CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After the Tarot card reading, Trixie decides that what will make our hearts sing is Tex Mex. So she finds us a restaurant with sawdust on the floor, a cowboy at the microphone, and a mechanical bull center stage.
“I’m not getting on that thing,” my mother shouts. This place is noisier than the Strip.
“Maybe after you have a couple of these you will, Mrs. P!” Trixie yells as our pitcher of margaritas is served.
“What kind are these again?” I ask our server, a good-looking guy wearing a cowboy hat and fringed chaps over tight-fitting jeans.
“You ordered
Charro Caliente
,” he tells me. “The tequila’s infused with jalapeno pepper. It means hot cowboy.”
He winks, Shanelle whoops, and I pour. In short order I hear myself admitting that I wish I were making faster progress figuring out who killed Danny Richter. “It could be Frank or Cassidy or Hans or Samantha or the mystery man who tried to pass counterfeit bills.”
“Or none of the above,” Shanelle says.
“You’ve made progress!” Trixie asserts. “You gave Detective Perelli something to investigate about that Hans guy, whether he was at that dam at the time of the murder. And aren’t you glad you found out that Mrs. St. James let Danny manage her money?”
“These women!” my mother cries. “Are they empty between the ears or what? Who would give some thug they don’t know from Adam control over their money?”
“I’m with you, Mrs. P,” Trixie says. “We beauty queens know how important it is to be knowledgeable about all areas of life. Including finances.”
“Speaking of knowledgeable,” I say, “I never would have guessed tonight was your first Tarot card reading in years, Trixie. You were fabulous!”
We all toast to Trixie. She bows her head modestly. “I spent a lot of time preparing. Isn’t that another thing we’ve all had drilled into us pageant after pageant? The key to success is preparation!”
“Hear, hear,” Shanelle says.
We toast again and order two platters to share—carne asada with black beans and poblano rice, and garlicky shrimp served with sautéed zucchini and chayote, which I guess is a kind of squash.
“I think it was a really bad idea for Samantha to let Danny manage her money,” I say. “But I still find it so hard to believe she killed him, even if she got wind that he was taking advantage of her.”
“And maybe he wasn’t,” Shanelle points out. “Maybe all those expensive things he had were gifts from her. Maybe he didn’t steal a thing.”
“It might have been a good trade for her,” Trixie says. “What she got back from him was companionship. She made it sound like they had a good time together.”
“You know what it’s called when you have to pay for that?” my mother asks.
That shuts us up momentarily. Then I pipe up again. “What I want to know is why Samantha said yesterday that Danny would have been better off never knowing her.”
“She also said she didn’t know how she could live with herself after what she did to him,” Trixie points out.
“None of that jibes with what we know so far. I need to understand what she means when she says those things.” I don’t know if it’s the tequila talking or some insight I’ve gained, but if I’m sure of anything tonight, I’m sure of that.
Trixie tops off our margaritas. “Tonight has renewed my belief in Tarot. I think it’s a very good way to tap into the guiding forces of the universe.”
Hours ago I pooh-poohed Tarot. Now I’m less of a skeptic. All those cards that popped up for Samantha having to do with betrayal and dishonor and money woes have made a semi-believer out of me. They’ve also helped me semi-forget my stairwell tryst with Mario.
Okay. Not really.
“You know who might know more about Danny’s relationship with Samantha?” I ask as we pay our check. “Cassidy.”
“I wonder if she’s working tonight,” Shanelle says.
It’s my lucky night, because she is. My mom, Trixie, and Shanelle all want to take their chances with the slot machines so I’m on my own. I lure Cassidy into a break by offering to treat her to a double fudge doughnut at Starbucks.
I begin by reminding her how helpful I’ve been. “Have you had a chance to put together your material to send to Jennifer, the producer?”
“Not yet.”
I eye her. This last day or two she seems a lot less excited about getting on a reality show. “Jennifer said she’d help and I really think she will.”
“I’ll get around to it.” She chews her doughnut without enthusiasm.
Seeing all those cowboys at the Tex Mex place reminded me of the guy Cassidy ran into as she was leaving the faux volcano. I ask who he is.
“That’s Travis. He was a drinking buddy of Danny’s.”
Interesting. Somebody new in Danny’s orbit.
“He wanted to know how I was holding up,” Cassidy goes on.
Not too well, from the look of it. “Did Danny ever mention a woman named Samantha St. James?”
“Is that the rich old broad he was taking for a ride?”
This characterization fails to surprise me. “So that’s what he was doing?”
“What do you think? It’s not like he was in love with her.”
“Was he stealing from her? Embezzling from her accounts?”
“Maybe. But I think mostly she gave him stuff.”
“Like the car.”
“That was probably the biggest thing. But who the hell knows?” Cassidy’s words are as sassy as ever but her demeanor sure isn’t.
“Are you okay, Cassidy? You seem kind of depressed.” Then I remember. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Danny’s funeral was today. That—”
“It’s not his funeral, okay? I didn’t even go. I’m just sick of talking about him all the time. Danny this, Danny that.” She throws down the rest of her doughnut. “It’s like it’s never gonna end! And in the meanwhile I can’t sleep, I can’t—” She stops.
“Why can’t you sleep?”
“I told you before, I got a bad feeling, okay?”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t feel better if you came clean with Detective Perelli? It might help you turn over a new leaf. Tell her about the trick rolls. Tell her—”
“Are you
nuts
? Should I tell her about the blackmail, too?” Her eyes fly open, as if she, too, is amazed by what she just let fly.
I lean still closer and lower my voice. “Are you blackmailing somebody?”
“No.” Her chin juts out.
“Was Danny?”
She hesitates. Then, “Maybe.”
