With my back against the wall to take some of the pressure off my foot, my gaze constantly scanned the crowd. I hoped at least one of us would be able to recognize this guy. But the odds that I was right about the location were miniscule. And even if we caught him in the act, there was no guarantee we could stop him. We had no authority.
I called Daniel again. He still didn’t answer and I wound up leaving a similar message.
My ankle hurt, despite the Tylenol. I’d limped around on it too much today. My nerves jangled with each person who walked past me. Gaggles of them scurried in and out of the conference room directly to my right, blah blah blahing all the way. I kept one eye on the nativity scene without being too obvious, while trying to keep people from slamming into me at the same time.
After forty-five long minutes of rubbernecking at everybody in my vicinity, I was about to call the others and bail. It was just after five and if Fake Travis was going to make the drop off, he’d have done it by now.
Before I could dial Roxy, Joe shambled toward me.
“Dude, I just won Elvis Bingo.” He held up a shot glass with the Graceland gates pictured on it.
I glanced at him, then back to the Elvi magi. “Not now, Joe.”
“I don’t drink much, Rosario. It’s not my drug of choice. But this is very cool and I will treasure it always.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall man walk by the front desk. He kept his head lowered, but his eyes moved over the crowd.
My spidey senses went wonky. Tallish, buzzed blond hair, and sunglasses perched on the top of his head, he only stood out because he was acting a little shady. With his shoulders hunched up to his ears, he zigged and zagged across the lobby, making his way to the nativity scene.
“Are we going to eat soon?” Joe asked. “Because, dudette, I am starving. Like, I could eat a large pizza by myself, you know?”
“See that tall guy?” I kept my eyes on the man.
“Uh, which one?” he asked.
“The one with the sunglasses on his head.”
“Negatory.”
I dialed Roxy. “He’s wearing a gray jacket, Joe.”
“Yeah?” Roxy answered. “Can we go or what?”
“I think I have him. Grab Ax and Ma and start heading my way.”
“Hey,” Joe said, extending his arm toward the man. “I know that dude.”
I glanced up at him then. “You recognize him?”
“Sure, he’s the waitress from last night. It helps to keep that shit in mind when you need, like, extra chips and whatnot.”
“Go stick by his side. We need him.” I started walking toward the man, but my gait was getting slower.
Joe walked with me. “Is he in trouble or something?”
There was only one thing that mattered to Joe. “He stole Axton’s stash. I think he still has it on him.” I didn’t have time to explain the intricacies of the dead guy, the partner, the jewels. It would be wasted on Joe. But a dime bag? That, he understood.
He gasped. “That’s not cool.”
“I know. Now, go get him.”
“I’m totally on it—”
Just then, the blond man looked up at me and recognition dawned in his eyes. In a flash, he turned on his heel and pushed through throngs of Elvis fans, as he tried to make it out of the hotel.
I ran/hobbled after him, but suddenly, Joe, whom I’d never seen move faster than a tortoise-paced shuffle, took off running. And fast. He darted around people, swiveled his way between groups, and leaped over luggage with his tuque strings flapping behind him. Those long legs of his could haul ass when he wanted. I guessed he just never had incentive before.
He shoved people out of the way, including an older gentleman who toppled over like a bowling pin.
“Sorry,” I said as I hopped by. I didn’t think he was hurt. More stunned than anything else. He shook his fist at Joe’s back.
Axton and Roxy appeared at my side.
“Where’s the guy?” Roxy asked.
“Up ahead. The tall one. Oh, jeez, Joe just tackled him.” We reached them moments later, as our suspect grappled on the floor. But in a surprise move, Joe wrapped his arm around the guy’s throat.
“Dudes, saw this move on Monday night wrestling. It totally works.”
The guy slapped at Joe’s arm. “Get off me,” he said in a choked voice.
“No way. You don’t steal another dude’s stash. It’s, like, bad karma.”
Ax glanced over at me. “Stash?”
