by Gin Jones
While keeping one eye on the people in the lobby, Helen checked her phone for messages. By now, Lily should have dug up some information on SLP, but to Helen's disappointment, there were no texts or voicemail messages waiting for her. Not even the usual daily forwarded message from Laura about the latest scientific study on pregnancy or parenting.
Helen put the phone away, feeling like she'd wasted her day by coming here. She hated to admit Tate had been right about the futility of her search. It would take a massive bit of luck to find Angie in these crowds, assuming she was even here, which, considering what the clerk had said, seemed increasingly unlikely. At least Jack and Tate were enjoying themselves.
She watched the passing crowds for a while longer but quickly grew bored. She needed to do something. The people passing through the lobby probably all had interesting stories, but without actually talking to them, they seemed incredibly dull. They didn't have any of the glamor or the fascinating aura of the crew of Ocean's Eleven or any other fictional casino. Despite the luxurious setting, the people themselves were just your average, everyday tourists who could just as easily have been at a campground or shopping mall.
Of course, there was the occasional odd duck waddling through the lobby, like the woman who'd just arrived, wearing an odd little hat that looked like Helen might have crocheted it: misshapen and hard to identify as being an item of apparel.
The thought reminded her of her yarn bag tucked into the seat beside her. As long as she wasn't going anywhere for a while, she might as well get some practice in with her crochet hook.
Helen pulled out her project and checked the last few stitches she'd made while in the car. They weren't too bad, actually. Of course, it didn't bode well for her enjoyment of the hobby if she had to become nauseated before she could do good work. She had enough physical issues to deal with, thanks to her lupus, without intentionally making herself sick.
Maybe it wasn't the nausea that had improved her work. Maybe she'd finally gotten the hang of maintaining the yarn's tension. Helen picked up her crochet hook and forced herself to do ten consecutive stitches without looking up from her work. Then she allowed herself a perfunctory scan of the lobby, looking for Angie. Finding no one even remotely the right size, shape, and sparkle, she bent her head to do ten more stitches. Helen repeated the process—ten stitches, look for Angie, ten more stitches, and another look—and the rows began to accumulate.
Eventually, a woman about twenty years older than Helen came over to the little seating area. She was as short and petite as Helen, with visibly arthritic fingers, but she was spry enough not to need a cane. She wore jeans and a V-neck T-shirt that had a rhinestone fireworks design similar to the one on Angie's tank top in her picture. It was apparently a popular design from one of the resort's boutiques, since Helen had seen it on several other women in a variety of sizes and styles.
The woman flopped into the chair with a muffled oof, which suggested her arthritis wasn't limited to her hands. "What are you making?"
"A chemo cap," Helen explained. "For a patient who lost her hair during cancer treatment."
The woman nodded. "It looks…warm."
At least the woman hadn't said it was pretty. If she had, Helen would have known she was lying. She could see now that the last row she'd done had gone off the rails somehow. The cap was ugly, despite the lovely yarn and the pattern that came out so well in Josie's hands.
Helen sighed and scrunched her mess of a project up in her hand. "I'm new to crochet, and I'm just not getting it."
"Here, I can fix it." The woman reached across the arms of their chairs and gently took the lumpy mess out of Helen's hands. She immediately began unraveling it, just like Josie usually did. At this rate, Helen thought, she'd never finish this cap. On the plus side, if she kept remaking one project, it would be an extremely inexpensive hobby, and she wouldn't have to worry about the supplies cluttering up her cottage the way Tate's collection of wood blanks did to his workshop.
While the woman worked, she said, "I'm Leslie. I've been crocheting forever, and I wish I'd brought one of my projects with me. Silly of me, but I thought I'd look foolish if I was playing with yarn here while everyone else was doing more glamorous things."
"I'm Helen. You can probably tell I'm a beginner at this. Fortunately, I don't care what people think any longer." She nodded at her cane, the first thing most people noticed about her. "If I worried about looking foolish these days, I wouldn't be able to leave my house."
"You'll get the hang of crochet with a little more practice. Try different grips on the hook until you find one that works for you." Leslie demonstrated as she talked. "You were using the traditional grip, like a pencil, but if it's easier to hold it in a fist, like this, that can work just fine too."
"Thanks," Helen said, holding out her hand to take back the hook and yarn. "I'll try that."
Leslie kept on crocheting, as if she hadn't seen Helen's hand. "After a while, you get into a rhythm, and it's really quite relaxing."
Helen leaned back in her chair. "It doesn't quite fit in with the frenetic casino atmosphere, does it? I hope I'm not keeping you from the gaming floor."
Leslie shrugged. "I don't gamble."
And yet, like Angie, she'd come to the casino. "If you don't mind my asking, why do you come to a casino if you don't gamble?"
"I'm a freelance graphic designer. Sometimes when I get snowed under and my family won't leave me alone, this place is a haven for holing up and getting work done without interruption," Leslie said. "A friend of mine who's a successful writer told me about how well it worked when she had writer's block. She doesn't gamble either, so there isn't much temptation to leave the room. I live about an hour from here, which is close enough to get home if there's a real emergency but too far if the crisis is a missing sock or something. I always plan to see a show the last night I'm here, but only if I've met my quota. Until then, I can work pretty much around the clock, without interruption. Just turn off the phone and the internet, and settle in for the duration."
