Magnolia Moonlight

by Mary Ellis

  “Could we?” Isabelle jumped up, revitalized. “Maybe Craig doesn’t owe too much money yet. Maybe we could get him into treatment before he leverages their entire future.”

  Nate stifled a wry laugh. “How do you suggest we manage this? Go undercover at the Golden Magnolia Casino?”

  “Well, yes. You’re a PI. You’ve had training in these things.”

  “Neither of us knows anything about gambling. We’d stick out like vegans at a barbecue rib cook-off.”

  “We’ll pretend we’re bumpkin tourists trying to learn the games.” Isabelle pulled him to his feet.

  “No pretending necessary. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “To bed. If we’re going undercover, we both need a good night’s sleep.”

  And that was the sanest idea they would have for quite some time.

  Nate waited until breakfast to point out that mornings—or even afternoons—weren’t the best time for casino surveillance. Because Craig preferred all-night marathons, Isabelle agreed to spend the day at the beach followed by a long afternoon nap. That evening Nate and Isabelle showed up at the Golden Magnolia with a camera slung around his neck and Isabelle in a huge straw hat. Looking like quintessential tourists, they strolled through the elegant lobby as though they had all the time in the world. Nate stopped at the first row of slot machines they came to.

  “Should I get a roll of quarters from the cashier window?” Isabelle asked, hooking her arm through his elbow.

  “Machines no longer take coins. This one doesn’t even have a handle. You insert paper money here…like a fifty or a hundred-dollar bill.” Nate pointed at a slot on the Triple Wild Cherry machine.

  Isabelle squeezed his arm. “Don’t you dare! We’ll wager a ten-spot. That should be enough to get the idea.”

  Nate inserted a crisp Hamilton, pushed the button, and watched the electronic wheels spin. Taking turns at the button, Nate and Isabelle watched their forty quarters dip precariously low, soar to a high-water mark of sixty-two, and then steadily diminish to zero. But plenty of flashing lights and sound effects livened up the ten-minute session.

  “Well, that was fun. Now let’s go find the poker tables.” Isabelle dragged him down the center aisle. “Craig’s favorite game was Texas Hold’em.”

  “Those look like poker tables in the middle of the casino.” Nate read the brass placards as they passed each table. “Caribbean Stud, Pai Gow Poker, Let It Ride, and Texas Hold’em on the end.”

  “We can watch from here,” whispered Isabelle, pulling him behind a marble pillar.

  They moved from one clandestine vantage point to the next, studying the faces of the gamblers, but Craig was nowhere to be found.

  “This might be his night off,” Nate observed. “What do you say we hit the buffet? I could use a bite to eat.”

  Isabelle wasn’t easily deterred. As a well-dressed casino employee walked by, she stepped into his path. “Excuse me, sir. We’re Isabelle and Nate Price from Natchez. Are these your most expensive poker tables?” She produced a megawatt smile. “I see the minimum bet is only ten dollars. Where can we win bigger jackpots?”

  Elliott Lacey, casino host, according to his name tag, was momentarily speechless. “How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Price. Welcome to the Golden Magnolia.” He shook hands with Nate. “We have a poker room if you wish to play against other players. Opening bids vary, as well as the size of the pots.”

  “Would you mind terribly escorting us there?” asked Isabelle, her drawl thickening. “I would like to observe so that I might properly advise my daddy back home. I promise not to stay long or disrupt anyone’s concentration.” She made an X motion across her heart.

  Daddy? Nate had never met his father-in-law because he had passed on years ago.

  Mr. Lacey smiled and extended his elbow to Isabelle. “I’m on my break, ma’am, so it would be my pleasure.”

  Nate wouldn’t have believed her flirtatious behavior if he hadn’t witnessed it himself. He fell in behind them, eager to see what she would do next.

  Inside the high-stakes room, the lighting and furnishings were expensive, the waitresses better attired, and the mood subdued. Two tables were active with eight players at each. No bells and whistles, no rock music in the background, and nobody jumping up shouting, “Jackpot!” It didn’t take them long to realize Craig wasn’t one of these players either.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lacey. I’ve seen enough.”

