CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s a few hours later, and already dark, when my mother, Shanelle, Trixie, and I walk along the Strip to a neighboring hotel for the faux volcanic eruption. We’re done discussing Frank Richter and have moved on to Samantha St. James.
“What that Samantha says about her son,” my mother shouts over the ruckus of the Strip, “is very unusual. Most of the time mothers are deaf, dumb, and blind when it comes to their sons. It’s like that Noreen Dudek.”
“Who’s Noreen Dudek, Mrs. P?” Trixie yells.
“She’s a woman from home. Happy was the same year in school as her daughter Jeannie.” We make our way past a posse of leering men. “Hold on tight to your purses!” my mother exhorts then resumes her tale. “Noreen has a son Ronnie, older than Jeannie. Anyhow, you’d think from listening to his mother that that bum Ronnie is such a saint he could walk on Lake Erie all the way from Cleveland to Buffalo.”
“That’s not true, though?” Shanelle hollers.
“Not on your life! That Noreen, she just can’t see him for what he really is.”
I keep my eyes peeled for Cassidy as we arrive at the volcano location. She wants to meet me during her break. I have no clue why.
The volcano has drawn a mob of spectators. The “mountain” is in a man-made lagoon in front of a hotel. It’s lit in dramatic fashion with multicolored spotlights. Railings keep the restive throng at bay while music with a tropical-island vibe blares. The “eruption” we’re all here for is scheduled to happen in ten minutes.
Cassidy finds me in about two. She’s in her burlesque corset outfit minus the cigarette tray. Given the get-ups people routinely sport on the Strip, nobody even bats an eye. “So have you figured out who killed Danny yet?” she asks me.
After three days of seeming not to care much, suddenly Cassidy has a sense of urgency about her boyfriend’s murder. “Well, I’m seeing Hans tonight in the hopes of getting something out of him. Plus I’ve made progress on other fronts.”
“That’s
it
?” She’s seems highly jittery, as if the bogeyman will sneak up on her if she’s not careful.
“Homicide investigations take time, Cassidy. Believe me, I’m trying, and I know Detective Perelli is, too.”
Cassidy gets right in my face. “Did you call her about me?”
“No. I told you I wouldn’t and I haven’t.” Not that I haven’t second-guessed myself. “But if I get the idea you’re still doing trick rolls, the deal’s off.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m walking the line now. I got too many eyes on me.”
I watch as she twists her head around to scan the crowd behind her. “Why are you so nervous all the time?”
“I just got a bad feeling, okay? I’ve had a bad feeling ever since Danny died.”
That does seem understandable. After all, her boyfriend did get murdered.
“All right,” she says, “I gotta get back to work.” She turns away.
I grab her arm. “Don’t you want to know if I called my reality-show contact?”
“Oh. Did you?”
“Yes. Just like I promised.”
“Okay.” She waits for the details with less eagerness than I would expect.
“Here’s Jennifer’s info.” I’d jotted it all down on the hotel notepaper. “She wants you to send her your material and says she’ll do her best to get you placed.” Mentally I’m crossing my fingers, hoping I’m not paving the way for a homicidal maniac to land a gig on national television.
“Great.” Cassidy barely glances at the paper before she stuffs it down her corset. “Thanks,” she calls over her shoulder as she spins away.
“What did she want?” Shanelle asks.
“Honestly, I don’t know.” I watch Cassidy cut through the horde. When she’s almost to the street, she’s waylaid by a man in jeans and a cowboy hat. From the way they immediately start talking, I can tell they know one another.
I’m distracted by a rumble beneath my metallic sandals. The music grows in volume and intensity.
“The volcano is starting!” Trixie cries.
“After walking all this way, this better be good,” my mother shouts.
Our group is right at the railing so we’ve got an unobstructed view. Smoke begins to surge from the volcano. The crowd murmurs in anticipation.
I glance at the street. Cassidy and Cowboy Hat Man are gone.
Whoosh!
