Lucky Break (14 page)

Fatherly pride puffed his chest a bit.
 
“She’s blossomed since her mother died.”
 

“As have you.”
 
Peace had made Daniel even handsomer, if that was possible.
 
And, while I didn’t admire, I could appreciate.

“Not a priority anymore, but thanks.”
 

From the Italian cut of his light wool suit, the French tie, and the Ferragamos on his feet, he was lying to himself, but didn’t we all?
 
I let him have his little self-delusion—mine comforted me all the time.

Daniel squinted against the sun behind me. “So you don’t think he did it?”
 

“You’ve read the witness statements and the coroner’s prelim, I’m sure.
 
What do you think?”

Daniel shrugged.
 
“Probably same as you: it looks real bad, but I think someone else designed it that way.”

Relief flooded through me.

Daniel raised one knee.
 
Rocking back, he hooked his hands around it.
 
“With all the media attention, the Grand Jury isn’t going to no-bill him.”

“You arguing for bail in court and supporting a theory of his innocence will go a long way toward helping keep his life and his career intact.
 
Just support bail and try to make it something I can afford, and I’ll be happy.”

“Okay.
 
But let me ask you this: why are you sticking your neck out for the guy?”

This time, I waited until his eyes caught mine and held.
 
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Daniel was a smart guy; I could see he got my subtext.
 
“Lucky guy.”

“That makes two of you.”

At some point in life, one must face their mother.
 
Apparently, today was my day.
 
Mona lurked just inside the front entrance to the Babylon and pounced the moment I walked through the glass doors.

“Lucky!”
 
She grabbed my arm, squeezing tightly as if I’d been marooned on an island and just now returned to the fold.
 
Which, come to think of it, I had.
 
Warmth flooded through me as I paused in a memory of this morning: waking up, Jean-Charles …
 

“Lucky?”
 
Mona’s whine burst my little moment of
joie de vivre.
 
She tugged on my arm, pulling me in the direction of the casino.
 
“I need you to come with me.
 
They just won’t listen.”

I knew better than to resist or to ask who; both would make this little interlude longer than it needed to be.
 
Instead, I let her loop her arm through mine and shepherd me where she wanted me to go.
 
As she led me through the lobby, over the marble floors inlaid with bright patterns, past the reception area with multicolored cloth tented above it, past the Lucite windows in front of our indoor ski slope replete with snow and the other trappings one would find at any alpine destination, I paused, looking up.
 
The arcing flight of Chihuly blown glass hummingbirds and butterflies always brought a smile.
 
To me, they looked like they were making an escape, winging toward a future that didn’t involve murder and Mona.
 
Perhaps I could sprout wings and join them?
 
I could only wish.

Mona led me across the footbridges arcing over our version of the Euphrates and its reed groves and various fauna and fowl that seemed to be breeding like crazy.
 
I’d have to talk with our vet about that.
 
Birth control for ducks.
 
The thought made me smile.
 
God, I loved my job.

We marched up the stairs into Delilah’s bar, an oasis in the middle of the casino.
 
Surrounded by gaming tables, slot machines, and an ever-present crowd of hopeful donors that ebbed and flowed with the time of day, Delilah’s, with its bougainvillea-draped lattice work and merrily trickling waterfall behind the bar was exactly that—an oasis with a secret cave kind of feel.
 
I’d always found peace here.
 
Of course the free-flowing Wild Turkey 101 often helped with that.
 
Today the white baby grand in the corner where Teddie had often played sat alone, abandoned, reminding me of less than pleasant realities far removed from this fantasyland.
 
I turned my back to the piano.

And came face-to-face with a coven of conspiracy.

Mona had gathered together a trio of terror.
 
My aunt, Darlin’ Delacroix as she liked to be known though her real name was Matilda, was the first female to own a casino in Vegas.
 
And she was as daunting as that implied and then some.
 
Today, Matilda—I seemed genetically incapable of calling anyone Darlin’ (much to my aunt’s irritation)—wore her ubiquitous black mini skirt, fishnet stockings, five-inch heels, and a jacket with Elvis patchworked on the back in varying colors of leather.
 
Pancake makeup accented the creases and folds of skin ravaged by a lifetime of unfiltered cigarettes.
 
Her fake eyelashes, so thick they looked like fallen eyebrows, weighed her eyelids down so she had to tilt her head back to see.
 
I didn’t even know they still sold blue eye shadow with glitter in it—a future trip to the Doc-in-a-Box waiting to happen.
 
The woman was eighty and still hadn’t quite conquered the nuances of good taste—not that she had ever aspired to that.
 

Flash Gordon, my best friend and ace investigative reporter for the
Las Vegas Review Journal
, would never be sitting quietly in my mother’s presence unless a really great story lurked under the surface.
 
I narrowed my eyes at her.
 
Dressed in a tube of lime green Lycra that displayed her tiny body and huge boobs in alarming fashion, she wore equally high heels as Matilda, a tad bit less make up, large hoop earrings, a cascade of red curls and an innocent smile.
 
She extended her arm across the back of the chair next to her as she looked like a pit-bull eyeing a rabbit.
   

I decided to zig when she thought I’d zag—keeping her off balance was the only effective strategy I’d found to keep her from ragging me until I bled information.
 
“I expected about eighty phone calls from you last night.
 
