Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) (5 page)

I hesitated to answer. The truth was I hadn't. But somehow I felt like that was the wrong answer here.

"My father didn't need my approval," I finally settled on.

"Is that what caused the rift between you?"

"There was no rift," I shot back.

"Yet you haven't seen him in two years."

"I-I've been busy."

"Hmm." Agent Ryder narrowed his eyes at me.

I pulled my robe tighter, willing myself not to fidget under his assessing glare.

Out of the corner of my eyes I saw Verlana hovering in the hallway and jumped on the welcomed interruption.

"Are we done here?" I asked Agent Ryder.

He paused and turned to see Verlana. Then he nodded in my direction. "For now. But I'd appreciate it if you'd stay in town."

Unfortunately, I planned to.

I watched him turn and leave, his back stiff, his posture on alert as if expecting a killer to jump out at him from behind the rack of colored nail polish by the pedicure room.

Verlana entered, apologizing about the delay. I assured her I was fine. But the truth was, there was no way I was going to relax now.

Someone had killed my father.

And it was as clear as the crystal blue waters of the lake at our doorstep that the FBI thought that someone was me.

CHAPTER FOUR

I found myself beating on the penthouse door, sans massage and even more stressed out than before. Britton opened it, and I immediately noticed several men standing behind her, chatting amongst themselves and pointing at the furniture. I must have looked confused at their presence, as Britton waved a hand toward them. "They're the packing crew. What's up, Tessie?"

I cleared my throat, coming into the room. "Before my dad died..." I paused, as much to fight that damned lump again as to find the right words to delicately ask if someone might have wanted him six feet under.

Britton placed a comforting hand on my arm. "I know. It's totally hard, right?"

I nodded, cleared my throat, and tried again. "Did he seem agitated to you? Or maybe upset about anything?"

Britton shrugged. "No more than usual. You know your dad. He was always stressing about some sort of business."

"How
was
business?" I asked.

Again with the shrug. "Same as always. Why?"

"Was he having problems with anyone? Anyone particularly unhappy with him?" I prodded.

Britton's carefully threaded eyebrows twitched as they fought through the Botox to furrow in confusion. "Not that I know of. Everyone loved Dickie. He was just a people kind of person, ya know?" She gazed thoughtfully out the windows at the snow-capped mountains for a moment. "Way too young for a heart attack." Tears formed in her eyes, but she quickly fanned her face with manicured hands and blinked them back.

I waited for her to compose herself before I pressed on. "He was young for a heart attack. That's kind of why I'm wondering if anyone had it out for him. Think. Has anyone picked a fight with him or left any harsh messages?"

She still stared blankly at me.

"Possibly even...I don't know...death threats?" I asked.

I could almost see the light come on as her eyes widened. "Wait. Do you think Dick was murdered?"

As much as I hated to appeal to Britton's sense of drama, I felt myself nodding as I told her about my visit from Agent Ryder.

"Dude," Britton said when I'd finished. She sank back into the deep red, crushed velvet pillows of her sofa, her false eyelashes bobbing up and down at an alarming rate as she digested the idea of her husband being murdered. Finally, her head cocked to the side. "Wait, I don't get it."

I had a feeling Britton uttered that phrase a lot. "Don't get what?" I asked

"Why the FBI? Like, isn't that something our local homicide guys would look into?"

"That's actually a great question." I probably could have held back some of the surprise in that statement, but it didn't seem to faze Britton.

While I was still trying to come up with a logical answer to that, Britton sprang to her feet and grabbed me with both hands.

"I'm so glad you're here to help me with this, Tessie," she said.

I felt my radar perk up. "Help you with what?"

"Well, finding out who killed Dickie, of course," she said, blinking at me like
I
was the dumb one.

"Oh, no. Look, that's way out of my league."

"But, Tessieeeeeee," she said, drawing out the last part of my name like a teenager whining about not being able to take the station wagon out to the mall. "Dick would want us to find the truth. To investigate his death. To avenge his killing!"

"Okay, first off, you've been watching way too much CBS," I told her. "And secondly, I'm not
investigating
anything. That's why the Feds are on the case. I think we should leave this to the experts."

