Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) (30 page)

“What
are
you rambling about? Listen, I just got wind of this, and since I’m not supposed to know, you can’t know, either. Besides, your grandfather and I are an item again.” Her voice was mushy and then got tough. “I want your word that you’ll stay away from anything suspicious and no driving around on dusty desert roads, either. Now butt out.”

“My whole world is suspicious, Gerry, my work is with sinners. There’s job security in it, especially since this is Sin City.”

“I’ll accept that jab as your word.” She was gone before I could demand to know how she knew about the twilight drive of Jane Angieski, and I was left with a dead phone against my ear. What’s beyond red alert? Double red-red? Flashing fire engine red? Whatever, that’s where I was, and I had a drowning feeling that the Feds were protecting PSA and Cheney. How did Monica, Eddie, and Tom fit into this? Had Tom been told to butt out, too? Had he been ordered to? Or was he part of whatever was coming down, as they always say in
Law & Order
or the other cop shows on TV?

I walked into the condo just to pace, eat, and pace. There was still leftover pizza, and I washed that down with some Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia followed by a few low-fat wheat crackers. A girl has to watch her calories. I finally got to bed. My head was swirling, and my jaw was tight from keeping my tongue between my teeth. I wanted to scream.

I wanted to blame my sleeplessness on the whole wheat. You cannot mingle fat and sugar with healthy stuff and not have repercussions, right? When would I learn that?

At two I threw back the covers and trotted from my room for some medicinal cookie therapy. The light must have disturbed Tuffy. Shredding the Charmin had become his favorite indoor sport, and since I wanted to do the same with Tom, Monica, Eddie, and Pastor Bob, I could understand. I popped in a new roll and then realized the precocious mutt had stopped shredding to tag at my heels. “We’re alike, my friend,” I told him, sharing a bit of sugar cookie. “So smart and clever and cute, but most of the time, we have no clue what’s going on, do we? Wait, don’t answer that.” We plopped on the sofa. Tuffy stuck his fuzzy little nose into my hand, which I’d learned meant he wanted his ears scratched. “So what is up with Pastor Bob? What should I tell the District Council member when she comes for a report? Should I trail Bob like I pursued Monica and Eddie tonight? Should I check myself into a psychiatric hospital and get my blooming head examined? What if I end up in jail, or worse, on the front page of the Las Vegas newspaper?”

Tuffy yawned. Yes, I’d been expecting advice from a dog who’d run away from his owner who had forced him to live in the lap of doggy luxury. ’Nuff said.

• • •

I woke groggy from yet another night of slugging it out with the sandman and couldn’t shake it even though, to my utter amazement, Saturday went by without anything resembling World War III. It also dropped into the low 90s, unheard of for a Las Vegas July. My track record of dealing with addiction, black-market babies, a midlife crisis with the grandfather I’d always trusted, and a few minor details like a foster child with an eating disorder who was going with me to a great therapist come Monday, responsibility for a dance fundraiser, the police hanging on my every movement, as well as the misdeeds of my senior pastor, scrambled my brain like a Denny’s omelet that’s runny inside. But for once in my life, I took someone’s smarter-than-me advice and didn’t return to the desert.

Instead I headed to church, which was busy even for a weekend. Since Monday and Tuesday were her “weekend,” Vera was at her desk, whispering on the phone each time I happened to walk past her office.

“Jane, can you sit here and catch the phones for a while?”

With the rest of the staff was MIA, I agreed and took over her chair as she rushed out the door. I had spotted discount coupons for the Fashion Show mall clipped on her desk and totally understand why she had to leave. Can’t fault her when they have incredible sales. Like Jessica Fletcher or any TV sleuth, I tried to make a list of suspects, but I had none — didn’t even have any real crimes, other than possible black-market adoption, and Pastor Bob Normal and Delta Cheney were the only names on that list. I pushed the paper aside just as Albert Miller staggered in with a man slung over his shoulders. I stifled the scream exploding in my throat, which wasn’t hard since my power for speech was history.

Albert turned around to give me a frontal view. Bob’s face looked like it had been attacked with a meat mallet. Fully tenderized with drops of blood, crusty and dried. Without saying anything, Albert turned again and stalked into the pastor’s office, plopping his cargo on the visitor’s sofa.

