Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries)

by Heather Haven

“You don’t owe her any explanations about you and Mrs. Elsberg.” Star turned to me and snarled. “They’re friends, okay? And it’s none of your damned business. Just do the damn show the way you’re supposed to.”

  Connie Elsberg, a sixty-four-year old widow, owned the lion’s share of the Fantasy Lady, having inherited it from her recently demised gangster husband. She now owned a lot of Las Vegas, too, and was supposed to have been quite a vixen in her day. Apparently that day wasn’t completely over, either. Richard had found an item or two about the widow and Johnny on the net. It explained a lot about this seedy act appearing in such an upscale casino. I suspected Johnny was better at more primal things than singing.

  “Okay; okay. Sorry,” I said, putting out my hands to deflect her anger. “But where is the bathroom? I really have to go.” I knew where the bathrooms were. Richard and I had gone over the locations of all of them. The one I needed was closest to the stage.

  “The ones we’re supposed to use are behind the backdrop,” Starlight said, easing up a little on her attitude. She pointed to a thick, sixteen-foot high drop curtain behind the stage.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, pushing the heavy curtain aside and stepping behind it before either one of them could say anything.

  A well-lit off-white wall stood behind with just enough width from the curtain to the wall to create a narrow walkway, allowing people to get from one side of the stage to the other. Two doors, marked ‘Men’ and ‘Women’ were cut into the plain stucco wall. I opened the appropriate one and hurried to the third and last stall of the non-descript, basic bathroom. Reaching up behind the toilet tank, I found the small plastic-covered bundle taped to the back, freeing it with a couple of jerks. Clear plastic held a snub-nose detective special. Removed from its wrapping, it felt cool and oddly alive in my hand. Taking out the wooden look-alike from my garter, I threw it in the trashcan and thrust the real gun inside the holster. Aside from the weight, both looked pretty much the same from far away.

  It had been another Flint coupe, getting one of the Fantasy Lady’s cleaning crew to carry the gun through the metal detector. It cost a lot of money, $3,000 to be exact. Whoever did it—and I never got an answer from Flint—took a big chance his or her stainless steel cart would pass through the metal detector, with this weapon hidden between cleaning supplies. So far, this escapade has cost us upwards of $10,000, and we weren’t anywhere near done yet. It was for Stephen, I reminded myself. Anything to find Stephen’s killer or killers.

  I straightened out the purple Banlon go-go dress before I exited the bathroom, all the while hoping it wouldn’t come to me having to use this gun. If I did, it meant we were in dipstick trouble. Lost in thought, I opened the door and ran smack into Lou Spaulding, standing right outside. He came toward me. In a natural, reflex action, I stepped back into the bathroom.

  Suddenly, I felt outraged, embarrassed, and more than a little trapped. What the hell? Did he follow me? Even though I could take him on with a few karate moves, did I really want to go that route? No way.

  He walked at me wearing a lusty grin, which would have scandalized my mother. I felt my heartbeat quicken but stood still and pulled myself up to my full height. Don’t give the impression you’re scared, girl. Predators look for just that thing.

  I forced a smile. “You know, it’s really bad manners to follow a lady into the restroom, especially if you don’t know her.”

  “Well, it’s my bathroom. I own this whole place.”

  Spaulding reached out and took my forearm in a firm grip, pulling me toward him.

  No, you don’t, pal, I thought. You own five percent. The rest is owned by investors, like Connie Ellsberg. So stuff that in your turkey baster.

  “You know, Mr. Spaulding….” I began aloud.

  “Call me, Lou, baby.”

  “Lou baby, I have a show to do in about three minutes,” I batted voluminous false eyelashes, fanning the surrounding air. “But afterward…” I left the end of the sentence hanging, in a suggestive manner.

  “Well, it’ll have to do, baby.” He caressed the side of my cheek, while I fought the urge to bite off the tip of his finger.

  Standing aside but not so much as I could get by him without brushing against him, I fled to the relative safety of three women who hated my guts and a singer with sunflowers seeds for brains.

