by Mary Ellis
“Remember when we saw a clip from the World Series of Poker? That one young man in dark glasses and a hoodie looked like a bank robber. But I fail to see what the rants from sore losers have to do with Craig.”
“To help Craig we need to understand the fundamentals of the game. A few whales that got burned in April in Shreveport were later burned in Tunica in May.”
“I take it whales are the big-money gamblers. We lost ten bucks at the slot machine. What species of fish does that make us—pickerel?” Her grin lit up her whole face.
“More like guppies. Problem is, not one of the players remembers the same winner at both places.”
Isabelle shook her silky mane of hair. “There’s your answer—sour grapes. You go to bed while I head to the porch to see what specialty Mrs. Russo cooked up today. You can eat your share of breakfast for lunch.”
“Maybe it’s not sour grapes. I think it’s some kind of an organized poker ring, but I don’t understand the game well enough to see how Craig ties in.”
“Craig is an addicted, compulsive gambler with only himself to blame. He would probably waste his last dollar on a long shot.”
“Nevertheless, I have an appointment at the Golden Magnolia Casino in a few hours. I want to know if Craig is winning or losing fairly. I’m buying the head of security lunch in exchange for information as a professional courtesy.”
“What professional courtesy? Your agency’s ongoing case involves the murder of a Baptist preacher.”
Nate rubbed his tired eyes. “I said I’d been hired by an ex-wife to investigate a compulsive gambler and possible card cheat. I’m doing this for you, Izzy. You’re just not paying me. Care to come with me? Lunch will be fabulous.”
“You can stretch the truth thinner than cellophane.” Isabelle placed both hands on her hips. “I’ll pass on lunch and go shopping instead. I need to pick up something for the other agents, my broker, and your assistant. Plus, I still haven’t found a gift for your cousin yet. Nicki and Hunter’s baby shower is in a few weeks. Set your alarm for noon and get some sleep. I’ll see you this afternoon.” Isabelle waved and closed the door behind her.
Nate was left alone with a dull headache. If ever he needed her to come with him, it was today. Whether whale, pickerel, or guppy, he was a fish out of water. Having a beautiful woman along when he talked to casino security might have been an ace up his sleeve.
THIRTY-THREE
It didn’t take Isabelle long to feel guilty. Was guilt genetically hardwired into female DNA? Or was it something every American mother felt it her duty to instill in daughters? Personally, she would have preferred the ability to make a soufflé or speak multiple languages or solve a Level 3 Sudoku puzzle. She should have accompanied Nate to his appointment. Neither of them knew much about poker, but she was the one who had dragged him into this mess.
Isabelle began shopping for gifts like a crazy contestant in a reality show. She ran up and down boutique aisles grabbing gifts while ticking off the recipient’s name on her mental tally board: embroidered tablecloth for Maxine, Bay St. Louis golf shirt for her boss, hand-painted scarves for the other real estate agents—each unique in pattern and color. Her biggest challenge was finding an appropriate gift for Nate’s cousin. Nicki and Hunter were expecting their first child in a few months. The baby shower could be the season’s biggest event in New Orleans’ Garden District. Isabelle found a hand-crocheted sweater with matching hat and booties at an adorable but overpriced children’s boutique. Pale yellow would be perfect for the new baby whether boy or girl. Grabbing a half-dozen “Life is better on the Gulf Coast” T-shirts for miscellaneous souvenirs, Isabelle practically ran back to the B and B.
When Nate padded onto the porch foggy-brained at noon, she was curled up in a chair reading a novel. “Hi, handsome. Is that offer of lunch still open? I worked up quite an appetite spending your money.”
“Done so soon? I didn’t think I’d see you till suppertime, unless the bank canceled our credit card.” Nate combed his hair with his fingers.
“I decided to go with you. If I hadn’t stuck my nose into my ex’s business, you would only have your tan to work on this trip.”
Nate offered the smile that won her heart the first time she saw it. Or maybe it’d been the second…or the twenty-third, but nonetheless it had won her heart. “Skin cancer should be taken seriously. Your nosiness might have saved me from painful treatments down the road. I’ll jump in the shower and then we’ll be off.” Nate ducked back into their suite.
