Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) (6 page)

I released a huge sigh of relief as he buzzed me behind the desk and unlocked the outer door to the vault.

"You're on your own now, dollface." He blew air kisses as the heavy door closed between us.

A very tall, heavily armed man stood in the doorway. He did the same up and down thing Mrs. Ditmeyer had graced me with.

Go on, diss my shoes, too. I just carried a diamond necklace across a crowded casino. I am Wonder Woman.

He put a hand to his ear, then his stone face immediately morphed into a bright smile. "The front desk just messaged me on my com. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. King."

Amazing how meeting the boss could turn any face into a butt-kissing smile.

"Likewise," I lied. "I've, uh, got something for the safe," I said, gesturing to the box.

He turned and punched in a code which opened the gate, then used his key and a combination to unlock the glass door beyond that. "Looks like you'll need one of the bigger safe-deposit boxes for that. Here is the paperwork." He dropped a large binder full of papers on a sleek metal desk. "And I'll send the code up to Mrs. Ditmeyer with a messenger. She will need that code, and either me or another guard with a key, to get her package."

I filled out the 15 pages of documentation to the best of my ability and watched as Rent-A-Cop locked the necklace safely away. I felt myself relax and released a huge breath I didn't even know I'd been holding. Suddenly, I felt like me again.

Scanning the front desk for Tate as I left, I was a teeny bit glad he had wandered off again. After the day I'd had, room service and a long nap were in order. I was just heading up to my room to indulge in both when I spotted Rafe signing autographs in the vestibule.

For a moment I weighed my options. Sleep or hot snowboarder? When he saw me walking through the lobby, he smiled and waved me over.

Hot snowboarder it is
.

I told myself that snowboarder crushes were so last decade. While his gorgeous green eyes might make the butterfly population in my gut number in the flock range, my taste in men ran more toward those with a real job and no groupies. I glanced around at all of the barely legal girls clustered around him, undoubtedly sporting a combined IQ of less than one hundred. Which helped Adult-me fight for domination over crushing-Teen-me at the last second. "Hey, you," I yelled across the crowd.

"Tessie," he called out, "I'm just finishing up. Give me a sec." One of the bleach blondes flashed me the stink eye as she pulled her shirt open, nearly exposing more than I cared to see in her haste. Rafe proceeded to sign his name across her cleavage.

Classy.

After kissing the love-starved girl on the forehead, he swatted her butt as he left the swarm. "You girls have a wonderful evening, and I'll see you on the mountain tomorrow. Okay?"

They all nodded emphatically, like life-sized Barbie bobble heads in designer ski gear.

Rafe scooped me into a quick hug, and I could swear they all sent dirty looks my way. Teen-me loved it.  

"How you doing?" he asked, his eyes full of concern.

"Good," I nodded, doing my best to look convincing.

"Wow, you're a terrible actress."

Apparently my best wasn't that good. I grinned at him. "Okay, I'm having what could be in the running for top three worst days of my life. Right behind getting spinach dip stuck in my braces for my eighth grade prom pictures and crashing my Honda Civic into the back of a loaded fertilizer truck when I was sixteen."

Rafe pulled me in for another hug, though I swear I heard him stifle a laugh. "I'm sorry, Tess. It's gonna get better."

"Thanks," I said, reluctantly leaving the warmth of his aftershave scented embrace. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," Rafe told me, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that highlighted his pro-athlete biceps. I momentarily lost my train of thought, staring at them.

"Uh, right, um...you said at the cemetery that my dad's heart attack seemed unlikely. That he didn't seem to have a weak heart."

Rafe's eyes clouded, his lashes making long shadows on his cheeks as his gaze hit the ground. "I guess none of us know when something like that is going to sneak up on us."

"Right. I'm wondering if maybe it wasn't bad health that snuck up on him."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Did my dad seem different to you?" I asked. "Agitated or distracted by anything?"

Rafe's frown deepened, his arms folding tighter as he shifted his stance. "Not that I noticed. Your dad was business as usual right up until…" His voice dropped off, brow pinched together with concern. "Why do you ask?"

I was so caught up in his intense green eyes, I almost blurted out that I thought my dad had been murdered. Fortunately, I caught myself in time.

