Lucky Stiff (5 page)

“Fine, I guess.”

“You guess?”

I ponder the question seriously for a moment before answering. “To be honest, I’m relieved to have it all over and done with. I finally have some financial security, and David has found himself a new hussy to take my place. But I’m also a little saddened by it. Not because of David, per se—I’m long over him. But the whole thing seemed so . . . I don’t know . . . anticlimactic. I never even saw David to say, ‘Good-bye,’ or ‘It was great,’ or ‘Screw you for screwing someone else.’ One minute I’m married, and then I sign a few forms and I’m not. Seven years of my life wiped away with little to no ceremony. It’s definitely not the future I saw for myself. And now everyone looks at me with this pathetic expression on their faces.” I sigh. “Sometimes I wish David had died so I could be a widow instead of a divorcée. It has much more panache, and you get sympathy instead of pity.”

I glance over at Hurley to see if he’s shocked by this revelation, because I have to admit I’m a little shocked at myself for thinking it. But if he’s surprised by the black thoughts that cross my mind from time to time, his expression doesn’t show it.

“Are you going to change back to your maiden name?” he asks me, smoothly segueing to a topic only slightly less volatile.

“Nah, I kind of like Winston. Besides, my mother changed her name every time she married and then changed it back again with each divorce. Fast-forward four marriages later, and you have Jane Elizabeth Odegard Fjell Odegard Nyland Odegard Carlisle Odegard Pulley. Even without the maiden name reverts, it reads like a roll call for the character Sybil. And, anyway, very few people know how to pronounce ‘Fjell.’ Most attempts sound like someone trying to spit out a loogie.”

“And you have such a unique first name to go with it,” Hurley says, reminding me that he now knows one of my best-kept secrets. “Whose idea was it to name you ‘Matterhorn’?”

“My mother swears it was my father’s idea. His last name, Fjell, means ‘mountain’ in Norwegian. And, apparently, his grandfather once climbed the Matterhorn. Hence, the name.” I look at Hurley and smile. “That’s family for you.”

“Speaking of family, we found out some interesting stuff about Jack’s nephew, Brian Denver. One of the neighbors told us he’s a student at the U of Dub in Madison, and that Jack has been paying for his tuition and housing. But when we called the university to get contact information, they told us Brian dropped out of school last semester and hasn’t been back since.”

“Did you talk to him?”

Hurley shakes his head. “We don’t know where he is. He’s no longer at the last known address the university had for him, and his ex-roommates claim they have no idea where he went. We’ll find him, but it may take a while. In the meantime, I have Catherine Albright coming in the morning, and then we have an eleven o’clock appointment at the home of Jack’s housekeeper, a woman named Serena Vasquez. After that, we’ll pay a visit to the nursing agency that employs Lisa Warden, Jack’s home health aide.”

“Wow, you’ve been busy.”

Hurley shrugs. “Just a typical day, really, but I want to get moving on this case and cover as much ground as we can, as soon as we can. We’ve only got a few days before that seminar in Daytona Beach. I can turn the case over to someone else while we’re gone, but I’d rather not. With a little luck, maybe we can solve it before we go.”

“That would be nice.” I sigh, gazing out at snow-spotted fields. With the warm temperature, the snow is rapidly retreating, turning the landscape into a barren, muddy mess. “I can’t wait to relax with some ocean breezes, greenery, and sunshine.”

“I’m afraid you won’t have much time to enjoy the weather. We have two full days of sessions, and an early-morning flight out the next day.”

“Yeah, but that still leaves two evenings to enjoy,” I tell him. “Plus the lunch breaks are two hours long, and the hotel is right on the beach.”

Hurley glances over at me with a faintly salacious grin. “Are you going to wear a bikini?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

Over my dead, oddly striped body
.

“Nope, no bikinis this trip,” I say, like I’m a supermodel who wears bikinis all the time. In reality, I don’t even wear bikini underwear. “I have to be careful in the sun because my skin burns easily, so no bathing suit of any kind for me.”

“None at all?” Hurley asks, sounding disappointed. “What if you want to go swimming in the ocean?”

“I won’t. I don’t want to drown. Plus there’re sharks in the ocean.”

