Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (4 page)

Lonny. Lonny was driving up here today, would be arriving around dinnertime. My own romantic attachment, a considerably happier one than Joanna's. The very thought of him cheered me up. Tonight, I promised myself, tonight I'll tell all this to Lonny.

FOUR

Tonight seemed to take a long time in coming. We were questioned two more times by Detective Holmquist and spent the hours in between staring at the TV and eating a room service lunch. Joanna and I seemed to have entered a state of armed truce. She maintained a somewhat formal politeness and I refrained from asking her any more questions. I had apparently failed her in my assigned role of friend and confidante, but I wasn't sure exactly where I’d
gone wrong.

I wasn't sure I cared, either. I was more interested in the progress of the investigation, about which I learned, predictably, very little. Detective Holmquist seemed, on his second and third visits, particularly interested in the way in which I had happened to introduce Jack and Joanna.

That it was entirely a coincidence he seemed not to believe, and his questions repeatedly probed in the direction of, had I arranged it, had Joanna angled for it, had Jack angled for it? None of the above, I told him, but it didn't seem to make an impression. That Jack and I were casual friends, that Jack had spotted me sitting with an attractive woman in the coffee shop and had stopped to chat, probably hoping to be introduced, that all of this seemed to me to be certainly unpremeditated by any of us-this the detective found hard to accept.

Eventually he released me, after getting my assurance that I'd be available the next morning for more questioning. I'd taken awkward leave of Joanna and I virtually ran down the corridor away from her room.

My God, what a mess. And so much for my vacation. But Lonny was still coming and would be here in an hour or so. I hustled Blue down the back stairs in his duffel bag and walked him, lugged him back up the stairs and gave him dinner, then took a shower.

Fifteen minutes before Lonny was due to walk in the door I stood in front of the mirrored closet, naked, trying to decide what to wear. Staring hard at my body, I sighed. In Lonny's presence, with the palpable force of his desire for me reflected in his eyes, I seemed, even to myself, to be beautiful and desirable. Standing here alone was a different story. The woman I saw in the mirror was obviously past the freshness of youth; my breasts were beginning to sag a touch; there was a little extra flesh around my waist. Peering closer, I observed that the lines at the corners of my eyes were just as visible as the last time I'd inspected them.

Ah well. I sucked my stomach in, squared my shoulders, and smiled at myself. I'd do, thank you. I'd do just fine.

Five minutes later I'd clothed my body in black pants and a sea green silk shell that almost matched my eyes, with a black cashmere cardigan unbuttoned over the top. My hair was still damp and curled in wet dark tendrils around my face; I was trying to decide whether to blow it dry or not when I heard a knock.

"Who is it?" And it better not be that detective, I added silently.

A familiar voice said, "It's me," and I smiled and went to open the door.

Lonny stood in the hotel hallway, grinning at me, and before I had a chance to do anything more than look up at him and say hi, he'd enveloped me in a bear hug. Lonny is a big man-six-two and wide-shouldered, with long arms and a barrel chest. His hug was emphatic, and for a moment I felt small and fragile as he crushed me against him. Then he let go and we looked into each other's faces.

"Silk wrinkles, you know," I said mildly.

Lonny laughed. "You're supposed to be glad to see me."

I smiled back at him and held the door open. "I am. Come on in while I finish getting ready."

Blue looked up from his spot next to the bed at Lonny's entrance; recognizing him, he got stiffiy to his feet and trundled across the carpet, wagging his stump of a tail in greeting.

"Hello, Grandfather." Lonny bent to rub the dog's head, taking an appropriate amount of time to scratch his ears and his back. I stood and watched him, a silly, fatuous smile forming on my face.

