Death Plays Poker

by Robin Spano

  Joe cocked his head. “You know, you’re actually starting to make sense. You think Tiffany threw the first game so it won’t look suspicious if she starts winning now?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a theory. Nate, though — he could easily be a cop.”

  Joe shook his head. “Nate doesn’t have cop character. I think he’s here to learn — and cheat — but he says mob to me. As in, gambling for the cause, to take the intelligence back home.”

  “He’s not Italian.”

  “He has dark hair. Maybe Wilkes is really Wilconi. Do we have any normal snacks? I don’t feel like anything organic just now.”

  Elizabeth felt her hands begin to tremble. She should take George’s advice and get a CT scan. Her family doctor was a few blocks away; she could probably get an emergency referral and a scan within a day. But if there was something wrong with her — something fatal — she wasn’t sure she was ready to find out.

  “There should be some Sun Chips,” she said.

  Joe must have seen her fear, because he took her hand. “Don’t be scared. I’m sorry I was callous. I’m freaked out by Loni’s murder, too — it’s just my dumb reaction.”

  Elizabeth gazed out the plastic window at the rain-drenched dock. She thought of Josie and all the others who had died over the past few months. “I’m scared because I’m sane.”

  FIFTY

  NOAH

  Noah stood in line at Starbucks in English Bay. He thought about ordering a black coffee to give Tiffany when she arrived. Women liked it when you noticed what they liked. But maybe she wanted something different today, a cappuccino, or a tea to go with the rain. He pulled out his phone to send a text.

  In line @ Starbucks. What coffee u like?

  The message from Tiffany came back fast.

  Giant & black. Stupid cab dropped me on other side of street. Waiting 4 light 2 change.

  Noah looked out the window. Though she could only have been standing in the rain for a few seconds, Tiffany’s dark hair was already matted against her face. He watched her cross the street and push through the double glass doors with an exasperated sigh.

  “Your poor jacket.” Noah left the line to greet her at the door. He put an arm around her. “You want to stay inside and dry off?”

  “No, I love being out in the rain. And leather is nature’s original raincoat — but thanks for caring about my clothes.”

  Noah rolled his eyes. “Here’s the umbrella you ordered.”

  He had taken his time choosing the umbrella — black with silver piping — and he was pleased when Tiffany clapped her hands and said, “It’s the same color as my motorcycle.”

  “You have a motorcycle?” If she did, Noah was about to fall unapologetically in love.

  “No,” Tiffany said quickly. “But there’s this bike I have my eye on. I’m trying to work up the courage to buy it.”

  Great. He was falling for someone who wanted to live her life but was afraid to. But maybe that wasn’t a bad thing — it would make it easier to leave when he would inevitably have to. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.” Tiffany smiled. “You’re thinking I should start living my life sometime soon?”

  Or yesterday. “The poker tour was a good start.”

  “It was.” Tiffany nodded slowly. “But I only signed up once my father agreed it was smart.”

  Signed up. Like the ten-thousand-dollar entry fee didn’t matter at all. Noah wondered how much of that was an act. “So is it advice he gives you? Or decrees?”

  Tiffany laughed. It was a cute laugh, an open one. “He words it like decrees. But I suppose I could consider it friendly advice.”

  “You still live with your parents.” A statement, not a question.

  “That obvious?”

  “Yup.” Noah hoped Bert would confirm her identity soon. He could deal with Tiffany being a liar; he just wanted to know who she was.

  “Let me guess,” Tiffany said. “You moved out when you were twelve, and you’ve been living on the mean streets ever since.”

  “Eighteen.” Noah smirked. “But I’m a bit older than you. I’ve been on my own for ten years.”

  “Oh so world-weary.”

  They left the café armed with giant coffees.

  “I like your umbrella, too.” Tiffany nodded at Noah’s choice for himself. “That color blue suits you. Very moody.”

  They crossed the street and walked into the park.

