Midsummer Night's Mischief (15 page)

But a newly shaven Crenshaw?

I slipped into his office next, opened drawers and cabinets, riffled through papers, searched under his desk and in every corner. At a minimum, I thought I might find evidence of him stealing my clients, but there was nothing of interest. Even his wastepaper basket was nearly empty. I was about to leave when something about Crenshaw's bookcase caught my eye. The second row of law books, which were lined up perfectly straight and flush with one another, stuck out a couple of inches from the shelf. I cocked my head, mentally measuring the space. Could there be something hidden behind the books?

I grasped
Black's Law Dictionary
, slid it out, and sure enough, there was another book tucked behind the others. Removing a couple more from the front row, I reached in to extract the hidden book and started when I made out the word
Shakespeare
on the cover.
For real?

Of course, it wasn't the Folio. It wasn't nearly as large or as old. Plus, this book had a red binding. Still, it was an interesting find. I plopped myself down on the carpeted floor, folded my legs, and took a look at the book Crenshaw had so carefully hidden away:
Shakespeare's Sonnets
. I opened the cover, scanned the contents, read a few lines of poetry. It was no surprise Crenshaw was a Shakespeare buff. He quoted the bard any chance he got. So why hide this book away?

Then I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from the book. Turning to the marked page, I found it was the section on love sonnets. I unfolded the paper to find, in Crenshaw's careful slanting hand, an apparent attempt at his own fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. There were strike outs and alternative rhymes jotted in the margins. The work was clearly unfinished. But I knew what was going on here. A slow grin spread across my face as a singsong chant floated through my mind.
Crenny's in love. Crenny's in love.

I looked down to read his effort at poetry again, vaguely wondering about the object of his affection. Softly, I read aloud, “Your sparkling beauty I have long ador'd. With silken hair and eyes like—” A noise from the lobby made me jump.

Was that the door? Slowly, I closed the book on my lap and listened intently, eyes wide. Another sound, definitely from the lobby. After scrambling to my feet, I hastily shoved the book back in its hiding place and returned the law volumes to the shelf, doing my best to make them even. Then I shut off the light, hurried out of the room, flew down the hall, and skidded to a stop as I found myself face-to-face with none other than Crenshaw Davenport. The Third.

I squeaked out a gasp as my hand flew to my chest. For a moment, he looked as startled as I felt. Then his gaze slipped behind me to his own office door, which, I belatedly realized, I had failed to close tightly in my mad-dash exit.

He narrowed his eyes and looked at me accusingly. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I work here,” I answered, jutting out my chin defensively. “I
wasn't
fired, you know. I—I needed to get something from my office. Anyway, what are
you
doing here?”

“I saw that the lights were on.”

“Oh.”

“It seemed unusual, given the ripeness of the hour.”

“Yes, well, I thought it was better to stop in after hours. You know, under the circumstances and all. But it is late, so I'll be going now. Good night.” I scooted past him and rushed out the door before he could question me any further. I had never been a very good liar.

So much for giving Crenshaw a piece of my mind.

As I walked up to my car, I saw that Farrah was outside, leaning on the trunk and facing the alley adjacent to the office building. She was on her phone. I tapped her on the shoulder, causing her to jump, twirl, and drop the phone.

“Hey,” I said. “Lookout kid. You were supposed to be watching the entrance. I was caught!”

“What? Oh, no! Jeez. I'm sorry.” She picked up her phone, saw the call had ended, and shrugged. “Jake called, and I got distracted. Who caught you?”

We got in the car, and I told her everything as I drove her home. Well, not quite everything. I filled her in on what I had found in Jeremy's office and on my little encounter with Crenshaw. But I skipped the middle part, where I poked around in Pammy's and Crenshaw's offices. I wasn't quite ready to accuse my colleagues of anything nefarious in connection with the Folio. Now that I thought about it, the idea that they could be involved in any criminal activity was pretty outlandish, and the fact that I had snooped in their things only made me look childish and disloyal.

After braking at a stoplight, I reached into my purse and handed Farrah my phone. “Check out the photo I took.”

She squinted at the photo of Jeremy's calendar, then tossed the phone back in my purse. “I'll look at it after you transfer it to a bigger screen. So RQ, huh? Randy Quaid?”

I snorted. “That's better than the one I came up with—Ramona Quimby. Oh, see what this is.” I fumbled in my purse again and dug out the wad of receipts.