I shrugged. “It’s the only thing that motivates him.”
The guy kicked his feet, wiggled his body. Joe just tightened his hold. People stopped what they were doing and circled around us.
From nowhere, Daniel maneuvered his way into the center and glanced down at Joe. He was followed by six uniformed police officers. Two of the officers hauled Joe off the blond guy and two more stepped in to handcuff him. Daniel pulled Fake Travis to his feet and patted him down. Reaching into the guy’s jacket, he retrieved a red velvet bag and peeked at its contents. His eyes met mine and he nodded. “Got him.” Then he went for the man’s wallet. “Cedric Dominic. Are you by any chance related to Celia Dominic, who happens to work for Rebecca Farnsworth of Mississippi?”
“Go to hell,” Cedric yelled, lunging his body at Daniel. But the two officers flanking him jerked on his shoulders and held him back.
Ma wiggled her way through the circle of people. “Did you catch him, toots?”
“Joe did. He’s a hero.”
Joe swiped a finger beneath his nose. “It was nothing. But dude,” he said, glancing at Ax, “I don’t think you’re going to get your stuff back. Not with all the opscay. Know what I mean, bro?”
Axton nodded. “It’s cool.”
Gawkers had pointed their phones and snapped pictures during the whole takedown. They shoved at each other to get a shot of Cedric and his perp walk. Some even tried to follow, but the police held them off.
“Well,” Daniel said, “I wondered what the hell a diner waitress knew about solving crime, but you know what you’re doing.” He dipped his chin at my ankle. “Need some medical assistance?”
“No, I just want to get home.”
“We’ll need statements first. Let me see if I can set up a room.” He moved off toward the front desk.
We were detained from leaving for another two hours. And we got a room service dinner that didn’t include an Elvis sandwich.
I lied to Daniel and told him that I’d overheard a reference to the three magi when Ron and Cedric argued in the stairwell and had forgotten about it. His eyes narrowed as I altered my story. Although I didn’t think he quite believed me, he was so happy to have the jewels back, he didn’t demand too many details.
When we were finally free to leave, he walked us to the car without commenting on Roxy’s creative parking. As everyone else climbed into Cha Cha, Daniel snagged my hand in his own.
“I just wanted to say it was a pleasure meeting you. If you ever get to Mississippi—”
My phone rang. “Sorry.” I tugged it from my pocket. I glanced up at Daniel, his handsome face illuminated by the building’s floodlights. “I have to take this.” I turned my back on him. “Hey,” I said into the phone.
“Hey yourself,” Sullivan said. “How was Memphis?”
“I’ll fill you in when I get home. I’m getting ready to leave right now.”
“I look forward to it.” Then he hung up. I really hated it when he did that.
I turned back to Daniel. “It was nice meeting you, too. Take care.”
“Was that your boyfriend?” he asked.
“Yep.”
He pulled out his wallet and removed a business card. “Here. In case you ever need it.”
I stuck it in my pocket and carefully folded myself into the car.
With her hands on the wheel, Roxy listed her head to one side. “Are you through flirting or can we get the hell out of here already?”
“Dudes, I am so hungry.” Joe stuck his head between us from the back seat. “Stop and get tacos.”
“We just ate,” Roxy said.
“Tell you what,” Ma said, “we’ll go to the motel, pack up, and stop somewhere on the way out of town. My treat.”
I turned to look back at her. “Ma, this wasn’t much of a vacay for you. I’m really sorry things took such a weird turn.”
“Are you kidding me, toots? While I’m sad about Ron, this was the best vacation I’ve ever had. I say we do it again next year.”
God help us.
PART 2:
Quick Sketch
by
Larissa Reinhart
ONE
Once Upon a Few Months Before a
Notorious Coffin Portrait
In the setting December sun, the fluorescent Heartache sign flickered to life and then winked into retirement. Evidently most of the bulbs had not been replaced since the Heartache Motel’s Memphis inception, somewhere between 1962 and 1983, give or take a lost decade. If I squinted I could see the remnants of the vintage Triple-A insignia, probably torn out for fear of libel. It did not give me much hope, but we were here to help a friend. And because of the friend’s circumstances, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the seediness of our chosen meeting place.