Britton jabbed balled fists to her tiny hips, her face void of expression. "Then why did you come up here?"

Another great question. Damn, she was asking a lot of those lately. "To, uh, I don't know...ask a few questions?" I said, though it came out more as a question itself than an answer. "But that's totally different than investigating."

"Fine," she said, shrugging her slim shoulders. "Then I'll help you ask questions."

I was poised to tell her not just 'no,' but 'oh, hell no,' when my phone vibrated in my purse. Not recognizing the number, I paused to take a cleansing breath before answering.

"Hello?" I snapped. Okay, so it was supposed to be cleansing.

"Girlfriend, Code Sparkle." Tate's familiar voice was full of hushed excitement.

"Code what?"

He released an exasperated sigh into the phone. "Diamonds, duh. I just got wind through the staff grapevine that Mrs. Ditmeyer has her freak-out flag at full mast about the safety of her bling and called security."

I rubbed my temple with my free hand. "And you called me to gossip? I've really got to go."

"Gossip? You know I don't repeat that stuff." He paused, a grin in his voice. "So listen closely the first time."

I couldn't help the unexpected smile that hit my lips. How many times had we shared that exact same joke, pool-side, during summer breaks?

"Anyway," he continued without missing a beat, "Ditmeyer's got her panties in a bunch, and, trust me, she is
not
a client we want to lose. Her husband is the Toilet Tissue Tycoon of the entire West Coast, and they are loaded."

"Toilet Tissue Tycoon?" That smile grew.

"Mr. Softy," he responded.

The commercial's jingle immediately danced through my head, undoubtedly ready to play on repeat throughout my day. "The guy who does the TP tap dance?"

"The one and only. Anyway, his not-so-blushing bride is in room 1470. Gotta run. Kisses!"

I shut my phone off, and Britton immediately started grilling me. "Who was that? What did they want? Can I do anything to help?"

I put up a hand between us, and she clamped her jaw shut. "I just have to un-ruffle some more feathers."

"Give me a few minutes, and I'll help." Britton darted around between the living and dining rooms, flipping magazines, moving knickknacks, and shuffling mail. "Have you seen my phone? Call me so I can find it. Or, just let me use yours." She practically lunged at me.

I clutched my phone to my chest. "Why?"

"I need to call someone to watch the packing guys, so I can go with you."

"Um, no." I saved the 'hell no' for future investigation conversations.

"Why?" she whined. "I should be there if it's another robbery."

"I'm pretty sure it's just feathers this time." I darted out the door to avoid wasting more precious time.

"Call me!" Britton shouted as the door closed.

Yeah. Or not.

*  *  *

I did a ten count and some yoga breathing in the elevator to regain composure. Not that it did much good. With the day I was having, it would take an entire team of yogis to calm me. Possibly toting martinis. I shoved down thoughts of murder, the FBI, and Britton's "investigations", as the doors opened on yet another posh floor for high rollers.

I straightened my posture as I knocked on the Ditmeyers' door, hoping it would help instill some confidence that I just wasn't quite feeling yet.

"Who is it?" a deep woman's voice barked.

"Security, ma'am." Had my voice not cracked at the end, I might have pulled it off.

The door whipped open as far as the safety bar would allow, and a pair of cloudy grey eyes scanned me up and down several times. With wrinkled lips puckered into a tight grimace, she snorted, "I was told Alfonso Malone, head of security, would attend my needs. Obviously, you are not Mr. Malone."

You think? I smiled past the sarcasm. "I'm Tessie King." I paused, almost choking out the next words. "Owner of the casino."

"Oh." She did nothing to hide the surprise in her voice as she re-scanned me, doing an up and down look again, going from the one white blouse I'd thought to pack to my grey pencil skirt in last year's style. Then her eyes rested on my heels. "One would think that a casino owner would be wearing
real
Manolos. One moment, please."

After slamming the door in my face, I heard her on the phone verifying who I was. This gave me a moment to recover from the shoe diss. I mean, insult my hair, complexion, even my choice of clothes, I'll eventually get past it. But shoes? That was a hard line, and she waddled right over it.