Lonny did that to me; his simplest, smallest gestures touched my heart. The way he laughed, the way he petted Blue, the way he hugged me-they were all slight, illuminated views of the generous, happy spirit that overflowed out of his eyes. He stood up now and I looked at him as if I'd never seen him before-a big man nearing fifty with a vague air of untidiness, a beak of a nose, sandy hair, a slight roll over his belt, and those eyes-wholehearted, intelligent, kind. I am a lucky woman, I thought suddenly, as Joanna and her situation popped into my mind.

"So how are you?" Lonny asked.

"I'm fine, but something bad's happened," I said as I twined my still damp hair into a knot at the back of my neck.

"What's that?"

"Jack Hollister's been murdered."

Lonny's shock and disbelief were reflections of my own; by the time I'd finished a terse recital of the situation, my hair was up, my blush and lip gloss on, and my feet were clad in black suede flats. Fastening my pearls around my neck, I said, "I have no idea if that detective really suspects Joanna or not, he doesn't give a thing away."

Lonny had listened quietly; when I finished he remained silent for a moment. "I guess there's nothing we can do," he said finally. "At least, for the moment. Do you want to drive down to the south shore for dinner?"

The south shore of Tahoe is home to all the ritzy high-rise casinos; the north shore, where we were, has more of a casual air. In point of fact, I enjoyed going down to the south shore once in a while to absorb a brief blast of ersatz glamour, but this evening I had something else in mind.

"How about a place called Nevada Bill's, here in Northshore Village?" I asked.

"Never heard of it." Lonny looked at me, comprehension dawning. "Don't tell me. That's where Jack got killed. Gail, are you trying to poke into this?"

"Are you telling me not to?"

Lonny held his hands up. "No, no. How about, I'm begging you not to?"

I smiled. "Lonny, what harm can it do to eat dinner there?"

"I know you." He grinned back at me. "You'll find a way to get into trouble."

"That's unjust." I pulled a charcoal gray wool jacket out of the closet and stuffed my wallet into a black suede bag. "I'm ready."

Lonny got to his feet with a resigned look. "Lead on, Father Brown."

Lonny drove, as his four-wheel-drive Bronco was better equipped than my truck to deal with the icy roads. We'd chugged most of the way through the little one-street town of Northshore Village, when I saw the sign that said Nevada Bill's. Characteristically, the red neon letters were fifteen feet tall, and backed by some sort of glittering silver material that sparkled vividly in the reflected glow. Nevada Bill's was Nevada all the way.

Lonny found a parking place and we climbed out of the car into the winter night. The street was thick with clumps of frozen snow and slippery with ice. Though better than heels, my flats were vastly inferior to hiking boots, and my wool jacket felt like a layer of tissue paper. Shivering in the ten-degree air, so different from the mild Santa Cruz winter I was used to, I gripped Lonny's offered arm firmly as I picked my way down the sidewalk. Sidewalk was an overstatement, really. At the moment, it was a lumpy track through the slick, hardened snow.

After a city block's worth of hiking-it felt like a hike to me, anyway-we stepped through the door of Nevada Bill's. A blast of chilly air followed us inside, where it was immediately overwhelmed by the central heating. In two short minutes, I was peeling my jacket off.

Nevada Bill's was a typical casino, all maroon and gold, with lots of shiny brass trim. Lit gaming tables were islands of brilliant green baize, crowded with people, noisy with the clink of chips and drinks, the laughter and patter of blackjack in progress. Occasional whoops from the craps and roulette tables jazzed up the smoky atmosphere.

Lonny headed immediately for the nearest blackjack table with an empty chair; he liked to gamble. I wandered around for a while, more interested in orienting myself than in playing cards.

As Joanna had explained, Nevada Bill's was composed of several adjoining rooms. The central one, where I stood, contained the gaming tables. Two open archways at either side led into a room filled with slot machines and into a big bar with a dance floor, respectively. Glass walls at the far end of the casino screened an informal restaurant, and a small, discreet leather-covered door in one wall announced itself on a little brass plaque as the High Desert Room. Judging by the menu posted next to it, this was the elegant restaurant where Joanna and Jack had eaten.

