Sleepless in Las Vegas (17 page)

“I…think he’s a vegetarian.” He was running out of excuses.

“No problem! I’ll make a big salad, and we have fixings for cheese enchiladas.” She clapped her hands. “I have an idea. Since he enjoys cooking so much, maybe he’d like to help me in the kitchen!” When Drake didn’t respond, she waved off the idea. “Silly idea. Forget it.”

He didn’t like taking the light out of someone’s face. Made him feel like a jerk. She wasn’t asking for much. Never did, actually. Since Grams only ventured into the kitchen to feed Maxine or make a martini, his mom cooked alone most of the time. Was it really such a big deal to bring Val?

He could deal with it. But he’d keep the element of her being a woman until they arrived. Less time for the two of them to work up any interview questions.

“He’d probably like helping you,” Drake said, wondering if Val even knew how to cook. Well, learning new skills on the fly was an attribute for a private investigator.

His mom turned serious. “Have him drive.”

Another reason to bring Val. He liked the idea of his pickup not being seen here for a while.

After they hugged, he walked across the yard, thinking his mom had a look on her face he hadn’t seen in a long time. Happy, yes, but something else. Eager, certainly, to be bustling around her favorite room, the kitchen, with a sous chef again.

He reached the pickup and paused to look at the desert willow.

Suddenly, he realized what that look had been. She had looked hopeful.

CHAPTER NINE

S
HORTLY
AFTER
THREE
that afternoon, Val was checking her email when Jasmyn’s parents, Char and Del, strolled into Diamond Investigations. Char wore a denim skirt and sandals; Del had on khaki cutoffs and Birkenstocks. Both wore matching purple T-shirts with the name of their business, the Gumbo Stop, in bright yellow letters.

“Hey, dawlin’,” Char called out. “Where y’at?”

“What it is,” Val answered.

Back home, people often greeted each other with this exchange, but it was more than an idle word swap. The person asking was genuinely inquiring about the other person.

Which aptly summed up Char and Del. They genuinely cared about their family, which was as much about actions as feelings. Char once said that the biggest lesson she learned from Katrina was how survival depended more on connecting, giving and trusting people than having a fistful of money.

“I swear, it’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol outside.” Char sank into one of the guest chairs and daintily touched the back of her hand to her brow. “That or menopause is finally kicking in.”

Val smiled. “You’re only what, thirty-five?”

“Bless your heart for knocking ten years off my age. Did I mention I’m leavin’ you the Alps vacation home in my will?”

“Thought you were leaving me the Rolls-Royce.”

“Make it fifteen years, and I’ll throw that in, too, dawlin’.”

Her second cousin’s dark gold hair looked almost glittery under the overhead lights. She carried extra weight, which she tried to shed every now and then, but the pounds inevitably returned. “I just can’t resist my own cooking,” she’d say, a line her customers at the Gumbo Stop loved.

“Jasmyn’s watchin’ the store while we pick up some supplies,” Char continued. “Diamond Investigations is on the way, so we decided to drop by.” She glanced at her husband, who was peering into the fish tank. “Wha’cha lookin’ at, Delbert?”

“Had one of these as a kid,” he said in his smooth baritone, which always reminded Val of a jazz radio personality. “Had me some angelfish in it, too.”

Pushing fifty, he was as lean as Char was round, and was probably the most honest person Val had ever met. He spoke his mind, good or bad, which sometimes gave Char fits, especially when he riled a customer at their gumbo store. He and his wife had finally reached an agreement—he’d tone it down at work, but elsewhere all bets were off.

“That blue-yellow one sure likes to squirrel away in that baby castle.” He glanced over his shoulder at Val. “Know why they like to hide?”

“So they don’t get stressed.”

“More likely when they’re ready to breed.”

Well, Jayne never said anything about
that.

“He around?” Char whispered, looking inquisitively at the closed office door to Val’s right.

“No. His office is down that hallway…” Val gestured over her left shoulder.

Del straightened to his full six foot two. “That boy treatin’ you right?”

“We’re working together fine, Del.”