Farrah took them and turned on the overhead light. “Contents of a man's pocket?”

“Probably.”

“Roast beef sandwich, medium Coke.”

“Skip that one. Anything else?”

“Box of Cracker Jack. Bottle of Gatorade.”

“Next.”

“Cash-out voucher.”

“Cash-out voucher?”

“Yeah. For seventeen cents. Here's another one for twenty-two cents. No wonder he threw them away.”

“But where did he get them?”

“Let's see. Ah. Interesting.”

“We found RQ?”

“Yes, we did. Good work!”

“Tell me!”

Farrah laughed. “Get this. River Queen Casino.”

“The River Queen? That steamboat casino on the edge of town?”

“The one and only.”

“And that's where Jeremy will be tomorrow night. . . .”

I pulled up in front of Farrah's building and turned to face her. “Up for a little gambol tomorrow?”

“You are too funny,” she said, exiting the car. “See ya tomorrow, partner.”

CHAPTER 15

“What does one wear to a casino?” I stood before my closet, at a loss.

“You see everything,” said Farrah from her perch on the edge of my bed. “For fun, we should go the LBD route. All the better to blend in with the cocktail crowd.”

“LBD?”

“You know, little black dress. Come on. Pick one and let's go. We've got to stop by my place yet, and the clock's a-tickin'. Your boy's calendar said six thirty, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” I grabbed a little satin number and matching strappy black heels and dressed quickly.

Farrah had stopped over this afternoon to coax me into watching a
Thin Man
marathon on the old movie channel. I was okay with her popping in—I always kept my bedroom door closed. But between the old movies and our usual gabbing, we had let the time slip away. So, when Farrah had stood up and said, “Come on. Let's find you an outfit for tonight,” I couldn't argue with her. But I had insisted that she wait in the living room while I “made my bed.”

“Oh, don't be silly,” she had said. “I don't care if your bed is made.”

“Just humor me,” I'd said hastily. “I've got a thing. A hang-up. Just give me a sec.” Then I'd dashed into my room to hide away several incriminating items. I'd had to make my altar look more like a decorative bedroom table and less like a Wiccan shrine.

Now, as I took a few essentials from my everyday purse and tossed them into my little black purse, I said to Farrah, “I hope we're not overdressed.”

Forty-five minutes later, having left Farrah's car in the marina parking lot and having picked our way up the long gangway to board the triple-decker
River Queen
, we stood at the entryway, gazing into the main game room. Then we looked at one other.

“We are so overdressed,” I said.

Everywhere we looked, at the flashing slot machines along the walls, around the poker tables, the blackjack tables, and the roulette wheels, were middle-aged folks clad mostly in jeans and shirtsleeves. The dressier ones, men and women, wore golf shirts and slacks. A few older ladies wore flowery prints. One such lovely, four feet tall and carrying a purse that must have weighed as much as she did, tapped Farrah on the elbow.

“This TITO over here took my ticket and didn't give me credit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My ticket got stuck in the TITO machine. You need to come get it out. I had fourteen dollars on that ticket!”

“Um, I don't work here,” said Farrah, furrowing her eyebrows. “Sorry.”

The woman looked taken aback and turned to me next. Before she could get a word out, I pointed to a uniformed security guard. “Ask him,” I said, steering Farrah toward the door.

“Why did she think I work here?” asked Farrah, still perplexed as we made our way to the promenade.

“Probably 'cause you look like you know what's what,” I said. “Now, what say we take a tour of this place and see if we can spot Jeremy? You know what he looks like, right?”

“I met him at your office a while ago,” she said, a teasing glint in her eye, “but I saw his backside recently, when y'all were dirty dancing at the Loose.”

“We were not dirty dancing!” I protested, nudging my arm into Farrah's.

She only tossed her head back and laughed, while I fanned my face to cool the embarrassed flush.

For the next twenty minutes we strolled the whole ship, walking up and down stairs and through passageways, in and out of game rooms, restaurants, and souvenir shops. Finally, we stopped in at the lounge on the top deck and ordered martinis. We took them over to a tall round table facing the promenade and sat there, watching people walk by. As we sipped our drinks, a bachelor party filed in, followed shortly by a bridal shower group, all young and decked out. Now I didn't feel quite as out of place in my cocktail dress, but I was starting to feel edgy.

