by Cathy Ace
“The ice surrounding the caviar is melting,” said Tom. “If it gets above forty degrees, we’ll have to dump it. I guess there’s no power going to the refrigeration unit it’s sitting on because it’s plugged into an outlet in the floor. I should do something about it.”
Ian stood to get a better view of the bar. “Hey, Tom, I’m sorry I didn’t think of that. I don’t usually get involved with the caviar—they bring it all up from downstairs and I just top up the crushed ice occasionally. I’ll see if there’s any ice left back there.” We watched the young men as they opened hatches beneath the bar, then clattered about a bit. They exchanged a few muttered comments, and both shook their heads.
Tom was still shaking his when he said, “There’s no ice back here, and no refrigeration. I suggest we eat the caviar, folks. So long as that’s okay with you, Mr. Sauber, Mr. Petrosian?” He’d obviously decided that both men were in charge—a very Canadian approach to dealing with a difficult situation.
Carl and Art nodded. “It’ll be quite a feast,” said Carl loudly. “Miss Shirley only served the best. There’s sure to be a couple of thousand dollars’ worth there, flown in fresh from Russia. Dad said she cried when the US banned its import, so they had to go to Russia to eat it. Luckily for Miss Shirley the government changed its mind, so she can get her fix . . . sorry, could get her fix here, whenever she wanted. Damn, I just can’t get used to thinking of her as gone.” He shook his head, then added, “Have at it, folks. Right, Art?”
Art nodded. “Sure, go ahead. Don’t know what all the fuss is about, myself. Terrible way they get at the stuff, and it costs a fortune. Just pour salt down your throat, I say.”
“Come and get it, then,” said Tom. “Bring plates from the dessert table. There’s a pile there.” I tried my best to not look too eager.
Bud put a hand on my arm. “Hold your horses, Cait, and try to be good?” He smiled warmly.
“I was good before dinner. I hardly took any, though it was fabulous to have the chance to try such good beluga, alongside sterlet and osetra. The pearls of that beluga are huge. Didn’t you just love it when they burst against the roof of your mouth?”
Bud wrinkled his nose. “Not really my thing, Cait. You know I’m not a fancy eater, and it’s quite . . . well, it’s very salty, and . . . hey, if you want to load a plate as though it’s for me, you go ahead. I’ll be your cover for a double portion.”
I patted his arm as I rose, then turned to Tom’s girlfriend. “How about you, Tanya? Will you have some?”
Tanya made a face as though I’d asked her to drink a vat of acid. “Not likely. You can have mine too, if you want.” Her expression had returned to its sulky setting.
“Okay, please yourself,” I replied. I tried to keep the edge out of my voice, but it crept through.
As I headed toward the plates and the bar, I felt a spring in my step, which I wouldn’t have expected for almost two in the morning.
It seemed as though everybody viewed the caviar announcement as an opportunity to take a break, move about a bit, and reposition themselves. The Diva was giving Jimmy detailed instructions as to how she wanted her plate prepared, Jack and Carl had beaten me to the serving trolley, Julie was standing behind Clemence, bending to speak to him quietly, Bud was trying to engage Tanya in conversation, Tom was helping serve the caviar, and Ian was carrying trays laden with bottles of vodka, small glasses, large glasses, and bottles of sparkling water to each table. Art had placed himself at the end of the bar farthest from the caviar action, and stood with his foot resting comfortably on the rail, sipping a glass of calvados poured from the bottle at his elbow, to which he’d helped himself.
Conversations were muted, but no one seemed to be in deep mourning. I took “Bud’s plate” to our table and returned to the bar to fill my own. As I did so, I noticed Clemence making his way to the men’s room.
It was clear that we wouldn’t be reconvening our joint recollection session for quite a few moments, so I wandered toward the partition closest to the dessert table, to give the porcelain pieces atop it my attention. Julie joined me, a glass of vodka in her hand.
“Cheers,” she said as she sipped.
“Cheers,” I replied, toasting her with a blini loaded with so much golden sterlet that the mound almost went up my nose as I bit into it. I must have looked surprised and embarrassed because Julie turned away and gazed out through the glass wall.
