You Bet Your Life (3 page)

“I’m sure Martha was proud to hold your arm down the aisle.”

“Least I could do for the wife of a colleague,” he said. “And seein’ how happy she is, I have to admit I mighta been wrong.”

“Martha does look happy,” I agreed, watching the bride affectionately greet her guests. Despite the Las Vegas heat, she had chosen a long-sleeved, formfitting white lace dress, lined in silk, which ended in a lace hem just above her knees. Her black hair was drawn back into a loose chignon, encircled by a broad band of matching fabric with a short veil fanning out over the back of her head. Around her neck she wore a double strand of pearls that dipped down to echo the vee neckline of her dress. Victor had given her a large diamond engagement ring, which she wore next to the diamond band he had slipped on her finger during the ceremony.

“Fella has quite a bit of money, from the looks of it,” Seth said.

“Well, the important thing is how be makes her feel,” I said.

“True, but it doesn’t hurt to know you’re not going to miss any meals.”

“Isn’t Martha gorgeous?” Maureen said when the Metzgers and the Treyzes joined us. “This is so romantic. He’s so handsome. And rich. Did you see her jewelry?”

“No wonder they need a bodyguard,” said Mort.

“What do you mean?” his wife asked.

“That bruiser over there is no ordinary wedding guest,” Mort said, indicating a young man talking to Jane, Victor Kildare’s daughter.

We all looked at the fellow Mort had pointed out. He was about five feet ten inches tall, but with the upper body of a much larger man. His shoulders strained the seams of his tuxedo, and I was willing to bet his shirt had been custom-tailored to accommodate his thick neck. As he talked to Jane, she reached up and ran her hand over his hair, which was cropped short in a military cut. They both laughed.

“Maybe he’s her boyfriend,” Tina said, turning back to us.

“I vote with you on bodyguard,” Doug said to Mort.

“There aren’t very many people here, are there?” Tma whispered.

In addition to Jane and the bodyguard, there were two other gentlemen, and an older woman who was talking with Betsy. Several people who’d been in the chapel for the service had already left.

“Martha told me that Victor wanted to keep it small and personal,” I said.

“We didn’t have many guests at ours, either,” Maureen said. “Do you remember our wedding day, honey?” She squeezed her husband’s elbow. “Mort’s wearing the same tux he wore to our wedding.”

“I remember my collar wasn’t as tight as it is today,” he grumbled.

“That reminds me. I’m starving,” Maureen said, scanning the room. “I don’t want to drink any more champagne on an empty stomach.”

“Empty stomach?” her husband echoed. “You’ve been tailing the waiters like a rookie cop. They all know your name and food preferences by now.”

“Now, sweetie, I know that tight collar is making you grumpy,” Maureen crooned, “but the wedding is almost over.”

“The food is wonderful,” said Tina. “I was too excited to eat lunch today, but I’ve been making up for lost time.”

“Oh, look,” said Maureen, spotting a waitress with a tray of canapés. “She’s got something interesting. C’mon, Tina.”

“Get something for me, too,” Doug said, taking Tina’s champagne glass.

“Put on a pound or two since your wedding day?” Seth asked Mort after the two women had walked off.

“Yeah, Doc, but don’t mention it in front of Maureen. She’s been threatening to put me on another one of her diets.” He released the button under his bow tie. “The last one just about killed me with all those grapefruits. My mouth puckers up just thinking about it.”

“I heard about that one,” said Doug, “but I wonder if all that citric acid is good for your teeth.”

Doug is my dentist. He and Tina moved into the house on the other side of Martha and Walt when they were newlyweds, and the two women became fast friends. I sometimes wondered if it was difficult for Martha to keep Tina company through her pregnancies and watch as the Treyzes raised four babies while she had no children of her own. But they spent a lot of time together until a few months after Walt died. Then Martha surprised her friends—shocked them, some might say—by proclaiming that she was planning to travel. She’d packed a bag and flown to Boston for a weekend. After her declaration of independence, she was away more than she was home, touring San Francisco, visiting the Grand Canyon, taking a train through the Canadian Rockies. One of her trips found her spending a few days in Las Vegas. When she returned home, she announced that she was leaving Maine and moving to Nevada. We didn’t know it at the time, but that was when she’d met Victor Kildare, who, as Betsy had confided to me, overwhelmed her with gifts and attention until she’d agreed to marry him.

