Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries)

by Halliday, Gemma

  Giving her privacy, I grabbed my pencil skirt and white blouse and went to change in the bathroom. Then I thought better of the blouse after a sniff-test and grabbed a navy T-shirt to pair with my skirt instead. If I tucked it in, and added a long beaded necklace made by one of my artists, it almost looked professional. I made a mental note to do some shopping soon. I had scarcely packed for two days, let alone ten.

  When I returned, Britton was just hanging up the phone. "Give me five minutes to change," she bubbled. "I got Brad's address!"

  I gaped at her, unable to hide how impressed I was.

  She grinned. "Hey, you don't get to be Mrs. King and not know a few people who owe you favors." She shot me a wink, before tossing over her shoulder, "You coming?"

  Ten minutes later Britton was dressed in a pair of white skinny jeans, a neon green silk top, and a huge white fur coat that looked like a polar bear giving her a hug from behind, and we were in a cab heading down Pioneer Trail, toward the residential section of town.

  As we moved away from the resorts, the casinos and souvenir shops gave way to smaller cabins and apartment buildings. Some were trimmed in quaint gingerbread cutouts and log cabin detailing, while others had clearly seen more than their fair share of snowy winters and blistering sunshine—paint peeling, roofs sagging, front yards reduced to large puddles of mud, slush, and fallen pine needles. Dunley's address turned out to be the well-worn variety, a two-story apartment complex with three units upstairs and three down. Layers of paint had been added to the wooden siding in a robin's egg blue, a creamy bone, and a forest green—all of which were showing in various different sections of the building. A set of metal stairs with a sagging railing sat at one end of the building, and two cars minus their tires took up the bulk of the slush covered front yard.

  The cab driver pulled in front of the house and then turned to give us the once over. "You want me to wait for you, Mrs. King?" he asked.

  "That'd be great, Jack." Britton patted his arm before getting out. I bobbed my head in agreement and followed her.

  One day, long ago, someone had cared enough to put in landscaping, as evidenced by the worn, overgrown rock garden surrounding a set of parking slots to the right of the building. I noticed the one with Brad's apartment number painted on the asphalt was empty. I tried not to take that as a bad sign. Maybe he traveled by bus?

  As we made our way up the creaking staircase, I was infinitely glad that Britton weighed about as much as a second grader, as the structure groaned under our weight. Brad's apartment was the last one on the far side. Faded green curtains hung in the front window beside a matching wooden door with a plastic number "6" hanging slightly askew. Britton lifted a hand and rapped sharply on it. To our surprised, it creaked open.

  I shot a look at Britton and could see my wariness reflected in her gaze back. Who in their right mind left their door open in this neighborhood?

  I took a pensive step over the threshold, feeling Britton close behind me.

  "Hello?" I called out. "Mr. Dunley?"

  The tiny living room was empty except for a few half-empty beer bottles and folding chairs. A darker spot against the faded paint on the wall over an outlet hinted that a fairly large television had hung there at one time not long ago. A small kitchen area sat to our right, littered with pizza boxes, emanating a rotting smell.

  "Obviously, Dunley can't afford a cleaning service," Britton observed, waving a hand in front of her scrunched nose.

  I agreed, nodding as I pushed open a door off the living room. "Brad? Hello? Anyone here?" A mattress lay on the floor, and a small dresser was pushed up against one wall. All the drawers hung open, empty.

  "I don't think he's here," Britton said, coming into the room behind me.

  I shoved open the bi-fold closet door to my left. "I don't think his stuff is either," I told her, looking up at a handful of empty wire hangers. No car, no TV, no clothes.

  Which meant that, once again, our mysterious Mr. Price was in the wind.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Britton stared at me over her coffee cup, faded gray streaks circling her eyes. After hitting a brick wall with Mr. Price-slash-Brad Dunley, I'd insisted we needed caffeine, and lots of it, before figuring out our next move. So we'd taken the cab back to the Royal Palace and were drowning our failures in mocha lattes at the Java Joust.

  Yet another of my father's quirky name concoctions.