Thirty minutes later he reappeared, looking splendid in chinos, a linen sport coat, and a silk shirt open at the neck. “What an improvement,” she said, remembering his baggy shorts and ripped MSU shirt at yesterday’s breakfast. “How come you don’t get this spiffy when we go out to dinner?”
“Casino executives are always dapper. Haven’t you ever watched a James Bond movie? The better I dress, the more respect I’ll receive.”
On the drive to the Golden Magnolia, Isabelle had no idea what to expect. But when the head of security met them at the front entrance, she had to agree her husband was right. Although not as handsome as the actors who played James Bond, his charcoal-gray suit was impeccable and his silver hair expertly cut. Art Lewis greeted them warmly.
“Do you have a preference where we have lunch?” he asked.
“Yes, I’d like to eat at the Champion Grill here in the hotel,” said Nate. “The reviews are great.”
Isabelle wasn’t sure when Nate had done his homework, but Mr. Lewis was pleased with his choice. “My favorite! Why don’t I lead the way and share some stories about the changes we made after Hurricane Katrina? Although the casino was totally destroyed, this beautiful old gal is now better than ever.”
Over entrées of chicken Caesar salad and iced tea, Nate first explained his line of work and then described what was going on with Craig Mitchell.
“I’m certain he’s involved against his will with pressure from a gang of card cheats,” Isabelle interjected. “Craig loves Cassie—that’s his second wife—and he wouldn’t just up and move to Bay St. Louis to resume his old lifestyle.”
Mr. Lewis, who had been listening politely, dabbed his mouth. “I’m sure you know the man better than anyone, Mrs. Price, but gambling becomes an addiction for one to two percent of the population, no different than drugs or alcohol. Relapses, unfortunately, are commonplace until he or she kicks the habit for good.”
“I’m surprised to hear a casino executive admit this. You derive your income from folks losing their hard-earned money at the tables and one-armed bandits.” Isabelle felt Nate’s leg bump her under the table. “No offense, Mr. Lewis.”
“None taken, Mrs. Price,” he said, smiling. “Although it’s been years since I heard them called that. The Golden Magnolia offers a complete entertainment experience—golf, spa facilities, a marina and RV park, delicious dining, exciting shows, and yes, gaming for those who wish to wager discretionary dollars. We have no desire to bankrupt people or break up families. For those who think they might have a problem, information about Gamblers Anonymous is available throughout our facility, along with our voluntary self-exclusion program.”
“Good to know. That’s what Craig needs to do.” Nate reached for another crusty roll.
“Besides, it would be very hard to force someone to play Texas Hold’em, especially if you wanted them to win.” Mr. Lewis punctuated the sentence with a wink, aimed straight at her.
Unconvinced, Isabelle pressed the issue. “Craig is a good poker player. He’s also very lucky. Maybe someone is forcing him to keep increasing his bets each time he’s dealt a good hand until the pot is huge.” She used her fingers to indicate a large pile of chips. “Then Craig throws down his winning hand and sweeps in everyone’s money.” Isabelle raked the imaginary pot of gold toward her lap.
Mr. Lewis looked at Nate, both men momentarily speechless.
“We only watched poker a short while one evening,” explained Nate. “Is
abelle doesn’t exactly understand the game.” Wisely he omitted the detail about their ten-dollar loss at Triple Wild Cherry.
“Truly great hands are few and far between, ma’am.” Mr. Lewis’s focus returned to her, and his tone turned solicitous. “Poker is all about reading your opponents without revealing your own hand. Bluffing, if you please. I’ve seen people win a hundred thousand dollars on a pair of jacks because the other players folded, including some who would have won had they stayed in. Usually, you don’t find out what the folded hands contained, but once in a while a player loses his cool.”
“Do you play poker?” asked Isabelle.
“Occasionally, but not in Mississippi. If I get the urge to play, I fly to Las Vegas.”
Nate stopped eating his salad and set down his fork. “So you’re saying Craig is most likely playing of his own volition.”
“I can’t imagine it any other way.” Mr. Lewis pushed away his half-eaten lunch.
