Luck Be a Lady

by Gemma Halliday

  Rafe's frown deepened, his arms folding tighter as he shifted his stance. "Not that I noticed. Your dad was business as usual right up until…" His voice dropped off, brow pinched together with concern. "Why do you ask?"

  I was so caught up in his intense green eyes, I almost blurted out that I thought my dad had been murdered. Fortunately, I caught myself in time.

  "Just curious about my father's last few days." I nearly choked on the finality in those words. Regret started budding in my gut, pulling my strong façade apart. Tears threatened to spill, but I quickly swiped them away.

  Rafe reached out a hand, running his thumb gently under my chin. His touch and look of sincere concern melted Teen-me into a puddle of heart-doodling goo. When he glanced at me through his long, dark lashes, flashing me a smile that popped dimples in both cheeks, the warmth flared to meltdown status.

  "I'm glad you decided to stick around," he told me.

  I felt myself blushing under his gaze and told myself he was just being polite.

  "Yeah, well, it turns out there are a few items of unfinished business that my dad left behind," I hedged, not sure how far the rumor mill extended.

  "I heard," Rafe said, answering that question for me. "Boss," he added with a wink.

  I shook my head as Teen-me and Adult-me battled over the new round of butterflies getting giddy in my stomach over that wink. "Just on paper. And it's only temporary."

  "Well, I guess I better take advantage of your company while I have it then," he said, grinning his charm-the-pants-off-the-groupies smile. "Hit the powder with me tomorrow? If memory serves me, you were hell on a board."

  Before I could stop myself, I heard my crushing Teen-self saying, "Sure. Sounds like fun." I even punctuated it with a girly giggle of unknown origin.

  His face lit up like Christmas. I made a mental note to have a stern talk with my teenage self about rekindling old crushes. At a complete loss for what to say next, I was saved by the bell, or chirping cell phone as it was. I pulled it from my purse, checking the readout. Britton. Good God, what now?

  "Sorry, I have to take this." I waggled my finger at the boob-signing pen he still clutched, and he handed it to me. After scrawling my phone number in his palm, with what I hoped to be permanent ink, and waving good-bye, I answered my phone while I headed to the elevators.

  "Hi, Britton."

  "Oh Em Gee, Tessie," she wailed. "I need to talk to you, like now. I know what killed my Dickie!"

  I blinked at the phone. "What?"

  "Just come upstairs," she said, hiccupping out a sob. "I'll explain everything." Then she hung up.

  While I was beginning to think everything in Britton's world was overly-dramatized, I'll admit that I practically ran the last few steps to the elevator. By the time I got to the penthouse door, all kinds of scenarios were racing through my head.

  Britton let me in, black mascara-filled tears streaked down her face. I could see the packing crew still hard at work down the hall, moving boxes from room to room. But Britton ignored them, grabbing me in a tight hug as she sobbed into my shoulder.

  "I was going through some of Dick's things as they were boxing it all up," she sob-hiccupped again. "I thought maybe there'd be some clue in there somewhere as to who killed him."

  "Was there?" I couldn't help my curiosity asking.

  She shook her head. "Not who. But I did find what."

  "What was it?"

  "Well, the EMT's took all of his medications and stuff…" She paused as she inhaled a staccato breath along with a nose full of snot. She continued in full bawling mode. "...when they took his body."

  I found myself patting her back and desperately searching the penthouse for a box of tissues for the next nasal event.

  Her red-rimmed eyes brightened a bit. "But they left his DynoDrink mix."

  "His Dyno-what?" I handed her a dish towel, hoping she'd use it instead of power-snorting.

  She dabbed her eyes daintily, clearly not realizing her mascara was way beyond dabbing. "DynoDrink," she continued. "It's this super-food health powder you mix with water. Dick drank two every day. Anyway, I'm sure that's how he was poisoned."

  "My dad drank health shakes?" I had a hard time picturing the old school, martini and a cigar guy I remembered downing wheatgrass.

  But Britton nodded. "Rafe got him into it. He does endorsements for the stuff."

  Which was almost as surprising. I hadn't realized he and my dad were close, let alone on the level to share health tips.

