Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas)

by Austin, Terri L.

  “Shut up. Why are you yelling?” Candy Cane tossed a ring of keys to Cop Number Two. “Start opening doors and find the perps who belong to those vehicles.”

  “I knew we should have parked somewhere else,” said Byron.

  “Shush, Byron,” I said.

  With a twist of the key, Cop Number Two swung open the conference room door. “Here they are.”

  Cops Number Three and Four covered Number Two as he entered. I could hear the scuffle of a fight, but the blue bodies blocked the doorway.

  “Hold it right there,” Number Two’s husky voice rang out over the din. “You are all under arrest for trespassing.”

  I strained to see into the room, trying to catch sight of Todd or any who were left. The sounds of muffled voices, shuffling, and shoving carried into the outer room, but the police made an effective screen to the events happening inside.

  “Y’all step this way until we’re ready for you,” said Cop Number One and herded Byron, Priscilla, and me into an empty room. He closed the door and locked us inside.

  “Well, Kate Jackson,” said Priscilla. “I guess this didn’t work out so good. Any more bright ideas?”

  TWELVE

  The Dead Hand

  Thirty minutes later, our heated tempers had warmed the December chill out of our small room better than a pot belly stove fired with coal.

  “This is why I don’t believe in charity events that don’t have celebrity backers,” said Priscilla. “If Donald Trump ran this gig, we would not be thrown in the hoosegow.”

  “We are thrown in the hoosegow because gambling is illegal in the state of Tennessee,” I said. “And if Byron had minded the law to begin with, none of this would have happened.”

  “You’re the one who thought we should win my money back,” said Byron.

  “You both stopped being amusing about ten seconds after I met you,” said Priscilla. “My limbs have been mangled all day because of your cleverness, Kate Jackson. Squished in the back of a van and now cuffed like a common criminal. And Byron, you are just one sorry excuse.”

  Our makeshift jail door swung open and cut short the argument. Cop Number One’s scowl doused the room with more ill humor. He jerked a thumb toward the center hall and we filed toward the door.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Cop Number One. Apparently not all of the players had escaped through the window of the conference room. In the rotunda, Candy Cane Cop unwrapped another stick of peppermint and toured the walls, examining my masterpieces. I didn’t see Jupiter or Fred, nor Elvis and the Elf among the party Zip Tie cuffed and hurling threats at the Colonel and Todd. The Colonel took those insults and flung more at Todd while Chet, Little Jimmy, Luther, and Lucinda watched.

  Poor Todd stood with his tow head bowed and hands locked behind him, calmly suffering the arrows and daggers shot from the Colonel’s mouth.

  I scurried to defend my sweet gambler from the poisonous abuse directed his way.

  “That girl should have paid better attention,” screamed the Colonel. His hat sat askew and his bolo tie had loosened, the longhorn emblem dangling near the silver tipped points. “She was supposed to be our lookout. Instead she’s drawing on the walls.”

  “This isn’t Cherry’s fault,” said Todd. “Lonnie dropped the ball. He should have had us park somewhere different.”

  “Lonnie risked a lot just making up that work order. You’re the idiots who came early and got the wrong guard at the gate.”

  “You said get here at four,” said Todd.

  “I said after four,” fumed the Colonel.

  I noticed Cop Number One’s pen racing over his little notebook, getting the confessions word for word. If my hands weren’t cuffed, I would have done another palm to the forehead. My forehead had seen more abuse in two days than my twenty-six years. “Shut it, you two. Save it for the station.”

  “You,” said the Colonel, turning on me. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Don’t mess with Cherry,” said Todd, jumping in front of me.

  “How exciting,” said Priscilla. “But Miss Artist is right. Now, who was your little friend at the station, Colonel? I’d like to talk to him personally.”

  “Would you all just shut up?” said Lucinda. “The Colonel’s little friend is not available for station visits, Priscilla.”

  “What do you mean?” Priscilla’s voice dropped from tenor to bass. She flashed a look to Little Jimmy whose piggy eyes met hers with cold indifference.

