Authors: Gretchen Archer
2 Double Dip (25 page)
“I don’t know what lacrosse is either.”
7:25 Machine Assignments
The players drew. (Numbers. Out of a hat.) Which was not a hat at all; it was a silver bowl full of numbered, etched, crystal, goose eggs.
Each of the fifty tournament players came to the stage to be introduced and draw a number. They were lined up by current rank—lowest score first.
“You draw it, Mrs. Sanders.” It was Emmett Reese (Furry Ears), from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
“I can’t do that, Emmett!”
The crowd weighed in. “Do it, Bianca!” “Draw the number for him, Bianca!”
A quick meeting among suits convened behind two solid white baby grand pianos in a corner. Accountants from Delloite, there to verify the wins, bent heads with Bellissimo legal eagles, there to protect the bottom line. They must have flipped a coin rather than discuss it, which would have led to conference rooms, thick documents, debates and mediation, because they gave me the go-ahead quickly.
“Oh, the pressure!” I dipped a hand into the goose eggs. I pulled one out. “Thirty-two, Emmett!” (Furry Ears!) “You’ll play on lucky machine number thirty-two!”
7:45 Player Seating
Bianca Sanders makeup check
I ducked backstage for lip gloss.
Fantasy had an orange juice on crushed ice for me.
“STRAW! STRAW!” one of the powder and paint people yelled. “SOMEONE GET HER A STRAW!”
Fantasy leaned in. “The Georgia authorities have Mary Ha Ha and her husband.”
“Any word on Bradley?” I slapped at anonymous hands that had moved in and were physically hoisting up my chicken cutlets.
Fantasy pressed her lips together in a smile and nodded. “It’s all good.”
I caved, she caught me, and someone yelled, “NO TOUCHING MRS. SANDERS! BACK OFF!”
“I’ll show you some back off, lady.” (Fantasia.)
I stumbled back to the ballroom.
8:00 Go Time!
The fifty players were seated. The audience, drinks in tow, were pressed against the white velvet ropes. I rang the opening bell and the machine display switched from the Double Dip Tournament graphics to play mode, and a spectator screamed it first.
“It’s diamonds!” You’d thought someone had presented her with one. “It’s diamonds! The surprise is diamonds!”
We counted down together and they were off. All fifty players beat the play buttons on their slot machines as if their very lives depended on it. I tugged the pearl-drop diamond at my ear and spoke to Fantasy, “Let’s be players in this next year.”
Sixteen minutes in, we were all about to drop. So far, Mrs. Dragonfly, who had a jeweled lizard crawling across her shoulder tonight, was the clear point leader for this round, because her slot machine almost couldn’t spin anything but triple scoops, diamonds exploding everywhere, and much of the audience had migrated her way. Twenty minutes in, the screaming was unbearable. I stepped back to take it all in. I welcomed the focus on the tournament play, so I could be ignored for a minute. And breathe.
A chill of Bradley Cole anticipation ran through me when I realized the tournament was almost over.
“Are you hiding?” Someone shouted in my ear. It was Laney Harris. “Come with me.”
She led me down the row. She pointed. “Watch.”
Slot machine number sixteen was being played by the slightest little old man, Cornelius something, from Metairie, Louisiana. With two minutes of play left, he lined them up.
Diamond diamond diamond.
They were the size of baseballs on the screen, positively brilliant, and they sat there quietly on the three reels, as did Cornelius. He looked around to see if anyone else noticed, and found me.
“Congratulations!” I mouthed above the ridiculous din.
“Thank you!”
Someone else noticed the diamonds and the energy in the room, barely contained to begin with, doubled.
The slot machines, in unison, popped up the tournament graphics screens.
The Double Dip Tournament was finally over.
8:30 Dessert
Credit Meter Verification
It was hard to believe the players weren’t passed out on the machines. I found it equally hard to believe I was still standing. The exhausted audience slowly peeled away from the white velvet ropes, found their seats, and fell into them. The shiny bandaged waitresses swarmed. Accountants and lawyers, machine by machine, verified the final round points. Champagne flowed freely. An army of white-gloved white-tuxed servers invaded the ballroom from all points carrying silver trays with silver domed lids.
Ben & Jerry, have a seat. In the back. Farther back.
It was ice cream, of that I was certain, and it was decadent—I had my own teeny silver spoon I carried around the ballroom double-dipping into every other dish—but past that, I’d never seen or tasted anything like it in my life.
Fantasy, in my ear, “Stop eating after people.”
I picked up a few details between bites. Double scoops of Tahitian vanilla bean ice cream infused with Madagascar vanilla were in Waterford crystal goblets. The ice cream was sprinkled in 23K edible gold, then drizzled with Delafee chocolate from Switzerland. It was served with miniature chocolate-dipped petit fours (I ate twenty of those), passion fruit, and snifters of fifty-year old Hennessey cognac. I confess to having a few of those, too.
Fantasy, in my ear, “You’re going to get fat.”
The accountants finished recording scores, and scuttled off to tally. The players stumbled to their tables. My earpiece beeped again, and I asked, “What now?”
Fantasy, in my ear, “Look at the door.”
My boss, Richard Sanders, wearing a black tuxedo, strolled in. It stunned us all so much, the only thing in the room you could hear was the ice cream melting.
He was alone.