“Who was he blackmailing? Samantha?” Then he would have had to know something about her she wanted kept secret. What could that be?
“I don’t know, all right? He didn’t tell me. But I sure as hell am not gonna spill the beans to that detective and have her name me an accessory to the crime.”
I ponder all this. “How long was the blackmailing going on?”
“How should I know? But I don’t think it had to do with the old broad. Because he knew her for a long time before all of a sudden he had mongo cash on his hands. Then he didn’t want to help with the trick rolls anymore and now I’ve got all this crap to fence.” She stands up abruptly. “Okay? You happy now?”
Actually, no. “Do you know anything more about Travis? Like his last name?”
She sets her hands on her hips, wearing an expression of disgust. “I barely know the guy, all right? I don’t think even Danny knew him that well.”
“Think, Cassidy. It really might help.”
She sighs heavily. “Fine. Blakely. Travis Blakely. I’m going back to work.”
I watch her sashay away. It’s interesting how secrets spill out of people in dribs and drabs and often when they’re in a weakened state. Frank confessed his gambling addiction just hours after Danny’s funeral. And Cassidy seemed especially out of sorts tonight, which may be why she dropped this blackmailing bombshell.
Boy, did Danny Richter lead a complicated life. What with pimping Cassidy in the trick roll trade, escorting Samantha hither and yon and doing who knows what with her money, and blackmailing on the side, it’s a wonder he had time for his blackjack job.
The next morning, so early it’s still dark outside, the phone in my room rings. In the next bed, my mother grunts. I reach over to the nightstand and grab the receiver.
“Good morning, Happy Pennington,” says a man who sounds just like Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“Good morning,” I mumble. I’m on automatic pilot because I’m dazed and confused. Then my mind begins to crank and I know I’m in trouble.
The man laughs. “You know who this is, right?”
“It’s Hans Finkelmeister. Dredged from the canal at the Rialto Hotel.”
“Exactly! And you’re Happy Pennington.”
Even in my semi-comatose state, I saw that coming. Hans wouldn’t have been able to call my room unless he figured out I’m not Harriet Pierce. How did that happen?
“I’ve got something you’ll want to see, Ms. America,” he says.
He knows all about me. In my current state I can’t put my finger on why this is bad but I know that it is.
He goes on. “You’ll want to see it before I release it to the media. So meet me at the convention center in half an hour. Where we met before.” He hangs up.
I don’t for a moment consider not going. I throw on my Juice Couture tracksuit, dash a note to my mom, and make for the Cosmos Hotel cab line. I arrive at the appointed location in time. Hans is already there in his convention ensemble of black trousers and white dress shirt, with his man purse in tow. Almost nobody else is around.
“You like nice just out of bed,” he tells me. “All fresh and dewy.”
“What’s this about, Hans?”
“I made a little video of you and me yesterday.” He looks very proud of himself. “You want to see it?”
He holds up his smart phone and cranks the audio. I see myself in the gondola, wearing my blue and green halter-style maxi dress, with Hans next to me. We have flutes of champagne in our hands. His arm is stretched along the banquette seat and we’re looking mighty cozy. In short order I see Hans’s hand alight on my thigh. I do nothing to stop it. Then I hear my voice.
You’re very naughty
. My tone is coy. Hans responds.
You’re here, aren’t you? I’m guessing you want me to be naughty.
And I don’t say a darn thing back.
“Stop that video,” I say.
Hans acts surprised. “Don’t you want to see the rest? It’s very good.”
“How did you shoot this?”
He holds up the man purse hanging from his shoulder. “This has a lipstick camera mounted inside. You’ve heard of those, right? I would think a beauty queen like yourself would know all about lipstick cameras.”
I remember that man purse of his lying on the banquette opposite us in the gondola. Now I know why. So Hans could set me up. It wasn’t just me maneuvering to get him to reveal something. He had a secret plan for me, too.
“You have to see the rest,” Hans says. “It only gets better from here.”
That depends on what is meant by “better,” because as the video goes on it shows Hans’s hand disappearing under my dress. And I am heard saying things like:
I’m surprised you want to talk about my husband.
And:
What my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
It’s intercut with video of the gondolier and of the boutiques lining the canal and has audio of a woman giggling that I don’t think is me. There is even audio that sounds like a couple kissing, over video of the gondolier keeping his eyes averted.
Anyone watching it would think that Hans and I ended the evening doing what Sin City is famous for.
I have to struggle to keep from trembling. “It’s fake,” I declare. I’m trying hard to sound forceful and sure. “You went back yesterday and shot video when I wasn’t even there and spliced it in. Anybody can see that.”
“So maybe I used artistic license in a few places. But, lovely lady”—he steps closer—“you and I both know it’s not fake.”
I step back. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because when I saw you, I knew who you were. I saw you on the news. When you came up to me, I figured you were playing detective like you did in Hawaii. I figured you found out it was me who punched that Danny guy. Am I right?”
I see no point denying it.
“Well,” he goes on, “I knew it would make money for my station to have this kind of video. Whenever you beauty queens make some scandal, well”—he chuckles— “people like hearing about it. It’s news.”
“Your
station
?”
“Back in Austria. I work for a TV station.” He gives me a look like
how much of an idiot can you be?
Right now I don’t have a good answer to that question. “Don’t you even know what convention I’m here for?”
N.A.B., I’m thinking. What’s that?
He answers my unasked question. “National Association of Broadcasters. People come from all over the world looking for shows to syndicate, among other things. People like me.” He smiles.
I want to deck him. I’m imagining my title, my crown, and my prize money evaporating. All too easily I can picture my reputation cratering, along with my marriage. Then Hans infuriates me further by laying out his nasty proposition.