“They’re about to have the toast,” Tina said, returning to our little group with two puff pastries in her palm, one of which she held up to her husband’s mouth.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention for a moment,” said a deep male voice with a British accent.

Conversation tailed off as the guests turned toward a tall, thin man standing next to the bride and groom. His reading glasses were pushed up onto his high forehead, and he held a champagne flute aloft. “First, I want to thank you for honoring my partner, Victor, by attending his nuptials. He got himself a keeper this time.” There were a few chuckles around the room, as well as groans.

“It’s poor form to mention the other wives, Tony,” a man called out.

“Correct as usual, Henry,” Tony replied. “We’re here to toast Victor and his beautiful bride, Marta. What? Oh, beg pardon. Martha is the lady’s name. As you can tell, I’ve only just met the new Mrs. Kildare, but I have to say what a charming lady she is. Victor knows how to pick ’em. We go back a long way, Vic and I. When we started our company, we didn’t have a sou. That’s a French penny to you Yanks. But with Victor’s brawn and my brains—heh, heh, just kidding, Vic—look at us now. Offices on both sides of the pond, and pulling in—well, I’m not going to say what we’re pulling in, but we don’t have to run numbers anymore to make ends meet, do we? So what should a man do when he’s reached a high plateau in his life? He should find a beautiful woman and get married, that’s what. And that’s just what old Victor here has done and why we’re all gathered round. Righto? I’m here to propose a toast to my partner and his wife. May you live long and happy lives and maybe even have a passel of children. That’s the right word, init? Just learned that one today. Passel. You’re not too old. Vic. Have a passel of children. Or maybe not. Don’t think little Jane there would like that, wouldja, darling?”

“Hurry up, Tony. I’m getting thirsty,” said the man called Henry.

“Getting to it. Getting to it. Got to let Henry slake his thirst, ladies and gents. So please join me in raising your glasses to Mr. and Mrs. Victor Kildare. Good health. Happiness. And many years together.”

The photographer caught Tony with his glass in the air and continued shooting as the guests sipped their champagne.

“Hear, hear,” Henry said.

“I’m going to remember this when you get married, Tony,” Victor said, laughing. “In the meantime, no more champagne for you.” He shook Tony’s hand, then slapped him on the back. Holding on to his partner’s shoulder, he looked at his watch. “Okay, folks,” he said, “time for dinner. Aqua’s a bit of a hike but well worth it. Just go to the main lobby and walk through the conservatory. My bride and I have a few more photographs to pose for. We’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

As we moved toward the door, a woman in a pale green suit, one of the chapel’s staff, handed Martha a videotape box, then strode to the back of the room to wait while the guests made their exit.

Betsy caught up to me at door. “Can you imagine? All these flowers for such a short ceremony and reception? They flew them in from Ecuador.”

“Flew what in from Ecuador?” I asked.

“The roses. They’re special roses from South America. They have such rich colors. And did you smell them? Not too many roses smell like roses anymore. But this is just perfection.” She tucked her head down and inhaled. Cradled in her hands was a blossom she’d pulled from one of the arrangements. She held it up for me.

I sniffed the delicate aroma. “It’s lovely,” I said.

Betsy pulled off her straw hat, revealing a cap of tight gray curls. She threaded the stem of the rose under the hat-band, pulling it so the head of the flower sat on the side of the brim as if it were a silk rose instead of a real one.

“Are you staying for the dinner?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, donning her hat again and taking my elbow. “Can’t afford such an elegant place on my pension, although sometimes I use my winnings to splurge at the hotel’s buffet.”

We followed the others down the long hall from the chapel back to the main building. The June sun was still hours away from setting and flooded through the glass doors leading to the pool. As we neared the casino, the musical sounds emitted by the slot machines reached our ears along with the clink-clink-clink of coins hitting the metal receptacles. Betsy’s eyes widened with delight. She looked up at me. “Do you play the slots?” she asked, pulling a black cotton glove from her handbag.