  "Okay, I'll bite. What makes you so sure this stuff was what killed him?"

  "He collapsed twenty minutes after drinking it. That's exactly the time it takes the average man's digestive tract to fully break down the proteins and disperse them to the red blood cells."

  I blinked at her.

  "I googled."

  Of course she did. "I'm not sure that's exactly conclusive evidence," I said, playing devil's advocate.

  "Oh, and it smells funny. Like caviar gone bad, you know?" Britton said, scrunching up her nose.

  No, I didn't, my diet running more toward canned tuna than caviar. But, I took a whiff from the plastic canister she held out to me. It looked almost full, like a freshly opened canister. But a distinct odor of dead fish and something I couldn't quite put a finger on came wafting back up at me. I took the container from her and read the ingredients, not entirely sure it hadn't started out smelling that way.

  "Okay," I said as I handed the canister back to her. "Let's say, for argument's sake, this killed him. Who knew he drank the stuff?"

  "Gosh, everyone. Dickie was so into it, he tried to get anyone who'd listen to drink the stuff. Said it gave him total energy. Better than Viagra even."

  I didn't know which one disturbed me more, the thought of my father being gone or the image of him having sex. "TMI territory again, Britton."

  She gave me a sheepish look. "Sorry."

  I grabbed the drink mix, turning the canister over in my hands. By now it had been handled by Britton, me, the moving guys, and who knew how many household staff. If it had been the murder weapon and if the killer had left any fingerprints, they were long gone now. Which just left us once again with more questions than answers.

  Not the least of which was what had Richard King done that had someone angry enough to kill him?

  CHAPTER SIX

  I left Britton with her packing crew and health shake theories, promising to call her later. As I rode the elevator, my rumbling stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I stopped at the sixth floor, detouring to the right where a small restaurant occupied the back of the casino. The Minstrel Lounge was already filling up, a Frank Sinatra impersonator on the small stage crooning to all who entered. Dead center was a bar set up to match the ambiance. Leather stools surrounded a stainless counter with neon signs touting drink specials and vodka brands. The staff was all dressed up like hip Rat Pack clones in dark suits, funky hats and skinny ties. I instantly knew this was my dad's vision. That pang of regret niggled at me again, telling me I really should have visited more often.

  The maître de approached me. "How many in your party this evening?" As I raised one finger, a look of disdain crossed his elongated, goateed face. We wove through the tables with him mumbling under his breath about the buffet downstairs.

  I followed him to a tiny, dimly-lit corner table, the men's restroom on one side and the hustle and bustle of the kitchen doors on the other.

  Fabulous.

  I would've asked to move to the bar if he hadn't tossed my menu on the table and darted away. Accepting my less than prime location, I sat down and looked over my choices. The menu was the same nod to the sixties as the ambience, meat and potatoes dominating the meal choices. Which sounded like heaven at the moment. I was vacillating between the All-American cheeseburger and the Hometown meatloaf with garlic mashed potatoes when the Sinatra impersonator paused between songs.

  "This one goes out to Richard King," Old Blue Eyes said.

&
nbsp; I immediately got that familiar lump in my throat.

  "Like him, it's an oldie but goodie. Here's to you, Mr. King, wherever you are," he said. Then he started crooning "Thanks for the Memory."

  I found myself silently singing along, my mind tripping over my own old memories of my dad as my gaze wandered over the patrons of the restaurant. It wasn't packed, but there was a decent dinner crowd gathering. The bar was still sparsely populated. I watched as a young Joe Pesci look-alike sat down on one of the leather stools. Short, dark hair, dressed all in black, even sporting a leather dress coat. I found myself grinning as the guy greeted the bartender with the same, "Hey, how ya doin'? Right, right?" as Pesci's character in My Cousin Vinny.

  "Pesci" ordered a drink, sipped at it, listened to the Sinatra impersonator a bit. He'd almost faded from my thoughts when I spotted Buddy Weston walk in and sit on the stool next to him.

  I narrowed my eyes. What was Weston doing here? Britton had made it pretty clear that he wasn't welcome.