A fireball explodes from the volcano and shoots into the night sky. The ground shakes and the drumbeat of the music gets even more insistent and primal.
Soon fireball after fireball is screaming toward the heavens, timed to the music’s beat. Fire spreads around the perimeter of the lagoon and “lava” runs down the side of the volcano. I feel scorching heat on my face.
“It’s as if we’re at a real volcano!” Trixie yells.
With the lagoon reflecting the flames, fire seems to surround us. The display builds to a crazy intensity and then with a final shudder the volcano quiets.
“Wow,” I say.
“Now
that
was a show,” my mother pronounces.
“You’re never disappointed here in Vegas,” Trixie adds.
That’s not true for everybody, I think as we join the multitude making its way back toward the street. Things didn’t work out the way Danny Richter wanted, nor did they for Sally Anne. I vow to check in with her tomorrow.
But tonight this queen has an Austrian to investigate.
“For the life of me I don’t know why you mix yourself up in these murders!” my mother declares as I say my goodbyes. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t. See you later.” I give her a kiss on the cheek, a thumb’s up to Trixie and Shanelle, and scamper off.
Hans suggested we meet at the Rialto Hotel. The second I see it, I feel as if I’ve been transported to Venice. There is a modern hotel wing but the amazing part of the property is the replica of a
palazzo
. The walls look like marble and are decorated with frescos and columns and intricate carvings. But what really astonishes me is the canal that not only circles the exterior but winds inside, through an enormous shopping and restaurant area that mimics an old Italian city. The arched ceiling is painted like a blue sky with billowy clouds. The lighting is soft and dim as if it were forever twilight.
Floating along the canal are real gondolas, graceful flat-bottomed boats painted black with gold ornamentation. The gondoliers are decked out in black and white outfits with red silk sashes at the waist and on wide-brimmed straw hats. Every once in a while a gondolier throws back his head and bursts into a beloved aria. I note there’s a female gondolier, too, with a gorgeous operatic voice.
It’s pretty obvious that Hans Finkelmeister chose this location because he has
amore
on his brain. At our meeting spot, I find him waiting for me in a gondola, his arm stretched across the banquette seat and his man purse blocking the other side so I don’t get the idea to sit opposite him. Like this morning, his tortoiseshell glasses are perched on his nose, though now he’s wearing a date-night satiny shirt with alternating plum and black stripes. I catch a whiff of cologne but not the heady scent Mario Suave wears.
“Come join me,” Hans invites, and reaches up a hand to steady me as I board. The gondola rocks as I step on. “I thought we could have a drink and take a ride at the same time,” he says.
I see that champagne is on ice on the gondola’s floor. I’m not surprised Hans wants to control the drinking part of the festivities. The last time he shared an adult beverage with a woman he barely knew, she slid benzodiazepines into his system.
Our gondolier gives me a wink as I settle on the banquette. I’m immediately embarrassed. He can no doubt tell that Hans and I barely know each other. And even though I am not intending to break any marital vows, I am intending to warm Hans up by making it look as if I might.
The gondola begins to move. Hans uncorks the champagne and hands me a flute. “What shall we toast to, Harriet?”
Whew. Bullet dodged. I had totally forgotten I gave him a fake name. “You decide,” I breathe.
“Let us toast”—he touches his flute to mine and gives me a smoldering look—“to an unforgettable evening.”
I’m thinking his evening with Cassidy must have been pretty unforgettable, too, but he’s aiming for something a little different this time around.
We sip our bubbly. The gondola gently sways. We slide past people strolling and mingling, looking into shop windows or sitting at cafés nursing cocktails or eating dinner. It takes some work to remember that I’m not in Venice but in a subterranean mall in the Nevada desert. I soon discover that Hans is ready to let both his imagination and his hands roam. He sets down his flute and lays his hand on my thigh. I move it off.
He laughs softly and leans close, gazing into my eyes. “You’re quite the temptress, Harriet.”
