Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) (22 page)

"Your dad."

I refused to believe it. "My dad was
not
in with the mob, and he was
not
crooked." But even as I said it, I thought back to my first meeting with Agent Ryder. He'd said the same thing, that he'd been looking into something fishy at the helm of the casino for months.

"Believe what you want, toots. I'm just sayin' what I heard."

I shoved my doubts down, shaking my head. "Cannetti was probably just lying to get a bigger payday from you," I protested.

"Well, Cannetti ain't talking no more, so your guess is as good as mine. That's all I know." Weston folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw, classic signals that he was done being hospitable.

With one last glance at his hired goon, I stood and quickly slipped out the door.

As I waited for the elevator, my mind reeled over all that Weston had told me. Britton and I had been right about the thefts. We'd just had the wrong bad guy at the helm. So, who was it? Weston said it was someone inside the Palace—someone connected enough to the casino to take the whole place down with them if it became public. I felt my skin prickle at the thought, my suspicions about Rafe flooding back. He was certainly a public figure, and his name was almost synonymous with the casino. Could he really be behind it all? And, if so, why? It wasn't as if he needed the money.

And then there was Britton. I'd felt horrible about suspecting her before...but there was someone who
did
need the money. If Britton knew my dad was leveraged to the hilt, she could have organized the thefts to put aside a little nest egg of her own. As much as I wanted to believe everything about her, the truth was I wanted to believe
everyone
at the Palace was loyal to my father and as clean as anyone in the casino business could be. I couldn't see anyone there hurting a fly.

I bit my lip. Except Alfie. If anyone had a shady past, it was that guy. He'd been my father's right hand man for as long as I could remember...but who better to have access than Alfie? It would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to "lose" security footage when the thefts occurred. And no one was more inside than the head of security.

My phone ringing from my pocket startled me out of my thoughts so badly I nearly peed my pants. Britton's face filled my screen, and I took a deep breath before answering and stepping into the elevator.

"Hello?"

"Tessie, you have to come up here right away!" Her voice was loud, breathless, and held a hint of hysteria.

"What's wrong?"

"The Vermeer…  It's gone!"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I sat on the couch with Britton, holding one of her hands, as we watched the police once again search her things. Part of the gesture was to comfort her, the other part to keep her from assaulting the officers.

"Be careful!" she yelled, yanking against my grip. "That box is full of fragile things." She turned sad eyes toward me. "Please, make them stop. I'm so tired of all this."

"I know. Me, too," I agree wholeheartedly.

As soon as I'd gotten her call, I'd gone straight to the penthouse, only to find a crew of police officers once again going through Britton's personal belongings. While no one would actually talk to me to give me a straight story, the general consensus seemed to be that the police thought Britton had slipped the painting into a suitcase as a "parting gift," then called in the theft as a ruse. I'd left three voicemails for Agent Ryder, but so far he'd yet to make an appearance at the scene.

Instead, I watched as Alfie walked through the penthouse doors. His suit was rumpled, his jaw tense, his expression sour. "Tessie," he barked. Then he waggled a finger, summoning Britton and me into the hall, out of the earshot of the grabby-hands officers.

I followed his lead. "Did you find anything?" I asked, my voice more hopeful than I felt.

Alfie shook his head grimly. "I'm afraid not. Between the time Britton left for the gym and Ellie came in to clean, the place was only empty for roughly twenty minutes. We cued up all the security footage we had during that time frame."

"And?" Britton asked, the desperation in her voice rising into squeaking Minnie Mouse territory.

"Let me guess, the footage hiccupped again?" I supplied.

"Even worse," Alfie said. "The feed for the whole top five floors was wiped, and then there were random floors with missing blips. There isn't even a way to track where the painting went after it left here."

"The insider," I mumbled. He didn't need Cannetti or his other crew for this one. He fixed the footage, waltzed in, and took the painting all on his own. My eyes bounced from Alfie to Britton. So, who was the insider man? Or woman?