“Ohmygoodnessakesalive. What happened?” I dashed after them and slammed the pastor’s doorAlbert snorted. “Old Bob insisted on going back to the One Horse Saloon. Ten minutes after he went in, he came out looking like this, staggering and walking in circles. He was talking about waiting for the Rapture. The only rap he got was a good one or many to his skull. Those welts are going to be tough to explain on Sunday, sure to turn puke purple in no time.”

“Did you call the police?” I flinched and cringed. I don’t do well with blood or even a raw steak, for that matter, preferring all prime cuts well done. “Or for the EMTs?” I’m a good Christian, but this same man with the meat-cleavered face had threatened to kill me less than forty-eight hours before. I stood back, conflicted over whether to come to his first aid or let him suffer more.

Albert sneered. “To have his ugly mug, bloodied up as it is, plastered on all the newspapers and CNN and Fox TV? While I personally wouldn’t mind that — heck, I’d relish seeing the jerk squirm — I couldn’t. I didn’t call the cops because of you and my daughter. I’m no Samaritan. I just know what’s right.”

“So you brought him here?” I’d backed flat against the wall, but when Bob moaned, I scooted to Vera’s desk for the water I knew she kept there. I handed a bottle to Albert as he went to kneel next to Bloody Bob and took an extra in case I needed it.

“Open your mouth, man, and drink,” he ordered, and Bob complied. Then Albert looked my way. “You’d better sit down, ma’am. You look like you’re going to throw up.”

Nothing makes a girl feel lovelier than saying she looks like she’s about to vomit, even when it’s the truth. I plunked my butt in a visitor’s chair and managed, “Does he need medical care?”

“Nah, the wounds are superficial. He’s just scared to death.” Bob nodded and put his head down, moaning. Albert went on, “I’ve seen worse. In the Marines when I was a medic in Afghanistan. When I got out, I took a job in Orange County as an EMT before … well, before.”

“Before your wife died. Harmony didn’t tell me, but I’ve heard.” I took tissues from my pocketed, wetted a wad and handed them to Albert. But my feet wouldn’t seem to move toward Bob. I had to turn my head as he blotted the dried blood from around Bob’s mouth that had dripped down the pastor’s chin.

“Pastor, the man I’m nursing here and who I’ve tried to help and talk with these last few days is one sick puppy, a lunatic for poker. Gambling is cocaine for him, like it was for me. I learned. Wised up, but it took years in prison to get through to me. But for good measure, I guess, I had to see the ruin up close and personal. One part of me enjoyed watching the result as Pastor Bob got the sh — , um, stuffing knocked out of him.”

Bob sat up and put his hands in front of his mouth, and Albert shoved a trashcan in front of him. I looked back as Albert kneeled down, looked into Bob’s eyes, cocked his head and slapped Bob’s face. And then made him finish the bottle of water. “Thank God you’re alive, man, just thank God for that. Now act like a man, get cleaned up by yourself or, as God is my witness, I’m going to do it for you, and I’m not going to be gentle,” he snarled.

Bob obeyed, heading to the private restroom off his office.

“If you’ve been talking with Bob about how gambling is ruining his life, why did you start it again?” I said, sitting on the edge of the sofa, trying not to breath vomit smell and looking up at Albert.

“Who told you that barrel of manure?”

“You said as much when we talked, and Harmony told me how you pushed her out of the way when she followed you into the casino.”

“I didn’t mean to shove her. I didn’t, Pastor. I was so upset. Your minister in there, who just puked his guts out, told me if I didn’t gamble with him, because he wanted a minion to rave about his brilliance as he lost the farm, he’d turn me back in to the parole board. Told me he’d lie, and I’d go straight to the slammer. That would’ve been my third strike. He said he’d make sure my daughter didn’t get into one of those nicer foster homes, but the kind that hurts the kids. He said all that and more. The only time I went into a casino with him was the time Harmony saw me. That’s it.”

“That really frosts my cookies. You have no morals, Bob Normal.” I yelled and then looked at my watch. “Albert, I need a big favor. This is above and beyond what you’re being paid to do, but I have an appointment for the youth center fundraiser. Can you stomach being here with him? Don’t let him leave … or talk with anyone. I’ll be back in an hour, two at the max.”

“That’s my job, isn’t it, Pastor Jane? I baby-sit this.” He pointed his index finger at Bob. The pulpified pastor had returned and held his head in his hands, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “This miserable excuse for a minister.”

