'd been down to the Medieval Torture Chamber (a.k.a. our hotel's fitness center) working out, or the look was unfortunately coming back as a casual option.
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