  Emblazoned on the wall that corralled the waiting line was a large coffee bean with a crown. King Bean was in full knight gear, atop his trusty steed with lance in hand. At the other end of the wall, proudly stood another bean in knight gear, sporting a logo way too close to the local big chain competitor. Across the top it read, "Only one coffee meets the royal standard. Our beans rule!"

  Ugh, so many lawsuits just waiting to happen right there.

  A familiar, shrill voice caused me to glance up at the register.

  "Just add it to Alfonso Malone's tab!" Mrs. Ditmeyer bellowed.

  The pimple-faced teen behind the counter tried valiantly to calm the woman, but she'd have none of it.

  "Unless you would like to wear this hot beverage, I'm leaving, and I'm not paying a penny."

  Darting to the counter, I placed my hand on the frustrated youth's arm. "Put it on my tab."

  Releasing a huge breath, the boy whispered, "Thank you."

  Turning what I hoped wasn't a completely forced smile toward the woman, I cooed, "How are you doing this morning, Mrs. Ditmeyer?"

  Huffing, she snatched up her supersized latte and narrowed her assessing gaze at me. "I'll be wonderful just as soon as you hire some competent staff." She paused, doing a quick up and down glance of my T-shirt masquerading as professional wear. Like the leopard print muumuu she was wearing was better. After rolling her eyes, she muttered, "Not that I'm holding my breath. Speaking of things I don't really expect to happen, how is the search for my necklace going?"

  "Security is working on it," I hedged.

  "Right," she huffed, clearly not believing that any more than I did. "Well, while you're working on that, my lawyer is working on a lawsuit."

  "Mrs. Ditmeyer, I assure you that in the unlikely event the necklace is not recoverable, you will be fully compensated for the value of the item," I told her, recalling that Alfie had said Stintner already filed the paperwork with the insurance company. I vaguely wondered how long it would take them to approve our claim and send a check. And if I was going to be saddled with the cheery Mrs. Ditmeyer until then.

  "Money isn't everything," she told me, waggling a chubby finger my way. "That was a family heirloom."

  "I understand," I said, channeling my best feather-smoothing voice. "Listen, you didn't happen to encounter anyone named Price while you were staying here, did you?" I asked, going out on a limb.

  She scrunched up her brow. "Price?"

  "Yes. Young guy, dark hair. Perhaps at the poker tables?"

  She waved a hand toward me. "Poker is my husband's game. I don't play."

  I pursed my lips, struggling for a connection. "Did you possibly visit your husband at the tables? While you were wearing the necklace?"

  She scoffed and gave me a dirty look. "My dear, contrary to what you might think, I don't go flaunting my wealth in public. The only time I even wore the necklace was when we arrived. Then I promptly tucked it away in my safe the minute we set foot in our room. The next time it saw the light of day, I foolishly handed it away to you."

  "Right," I mumbled, feeling the accusation in her tone.

  She paused and pursed her ruby stained mouth, lipstick feathering out into a coarse lady-stache. "I heard the news report, you know. Someone who's a suspect in her own father's murder shouldn't be running a casino."

  I opened my mouth to protest, but before I had the chance she jabbed her free fist onto her hip and jutted her chin in the air, jowls waggling in protest. "I bid you a good day." With one last disapproving scan, she spun around, coffee sloshing from her cup with each stomp
toward the elevator.

  Britton came up behind me. "They think you killed Dickie, too?"

  I turned toward her, not aware how much of the exchange she'd heard. "I don't know," I shrugged. "The media thinks I did." I paused thinking about Agent Ryder. "I don't know what the authorities think." And that was the truth.

  Britton pulled me in for a hug. "Then we're in this together, Tess. You and me."

  While I would have been hard pressed to find anything Britton and I had in common, the idea that we were "in this" together—whatever mess "this" turned out to be—was oddly comforting. I found myself actually hugging her back.

  "Okay, so what did Ditmeyer say about Price?" she asked, finally pulling away and heading back to our table.

  "Just that she didn't know him," I said, following her. "She only wore the necklace once. When she arrived at the hotel."

  "Well, whoever took it had to have known she had it. So they must have seen her then."

  I nodded. "Unfortunately, that doesn't narrow it down a lot."

  "Well, let's walk through it," Britton said, sipping at her coffee. "We know whoever Dunley was working with had to be someone with access. An employee, right?"