“What should we do?” said Farrah, playing with the olive in her glass.

“Let's make another round of the ship. He's got to be here someplace.”

We circled the upper deck again, then wandered down into the large game room on the second level. By this time, Farrah was growing weary of the fox hunt with no apparent fox. She tugged my arm when we came to an empty seat at a flashing machine near the door.

“As long as we're here, I think I'll try my hand at the slots. I gotta see what this TITO business is all about,” she said.

“All right. Just try to keep an eye out for any youngish men coming or going, okay?”

“You got it,” she agreed. But I immediately saw the folly in this plan, as Farrah slid a twenty into the machine and pulled back on the crank. The hypnotic spinning images had pulled her in already. “Come on, triple cherries!”

“Oh, well,” I sighed. This whole search seemed to be fruitless, anyway. As I roamed around the room, studying each glazed and dazed face, I wondered if there was some other way I might help poor Stacey.

No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than I rounded an ample gold-trimmed pillar and spotted him. Jeremy Bradson. There he was, settled at a poker table in a shadowy back corner, wearing an open-necked, button-down shirt and looking obnoxiously cute—especially in comparison to the other two players I could see, a grizzled older man with a potbelly and a scrawny, weathered-looking fellow, also with a potbelly. To Jeremy's right was another man, who was wearing a baseball cap, with his back to me. Jeremy leaned over slightly to say something to this guy, and when the guy turned his head, I could see who it was. Rob Callahan.

I jumped back behind the pillar and peeked around it in wonder. Jeremy and Rob were friends? Or at least acquaintances. And Rob was a gambler.. . . This must be the addiction Rob's baseball teammates were talking about. Did Jeremy have a gambling problem, too? Was this the big secret he was keeping from his girlfriend? Not some sordid affair?

As I pondered all these questions, I noticed Jeremy talking to Rob again and nodding toward the front of the room. Rob twisted around in his seat, then widened his eyes and rapidly turned back around. I craned to see what it was that had caused such a reaction, and nearly hit the floor myself. Striding down the center aisle was a very large, very determined dude, with a menacing glare and a mean-looking scar . . . on a face I remembered seeing at my office building the other day.

I turned back to the poker table and saw that Jeremy had remained in the game, unfazed. But Rob had vacated his seat and, cap pulled low over his forehead, had maneuvered around the roulette wheel toward a back exit. Making a split-second decision, I scurried over to retrieve Farrah.

“Come on!” I hissed. “He's getting away!”

She looked startled but stood up without hesitation. “Jeremy?”

“No. Rob.” I grabbed Farrah's hand and pulled her through a throng of people surrounding the blackjack table.

“I was losing, anyway. Ticket in, ticket out, my arse,” she grumbled. “More like money
in
the machine and
out
of my pocket.”

We soon found ourselves in a passageway behind the game room. We passed some restrooms and the back entrance to a restaurant. I figured Rob must have ducked into one of those places. As we rounded the corner toward the starboard promenade, I saw a white-haired couple walking toward us, and they looked uncannily like my neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. St. John. I halted in my tracks, causing Farrah to bump into me. But as I realized that this couple was not, in fact, Mr. and Mrs. St. John, I caught a glimpse of a tall, attractive man coming up behind them. And this person
was
who I thought it was: one Wesley “Rock Star” Callahan.

I had done an about-face and had proceeded to drag Farrah in the opposite direction when I caught sight of Rob again. He looked over his shoulder at the shadow of a giant looming over him.

Caught between the two brothers and not knowing what in the heck was going on, I thought only to hide. Farrah, astutely picking up on this desire, was of the same mind. Together, we darted into the nearest souvenir shop and dove behind the heavy burgundy curtain that, conveniently, presented itself before us.

My heart thudded in my chest as I strained to see in the dark. Bumping into some boxes, I reached out my hands and felt a soft, filmy material. Suddenly, the tinny crescendo of a player piano filled the room at the same time that a bright light flared on overhead. I squinted at Farrah, who seemed to be wearing a feather boa. Then I looked down to see that I was holding a pair of black fishnet stockings.

“Go ahead and costume up, ladies!” boomed a voice from the other side of the curtain. “We're just opening up, but I'm ready when you are.”

For a split second I feared we had found ourselves backstage at some kind of burlesque karaoke show. But as I looked around, I realized where we were. My exuberant friend was way ahead of me.

