You Bet Your Life

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Ah, now, there’s a professional,” said a voice over my shoulder. “You can tell by the glove.” It was Tony, Victor’s British partner. “I see you got waylaid on your way to the restaurant. That’s just what management hopes will happen. Tony McKay at your service, ladies.”

  Victor’s partner was full of good cheer and several glasses of champagne. “And you are ... ?” he asked me.

  “Jessica Fletcher, a friend of the bride’s,” I said, shaking his hand. “And this is Betsy Cavendish, also a friend of Martha’s.”

  Betsy flashed Tony a brief smile and continued playing.

  “She have any luck?” he asked, peering over his half glasses as Betsy deposited more coins in her machine.

  “Not so far,” I replied, “but hope springs eternal.”

  “Maybe you’ll have the magic touch.”

  “Not likely, since I’m not playing.”

  “Oh, but you must,” he insisted, pulling a handful of coins from his pocket. “Half the fun of being in Las Vegas—maybe all the fun, come to think of it—is gambling. I’m not an expert in slots—blackjack is more my style—but I do enjoy a wager or two. Here, try this,” he said, putting two quarters in the machine next to Betsy’s.

  “You do it,” I said. “I don’t think there’s magic in these fingers today.”

  “No. No. Allow me to be a gentleman. Please. Take your choice—the lever or the button.”

  Not wanting to spoil his fun, I stepped forward, pulled the lever, and stepped back. The music played and the symbols whirled around and stopped on a clown face, an oval, and another clown face.

  “Would you look at that,” Betsy said, eyes on a display of climbing red numbers on the machine I’d just played.

  “What’s happening?” I asked. “Did I get points?”

  “Not quite,” she replied. “You have to tell the machine if you want to cash out.” She leaned over and pressed a square button. At once the clink-clink-clink of coins hitting metal reverberated. Several other players turned to see where the sound was coming from. “You’re going to need this,” Betsy said, handing me a plastic cup from a stack at the side of the machine.

  “You’ve won,” Tony said, delighted, scooping up the quarters as they fell and depositing them in the container.

  “I did?” I said, laughing. “How did I do that?”

  “You got a triple jackpot with your clowns,” Betsy said.

  “How marvelous,” Tony said.

  “That was fun,” I said.

  “Told you,” Betsy said.

  “What’ll you do with the money?” Tony asked.

  “Me? Nothing. The winnings are yours, not mine. What will you do with the money?”

  “I would celebrate by taking two lovely ladies to a wonderful restaurant, but Victor has beaten me to it. May I escort you to Aqua after we turn in this windfall?”

  “Beginner’s luck,” Betsy muttered, watching Tony fill the cup. “And I’m down four dollars.”

  “If you won’t take your winnings,” Tony said, “you must allow me to share. How about if I treat you both to drinks this evening?”

  “I’m available,” Betsy said, rising from her stool. “What about you, Jessie?”

  The wedding dinner was to be a three-course meal in a four-star restaurant with more champagne and wines to complement the dishes. The décor of the restaurant, by famed New York designer Tony Chi, was sleek and modern, an elegant combination of terrazzo tile, rare wood, and luxurious fabrics. A hostess led us to the back room, which afforded more privacy than the main section of the restaurant. Along one wall, a diaphanous white curtain kept out the heat of the sun’s rays, and provided a soft contrast to the sharper edges of the light-wood bar and the freestanding walls. The table, which accommodated fourteen with the bride and groom at opposite ends, was set with chilled champagne—already poured—crusty rolls, and tiny glass cups of cold soup, the latter a little extra the chef had sent out for us to sample. Tony looked for my name among the hand-lettered place cards and pulled out my chair. Seated on one side of me was the young man Mort had pegged as a bodyguard. His back was to me and he was conferring in low tones with Victor, who was leaning over his shoulder. On my right was the man who had prodded Tony to finish up his toast.

  “I’m at the far end of the table, unfortunately,” Tony said as I took my seat. “Henry gets to sit next to you. This is Henry Quint from our New York office. Henry, meet Jessica Fletcher.”

