Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) (16 page)

"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?"

Britton 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."

"Excellent! I have a wicked idea for a snowboarding event to bring in more casino guests. You know, maybe offer free lift tickets to everyone who books a room."

I paused, heart instantly slowing. Not a date. A business meeting. I closed my eyes and cursed Teen-me for celebrating prematurely. Of course it wasn't a date. Rafe dated size-two, pink-fluff-wearing Barbie managers. He didn't date failed artists turned gallery curators. And he certainly didn't date his temporary boss turned snowboarding pal who was going to clear out of town just as soon as she possibly could.

Not, mind you, that I wanted to date him either. The flush in my cheeks was probably just the hotel's heat turned up too high.

I realized he'd been talking, and tried to tune in before I missed the entire conversation.

"...anyway, I think it could be really good to get some positive publicity surrounding the casino right now, you know?"

"Absolutely!" I said, forcing the cheerfulness maybe just a little too hard. "Should I meet you somewhere?"

"Nah, I'll pick you up at your room. About seven-thirty? I heard about the knockout dress you wore last night. Feel free to wear that again," he hinted before he hung up.

Down Teen-me.

I was just telling myself that Rafe's nature was the flirtatious charmer whether he meant to flirt or not, when I looked up and spotted his polar opposite walking toward me.

Agent Ryder.

If Rafe was naturally flirtatious, Ryder was naturally guarded. I wasn't sure which was more frustrating.

"Ms. King. Mrs. King," he said, nodding at each of us respectively.

"Agent Ryder," I said, trying to match the detached professionalism in his voice even though the way he looked me up and down in my T-shirt and pencil skirt was a keen reminder I'd been wearing a whole lot less the last time he'd seen me.

"You're that Fed, right?" Britton said, breaking through the awkward in the air.

Ryder turned his attention to her. "I am with the FBI," he confirmed.

"Good. Because we know who killed Dickie."

Ryder raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. "You do?"

Britton nodded emphatically. Then she nudged me in the ribs with her elbow. "Tell him, Tessie."

"Me?" I squeaked out.

Ryder's quizzical gaze shifted my way.

I cleared my throat. "Right. Okay. Sure." Then I proceeded to tell him our theory about the valet, Dunley, and Joe Pesci's crime ring headed by Weston, half waiting for him to tell me I'd been watching as many crime dramas as Britton. But at this point, I was willing to risk looking a little nuts if it cleared the name of my dad's legacy. "Look, if my dad found out, it would give them ample motive to want to get rid of him," I finished.

"Our money's on Weston," Britton added. "He's a royal asshat."

I could have sworn I saw the corner of Ryder's mouth twitch upward ever so slightly. "That's an interesting theory."

I perked up. Maybe he would take us seriously after all.

"But it's just that," he added. "A theory."

The perk deflated instantly. "Hey, evidence is your job," I pointed out. "Which should be easy enough to get. Just go talk to Weston."

Ryder narrowed his eyes at me and crossed his arms over his chest. "And say what? That we would like to talk to him about a dancer at his club, a vanishing valet, and some guy who looks like Joe Pesci?"

I bit my lip. Well, put like that I did sound nuts.

"Ask him where he was the morning Dickie died," Britton suggested.

"We have."

I blinked. "You have?"

More eye narrowing. "I am a professional investigator, Ms. King. Of course we asked. He's a known rival of your father's. He was one of our first suspects."

I suddenly felt not only nuts but about two feet tall. "He was?"

Ryder nodded slowly.

"And I'm guessing he's not now?"

Ryder shook his head just as slowly.

"Why the heck not?" Britton yelled. "The man's a snake."

"That may be, but he's got an alibi. Weston was seen at the Deep Blue by over a hundred employees who can account for his whereabouts all day long. Not to mention security footage backing up their story."

I looked up at the ever-present black cameras above us. Of course there would be footage.

"Then he hired someone," Britton spouted, throwing her hands in the air. "The valet. Or even Joe Pesci! God, can't you people see how obvious it is? That's it, I'm getting Alfie on this," she said, pulling out her cell and dialing.