Betting on Grace

by Salonen, Debra

  She looked around the table. “Jurek has never asked for a thing from this family, but his health is not the best. I’m afraid if we miss this chance to reunite him with his son, we won’t be given another.”

  Grace understood. She even felt sympathy for both men, but she was uneasy, too. Last night in her dream, the stranger who’d rescued her had held her gently and whispered the most intoxicating promises in her ear. Safety. Security. Hope. Grace hadn’t felt any of those things since her father died.

  “That’s a nice sentiment, Mom, but how do we know the son is an okay guy? He could be a hit man for all we know,” Kate said.

  Grace looked at Alex, who made a face. Everyone knew that Kate’s trust in men was below zero, but this quantum leap sounded extreme, even for Kate.

  Yetta made a dismissing motion with her hand. “Well, he’s not. You’ll just have to take my word. I’m still the matriarch of this family and I do have some say in how it’s run.”

  Grace’s jaw dropped in shock. She hadn’t heard her mother use that tone in years. Possibly not since her father’s stroke.

  “Grace will meet Nikolai’s plane then we’ll all welcome him at a family luncheon today. Is that understood?”

  Grace didn’t look at her sisters. “Sure—” she started to say, but before she could get the word out, a child’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Gramma, Gramma.”

  A moment later, Maya danced into the kitchen, dragging a Dora The Explorer backpack. Kate’s choice of husband may have been questionable, but at least, she had Maya to show for her ill-fated marriage. Born ten months before Ernst’s first stroke, the baby girl had been the ray of hope that helped the family look ahead.

  “Good morning, Maya,” Liz said.

  “Hola, bambina,” Alex chimed in, extending her arms to the child.

  Kate beamed with obvious parental pride and love as she watched the curly-haired cherub who, Grace thought, held the wisdom of ages in her huge black eyes, hug her aunts. After bestowing kisses to all, the little girl finally made it to her mother, who was sitting with her back to the window. “Are you ready to go to school, baby love?”

  “Si, Mommy.” Maya was a sponge. She never seemed to forget a thing. When told that she couldn’t enter preschool until she was potty-trained, she’d replied, “Okay.” And that was the last time she’d used a diaper. “Great-Uncle Claude and MaryAnn are coming to walk me. Do you wanna come, too?”

  Grace wasn’t sure if this was something that had been arranged earlier or if Maya was offering a prediction. Although Kate refused to admit the possibility, occasionally Maya would say something that made everyone wonder if she’d inherited her grandmother’s well-recognized ability to foresee the future.

  “There he is.”

  The shout made Grace’s ears ring. She looked at the open screen door where Claude, their father’s younger brother, was standing. At sixty-eight, Claude still seemed childlike in many ways, probably because of his short stature. His big ears and ready smile made him popular with children.

  Grace remembered her father saying Claude was a throwback to the little people. A reference to spoken lore that linked the Romani ancestry to the Celts, although Grace knew that the original Gypsy lineage started in Asia when Turkish invaders pushed the tribespeople from their lands in northwest India. Over the centuries, the various lines had broken apart and become absorbed by other cultures.

  Her family called themselves Roms or Romani, but in fact that connection had weakened over the years. Grace had researched her family’s genealogy, but she’d always sensed an unspoken rule that said the information was best not shared with strangers.

  “Are you accompanying us, Alexandra?”

  Claude’s tone was formal, appropriate for addressing a princess, as Ernst had dubbed his daughters.

  “Not this morning, Uncle,” Alex said, shaking her head. Her short, thick, nearly black waves were a feature Grace had always coveted. Of all the girls, Alex most resembled their father. Blue-black hair and thick brows that had troubled her no end until she’d discovered laser treatments.

  Tall and thin, with a milky-white complexion, Alex was gorgeous—although Grace could tell she was in pain. “I have a doctor’s appointment. Rita is covering for me, but I meant to ask if you’d help out at story time.”

  Uncle Claude was as gifted a storyteller as their father had been. In some ways, he was even more entertaining than Ernst because he was smaller and more nimble. “I’d be delighted to do so. And after lunch perhaps Maya could join us at the ranch?”