“Sweet!” said Farrah. “It's an old-timey photo parlor.” She riffled through a box, donned a cowboy hat, and tossed me a lasso. “This could be handy for wrangling up those outlaws out there.” She paused a beat. “Why are we hiding from them again?”

I shook my head. “I don't know. I feel like something weird is going on. I'm thinking it might be wise to keep a low profile right now, you know?”

Farrah flung an elastic garter at me, slingshot-style. “Suit up then, hippie chick. What's your alias gonna be?” She grabbed a couple more costumes and held them up, one in each hand. “Frontier hippie in a fringed skirt? Or steampunk in a lacy bustier?”

“'Bout ready, ladies?” called the voice on the other side of the curtain. “I've got a washtub out here if you want to do a silly bathing scene.”

I made an incredulous face toward the curtain and shook my head. “All right, let's put something on. Anything. I don't care.” Then I turned and laughed at Farrah, who was now sporting a mangy beaver pelt hat. “Okay, anything but
that
.”

Finally, we each selected a ruffled cancan skirt, a velvet bodice, and a feathered headpiece. Farrah added the boa she had had on originally, and I grabbed a feathery faux-silk hand fan. When we came out, our eager photographer, a slender man with long sideburns, gave us an admiring wolf whistle, then quickly scurried about, arranging the scene and posing us with props. The backdrop was an Old West saloon, complete with a long shelf of prop liquor bottles set up before a vintage oval mirror. Farrah and I sat back-to-back up on top of the polished wooden bar, our legs outstretched, with one knee bent. I held a six-shooter, while Farrah tipped back an empty whiskey bottle.

The photographer kept restarting the player piano, which appeared to be a genuine replica, if not quite an antique, and we actually had fun with the photo shoot. A few passersby stopped to watch, and a handful of guys from the bachelor party lined up for a turn in the booth. Farrah kept winking at them and tossing out Mae West one-liners, but I was too jumpy to flirt. I kept eyeing everyone who walked by, waiting to see a familiar face.

After taking several pictures, the photographer took his camera over to a computer to pull up the images and let us choose which ones we wanted to purchase. Farrah followed him, but I was ready to go change out of my costume. Just as I was pulling back the curtain, the photographer called over to me.

“Hey, would you be a doll and start up the piano again?”

Shrugging off the baby talk—I
did
feel like a doll in this getup—I wandered over to the player piano and found the ON switch. When I was done, I retrieved the fan I had set down and turned toward the dressing area. Just then, the back of my neck prickled, and I was certain someone was watching me. I could have slipped behind the curtain, but my curiosity was too strong. Instead, I unfolded the fan, brought it before my face, and slowly turned around.

I was right about being watched. Standing at the edge of the crowd, mouth open just a little in surprise, was Wes. Our eyes met, and my pulse quickened. Then he broke out into a wide grin.
Busted.

I lowered the fan and used it to cool my face as Wes unchained the velvet rope that blocked the entrance to the photo parlor and let himself inside. He looked me up and down with mischievous eyes, and I began to wish there really were whiskey in the bottle on the bar. I could have used a stiff drink right about then.

“Nice dress.”

“What? This old thing?”

“Did I miss the show?”

“'Fraid so.” We looked at one another for a moment, and I started to feel awkward. The next line on the tip of my tongue was, “Come here often?” But I couldn't bring myself to say it.

Wes leaned his elbow on the bar. “Do you come here often?”

I chuckled inwardly and fluttered my lashes coyly. “First time, actually. Honest.”

The photographer walked up then, and I looked over to see Farrah chatting with the guys in line. She didn't seem to be in any hurry to go get changed. The photographer reached over and took down a cowboy hat hanging on a peg on the wall and offered it to Wes.

“Shall we do a couple's shot now? I have a washtub if you want to do a funny bathing scene.”

Wes raised his eyebrows, and I let out a nervous laugh. “I think I'm going to go get changed now,” I said. Then, to Wes, “Do you want to go grab a drink at a real bar? I know a place upstairs.”

With a backward glance, Wes bit his lip, apparently conflicted. “I would . . . but I'm kind of looking for . . . Don't get me wrong. I'd really like to.” He looked meaningfully into my eyes, and I didn't doubt his sincerity. But I shrugged one bare shoulder, trying not to appear as disappointed as I felt.