"Just curious about my father's last few days." I nearly choked on the finality in those words. Regret started budding in my gut, pulling my strong façade apart. Tears threatened to spill, but I quickly swiped them away.

Rafe reached out a hand, running his thumb gently under my chin. His touch and look of sincere concern melted Teen-me into a puddle of heart-doodling goo. When he glanced at me through his long, dark lashes, flashing me a smile that popped dimples in both cheeks, the warmth flared to meltdown status.

"I'm glad you decided to stick around," he told me.

I felt myself blushing under his gaze and told myself he was just being polite.

"Yeah, well, it turns out there are a few items of unfinished business that my dad left behind," I hedged, not sure how far the rumor mill extended.

"I heard," Rafe said, answering that question for me. "
Boss
," he added with a wink.

I shook my head as Teen-me and Adult-me battled over the new round of butterflies getting giddy in my stomach over that wink. "Just on paper. And it's only temporary."

"Well, I guess I better take advantage of your company while I have it then," he said, grinning his charm-the-pants-off-the-groupies smile. "Hit the powder with me tomorrow? If memory serves me, you were hell on a board."

Before I could stop myself, I heard my crushing Teen-self saying, "Sure. Sounds like fun." I even punctuated it with a girly giggle of unknown origin.

His face lit up like Christmas. I made a mental note to have a stern talk with my teenage self about rekindling old crushes. At a complete loss for what to say next, I was saved by the bell, or chirping cell phone as it was. I pulled it from my purse, checking the readout. Britton. Good God, what now?

"Sorry, I have to take this." I waggled my finger at the boob-signing pen he still clutched, and he handed it to me. After scrawling my phone number in his palm, with what I hoped to be permanent ink, and waving good-bye, I answered my phone while I headed to the elevators.

"Hi, Britton."

"Oh Em Gee, Tessie," she wailed. "I need to talk to you, like now. I know what killed my Dickie!"

I blinked at the phone. "What?"

"Just come upstairs," she said, hiccupping out a sob. "I'll explain everything." Then she hung up.

While I was beginning to think everything in Britton's world was overly-dramatized, I'll admit that I practically ran the last few steps to the elevator. By the time I got to the penthouse door, all kinds of scenarios were racing through my head.

Britton let me in, black mascara-filled tears streaked down her face. I could see the packing crew still hard at work down the hall, moving boxes from room to room. But Britton ignored them, grabbing me in a tight hug as she sobbed into my shoulder.

"I was going through some of Dick's things as they were boxing it all up," she sob-hiccupped again. "I thought maybe there'd be some clue in there somewhere as to who killed him."

"Was there?" I couldn't help my curiosity asking.

She shook her head. "Not who. But I did find what."

"What was it?"

"Well, the EMT's took all of his medications and stuff…" She paused as she inhaled a staccato breath along with a nose full of snot. She continued in full bawling mode. "...when they took his body."

I found myself patting her back and desperately searching the penthouse for a box of tissues for the next nasal event.

Her red-rimmed eyes brightened a bit. "But they left his DynoDrink mix."

"His Dyno-what?" I handed her a dish towel, hoping she'd use it instead of power-snorting.

She dabbed her eyes daintily, clearly not realizing her mascara was way beyond dabbing. "DynoDrink," she continued. "It's this super-food health powder you mix with water. Dick drank two every day. Anyway, I'm sure that's how he was poisoned."

"My dad drank health shakes?" I had a hard time picturing the old school, martini and a cigar guy I remembered downing wheatgrass.

But Britton nodded. "Rafe got him into it. He does endorsements for the stuff."

Which was almost as surprising. I hadn't realized he and my dad were close, let alone on the level to share health tips.

"Okay, I'll bite. What makes you so sure this stuff was what killed him?"

"He collapsed twenty minutes after drinking it. That's exactly the time it takes the average man's digestive tract to fully break down the proteins and disperse them to the red blood cells."

I blinked at her.

"I googled."

Of course she did. "I'm not sure that's exactly conclusive evidence," I said, playing devil's advocate.

"Oh, and it smells funny. Like caviar gone bad, you know?" Britton said, scrunching up her nose.

No, I didn't, my diet running more toward canned tuna than caviar. But, I took a whiff from the plastic canister she held out to me. It looked almost full, like a freshly opened canister. But a distinct odor of dead fish and something I couldn't quite put a finger on came wafting back up at me. I took the container from her and read the ingredients, not entirely sure it hadn't started out smelling that way.