She sighed, or maybe stifled a smile. “It all looks so beautiful from here,” she said almost wistfully. Despite the hour, The Strip was still dazzling, with the giant screens, the constant glittering of the blazing lightbulbs and tubes, the floodlit buildings, and the motion of the traffic still streaming along in multiple stacked lanes.
I managed to mumble my agreement. I was far enough away from the glass wall to not feel the vertigo that usually grips me when I’m looking down from a height. I was able to gaze in all directions and enjoy the view. I allowed myself to do this for a moment as I enjoyed the sensation in my mouth. “We’re right at the top of the egg here, aren’t we?” I managed to say between mouthfuls, hoping that Julie would run with the topic. Luckily, she did.
“Yes. You’ve seen the egg from The Strip?”
I nodded.
“It’s quite something, right?” she said with some enthusiasm. “The special glass gives it a unique look. Real gold was used in the glassmaking process, offering that wonderful finish and a good element of sun reflection. We’ll be grateful for that quality when the sun comes up, given that the AC is out.”
It was clear to the woman that I was fully involved with eating, so she continued, “The black ‘stripe’ around the egg’s middle is the Babushka Bar. That’s where you’d have got off the escalator from the casino and entered the elevator. The black treatment on the glass creates a more ‘clubby’ atmosphere. Above it is the Romanoff Room. You won’t have seen that because security would have used the elevator code for this level. You should see it sometime. It’s quite spectacular. Very gold. And red. Very Miss Shirley, and tsarist, of course.” She smiled and shook her head gently, clearly thinking of her late employer with genuine affection.
“Above that there’s another floor with black glass, right where you’d cut the top off a soft-boiled egg. That’s where the kitchen is. Then there’s this place, in the bit of the egg that ends up on the plate.” She smiled at me, and I did my best to return the expression. The look on her face suggested I might have caviar on my teeth.
“Why’s the elevator right in the middle of this room?” I asked, licking my lips. “It seems to be a bit in the way of the best setup for a dining room.”
Julie glanced toward the pod. “Oh, that’s because they had to hide the machine room outside the glass envelope of the egg somewhere. The shaft runs right through the middle so that all the machinery could be slap bang in the center at the top of the egg and hidden with those four golden, double-headed eagles that look just like a crown on the egg’s tip.”
I swallowed and looked up. “So what’s above us? Between this flat ceiling and the domed roof of the egg?” I couldn’t imagine that the cavity really offered a place for an unknown killer to hide, but I thought I should ask.
Julie thoughtfully followed my gaze. “I don’t know. Some sort of electrical stuff, I guess. I don’t suppose it would have been practical to have this room open right into the top of the egg. I’ve never really thought about it,” she said, a frown furrowing her smooth brow.
“Cait?” It was Bud. He motioned that I should take my seat. Everyone else was back in their allotted places, except Clemence, who was ambling back from the men’s room in his shirtsleeves, carrying his jacket. He was swaying a little, quite unsteady on his feet. Julie and I both registered his wobbling arrival at the same moment and headed toward him. I placed my plate on the dessert table as I passed, so I’d have both hands free. We both had our arms out as we met up with him, but he waved us away. Clemence was clearly a man who didn’t like to accep
t help. I noticed a tiny spot of blood on one of his shirtsleeves, which concerned me. Even in the dim light, I could see that his pupils were like tiny pinpricks and his eyes were glassy. He looked disoriented.
“Are you alright, Clemence?” asked Julie, the note of concern in her voice drawing the attention of both Art and Carl.
Clemence looked surprised. “Considering I just lost my oldest friend, I’m doing just fine, ma’am. I hope it doesn’t bother you that I’ve removed my jacket. I’m kinda warm. Now I think I’ll sit me down again and listen to how all you other folks knowed Miss Shirley, and what you thought of her. Then maybe I can work out which one of you killed her.”
Quartet
“I SURE DIDN’T,” SAID TOM and Tanya in unison. They turned to each other and smiled.
“After you,” said Tom, nodding at his girlfriend.