  Cop Number Three walked out of the conference room carrying the laptop, chips, and cards in ziplock bags. “The money’s gone.”

  Todd swiveled his head to the Colonel. “You cheat.”

  “You should talk, wiseguy,” said Luther. “How did you win all those hands? Funny how you lost all weekend until this tournament. Were you switching cards?”

  “I’m no cheat,” said Todd. “What’d you think when I won big enough online to get a trip to Vegas? I’m Sticks. You’re the ones doing collusion and chip dumping. You and Elvis and the little guy.”

  Cop Number One scribbled furiously in his notebook. Cop Number Two snapped on gloves while studying the remaining players.

  “Sticks,” said Lucinda. Her crimson pout dropped open as she stared at Todd. “You’re Sticks?”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, confused. “What is Sticks?”

  “My online name,” said Todd. “‘Cause I’m a drummer, too.”

  “So why’s everybody’s jaw on the floor?”

  “You don’t know?” said Lucinda with a flagrantly contemptuous look. “He’s a legend in the online poker world. I’m Rockabilly Girl, by the way,” she breathed to Todd.

  He smiled. “I know. I could tell by the way you only raise when you’re holding aces.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You knew Lucinda before we came to Memphis?”

  “Now baby,” he said, “I only played against her online. That’s all.”

  “Who’s Elvis and the little guy?” asked Cop Number One, rereading his notes.

  I pointed to their likeness on the wall with my shoulder, as my hands were still cuffed. “I think you’ll need to ask Little Jimmy and Luther where to find them. Or Priscilla, since she does bookings for them. You can check the maps at Venture Realty for the cities they’ve already hit. You’ll find the towns that had a poker scam will match the Elvis shows. She doesn’t play poker well enough to work that end of the scam.”

  Priscilla’s head snapped toward me, knocking her hat back. “You bitch.”

  “Sorry, sugar,” I said. “But you dropped too many hints to the Colonel about making easy money. He suspected you immediately when he heard about the scam. Your mouth runneth over.”

  “And we made such a good Angels team.”

  “We did, didn’t we?” I said sadly.

  Cop Number Two lifted the trilby off the floor, running his fingers inside the brim. “Well, here’s some of the money,” he said, holding up folded hundreds. He deposited the money and hat into separate ziplock bags.

  “Come on,” he shoved Priscilla toward the conference room. “I can search you here nicely, or you can resist and we can do it at the station which will not be so nice.”

  “Are you the realtor?” I said to Luther. “Somebody has to represent Venture when you get the keys to the empty offices. And you’ve got a day job a few doors down from Venture Realty. Little Jimmy’s working in the Green Room and drafting guys to play poker. They probably don’t even know it’s a scam, do they? Just an opportunity to have a little fun at some chump’s expense.”

  Luther stared at me stone faced.

  So unhelpful. I glanced at Byron. “Help us out. Use my sketches and point out who played poker with you at FBN.”

  Cop Number One uncuffed Byron and they circled the room together.
Byron tapped on the face of Elvis, then pointed at the Elf, “This was Mr. Smith.” At Chet’s picture, he hesitated.

  “What the hell,” said Chet. “I’m not involved with these people. You’re trying to set me up.”

  “Why’d you have Little Jimmy shred my sketchbook?” I said.

  He eyed Cop One’s notebook and pressed his lips shut.

  “Don’t want to see any evidence connected to your underground business?” I looked at Byron. “Was it Chet?”

  “Wasn’t Chet,” said Byron. He tapped on Fred’s picture.

  “Dang,” I said. “I liked Fred. He had those cute dimples.”

  “Baby.” Todd flashed me a look to remind me of his own dimples.

  “How about Lucinda?” I said.

  “You wish,” she replied.

  Priscilla and Cop Two returned from the conference room with a bag packed with such an exorbitant amount of money, it made me want to cry. Cop Two laid the bag on the cooler with the other evidence he had collected.