I supposed when you wanted to find low-down, dirty crooks, you had to look for them in their habitat. Which would also be low-down and dirty. And The Heartache Motel matched that bill pretty dang well.
“A cross-country trip to Vegas sounds a lot more exciting in theory. Remind me next time not to do it by bus.” I dropped my suitcase on the sidewalk and eyed my traveling companion. How the man could survive an eight-hour bus ride and still look like he stepped out of an ad for Modern Viking Magazine is one of God’s great mysteries.
I had caught my own reflection in the bus window and almost spit Coke out of my nose. My sequined “Santa’s Ho” t-shirt had more creases and stains than da Vinci’s original sketches. My fair skin felt drier than a Saltine and somewhere between Halo, Georgia and Memphis, Tennessee my makeup had disappeared. I will not mention my hair, but eight hours of piped-in air had produced enough static electricity in my blonde filaments that I could possibly solve the energy crisis.
“Baby, I don’t know about this place,” said Todd McIntosh. He had shortened my given name, Cherry Tucker, to Baby sometime after our first date a few months past and I had given up correcting him. Todd was one of those adorable guys who made the dumb stuff they did seem cute. But as I didn’t see our relationship going anywhere except Vegas, I didn’t fret. “The address matches the one Byron gave me, but it looks kind of run-down.”
“Bill Campbell’s thirty-one-year-old thoroughbred is run-down,” I said, pointing to the graffiti tagging decorating the side of the building and the creative use of plywood as window treatments. “This place is plain ol’ sleazy. Are you ready for this?”
“Byron’s my cousin.” Fuss lines worried Todd’s angelic features. “I should be asking you that question. It’s one thing to take you along to Vegas, but to ask you to stop in Memphis for this sort of thing...”
“Don’t you worry, hon’.” I patted Todd’s bulky bicep, which sent a teensy thrill spiraling through me. “I’m always ready for squaring things to rights. And I think we’ve got a great plan.”
“Yeah.” Todd’s grin lit the evening sky brighter than the fluorescent motel sign. “I remember some of your great plans from back in the day.”
I had known Todd forever and more. In high school, he had wandered the edges of my social circles, a gangly lone wolf who became a poker phenom when no one was looking. I had returned from college and found he had retained his beanpole height but replaced the lankiness with a chiseled six-pack, sculpted shoulders, and rock hard boo-hiney. Throw in the fact that he’s a drummer with dimples, when he had finally asked me out, I RSVP’d with a “Hell, yes.”
Against my better judgment. Which I should listen to more often.
We pushed through the cracked glass doors and into the wood-paneled lobby. Blue Christmas warbled through hidden speakers and tinsel glowed dully from flaccid garlands looped around the room. The Heartache’s attempt at Christmas cheer hadn’t extended into the scent department. A dumpster had a more festive aroma.
“I got us the honeymoon suite,” said Todd. “It included the Christmas Elvis show and a bottle of champagne. Isn’t that cool?”
I gave him a what-kind-of-girl-do-you-think-I-am look.
Todd shrugged, but couldn’t hide his saucy grin.
Not that I didn’t trust Todd. Sometimes my hormones around beautiful men couldn’t be trusted. My mother had the same problem but gave in to the call of her libido. I tried to learn from my mistakes. Namely a disastrous romance with a man who escaped me by joining the Army. Seriously, what level of commitment-phobe uses an Afghanistan bunker as an escape from a relationship?
Behind the garland and tinsel festooned window, a very masculine woman smiled at us. With a red wig teased and combed to achieve heights not seen since the 1960s, the drag queen fluttered her triple elongated falsies and placed a large hand over the low, rounded neckline of her canary yellow chiffon dress. A charm bracelet slid from her wrist down her arm, and she dropped her hand to wiggle the bracelet back to her thick wrist.