  “Are you feeling better?” Noah asked. “Or are you still weirded out from this morning?”

  “I guess both. I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I’ll probably leave after this leg of the tour.”

  Noah took Tiffany’s hand and squeezed it. “Have you ever had sex in the rain?”

  “You mean outside in the rain? With water falling all over you?”

  Noah nodded. He wanted to win this prop bet here and now, so no matter what Bert uncovered he could collect the twenty grand from Joe. Or maybe it wasn’t the twenty grand.

  “No,” Tiffany said. “Have you?”

  Noah shook his head. “Don’t you think it would be amazing? You’d feel so at one with the elements.”

  A smile crept onto Tiffany’s face. “I’m not having sex with you. This is our first date.”

  “We had drinks the other night. And coffee yesterday. I’d call this date three. The sex date.”

  Tiffany laughed. “So you wouldn’t think less of me for putting out.”

  “Are you kidding? I’d think highly of the first woman who had sex with me in the rain. I’d remember you for the rest of my life.” Noah looked out onto the water, where only the large commercial boats were braving the rain.

  “But if I wait to sleep with you in a hotel room,” Tiffany said, “you’ll forget about me by the time you get back to New York?”

  “You never know.”

  “As romantic as you make it sound, all I can picture is slipping around in the mud, getting disgustingly dirty.”

  “That sounds unpleasant to you?” Noah tilted his umbrella back, slipped under Tiffany’s, and kissed her. Her lips were sweet — which was odd, for a smoker. It was hard to pull away, but he wanted to leave her wanting more.

  Tiffany pulled her cigarette pack from her pocket and held it open in front of Noah.

  “Thanks.” He liked the gesture. Some women would take a smoke if you offered them one, but when they got out their own pack they were only thinking of themselves.

  “I get turned on by conversation,” she said. “Not so much by being badgered with direct propositions. In case you’re wondering how to turn your fantasy into reality.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” Noah pulled his Zippo from his pocket, lit Tiffany’s smoke, then his own. “What topics turn you on?”

  “Anything that gets my brain going.”

  “Like astrophysics?” Noah asked, while thunder sounded in the distance.

  “That could work,” Tiffany said. “Do you know about astrophysics?”

  “No. Can I invent stuff?”

  “It’s better if you at least sound intelligent.” Tiffany stopped walking and pointed to the rocks beside the path. “I think I just saw a fish jump.”

  Noah smirked. “If you’re looking for a marine wildlife expert, I am definitely not your man.”

  Tiffany started walking again. “So why don’t you tell me who you are. I feel like you know my whole family, including Buffy the dog. And I know nothing about yours.”

  Damn right. Because he didn’t plan to tell her.

  “Or maybe you have a secret passion?” Tiffany said. “Art? Chemistry?”

  Noah laughed. “Art or chemistry?”

  “I was pulling things at random.”

  “I got that. I love photography.”

  “Do you have
a darkroom?”

  “I only use digital. I guess my passion doesn’t run too deep. Do you have a secret passion? Other than getting ravaged in the rain, which will happen, by the way.”

  Tiffany’s eyebrows lifted quickly, and Noah knew he could make his move anytime.

  FIFTY-ONE

  CLARE

  “Yeah, I have a secret passion.” Clare was very close to grabbing Nate and following the next path off the beaten track to seclusion. But Tiffany would play it cool, and besides, it was fun to be seduced. “But you’ll think it’s dumb. It’s common.”

  “You want to be a princess.”

  “An actress. Same thing, right?” Clare had never wanted to be an actress in her life. The only acting she ever did was on the job, and that was more like lying, which she hated. But she figured someone like Tiffany would have dreams of being onstage.

  “Did you do any acting in school?”

  Clare nodded. “I was in every school play since kindergarten.”

  “Were you the little prima donna who was always given the lead?”