“And you’re very naughty,” I reply, batting my mascaraed lashes.
“You’re here, aren’t you? I’m guessing you want me to be naughty.”
I don’t have a ready response to that one.
“A woman as beautiful as you, I’m surprised your husband lets you travel alone,” he goes on.
“I’m surprised you want to talk about my husband.”
“I don’t if you don’t. But wouldn’t he be angry to know you’re here with me?”
Hans returns his hand to my leg, this time sliding it beneath my maxi dress. I stop its progress before it reaches X-rated territory but just barely. Marco Polo may be a famed Venetian explorer but he’s got nothing on Hans Finkelmeister. I hear myself say something I don’t believe. “What my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“I agree.”
“He does have a temper, though,” I lie.
“I do, too,” Hans informs me. “So I recommend you don’t make me mad.” He smiles as he says it but nothing can mask the threat beneath those words.
I am squirming in an attempt to dislodge Hans’s hand from the nether regions where he has planted it when he manages to refresh my bubbly with his free hand. Getting me plastered is no doubt part of his strategy. It occurs to me that I should keep an eye on my flute at all times so he doesn’t pull a Cassidy and spike my drink with who knows what.
“I’m not worried that you’ll make me angry, Harriet,” he says. “I can tell that you and I are in perfect harmony.”
“How do I know I can trust you? Vegas is famous for scam artists.”
“I say trust your instincts.”
“The thing about scam artists, though, is that they’re good at fooling people about who they really are. I can’t believe you haven’t run across at least one or two.” For example, last weekend, I’m thinking.
He eyes me. Then, “If I have, I’ve forgotten. All I can think about is you.”
He lays it on pretty thick, this guy. “So what have you been doing on your off time in Vegas?”
“Waiting to meet a gorgeous girl like you.” He attempts to move his hand even higher.
I keep an iron grip on it. I haven’t had one of these tussles since high school. “I can’t believe you didn’t do
some
sightseeing! This morning you told me you were here all weekend, before the conference even started. What sort of things did you do?” I’m curious if he’ll be able to account for his time, notably the all-important 4 o’clock hour Saturday afternoon.
He looks exasperated but humors me. “Well, I did a little shopping. Bought a few souvenirs. Like this watch.”
A replacement for the one Cassidy lifted. “Don’t tell me you forgot to bring a watch with you on this trip?”
“I like having lots of watches.”
I just bet.
“I played golf, too,” he goes on, “with a few of the guys. Then we went to see the Hoover Dam.”
“That was a busy day. When did you do all that?”
“Saturday.”
My ears perk up. “Really? How far away is the Hoover Dam?”
“I don’t know. Forty miles?” He frowns. “Why? You suddenly want to go?”
“Maybe.” My mind cranks. Hans would get wiped off the suspects list if there were proof that he was at the Hoover Dam at the time of Danny’s murder.
“Less talk. More action,” he says, and plants his lips on mine.
“Hans!” I try to slow him down by pretending to be embarrassed by the nearness of the gondolier.
“He’s seen it all,” Hans declares.
Whether he has or not, the gondolier chooses this moment to launch into song.
“O sole mio,”
he trills, the song whose English-language version Elvis Presley made famous.
Even Hans is familiar with it, I discover, as he seems to decide that a more effective mode of foreplay might be to whisper the lyrics in my ear. “It’s now or never, come hold me tight. Kiss me, my darling. Be mine tonight …”
Hans’s hands are once again in motion. This man does more roaming than my smart phone. Now his free hand makes a bold foray north of the equator. “Tomorrow will be too late. It’s now or never,” he whispers. “My love won’t wait.”
That’s coming through loud and clear. If this is Love Austrian Style, I feel bad for the
frauleins
in that nation.
As our gondola slips beneath another bridge into a less traveled area of “Venice,” I am really beginning to rue the skimpy nature of my halter-style dress. Hans still has one hand high on my thigh and with the other he attempts a pincer move from the north.