Doesn’t Holt Box’s murder have you salivating or something?”

She lowered her eyes for the briefest moment.
 
Pity, I knew it.
 
She was going easy on me because of Teddie.
 
And I appreciated it.
 
“I probably should be hounding you, but I don’t see how that’s going to get either of us what we want.
 
When you have something for me to chase, you’ll tell me.”

Despite her words, I still felt like the rabbit.
 
“Okay.”

Mrs. Olefson, a lone beacon of style, class and Midwestern common sense, anchored the group.
 
Today was red-white-and-blue day for her in her St. John’s separates, pearls at her neck and earlobes, sensible Ferragamos gracing her feet, and Milo, her Bichon, curled in her lap.
 
Mrs. Olefson had wandered into the hotel after the death of her husband and had liked it so much she prevailed on us to let her stay.
 
She’d also wanted to marry her dog, so despite her exterior, she did fit in with this little gathering.
 

Mona tapped on the empty seat, and then took hers across the table between Darlin’ and Flash.

I eased into the chair and leaned into Flash.
 
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“It depends.”

“I knew it.
 
I’m going to hate it.”
 
I leaned over to Mrs. Olefson, who smiled at me as if we were bridge partners or something.
 
Sometimes it took her awhile to catch on to Mona’s schemes.
 
“We have to stick together.”

“Honey, I don’t know what you mean.”
 
She stroked Milo.
 
The dog opened one eye, saw I had no food, then promptly snapped it shut and started snoring.

“Remember the phone sex idea?” I prodded her memory.
 
“And the virginity auction?”

Her face clouded.
 
“Oh, but I don’t think this is anything like that.”

“What is M planning this time?
 
What ill-advised scheme to bolster her campaign?
 
She has to be planning something.”
 
My mind on adrenaline overload, and filled with thoughts of murder and the death penalty, spun-off into its own dark place.
 
“I know! She’s going to sell the twins?
 
Or the right to name them, perhaps?”

The three women watched me with expressions running the gamut from Mona’s exaggerated patience to Mrs. Olefson’s confusion, Flash’s amusement, and my aunt’s haughty displeasure.
   

“Or are we running on a legalize prostitution platform?
 
Such a popular issue to force into the light of day.
 
What’s the tagline?
 
Vegas, where you can get a piece of ass with class?”

“Are you quite done?”
 
Mona asked, not even rising to the bait.
 
“Lucky, do be quiet.
 
This isn’t about me at all.”

I looked at the faces around me.
 
“No?”

Mrs. Olefson patted my hand.
 
“No, dear.
 
It’s about Miss P.”

“Miss P?”
 
I so needed a drink.
 
This early on a Sunday morning called for … what?
 
“Champagne,” I said to the waitress hovering nearby.
 
“Five glasses.”
 
I turned back to my little coven of conspirators.
 
“This is about the bachelorette party, right?
 
What are you guys cooking up?”

Everyone eyed me with blank stares.
 
No one said a word.
 

“I hate surprises.” I stared down each one in turn, but nobody broke.

Just as I was about to go cross-eyed, the waitress arrived with the Champagne, which did sort of perk everyone up.
 
Or maybe just me.
 
I knew Miss P was fine; I’d just spoken with her on the phone.
 
She’d sounded a bit off, but not terribly.
 
I’d chalked it up to last night being what it was.

“Matilda,” I addressed my aunt.
 
She’d been Matilda before she’d adopted the Darlin’ costume, and she’d always be Matilda to me.
 
She didn’t like it, but she tolerated it.
 
Since I tolerated her, I figured we were even.
 
“Tell me what is going on.”

My aunt gave me the stink eye.
 
“As Mrs. Olefson said, this is about Miss P.”

“I know.
 
What are you all planning?”

“It’s not about her wedding, Lucky,” my mother broke in.
 
“Well, not about this one anyway.”

“What?”
 
I glanced between the faces.
 
Finally, I arrowed Flash with a look she would have no trouble interpreting.

“Right,” she said as she sat up, bolted the whole of her flute of Champagne, then set the glass back on the table with studied, irritating care.
 
“You know the wedding?”

“Miss P’s and the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock’s?” I leveled my voice, pretending to play nice.

“Yes.”
 
Flash motioned for more Champagne.

“For God’s sake!”

She jumped at my raised voice.
 
“There’s been a hitch.”

I smelled a rat.
 
“Those two are the biggest lovebirds on the planet.
 
If something happens to them, I’m giving up on love.
 
What is going on?”

“Not a what, dear.”
 
Mona adopted her patronizing tone, which of course made everything so much better.
 
“A who.”

“A who?”

“Yes, a who.
 
Cody Ellis, to be more precise.”

“What is a Cody Ellis?”

“Who, Lucky,” Mona instructed, as if talking to a child.
 
“He’s a who.”
 

“Second cousin to Cindy-Lou Who, I suppose?” I asked Flash.
 
Panic tended to bring out my snark.
 
Nobody else seemed to appreciate that, even though I thought it was one of my best qualities.

Flash relaxed with a grin.
 
“Wasn’t she the one who made the Grinch’s heart grow three sizes?”

“Lucky!”
 
Mona whined.
 
Fidgety and anxious, she clearly had a bombshell she couldn’t wait to drop.