  He rose halfway from his chair and we shook hands.

  “Don’t let Henry’s charm overwhelm you,” Tony said, nudging Henry in the shoulder. “And don’t forget we have a date for cocktails, compliments of your jackpot.”

  “Tony, I’d love to, but I’m here with several others and I couldn’t be rude to them.” I indicated the Cabot Cove contingent.

  “Bring ’em along,” he said cheerily, moving around the table to hold out a chair for Betsy. “We’ll have a postparty party.” He found his place at the table and I heard him regale those around him with the tale of my windfall return on an outlay of fifty cents.

  “Now I’ll never get Maureen away from those machines,” said Mort, winking at me.

  “Consider yourself lucky,” said Henry. “If she’s happy at the slot machines, she won’t complain about you spending time at the craps table.”

  “Never played craps,” Mort said.

  “The correct terminology is ‘shoot craps,”’ Henry said, twisting a heavy gold-and-diamond ring he wore on his pinkie. “You don’t know how to shoot craps? Well, we’ll have to teach you.”

  “I’ve never shot craps either,” Doug admitted. “Can you say that? ‘Shot craps’ as past tense of ‘shoot craps’?”

  “Victor, old man, we’ve got a pair of neophytes here,” Henry called to the groom. “We’ll have to introduce them to the devil’s teeth.”

  “Devil’s teeth? I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Doug said. “I’m a dentist.”

  “Devil’s bones, if you prefer. Are there any doctors here to object? Those are the dice, gentleman.”

  “The old sawbones objects,” Seth called out.

  “Objection noted,” said Henry.

  Victor looked up. “Craps is Henry’s passion,” he said, straightening. “Craps and antique cars. But if he’s not tooling around in an old convertible, he’d rather shoot craps than do anything else in the world. Lucky I pay you so well, isn’t it, Henry?”

  Henry’s face reddened. He straightened the napkin in his lap and muttered, “You’re lucky I run the business so well.”

  “I’ll have the hotel reserve a table for us tonight,” Victor added, “and Henry can teach all of you to play.”

  “I already have plans for tonight, Victor,” Henry said.

  “Plans? You’d rather go out with a woman than play craps? You’re slipping, Henry.”

  “Nah. You’re right. I gotta make up some losses. Get the table.”

  “Oliver, call the hotel office and have them arrange a private craps table for us,” Victor said. “Tell them we need it in about two hours.”

  The bodyguard rose out of his seat next to mine, pulled a cellular phone from his pocket, and walked to a quiet corner.

  Two waiters in white shirts and ties approached the table and refilled our champagne glasses. Jane and Henry sipped at theirs. Victor stood and raised his glass, his eyes on Martha, who was engrossed in a conversation with Seth. Victor waited, his eyes turbulent. A frisson of tension snapped around the table, and one by one, the guests fell silent.

  Tony cleared his throat loudly. “I believe our host wants to make a toast,” he said, lifting his glass. Others at the table did the same.

  Martha realized Victor was waiting for her. She smiled softly and picked up her champagne. “How lovely,” she said, holding his gaze. “I’m eager to hear it.”

  Everyone smiled, and the collective tension was broken.

  Victor watched her for another second. His lips parted over his white teet
h. “To my beautiful wife, Martha. That’s Martha with a T and an H, Tony.”

  Tony’s brows flew up. “I’m really in the doghouse, aren’t I? Will you ever forgive me?” He directed an imploring look at Martha. “Just pat me on the head and say all is forgiven. I promise I won’t wet the rug again.” He pretended to beg like a dog, stuck out his tongue, and panted.

  Martha laughed. “Of course you’re forgiven,” she said. “Any friend of Victor’s is a friend of mine. And if you’re really good, we’ll get you a doggie biscuit for dessert.”

  Victor remained standing throughout the byplay. “To my beautiful wife,” he repeated a little louder, recapturing her attention.

  “Hear, hear,” said Henry, raising his glass and bringing it to his lips.

  “I’m not finished yet, Henry.”