  It was around twelve fifteen p.m., and Johnny began singing “My Way” in what could only be described as a schmaltzy, melodramatic way. I once heard a recording of Enrico Caruso singing “vesti la giubba” from Pagliacci. This type of over-the-top singing can really work, especially if it’s a beautiful song sung by someone with an incredible voice. However, I’m here to tell you a so-so song sung by a so-so singer in the same way is just plain painful to listen to. Karaoke singers, be warned.

  But his version of this it was, so instead of bouncing around, the dancers were ordered to stand reverently still in darkness at the rear of the stage and watch in rapt attention.

  This was my only chance to see if Lila and Gurn were in place and ready. With no light in my eyes, I could see out into the audience, such as it was. A few people sat on stools around a highly polished glass and chrome bar, chatting, drinking, and mainly ignoring us. Others were strewn around at nearby tables large enough to hold a couple of drinks and a pseudo candle providing battery-operated flickering light. Nobody was paying attention to the singer knocking himself out in what he apparently thought was the performance of a lifetime.

  A woman in white stepped into my line of vision. It took a moment for my mind to register who it was. Lila. Wearing a getup the likes of which I’ve never seen on her before, she stood before me glittering like a crystal chandelier on growth hormones. Mom is a woman severely into animal rights, yet here she was, dripping in white fox fur, under which was a white suit, molded to the shape of her figure. To make sure you got the message, discreet amounts of fabric were cut out here and there revealing skin beneath. I’d seen a suit like this once on Victoria Principle in a rerun of Dallas. It got her into a lot of trouble.

  Volumes of curled and upswept hair framed her face as only a do can do when it has been teased and sprayed within an inch of its life. Even in the half-lit barroom atmosphere, I could tell her face was spackled with vast amounts of makeup. When I could rip my eyes from her features, I saw various parts of her sparkling with diamonds—real or otherwise—like a flashy, New Year’s Eve float. In fact, she looked like her own personal parade. Kelli would have loved it.

  Gurn stepped out from behind Lila wearing aviator style sunglasses and chewing bubble gum. Dressed in white slacks and a silky, half-opened black shirt, gold chains brandished his naked chest. Chewing his cud, he took his sunglasses off and winked at me.

  My mouth dropped open, and I gaped. Mom shot me a look that said, “Close your mouth, Liana. It’s most unladylike.” So I did.

  I heard Johnny give out with his big grand finale note, hanging onto it for dear life as long as he could, but ultimately running out of breath. Silence followed and then sparse

  applause, led by we four women standing behind him. He took a low bow the queen of England would have been proud of. I vaguely thought of how good in bed he had to be for Connie Ellsberg to stick her neck out and bring him up to the thirty-eighth floor. Either that or he had to have a low and dirty secret on her.

  Before we went into our next routine, two songs away from my solo dance, Lila and Gurn whispered something to one another. Then they turned and headed between the crowds toward the art deco wall, where the mysterious door awaited them. I didn’t get a chance to see if they got in for sure, as I was busy dancing the stroll and other silliness. I had to trust in my cohorts’ skills they knew what they were doing, and all was going according to plan.

  I did my big Peter Gunn number, only worried for a moment someone would notice I was pulling out a real revolver from my garter instead of the toy. But no one looked at me, including the audience. I probably could have pulled o
ut a food processer for all they cared.

  At the designated time, I left the stage with the other girls to change into the second and last costume. After I stashed the revolver in the outside zippered compartment of my dance bag, I pulled on what looked like cut up pieces of purple-tinted aluminum foil, tactically glued onto a mesh body stocking. I added the purple Mylar and feathered boa, plus the headdress weighing in at about twenty pounds, which bobbed precariously on my head. Before I went on stage to finish the act, I tried to adjust what little pieces of foil there were over the more personal parts of my body. I looked at a wall clock. Fifteen minutes from now was the real show time.

  After a grand finale that lay flatter than an over processed toupee on a bald man’s head, the performance was over. As fast as I could, I changed into my street clothes, threw my costumes to a sulking Starlight, and with sleight of hand,

  gave Johnny an envelope containing five one-thousand dollar bills. I was done with show biz and none too soon.

