You Bet Your Life (2 page)

The elevator had taken us back downstairs to the electric sound of the casino in the Paris Hotel, and its arched ceiling painted to look like the sky, and with its shops and restaurants on winding narrow “streets,” a whimsical replica of the Left Bank.

The Bellagio was more opulent than whimsical, but it still offered enough fantasy to attract an abundance of brides and grooms who posed for pictures under the glass ceiling of the conservatory, an indoor garden on the far side of the lobby. As I stood in line waiting to register, I watched a young couple—she in a white gown and veil, and he in a gray tuxedo—as they gathered family around them for a photographic portrait against the lush greenery. Another bride and groom waited their turn for pictures in front of the trees and flowers. And a third bridal couple walked hand in hand out of the garden and into the casino, trailed by their photographer.

I sighed. The last time I had been in Las Vegas, it was also for a wedding, a joyous event. The bride and groom had been so happy. We toasted their future and wished them well.

Now, two years later, I’d flown to the fabled “Sin City” with a decidedly heavier heart. There would be no celebration this time. Murder is nothing to celebrate.

 

“Have you known the bride a long time?” the lady in the flowered pantsuit and straw hat asked as she slipped past the extravagant floral arrangement at the end of the pew and took a seat next to me.

“Oh, my, yes,” I replied. “She and I were neighbors for almost twenty years.”

“I’m so glad some of her old friends were able to come for the wedding,” she said, looking around the small chapel before her eyes came to rest on mine. “I think she’s been a bit lonely since coming out here. I’m Betsy Cavendish, by the way. Martha and I met right here at the Bellagio—she just loves the slots, although I imagine she’ll move on to bigger games, now that she’s going to be Mrs. Victor Kildare.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher, a friend of Martha’s from Cabot Cove, Maine. These are my friends Mort and Maureen Metzger.” I indicated the couple on the other side of me.

“Oh, you’re the sheriff. I’ve heard about you,” Betsy said. “Nice to meet you both.”

Mort dug a finger under his collar and gave Betsy a nod and a wan smile. “Ma’am.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Maureen said to Betsy.

“And Doug and Tina Treyz,” I said, as the couple in front of us turned. “They’re from Cabot Cove, too.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Doug said.

“Yes,” Tma added. “How do you do?”

“I’m very well, thank you,” Betsy said, settling back on the gold-and-cream-colored upholstery. “I’m delighted to meet people on the bride’s side. I was afraid she wouldn’t have anyone but me.”

“Our friend Seth Hazlitt is here, too,” I said. “He’s giving the bride away.”

“How sweet. Now it will be a proper wedding, won’t it? I always say you should have an equal number of guests on both sides, to be fair. Isn’t this a beautiful chapel? Those chandeliers came all the way from Italy, I’m told.” Betsy eyed the amethyst crystal fixtures above our heads. “Victor would pick the Bellagio hotel to get married in—do you know Victor? It’s so elegant here, not at all like those dreadful little chapels downtown with the Elvis impersonators. You must have. heard about those.”

“Sure. Everyone has....”

“You can’t believe the couples who end up getting married in them. I attend a lot of weddings. Sort of a hobby of mine. It’s like going to court trials. Anyone can sit and watch a trial. Same with the wedding chapels. I think they like having an audience. Is this your first time in Las Vegas?”

“Well, actually—”

“He has such fine taste. Victor, that is. You can see it in the way he dresses. Always wears a jacket. Can’t tell you how rare that is here, among the visitors anyway. T-shirts and shorts, that’s the tourist uniform. In my day, you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such an outfit, even in your own backyard. Of course, Victor’s not a tourist. He lives here.”

My talkative companion prattled on as the last guests took their seats across the aisle. The wedding of Martha Reemes and Victor Kildare was not a large affair and had been hastily put together. There were no friends or relatives from Martha’s hometown in Canton, Ohio, and only six of us from Cabot Cove where she’d lived for a long time with her first husband, Walt, a general surgeon at our local hospital. Her intended had a half dozen people scattered in pews on the groom’s side of the aisle.