I’m really not afraid of getting attacked by a shark, nor am I afraid of drowning. It turns out fat is very buoyant
and
I’m a strong swimmer. In fact, I’m a certified scuba diver. But there’s no way I’m letting Hurley, or anyone else, see me in a bathing suit until I can shed a few of my recovering-from-hubby’s-infidelity pounds.

Hurley chuckles. “Hell, your chances of getting eaten by a shark are way less than your chances of getting murdered in Sorenson these days.”

He has a point. I’ve heard comments from several people about how the murder rate in Sorenson seems to have quadrupled lately. It makes me wonder if the “black cloud” label I used to get slapped with when I worked in the ER has followed me to my new job. Our worst shifts in the ER always came whenever I was on duty, and it seems like the sharks in Sorenson have been very hungry since I started my new job. If anyone starts calling me “chum,” I might have to find another career.

I hope that doesn’t happen because there aren’t many other jobs that put my best talents—nosiness and the ability to identify internal organs on sight—to such good use. Plus there are the side benefits. What other job could I find that would let me spend hours each day with Hurley?

Chapter 4

The North Woods Casino is a hopping place, with a packed parking lot and lots of people milling about outside. The inside is like its own little world, isolated from the cold, snow, and darkness, and filled with a cacophony of sounds. I hear people shouting, bells dinging, music playing, chimes going off, glasses clinking. And the lights! There are flashing lights of every size and color everywhere I look—an epileptic’s nightmare.

As we walk through the main gaming area, I find myself drawn to the gambling going on. The hundreds of slot machines scattered throughout the place take everything from pennies to dollars. Interspersed with these are poker tables, blackjack tables, roulette wheels, and two craps tables. While most of the people look like they’re having fun, a few of the slots players look like automatons as they robotically push buttons on their one-armed bandits.

“You’ve really never been to a casino before?” Hurley asks as I stare wide-eyed at the surroundings.

“Nope, never. But I’ve seen all the
Ocean’s
movies. Does that count?”

“Hardly,” he says with a snort. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a five-dollar bill. “Ready to lose your gambling virginity?” he says, arching one brow suggestively.

I blush at the sexual innuendo and nod. A woman nearby abandons her penny slot machine with a kick and a look of disgust, and Hurley moves in. He slides the fiver into a slot and the machine sucks it up and displays five hundred credits. Hurley selects buttons that let us play five credits at a time and nine different lines. I watch as pictures spin inside the display window and stop.

“Nothing that time,” Hurley says, stepping aside. “Why don’t you give it a try?” As I step in front of the machine and hit the button to start a spin, he leans down and whispers in my ear, “You did wear your lucky underwear, didn’t you?”

The little pictures spin rapidly. This time when they stop, alarms and bells start going off. Our credit display starts chiming off numbers, mimicking the sound of coins dropping into a tray. A light atop the machine is flashing and spinning like the cherry on a cop car, and people stop what they’re doing to look over at us. Hurley hits a button that speed cycles the count, revealing the total amount.

“Wow!” Hurley says. “You
did
wear your lucky undies.”

“I just won five hundred bucks?” I say, not believing it.

The woman who abandoned the slot machine right before we took it over is standing at a nearby machine. She looks over at us and mumbles, “Son of a bitch!” Then she stomps off.

I hit a button marked
Payout
and the machine spits out a printed ticket with a bar code and the amount of money printed on it—our winnings, plus $4.10 left from our original five. “This is kind of fun,” I say to Hurley.

“Yeah, it is when you win, but most people lose much more than they win because they don’t know when to stop. They take their winnings and gamble it again, losing hundreds or even thousands of dollars in the long run. Trust me, your experience tonight is the exception, not the rule.”

“This should be yours,” I tell him, holding out the ticket. “It was your money that won it.”

“True, but it wouldn’t have happened without your lucky undies.”

Several people look over at us and smile.

“I don’t have any lucky undies,” I tell Hurley, leaning in close and lowering my voice, hoping he’ll get the hint and do the same. “It was your money that won it, so you should keep the winnings.”

Hurley looks down at me—something not many men can do when I’m standing—and his blue eyes darken. My hair is hanging in my face a bit, and he reaches up and tucks a stray lock behind my ear. “You’re an amazing woman, Winston, you know that?” he says softly.