  I nodded. "Right."

  "Ditmeyer would have encountered the front desk staff checking in."

  I shook my head. "There's no way Tate would be involved in this. I can vouch for him."

  Britton nodded. "Agreed. But maybe someone else checked her in? Oh, and what about the bell hop? I'm sure someone took her things to her room for her."

  I nodded. "Okay, that's two possibilities."

  "And there's room service. I know Mr. Ditmeyer likes a Rueben and a scotch when he first arrives."

  "Okay, we're at three staff who could have seen the necklace."

  "And there's the parking valet," Britton said, ticking off a third on her fingers.

  I perked up in my seat. "The one with the freckles!"

  Britton bit her lip. "Freckles, freckles...I don't remember a freckled guy. He must be new."

  But my mental hamster was running so fast on her wheel that I hardly heard Britton.

  "How about this," I said, a theory coming to me even as I talked it out. "Mrs. Ditmeyer arrives wearing her necklace; the valet sees it when he takes her car. Then he reports back to Mr. Price about the necklace."

  Britton puckered her lips. "I don't know. You really think the male stripper is our master safe cracker?"

  I bit the inside of my cheek. "You're right. If he's got mad safe cracking skills, what's he doing living in that crap apartment?"

  "Okay," Britton said, picking up the scenario where I left off. "So the valet scopes out our whales as they arrive. Dunley pretends to be the high-rolling Mr. Price in order to find out exactly where the whales will be keeping their big ticket items."

  "Or, in the case of Ditmeyer's necklace, such knowledge just falls into their laps," I added, wondering how many people might have seen me with that velvet covered box in my hot little hands on its way to the hotel safe. If either Price or the valet had seen me coming from Ditmeyer's room, it wouldn't have taken a rocket scientist to guess what was in the box.

  "Right," Britton agreed. "So then who is actually stealing the stuff?"

  It hit me like a ton of bricks. "Joe Pesci!" I blurted.

  "The actor?" She looked at me like I was nuts.

  "No. Well, I'm pretty sure it's not the Joe Pesci. A look-alike was at the bar with the valet..." I trailed off, that hamster stating to sprint. "...with Weston!"

  At the mention of the man, Britton's eyes narrowed. "That snake? What was he doing here?"

  I quickly filled her in on the exchange I'd witnessed, the whole thing taking on new meaning now.

  "I'll bet anything that wasn't a tip he was giving the valet. It was a pay-off."

  "But why would Weston steal from our guests?" Britton asked, shaking her head. "I mean, he's a royal asshat, but it's not like he needs the money."

  "Maybe it isn't about money, I mused. "Look, when Carvell's safe was broken into, what did he do?"

  I saw the light bulb go on in Britton's eyes even before she spoke. "He moved over to the Deep Blue."

  I nodded. "And someone spread the rumor to Ditmeyer that the hotel was unsafe. Maybe he's not doing it for the money. Maybe he's trying to ruin the Royal Palace's reputation among our whales."

  "That sonofa—" Britton trailed off into a litany of swear words, employing the most creative use of the English language I'd heard in a long time. "If he's responsible, I will make him pay," she finally finished. "The man deserves to rot in jail. He's a complete letch. All hands, you know? When I was a beverage attendant…"

  "A what?" I interrupted.

  "Drink server, cocktail waitress, whatever you want to call it. Dickie always said those names were demeaning, and we deserved a professional title. Anyway, when I was slinging drinks…" She paused, brows arched as high as her taut face would allow. With an acknowledging nod from me, she continued, "Weston always had to smack my butt when I walked by. Of course, after we got married, Dickie threatened to break both of his hands, and that was the end of that." She smirked, lifting her chin in a proud gesture.

  I found myself kind of glad my dad had rescued her from that sort of stuff. Maybe he was the White Knight in some way.

  "Well, all we have is theories at the moment," I reminded Britton.

  She slurped the last of her latte. "Fine. Then let's go get some evidence. I want to talk to that valet."

  That made two of us.

  We tossed our paper cups in the trash, and I followed Britton toward the set of glass doors at the front of the casino. Two men in red valet vests milled around the desk in the vestibule, chatting about the latest snowboarding equipment.