  “Well, don’t tease us, man.”

  “To my beautiful wife, Martha, whom I adore.”

  “And who adores you,” Martha put in.

  Jane sighed audibly and tilted her head back, eyes staring at the ceiling.

  Victor continued, “I know we’ll have many years of happiness together because she pleases me in all ways.” He sipped his champagne and gave Martha a secret smile. She blushed prettily over the rim of her glass.

  “You can drink now, Henry,” Jane said, putting down her own glass without tasting its contents. “He’s. finished his sugary speech—thank God!” With her index finger, she twisted one of the curls that hung down next to her ear, and looked around the room, bored.

  Victor ignored her comment.

  Doug, who was sitting next to Jane, attempted to enlist her in conversation. “How do you like living in Las Vegas?” he asked.

  “Well, since I’ve lived here all my life, it hardly holds any surprises,” she replied. She tore a hunk of bread from a roll on her plate and put it in her mouth, effectively cutting herself off from the discussion.

  Doug tried again. “This is the first trip to Las Vegas for me and my wife. That’s my wife over there, sitting next to your father. Her name is Tma.”

  Jane glanced briefly at Tina but said nothing.

  “We’re not much on gambling, so we wondered what else there was to do. What would you recommend?”

  Jane chewed her bread and swallowed. She rested her chin on her hand and stared at Doug, an insolent expression on her face. Enunciating slowly, she said, “Why don’t you just go to—”

  “Jane!” Victor glared at her.

  “Hoover Dam?” she said, smirking at her father. She picked up her glass and took a large gulp of champagne.

  “Sometimes Jane forgets she’s supposed to be an adult,” Victor said to Doug.

  “And Daddy knows all about being an adult, don’t you, Daddy dearest?”

  “I think you’ve had enough to drink today,” Victor said, standing and beckoning to Jane.

  Jane angrily set down her glass and pushed back her chair.

  “We haven’t met yet,” a woman sitting between Mort and Victor said to me. “I’m Pearl Quint.” She fluttered her fingers at me.

  “Pearl is Henry’s sister, Mrs. F.,” Mort said.

  “I work in the office with Henry,” she said She lowered her voice, shooting a look at Victor, who was occupied with his daughter. “He’s their key man; he does as much as the partners—maybe more.”

  “Pearl, please,” Henry said softly.

  “Well, it’s true. They couldn’t manage without you.”

  “Pearl, that’s enough.”

  “You always say you do the work; they make the money. ”

  “Not here, Pearl.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, eager to stave off another confrontation. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” she said. “Martha told me about you when we met in New York. I’m a big mystery fan.”

  “How nice.”

  “I don’t think I’ve read any of your books, though.”

  “My publisher will be sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Pearl!” Henry boomed.

  “Oh, dear. Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “No offense taken,” I said. “Give me your address later and I’ll send you a copy of one of my books. We can’t have a mystery fan who hasn’t read J. B. Fletcher. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Aren’t you nice,” she said to me. “Henry, give Mrs. Fletcher one of your business cards.”

  “Don’t give me orders, Pearl,” Henry said, but he handed me his card as a waiter placed the first course, mousse of whitefish on a bed of greens, in front of him.

  Victor and Jane sat down again, and a moment later, his call completed, Oliver reclaimed his seat. It was disconcerting to have so many people popping up and down during a meal.

  “Are you a native of Las Vegas, too?” I asked Oliver, hoping his conversational skills were better than Henry’s and Jane’s.

  “No, ma’ am. I moved out here from New York when Victor hired me.”

  “Oliver is our chauffeur, aren’t you, Ollie?” Jane said.

  He scowled at Jane. “I’m Victor’s business associate,” he said to me. “I do whatever he says needs doing. Sometimes that’s driving, sometimes setting up meetings, sometimes baby-sitting his daughter.”

  Jane made a face and looked away. Oliver smiled.

  “Oliver is my majordomo,” said Victor. “He’s the one who’s really in charge. We just pretend to give him orders.”