“Thugs might be blackmailing him,” blurted out Isabelle. “And forcing him to count cards.”
“You’re thinking of blackjack, Mrs. Price. You can’t count cards in Texas Hold’em.” He discreetly glanced at his watch.
“Are you saying it’s impossible to cheat at poker?” she asked.
“I’ve been around long enough to know anything is possible.” A dimple appeared in Mr. Lewis’s cheek. “Although I hope your ex-husband reconciles with his wife, my job is to protect the financial interests of this casino. Would you like me to plug his photo into our system? Facial recognition will alert security when he walks through the door. If he is cheating, he won’t be cheating for long.”
“No, please don’t do that.” Impulsively, Isabelle grabbed the man’s arm. “If Craig finds out I tipped you off, he’ll kill me.”
Apparently giving up on her, Mr. Lewis swiveled around to Nate. “I’m unsure what you want me to do, Mr. Price.”
“My wife uses the term ‘kill’ euphemistically. Craig wouldn’t hurt a fly.” He paused a moment and then said, “Is it possible for me to observe Craig play just to make sure he’s operating on his own? I would consider it a professional courtesy. My agency will be at your disposal if you ever need help from a PI.” Nate handed him a business card.
Mr. Lewis tucked the card in his pocket. “If we suspect a crooked game might be underway, we might employ a PI who is an expert poker player. Although we have no control over games in guest suites, we don’t want cheating anywhere inside the Golden Magnolia. But you don’t understand the game of Texas Hold’em well enough for us to stake you to a night’s play. And, of course, Mr. Mitchell would recognize you.”
“Do you have any suggestions?” asked Nate.
“Why don’t I give you the name and number of a retired PI here in town? Johnny Herman is also an avid poker player, although he prefers tournaments to high-stakes games. He might be willing to play a few hands with Golden Magnolia’s money to get a feel for Craig. Johnny can usually spot a cheat before too much damage is done. But if Mrs. Price’s ex-husband is doing anything illegal, he’ll be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, the same as any thief.” Mr. Lewis jotted down a phone number on his business card. “Why not give Johnny a call?”
Isabelle had remained quiet long enough. “Craig won’t do anything stupid if he sees me there.”
“What are you talking about?” Nate squawked. “You know even less about poker than I do.”
Mr. Lewis looked equally perplexed. “These are private games, Mrs. Price, by invitation only or arranged by the hosts. Spectators aren’t allowed.”
“I’ve seen poker on TV. Don’t you have women serving beverages and handling a buffet? Why not hire me for a few days? I waitressed at Applebee’s every summer during college and never spilled a single drink.”
He nodded. “You’re right. The casino host will usually request two hospitality girls to make sure players remain in the game for hours, but I’m not sure working a private poker game is the same as working at Applebee’s.”
“Forget it, Isabelle. Let’s go talk to that retired PI.” Nate signaled for the check and reached for her hand. “We appreciate you making time for us, Mr. Lewis.”
Isabelle pulled her hand from Nate’s grasp. “Where would I get one of the uniforms?” she asked Mr. Lewis.
Nate stared at the ceiling as he thought. “But what if the Sunday school superintendent saw you serving drinks?”
Isabelle crossed her arms defiantly. “I doubt that Mr. Nash frequents the high roller room at the Golden Magnolia.”
“You could break your neck in those stilettos.” Nate remained equally stubborn.
“I’m sure I can survive long enough to find out what Craig has up his sleeve. Hey, I cracked a poker joke,” she added, pleased with herself.
Art Lewis’s dimple deepened as he took another card from his wallet. “Why don’t you two talk this over? Then, if you still wish to give it a try, ask for Mrs. Doucet in Human Resources. Show her my card and ask for a temporary position as cocktail hostess as a special favor to me. Mrs. Doucet will measure you for a uniform and teach you enough to work a couple sessions.” Lewis turned to Nate. “If Johnny Herman agrees to play at the same table as Mr. Mitchell, have him call me. You and I can watch the action on security cameras. You’ll be doing me a favor if we nip this in the bud, besides preventing a lengthy jail sentence for Mr. Mitchell. Thieves and cheats always get caught. It’s just a matter of time.”
