Playing the Devil

by R. J. Lee

  Praise for R. J. Lee and the first Bridge to Death mystery

  Grand Slam Murders

  “An attractive protagonist, plenty of Southern charm, a long suit of colorful characters, and a plot that comes up trumps at the surprising end, all bode well for future installments.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A compulsively readable series debut, dripping in Southern charm, for a clever sleuth whose bridge skills break the case.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “R. J. Lee brings an authentic new Southern voice to the mystery scene. He saturates his Bridge to Death Mystery with colorful characters in a small town rooted in a more genteel time in the Deep South. Lee’s complex and satisfying plot is woven with wit and grace. I look forward to spending more time with the characters from Rosalie.”

  —Peggy Webb, USA Today bestselling author of the Southern Cousins Mystery series

  “The plot-driven story line is steadily paced and the author cleverly uses knowledge of the game of bridge to uncover what really happens—and it all leads to one heck of a jaw dropping ending.”

  —Mystery Scene magazine

  “An impressively original and deftly crafted mystery from first page to last, Grand Slam Murders by R. J. Lee will prove to be an inherently riveting read.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Books by R. J. Lee

  GRAND SLAM MURDERS

  PLAYING THE DEVIL

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Playing the Devil

  R. J. LEE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Rob Kuehnle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1917-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1917-4 (ebook)

  Kensington Electronic Edition: February 2020

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1916-4

  For my Angel Boy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I begin as usual with profound thanks to my superb agents at Jane Rotrosen in New York: Christina Hogrebe and Meg Ruley. They both have an unerring sense of timing and guidance when it comes to producing the best work I can.

  So many people at Kensington Books, my publisher, contribute to my success; starting at the top, there is executive editor, John Scognamiglio, who has allowed me to develop my writing skills over eight novels so far. Kristine Mills and Sara Not of the Art department, Carly Sommerstein in Production, and Larissa Ackerman and Michelle Addo in Publicity also help me shine.

  I am also indebted to Rocky Kennedy, Lafayette County Coroner in Oxford, Ms., for helping me understand certain procedures and guidelines regarding autopsies. And thanks once again to my attorney cousin, Bruce Kuehnle, Jr., for clarifying legal issues essential to the plot of Playing the Devil.

  CHAPTER 1

  It was with great anticipation that the inaugural meeting of the Rosalie Country Club Bridge Bunch was about to take place, and Wendy Winchester was so proud of herself, she thought she might pop just like a champagne cork. Following the untimely demise of the venerable Rosalie Bridge Club and its four wealthy society matrons more than a year earlier in the historic Mississippi River port, it was Wendy who had taken the initiative to form a club with fresh new faces devoted to the game. Because she had been on track to become a fledgling member of the old group, her interest in learning the game and becoming more polished at it had not waned. She had continued to practice online and believed she was getting much better as a player.

  As a result, the Rosalie Citizen’s twenty-six-year-old investigative reporter had forged ahead bravely in her spare time. The strawberry-blond, blue-eyed “power magnolia” had approached Delia Dorothy Hornesby—“Deedah” to her friends, as well as the director of the RCC, itself—about forming a new club and had discovered a formidable ally for her efforts.

  “I’ve always thought we should have a bridge club that meets out here in the middle of the hardwood forests instead of in town where everything is so crowded. We don’t have to have all our activities within sight of the Mississippi River, you know,” Deedah had told her when they had met in her office several months earlier. “We have tennis, golf, swimming, and Ping-Pong here at the country club, so why not bridge? As much as I like the game, you would have thought I’d have come up with the idea, myself.”

  Wendy had paid her the ultimate compliment with a gracious smile to seal the deal.

  “You were too busy running the country club to perfection, I would imagine. You’re a woman of priorities.”

  Deedah had leaned in across her desk and given Wendy a conspiratorial wink. “That’s the truth of the matter, I’m afraid. It takes some doing to keep this place humming, what with all the conflicting personalities who belong and want their way in everything. It appears the method the late William Voss used was to give in to Brent Ogle all the time, and that was the only way to keep the peace. Well, I have other ideas about how to get around the high-and-mighty Mr. Ogle.”

  The first female director of the RCC, Deedah was no slouch in the “high-energy department.” Against the sexist opposition of the club’s most substantial contributor, Brent Ogle, she had won over the rest of the board when the previous director, William Voss, had keeled over unexpectedly from a heart attack and left an opening ripe for the taking. Had Brent campaigned against her? Not up front unless he had to. That was not his style. He preferred under the table and behind the scenes. At those tactics he had always excelled. Nonetheless, he had not succeeded in preventing Deedah Hornesby’s ascent to the directorship, and that had made him more hostile than ever.