  Oliver nodded, looking pleased. “I started out as Victor’s personal trainer,” he explained. “Then I was promoted.”

  “How long have you worked for him?” I asked.

  “Must be about ten years now. It was right after he and Mrs. Kildare bought their house in Adobe Springs. Terrific lady. We got along great.”

  I wondered which Mrs. Kildare that might have been, but didn’t ask.

  The phone in Oliver’s pocket rang and he pulled it out and flipped open the top. “Yeah?” He listened a moment and handed the phone to Victor. “It’s Chappy.”

  “Chappy? That’s a funny name.” Betsy said. “Is that a man or a woman?”

  Jane snickered. “Chappy’d better not hear you question his virility,” she said, emptying her champagne glass.

  “Chappy is a man,” said Victor, “a large man, and one who knows how to get things done. Speaking of getting things done, here’s more champagne.” He rose from the table again and walked away before lifting the phone to his ear, while the waiters refilled champagne glasses.

  “Chappy is one of Daddy’s partners,” Jane volunteered, her voice slightly slurred.

  “Jane, Mrs. Fletcher isn’t interested in your father’s business affairs,” Oliver said. His voice held a warning for her. She frowned at him but kept silent.

  Victor returned to the table, sliding Oliver’s cell phone into his own jacket pocket. “Before the main course comes, I have a little gift for my wife,” he announced. He drew a slim box wrapped in gold foil from under his seat and walked to Martha’s end of the table.

  “What’s this?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “A little something to go along with your favorite pastime,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Go on, open it.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, now. Everyone is curious to know what if is.”

  There was a chorus of encouragement, and Martha slipped the ribbon off the box and carefully released the tape holding the wrapping paper.

  “Oh, no. Not another paper saver,” said Henry.

  Martha grinned. “Afraid so. It’s a longtime habit.” She unfolded the ends of the wrapping and pulled the box out, smoothing out the paper before laying the white box on the table. “What could it be?”

  “You’re not going to find out, staring at the box,” Betsy said. “Open it. I want to see what’s inside.”

  Martha lifted the lid, set it aside, and pulled apart the leaves of tissue paper. Whatever it was was made of silver fabric. “I still
don’t know what it is,” she said, looking perplexed.

  Victor thrust his hand in the box and shook out a pair of silver lamé gloves.

  Betsy cackled. “They’re slots gloves,” she said, holding up her handbag. “I’ve got mine in here, but they’re not as fancy as yours.”

  Martha bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

  “I know you like the slots,” Victor said, leaning over and kissing her cheek.

  “Yes, I do,” she said, letting a giggle escape.

  “Well, now you’ve got the slots uniform.” He nuzzled her neck.

  “Pretty jazzy uniform,” she said, cocking her head. She slid her right hand into the glove, and pressed Victor’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, straightening. “I expect you to win a big jackpot with those.”

  “It won’t be for lack of trying,” she said. “Are you prepared ?”

  “No problem,” he said over his shoulder as he returned to his seat. “Just keep careful records. I’ll want fifty percent of your profits.”

  “No problem,” she called back, “as long as you foot one hundred percent of my losses.”

  The jovial exchange seemed to stir all the guests into animated conversation while the dishes from the first course were removed.

  The entrée was another of Victor’s surprises for Martha.

  “What’s this?” she asked when the waiter placed the dish with a beautifully browned crust in front of her.

  “Maine lobster pie.”

  “Oh, Victor,” she whispered. She looked up at her new husband with dewy eyes. “Look what he’s made me do,” she said, laughing as the tears overflowed. “Isn’t he something ?”

  Seth handed her his handkerchief. Martha wiped away the moisture under her eyes and picked up her fork. “I know this is going to be wonderful.”

  “Considering how far that lobster had to swim to get to the middle of the desert is wonderful all by itself,” said Seth.

  I could see the Cabot Covers girding themselves in case they didn’t like the main course. After all, lobster pie is not a fancy dish where we come from. It’s an old family recipe in many kitchens along the Maine coast. We didn’t have to worry, though. It was delicious, not precisely traditional, but delicious all the same.