He shook hands, slapped backs, found me, gave me a smile and a wink, then made his way to Cornelius Diamond Winner to congratulate him. Laney Harris passed him a cordless microphone.
My heart was pounding.
“Did I miss all the fun?” The crowd roared. “If you all will excuse me,” he said, “I’d like to say hello to my wife.”
He hustled me backstage.
9:00 Winners Announced
“Did you find him? They released him from the hospital. Where is he? Did you look for him?”
“Davis, slow down.”
Davis fell down. A wooden box caught her.
Mr. Sanders looked around, found a straight chair, pulled it next to me, then sat down.
“I found him at the Grand Palace, Davis, and yes, he’d been released from the hospital.”
“Surely, they didn’t make him stay and work, after what he’s been through.”
“No,” Mr. Sanders said. “He flew back with me.”
But…where was he? My heart broke in two.
Someone yelled the time out—nine-oh-eight, the natives were getting restless—and Mr. Sanders waved them off.
“He said he’d catch up with you later.”
My heart broke in four.
I wanted to ask Mr. Sanders if those were his exact words: catch up with me later.
Catch up
with me?
I’d dreamed it up. I made everything right with Bradley in my own little world. I had to hold the sides of the box to steady myself.
Someone yelled the time.
“Stay here, Davis,” Mr. Sanders said. “I’ll go announce the winners.”
I nodded. I think I nodded.
It was dark and I was cold and I was alone, except for the orchestra’s empty instrument cases. I scooted the shiny ace bandages back until I found a wall to hold me up.
What now? Where would I go from here?
Mr. Sanders’ muffled voice snuck backstage. Muted applause broke out. Drum rolls and squeals from far, far away. I closed my eyes and rested the back of my head against the cold, cold wall.
My eyes popped open when I heard him say, “Scoot over.”
My first frantic thought was there was nowhere to scoot to.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s try this.” Bradley Cole scooped me up, we sat on the crate together, and I finally found a good crying place. I’d been looking for one for so long.
“I brought you something.”
The center stone was square. Baguettes bowed all around it. Tons of them. It was set in platinum, to which, I cried all the harder.
“Marry me, Davis.”
Someone did leave the tournament with a great big rock.
Me!
About Gretchen Archer
Gretchen Archer is a Tennessee housewife who began writing when her daughters, seeking higher educations, ran off and left her. She lives on Lookout Mountain with her husband, son, and a Yorkie named Bently.
Double Dip
is the second Davis Way crime caper. You can visit her at www.gretchenarcher.com.
Sign up for the Henery Press email blast,
we’ll send a short note when the next in this series is released,
plus all our new mystery titles.
(Note: We don’t do a whole big newsletter, just a quick title blast to keep you in the loop, and we won’t share your email address, you can unsubscribe any time.)
Henery Press Mystery Books
And finally, before you go...
Here are a few other mysteries
you might enjoy:
In Case You Missed the 1
st
Book in the Series
DOUBLE WHAMMY
Gretchen Archer
A Davis Way Crime Caper (#1)
Davis Way thinks she’s hit the jackpot when she lands a job as the fifth wheel on an elite security team at the fabulous Bellissimo Resort and Casino in Biloxi, Mississippi. But once there, she runs straight into her ex-ex husband, a rigged slot machine, her evil twin, and a trail of dead bodies. Davis learns the truth and it does not set her free—in fact, it lands her in the pokey.
Buried under a mistaken identity, unable to seek help from her family, her hot streak runs cold until her landlord Bradley Cole steps in. Make that her landlord, lawyer, and love interest. With his help, Davis must win this high stakes game before her luck runs out.
Read all about it and/or grab the book from Amazon
LOWCOUNTRY BOIL
Susan M. Boyer
A Liz Talbot Mystery (#1)
Private Investigator Liz Talbot is a modern Southern belle: she blesses hearts and takes names. She carries her Sig 9 in her Kate Spade handbag, and her golden retriever, Rhett, rides shotgun in her hybrid Escape. When her grandmother is murdered, Liz high-tails it back to her South Carolina island home to find the killer.
She’s fit to be tied when her police-chief brother shuts her out of the investigation, so she opens her own. Then her long-dead best friend pops in and things really get complicated. When more folks start turning up dead in this small seaside town, Liz must use more than just her wits and charm to keep her family safe, chase down clues from the hereafter, and catch a psychopath before he catches her.
Read all about it and/or grab the book from Amazon
BOARD STIFF
Kendel Lynn
An Elliott Lisbon Mystery (#1)
As director of the Ballantyne Foundation on Sea Pine Island, SC, Elliott Lisbon scratches her detective itch by performing discreet inquiries for Foundation donors. Usually nothing more serious than retrieving a pilfered Pomeranian. Until Jane Hatting, Ballantyne board chair, is accused of murder. The Ballantyne’s reputation tanks, Jane’s headed to a jail cell, and Elliott’s sexy ex is the new lieutenant in town.
Armed with moxie and her Mini Coop, Elliott uncovers a trail of blackmail schemes, gambling debts, illicit affairs, and investment scams. But the deeper she digs to clear Jane’s name, the guiltier Jane looks. The closer she gets to the truth, the more treacherous her investigation becomes. With victims piling up faster than shells at a clambake, Elliott realizes she’s next on the killer’s list.
Read all about it and/or grab the book from Amazon