  Claude’s eldest son and his wife owned a small acreage west of town near Red Rocks where Claude raised and trained Shetland ponies.

  Kate and her daughter were still discussing the matter when someone knocked on the door leading to the garage. Liz opened it. “Hi, MaryAnn,” she said. “Come in.”

  Grace studied the woman in the ill-fitting business suit who stood on the stoop but didn’t cross the threshold. MaryAnn was literally the girl next door. Six months younger than Alex, MaryAnn had been around for as long as Grace could remember. In the background at parties. A friend. Not quite a part of the family—until she married Gregor.

  “Hello,” MaryAnn said, fiddling with the waistband of her navy-blue polyester skirt. Unbuttoned, Grace noticed. MaryAnn was always on a diet, but nothing seemed to help her lose weight. “Are you ready, Maya? Luca and Gemilla are waiting outside.”

  Her children were eight and four and a half. Luca rode the bus to school, but he started his day at The Dancing Hippo since MaryAnn left for work before his regular school started.

  “Are you coming to lunch today, MaryAnn?” Yetta asked, helping Maya into her backpack.

  MaryAnn looked startled by the question. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I almost forgot. Things have been so busy. But, yes, I think I can make it.”

  “Was Charles invited?” Grace asked. The idea made her oddly uncomfortable. She didn’t know why. He was often included in family gatherings.

  That was before you decided to go into business with him, a voice said.

  Yetta started to answer, but MaryAnn interrupted. “I don’t know, but he has a prior commitment.”

  She didn’t expound on the statement. At times MaryAnn acted a bit proprietary where Charles was concerned. At other times, she almost seemed to loathe him.

  “No problem,” Grace said. “He left a message asking to see me today, and I figured if he was going to be at the luncheon, I wouldn’t bother stopping by the Xanadu after I pick up our guest of honor.”

  MaryAnn looked at her intently. “Charles called you? About what?”

  “Some business we’ve been discussing,” Grace said evasively. The last thing she wanted was to bring that topic back to the table. “But it’s really no big deal. I’ll be at McCarran, anyway.”

  MaryAnn didn’t respond. Instead, she turned to Maya and said, a bit sharply, “Hurry up, Maya. You don’t want to miss circle, do you?”

  Grace watched as her niece dashed away, eager to join her cousins. Once the entire group was out of earshot, she said, “Is it just me or does anyone else think MaryAnn is losing it?”

  “Well, she’s married to the laziest man in town,” Kate said. “And he has a gambling problem.”

  Liz gave Kate a stern look. “Actually, MaryAnn told me Greg’s been very good about not visiting the casinos lately and he’s been working for Charles for a good six months. But I do think you’re right, Grace. MaryAnn has seemed kind of spacey lately.”

  “Personally, I think she’s in over her head as Charles’s personal assistant,” Alex put in. “I warned her not to take a job with him, but she said the money was too good to pass up. And his company offers great benefits.”

  “Speaking of benefits,” Grace said, snapping her fingers, “did you find out whether your new insurance will cover another operation? If you need one, that is.”

  “No. Because I’m not going to have one. Period,” she said, taking a sip from her mug. Grace co
uld tell by the little square label that dangled over the side that the beverage was green tea. “And speaking of Charles, we never finished discussing your plans.”

  Grace made a face. Talk about a blatant change of subject.

  Charles had been involved with their family for so long that she tended to regard him as a fixture, but Alex and Charles had a different kind of relationship, probably stemming from Alex’s rejection of him. Plus, Grace had to admit, Charles could come off as quite pompous and self-involved at times. Still, she felt obligated to defend him—in case their new business worked out. “Must you always say his name with such obvious bias? Charles has always been pretty generous about helping out any Romani who got in trouble with the law or needed a job.”

  Liz let out a long sigh. “I agree, but can’t we show our gratitude without risking your trust fund?”

  Yetta frowned. “What does Grace’s dowry have to do with Charles Harmon?” When nobody answered right away, she added, “If you’re suggesting that Grace might marry Charles, you’re very much mistaken.”

  “No, Mom, that’s not part of the discussion,” Grace said, giving her sister a dirty look.