  Meanwhile, Wendy and Deedah had managed to collect two other members to form the Bridge Bunch’s first ever table: Hollis Hornesby, Deedah’s gangly, “pushing forty” son, whose art gallery had just closed after nearly two decades of struggle on Royal Street in the New Orleans French Quarter; and Carly Ogle, the long-suffering wife of the notorious Brent, himself. There had been a few others who had expressed interest but had not followed through. Perhaps they would join at a later time when the Bridge Bunch had gelled. Rosalie was full of those who were joiners only after a project had gotten off the ground and made a success of itself. Th
ere was always tremendous pressure to conform socially and do the “acceptable” thing.

  This first meeting of the Bridge Bunch would be taking place on a gray, overcast Saturday afternoon the week before Halloween, and Wendy was hopeful that the threat of severe thunderstorms would not affect attendance for bridge in any way. At least it shouldn’t, she reasoned. It was obviously keeping most of the golfers and tennis players away, however, as there weren’t many people meandering around inside or outside otherwise. The Bridge Bunch would have the multi-columned brick clubhouse with the classic portico to themselves, practically. In fact, the only other person visible inside at the moment was the RCC’s longtime bartender, Carlos Galbis, who stood like a short, uniformed sentinel in his tux behind his marble-topped counter in a corner of the sprawling great room with its impressive vaulted ceiling.

  The rest of the great room was unremarkable. There were sofas, chairs, and tables scattered here and there, some near the bar, others near the huge flat-screen HDTV mounted on the wall so that members could watch sports events of interest while they chatted and sipped their drinks. There was also a covered deck outside that wrapped around three sides of the building itself, offering rocking chairs to those who just wanted to enjoy frequent episodes of quiet laziness.

  Wearing a pale-blue shift that she had bought at Lehman’s Department Store because she thought it matched the color of her eyes, Wendy had taken her place just inside the front entrance with its matching potted palms standing guard on either side of her. She was sipping on a glass of white Zinfandel, shifting it now and then to keep nervously checking her cell for the correct time at ever closer intervals. At least she knew where Deedah was, working as usual in her office in one of the building’s two wings. But it was almost three o’clock—their designated start time—and Wendy disliked stragglers of any kind, a pet peeve she wisely kept to herself. She also firmly resisted the urge to text any of the fledgling group as a reminder, having already decided to resort to that only if anyone was unfashionably late.

  Finally, at five after three, the stylish, leggy Carly Ogle rushed in with a downcast expression. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Wendy,” she said, gasping. “Brent was supposed to fill up my car, but he apparently forgot, considering his golf date today with Tip Jarvis and Connor James. They’re out there on the course right now, the three of them, even if it looks like the weather will chase them in any minute. It had already started to rain at our house downtown, and it’s on the way. Anyway, I had to stop for gas, and wouldn’t you know it? There was a line a mile long at every one of those pumps. Isn’t that always the way when you’re in a hurry?”

  Wendy gave Carly a quick, reassuring hug and then drew back gently with a smile. “Calm down, dear. It’s no big deal. Hollis Hornesby isn’t here yet, so you haven’t kept us waiting if that’s what you were worried about.”

  “Oh, thank goodness for that,” Carly said, finally catching her breath while fanning her face at the same time. “I hate being a problem.”

  “You are anything but. We’re going to be about playing a relaxed rubber or two of friendly bridge while we forget the cares of the world for at least this afternoon.”

  Carly managed a mischievous smile. “Might I indulge in a drinkie-winkie before we start?”

  Wendy graciously pointed in the direction of the bar. “Carlos is at your service over there. Help yourself. And there’s a snack table next to where we’ll be playing. I stocked it with mixed nuts, a couple of dips, some cherry tomatoes, and crackers in case we get the munchies. Maybe we’ll bring some fancier food as time goes on.”

  “Yes, well, I think I’ll have Carlos whip up a mint julep with his magic mortar and pestle,” Carly said, her face lighting up immediately as she sashayed over.

  Indeed, the RCC was known for its mint juleps, mojitos, and other exotic concoctions, and Carlos Galbis, whose father had escaped Cuba as a teenager just before Castro’s takeover, had become somewhat of a fixture in his ten years of service as a bartender. That was all to the good, since the RCC didn’t offer much in the way of food service—some store-bought sandwiches kept in a mini-fridge were about it—nor did it offer dancing and other formal social activities as most country clubs did. All of that was the exclusive purview of the venerable garden clubs who ran the Spring Tours and staged the Historic Rosalie Pageant for the tourists who appeared mostly in March and April in the midst of a thousand pink, purple, and red azalea blooms.

