CHAPTER TWELVE
The St. James home is a wondrous thing. The neighborhood surrounds a swanky golf course and the house itself is a humongous white stucco Spanish-style with a red-tile roof.
“It has a turret,” Trixie whispers as we walk up the curving path to the columned portico. The path is bordered by a boxwood hedge whose perfect manicuring puts my finger and toe nails to shame. Unlike Cassidy’s neighborhood, these residents have irrigation systems. Instead of gravel and cacti, there are lawns and flowerbeds. Under the desert sun, I can’t imagine how much watering is required to maintain such lushness.
I am glad we dressed for the occasion. We are both wearing maxi dresses, mine a blue green abstract pattern with a halter top and Trixie’s a floral boho-inspired with graduated tiers.
Samantha greets us with Pucci in her arms. Both dog and mistress are sporting pink and mint green today, the former by way of a tartan collar and matching bow and the lady of the manse in a tunic and capris.
“Would you care for some iced tea, dears?” she inquires as she leads us into her living room. It’s a spectacular two-story space with loads of natural light and a pristine white carpet. I guess that’s not a problem because Pucci’s paws never touch Terra Firma. Beyond huge windows is the golf course, edged by soaring palm trees of the type I imagine in Beverly Hills.
We accept and Samantha disappears into the kitchen beyond the adjacent dining room, after depositing Pucci on an upholstered doggie sofa next to the grand piano. I amble over to what I suspect is an antique sideboard to glance at the framed photographs artfully arranged on top.
I have one in my hand when Samantha returns bearing a tray loaded with crystal glasses and a pitcher. She gasps as if she caught me stashing the frame in my shopper. “Why are you so interested in that photo?” Her voice quavers.
“I’m so sorry.” I return it to its place. “I was just looking at it.”
Trixie gently takes the tray from Samantha. “Is it your son in that photo?” Her tone is light and conversational, as if nothing weird just happened.
“My son Brandon, yes.” Samantha’s skin is flushed. Trixie edges her onto the sofa and begins to serve the iced tea. I’m doubly glad Trixie came with me. She’s better than I am at smoothing over rough bits.
“I like your son’s name,” Trixie says. “It’s unusual. My son’s name is Tag, after my husband’s uncle. My husband is named Rhett, just like you know who in
Gone With the Wind
.”
The chatter seems to calm Samantha down. “Calvin and I considered naming him Calvin Junior.” Again today, even just relaxing at home, diamonds blink from her ears and throat. “But I’m glad we didn’t. I’m not sure he’s anything like his father.”
After that less than complimentary remark, an awkward silence descends. I sip my tea and clear my throat. “You have such a lovely home, Samantha.”
“I have been blessed with a great deal of material abundance. Calvin was a very successful man.”
“What business was your husband in?”
“Junkyards.”
Trixie gives me a meaningful look, as if to say:
You may not believe it but
there’s a lot of money in junkyards
. I decide now is the time to reveal the crystal bowl. I only hope Samantha hasn’t seen it before, for example on her own sideboard.
It is with some trepidation that I extract the bowl from my shopper and carry it to Samantha across the living room. “The family wants to give you this as something to remember Danny by.”
Samantha takes it with great reverence and gives it a thorough examination. Fortunately, she shows no sign of recognizing it. “It’s exquisite,” she whispers. “But of course that describes Danny’s taste to a T.”
I think of Danny’s girlfriend but keep my lips zipped.
Eventually Samantha sets down the bowl and becomes weepy. “Poor, poor man! He would have been so much better off if he’d never met me!”
“No, no,” Trixie and I murmur, but I for one wish her to continue in this vein.
She obliges me. “What have I done to him? I don’t know how I can live with myself!”
By this point Pucci, faithful pup that she is, has abandoned her personal sofa to perch at her distraught mistress’s feet.
“However do you mean?” I ask. I find it almost impossible to imagine this pink and white froth of a woman pumping a bullet into Danny Richter but it’s hard to grasp what she’s getting at otherwise.
“I just—” She blows her nose into the tissues Trixie has fetched from the half bath. “I don’t know what I mean. I just feel terrible. Terrible …” Her voice trails off and her gaze wanders to the huge windows, beyond which a golfer is lining up a shot.
“I’m sure you were never anything but kind to Danny.” I say this even though I’m not sure at all.
Samantha remains silent. Darn. Just when it was getting good, she clams up.
“How did you meet Danny?” Trixie asks.
This gets her going again. “Please don’t judge me,” she begs.
“Of course not!” Trixie and I both exclaim.
“I met him through an escort service. I got so lonely after Calvin died.” She lifts Pucci onto her lap. “After all, I can talk to this little dearie but she can’t talk back.”
“Of course we understand.” Trixie strokes Samantha’s arm. “Rattling around in this big house all alone.”
Samantha seems buoyed by the commiseration. “My friend Dottie suggested I give the service a call. She’s a widow, too. The first few men they sent over, I didn’t like at all. But Danny …” She gazes across her living room as if remembering the first time they met. “I knew right from the start we were kindred spirits.”
I bet Danny knew right from the start that this rich, lonely woman represented one gonzo opportunity.
It is true: I do not have the highest opinion of the deceased and maybe that’s unfair given the tough breaks he had in life. But I have trouble forgiving his transgressions. If Cassidy is to be believed, he got her into trick rolls. Then he fenced her stolen items. And given his blackjack-dealer salary, I don’t understand how he procured uber-expensive televisions and Tiffany handbags.