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Price.” He bobbed his head politely and wandered into the crowd.

  Isabelle sagged into Nate’s side. “What are we going to do?” she wailed.

  “Wait here a moment.” Nate hurried after the helpful casino host. “Excuse me, sir. We’re trying to track down an ex-husband who plays poker here. Are these the only poker games taking place inside this casino?”

  Mr. Lacey studied him and then glanced back at Isabelle. “There are private games in the high-stakes rooms any given night of the week, but those are by invitation only. A player doesn’t just walk in, and no one observes the games. If your wife knew her ex-husband’s casino host, he or she might be of more assistance.”

  “Thanks. We appreciate your help.” Nate shook the man’s hand, but he refused to share that with his wife until they were seated inside the buffet restaurant.

  Isabelle mulled over the new information as she ate a modest portion of baked chicken, potato salad, and peach cobbler. “That has to be where he is—in one of those all-night games in a hotel room. Oh, my. Craig could get into plenty of trouble if he doesn’t know when to hold ’em, when to fold ’em, and when to walk away.”

  “Are you going to break into a Kenny Rogers song?” Nate dug into his self-made ice-cream sundae.

  “Would you please take this seriously?” Isabelle sounded like a feral cat.

  “I am taking this seriously, but we’ve hit a brick wall. We’re not rated players, and we don’t have a fat wad of cash. So we’re not getting inside those games, no matter how much you bat your eyelashes. Let’s go back to our room.”

  She blushed with embarrassment. “I don’t want to play poker. I only want to find out what Craig’s up to. Let’s buy a foo-foo cocktail and stake out the elevators. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Fine, but only for the duration of one drink.” Nate pushed away his remaining dessert, his stomach at maximum capacity.

  After purchasing virgin mai tais, they settled onto a banquette in the lobby. Amazingly, Craig strolled into the Golden Magnolia Casino a few minutes later wearing dark glasses and a baseball cap. Nate hid behind a copy of USA Today, while Isabelle peeked from behind a brochure for parasailing. Craig walked to the elevator and pressed the button.

  The moment the elevator door closed, Isabelle jumped up to follow him. Nate watched the numbers light up on the overhead display. Craig’s elevator stopped at the seventeenth floor. When the adjacent door opened, Isabelle practically bowled over the people exiting. “Excuse us,” Nate mumbled as he squeezed past. “Bit of a family emergency.”

  “We need to hurry to see which suite he enters,” she said, pressing the numeral seventeen. Yet no matter how many times she punched the button, Isabelle couldn’t select the seventeenth floor.

  “Izzy, stop. You need a key card to access floors fifteen and above.” Nate pointed to a small sign.

  “Oh, dear, what are we going to do?” His wife sounded close to tears.

  Another passenger, a young cocktail waitress, took pity on them. “You don’t want to play up there, honey. The minimum buy-in is thirty K for tonight’s game.”

  “Buy-in?” Isabelle asked, wide-eyed.

  “The amount needed to get in the game. Thirty thousand, minimum,” the waitress repeated.

  “Ohhh.” Isabelle dragged out the single syllable. “We were playing Triple Wild Cherry slots, and I thought it might be fun to play Texas Hold’em like on TV. We’re on our honeymoon.”

  “Save your money. Only one person walks away from the tabl
e a winner. Everybody else had better be rich so they don’t need the cash. I have something you’ll enjoy more.” The girl dug two coupons from her pocket. “Free buffets on the house. Good anytime.”

  “Thank you,” they said simultaneously.

  On the way back down, the cocktail waitress stepped out on the ninth floor. “Enjoy your honeymoon, folks. Thanks for coming to the Golden Magnolia.”

  Nate and Isabelle rode the elevator to the basement and then up again.

  “Thirty thousand dollars,” Isabelle muttered as they reached the lobby. “Where on earth would Craig get a buy-in like that?”

  Where indeed?

  Before leaving the casino, Nate bought two more fake mai tais to take back to their B and B. Sitting by the water, sipping something coconuty, he felt content. But something told him the new sleuth of Bay St. Louis was just getting started.

