Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) (15 page)

"Oh, well, do you want me to walk you back to your room?" Tate asked.

I shook my head. "That's okay. I'm pretty sure I can make it all the way across the street by myself." I blew him a kiss, and he snatched it from the air before letting Michael lead him by the hand to his reserved spot.

Lost in my own thoughts, I barely noticed the cold night air or the milling crowd in the lobby of The Royal Palace. I did, however, pause at my door, the phantom suitcase zipper returning to the forefront of my mind as I entered my room. Glancing carefully around, all seemed as I'd left it. Dresses were still splayed over the couch, my makeup bag emptied across my bathroom sink, and my suitcase still unzipped, contents spilling over the side. I relaxed a bit more as I peeled off my dangerous dress and hung it on the hanger, unstained and none the worse for the wear. After a long, hot shower, I slipped between my sheets, letting thoughts of nearly naked men shove their way into my brain and dance me into exceptionally sweet dreams.

*  *  *

Banging on my door shot me into a sitting position. I glanced at my curtains for any clue to the time, but I couldn't tell if it was neon or sun glimmering through the cracks. I flopped over and turned my alarm clock toward me. 6am.

"Who in their right mind is up at six?" I grumbled, as I reluctantly pulled the sheets back.

I grabbed a white, fluffy robe with the hotel logo on the pocket and shuffled to the door. I looked through the peephole to find Britton in full workout gear and makeup. Fab.

I opened the door and immediately pointed at the 'Do Not Disturb' placard hanging from the handle. "Does this mean nothing to you?" I huffed.

As though I hadn't said a word, Britton pranced past me and flung herself onto my bed. "I tried to do my work-out this morning, but I just couldn't get my heart into it." She pouted, and I almost felt bad for her.

Almost. It was 6am, after all.

"Coffee?" I ground out, not waiting for an answer before turning to the packets of instant in my tiny kitchenette.

Britton shook her head. "I'm way too jacked up today as it is. You know the police didn't leave until ten last night? Ten!"

"Ouch."

"God, it was awful, Tess," she said, falling back into a spread-eagle position as she complained to the ceiling. "The police dug through positively everything. And I mean
everything
. They even pawed through my tampons. My friggin' tampons!"

I shook my head, pouring a cup of coffee that looked just slightly above the quality of the slushy sludge on the side of the roads this time of year. "That's nuts," I agreed. "I mean, what did they expect to find?"

"I know, right?" she said, her voice going higher and louder. "Like I totally poisoned his drink with killer feminine products. Jerks," she muttered.

"What did Stintner say?" I asked, taking a sip and instantly regretting it. Roadside slush probably would have tasted better. I hated instant.

"He told them to put everything back where they found it and told me to say nothing." She popped up into a sitting position. "You would not believe the questions they asked me. That detective—the one with the pot belly?"

I nodded, even though I hadn't really noticed one plainclothes over another.

"He totally grilled me. Where was I, who had access to the penthouse, did I keep the cupboards locked? Like, stupid stuff, over and over." She paused. "Tess, I have a bad feeling the police think I did something to Dickie."

I had a bad feeling she was right. I sat beside her and put what I hoped was a comforting hand on her back. "I'm sure Stintner will straighten everything out."

"You know I would never, ever hurt Dickie, right Tessie?" she asked me. Her eyes shone with tears and so much sadness, but the Botox fought the good fight everywhere else.

"I know," I told her with 100% conviction. I searched my brain for something to cheer her up, but not actually knowing her very well left me with nothing. Until Mr. Price popped to mind. "Hey, guess who I saw at the male revue last night?"

Instead of cheering her up, her eyebrows turned farther downward. "You went to that gross skin show at the Deep Blue?"

I paused, suddenly feeling as lecherous as the Neanderthal Guy had seemed. "Um, sort of. It was Tate's idea," I mumbled. "Anyway, I figured out who Mr. Price is."

Britton's eyes rounded, and she swatted my arm. "Shut up! How?"

I started to explain to her my arduous process in the security office to view footage, and she stopped me.

"You know, we have state of the art facial recognition software. That would've saved you tons of time."

Even Britton knew about the software?
Damn it, Alfie.

"Yeah. It would have," I agreed, heavy on the sarcasm. "Anyway, the guy on the tape was one of the dancers in the show last night. Turns out he's also an actor. His name is Brad Dunley."

"Dunley, Dunley," Britton said, churning the name over. "Doesn't ring any bells."

"I was hoping maybe I could coerce someone in HR at the Deep Blue to pull his contact info for me."

Britton's face lit up. Well, the parts that could move did. "Leave it to me, girl. I can get the deets on anyone in this town." She picked up my room phone, dialed a number, and turned away from me, mumbling in hushed tones.

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.