  Before she could say anything else, Yetta nodded. “Good. Because Charles Harmon is many things, but he is not a prince.”

  The room went so still Grace could hear the low drone of a television in one of the bedrooms. Her stomach felt queasy—and she knew it wasn’t from too many pastries. She was embarrassed for her mother. Although no one wanted to hurt Yetta’s feelings, the fact was none of them believed in their prophecies anymore.

  Too much had happened to undermine their faith. First, Yetta had had no premonition whatsoever of Ernst’s stroke. Second, she’d insisted that Mark was Alex’s soul mate. Mark Gaylord—a gaujo cop who’d broken Alex’s heart when he’d gotten his partner pregnant and married her instead of Alex. Then, there was the matter of Yetta’s blind faith in Ian Grant, Kate’s ex-husband, who went to jail for embezzlement.

  Nope, Grace thought, the future was a murky, unexplored vastness where anything could happen. She wasn’t about to pin her dreams on some iffy, unproven prince who needed her help to find his nobility. She planned to put her money on something more tangible. Charles didn’t set Grace’s heart atwitter, but he did have something she coveted: location, location, location.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NICK LIGHTNER CLOSED his eyes and let his head tip back against the padded headrest. After his call from Yetta, it had taken the powers that be a week to set up his cover story and necessary connections, but this morning he’d left snowy Detroit behind and was on his way to Vegas. Flying wasn’t his favorite means of travel, and his sore calves and aching shoulder muscles didn’t appreciate the cramped space of coach.

  He’d spent the previous day repairing a thirty-foot section of fence in his parents’ backyard that had succumbed to high winds and too much snow. The ground was all but impenetrable and the single-digit windchill factor hadn’t made the task any easier, but Nick had finally managed to make the enclosure escape-proof. He hoped.

  Rip was a good dog, but turned wily when left alone too long. Normally, Nick’s parents jumped at the chance to dog-sit, and they’d insisted Rip stay with them while Nick was in Vegas, but Nick had been tempted to board Rip at the vet. He didn’t want to do anything to add to his dad’s stress level.

  Although Pete hadn’t advertised the fact, one reason for his sudden decision to retire had been a cautionary medical report. “Slow down or your body will slow you down in a way you aren’t going to like,” his doctor had told him.

  That was another reason Nick was against his parents’ radical move. That and the fact he hated change. Period. His mother blamed this on abandonment issues he’d never completely resolved, but Nick disagreed. He’d had an extremely stable childhood. He simply liked things to stay the same. What was wrong with that?

  But his parents had made their decision. Oregon—and their grandchildren—beckoned. They’d expressed a hope to have the house on the market by the time Nick returned from Vegas.

  Nick’s stomach made a low, rumbling sound. Airplane food, he figured, sitting up a bit straighter. To get his mind off home, he put on his headphones and turned on the small tape recorder he’d brought with him. The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, or Metro, was already investigating Harmon for insurance fraud. Internal Affairs had been called into the picture because of allegations that several police officers were suspected of filing false or inflated accident reports and taking kickbacks from the insurance adjusters who were on the take from Harmon. When informed of Nick’s “insider” status, they’d whipped up a covert plan to get Nick close to Harmon’s inner circle.

  Nick hadn’t expected to be asked to do more than provide a contact number for Yetta Radonovic, but then his father had intervened. Pete saw this as Nick’s avenue to promotion, and he’d contacted an old buddy of his on the Metro force. Zeke Martini, who’d dealt with the tight-knit Romani community in the past, had been happy to welcome Nick aboard.

  “The insurance fraud is just the tip of the iceberg where Lucky Chuck is concerned,” Zeke had told Nick on the phone. “Your primary goal will be to identify the dirty cops who are facilitating these phony accidents, but I want you to keep your eyes open for any evidence of money laundering, drug deals or white slave traffic.”

  Zeke’s voice was one of two on the tape Nick was listening to now. The other belonged to an assistant district attorney.

  “Harmon is smooth,” the A.D.A. said. “Never been caught with his fingers in the till, but he’s been mentioned as a ‘person of interest’ going back ten years.”

