I glance over at Hurley to see if he’s shocked by this revelation, because I have to admit I’m a little shocked at myself for thinking it. But if he’s surprised by the black thoughts that cross my mind from time to time, his expression doesn’t show it.
“Are you going to change back to your maiden name?” he asks me, smoothly segueing to a topic only slightly less volatile.
“Nah, I kind of like Winston. Besides, my mother changed her name every time she married and then changed it back again with each divorce. Fast-forward four marriages later, and you have Jane Elizabeth Odegard Fjell Odegard Nyland Odegard Carlisle Odegard Pulley. Even without the maiden name reverts, it reads like a roll call for the character Sybil. And, anyway, very few people know how to pronounce ‘Fjell.’ Most attempts sound like someone trying to spit out a loogie.”
“And you have such a unique first name to go with it,” Hurley says, reminding me that he now knows one of my best-kept secrets. “Whose idea was it to name you ‘Matterhorn’?”
“My mother swears it was my father’s idea. His last name, Fjell, means ‘mountain’ in Norwegian. And, apparently, his grandfather once climbed the Matterhorn. Hence, the name.” I look at Hurley and smile. “That’s family for you.”
“Speaking of family, we found out some interesting stuff about Jack’s nephew, Brian Denver. One of the neighbors told us he’s a student at the U of Dub in Madison, and that Jack has been paying for his tuition and housing. But when we called the university to get contact information, they told us Brian dropped out of school last semester and hasn’t been back since.”
“Did you talk to him?”
Hurley shakes his head. “We don’t know where he is. He’s no longer at the last known address the university had for him, and his ex-roommates claim they have no idea where he went. We’ll find him, but it may take a while. In the meantime, I have Catherine Albright coming in the morning, and then we have an eleven o’clock appointment at the home of Jack’s housekeeper, a woman named Serena Vasquez. After that, we’ll pay a visit to the nursing agency that employs Lisa Warden, Jack’s home health aide.”
“Wow, you’ve been busy.”
Hurley shrugs. “Just a typical day, really, but I want to get moving on this case and cover as much ground as we can, as soon as we can. We’ve only got a few days before that seminar in Daytona Beach. I can turn the case over to someone else while we’re gone, but I’d rather not. With a little luck, maybe we can solve it before we go.”
“That would be nice.” I sigh, gazing out at snow-spotted fields. With the warm temperature, the snow is rapidly retreating, turning the landscape into a barren, muddy mess. “I can’t wait to relax with some ocean breezes, greenery, and sunshine.”
“I’m afraid you won’t have much time to enjoy the weather. We have two full days of sessions, and an early-morning flight out the next day.”
“Yeah, but that still leaves two evenings to enjoy,” I tell him. “Plus the lunch breaks are two hours long, and the hotel is right on the beach.”
Hurley glances over at me with a faintly salacious grin. “Are you going to wear a bikini?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
Over my dead, oddly striped body.
“Nope, no bikinis this trip,” I say, like I’m a supermodel who wears bikinis all the time. In reality, I don’t even wear bikini underwear. “I have to be careful in the sun because my skin burns easily, so no bathing suit of any kind for me.”
“None at all?” Hurley asks, sounding disappointed. “What if you want to go swimming in the ocean?”
“I won’t. I don’t want to drown. Plus there’re sharks in the ocean.”
I’m really not afraid of getting attacked by a shark, nor am I afraid of drowning. It turns out fat is very buoyant and I’m a strong swimmer. In fact, I’m a certified scuba diver. But there’s no way I’m letting Hurley, or anyone else, see me in a bathing suit until I can shed a few of my recovering-from-hubby’s-infidelity pounds.
Hurley chuckles. “Hell, your chances of getting eaten by a shark are way less than your chances of getting murdered in Sorenson these days.”
He has a point. I’ve heard comments from several people about how the murder rate in Sorenson seems to have quadrupled lately. It makes me wonder if the “black cloud” label I used to get slapped with when I worked in the ER has followed me to my new job. Our worst shifts in the ER always came whenever I was on duty, and it seems like the sharks in Sorenson have been very hungry since I started my new job. If anyone starts calling me “chum,” I might have to find another career.
I hope that doesn’t happen because there aren’t many other jobs that put my best talents—nosiness and the ability to identify internal organs on sight—to such good use. Plus there are the side benefits. What other job could I find that would let me spend hours each day with Hurley?
Chapter 4
The North Woods Casino is a hopping place, with a packed parking lot and lots of people milling about outside. The inside is like its own little world, isolated from the cold, snow, and darkness, and filled with a cacophony of sounds. I hear people shouting, bells dinging, music playing, chimes going off, glasses clinking. And the lights! There are flashing lights of every size and color everywhere I look—an epileptic’s nightmare.
As we walk through the main gaming area, I find myself drawn to the gambling going on. The hundreds of slot machines scattered throughout the place take everything from pennies to dollars. Interspersed with these are poker tables, blackjack tables, roulette wheels, and two craps tables. While most of the people look like they’re having fun, a few of the slots players look like automatons as they robotically push buttons on their one-armed bandits.