  Once out the stage door, I saw Lusty Lou waiting for me by a nearby Roulette table. He pushed his way through folks dressed in tuxedos, sequins, and sparkling tube tops happily losing their money faster than the speed of light. The number of players had picked up. Twelve-thirty at night in a casino is like four o’clock in the afternoon to the rest of the world. I gave a quick glance around to see if Lila and Gurn were nearby, didn’t see them, but decided not to panic. I could panic later, if necessary.

  “You look great, baby. I like your outfit. Skin tight works for you.”

  I looked down and remembered I was wearing an emerald green jumpsuit I’d bought when I was five-pounds lighter. After his comment, I vowed to throw it away when I took it off or maybe lose the weight. Naw, throw it out.

  Before I could reply, he took my arm in a proprietary way and said, “How about stepping into my office for a nightcap? I’ve got all the comforts of home there.”

  Meaning a bed, I’m sure, I thought. I looked down, forced what I hoped was a sexy smile and nodded. He fairly dragged me across the floor to the other side of the casino, jostling players as he moved. He glanced over at me, mistaking my reticence for something else.

  “You’re the little shy one, aren’t you?”

  More like nauseated, bub. “Well, after all,” I said aloud, “I’m awestruck, being with the legendary Mr. Lou Spaulding.”

  “So, now I’m a legend!”

  Not really, toots, I just made that up. I gave out a hollow laugh and threw my hair around, wondering how Hollywood starlets and ladies of the night deal with such idiots.

  Eventually, we made it to the wall on which half-naked pink women forever cavorted amid pale pink, gold, and lavender art deco flowers. A burly, somber man nodded to Spaulding, moved for the half-hidden door and opened it, standing aside. As I suspected and hoped, Spaulding’s office was inside this part of the casino seen by only the privileged few. Well, I tried to console myself; this was one way of getting inside. Now if I could just get out with what remained of my virtue intact, dragging Lila and Gurn back with me.

  We entered a sparsely furnished circular room, maybe a hundred feet in diameter and two or three stories in height. Overhead a domed ceiling, painted black, faded into the darkened atmosphere. In rows of four, huge flat screen TVs hung from black walls starting at about ten feet up from the floor, covering the circumference of the room. Over each set of flat screens, liquid crystal displayed banners of information.

  Below in designated areas, people lounged on white leather lounge chairs, wearing a headset or small ear bud, giving their full attention to the screens before them and the LCDs. Some were being catered to by scantily clad women in pink gossamer costumes serving drinks or croupiers dressed like Gopher on The Love Boat, i.e. black slacks, white shirt, black bowtie, and short white jacket, trimmed in gold piping. The croupiers carried what resembled an iPad, entering stuff into it after chatting with an individual lounging on a white chair.

  I ignored Spaulding’s nudges, and spun around the quiet, intense room. Given the hour, most of the overhead LCDs announced events from the other side of the world. There was bowling from Hong Kong, a game of Bocce Ball

  from the Greek island of Corfu, track car racing from Bucharest, and the beginnings of a tennis match in Amsterdam, all reverently being scrutinized by the lounging, expensively attired customers.

  Other games or contests were going on, but I lost focus trying to find Lila. In this half-light, I knew she would be hard to find given we were dealing with white on white, but I needn’t have worried.

  Just as Spaulding grabbed my arm, Lila’s voice trumpeted in pseudo distress above the other sounds of this relatively quiet room. Much of the activity stopped, and people looked in her direction as she faltered, draped around Gurn’s mighty chest. One thing about Lila, she knows how to make a dramatic entrance or exit.

  “Really, it’s nothing, nothing,” she warbled to one of the attending croupiers, walking right by Spaulding and me. “I have these sudden attacks of asthma and just need to take my medicine.” She sent a fleeting glance in my direction and let out an “Ooooo” sound, almost sliding down Gurn’s chest. What an actress!

  I loosened Spaulding’s grip on me and bolted forward, grabbing her.

  “Oh, my gosh,” I said, in my best Pollyanna voice, “Let me help you.”

  I flung an arm around her waist, and she leaned on me, belting out in fortissimo, “Why, aren’t you sweet? What a lovely young lady. Thank you so much, my dear. What a comfort you are.”