  “I can’t believe the amount y’all are willing to risk on games.” The money in that bag would have paid off my student loans and gotten me a decent used vehicle. “Now Byron’s family is really sunk. A daddy spending Christmas in jail and not a penny to their name because of poker. I hope you learned something from this, Byron. You, too, Todd.”

  “It’s not worth the risk without a big reward, baby.” Todd shrugged. “If you don’t understand, I can’t explain.”

  “Come on.” Cop One shoved Priscilla, Luther, and Little Jimmy toward the exit. “There’s an escort waiting for you outside.”

  “What about them?” Priscilla looked over her shoulder as she stumbled out the door behind Little Jimmy.

  “I’d focus on worrying about yourself just now,” said Cop Two, guiding Priscilla out the door with a not so friendly push.

  “We’ll meet again, Miss Thing,” called Priscilla over her shoulder.

  “I hope so, Priscilla.” Despite her criminal inclinations, I liked Priscilla. And Eddie.

  “What’s going to happen to us? I wasn’t involved in any scam,” demanded Chet. “I had no idea we were trespassing.”

  Candy Cane Man sauntered from his corner observation spot to our group. “Let him go,” he said to Cop Three. “I won’t press any charges on him or the others. I want the instigators. The Colonel, the artist, the blond guy, and the other painter.”

  As Lucinda hurried past Todd, she made the international phone sign. “Call me when you get out,” she winked.

  I would have said something, but I had more important considerations than jealousy. Like the fact that Todd, Byron, the Colonel, and I were cuffed and under police custody. With the conference door still opened, blue lights flashed through the room’s open window and played a disco pattern over my drawings. A December breeze drafted in, ruffling the paint tarps. I shivered.

  “Well, what can I say?” said the Colonel, his eyes fixed on the blue lights outside. “You win some, you lose some.”

  THIRTEEN

  The Suicide King

  Absorbed in our own thoughts, our small, cuffed group watched the blue lights disappear.

  “You win some, you lose some.” Todd’s grin met his ears. “But I sure like winning better than losing.”

  Byron laughed. “I think you had to work harder at losing than you did at winning.”

  “And to think I made fun of you in high school for acting in all those school plays.” Todd slapped his back. “You can cry on cue better than a soap opera star.”

  “I will never understand poker,” I said, shaking out my hands as Cop Three—also known as Marylou Draeger, Lonnie’s receptionist—pulled the handcuffs away. “Man, those cuffs are uncomfortable. I hope I never have to wear them again.”

  “Really?” said Todd. “I thought I’d keep a pair and bring them to Vegas. We could have some fun...”

  “Think again, smart guy,” I said, but gave him a celebratory kiss that would have the extra effect of making him forget Lucinda. I’m a believer in killing birds with as few stones as possible.

  “Byron, collect Jupiter’s stuff.”

  Barry tossed his hat and tie to the floor, ridding himself of the Colonel, his Heartache Motel uniform. “He’s coming back in thirty minutes to pick it up. We better get before the next shift comes on. Cherry, you need to get rid of those pencil marks. Lonnie, hurry up and count that money. We need to pay Byron and Todd back before we divvy up the rest.”

  “Sure thing,” said Lonnie, the candy cane rotating around his lips. He pulled a handful of cellophane wrapped treats from his pocket and handed one to me. “Want one?”

  “Yes. Hell’s bells, I’m starving.” I looked at Barry. “I really had no idea how boring most of this night would be. We should have gotten this deal catered.”

  “You are too much,” replied Barry. “I was sweating bullets as it was. I love a good thrill as much as the next guy, otherwise I wouldn’t tend bar at the Heartache. Or play poker. But this sting near gave me a stroke.”

  “But you had a great idea meeting up at the Heartache, Barry. You were right about Priscilla and her crew falling for a big game. And we appreciate you doing all this for Byron.” I hugged him, then popped the candy cane into my mouth.