“Oh, there’s Jane, Victor’s daughter.” Betsy pointed out an attractive young woman walking into the chapel with an older female companion, who was wearing a lace mantilla. Jane was very fashionable in a pink silk suit, the pastel shade softening the sharp lines of the severely tailored garment. Her curly auburn hair was caught up on the top of her head with a few spiral strands artfully framing her face. “Isn’t she pretty? I’m surprised she’s not in the wedding party.” She lowered her voice. “She’s his daughter by his first wife, the only child, I believe. He never had any more with the others.”

I couldn’t help it. I had to ask. “How many wives has he had?”

“Three. Didn’t Martha tell you? She’s going to be his fourth.”

“No. She never mentioned it.”

“Daria, Jane’s mother, lives over in Henderson. She must be in her fifties by now, but she still looks pretty good. The other two didn’t last very long. One was a showgirl at Caesar’s Palace. Pretty, but nothing up top”—she patted the crown of her straw hat—“if you get my drift. That was Bunny. And then Cindy. She was a sharp cookie. Don’t know where he found her, but she spent his money so fast, it was cheaper to pay her alimony than give her free rein with the credit cards.”

“You must know Victor well.”

“Only met him.once or twice. Martha introduced us.”

“Then how do you know so much about him?”

“When you’ve lived here a long time, you hear all the gossip. We’re much more of a small town than most people realize. Word is he’s quite a catch. Plus, Victor shows up on the society pages in the papers every now and then, usually for some charity event, and always with a beautiful woman on his arm.”

My Cabot Cove friend Martha Reemes was certainly a beauty, I thought. Tall and curvy with long-lashed hazel eyes dominating an oval face, thick black hair, and a golden complexion, she had an exotic look that turned heads wherever she went. She’d had acting aspirations as a youngster when she’d landed in New York, fresh from Ohio State University, but soon found that beauty, talent, and even ambition were not enough to break into show business in the Big Apple, where such commodities are in plentiful supply.

She used to love to tell the story of how one captivating spring day, she’d skipped an audition her acting coach had suggested she attend. A vivid blue sky and warm sun had directed her steps away from the theater where the audition was being held, luring her uptown to the lake in Central Park, where there was a miniature regatta taking place with remote-controlled model sailboats. While purchasing a hot dog from a vendor in the park, she encountered a handsome young man, also playing hooky.

Walter Reemes, a medical student from Maine completing his studies in New York City, had ducked out of a luncheon honoring the departing dean of the medical school to bask in the sunshine that April afternoon and watch the little boats, guided by their owners, tack across the water. The rest, as Martha would say, was history, and they were married a year later. Walt set up practice in Cabot Cove and Martha joined our local amateur theatrical company. They never had any children, and remained devoted to each other through twenty years of marriage, which ended with Walt’s long illness and eventual death from cancer.

“Have you always lived in Las Vegas?” I asked Betsy, realizing I’d daydreamed through a good bit of her gossip and needed to uphold my half of the conversation.

“No, dear. Few people my age have, except perhaps some relatives of the miners or railroad workers from way back. No, I moved out here with my Harold when he retired, may he rest in peace. We used to come once or twice a year. We lived in Bakersfield. Harold had a weakness for the craps tables, and I still love the slots. It’s the sound that gets to you, you know, that lovely clink-clink-clink of the coins dropping down when you win.”

A sound of another kind interrupted my chatty acquaintance. The quiet music that had been playing as the guests were escorted to their seats changed to a fanfare. There was a rustle of fabric as those assembled turned toward the door at the back of the chapel. To the strains of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, the procession began.

 

“Jessica, I’d like you to meet Victor.” Martha was flushed with excitement. She tugged on the groom’s arm, drawing his attention from the person in front of me in the short reception line. “Victor, this is Jessica Fletcher, my dear neighbor from Cabot Cove.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, what a pleasure,” Victor said, shaking my hand as the photographer snapped our picture. “Martha has spoken so fondly of her famous neighbor and very good friend. I feel as if
we’re
good friends already.”