I shook my head.

“Let’s go, Jessie,” she said. “I’ll teach you.”

“I like the machines that only take two coins,” Betsy said, holding a white plastic cup containing ten dollars’ worth of quarters, and scanning the Bellagio’s huge casino. “Makes the money last longer than the ones that take three.”

“It sounds like you expect to lose,” I said.

“Not exactly,” she replied. “But I try to lose slowly. The key to enjoying the slots is to win enough to keep going. That way you have more and more chances to win. And if you actually do get lucky after you’ve been playing a long time, you’ll walk away with a profit.”

“We only have twenty minutes,” I reminded her.

“No problem,” she said. “I’ll just play a few minutes and come back later this evening.”

The casino was busy, but there were banks of video poker and slot machines everywhere, stationed between the rows of blackjack tables, roulette wheels, and myriad games of chance I didn’t recognize. Despite the numbers of people walking around, there seemed to be plenty of attractions to accommodate everyone. We strolled among the slot machines until Betsy found an available one she liked. On the top section was a colorful diagram of two columns depicting the various combinations of symbols that would yield a return on her investment. In the middle was a window with a black line across the center and three rollers behind it. Betsy drew on her black glove—“Keeps my hand clean; coins are dirty”—and dropped two quarters in the slot. She reached around to the side of the machine and pulled on a long lever. To the tinkle of what sounded like hurdy-gurdy music, the rollers spun and stopped one at a time. Behind the black line was a seven, a bar, and another seven.

“Nothing,” she said, disgusted. The next two tries, Betsy pushed a button instead of using the lever, but the change in strategy failed to produce results. Twice more she fed the machine and went back to pulling the lever, and twice more the combination of symbols disappointed her.

“I’m beginning to see why they call slot machines ‘one-armed bandits,’ ” I said.

“You have to have patience,” she said.

“And not mind losing money,” I added.

“Ah, now, there’s a professional,” said a voice over my shoulder. “You can tell by the glove.” It was Tony, Victor’s British partner. “I see you got waylaid on your way to the restaurant. That’s just what management hopes will happen. Tony McKay at your service, ladies.”

Victor’s partner was full of good cheer and several glasses of champagne. “And you are ... ?” he asked me.

“Jessica Fletcher, a friend of the bride’s,” I said, shaking his hand. “And this is Betsy Cavendish, also a friend of Martha’s.”

Betsy flashed Tony a brief smile and continued playing.

“She have any luck?” he asked, peering over his half glasses as Betsy deposited more coins in her machine.

“Not so far,” I replied, “but hope springs eternal.”

“Maybe you’ll have the magic touch.”

“Not likely, since I’m not playing.”

“Oh, but you must,” he insisted, pulling a handful of coins from his pocket. “Half the fun of being in Las Vegas—maybe all the fun, come to think of it—is gambling. I’m not an expert in slots—blackjack is more my style—but I do enjoy a wager or two. Here, try this,” he said, putting two quarters in the machine next to Betsy’s.

“You do it,” I said. “I don’t think there’s magic in these fingers today.”

“No. No. Allow me to be a gentleman. Please. Take your choice—the lever or the button.”

Not wanting to spoil his fun, I stepped forward, pulled the lever, and stepped back. The music played and the symbols whirled around and stopped on a clown face, an oval, and another clown face.

“Would you look at that,” Betsy said, eyes on a display of climbing red numbers on the machine I’d just played.

“What’s happening?” I asked. “Did I get points?”

“Not quite,” she replied. “You have to tell the machine if you want to cash out.” She leaned over and pressed a square button. At once the clink-clink-clink of coins hitting metal reverberated. Several other players turned to see where the sound was coming from. “You’re going to need this,” Betsy said, handing me a plastic cup from a stack at the side of the machine.

“You’ve won,” Tony said, delighted, scooping up the quarters as they fell and depositing them in the container.

“I did?” I said, laughing. “How did I do that?”

“You got a triple jackpot with your clowns,” Betsy said.

“How marvelous,” Tony said.

“That was fun,” I said.

“Told you,” Betsy said.