Char leaned forward, giving Val a conspiratorial look. “Delbert isn’t happy about that boy threatening to file criminal charges. He’d like to have a word with him, and this time he’s promised to not let things get out of hand.”

The last time Del had decided to “have a word” with somebody, it had ended with his fist in the guy’s face. Although the young man had deserved it after the disrespectful things he had said to Jasmyn, Del had also broken two knuckles and spent the evening in the emergency room.

“Really, everything’s fine now.” Lord, was she glad Drake wasn’t here. With everything he was handling, he didn’t need the Val family protection squad coming to her defense.

In New Orleans, Val had had to be the strong one for her and Nanny. If there was a conflict or problem, she’d handled it. Although she appreciated her new family watching her back, ready to charge to her defense, she didn’t want to scare off Drake. He was still her mentor, and then there were those sizzling moments between them that neither handled so well, but which they would only handle worse, if at all, if Cousin Del put the fear of God
and
Val into Drake.

She was debating how to say that without offending them when the phone started jangling.

“I need to get this,” she said, picking up the receiver. “Diamond Investigations.”

“Hello,” said the caller, “this is Suzanne Doyle, manager of the Riviera Casino and Hotel. May I speak to Drake Morgan, please?”

The Riviera was legendary in Las Vegas for its colorful history of mobsters, famous movie stars and the superstars who’d performed there, like Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra.

“He’s not here right now. Would you like me to take a message?”

“I left one with Sally already.”

Sally again. Dang, that girl was a one-woman information distribution center. How come everybody was talking to Sally about Drake? Was there more going on between them than Val was aware of?

She experienced another zap of the green-eyed monster. Which made a lot of non-sense considering minutes ago she was fretting if she and Drake were too opposite to make a relationship work…hadn’t crossed her mind that he might already be in one.

That either said a lot about her sense of can-do, or that she had a problem dealing with reality.

“Sally? She seems to be mighty good friends with Drake.”
Is she dating him or what?

“I suppose. Sally and I worked together at the Riviera for years before the company restructure. Anyway, are you a P.I.?”

“Yes.” What did “I suppose” mean?

“Good. And you are…?”

“Val LeRoy. Drake and I work together.
Very well,
I might add.”

Char’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise.

“Miss LeRoy, I have a special investigative request. Have you ever seen the reality TV show
Ghost Adventures?
”

“A few times.”

It featured a group of paranormal investigators, called the Ghost Team, who visited places supposedly haunted by ghostly spirits. Using equipment like digital recorders, video cameras and electromagnetic devices, they tried to substantiate the existence of ghosts in each show by taking the ghosts’ photos or recording their spooky wailings.

“Ever see the show where the Ghost Team stayed overnight in our Frank Sinatra suite?”

“No.”

“Their recording instruments picked up the sounds of a cocktail party with Frank Sinatra singing in the background,” she said enthusiastically, “which makes
perfect
sense, because he and the Rat Pack loved to throw parties in that suite. Because we received a substantial boost in business after that showed aired, we are seriously considering starting weekly ghost tours. Do you know what those are, Miss LeRoy?”

“Yes, there were a lot of ghost tours in New Orleans, where I’m from.”

Char’s eyes glistened with interest. Before Katrina, she had considered starting a ghost tour, which were extremely popular with New Orleans tourists.

“Unfortunately,” Miss Doyle said, turning serious, “one of the Ghost Team members recently confided to a reporter that their ghost-chasing investigations were a scam. That the pictures they took of phantoms had been doctored by superimposing images of ghosts on them. They didn’t mention the Riviera, but obviously, people assume they faked the ghost evidence here, as well. Therefore, we decided to hire a
reputable,
experienced
private investigator to conduct a
legitimate
investigation in the haunted suite. We plan to use your qualified evidence—pictures and recordings of ghosts—to lay to rest any questions about fakery.”

“Miss Doyle, I must say you’re assuming we could find such evidence. To be fair, neither Mr. Morgan nor Diamond Investigations has ever conducted paranormal investigations.” Although Val thought it was a kick-ass, fun idea, she knew Drake would flat-out refuse.