But Alfie shook his head. "No. This isn't related to the other thefts. The M.O. is completely different than any of the other incidents."

I gaped at him. "How can you say that? You really think it's just coincidence?"

Alfie shot me a look. "I think it's a stolen painting, and we'll track the guy who took it and get it back. Beyond that, I don't make up stories about why he stole it."

I rolled my eyes. "They're called
theories
, not stories."

"Well, in my book, they're the same thing. And they get us nowhere."

Britton put a calming hand on Alfie's arm. "Just find whoever did this, please. I can't live under this cloud of suspicion any longer."

Alfie nodded. "I'll go run the feed from the other floors and see if we can find something. At this point, we're searching for a snowflake in a blizzard. Don't get your hopes up."

With that, he stormed out of the penthouse.

But as I watched him retreating, I had to admit he was right about one thing. The M.O.
was
completely different. But even more different was the stolen item. Carvell's stolen cash was completely untraceable, easy to spend. The diamond necklace might be less so, but they could have broken it down and sold off the diamonds individually without too many raised eyebrows. The Vermeer was different. It was a one of a kind, priceless work of art. There's no way the thief could unload it without being outted. So, why steal it to begin with?

To frame Britton, perhaps? Was someone feeling the heat a bit too much? She would be the perfect, clueless scapegoat.

An officer tapped Britton on the shoulder. "Mrs. King, we need to ask you some questions."

"I already answered your stupid questions with him." Her hand shot out, pointing at a different officer digging through her packed lingerie in the hallway. "And, just for the record, I doubt anyone could fit the painting in that small of a box between pairs of panties!" she yelled, stomping toward the man in question.

I darted behind her, grabbing her arm just as she geared up to smack him away from her unmentionables. "Let's go to the Minstrel Lounge for a drink before they add assaulting an officer to your list," I whispered in her ear.

Turning toward me, face beet red, she muttered, "It's only noon."

"You know the saying. It's five o'clock somewhere." I forced a playful smile to my face. "We'll have a salad, too."

"Okay."

I pulled her toward the door, stopping at the officer standing guard. "We'll stay on casino property. You have our numbers."

He looked at the lead officer and nodded.

*  *  *

The same goateed host was on duty at the Minstrel Lounge. Menus in tow, he scurried to us.

"Mrs. King, Ms. King, what a pleasure!" he cried. "Right this way. The best seat in the house for you ladies." He led us to the same table Tate and I had shared. As we sat, I glanced out at the scenery. The daytime view of the mountains was just as breathtaking as the evening. I suddenly longed to be out there, feeling the crisp cool air on my face, boarding down the mountain at a breakneck speed, leaving all the questions and suspicions behind.

"Can I bring you ladies something to drink?"

"Whiskey sour," Britton mumbled, elbows on the table, her face buried in her hands.

The host's eyes rounded a bit before he turned to me. "And for you?"

"I'll have what she's having, and add a couple of house salads, too."

Britton peered at me through her fingers. "I'm not really hungry."

"It's a salad. I'm willing to bet you haven't eaten anything today with all that's been going on."

"Yeah." She nodded, dropping her hands to the table, rattling the place settings in the process. "This has been one of the worst days ever. They basically accused me of taking the painting. It's bad enough that everyone thinks I killed my Dickie, but to steal from him, too? Please."

I reached across the table and patted her hand. "I know you didn't kill my father, if that helps any."

"That means the world to me right now. You know I didn't steal the painting, too, right?" Her eyes held a child-like innocence, begging me to believe in her.

And in that moment, I totally did. No one could lie that well without giving something away. And Britton was nothing if not genuine. I felt guilty all over again for suspecting her to have anything to do with the thefts.

"Of course," I told her, taking a large gulp of my drink as soon as the server appeared with it. It was strong, but didn't do much to wash the guilty feeling away.

As our salads were set in front of us my phone vibrated in my pocket. I glanced down as I pulled it out. Rafe's face smiled up at me.