We share a pregnant pause, gazing into one another’s eyes, a million things unsaid between us. Our bodies drift imperceptibly closer. Each of us leans into the other, but we stop shy of touching. For a few seconds, I can imagine how life might be if things were different—if Hurley and I could pursue our mutual attraction. But things aren’t different. They are what they are, and Hurley and I have already discussed this.

I turn away first; and as I do so, Hurley lets forth with a long, deep sigh. “Tell you what,” he says. “Why don’t we split the winnings fifty-fifty, giving credit to both my money and your luck?”

“Okay, that sounds fair.”

“Good. Let’s go cash out so we can get back to business.” He leans in close and finally drops his voice. “Don’t forget why we’re here. There might be a ruthless, conniving killer lurking in the wings.”

I have to give Hurley credit; he sure knows how to sober up a moment.

Forty minutes later, Hurley and I are both $250 richer and we’re standing off to one side of the cashier’s area, waiting for the casino manager. It’s been over half an hour since the manager was summoned; I’m starting to wonder if we’re being purposely ignored.

I watch the gamblers closest to us, thinking how much fun it would be to play some more with my winnings. A blackjack table off to my right has two players and a couple of empty seats. Both players have a nice assortment of chip stacks in front of them. I’m about to tell Hurley that I’m going to take one of the empty chairs, when a tall, dark-haired man, who looks to be in his midthirties, approaches us. Judging from his jet-black hair, dark skin, and high cheekbones, I suspect he is Native American. He is my height and a little on the chunky side, though I wouldn’t go so far as to call him fat. The word “sturdy” comes to mind.

“Are you the folks from Sorenson?” he asks.

Hurley nods and offers a hand. “I’m Detective Steve Hurley, with the Sorenson PD, and this is Mattie Winston, a deputy coroner with the Sorenson ME’s office.”

“Actually, the title is now medicolegal death investigator,” I say.

The man shakes Hurley’s hand. “I’m Joe Whitehorse, an investigator with the Indian Gaming Commission. Carl Sutherland, the casino manager, is unavailable this evening and he has asked if I would step in to see what you need.” His voice is deep and very masculine, bordering on Barry White territory. He lets go of Hurley’s hand and reaches for mine. As we shake, he does a quick head-to-toe assessment before his gaze settles on my face. His brown eyes are so dark that they appear black, and I detect a hint of mischievousness in their inky depths. When he smiles, two adorable dimples appear, one on each cheek. I feel an instant sizzle of sexual tension as he squeezes my hand, and our handshake lasts a second or two longer than necessary.

I glance over at Hurley and see that he’s scowling. At first, I think he might be jealous, but his next words quickly dispel that impression.

“If the manager is unavailable, why didn’t the cashiers tell us that when we asked to see him?”

Joe Whitehorse shrugs and flashes those deep dimples in a tolerant smile. “I suspect the employee you spoke to didn’t know,” he says.

“And I suspect it’s more likely the manager doesn’t consider us worthy of his time,” Hurley counters. “Would it make a difference if I told you we are here to investigate the murder of one of your recent big winners, and that robbery appears to be the motive?”

Joe’s smile fades faster than a picture drawn on water. “Who is the victim?” he asks.

“A man by the name of Jack Allen. I understand he won around five hundred grand here, a couple months back.”

Joe’s brow furrows a moment. “Yes, I believe I remember him,” he says. “He’s confined to a wheelchair, right?” Hurley and I both nod. “If memory serves, he won the jackpot on a progressive slot. But why would you suspect any of the casino employees? He won that money a few months ago, so surely his winnings were banked long before now.”

“It seems Jack didn’t have much faith in banks and kept a large amount of cash in a safe at his house,” Hurley explains.

Joe frowns and his lips pinch together into a tight line. “One moment, please,” he says, and then he moves a few feet away from us and makes a call on his cell phone.

I tug on Hurley’s sleeve. “I’m going to try my hand at a little blackjack while we’re waiting.” Hurley looks like he’s about to object, so I hurry over to a blackjack table and settle in before he has a chance.

“I’m new at this casino stuff,” I announce to the dealer and the others at the table. “What do I need to do?”

The dealer assumes a put-upon expression, while the others at the table—three men—all sigh.