Tanya stood so that she could see and address everyone. “I’m not good at speaking in public, so this won’t take long.” She knotted and unknotted her fingers, then pressed her palms against the table, hunching her shoulders. She took some deep breaths, as though she were about to dive into a pool, and began.
“Tanya Willis, born and raised in Henderson. Dad, Sam. Mom, Maisie. Went to UNLV to study math and computer programming. Graduated 2005. I was seventeen. Got recruited into the Tsar! Organization. Been here ever since. Now I oversee all the computing systems. Biggest job right now is overhauling the loyalty program, which is really exciting. I met Miss Shirley when I was a child. My father worked at the Sunrise, then here for a while. Dad wasn’t very lucky with jobs. Miss Shirley’s been very nice to me. I’ll miss her. I guess I’ll carry on working here, whoever takes over.” At this point she looked over at Carl and Art. Her body language throughout her short speech had been neutral, if somewhat tense. She sat.
Tom looked surprised. “That’s it?” he asked. She nodded. “Oh, come on, Tanya, you need to blow your own trumpet a bit more than that. Listen folks”—he stood, dwarfing his girlfriend, who had sunk back into her seat—“Tanya’s brilliant. I mean it. She went to university when she was fifteen.” There were a few raised eyebrows around the room. “Yeah, fifteen. I know it wasn’t easy for her, ’cause she’s told me how tough it was to be accepted and to mix in. But she graduated in just two years, top in everything. See—brilliant! She’s funny and really clever with numbers. She organized all her hours so we can be together when I’m not working—which takes some doing because being head sous-chef in the kitchen downstairs means I work some very long, unsociable hours. And Miss Shirley thought she was brilliant too. Right?” He looked down at the top of Tanya’s head.
His girlfriend gave a slight nod, but her expression was blank.
“Yes, she did,” Tom continued. “I’ve been here for ten months or so now. Tanya and I met when I’d been here only six weeks, at the post-Christmas/New Year staff party. Miss Shirley introduced us to each other as the brightest stars she knew in our respective fields. You see, when Chef Michel recruited me to the Romanoff Room, Miss Shirley already knew a lot about me, because of that TV show I was on. She said she liked the way I was always polite to the other competitors and that I always stayed positive. Tanya and I have been together ever since Miss Shirley introduced us.” He smiled down at Tanya, who was now looking up at him. She returned his broad, proud grin with a twitch of the corners of her lips, then cast her eyes downward again, the picture of demure coyness. Odd.
“And that’s us,” said Tom. “Without Miss Shirley, we wouldn’t be us. We’ve just bought a house out in Henderson, and we’ll be moving there once we get the place cleaned up and decorated.”
Tom shrugged as he added, “As for why we’re here tonight, well, I was delighted to be invited, honored in fact. As I mentioned to some of you earlier on, Miss Shirley invited Tanya and myself to join her here this evening just yesterday. Of course it meant I had to arrange some quick cover for my shift downstairs in the kitchen, but it’s been great to be on the receiving end of the food coming out of it while sitting in such lavish surroundings.”
Tom bit his lip, then continued, “I’m really very sad that Miss Shirley is dead. Um . . .” He looked around and clearly decided to just say the thing he was unsure about. “She told Tanya that she would have some big news for us, for me, tonight. I was hoping that, when she inherited her late husband’s shares at midnight and was finally allowed to make changes to the organization, she would appoint me as executive chef at the Romanoff Room—now that Chef Michel has announced he’d like to take a step back. I . . . of course I’m disappointed that didn’t happen, but I’m more sorry that she’s dead.” Tom looked resigned, rather than heartbroken, which I judged a suitable response to the death of an employer who apparently favored advancing his career.