Finally, the security bar rattled, and the portly woman, dressed in what was surely the latest in Egyptian patterned muumuu fashion, allowed me into her suite. Almost as nice as the penthouse, and set up as a slightly smaller version, the balcony doors afforded them yet another amazing view of the mountains. It just never got old.

Mrs. Ditmeyer cleared her throat, dragging me back to the matter at hand.

Her wrinkled, yet perfectly made up face, was creased in a scowl, her eyes mere slits. "I've heard rumors of recent thefts. Rumblings that perhaps our room safe just isn't quite safe enough."

I instantly switched into curator mode. I'd had this type of conversation with many of my artists. Lady, prepare to have your feathers smoothed. "I assure you, every step is being taken to safeguard your personal items while you stay here. We have around the clock security and a fail-proof safe in the lobby, if you still don't feel your belongings are secure." I even forced my sweetest, toothiest smile to my face, as I reluctantly reached out to touch her meaty shoulder in a personal gesture.

She shrugged away from my hand and sauntered over to the wall safe. She paused with her hand on the keypad and shot me a glare over her shoulder.

Taking the hint, I spun around, staring at the door frame as I waited, contemplating different ways to abuse her with my cute Manaylay Blahtniks. (Which were every bit as gorgeous as the real thing, thank you very much.)  Finally, she cleared her throat again, and I turned back toward her. In her chubby hands, she held a large blue velvet box.

"I'd like for you to put this in your hotel safe. The fail-proof one," she added. She handed me the box, but kept her firm grip in place. "This has been handed down in my husband's family for many generations. We're having portraits taken at the lake this weekend, and I plan to wear it for the sitting." She opened the lid, and my eyes were assaulted by the sparkling facets of huge teardrop diamonds on a large gold rope necklace. While it wasn't exactly my style, I could only imagine the price tag of such an elaborate piece. My fingers twitched at the thought of touching the stones.

As though reading my mind, Mrs. Ditmeyer stated, "Please note on the paperwork with the office downstairs that the last insurance estimate was just over $2.5 million."

Trying to camouflage my gasp caused me to inhale my own saliva. In a feeble attempt to cover my choking fit, I forced a couple of real coughs. "Darn this Spring cold," I covered, unconvincingly.

Ditmeyer let out a cynical snort as she escorted me back into the hallway. "Please have the front desk call me w
hen it is safely locked away." The curtness of her statement was punctuated with the door slamming in my face.

Oh, the glamorous life of a casino owner.

CHAPTER FIVE

Acting cool under pressure was never really a strong suit at any point in my life. So, carrying two-and-a-half million dollars' worth of diamonds across a casino floor to the front desk was making me break out in a sweat. Sure, I'd dealt in fairly expensive pieces of art at the gallery. But they were affixed to a wall, surrounded by security cameras, and viewed mainly by collectors and artists. I felt like every crook on the entire South Shore could smell what I held in my hands, knew how much it was worth, and was stalking me at that very moment. Needless to say, when Tate snuck up on me, I screamed like a little girl. Thankfully, the clanging of slot machines and squeals of winners masked it well.

Once my surroundings came back into focus, and I was able to draw breath again, I dug my nails into his arm. "What the hell, man?"

One perfectly plucked brow rose. "You are jumpier than a straight man in a truck stop bathroom."

I slowly moved my gaze down to the large velvet box clutched to my chest then raised it back to meet his meaningfully.

His jaw dropped. "Is that Old Lady Ditmeyer's?"

I bobbed my head slightly, as I suspiciously glanced around at everyone within earshot. "It's her necklace. She wanted it put in the safe. But I feel like I need an armed guard carrying this thing around."

An evil grin curled the corners of his lips and danced in his eyes. "If you give me a peek, I'm your man."

"Nice try," I told him. Just help me get this thing to the front desk and out of my hands."

He shrugged. "Fine. My break is over anyhow, so I'm headed that way."

Keeping a death grip on the box with one hand, I threaded the other through the crook of Tate's arm, allowing him to lead me through the crowd. I knew if anyone threatened us, he would more than likely scream and toss me in front of him, but I felt better at least having company.