“Forget the ghosts. Think of it as an everyday surveillance. We’re interested in what you can document with your own equipment. How about I give you the terms of our offer, then you and Mr. Morgan can discuss it?”

No new cases were coming in for either him or Diamond Investigations, so the money would be sweet. And from what Val understood, paranormal investigators were viewed as hobbyists and didn’t need a license. Maybe he’d be okay with Val taking on this task by herself.

“One moment.” She grabbed her notepad and a pen. It was next to impossible to talk, scribble notes
and
hold the phone receiver in the crook of her neck. Looking at Char, she held a keep-quiet finger to her lips, then pressed the speaker button and set down the receiver. Jayne didn’t like Val doing this, but it was only the three of them in the room, and she trusted her cousins to never repeat anything.

“Go ahead.” Val poised her pen over the paper.

“We’re offering twenty-five hundred to spend one night in the Frank Sinatra penthouse suite, all expenses paid. Multiple guests have claimed they hear Frank crooning one of his songs, ‘Too Marvelous for Words,’ so we’re especially interested in your recording that. If you hear it, of course.”

That got Del’s attention. A longtime Sinatra fan, he wandered over and stood behind Char’s chair.

“The cocktail parties apparently occur in the living room area around nine, ten at night. Guests have taken photos, which are covered with orbs…”

Val’s grandmother had believed orbs—or specks of light in photos—to be spirits or angels who stayed earthbound to be near people they loved or places that held significance to them.

Val, however, wasn’t so sure. “Something to keep in mind is that specks of dust on a camera lens, or the flash reflecting off something, can appear as orbs in photographs.”

“Wonderful! This is
exactly
why we wish to hire you! If two pragmatic, skeptical investigators nail evidence of ghosts, we’ll be turning people away. Fantastic PR for the hotel
and
your detective agency. Of course, if you find no evidence of ghosts—” she turned serious again “—the Riviera will not discuss your investigation, which I’m sure you understand.”

Del frowned. Probably dying to have a word or two with Miss Doyle about that.

“Last, to show the Riviera’s good faith to retain your services, I have sent a retainer, one thousand dollars, to your agency PayPal account. Unfortunately, I must cut this short as I’m late for a meeting, but I look forward to hearing back from you and Mr. Morgan within the next few days.”

Val ended the call, thinking about the PayPal button on the Diamond Investigations website. She knew how to use PayPal, but only Jayne had the password for the agency account.

“No way Frank would choose that dump to hang out in the afterlife,” Del groused, “when he could haunt the Venetian or Bellagio.”

“But he
lived
in the penthouse suite, honey,” Char said. “It was like a second home to him.”

He cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Frank liked things nice, baby, and that place looks like it hasn’t been vacuumed since Carter was president.” He shifted his gaze to Val. “Take the deal. Two thousand, five hundred clams, and if you find Frank really has the bad taste to haunt there, you’ll get a shitload of free publicity.”

“I need to discuss this with Drake.”

She thought she heard the connecting door to Drake’s office click open, expected to hear his footsteps in the hall to Diamond Investigations’ office. But…nothing. Maybe he’d heard their voices and decided to not interrupt. Or forgot something in his office?

Whatever the reason, she needed to get Char and Del out of here,
now,
in case Drake did join them and Del grabbed the opportunity to “have a word.”

“You must leave now,” she said, her voice rising to a strange, wobbly pitch. “I have important work to do.”

While Del flashed her a what-the-hell look, Char remained cool.

“Certainly, dawlin’,” she murmured, standing. “But first I’d like to say something.”

Sometimes in life there are people who move your world with just a look, a touch, a comforting remark. Val’s grandmother had definitely had that affect on Val, and so did Char. Maybe because they came from a place, deep inside, that was simple and honest. Or maybe because their hearts were a little larger than everybody else’s.

Didn’t mean they were saints, but they knew that better than anybody else. Val thought it meant they somehow got it about life. That it wasn’t a competition, or a search for its meaning or even trying to arrange for one’s happiness. It had more to do with accepting the joys and sorrows of life. So when Char wanted to say something, Val listened.