  “I was a little prima donna. But I didn’t usually get the lead.” Clare definitely saw a fish jump, just past the rocks near the shore, but she didn’t bother mentioning it this time. Nate clearly didn’t care about the majestically beautiful scenery all around them.

  “Did you stomp your foot and scream if you got a role you didn’t like?”

  “No.” Clare might not like Tiffany, but that was no reason to make her unlikeable to the rest of the world. “I knew I wasn’t a good actress. I just like it.”

  “You like pretending to be someone else.” Clare thought she heard accusation in Nate’s voice.

  “Does that upset you?”

  “No.” Nate flicked his cigarette into the water. “As long as you don’t act in real life. My last girlfriend had, like, seventeen personalities. She was phonier than Joe Mangan’s smile.”

  “But let me guess. She gave blow jobs like a pro and that made it all okay.”

  Nate grinned. “Fine. Guilty.”

  “Men,” Clare said. “You practically wag your tongues and beg women to deceive you. Then when you find out they’re phony you think it’s their fault.” Nate had pretty much defined the reason Clare hated dressing up and wearing makeup. Life without illusions made a hell of a lot more sense to her.

  “You’re defending my ex-girlfriend?”

  “No.” Clare met his eye under the rim of the umbrellas. “Can we talk about what’s really going on, though?”

  “You mean the undercurrent of lust that we feel for each other?”

  Clare gave him a small smile. “I mean the murders. The poker scene. I’m scared I made a bad decision coming here.”

  Nate took her hand. The umbrellas crashed into each other a bit, but it felt good. “We’ll stick together. I’ll make sure no one hurts you.”

  “How?” Clare trusted him and she didn’t; her instincts weren’t working. “Do you know who the killer is?”

  Nate shook his head.

  “Then how could you possibly make sure no one hurts me?”

  FIFTY-TWO

  GEORGE

  “I’m taking you for dinner.” Fiona bounded into George’s room and started stripping off her work clothes.

  “You are?” George was happy to shut down his computer. He’d been working all afternoon and aside from Loni’s death scene, he hadn’t gotten much done.

  “Yup.” She pulled a green cocktail dress from his closet. Almost all of her things were in George’s room now. “We’re celebrating.”

  “What’s the occasion?” George found his lone pair of dress pants at the bottom of his suitcase. He held them up to assess whether they were too wrinkled to wear.

  “The cheating is finished. I’m free and clear.”

  George set his pants on the bed. He was about to throw his arms around her but he stopped himself.

  “What was that?” Fiona laughed. “Do you want to hug me or not?”

  George sat down. “Not.”

  “Come on, George. Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow we can go back to our miserable ambiguous relationship.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. She pulled him close and kissed him, open-mouthed and full of feeling.

  He kissed her back. What else could he do? He kissed her and he slid his hand under her thong and he followed his impulse, like he always did. When they were finished — about fifteen minutes later — he said, “Wow. What just happened?”

  “It was you and me,” Fiona said. “Come on. I’m starved. I made a reservation downtown.”

  “The cheating’s really over? No more hole card scam?”

  “It really is.” Fiona’s eyes were wide.

  George wondered if she was trying to convince him, or if she was successfully fooling herself.

  FIFTY-THREE

  ELIZABETH

  “Hey, Elizabeth, grab me a beer.”

  Elizabeth did not budge from the sofa.

  “You want me to get up and get it myself?” T-Bone looked baffled, like a woman had never told him no before.

  “I didn’t know you had beer on the boat,” Elizabeth said. “Which case is yours? The Kokanee I picked up this afternoon, or the Grolsch Tiffany and Nate brought with them?”

  “Didn’t know it was BYO.”

  “It isn’t, because we’re not sixteen anymore,” Joe said. “Lizzie, grab T-Bone a beer. Please?”

  Elizabeth shrugged, got up, and went over to the fridge. If Joe had taken the night off from poker, she doubted the guys would treat him like their waitress.