“There’s more water in Vera’s desk and in the kitchen. I just put on some coffee on. You know where the kitchen is, right? Call for pizza if you’re hungry, will you?”

“You just get some money for that youth center. That’s why Harmony came here and stayed, and because of you. Thank you, Pastor.” He waved as I grabbed my purse, cell phone, and keys.I had Monica Wainwright-Dobson’s address scribbled on a scrap of paper in my purse and drove to her mansion-glutted gated community in record time. Before we could possibly talk about the fundraiser and her other ideas, I needed to know why she and her muscle-bound buddy from the shelter had driven out to the country to that shack at the end of a dirt road. Depending on her response, I’d stay or leave. If I left, it was out to the desert, regardless of what anyone thought. I’d been in a few scrapes in my time, and I was bound and determined to get answers.

After about one second of ringing the bell, it was Monica who flung open the door. Somehow I’d expected a butler, especially after driving through the lush, golf course-style grounds and in front of a two-story house I swear I’d seen on
Lifestyles of the Filthy Rich
, or one of those HGTV programs. Monica looked more like her regular diamond-and-dazzle-encrusted self, in a subdued, rich and stuffy Talbotish way, with a gold-colored golf shirt and tan chinos that clung to her body like the peel on a peach.

She wasn’t the hugging type, so I didn’t expect that. Yet as I reached out to shake hands, she didn’t respond, but motioned me into the foyer. “Thanks for coming,” was all I got.

We walked through a marble entry that was as big as my entire condo. A fountain dribbled water into an indoor koi pond with fish the size of baguettes, but much prettier. I stopped and stared as the oversized goldfish swam in circles, and wondered if I had any crumbs in my purse from the VBS cookies I’d snatched at church. I looked up, glad I hadn’t fished out cookies for the fishes because Monica was frowning. I mumbled, “I thought perhaps you wouldn’t let me in after yesterday.”

She nodded, revealing wrinkles I hadn’t seen before. She took my elbow to move to what I supposed was the living room, and off we went. Everything sparkled, from the platinum frames on oil paintings by artists I should have known, because I’d probably seen them in the
Guggenheim Hermitage Museum
at the Venetian Hotel and Casino. My view from the living room looked out to a monstrous pool that dribbled to nothingness, rather than having an edge. After that was an unobstructed view of Mount Charleston, soaring nearly twelve thousand feet above Las Vegas.

“There was a slight emergency at church, sorry to be late for our appointment, but … ” The sentence was forgotten as I screeched to a halt, leaving heel marks on the marble. We weren’t alone.

Monica bumped into my backside, moved over, and nabbed my arm, propelling me forward. I didn’t want to move. Why?

Guess again. It wasn’t Wayne Newton sitting there waiting. Instead, looking much like Alice in Wonderland when everything got really big, sat a familiar, troll-like woman, the pint-sized member of the District Council, prim and polyestered as ever.

“Louisa? I don’t understand.” I garbled more, I’m certain, but when Eddie appeared in all her bulging muscleness and walked to the window, cracking her knuckles, it didn’t seem to matter what I had in mind.

Eddie had changed — not her smirk, but her outfit. Gone were the sloppy jeans and stained T-shirt. Gone was the dirty hair, but the multicolored tattoo of a flag remained on her forearm.

My brain threw my body into reverse. It could’ve worked, but Monica was now behind me, closing the sliding pocket doors. So much for my lucky break for escape.

“You were bound and determined to crash the party last night, and now you want to leave. You are getting what you deserve,” said Eddie, positioning her muscular self by the patio doors and blocking another route to my possible freedom.

“I don’t know what is going on here, but if you don’t tell me quickly, Monica and the rest of you, I’m yesterday’s news. I’m out of here. You’re frightening me.” I backed up another step, but Eddie dashed the short distance. The woman was as quick as she was large.

“Sorry, Pastor Jane, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon. That is, not without one of us,” Monica said.

“You’re awfully nice to her. She could have ruined everything,” Eddie grumbled. I was close enough to smell Dial soap, and that was far too cozy for my taste.

“This is against the law.” Like anyone who was breaking the law would care if anyone said that. And pigs would fly at midnight, too, I thought. “You can’t just stop me, you know.” I huffed and looked toward Louisa Stephenson, waiting for her to jump up, toad-sized individual that she was, and rush to my defense.