Lucky Score

by Deborah Coonts

  I didn’t want to accept that, even though the peal of truth clanged around in my empty skull. With both feet on the floor, I leaned forward, leaving the shelter of Jean-Charles’s arm. “Okay, say you’re right, I’m not quite there, but for the sake of argument, okay?” I glanced at him.

  Not even a hint of a smile to mock me. Raw, vulnerable, shaking with need and fear, I couldn’t handle anything other than sincerity.

  “I know I should know this, maybe even have owned it, but give me the whole skinny. How exactly would all this go?” I unwound my hands, then placed one on one knee, the other on the other, and willed them to stillness. The shaking had stopped. I still felt all tingly inside, like I’d had a near-death experience.

  “Thoughts, you can control.”

  He had much more confidence in me than I did, but I chose not to interrupt.

  “You must know they did their best, know they did not mean to hurt you. Then you can understand.”

  “Okay, then what? Understanding is acceptance and all of that?” Skepticism—one of my best deflection tactics, second only to sarcasm.

  “Not in the way you mean. Then you can understand what happened, that it was not meant in meanness. After that,” he tapped his heart lightly, “after that your humanity will heal your hurts, and you can have a new kind of relationship with those who did these bad things to you.”

  “If they really did it out of meanness?” I knew my parents didn’t, but I wanted Jean-Charles’s complete theory so I could either prove it or abandon it.

  Once again, he surprised me. “If they did this on purpose, then they should be shot at dawn.”

  A laugh burst forth, breaking the tension and my melancholy mood. “I don’t trust easily or well.”

  “Yes, this I see. You must allow time for those of us who love you to prove we are trustworthy. Do not cast me aside just yet because you are afraid. You have a big heart. It has been cracked a few times, I know, but hearts heal. Tell your parents what you hold inside.”

  “What if they react poorly?”

  “You will have the peace of having been heard.”

  “Will it be enough?”

  “You will accept it.”

  Not exactly the answer I wanted while he was reading from his crystal ball and all. Nobody could assure me life would be perfect, but I could promise myself I would make it better.

  The drinking. The anger. The pushing people away. I’d been running from the hurt and hiding from myself.

  And just when I’d hoped being an adult would be a smoother ride.

  “You have seen me in my life, my story. In that way, you get to see behind the curtain, if you will. Shouldn’t I get to see you in the same light?” Not only fair, it was imperative if I was going to build a future with this man.

  “Indeed. You must see me in the place of my heart. We will go to France.”

  “To Provence?”

  “No, to Paris.”

  “Paris?”

  “Yes, when I was a small boy, my parents sent me to live with my grandmother. She lived in the Marais, which wasn’t nearly as fashionable then. We are an old family. We have much property but for a time, very little money. My parents could not bring the vineyards back to life and raise my sister and me. They kept my sister with them.”

  The little girl inside flinched—a similar story to mine. “How old were you?”

  “Seven.” He patted my knee. “But it was Paris! In the Marais, there are many different shops, one for the meat, one for the cheese, one for the wine. The vendors, the ladies with their baskets haggling, debating the merits of one cheese or another, whether it was a good season for that cheese. I was mesmerized.”

  “There’s a season for cheese?”

  “Mais oui!”

  “I never knew.”

  “Most days I would not go to school, and I would spend the day learning from everyone. My favorite was baking. From there, I fell in love with food preparation and presentation.”

  “And your grandmother?”

  “She would beat me, but I would not stop. Finally, she threatened the baker. He made a deal with her. I would go to school in the morning and then apprentice to him the rest of the day. He paid me in food, a deal my grandmother could not turn down. It is where I grew up and became me.”

  “You will show me these places?”

  “Oui. The baker, he is old now. His son runs the boulangerie. His daughter, she has a patisserie one block down. The cheesemonger is still there fighting with the Jewish ladies who want the best cheese for pennies.” His face lit up at the memories.

  “And your parents?”

  “They had no choice.” A message lingered in the words.