  "Excuse me," Britton interrupted.

  They both snapped to attention. "Mrs. King, what can we help you with?" a short guy with muddy green eyes asked. I watched as he brushed his long hair from his face and straightened his tie.

  "Hey, Buckie," she said, addressing him by name. "We're looking for one of the other parking attendants," she told them, then turned to me for the description.

  "Tall, dark hair, lots of freckles?"

  "Johnny," the taller guy said. "Yeah, he's not here."

  "Where is he?" Britton asked.

  "I dunno," the first guy told her. "He, uh, didn't show up for work today. Not a real big surprise, though," he added, glancing at his partner.

  "Why is that?" I pressed.

  "Well, he was sort of lazy. Only liked to take the high rollers. If he didn't smell a big tip, he didn't want to bother. My guess, he won't be back."

  I had a bad feeling he was right.

  "Is there something I can do for you, ma'am?" the guy asked.

  But Britton shook her head. "No, thank you." She paused, then asked. "Did you happen to catch Johnny's last name?"

  "Smith," The taller guy said.

  "Great, John Smith," I mumbled as we walked back into the lobby. "What do you want to bet that's not his real name?"

  "About as much as I want to bet the contact info he gave on his employment application is fake," Britton said, her mind taking the same path mine was.

  "So now what?" I asked, my eyes scanning the rows of dinging slots and afternoon regulars at the tables as if the carefully choreographed chaos of the gaming floor might hold the answers.

  "Okay, so here's a thought," Britton said, turning to me. "Yesterday, Dickie's death was ruled a homicide. The casino is swarming with media and cops. Today, both our fake Mr. Price and the shady valet are gone. You think maybe the thefts are related to Dickie's murder?"

  I blinked at her. Actually, I hadn't. I'd been doing everything I could to push my dad's death and who might have been behind it as far from my thoughts as possible. But now that she'd voiced it, I had to admit, she had a point. "I think it's too much of a coincidence not to be." I paused. "So what does that mean? The valet killed my dad? Mr. Price? Weston?"

  Britt
on cocked her head to the side, sympathy clear in her eyes. "You hate talking about this, don't you?"

  What I hated was that I was that transparent. I cleared my throat, putting on my big girl panties. "No. I'm fine. Really," I said, forcing down a lump that had inexplicably lodged itself in my throat.

  "Look, I hate it too. Dickie was a good man, and he didn't deserve this. But let's find the bastard who did it. Then you and I can sit with a bottle of Chardonnay and have a good long cry about it."

  A laugh escaped me, and before I could stop myself I was nodding in agreement. "Deal."

  "And to answer your question," Britton said, "my money is on Weston. He had the most to lose if Dickie found out he was behind the thefts."

  "You think my dad figured it out?"

  Britton shrugged. "He was crazy smart. It's totally possible. Maybe he even confronted Weston about it, threatened to go to the authorities."

  "But how would Weston get into the penthouse to poison the DynoDrink?"

  Britton opened her mouth to speak, then quickly shut it with a click. "Oh. Good point." She paused. "You think he hired someone to do his dirty work? Like the valet?"

  But before I could follow that train of thought any further, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw Rafe's face on the display, unable to help the grin that hit my cheeks as I answered.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, beautiful," he said.

  I felt warmth instantly flood my face—and other parts of my body—at the sentiment. "Hey, yourself," I managed to reply. I saw Britton raise a questioning eyebrow my way. I ducked my head, trying to disguise the blush I could feel quickly spreading.

  "How are you holding up?" he asked. "Alfie chase the reporters out of your way?"

  I nodded. "He did. Thanks, Rafe."

  Britton's eyes widened, and she whispered, "Oh, that's who has you blushing like a nun in a sex-shop."

  I attempted to put my finger to her lips to shush her, and turned away, forcing my voice to a casual tone. "What's up?"

  "You and me, dinner tonight. You free?"

  I felt my heart beat double time. Was he asking me out? On a date? "Dinner tonight?" I repeated. Teen-me busied herself doing cartwheels of glee while I worked on getting my heart rate under control. "Uh, yeah. Sounds great."