  As he slipped off his suit coat, the glare from his signature silk shirt nearly lit up the area around him. I was about to get up and tell Weston to take a hike when another man sat down on the other side of Mr. Pesci. As he stole a wary glance over his shoulder, I recognized the freckled face of the casino's valet. He leaned in, addressing both Pesci and Weston.

  I raised an eyebrow. Now this was interesting. I desperately wanted to hear what they were whispering but couldn't figure a feasible way to get closer without being recognized. Or looking like I was shamelessly eavesdropping. I watched as Weston pulled an envelope from the jacket draped over his arm and passed it under the counter to Pesci. The valet yanked it between them. I saw both men flipping through the contents but wasn't close enough to confirm what it was. Whatever it was, they both seemed satisfied, as Pesci nodded at Weston, clapping him jovially on the back. Weston slipped off his stool, threw his jacket on, and walked away. Downing their drinks, Pesci and the freckled valet followed him out the door a few minutes later.

  Whatever that exchange had been about, it didn't feel right. I had no idea who Pesci was, but I couldn't imagine a good reason for the owner of a competing casino to be passing an envelope to one of our employees. I made a mental note to pull the freckle-faced guy's employee file later.

  I was mulling over the different possibilities for the envelope's contents when Tate cleared his throat in front of me.

  "Tessie King, as I live and breathe, there are better ways to pick up guys." He bobbed his head toward the men's room door.

  I pulled myself out of my thoughts and shook my head. "Apparently, if you dine alone in this establishment, you are just begging for the worst table in the house." I glanced around at the empty prime spots, heaving a sigh.

  Tate grabbed my hand, yanking me to my feet. He pulled me behind him to a table with a spectacular view of the lake and the sun setting on the horizon. Then he turned and loudly proclaimed directly at the maître de, "No one puts Tessie King in a corner."

  I watched with a little more than my fair share of contentment as the man's goateed jaw dropped to his chest. He nearly fell over several other customers as he darted to our table.

  "Whatever you want, Ms. King, it's on the house," he babbled as he smoothed the table cloth and swatted non-existent crumbs to the floor.

  Tate's eyes lit up. "She'll have an apple-tini, please." He leaned across the table and whispered, "Did you want one, too?"

  I nodded, "Sure, why not."

  "Okay, so two, please. And don't be a stranger."

  "And a burger for me," I added as the maître de walked away.

  He bowed slightly toward the table in acknowledgement, before turning to jog to the bar. Leaning in, he whispered in the bartender's ear. The man mixed our drinks with such fervor you'd have thought James Bond himself had ordered them. Shaken, not stirred. Within seconds, they were gently placed on our table.

  Tate lifted the drink to his lips, inhaling the aroma, a smile reaching his eyes as he took the first sip. His lashes fluttered as he set the glass reluctantly back in front of him. "The best drink ever made."

  I couldn't help but grin. Tate was a full-of-life breath of fresh air that I sorely needed today.

  "Speaking of drinks...Tate, did you know that my dad was drinking health shakes?"

  "Ugh. I'm drinking the nectar of the gods, and you bring up DynoDrink?" He shuddered, clasping both hands around the fragile stem of his glass. "Mr. King tried to get me to try it once. No dice. I'll die young enjoying these, thank you very much." He savored another sip of the bright green concoction.

  "What about Rafe?" I pried, not really sure what made me bring him up.

  "What about him?" Tate appeared puzzled for a second until the bartender slid a second round in front of us. I hadn't even touched mine, so I chalked it up to extreme butt kissing.

  "Britton said Rafe got my dad into them?"

  Tate nodded. "Rafe is a spokesperson for DynoDrink. He'd give your dad a fresh can every few days from his stash."

  I wondered if the fresh canister my dad had taken his dose from on the day he died had come from Rafe. A niggle of unease at that thought played at the back of my mind. "Was Rafe around on the weekend my dad died?"

  Tate frowned, cocking his head to the side in thought. "He was. Big snowboarding competition on the mountain that weekend. His publicist was in town, too. I'm pretty sure he was either tied up with the tournament, or tied up by her." He paused to take a sip. "Metaphorically and literally, if I were to guess. For a girl, she's kinda hot." He pointed to a huge poster at the end of the bar I couldn't believe I hadn't even noticed.