“You’ve really never been to a casino before?” Hurley asks as I stare wide-eyed at the surroundings.
“Nope, never. But I’ve seen all the Ocean’s movies. Does that count?”
“Hardly,” he says with a snort. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a five-dollar bill. “Ready to lose your gambling virginity?” he says, arching one brow suggestively.
I blush at the sexual innuendo and nod. A woman nearby abandons her penny slot machine with a kick and a look of disgust, and Hurley moves in. He slides the fiver into a slot and the machine sucks it up and displays five hundred credits. Hurley selects buttons that let us play five credits at a time and nine different lines. I watch as pictures spin inside the display window and stop.
“Nothing that time,” Hurley says, stepping aside. “Why don’t you give it a try?” As I step in front of the machine and hit the button to start a spin, he leans down and whispers in my ear, “You did wear your lucky underwear, didn’t you?”
The little pictures spin rapidly. This time when they stop, alarms and bells start going off. Our credit display starts chiming off numbers, mimicking the sound of coins dropping into a tray. A light atop the machine is flashing and spinning like the cherry on a cop car, and people stop what they’re doing to look over at us. Hurley hits a button that speed cycles the count, revealing the total amount.
“Wow!” Hurley says. “You did wear your lucky undies.”
“I just won five hundred bucks?” I say, not believing it.
The woman who abandoned the slot machine right before we took it over is standing at a nearby machine. She looks over at us and mumbles, “Son of a bitch!” Then she stomps off.
I hit a button marked Payout and the machine spits out a printed ticket with a bar code and the amount of money printed on it—our winnings, plus $4.10 left from our original five. “This is kind of fun,” I say to Hurley.
“Yeah, it is when you win, but most people lose much more than they win because they don’t know when to stop. They take their winnings and gamble it again, losing hundreds or even thousands of dollars in the long run. Trust me, your experience tonight is the exception, not the rule.”
“This should be yours,” I tell him, holding out the ticket. “It was your money that won it.”
&nb
sp; “True, but it wouldn’t have happened without your lucky undies.”
Several people look over at us and smile.
“I don’t have any lucky undies,” I tell Hurley, leaning in close and lowering my voice, hoping he’ll get the hint and do the same. “It was your money that won it, so you should keep the winnings.”
Hurley looks down at me—something not many men can do when I’m standing—and his blue eyes darken. My hair is hanging in my face a bit, and he reaches up and tucks a stray lock behind my ear. “You’re an amazing woman, Winston, you know that?” he says softly.
We share a pregnant pause, gazing into one another’s eyes, a million things unsaid between us. Our bodies drift imperceptibly closer. Each of us leans into the other, but we stop shy of touching. For a few seconds, I can imagine how life might be if things were different—if Hurley and I could pursue our mutual attraction. But things aren’t different. They are what they are, and Hurley and I have already discussed this.
I turn away first; and as I do so, Hurley lets forth with a long, deep sigh. “Tell you what,” he says. “Why don’t we split the winnings fifty-fifty, giving credit to both my money and your luck?”
“Okay, that sounds fair.”
“Good. Let’s go cash out so we can get back to business.” He leans in close and finally drops his voice. “Don’t forget why we’re here. There might be a ruthless, conniving killer lurking in the wings.”
I have to give Hurley credit; he sure knows how to sober up a moment.
Forty minutes later, Hurley and I are both $250 richer and we’re standing off to one side of the cashier’s area, waiting for the casino manager. It’s been over half an hour since the manager was summoned; I’m starting to wonder if we’re being purposely ignored.
I watch the gamblers closest to us, thinking how much fun it would be to play some more with my winnings. A blackjack table off to my right has two players and a couple of empty seats. Both players have a nice assortment of chip stacks in front of them. I’m about to tell Hurley that I’m going to take one of the empty chairs, when a tall, dark-haired man, who looks to be in his midthirties, approaches us. Judging from his jet-black hair, dark skin, and high cheekbones, I suspect he is Native American. He is my height and a little on the chunky side, though I wouldn’t go so far as to call him fat. The word “sturdy” comes to mind.
“Are you the folks from Sorenson?” he asks.
Hurley nods and offers a hand. “I’m Detective Steve Hurley, with the Sorenson PD, and this is Mattie Winston, a deputy coroner with the Sorenson ME’s office.”
“Actually, the title is now medicolegal death investigator,” I say.
The man shakes Hurley’s hand. “I’m Joe Whitehorse, an investigator with the Indian Gaming Commission. Carl Sutherland, the casino manager, is unavailable this evening and he has asked if I would step in to see what you need.” His voice is deep and very masculine, bordering on Barry White territory. He lets go of Hurley’s hand and reaches for mine. As we shake, he does a quick head-to-toe assessment before his gaze settles on my face. His brown eyes are so dark that they appear black, and I detect a hint of mischievousness in their inky depths. When he smiles, two adorable dimples appear, one on each cheek. I feel an instant sizzle of sexual tension as he squeezes my hand, and our handshake lasts a second or two longer than necessary.
I glance over at Hurley and see that he’s scowling. At first, I think he might be jealous, but his next words quickly dispel that impression.