“I happen to know that’s exactly what Miss Shirley had planned,” said Julie, as Tom resumed his seat. She stood and smoothed her smart suit. “It’s common knowledge in the entire Vegas community that a complex prenuptial agreement was signed when Mr. Petrosian, Carl’s father, married Miss Shirley. When he passed, his will stated that Miss Shirley was to inherit his majority holding in the Tsar! Organization if she outlived him and remained single for one year after his death. He wanted a period of stability during that time. Other than normal staff turnover, maintenance, and the completion of the upgrades of this room, which were in hand before his death, nothing was to be changed about Tsar! Mr. Art Sauber, the forty-nine percent owner”—she and Art exchanged formal nods—“has been much more involved with the running of the Tsar! Organization during the past year, and Miss Shirley had become even more hands-on, if that’s possible, with all aspects of it during the same period. She was always involved before, of course, in every facet of the business. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for some complications because of her previous bankruptcy, which, again, everyone hereabouts knows about, she and her husband, Mr. Petrosian, would have always been co-owners of the controlling share. As it was, they felt it better to keep her name off the papers initially. The plan was that after she inherited the fifty-one percent of shares tonight, she would be able to start implementing her own choices regarding the Tsar! and all its interests. I know it’s been a lot for Art to handle. As you all know, I head up the legal department here, and there has been a huge amount of paperwork to get sorted since Mr. Petrosian died, so Art and I have been working together. Thank you, Art.” Julie nodded graciously in Art’s direction, and he smiled back.
Julie continued, “As for how I came to be here at all? It’s a story involving chance, which brought me to exactly where I believe I was meant to be. I’m from Maine. I studied at Harvard, was hired by a firm in New York straight out of college, and stayed there until I got involved with a pro bono case for a friend of a friend out in Los Angeles. Being a corporate lawyer I hadn’t done much pro bono work until then. I managed to talk my firm into letting me do it, even though it was so far away, because it was such a fascinating case.” She paused, gazed around our faces, and said abruptly, “I won’t bother you with the intricacies of the case. Suffice it to say I met Jack as a result of it. When Miss Shirley offered me a post here, I took it so I could be close to Jack. I moved here in 1998, and Jack and I were the last couple to be married at the old Sunrise Casino, shortly before its spectacular implosion. I worked with the Tsar! Organization right through the construction period and have been here ever since. It’s been fascinating work, and I enjoyed my relationship with Miss Shirley, which became even closer when I was promoted to my current post.”
I thought that Julie was about to sit again, but she tilted her head, looked at Tom, and said, “I’d just like to say, Tom, that although Miss Shirley is no longer with us, your promotion is already in the works. I brought a folder full of papers that Miss Shirley had been most insistent she wanted to sign here, tonight, as soon as she was legally able. She only signed one—the document she needed to sign to acknowledge her ownership of the shares. She did it while Ian was swinging the saber to open the cham
pagne bottles. She was going to sign the others after dessert. She didn’t. However, I’m sure we’ll be able to sort your promotion for you, Tom, because, with the greatest respect, it’s not something that ever really needed her specific approval—Chef Michel has actual executive power regarding the Romanoff Room, so he’ll be able to clear your change of status before he moves on.”
Tom beamed and squeezed Tanya’s hand in excitement. She looked at her boyfriend with relief and crinkled her eyes at him as she affectionately rubbed his big arm.
I saw Carl Petrosian tense as Julie spoke, but rather than say anything, he glanced at Bud and nibbled his lip. Art Sauber frowned.
“So who gets Miss Shirley’s shares now that she’s gone?” Tom innocently asked. “Mr. Carl or Mr. Art?” It seemed a reasonable enough question. All eyes turned toward Julie. Clearly there was a great deal of interest in the room about the issue of ownership.
Julie sighed and shook her head. “Well, that’s the thing, you see. One of the documents she didn’t sign was her new will. I know what would have happened to the shares if Miss Shirley had died, or remarried, before the year was up—in other words, before she inherited them. I also know what she planned to do in the new will that she and I worked on. But all of that is moot, because she did inherit the shares, but didn’t sign her new will. So her previous will stands.”
Again, it wasn’t Carl or Art who spoke. It was Tanya, which surprised me. “So, will Carl or Art be the new owner?” she asked. Petulantly, I thought.
The glances passed around the room confirmed that everyone was in a state of anticipation. Julie Pool looked a little uncertain. Her husband stood and put his arm around her waist. He and Julie shared an intimate smile, then she shrugged and shook her head. “I can’t say. At least, I don’t believe I should say anything more.”