  It was Wendy’s observation that Carly Ogle was almost never without a cocktail of some sort in her hand in most social situations. Probably because she had to live in the same house with her husband, Brent, and his rude, overbearing personality that offended nearly everyone who had to deal with him. Otherwise, she was the epitome of a modern, chic woman. Given to designer clothes that always flattered her figure—her height always doing them justice—she had never been seen around Rosalie without just the right touch of makeup, an impeccable coiffure, and an ingratiating smile. Wendy had thought to herself more than once that she hoped to be that “put together”—minus the cocktail crutch—when she reached the shank of middle age, but she was a good fifteen or twenty years away from that.

  Wendy watched from afar with a combination of admiration and awe as the swarthy Carlos began his polished ritual of muddling the mint and lemon with his heavy but elegant Carrara marble pestle, then adding that fragrant mixture to simple syrup, good bourbon, and crushed ice in a blender to create the incredibly smooth but seductive julep that had brought him such fame in Rosalie. Seductive was the proper word—because drinking one seemed harmless enough, often leading to a second and sometimes even a third. That was when the bourbon became its own butler, standing up tall in the doorway and announcing itself loudly. If it could actually be heard, it would surely have said something like, “Time to put away those car keys and take a long nap.”

  At any rate, Carly was soon settled in at the bridge table, sipping her julep and sighing at the ceiling as if giving thanks, while Wendy eventually made eye contact, lending her support by waving playfully. They would soon be all set for the first hand once Deedah and her son were in place.

  At ten after three, Hollis Hornesby made his grand entrance. Some might even have described it as dramatic, as in Shakespearean, as in having his own follow spot in an off-Broadway production.

  “Here I am at last in this too, too solid flesh,” he announced to Wendy, while not bothering to look her straight in the face. He seemed to be playing to some phantom balcony off in a corner of the room where Juliet was delicately waving her handkerchief.

  In fact, Hollis was anything but too, too solid. No one had ever seen him eat anything in public, and he had always been notoriously underweight. “I couldn’t do anything with this long, mousy brown hair of mine today, so I put it up in a ponytail. I assume there’ll be no dress code with this group. I’m definitely not up for a Joan Rivers–type assessment.”

  Wendy laughed appreciatively. Hollis had that effect on most people—Brent Ogle being the most notable exception. Hollis’s flamboyant gesturing and posing were perfect accompaniments to his artistic temperament, his speech always leaning toward hyperbole. Furthermore, he dressed as if he had just been spit out of a time warp grounded firmly in the turbulent late sixties. He wore a psychedelic T-shirt with a pair of ripped jeans and sported sandals on his feet. All that was missing was a hand-lettered protest sign with a peace symbol scrawled on it for good measure.

  Since his return to Rosalie, Hollis had been somewhat disgruntled about life in general, but Deedah had stepped in and footed the bill for a new art gallery on Locust Street. Not to mention giving him his old room back in his childhood home. At least he had a second chance at selling his art—a collection of oils and acrylics that consisted mostly of people hanging out under lampposts or hanging over lacework balconies throwing Mardi Gras beads and doubloons to the fevered crowd below. His was a somewhat one-note talent, and that had not served him well so far in his career. />
  “You’re just fine, Hollis,” Wendy told him. “Why don’t you go on over to the table and talk to Carly Ogle while I round up your mother? You need to get her to lighten up with one of your patented anecdotes. She was beating herself up way too much because she was just a few minutes late. You and her mint julep are bound to do the trick and bring her around for some expert bidding.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be up to the challenge.” Then Hollis pointed to the office wing. “Is Mother holed up in there again with her number crunching? She never takes even a nanosecond off from her work. Why she won’t hire a secretary is beyond me. She says it’s because she wants to control everything herself. I keep telling her that if she continues on her current path, she will go to an early grave just like Father did. Then it will be me all alone in the universe. Lost in the stars, as the song says. Was it Frank Sinatra whose version I remember and admire so much? Anyway, I’m nowhere near ready for that.”

  “I’m afraid it takes the kind of effort your mother is putting in to run the RCC,” Wendy said, smiling at Hollis’s last couple of comments. “Your mother shared a lot of the details with me while we were putting the Bridge Bunch together. But I wouldn’t be concerned about her health if I were you. She’s a very robust woman.”

  “That’s certainly one way of putting it,” Hollis said, smirking. Then he turned on his heels and sped off, while waving at Carly Ogle in the distance as if she were his long-lost playmate.