As the waitress arrived with the bill, she stopped at Mr. Lewis’s chair. “May I have that, ma’am?” said Nate. “This lunch is my treat.”
The executive scribbled his name on the check. “That’s very kind of you, but the Golden Magnolia wouldn’t dream of letting you pay. Please consider staying with us the next time you visit the Gulf Coast. And let me know if I can be of further assistance. It was a rare pleasure meeting you both.” Mr. Lewis rose to his impressive height and bowed to Isabelle. “And I’ll remember your offer, Mr. Price, should I ever need help in Natchez.”
The honeymooners exchanged a look after he had strolled away. “That guy knew that we weren’t staying here,” whispered Isabelle, “and also where your agency is located.”
“Art Lewis probably knew as much about us as about his own mother before we walked through the door, including what size uniform you would wear.” Nate spoke under his breath as they left the restaurant. But Isabelle caught his meaning loud and clear.
THIRTY-FOUR
Natchez
Thursday
Last night Michael had the most enjoyable evening since his fiancée had dumped him. Maybe even better than any with Rachel. That woman never knew how to relax. Rachel dressed far fancier than what the occasion called for, as if she wanted to be ready for a last-minute better offer. No wonder a lifetime with an accountant from Brookhaven eventually lost its appeal. Beth, on the other hand, seemed surprised he didn’t pick his teeth or watch streaming sports scores during a meal. Something to be said about a woman with low expectations. He liked Beth and liked how relaxed he felt in her company. While they had shared his bucket of chicken, he updated her with what he learned about the director of Spare the Children.
This morning, they decided to take her car to the airport. How would it look to the insurance company if his new Charger was stolen during the first week? While they drove to Baton Rouge through the beautiful Mississippi countryside, she talked about her visit to Uncle Pete’s farm.
“Did you hit any cans this time?” he asked.
“Forty-eight out of fifty. I lay blame for missing the other two on a horsefly and a cousin who sneaked up on me.”
“I hope your cousin is still among the living.”
“My cousin, yes, but that fly won’t be bothering any more horses.”
“Next time I’m tagging along so I can show off my new nine millimeter Beretta ninety-two. My instructor at the range recommended the make and model.”
Beth whistled through her teeth. “Look at you, Jesse Ja
mes. A Beretta is a fine weapon. We’ll plan for an evening of killing Coke cans soon. Of course, you’ll be allowed only one more visit after that. If I bring the same man a fourth time, Uncle Pete will be waiting with a shotgun and the preacher. Just giving you fair warnin’.”
“Good to know.” Michael took a sip of coffee as she accelerated on the open road.
After a period of companionable silence, Beth brought up an unexpected topic—her conversation with Chief McNeil. “Basically, I imagined half of what happened and painted the other half a particularly rosy hue. Though it was painful, I’m grateful Chris disabused me of my fantasies. Otherwise, I’d be one of those sad old ladies forever stuck in the past. Now I’ll be a sad old lady pining over expired coupons and the neighbor’s dog tearing up my flowers.”
They both laughed, but Beth’s grip on the steering wheel betrayed her emotions.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he said. “What happened to you happens to the best of us.”
“Even you?”
Michael wouldn’t have chosen now for his personal true confession, but he realized too late that he’d set himself up. “Even me.”
“We have almost an hour if you care to elaborate.”
“My story will take about five minutes. I fell in love with the office assistant fresh out of college. Rachel was bright, ambitious, and beautiful. Not sure what she liked about me—maybe my salary, maybe my potential for fast-track advancement.” He heard the scorn in his voice. “Whatever, I fell hard for her. I started saving every penny I could for a down payment on a house, our kids’ college education, and a nice retirement down the road. Talk about living in a dream world. After we’d dated eight months, I bought a two-carat diamond and asked her to marry me. Right about the time I booked our honeymoon cruise, she called off the wedding. Not exactly at the altar, but close enough.”
Beth glanced in his direction. “Wow. Rachel sounds like a real charmer. However, I must disagree with your assessment. She might be beautiful and ambitious, but bright? Not by a long shot if she let you get away.”