  Perhaps my parents hadn’t had a choice either. “I have a few things I need to wrap up here.”

  “When do you not?” His smile rounded what could’ve been an accusation into a tease. “But the senator, he is a problem, no?”

  “Well, not personally.”

  “Yes, he is dead. I know this. I am sorry.”

  Even with only a few hints into Lake’s game, I thought perhaps Jean-Charles was one of a handful who might feel that way. “There are a few complications.”

  “Murder. Emotion. Always complications. When do you think you might be able to go to France, then?”

  Right now! The little girl inside me screamed. I wanted to run away from all the unpleasantness I had to face. But the running had to stop, right here, right now. If Jean-Charles and I didn’t work out, it wouldn’t be because I was running away from things that scared me, that had hurt so much in the past, a raw wound Teddie had ground salt into. “Hard to say. A couple of weeks?” With all on my plate and Romeo and Jerry both on the sidelines, I thought that a bit optimistic, but hope springs eternal. Was I already sabotaging the trip? I thought about that for a moment. If I was, I was hiding it from myself. Knowing me, not out of the realm of possibilities. Despite best-laid plans, I was still a work in progress…and would be for a long time, I suspected.

  “Sure.”

  He stood, then pulled me to my feet. “I need to go argue with a meat purveyor and the cheese man; both are trying to rob me blind.”

  And I need to…what? Catch a killer? Catch a thief? Save a friend? Save myself?

  My priorities were proving to be a bit problematic.

  Jean-Charles folded me into an embrace. Was he drawing strength from me or the other way around? I hoped it was mutual—that sounded like a good balance. One thing I did know: If he turned out not to be the one, I’d sure miss his touch.

  “How is Christophe?” I whispered against his skin.

  “He is desolate. I cannot make your happy face pancakes the way you do.”

  I couldn’t imagine breaking the boy’s heart. But I couldn’t imagine living a life other than the perfect one for me either.

  As if Jean-Charles could read my thoughts, he whispered, “We will both be fine, in time. You must do what is right for you.”

  WITH A SIXTH SENSE that was as spot-on as it was disconcerting, Miss P walked through the office doorway, sidestepping Jean-Charles, who dipped his chin and smiled as he walked out.

  “Been having fun?” Miss P’s snark couldn’t quite hide her concern. She thrust a familiar white bag with a red-and-yellow palm tree logo at me. “Double-double. Animal style. Two orders of fries, extra crisp. And a diet soda. No joy juice until your liver is back in the pink.”

  My knees threatened to buckle. “In-N-Out, the best hangover cure known to man. I should double your salary.”

  “Just give me a hug.” She pulled back the bag and started unloading the contents, spreading them on an unfolded napkin on my desk. “It’s not about money. We never have been.”

  I did as she asked, squeezing her tighter and holding her longer than necessary because I felt like it.

  She went back to unwrapping my hamburgers. The aroma alone took away the pain. The food filled the void. One comfort for another—not always healthy for the body, bu
t sometimes the only thing that would heal the soul.

  “You got some for yourself?” I asked with my mouth full. My mother, Mona, would be appalled, which made me proud. Mona, with the heightened sensibilities of a reformed hooker, knew Miss Manners backward and forward. My father grew up in the Mobbed-up Vegas and made a name for himself in the corporate-run rendition. My family—quixotic to be kind. Batshit crazy to be more accurate. And me, where did I fit? I didn’t know, but I felt right at home.

  Home.

  Maybe that’s what Jean-Charles threatened.

  A girl was supposed to leave her father’s house. I’d just found my father. And it dawned on me that I had never left his house—I’d just made it mine. Was that the same as leaving or staying? Who knew?

  Miss P perched across from me and retrieved a much smaller sack from the bag for herself.

  In the comfort of friends, we both said nothing as we shared the fine repast.

  Curiously, even though my stomach hurt as I pushed away from the desk and leaned back in my chair, all the other parts that previously had been filled with pain had quieted. “We’ve got one hell of a mess.”