"Okay," I said as I handed the canister back to her. "Let's say, for argument's sake, this killed him. Who knew he drank the stuff?"

"Gosh, everyone. Dickie was so into it, he tried to get anyone who'd listen to drink the stuff. Said it gave him total energy. Better than Viagra even."

I didn't know which one disturbed me more, the thought of my father being gone or the image of him having sex. "TMI territory again, Britton."

She gave me a sheepish look. "Sorry."

I grabbed the drink mix, turning the canister over in my hands. By now it had been handled by Britton, me, the moving guys, and who knew how many household staff.
If
it had been the murder weapon and
if
the killer had left any fingerprints, they were long gone now. Which just left us once again with more questions than answers.

Not the least of which was what had Richard King done that had someone angry enough to kill him?

CHAPTER SIX

I left Britton with her packing crew and health shake theories, promising to call her later. As I rode the elevator, my rumbling stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I stopped at the sixth floor, detouring to the right where a small restaurant occupied the back of the casino. The Minstrel Lounge was already filling up, a Frank Sinatra impersonator on the small stage crooning to all who entered. Dead center was a bar set up to match the ambiance. Leather stools surrounded a stainless counter with neon signs touting drink specials and vodka brands. The staff was all dressed up like hip Rat Pack clones in dark suits, funky hats and skinny ties. I instantly knew this was my dad's vision. That pang of regret niggled at me again, telling me I really should have visited more often.

The maître de approached me. "How many in your party this evening?" As I raised one finger, a look of disdain crossed his elongated, goateed face. We wove through the tables with him mumbling under his breath about the buffet downstairs.

I followed him to a tiny, dimly-lit corner table, the men's restroom on one side and the hustle and bustle of the kitchen doors on the other.

Fabulous.

I would've asked to move to the bar if he hadn't tossed my menu on the table and darted away. Accepting my less than prime location, I sat down and looked over my choices. The menu was the same nod to the sixties as the ambience, meat and potatoes dominating the meal choices. Which sounded like heaven at the moment. I was vacillating between the All-American cheeseburger and the Hometown meatloaf with garlic mashed potatoes when the Sinatra impersonator paused between songs.

"This one goes out to Richard King," Old Blue Eyes said.

I immediately got that familiar lump in my throat.

"Like him, it's an oldie but goodie. Here's to you, Mr. King, wherever you are," he said. Then he started crooning "Thanks for the Memory."

I found myself silently singing along, my mind tripping over my own old memories of my dad as my gaze wandered over the patrons of the restaurant. It wasn't packed, but there was a decent dinner crowd gathering. The bar was still sparsely populated. I watched as a young Joe Pesci look-alike sat down on one of the leather stools. Short, dark hair, dressed all in black, even sporting a leather dress coat. I found myself grinning as the guy greeted the bartender with the same, "Hey, how ya doin'? Right, right?" as Pesci's character in
My Cousin Vinny
.

"Pesci" ordered a drink, sipped at it, listened to the Sinatra impersonator a bit. He'd almost faded from my thoughts when I spotted Buddy Weston walk in and sit on the stool next to him.

I narrowed my eyes. What was Weston doing here? Britton had made it pretty clear that he wasn't welcome.

As he slipped off his suit coat, the glare from his signature silk shirt nearly lit up the area around him. I was about to get up and tell Weston to take a hike when another man sat down on the other side of Mr. Pesci. As he stole a wary glance over his shoulder, I recognized the freckled face of the casino's valet. He leaned in, addressing both Pesci and Weston.

I raised an eyebrow. Now this was interesting. I desperately wanted to hear what they were whispering but couldn't figure a feasible way to get closer without being recognized. Or looking like I was shamelessly eavesdropping. I watched as Weston pulled an envelope from the jacket draped over his arm and passed it under the counter to Pesci. The valet yanked it between them. I saw both men flipping through the contents but wasn't close enough to confirm what it was. Whatever it was, they both seemed satisfied, as Pesci nodded at Weston, clapping him jovially on the back. Weston slipped off his stool, threw his jacket on, and walked away. Downing their drinks, Pesci and the freckled valet followed him out the door a few minutes later.