  A small crowd of concerned people gathered around the three of us. Spaulding’s henchmen kept watch from a safe distance, nervous glances thrown now and then in their boss’s direction. Spaulding, himself, looked like a cat watching a juicy mouse scuttle free to the safety of a nearby mouse hole, me being the mouse.

  Gurn piped up, looking at me. “Could you help me take Mrs. Farnsworth to her room?”

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  The three of us moved forward as one, parting the masses like a boat going through water. We passed through the door into the main casino, Spaulding and his men at our heels. The elevator to freedom was within sight, and my heartbeat dropped to a near normal level.

  “Lee! Lee Alvarez!” shouted a voice from the throng. Horace Morgan, our local druggist, stepped forward wearing a plaid suit and tie, his mustache twitching in excitement.

  “I thought it was you on the stage wearing that purple wig. What are you doing here in Las Vegas? My wife and I are here for our fiftieth wedding anniversary.” He noticed Mom and looked at her in confusion. “Mrs. Alvarez! Are you all right? Can I be of assistance?”

  He stepped forward only to be pushed aside by three larger members of Spaulding’s men, who attached themselves to us like metal to a magnet.

  I gaped at Mr. Morgan, who stared at me with an “uh-oh” look on his face. I think it occurred to him as an afterthought what the Alvarez Family did for a living. Meanwhile, Lou Spaulding, his face dark with fury, stepped in front of Mr. Morgan and glared at me.

  “Why, you bitch,” he growled.

  Spaulding gestured to two other men, who glommed onto each side of Gurn. Spaulding was taking no chances. I maneuvered the dance bag around so I had access to the gun, my heart pounding again. I saw Gurn draw himself up into combat mode. This Navy pilot is a formidable opponent, gold chains and all.

  Even Mom, who has been studying karate for only three months, went into a defensive stance. Within a split second, the tension became almost palpable. A small portion of the nearby crowd, including our druggist, began to disperse in an uneasy way, as if not wanting to become involved in something taking an unpleasant route.

  Spaulding noticed the crowd’s reaction and put on a phony smile, saying in a loud voice, “Surely, Mrs. Farnsworth, you don’t want to travel the distance to your suite feeling as poorly as you do. Boys, help the lady and her two friends back inside and into my office, will you? She can rest there.”

  “Mr. S
paulding,” said a commanding bass baritone voice interrupting the proceedings. “A moment of your time.” We all froze at the emanating authority of the voice, even Spaulding. In unison, we turned to the newcomer, a tall but bland-looking man, with dishwater blond hair and pale blue eyes, a man somehow not easy to disobey.

  The speaker pulled out a wallet from an inside pocket of his plain, black suit and dropped it open, flashing identification. He lowered his voice but still spoke with crystal clarity. “Agent Ed Reinhardt, F.B.I. I’d like you to come with me, sir.”

  Suddenly, Spaulding was surrounded by five like men, even down to the suits, who stood two or three feet away but watched him in an intimidating manner. His men had surrounded us, and the F.B.I. men, in turn, surrounded them. There was a lot of surrounding going on.

  “What for?” Spaulding stuttered. His men, thrown by the sudden lack of power from their leader, shuffled their feet and became ill at ease.

  “It’s regarding two accounting ledgers in your name.”

  Spaulding at first was puzzled but seemed relieved. “See my lawyers. That’s what I pay them for.”

  Reinhardt shook his head.

  “No sir. There’s also a matter of a recent execution-style killing. My superiors would like to see you now, sir.”

  He reached over and placed one hand on Spaulding’s shoulder. Spaulding pulled away and grew taller and larger, as if by sheer will. Both sets of secondary men tensed even more. With a sharp breath, I reached inside the dance bag and felt the cold steel of my detective special. If a shootout was imminent, I wanted to be ready.

  Reinhardt removed his hand and grinned, diffusing the situation. He looked around at customers in the casino having a good time. “I’m sure your business partners wouldn’t like a scene, Mr. Spaulding. We all have to answer to somebody, don’t we? Let’s do this the easy way, sir.”

  Spaulding looked at his own men. Shaking his head subtly, he dismissed his underlings, who melted into the crowd. The five FBI agents clustered around Spaulding and ushered him toward the elevator.