  Martini’s gruff bass added, “Probably studied the law so he’d know the best way to break it without getting caught.”

  “That type always makes a mistake sooner or later. And getting cops to do his dirty work was a very bad idea.”

  “But he’s kept himself pretty well insulated in the past,” Zeke added. “That’s where Pete’s boy comes in.”

  Nick almost smiled. He hadn’t been a boy in many, many years. Maybe never. That’s what happened when your mother died and your dad handed you off to strangers, who, though kind and welcoming, couldn’t completely erase the sadness and sense of loss.

  Even after his move to Michigan, certain memories followed. Elusive images of laughter and music in the warm glow of firelight. Figures dancing. The rapturous feeling of being enveloped by warm loving arms.

  His brain insisted a baby wouldn’t retain anything from birth to almost three, which is how old he was when his parents left Vegas for Los Angeles. But his recurring dream was strangely seductive; it made him curious about his paternal relatives.

  In an effort to keep the focus on his reason for flying to Vegas, Nick opened his eyes and started to leaf through the material he’d brought with him. The more he learned about Charles Harmon, the less he bought Harmon’s squeaky-clean image.

  Although he didn’t talk about it, Nick had a sort of sixth sense about certain people that was almost never wrong. His dad had taught him not to say anything that could be construed as suspect profiling, but Nick still trusted his gut instinct when it came to reading people.

  Nick’s mother speculated that his gift came from his Romani heritage, but Nick knew it was something even simpler. In Nick’s world, everything came down to trust. And he only trusted himself.

  He picked up a second photograph in the file. Grace Philippa Radonovic. Age twenty-eight. College graduate with a degree in business. Restaurant owner. Single. Living at home. Two speeding tickets before she turned twenty. Three minor fender benders.

  Those were the facts, but they told him little. Her picture was another matter. Hair a cascade of loose, highlighted brown waves that framed her heart-shaped face, brows a bit too bushy to be fashionable, large dark eyes. Brown, according to the fact sheet, but Nick would have called them tawny. A nicely shaped nose that fit her face.

  His gut said civilian. But somet
hing about this woman triggered a reaction he couldn’t quite read. It made him uncomfortable, which meant he needed to be on high alert once he stepped off the plane. Because, according to Yetta Radonovic, Grace would be picking him up at the airport.

  As if on cue, the large jet touched down with a screeching jolt.

  “Please wait until the airplane has come to a complete stop….”

  Nick couldn’t wait. He pulled his carry-on bag from underneath the seat in front and dug in the side pocket until he found his phone. As soon as the flight attendant announced that passengers were free to use electronic devices, he flipped it open and said, “Dad’s cell.”

  While he waited for Pete to answer, the seat-belt light was extinguished. Nick stood up and reached into the overhead bin for his coat, which he shrugged on while juggling his phone.

  The line hummed, unanswered. This would be Nick’s last public call using his phone. Zeke and Pete had agreed that in keeping with Nick’s cover story—jobless ex-con who needed a leg up in a new town—he shouldn’t carry a cell phone.

  “Pete Lightner. Leave a message.”

  The passengers near the front of the plane began to disembark. Nick looped the webbed strap of his carry-on bag over one shoulder and followed. “I just landed. You forgot to give me Zeke’s contact number. You’re slipping, old man.” He added a chuckle so his father would know he was kidding. “Well, if Zeke’s half the cop you said he is, he’ll find me, I guess. Talk to you later. Give Mom a hug for me. And tell Rip I said to behave.”

  He pocketed the phone and marched up a gangplank into an open, brightly lit terminal.

  “Holy shit,” he softly exclaimed, taking in the neon, the glitter and, most remarkable of all, the slot machines. “I’m not in Michigan anymore, am I?”

  Moving out of the way of hurrying passengers, he rested his tote on the back of a bench and buried the small phone deep in the cheap canvas bag. In his closet back home sat matching leather luggage. Those he’d agreed to leave behind, but his leather flight jacket was another matter. He loved his coat. It felt like a second skin after three winters in Detroit. If anyone asked, he’d tell them he got it at a consignment store.