  TWENTY

  Natchez

  Michael drove to the office of Price Investigations on Friday with confidence he would succeed at his newfound career. At long last he had something to offer besides stupid questions and demands for special training as though this was summer camp for thirty-year-olds. He and Beth had spent yesterday apart, studying evidence, following leads, and sorting out the suspects. Today he would present his case.

  When Michael walked into the office, Beth was sitting at Nate’s desk studying the doodles on his desk blotter. “Trying that out for size?” he asked, settling in a guest chair. “Nate is too young to retire.”

  Beth rocked back and forth with a big grin. “I expect rapid advancement up the ranks, mainly because I’m so cute.”

  “There goes political correctness out the window.” Michael broke eye contact, her overconfidence effectively undermining his. “Is Maxine still on vacation?”

  “She is. I’m hoping she’s someplace fun and not home washing windows.” Beth poured a handful of M&M’s from a bag in a drawer.

  “Aren’t those Nate’s? And did you know you left the front door wide open?”

  “Yes, on both counts. Crime is nonexistent in Natchez before noon. Bad people always sleep late. Anyway, I’m ready for whoever walks in.” Beth lifted her foot to the desktop and pulled up her pant leg. “Twenty-two caliber with seven in the clip.” She turned her ankle to show off the holster.

  “How many guns do you own?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “Six or seven, plus a bazooka and a cannon.” Her blue eyes sparkled.

  “You’re joking about the artillery, right?”

  “I am. What did you find out yesterday?” She lowered her foot to the floor.

  Michael took the file from his leather briefcase. Clearing his throat, he concentrated on his notes. “First off, I called Mrs. Dean and asked if I could revisit the pastor’s study. She wouldn’t allow it because she was leaving town. She’s taking Katie to her sister’s for a few days. I asked if I could borrow their computer, and she said absolutely not. When I mentioned Buckley had returned, she grew incensed.” He paused, waiting for Beth’s reaction.

  She stopped rocking. “Do tell all, Mr. Preston.”

  “Mrs. Dean asked if he was still spreading nasty rumors about her husband. Apparently, Buckley thought Reverend Dean was either losing his mind or had early onset Alzheimer’s. She insisted the allegations were ‘a crock’ and ‘who doesn’t occasionally forget where they left their keys or wallet?’ I had to agree with her.”

  “Me too, for what it’s worth. Just yesterday I put a roll of waxed paper in the fridge. Distraction makes us look silly. Sounds like Ralphie’s trying to regain control of the money.”

  “That’s what I thought. Mrs. Dean knew about Buckley’s aggressive investments and suspected he was also skimming profits.” Michael reached for the bag of M&M’s. “Not that I’ve found evidence of that. I’m just repeating Mrs. Dean’s conjectures.”

  “Duly noted, Sherlock.”

  Michael felt himself blush, a habit he couldn’t seem to break. He refocused on his notes. “Mrs. Dean also provided verbal confirmation that her husband controlled the account for the past several months.”

  “Works for me. What else?” Beth grabbed the bag for another handful and returned the bag to its drawer.

  “I spent the rest of yesterday studying the detective’s report and the autopsy results for the alleged suicide. Thanks, by the way, for giving me copies. They helped to clarify the case. And thanks for target practice and supper at your aunt’s house. The meal was delicious.”

  Beth burst out laughing. “It was chicken and rice with corn on the cob. Not exactly nouvelle cuisine from the Food Network.”

  “It was gourmet by my standards. I live alone and never learned how to cook.”

  “Also duly noted, and you’re welcome. My aunt really liked you.” Beth wiggled her eyebrows. “Don’t say you weren’t warned, Preston.”

  “Getting back to the police report…” Michael refused to reveal how easily she embarrassed him. “According to Detective Lejeune, no fingerprints were on the rope. Isn’t that odd? Why would somebody planning to kill himself bother to wear gloves? No gloves were found at the scene, but if somebody helped Reverend Dean, he or she would certainly have taken them with them.” Michael looked up from his notes.

  Beth remained devoid of expression. “Go on,” she prodded. “I’m listening.”