“If the manager is unavailable, why didn’t the cashiers tell us that when we asked to see him?”
Joe Whitehorse shrugs and flashes those deep dimples in a tolerant smile. “I suspect the employee you spoke to didn’t know,” he says.
“And I suspect it’s more likely the manager doesn’t consider us worthy of his time,” Hurley counters. “Would it make a difference if I told you we are here to investigate the murder of one of your recent big winners, and that robbery appears to be the motive?”
Joe’s smile fades faster than a picture drawn on water. “Who is the victim?” he asks.
“A man by the name of Jack Allen. I understand he won around five hundred grand here, a couple months back.”
Joe’s brow furrows a moment. “Yes, I believe I remember him,” he says. “He’s confined to a wheelchair, right?” Hurley and I both nod. “If memory serves, he won the jackpot on a progressive slot. But why would you suspect any of the casino employees? He won that money a few months ago, so surely his winnings were banked long before now.”
“It seems Jack didn’t have much faith in banks and kept a large amount of cash in a safe at his house,” Hurley explains.
Joe frowns and his lips pinch together into a tight line. “One moment, please,” he says, and then he moves a few feet away from us and makes a call on his cell phone.
I tug on Hurley’s sleeve. “I’m going to try my hand at a little blackjack while we’re waiting.” Hurley looks like he’s about to object, so I hurry over to a blackjack table and settle in before he has a chance.
“I’m new at this casino stuff,” I announce to the dealer and the others at the table. “What do I need to do?”
The dealer assumes a put-upon expression, while the others at the table—three men—all sigh.
“Minimum bet is five dollars,” the dealer says. I hand him a couple of twenty-dollar bills and he gives me eight chips. “Do you know how to play?” he asks with world-weariness.
“I do.” And with the next five hands, I prove my claim, ending up twenty-five dollars richer. From the periphery of my vision, I see Whitehorse return to Hurley, and the two of them start talking. Part of me knows I should get up and join them, but I’m having too much fun. I lose on the next two hands, but then I split on a pair of aces, and score face cards on both.
Feeling flush with my winnings, I don’t notice Hurley and Whitehorse approaching me until Hurley taps me on the shoulder.
“Ready to go?” he asks. “Mr. Whitehorse has promised to fax us a list of employees with their contact information.”
“I’m on a winning streak here,” I say, placing another bet.
“That’s when you should quit, before you lose it all.”
I detect a hint of annoyance in Hurley’s tone; and when I lose the next hand, I decide to give in. I gather up my winnings and take my chips to the cash-in window, with Hurley and Whitehorse on my tail.
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” Whitehorse says as I’m stuffing my money in my purse. “How about a one-hundred-dollar voucher so you can come back and play on us?”
Feeling like I’ve hit the proverbial jackpot, I’m about to agree when Hurley speaks up.
“Thanks for the offer, but we can’t accept any gratuities. It might be construed as a conflict of interest.”
I realize Hurley is right and pout. Whitehorse shrugs and looks at me; his dark eyes are smoking. “Perhaps you’d like to come back sometime on your own dime, then. I’d love to show you around the place. Maybe even take you out to dinner?”
I’m flattered; but before I can answer, Hurley once again pipes up.
“I’m not sure that would be wise, at least until our investigation is over.”
“Then we’ll make dinner a part of the investigation,” Whitehorse counters, undeterred. “I’ll provide you with some insight into the overall operations of the casino, and do the same with any employees of interest. I’ll even arrange some interviews for you. That way you can consider it an official part of the investigation.” He looks at me and winks. “At least for now.”
I like Joe Whitehorse. He’s handsome, witty, affable, and the smoke signals in his eyes are hinting at a possible end to my sexual drought. “Thanks,” I say, smiling at him. “That would be nice.”
Hurley shifts uncomfortably, communicating his irritation. Then he says, “Fine. Where and when should we get together?”
Joe and I both turn to stare at him.
“Well, we’re a
team,” Hurley says, pointing from me to himself. “And we’ve been issued an edict to oversee one another’s investigative efforts. So if you two are going to have dinner and discuss our investigation, I need to be there.”
“I see,” Joe says.
Hurley has clearly thrown down a gauntlet and I wait, curious to see if Joe will take the challenge. It’s my own personal game of cowboys and Indians—and I’m kind of liking it.
“Okay, then,” Joe says. “Why don’t you two plan on returning here tomorrow evening and I’ll bring the employee list and some files with me and go over them with you. We can meet at the restaurant next door. Does seven sound okay?”
“Seven will be fine,” Hurley says. His eyes are the color of cold steel and he’s wearing a smug smile, which irritates me.
We part company from Joe; on the way out to Hurley’s car, I fume. As soon as we’re settled inside, I let him have it.
“You don’t think you’re fooling anyone with that whole team speech, do you?”
“What do you mean?” he says, sounding all innocent. “It’s true.”
“I think you know damn well that Joe’s original purpose for the meal wasn’t to discuss the investigation.”
“That’s what he said,” Hurley says, shrugging.
“Because you cornered him into it.”
“If that wasn’t his intent, then what was?”
Lucky Stiff Page 4