I paused, finger hovering over the "on" button. With guilt warring with suspicion, warring with the knowledge that at least one person I trusted had killed my dad, I didn't trust myself to pick up. I let the call go to voicemail, taking another sip of my drink instead.

"Who was that?" Britton asked.

I shoved a forkful of lettuce into my mouth to keep from answering, offering her a languid shrug instead. After swallowing, I asked as casually as I could, "What do you know about Rafe? I'm only familiar with the man on the mountain, you know."

"Ah." She set her fork down and took a long sip of her drink. "The date didn't go so well, eh?"

"It as a business meeting."

"Sure, whatever you say." Her words agreed with me, but the lopsided grin said otherwise. "What do you want to know?"

I glanced at the poster of him and his Barbie clone manager. While asking about their relationship was on the tip of my tongue, I asked instead, "What do you know about his life pre-fame?"

Britton pursed her lips, getting a far off look in her eyes as if recalling some conversation from the past. "Did you know he was raised in foster homes?"

I shook my head. "No. I had no idea."

She nodded. "Yeah, pretty much all his life. He said snowboarding was a way to get away from the system, so he threw himself into it, heart and soul." She took another drink, casting a thoughtful gaze out the window. "He said your dad gave him his first board. It was some sort of Christmas charity drive for foster kids, you know? Dickie was always doing stuff like that for the local community. Anyway, I guess Rafe really took to it."

This was all news to me. I guess I'd known my dad gave to charity, but I hadn't realized he'd been so hands on about it. I'd always imagined him just writing a check in his office when tax time came around. "How did Rafe end up here?" I asked.

"I'm not entirely sure how he ended up at the Royal Palace. I do know he was a stubborn prick when he first started out, totally out for himself. He had a really bad rep on the mountain for awhile. But Dickie helped him get his start here. I think Rafe kind of saw him as a father figure, you know? He's had several opportunities to take off to Aspen or Vail or, heck, even Europe. But he turned them all down."

"Why?"

"He told me family meant the world to him, and this was the closest thing he'd ever had."

I digested that while I sipped my drink again. I was just starting to feel a warm glow in my belly when my phone rang again.

Expecting it to be Rafe again, I answered without looking. "Hey, you."

"Uh, hey yourself, Ms. King," Stintner said, with an uneasy laugh.

I felt my cheek flush. "Oh, I'm sorry. The last call was...well, never mind. What can I do for you?"

"I have some insurance claim forms that need to be filed as soon as possible. You'll need to sign off on them as chairman."

"How long will it take?" I asked, glancing across at Britton.

I heard him shuffle through papers. "Only a few minutes. If you can come up now, I've got them all ready."

I nodded. "I'll be right there, then." I hung up and explained the situation to Britton. "I'll be right back, though." Finishing my drink, I waved as I darted out the door.

I arrived at Stintner's suite to find him waiting at the front desk for me. "My secretary is off today. Come on back."

I followed him into his office and sat across his polished desk from him. He slid a stack of documents to me, all opened to the pages with sticky arrows on them, showing me where to sign. I contemplated reading through everything, but even the small amount of legalese on the pages showing made my head hurt. And the whiskey sour wasn't helping. I stared up at him, mindlessly spinning my earring again, contemplating my position with the casino and what might be expected in this situation.

"These are the claims for theft from Carvell's room and the diamond necklace from Mrs. Ditmeyer's," he explained, clearly reading my nervousness at being in over my head.

I smiled at him. "Thanks. I just sign here?"

He nodded. "I've filled in all the appropriate amounts, attached all the documentation, and filled out the forms. Your signature is all we need to file, and we should see a check for compensation in the next two to three weeks."

"Which goes to the guests?"

Stintner nodded again. "Correct."  

"What about the Vermeer?" I asked, signing my name next to the first arrow.

"Ah. Right. Alfie informed me of that tragic loss," he said. "The painting was insured separately by the hotel as their property. I should have that paperwork drawn up for you to sign before the board meeting."