Further wandering on my part located five more exits. A set of stairs going up, it appeared to offices, a hall leading to restrooms and phones, and three doors, all along one wall, that showed, through their windowed upper halves, that they led out onto a long deck. Peering through, I spotted the yellow crime
tape cordoning off one end of the deck and realized that it must mark the spot where Jack was supposed to have been shot.

I tried to visualize the scene in my mind. Jack, leaning on the railing, smoking a cigarette and staring down into the lake, perhaps, someone pointing the gun at him and firing. The body slumps forward and the killer shoves it over the rail and into the lake below before making an escape. I noticed there appeared to be no exit from the deck other than into the casino. So the murderer had to have come back through this building. Unless he or she went down over the railing?

Turning back to the room, I met the flat, impersonal eyes of the pit boss, watching me from the center of the nearest bank of blackjack tables. After a moment her gaze moved on, and I walked in that direction and sat down at an empty table.

The dealer was a man in his twenties, clean-shaven, blond, wearing the uniform black suit and white shirt and smiling a meaningless smile as he took my money and exchanged it for chips. He shuffled and dealt; I got a jack and an ace-blackjack. I turned the cards over and he smiled, said, "Good job" with a slight Australian accent, and pushed my winnings at me.

I let them ride and he dealt me a seven and a nine; I signaled for another card. It came up a five and I laughed.

"Twenty-one it is." The dealer smiled his pleasant, professional smile again as he pushed more chips in my direction.

I played several more hands and my luck held. I didn't hit twenty-one every time, but I continued to win. In ten minutes I had fifty extra dollars in front of me. Pushing a five-dollar chip toward the dealer as a tip, I asked him, "Did you see the man who was killed here last night?"

Though my tone was casual, his eyes lost their bland expression and lifted to mine with some interest. "No, can't say that I did. But I wouldn't have, you know. We dealers rotate constantly, and we have to watch the play. I don't remember seeing him, anyway."

"He was a friend of mine," I said. "I wondered if anybody saw him go out on the deck."

"Not I.” He dealt me another hand, then offered, "You might ask the pit boss. The cops were talking to her about it-that's all I know."

The pit boss had been in my mind ever since I saw her spot me at the door, and I asked the dealer, "Could you call her over?"

"Sure." He took my bet-I'd lost this time-and spoke quietly, without removing his eyes from the table in front of him. "Cher."

She appeared at his side instantly, her face wearing the same flat, impersonal, and alert expression it had when she saw me at the door. It
was her job. To watch, to be aware.

"Cher, this lady wants to know about the man who was killed last night."

The woman's eyes shifted directly to my face as she sized me up. Cher seemed an inappropriate name.
In
her midforties, she was square of body and face, and her light brown suit had clearly been chosen for its conservative formality, rather than its ability to flatter. Her eyes were an opaque mud brown and she wore the sort of regulation makeup-matte foundation, medium rust-red lipstick-that implied she wasn't trying to improve her looks, merely appear conventional.

"What's your interest?" she asked.

"He was a friend of mine. Another friend of mine was with him, and the detectives are questioning her about it."

"That the blonde?"

"Yes."

"What do you want to know?"

"What you saw, I guess. Anything that might help explain how it happened."

Cher regarded me quietly. It was her job to protect the house, and I supposed she was trying to decide if I was a threat. After a minute, she said, "The sheriff took my statement. I don't think it's any great secret. I didn't see the man go out on the deck. He could have gone out any of these doors"-she gestured at the three I'd noticed earlier-"and I probably wouldn't have noticed if he'd gone out the far one. I only watch this area. I did see the blonde go out later. She went out the door you were looking out a moment ago."

"How long was she gone?"

"Five minutes, more or less."

"What did she look like when she came back in? Did you see?"

"I saw. I was watching for her. Not many people go out on that deck in the winter. She looked upset." Cher turned her flat gaze into my eyes. "But she looked upset when she went out the door, too."