  “I checked with Mrs. Purdy. On the day Reverend Dean died, he left the church before two o’clock. He told her he was needed at home, but neither his wife nor his daughter was home until much later that day. The pastor had given his wife the impression he would be visiting shut-ins. But there were no appointments on either his office calendar or his day planner at home. I checked into this—Paul Dean was meticulous about writing appointments down, both at church and at home. He even wrote ‘take out trash’ on the calendar.”

  Beth cocked her head. “Okay. What conclusion can you draw?”

  “Somebody was coming to the house, someone the pastor didn’t want anyone else to know about.” Michael spoke the words as quickly as possible, as though confessing to a personal crime.

  “That’s valid because the timetable doesn’t line up with what he told his wife and assistant. Keep talking. You’re on a pretty good roll.”

  Her flippancy hit a nerve. “Facts are facts, Elizabeth. Reverend Dean told two different stories.”

  “I agree.” Beth pulled a bottle of water from her bag and chugged down half of it. “What else?”

  Michael collected his thoughts. “According to the coroner’s report, two separate bruises were found on the victim’s neck. They were close together yet distinctive. As though there were two separate incidents of hanging. The first attempt damaged the windpipe and would have made it difficult to talk or breathe, but it wouldn’t have incapacitated the victim. Reverend Dean would have had to shorten the rope and climb back on the stool for another try. This time he succeeded in breaking his neck and dying within moments.”

  Beth flinched from the mental picture painted with his description. “How awful,” she murmured.

  “Truly, if that’s how it went down. But I don’t think a scrawny man like Reverend Dean had the physical or emotional wherewithal to try again. I believe someone else shortened the noose and forced the pastor back onto that stool. Furthermore, Buckley possesses the upper body strength along with sufficient motive to carry this out. Reverend Dean probably figured out that the guy was trying to regain control by spreading rumors. If Reverend Dean decided to confront him, Buckley might have panicked and taken matters into his own hands.”

  “Could you make this sound less like a game of Clue?”

  Michael felt his blood pressure begin to rise. “Sorry if my delivery doesn’t live up to expectations, but I think I’m on to something.”

  Beth straightened in her chair. “Actually, your conclusions surpassed my wildest expectations, and your delivery was fine. I just have the bad habit of making jokes out of things that upset me. I’m sorry.”

  She’d
spoken the final two words softly, but Michael heard them clearly. “Then this will be good for us both,” he said after a few moments. “I might need to lighten up.”

  “And I’ll be the first Kirby to develop a sensitive side.” Beth pulled open the drawer. “M&M’s as a peace offering?”

  “Not unless they actually belong to you, and I sure hope you plan to replace Nate’s candy.”

  “Fair enough.” She shut the drawer. “What should we do with your conjectures?”

  “Let’s ask the detective if this type of rope retains fingerprints. If someone in the Natchez PD agrees with my assessment, maybe we can raise reasonable doubt in the mind of the coroner. We need another medical opinion about the second hanging attempt. Of course, Mrs. Dean would have to agree to exhume the body, but she might be willing based on the evidence. I believe if the pastor failed during his first attempt, Mrs. Dean would have found him injured but alive when she got home.”

  “Or their daughter.” Beth covered her face with her hands. “What an awful thought. Paul Dean never would have subjected his family to that.” She jumped to her feet. “You done good, partner. I’ll go talk to Detective Lejeune. He was the lead detective during the investigation.”

  “Let’s both talk to him. I can learn a lot from watching you interact with Natchez’s men and women in blue.”

  “No, I must do this alone.”

  “I’ll keep quiet and listen this time, Elizabeth. You have my word.”

  “I believe you, but Detective Lejeune was my old partner on the job before his promotion. In fact, his promotion came mainly because I left. We have plenty of past history and most of it isn’t warm and fuzzy.”

  “So this has nothing to do with me?”

  “Not a thing, honest. We’ll meet later after I talk with Lejeune.” Beth strode toward the door and then stopped in her tracks. “I owe you more explanation than that.”

  “You owe me M&M’s purchased with your own money. Nothing more.” Despite his denial, Michael secretly hoped she would spill her guts.