As I had gone to art school in Savannah, the sight of a female impersonator was akin to old home week. I glanced at Todd to see if he had taken note of Ann-Margret’s muscular arms and thick neck. Todd’s happy grin had not changed. Which probably meant he was too focused on the honeymoon suite to notice Ann’s Adam’s apple.
“Welcome to the Heartache Motel,” called the Ann-Margret wannabe in a deep voice set to tittery. “We’re famous as the only Elvis-inspired motel with staff that specializes in impersonations of the King’s entourage. I’m Man-Margret. How can I help?”
“We’ve got a reservation,” I said, handing her our printout. “We’re in the honeymoon suite.”
“Isn’t that cute.”
She slid an appraising glance over me then stopped on Todd’s dimpled grin. “Newlyweds? You’ll love our Blue Hawaii Honeymoon Suite. One dip in the Love Me Tender hot tub with a complimentary glass of the All Shook Up sparkling wine and you’ll be in wedded bliss.”
With a wink toward Todd, she put a hand next to her mouth and mimed whispering. “Or let the missus enjoy the hot tub and you can join me in the bar, honey.”
“We’re on our way to Vegas,” said Todd. “Staying two nights because my cousin lives nearby and recommended this place. Thought we’d shake the dirt from our boots and say Merry Christmas to him before getting back on the bus.”
“Vegas? Wonderful. You’re honeymooning in the King’s second home,” Man-Margret exclaimed.
“We’re not married, nor getting hitched. We don’t need the honeymoon suite. Any old suite will do,” I said with a fair hint of impatience towards Man-Margret’s obsession with weddings. “Todd here is playing in a poker tournament. I’m accompanying him as a personal cheerleader and to make sure he doesn’t get lonely spending Christmas away from home.”
“You need to tell the Colonel all about your poker tournament. He’s quite the poker connoisseur. He’ll know where to find a Texas Hold Them or whatever. He tends bar for us in the Suspicious Minds.” She drew her hand in a Vanna White wave toward the bar entrance at the far side of the lobby.
With prepared lines I wished I meant, I turned to Todd and placed a hand on his arm. “Now Todd, you are going to play plenty of poker in Vegas. This stopover was meant to be a visit with your cousin. Then there’s Graceland and
the art museum.” I smiled at Man-Margret. “I’m an artist.”
“Exciting,” Man purred. “An artist and a poker player.”
“I’m also a drummer,” said Todd.
“Then make sure you have time for our Blue Christmas show. One night only. It’s at eight o’clock tonight in the Suspicious Minds Bar. One of our local girls booked the limited showing.”
“Sounds great,” beamed Todd.
She tapped on the keys of her computer. “Sorry, but looks like you used one of those discount sites, so you can’t switch rooms.” She winked and held out the metal key attached by a chain to a plastic heart. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll need a honeymoon suite by the end of your Vegas trip.”
“Maybe,” said Todd, grabbing the key. “I’m feeling pretty lucky this trip.”
“Honeymoon? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?” I said. “Save up that luck and spend it on your poker tournament.”
“One thing poker’s taught me, you never know your next hand.” An unusually thoughtful gleam sparked Todd’s eyes. “I feel like I’m going to be lucky in all sorts of ways this trip.”
“I can tell you one way you’re not getting lucky and it involves the honeymoon suite.”
That took a little holly jolly out of Todd’s step, but I believed in showing all my cards when it came to sharing rooms with themed hot tubs and sparkling wine. I’d had my share of that kind of luck with my first love, Luke Harper, although our suite and champagne was a pickup and six-pack. Now, I was older and wiser in the ways of sweet-talking men.
Besides, Todd needed to hone his concentration on the task at hand and then the Vegas tournament. If he won big, we’d discuss his luck in other areas.
TWO
The Trigger
“Look at you,” said Todd. “You look like walking Christmas.”
Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) Page 7