  “By my count, we have three, maybe four.” Miss P meticulously folded the paper wrapper from her hamburger, a dainty single, no cheese, and then flattened the box her fries had come in before slipping them back into the sack—her way of forcing order out of chaos.

  That sort of OCD thing made me nuts, but it seemed to help her find calm.

  I cocked one eyebrow at her, which she studiously avoided. “Are you ready now?”

  “Quite.” She pulled the pad on my desk around to face her, then found a pen under the unsigned papers, corporate memos, and other time sucks that had found their way into the pile.

  “Jeremy—” I began.

  “On his way.”

  Jeremy was Miss P’s much younger husband—an Aussie hunk that set many hearts swooning. But she had won his, earning my eternal appreciation. Miss P was the poster child for the be-yourself-and-your-life-will-find-you cult of modern living. I’d love to be an acolyte, but their teachings eluded me.

  “Okay.” I wadded up the detritus of my feeding and tossed it over Miss P’s head at the waste can across the room. Some of it made it. Some didn’t. A few fries landed in her lap. “Sorry.”

  Miss P plucked at them as she muttered, “So passive aggressive.”

  “I heard that.”

  “I hope so,” she said with a grin as she tossed the fries at the can. They went in…all of them.

  Clutching at straws, I tried not to find irony in wayward French fries. “Thank you for the meal. I feel much better. And I know we’re not about money, not totally. I’d be lost without you.”

  Warmth filled her smile. “I like you much better when you’re a grown-up.”

  “Me, too, but I’m still a work in progress, so going all adult is still championship stuff. You can’t expect it all the time.”

  “Aren’t we all?” She must’ve seen my surprise as she continued, “What you see on the outside doesn’t always mirror what’s happening on the inside.”

  “Fake it until you become it?” One of Mona’s favorite lines. She’d lived it, and she’d made it real. Miss P had also manifested her happiness. Maybe there was something there.

  “Exactly. So, Jeremy will be here any minute. You can tell him what plans you have for him.” Along with being Miss P’s squeeze, Jeremy was Vegas’s primo private investigator. “What else?” She held her pen poised over the pad.

  “Has Vivienne been able to track down Fox?”

  “No. And his shift started an hour ago.”

  “A no-show?”

  Miss P nodded, her lips a thin, tight line.

  Any way I looked at that it came out as so not good, but there was nothing I could do, not at the moment anyway. “Well, have her keep looking and keep us posted. Right now, you and I need to track down some missing baubles.”

  “Oh! Fieldwork.”

  Her conspiratorial tone made me laugh, then sobered me up. “We’re not the goddamn FBI. This will be an information-gathering expedition. Do I need to remind you someone has already died?”

  That didn’t even dim the wattage. “Where are we going?”

  I glanced at my phone. “It’ll be dark soon. I’m thinking we need to do some shopping.” I had hours until the party. What could go wrong?

  For a moment, confusion crinkled her brows, then the light dawned. “You can find such interesting things at a pawnshop these days. Especially in Vegas.”

  “Indeed. Even, perhaps, some baubles that might have been reported stolen. Send some food and high-end wine to Bungalow 7. ”

  “How high-end?”

  “Enough to convey a bit of suck-up and my sincerest apologies for the break-in. Make the whole presentation sufficient to keep them gloating for a bit.”

  She practically vibrated with excitement. Personally, skulking around dark alleys in shady parts of downtown wasn’t on my top ten of cool things to do, but I had been awfully short-sighted recently.

  “Beau Boudreaux paid Sergio under the table for access to the Secret Suite.”

  She finished taking notes before she looked up. “How much?”

  “Ten grand, according to Sergio, but once you breach trust, everything you say becomes suspect.”

  “A tenth of his salary.”

  “Less.”

  “Does he need the money?”

  “Not that I know of.” I paused, which sharpened her attention. “He said Romeo asked him to do it.”

  That caught her flat-footed. Her composure returned quickly. “Have you asked Romeo?”

  “He confirms.”