None of that applied to Angie, unfortunately. Her only job was to run her own home, and she couldn't do grocery shopping, cooking, or cleaning long-distance.
"What about you?" Leslie said. "I doubt you came here for crochet lessons."
"I'm looking for someone." Helen pulled a fresh picture out of the envelope in her bag and folded it so only Angie was visible. "I don't suppose you've seen this woman?"
"Does she crochet too?"
"She knits," Helen said. "Much, much better than I crochet."
Leslie swapped the no-longer lumpy cap for the folded picture. "Sorry. She doesn't look familiar. Or, I suppose I should say she looks like at least half women here, so I could have seen her without remembering her. Besides, I've been holed up in my room most of the last ten days, and haven't seen anyone except housekeeping. I'm only out now because I finally finished my work. I decided it called for a celebratory lunch that featured a great deal of chocolate, but then I saw you and realized I was even more hungry for yarn than for food."
"What about the woman on the other side of the paper? Did you ever see her here?"
Leslie flipped the picture over. "No. I think I'd have remembered if I saw someone like her, though. Is she in one of the shows?"
"She's the missing woman's sister."
Leslie returned the picture. "I'm sorry I can't be more help."
"At least you fixed my crochet work," Helen said. "My teachers will be amazed when they see it."
A bulky man in a dark suit blocked Helen's view of the passing guests. "Excuse me, ladies. Were you interested in a game perhaps, or some shopping? I'd be glad to make some suggestions if you tell me what you're interested in."
Apparently Helen hadn't been as inconspicuous as she'd thought. In this place, enjoying oneself without spending money made a person stick out, and not in the good way that Angie craved.
Leslie took one last covetous look at the crochet hook and yarn before standing
up. "I'd better be going. Sometimes food really is the dominant hunger."
Leslie scurried off under the solicitous eye of the hotel's security guard.
Helen was made of sterner stuff. She and Leslie ought to be able to crochet in public if they wanted to. If she were a real private investigator, someone big and tough-looking, they wouldn't be so quick to insist that she and her friends had to move along. And if they did insist, well, as a tough guy she'd be obliged to mouth off and then get dragged out of the casino, maybe roughed up a bit.
That didn't sound so good, actually. If she got roughed up, even mildly, it would kick her already confused autoimmune system into overdrive, and she'd be in the hospital for a week. Even if she were willing to go through all that pain and medical supervision, she doubted any clients would be willing to wait patiently until their private investigator was released from the hospital and could resume working on their case.
She did have one advantage over a tough guy, though. The security guard probably wouldn't want to be seen roughing up a woman leaning on a cane. If she refused his suggestion to move along and simply sat there quietly with her crochet hook, there wasn't much he could do without creating a public relations nightmare.
Perhaps she ought to create a scene. People loved to gawk, and if Angie was here and within hearing range of the lobby, a nice little commotion might draw her out to see what was going on and how she could be in the middle of it.
Helen got to her feet, exaggerating the difficulty of standing, although not by much. Her joints had seized up while she was sitting there. She hadn't realized how much time had passed while she'd been watching people go by. Tate's two hours were almost up, and he'd be looking for her soon, counseling her against taking the least little risk. If she was going to draw Angie out into the open, she had to do it now.
Helen dropped her ball of yarn, hoping it would roll out into the middle of the room, giving her an excuse to follow it to a more visible location before instigating her scene. The carpet was too thick, though, and it landed with a quiet plop, halfway between her and the guard.
Tate came breezing past the security guard, switched his orange-and-black take-out bag to his left hand, scooped up the ball of yarn with his right, and said, "Got it."
The guard looked at Tate uncertainly, caught between the two guests, and worried about being drawn into a game of keep-away.
"She's with me, sir," Tate said, in his pleasant, crowd-working tone. "I just cashed in my chips, and now we're ready to leave."
At the mention of cashed-in chips, the guard relaxed and shared a knowing look with Tate. "Very good, sir. We were just concerned that your friend here wasn't enjoying herself."
"I was having a lovely time before you interrupted," Helen said, irritated by the way both men were dismissing her. Coming here had been her idea. She was the one who'd been asked to investigate Angie's disappearance, not the one who'd tagged along for the ride. She'd spent her entire marriage as a sidekick and had no intention of ever playing second fiddle again. She and Angie had that much in common.
"We both enjoyed our visit." Tate shoved the ball of yarn into Helen's bag, hooked his arm around her elbow, and tugged her toward the exit.
"Hey." Helen waited until they were out of the guard's hearing before digging in her heels and hoping Tate wouldn't actually drag her along the carpet. He could do it, and he would if he thought it was necessary to protect her. She had to convince him it wasn't. "I'm not ready to leave."
"One way or another," Tate said, keeping his voice low and the tone pleasant, so they wouldn't attract the attention of the security guard again, "you're leaving now. I thought you'd rather leave on your own two feet, but if you really want to go back and have it out with the security staff, you're welcome to. Just remember I'm not licensed to practice in Connecticut, so I can't represent you if the cops show up. And it's the weekend, when it's not easy to get bailed out, so you'd better be prepared to spend the next forty-eight hours in jail."