He was slightly taller than Martha, with a deep tan and a wide smile that revealed a perfect set of very white teeth. He wore his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back in a youthful style, and his tuxedo was tailored to show off a trim physique. I gauged him to be around sixty. I knew Martha was forty-five.

“Please call me Jessica,” I said, “and the pleasure is mine. I’m delighted to meet you, Victor. You’re a lucky man to capture such a prize.”

“And don’t I know it,” he said, grinning at Martha and pulling her close.

“I’m so grateful you came,” she said, taking my hand. “I’m looking forward to getting a chance to catch up. I have so much to tell you.”

“I look forward to it, too,” I said.

“You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you?” she asked.

For a moment I saw uncertainty flicker in her eyes, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a sweet smile. “We’ve made reservations at Aqua,” she said. “It’s a lovely restaurant, right here in the hotel. Everyone is invited.”

“And we’ll all be there,” I said. “We’re delighted to be included.”

“I picked it especially for my Cabot Cove friends. The restaurant specializes in seafood.” She looked at her new husband, then back to me. “I got to pick the restaurant, but Victor decided on the menu. He won’t tell me what he’s ordered, said it’s to be a surprise.”

“You’ll see her later, darling,” Victor murmured, his lips grazing her ear. He nodded at the people in line behind me.

“Oh, of course,” Martha said, her eyes darting to the dark gaze of her new husband. She pressed my hand, and I moved away.

 

“So, did I do a good job?” Seth asked, lifting two champagne flutes from a tray held by a waiter.

“You were the perfect honorary father of the bride,” I said, relieving him of a glass. “She couldn’t have chosen better.”

We were standing in the ornate reception area outside the chapel. The room was decorated in soft colors, peach and mauve, cream and gold. Two more Italian chandeliers hung over circular benches, which had tufted cushions and silk fringe skirts. Floral arrangements overflowing with roses in all the colors of a sunset stood on every flat surface, including the long desk, behind which a bartender poured champagne for the waiters to carry to guests. A pair of television monitors mounted in the wall flanked the entrance. Connected to cameras in the chapels, they encouraged those arriving late not to interrupt the ceremony. but also enabled the staff to time their service precisely. Not a moment after the minister’s “You may kiss the bride,” and after the married couple had embraced and turned toward the aisle, they’d found the chapel doors already thrown open for them.

“Don’t know why anyone would want to live in the desert,” Seth said, starting on a theme I’d been hearing a lot lately. “Too damn hot out here, like livin’ in a blast furnace. It was a hundred and eight yesterday, the bellman told me.”

“Yes, but it’s dry heat,” I said. “So it’s not as uncomfortable as when we get a heat spell in Cabot Cove.”

“Only thing it’s good for is arthritis.”

“That’s good enough for a lot of people,” I said.

“You know I opposed this marriage, Jess,” Seth said, frowning.

“Yes. You’ve mentioned it before.”

“Left all her friends in Cabot Cove. Didn’t know a soul here.”

“Martha’s a grown woman, Seth.”

“Didn’t even talk it over with me. Just up and left.”

“The decision was hers to make,” I said as a waiter arrived with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

Seth plucked two pieces off the silver platter and ate one. “Never gave herself enough time to moum,” he said, taking a napkin from the waiter and blotting his lips.

“People mourn in different ways. You know that.”

“But Walt’s barely gone a year.”

“He was sick a long time, Seth.”

He shook his head. “I always thought they were so close.”

“They were,” I said. “Martha’s marrying Victor doesn’t mean her relationship with Walt wasn’t a good one. In fact, this wedding may be a tribute to the good marriage she had with Walt, an experience she wants to repeat.”

“You musta been reading my psychology books again. That’s a pretty fancy explanation,” he said, downing the second hors d’oeuvre. “I might run that by the next meeting of the county medical society.”

I laughed. “Be my guest. If it makes you feel better, you can quote me. But watch out. They might ask you to deliver a paper on the subject.”

“At least I’ll get to wear this monkey suit again,” he said, cheering up.

“You look very handsome in your tuxedo.”

“I do, don’t I?” Seth said, puffing out his chest and tucking his thumbs in the plaid cummerbund encircling his sizable stomach.