  “Byron, Lonnie, and I have been in the same fantasy football league since Byron moved here. Tina won’t let Byron play the tables with me at the Green Room, but we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well during our league meetings and watching the games on Sunday.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Barry,” said Byron. “I owe you and Lonnie big. Y’all get my first picks in the draft this year. Thank you, too, Todd and Cherry.”

  “Anything for my cousin,” said Todd.

  “We were going to Vegas, anyway,” I said. “And it’s not like you have to beg Todd to play poker.”

  “I didn’t know the real cops were coming,” said Barry. “I thought I would lose my lunch. No one said anything about real cops in the original plan. Lonnie and I should have known about this days ago.”

  “I made a call home.” I squeezed Todd’s hand. “I know you thought real cops would scare everyone away, but the FBN scammers needed a greater punishment than just losing to you in a poker game. Uncle Will ran the pictures and sketches I faxed and collaborated with a detective in the Memphis PD. They found our charity poker tournament amusing, so we’re not in trouble.”

  “Charity poker. Pretty much true,” said Lonnie, smiling. He handed Byron a candy cane. “Guess you’ll get out of the dog house yet.”

  “Still got to find a new job,” said Byron, “but yeah, my kids will have full stockings this year thanks to y’all. Mostly it feels good to get even with those bastards.”

  “And I bet you’ll find that wedding ring in the Venture Realty’s office safe,” I said. “Or in the pawn shop next door.”

  “You’re so smart, baby.” Todd hooked an arm around my neck and kissed my head. “We’ve still got the Blue Hawaii suite for the rest of the night. Let’s say we go back and I teach you my best poker moves.”

  I thought about Priscilla’s words of wisdom on my ineptitude as a girlfriend. Even though she had no qualms about ripping off innocents at Christmas, she might have had a point when it came to relationships. I needed to let go of my tall, dark, and dimpled past and focus on a possible future of tall, blond, and dimpled. Todd might not be ambitious or brilliant, but he did have interesting creative pursuits like music and making bucketloads of money off folks stupid enough to bet against him. He liked living in Halo and wanted to support my art career.

  And, as it turned out, he was an excellent smoocher.

  “Guess we could practice a little Viva Las Vegas before the real deal,” I said, stretching on tiptoes to meet his lips. “Merry Christmas Baby.”

  He broke
off the kiss to pin me with a glassy, blue-eyed gaze. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  PART 3:

  Dateline Memphis

  by

  LynDee Walker

  ONE

  (Three months after Buried Leads)

  Welcome to the Heartache

  Christmas vacation lesson number one: don’t leave hotel reservations to chance, especially when visiting a major tourist attraction. Lesson two: crime reporters don’t get holidays. Criminals, it turns out, are everywhere.

  I committed the first of those to memory before I technically stepped foot in Memphis, sitting in my little SUV fifteen miles west of Graceland behind a run-down Denny’s wannabe.

  “This is the only place in town with an available room?” I asked my toy Pomeranian, who was strapped into her carrier in the backseat. The boarded-up window punctuating the stucco facade of the Heartache Motel gave it a menacing air in the fading daylight. I wondered about the odds of catching something horrifying from the “deluxe bathroom with shower” advertised on the sign.

  Maybe it was just the only available room with an Elvis theme, since that was the only requirement I’d given the operator. Arriving to find the official Elvis hotel had been booked since August left me scrambling.

  Whatever. It was one night. I inherited my mom’s love of classic rock, and was more excited than a bride at a Filene’s basement sale to be stopping at Graceland on my way to Dallas for Christmas.

  Plus, it wasn’t the scariest building I’d ever set foot in. In more than half a decade covering crime, I’d ventured into some seedy digs.

  “And they do take pets.” I turned and smiled at Darcy, who looked happy to have the car parked.

  With the dog tucked under one arm and my overnight bag slung over the other, I walked through the glass doors, which were outlined with washed-out Christmas lights. An ancient, peeling Triple-A diamond sticker was the only evidence of better days.