  “Going behind your back, it must be serious.”

  “That’s what I thought—well, after I thought about killing him.”

  “I applaud your restraint.”

  I was feeling better by the moment “He’s involved in all of this somehow, and he’s up to his eyeballs and sinking fast.”

  “An explanation, not an excuse.”

  “He’s young and stupid, and it’s our job to see he gets an opportunity to grow older and learn the error of his ways.”

  She snorted. “You just want the chance to rub his nose in it.”

  “There’s that.”

  “And Sergio?” she asked.

  “Romeo lied to him. He told him I knew.”

  “You’re his boss. He should’ve cleared it with you.”

  I shrugged. Romeo, known to all as my friend, had led him astray. I got it.

  Miss P looked at me askance. “You’re getting soft.”

  “Stones and glass houses. The more you live, the more human you become.”

  Life: I suspected learning was really just growing tired of fighting.

  For a moment, I let my brain rest. As long as I could remember there had always been another rung on the ladder to climb to, something else to prove, although now I wondered who to. I’d never learned to vacate, to relax.

  A singularly American affliction.

  Jean-Charles could lose himself in a glass of fine wine and a performance of classical music.

  Balance.

  I could identify it even if I couldn’t attain it.

  “We’ve got to save Romeo.”

  Miss P, her cheaters perched on the end of her nose, her classic Chanel jacket and Katherine Hepburn slacks looking a bit creased after the long day, looked up from her sheaf of papers. “Maybe he doesn’t want or need to be saved.”

  “And that would make me irrelevant, so I’m not even going to entertain that possibility.”

  “Oh, honey, you don’t need to save everyone to be relevant.”

  “For now I do, and our young detective has gone Lone Ranger.”

  “I see.” She nodded once to hide a sigh. “And this time you are Tonto.”

  “I’m his friend.”

  “One he probably doesn’t deserve. None of us do. Have you seen this?” she asked, diving back into th
e sheaf of papers she clutched.

  At least she’d let me step on my own landmines. “I have keen powers of observation, but I’m not clairvoyant.”

  She raised an eyebrow, nonplussed. “A simple no would suffice.”

  I opened my mouth to argue I couldn’t say yes or no since I had no idea what “this” was, but I was too tired even to sniff the bait. So I waited. Good things coming to those who wait and all. Yes, to pass the frustration, I played cliché games with myself. I found that was far less risky than saying them out loud for people to scoff at.

  “This is a copy of the insurance claim Lipschitz and Godwin have filed with our insurance company.”

  I snapped my fingers as I held out my hand. Rude, but my veneer thinned under stress.

  I scanned through the list—they’d even included pictures. “Somewhere in this list is a clue as to who stole all this stuff. Did they leave anything behind?”

  “Interesting question.”

  “If they did, it won’t be in the hotel room. They’ll have taken it back to the pawnshop.”

  “We are going undercover, aren’t we?” Her voice held a breathy tone.

  “No,” Jeremy said as he strode into the room. “You are Head of Customer Relations. You do not slide under the radar.” He silenced Miss P’s argument with a kiss…a really good kiss from the looks of it. If his wavy hair, golden-flecked eyes, strong features, and soft manner didn’t turn a female’s knees to water, his accent would melt the hardest heart. “You tell her,” he said to me, catching me mid-fantasy.

  “Tell her what?”

  He settled on the couch, his legs stretching for miles in front of him. He pulled Miss P to his lap, but she chose a safer, more dignified position next to him. “Never mind. You’re the leader of the foolhardy and fearless. You’d be no help.”

  “Was that a compliment or a cut?” I raised my hand and closed my eyes for a moment to refocus. Enough fun and games. “Romeo has a problem. I can’t tell you what exactly, but I need you to follow someone, let me know who he meets with, where he goes, where he takes a piss or buys drugs. You know the drill.”

  “Stalking, spying, and not being discovered. I’m your guy.”

  “You don’t know how happy that makes me feel,” Miss P deadpanned.