Then I get an explanation for Exhibit A. “I just loved pampering him,” Samantha says. “You know how men love fancy electronics.” She giggles like a teenager. “We would go to those big box stores, I think they’re called, and I’d let him pick out whatever he wanted. It was such fun for me. Brandon never lets me pamper him, you know,” she adds, tapping me on the arm. “And of course I can’t pamper Calvin anymore.”
“And would Danny escort you places you wanted to go?” Trixie asks.
“Yes, exactly, dear! To restaurants. Or exhibits. Or a show.”
Danny would do the escorting but Samantha would do the paying. “One thing confuses me,” I say. “Obviously you were tremendously generous to Danny. How could you think he would have been better off never knowing you?”
I watch Samantha zip her frosted pink lips. I don’t know if I asked the wrong question or exactly the right one but either way she won’t answer. Instead she rises to her feet. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about that. It gives me such a headache. I think it’s better if you two leave now.”
I remain seated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Samantha.”
“It was very kind of you to bring me the bowl. I will treasure it always.” She moves toward the front door. “My psychic advisor tells me it’s not a good way to achieve serenity but all the same I think I’ll take an aspirin and lie down.”
I do not want my acquaintance with Samantha St. James to end here. There are too many unanswered questions. As I stand up, I get an idea that may gain me a repeat invitation to her palatial abode. “You have probably sensed, Samantha, that Trixie here is a psychic advisor of sorts.”
Trixie gives me a funny look but remains silent.
“Perhaps she could do a reading for you,” I suggest, “and bring you some much needed clarity.”
Samantha regards Trixie with a look of deep admiration. I don’t think I’m imagining a similar veneration in Pucci’s gaze.
“I am quite spiritual,” Trixie allows.
“Well, in that case—” Samantha says.
“Wonderful!” Now I stride cheerfully toward the door. “I’ll be in touch to set up all the particulars.”
Trixie waits until we’re in a cab before she calls me out. “Do a reading, Happy? I don’t know the first thing about doing a reading!”
“We can figure it out. I’ll help. How about tarot cards?”
“Well …” Her expression is dubious. “I did have a Tarot card period in high school. I did readings for all the girls in the junior class.”
“See? That’s perfect.”
“But Mrs. St. James is so sad over Danny. I don’t want to lead her on as if I can offer her comfort when really I can’t.”
“I know what you’re saying, Trixie. But look at it this way. I think Samantha St. James is hiding something. I also think she’s really close to spilling it. I bet we can push her over the edge with a Tarot card reading.”
“Just because she consults a psychic advisor doesn’t mean she’s a pushover.”
“I’m not saying she is. In fact, I’m wondering if she’s the one who killed Danny. After all, she was obviously very attached to him and she could be a woman scorned. And we must remember that murderers sometimes come in unexpected guises.”
Trixie is inclined to bow to my superior wisdom in this area. “Well, for sure Danny could have stolen things from her. I don’t think Pucci is a very good guard dog.”
I quite agree. Pucci might succeed in drawing blood from a thief’s ankles but that’s about it.
“I’ll do it in service of your investigation,” Trixie concludes. “But that’s not to say I like it.”
“I appreciate it. I really do think it’ll help.” I squeeze her arm. “How about I make it up to you by getting you into the cryogenic chamber today?”
“Really?” Trixie is gleeful until we arrive at the spa to find our cryo hopes dashed.
“My shift’s done,” Frank says after I make the introductions. He is once again in his black fleece ensemble. “Your best bet is early in the day. That’s when I’m manning the thing this week.”
“Maybe we can try again tomorrow,” Trixie says. Her voice is hopeful.
“Yup. Come on by.” Frank shoots out of the spa as if there’s somewhere he really needs to be.
On a whim, I grab Trixie’s arm. “Let’s tail him.”
Trixie’s eyes widen. “Yes! Let’s!”
We hang back and follow Frank to a hotel further south on the Strip. He goes to the casino, selects a roulette table, and buys in. Trixie and I keep an eye on the action from behind a row of slot machines.
“I think they came up with roulette in France,” Trixie tells me.
“Lots of us Americans sure seem to like it.” I note Frank selected a table where the minimum bet is twenty bucks. That adds up fast.
It’s a little dizzying what with the dealer constantly spinning the wheel and the ball jumping and landing and the players cheering or moaning when they win or lose.
“Frank’s pretty lucky today,” I observe. We watch his green and white roulette chips pile up. “If I were him, I’d cash out.”
But Frank doesn’t. True, his fellow players egg him on, but I get the idea they think he’s nuts to keep going.
“When Rhett and I were here a few years ago,” Trixie murmurs, “I remember him telling me that in roulette the house has a really high edge, more so than in other games.”
“So if you’re winning, you should really take the money and run.”
Frank’s piles of chips are starting to remind me of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Then he stuns me by pushing all of them toward the dealer and crying something out. Her brows rise in obvious surprise. Frank slaps the roulette table in emphasis. His fellow players cheer and clap.
“I can’t believe it but I think he’s betting it all on one spin,” I tell Trixie.
The suspense is hard to take as the ball jumps around the wheel. Finally it lands. Frank’s fellow players emit a groan. Frank stares at the wheel as if he can’t believe what just happened. The next thing you know, the dealer sweeps away all of his chips.
“He just lost everything,” Trixie whispers.
He certainly did. He pushes back from the table, the picture of dejection. I have to resist the impulse to rush over and console him.
“I wonder if Sally Anne knows he gambles like that,” Trixie says.
I do, too.