  Cardboard Rafe was nearly life-sized with a myriad of smaller pictures surrounding him. In most, a tiny blonde woman was draped on his arm, gorgeous, perfect teeth, not a hair out of place. She inspired instant hatred in me—by both Teen and Adult-me.

  "Why do you ask, sugar?" Tate asked.

  I shook my head. "It's nothing. I'm just...thinking about my dad, that's all," I said, not quite ready to share Britton's deadly shake theory yet.

  Tate clucked his tongue and did a head-tilted, lips-pursed, pity-face.

  Smiling, I assured him, "I'm okay. Promise."

  He stuck a little finger in my face, and I was forced by a long ago pact to lock mine with his. "Pinky swear," I added.

  "Your dad was an amazing man. I know you guys didn't really see eye to eye on, well, most things, but he loved you. I know that for sure."

  I let him take a few sips of his drink while pondering his words. "Really? How are you so sure?"

  "How many summers did we spend together? Ten, maybe? My mom absolutely adored working for your dad. The entire week before you came out for your summer visit, he practically had the staff on lockdown, cleaning and prepping twenty-four-seven. Everything had to be in tip-top shape before you got here. The pool was always his main focus since he knew how much time you spent there."

  Pleasant memories filtered past my stubborn pride. I allowed myself to feel the excitement of the summer when I was twelve. I had walked through the pool gate and seen the huge, twisting slide Dad had installed. When I turned fifteen he'd added a new wave pool. I'd tucked those memories so far back in my subconscious, they'd been lost behind all of the times when he'd forgotten to call on Christmas, or send a card when I'd gotten straight A's, or announced that he was marrying someone just a few years older than me. Seeing tears flowing down Tate's face made me realize he was mirroring my own.

  I swiped at my eyes. "Sorry."

  He reached for my hands. "Oh, honey, don't be. I was worried that you hadn't let them out already. You should be very proud of all that your dad accomplished. Not to mention how much he appreciated each and every person who worked for him. He made sure he knew each employee, their family, their needs. Why do you think I was always here? Mom couldn't afford a babysitter after Dad bailed. The staff became my second family." Tate forced a smile to his face.

  I wavered between loving and loath
ing my father but jumped at the chance to make Tate smile for real by changing the subject. "How about we toast to the fabulous individuals we are now despite our jacked-up childhoods." We raised our glasses, clinked them together, each enjoying a big sip. Okay, so mine was more like a chug, but I'd earned it.

  "Oh, fun fact!" Tate blurted. "Did you know this very table was your dad's favorite? He came up here almost every evening for a cigar, a drink, and to enjoy the fabulous view."

  I turned just in time to watch the last deep orange glimmer of daylight fade behind the mountain. Had my burger not showed up at the same moment, it might have prompted some deep connection with my past. As it was, my stomach won out, and I practically dove into the plate.

  Tate stared across the table as I devoured my burger, his eyes wide and a slight Elvis tic tugging at his upper lip.

  "What?" I asked between bites.

  "Oh, just that I've never seen anyone as small as you put food away like that. I mean, I've watched a show on television where piranhas dissected a whole cow. I'm getting the same vibe here, sweetness. I hope you don't eat this way on a date."

  I put the remaining few bites back on my plate and swallowed what was left in my mouth. I pondered retaliating with some of his more embarrassing moments that I'd witnessed once we had hit puberty. The slumber parties where I'd woken to see his hair pre-product-enhanced, the breakups I'd helped him through with red snotty noses and lots of tissues, the time he thought a Speedo was a good bathing suit choice and I had to warn him that his junk was on the loose. The options were nearly endless. I opened my mouth to rehash the highlights, but his cheeks were already rosy. He'd obviously just hiked the same memory lane.

  "Touché." He raised his glass, tossed me a playful wink, and took a sip. "You always have been more like family to me. You know, I think we need a girl's night before you leave."

  "Sure, why not?" I finished my burger slowly, pondering what the week would hold for me as temporary owner of a casino.

  "Omigod." Tate's eyes rounded, and a smile lit his face. "There's a male revue show at the Deep Blue tomorrow night. We are so going."