Helen had always been a realist, and she knew when she was beaten. Getting arrested wouldn't serve any real purpose. Unless… "What if Angie got arrested, and she's been stuck in jail all this time? Wouldn't it be great if I ended up in a holding cell with her?"
CHAPTER TEN
Tate resumed tugging Helen toward the exit. He muttered under his breath, something about clients who refused to listen to good advice, all the way across the lobby and then across the guest pick-up area to where Jack was standing beside the open back door of the idling car.
Helen tossed her yarn bag inside and considered making a run—or at least a hobble—back to the lobby, but Tate was blocking her way.
"If you get yourself arrested now, I'm telling your nieces you did it on purpose."
Helen sighed. She couldn't do that to them. They'd worry. And then they'd probably start the proceedings to have her committed to a nursing home, purportedly for her own good. "You're my lawyer. You can't tell them anything without my permission."
"You can only stop me from sharing privileged communications. If you do stupid things in public where anyone can see, that doesn't count as either communication or privileged." He nodded at Jack. "Besides, if I don't tell them, I bet Jack will."
"Sorry, Ms. Binney," Jack said, "but you really wouldn't like being in jail. I certainly didn't."
"All right," Helen said. "What if we at least swung by the local jail and asked them nicely if Angie is there?"
Jack looked at Tate, and Helen wanted to smack them both with her cane. Jack was her driver, not Tate's.
"That's not necessary," Tate said. "If you'll get into the car without making a scene, I can make some calls to find out if Angie was ever arrested in Connecticut. If she's in jail here, I'll give Ralph the names of some local lawyers who can get her out."
"Why didn't you say that before?" Helen slid into the car and waited for Tate to get settled with his take-out bag on the seat between them. "It's not like I want to get arrested. I just can't think of anywhere else to look for Angie. The casino turned out to be a dead end, unless Jack found out anything from the other drivers."
Jack checked his mirrors. "Sorry, Ms. Binney. I asked everyone, and I couldn't find anyone who drove her anywhere."
"They must see hundreds of people of every day," Helen said. "Maybe they just didn't remember her."
Jack pulled away from the curb. "Drivers are pretty good with faces. They might not remember a name, but they always remember who gave good tips and who didn't. The one time I drove Angie she paid the invoice, but left nothing extra for me. Ralph had to sneak a tip to me, when she wasn't looking. Being cheap stands out around here where people can be a little free with their gratuities while they're having a good time."
"No one inside the casino recognized her, either," Helen said. "We've got nothing except the possibility that she drew a little too much attention to herself and got arrested."
"That's too long a shot even for the most jaded gamblers inside the casino," Tate said.
"You said you'd make some calls." Helen snatched the take-out bag onto her lap. "Before you eat."
There was more grumbling about how long it had been since he'd had Mexican food, and how the tortillas and freshly made fries were getting cold, but Tate dug out his phone and tried a few numbers, finally catching someone who answered on a weekend. When he was done making the necessary arrangements, he held out his hand for the bag. "We'll have an answer before we get home."
That reminded her she was expecting some answers from Lily too. Helen checked her phone, but there were still no messages. Helen buried the phone in the bottom of her yarn bag and then tucked the whole thing down by her feet so she wouldn't be tempted to check again every two minutes. She wished she could distract herself with her crocheting, but it would only make her feel worse than she already did, adding actual nausea to the sinking feeling that she was going to have to tell Betty and Josie she couldn't find Angie and something bad might well have happened to her.
> Helen hadn't realized until now just how much she'd been counting on this trip to at least provide a lead on the missing woman's whereabouts. The only one who'd gotten anything out of the trip was Tate. He had his poker winnings and a meal with a mouthwatering aroma that made her wish she'd joined Leslie for lunch instead of standing her ground with the security guard.
To distract herself from Tate's lunch, she asked, "So when are you going to say you told me so? That looking for Angie here was pointless?"
"It wasn't pointless." Tate rummaged around in his take-out bag. He withdrew something cylindrical, wrapped in greasy paper, and tapped Jack's shoulder before handing it to him. "Everyone needs a hobby. Poking around in other people's business is yours."
"I'm not nosy," Helen said. "Betty and Josie asked me to do this."
"You don't have to make any excuses." He handed a stack of napkins forward to Jack. "It could be worse. You could go chasing after Elvis sightings or blog about conspiracy theories that would get you monitored by the FBI. I don't have a whole lot of experience in federal courts, so you'd be on your own there."
"Still," Helen said. "I've wasted everyone's time, looking for Angie here."
"My time wasn't wasted," he said. "I enjoyed myself, won a few bucks, and got some excellent Mexican food. Wharton's got some great restaurants but none that serve tortillas."
"Okay, so I just wasted my time."
"Not entirely," he said, handing her a stack of napkins and a wrapped tortilla. "You're getting a free lunch, courtesy of the casino. They comped the meal, hoping I'd stick around and play some more. Just don't spill anything on the upholstery. I'd hate to see Jack or his cousin cry."