  “Grab me a drink, too, hon.” This from Joe.

  Elizabeth plucked a Grolsch swing-top from the fridge and glared at the back of Joe’s head. Who called people “hon” unless they wanted to be diminutive? She mixed him a vodka seven. He didn’t normally drink when he played poker, but tonight he’d relaxed his customary standards.

  “Here you go, muffin.” She set both drinks in front of Joe with a loud plonk. The beer was closed, but a couple of drops of Joe’s drink spilled over onto the table.

  “The fuck’s her problem?” T-Bone said as his bottle got passed his way.

  “You guys are treating her like shit.” Thank you, Tiffany. “Especially you, Joe. T-Bone’s an ass; he can’t help that. You could be nicer if you wanted.”

  T-Bone grunted and said to Tiffany, “Not too grateful, are you? For a novice to be invited to a game like this is a one in a million opportunity.”

  Tiffany seemed to contemplate that. “I guess I could ask you the same question, T-Bone.”

  “The fuck does that mean?”

  Tiffany took a quick sip of beer. “It means you don’t seem so grateful either. For a fairly ugly, foul-tempered old man to be welcomed into the company of two sexy, intelligent women — my guess is that’s also about one in a million.”

  Elizabeth snorted iced tea through her nose. For the first time since she’d met the kid, she hoped Tiffany wouldn’t be the Choker’s next victim.

  T-Bone threw a sneer to Elizabeth. “What are you laughing at? I never agreed the pair of you were sexy or intelligent.”

  “Lay off them.” Mickey folded his hand so forcefully that his cards nearly flipped over. “We’re sorry for your loss. Hell, Loni’s more my loss than yours. But you can’t take it out on us. We’re not your friends.”

  Elizabeth watched T-Bone’s face as Mickey said this. If the old cowboy had ever felt an emotion in his life, she doubted if so much as an eye flicker had given it away.

  “That’s harsh, too, Mick.” Joe pushed some chips into the center of the table. His costume tonight was minimal — a pair of geek glasses and a pocket protector with a fake pen stain. “Of course we’re each other’s friends. More like family. We’re all we have.”

  Hearing Joe say that made E
lizabeth feel more alone than ever. Had she traded her own family in for this? She grabbed the boat key from Joe’s shirt pocket. “I’m going to start motoring back.”

  “In the dark?” Joe said. “You don’t even like driving the boat.”

  “I feel like it tonight.” Elizabeth wanted to fight with the waves, keep her eye out for logs, and feel like she was doing something physical and real. And she wanted everyone off the boat.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  CLARE

  Clare envied Elizabeth. She wanted a job where she could be herself, too — natural, bitchy if she felt like it, open about where she came from. Playing Tiffany, she felt like a traitor to the trailer park, like her real past was some dirty secret she had to hide. Clare missed home, suddenly. She wanted to take a walk by Lake Couchiching and sit under a tree, maybe study a car or motorcycle manual, and not be playing poker on a boat.

  She looked across the table at Nate like she could eat him. She couldn’t help it. Clare had seriously wanted to take him up on his offer that afternoon, to have sex in the woods, in the mud and the rain. The slipping and sliding sounded awesome. But it would have been gratuitous — not what Tiffany would have done, just a perk for Clare. And the last thing she wanted to do was betray Kevin.

  Thinking of Kevin made her smile — literally; so instead of folding her king-ten offsuit, she raised with it in middle position, in case observant opponents thought her involuntary grin meant she had aces. Kevin was the first guy in a long time who made Clare feel like she could be herself, with no apology or explanation. With Nate, Clare could tell, the dynamic would be far more complicated.

  T-Bone, in the big blind, called. So did Joe, who had limped in under the gun. The flop came ace-six-four. T-Bone checked. So did Joe. Clare could bet, repping a high ace, or even pocket aces. But Mickey had told her to let the flop go, in last position with nothing, and bet the turn if it was checked to her again.