Hocus Croakus (17 page)

Despite the approach of the witching hour, action in the casino continued. A dazzling young woman in a gold minidress had a box of cigarettes, cigars, chewing gum, breath mints, and stomach aids draped around her slim neck. Her red earrings lighted up and she fingered what looked like a yo-yo that flashed on and off. Another
young woman in a long green gown carried a camera and asked if guests wanted their picture taken. Two keno runners in matching red cocktail dresses collected wagers and paid out winnings. It could be any time of day, Judith thought. Inside the casino, seven in the morning probably didn't look much different from seven at night.

Making a circle of the blackjack tables, Judith couldn't see her cousin anywhere. But Manny Quinn was still seated in the same place. His stack of black chips was down to about a half dozen. Judith watched as he shoved all of them forward.

“Boom or bust,” he said before lighting a cigarette.

There were only two other players at the table, a chubby Japanese man and a man Judith guessed might be a Texan, judging from his dungarees, ten-gallon hat, and leather boots. Both players had two good-size stacks of chips in reserve.

The dealer showed an ace and asked if anyone wanted insurance. All three men shook their heads. The dealer flipped over a ten. Manny jumped up from his chair and swore.

“That's the tenth blackjack you've had!” he roared at the dealer, a balding man in his thirties who retained a stoic expression. “What do you do, slip 'em up your sleeve?”

The dealer said nothing. Neither did the Japanese man or the Texan, who both looked bemused.

Manny glared at the dealer. “I'm reporting you. You'll be out on your ass in ten minutes.” He slammed his chair against the table and started to stomp off.

A man in a silver-gray suit executed a graceful move out of the pit area. “Mr. Quinn? Let's talk.”

“I'll talk,” Manny said in a surly voice. “I'll tell everybody that you run a crooked casino!”

The pit boss pointed to a smooth, round globe above the blackjack tables. “That's one of our eye-in-the-sky cameras. Would you like to come back to the surveillance room and watch the replay of the hands?”

“To see what?” Manny snapped. “You're all in this together!”

The pit boss smiled sadly. “No, we're not. And the cameras don't lie. Would a free steak dinner make you feel better?”

Manny threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, swell! Like a hunk of meat would help my bankroll just after I lost ten grand with your cheating dealer! I've been losing ever since I got to this half-assed place! I'm down almost forty Gs!”

“I'm sorry,” the pit boss said, still keeping his voice low and polite. “You're obviously having a run of bad luck. Perhaps you'd like to speak to Mr. Green.”

Mr. Green was already there. He had come up behind Manny and put a hand on his shoulder.

Manny jumped. “Don't touch me! I'll sue!”

Pancho's grip was firm. He stood toe-to-toe with Manny. It would have been difficult to put a five-dollar chip between them. The casino manager's voice was so low that Judith couldn't hear him from ten feet away. But whatever Pancho said, it made an impression on Manny. She watched the belligerence fizzle out of him like air from a burst balloon.

“Okay, okay,” Manny finally said. “I'll suck it up.” He turned and walked away, toward the Summer Bar.

Pancho exchanged a few words with the pit boss and the dealer. The Japanese man and the cowboy remained at the table, waiting with remarkable patience.

Judith had moved just enough so that Pancho
couldn't help but see her when he began walking away from the blackjack tables.

“Mrs. Flynn,” he said in surprise. “How are you this evening?”

“Better than Mr. Quinn,” Judith said pointedly. “Does he always take a great loss so hard?”

Pancho's smile was thin. “I don't know him that well. But he's lost quite a bit of money, as I'm sure you just heard. It's natural for someone to get upset. Most high rollers can afford the occasional bad run, but some can't.”

Judith's expression was quizzical. “I wasn't referring to just the blackjack game. I meant the loss of his wife, Sally.”

“Oh. Of course.” Pancho's swarthy skin grew even darker. He cleared his throat. “I suppose that gambling is a way for Manny to forget. Like drinking or drugging. In losing, his loss is felt even more keenly.”

“Yes, that could be true,” Judith allowed.

But somehow, she didn't quite believe it.

J
udith needed to clear her head. And despite the late hour, she had to call Bart Bednarik about the blasted furnace. When she went out through the front entrance, she noticed that the rain had stopped and that a slight breeze was blowing the clouds away. Stars speckled the sky. The tall firs and cedars swayed gently, as if they were bowing to the half-moon rising above Mount Nugget.

But most of all, it was quiet. Only one parking valet was on duty, sitting in his small kiosk reading a magazine. Judith walked down to the driveway, then continued along the walkway that wrapped around the building. For the first time, she noticed the landscaping. All the plants were native to the area. There were trilliums, bleeding hearts, salmonberries, avalanche lilies, and the sweet yellow violets called Johnny-jump-ups. A dozen varieties of ferns were sprouting at the tips of their pale green fronds.

The night air smelled sweet, redolent of evergreen branches and damp spring earth. As Judith strolled along the north side of the complex, she could hear the river some fifty yards away. Some of her favorite memories from the family cabin were the smells and the
sounds. She'd wake up in the morning to hear the river's ripple, the crow's call, and the wind whispering in the trees. She'd sniff the wood smoke from the old stove and the aroma of trout frying in a cast-iron skillet. Those were the days of peace and pleasure—simple, homely, precious.

At last, she came to a halt on the path and got the cell phone out of her purse. It would serve Bart Bednarik right if she woke him up. Not that it was his fault that the furnace had sprung a leak, but because the interruptions to her so-called vacation were getting out of hand.

Bart's phone cut over to his voice mail. Judith left a terse message saying she'd meet him at the house at ten o'clock. Just as she clicked off, she heard a noise that sounded like a growl.

It was too late in the year for a bear or a cougar to be so close to civilization. Maybe it was only a dog. But something moved on a narrow dirt track off to her left. Judith peered into the darkness. The figure was a man, not an animal. But she heard the growling sound again.

Moving to the edge of the dirt track, she watched the man walk slowly but purposefully toward what looked like small buildings near the edge of the lake. There was something familiar about the shadowy figure.
Dignified
was the word that came to mind. Judith realized it was Bob Bearclaw.

She followed at a discreet distance. Bob finally stopped by one of the structures Judith had thought were buildings. They were actually trailers like those used to transport circus animals. In a shaft of moonlight, she saw a tiger behind the bars. Bob was looking at the tiger, which no longer growled. In fact, he was speaking to the animal, though Judith couldn't hear what he said.

Yet there was something so compelling about the communion between man and animal that Judith was rooted to the spot. She lost track of how long she stood on the soft ground. But there was a chill in the air, so she decided to head back inside. Before she took more than a step, Bob, with his back still turned to her, called out.

“Wait, please.” He finally moved away from the trailer. “I'll walk back with you, Mrs. Flynn.”

Fascinated, Judith didn't budge. “How did you know I was here?” she asked as Bob joined her.

“I heard you. It sounded like your step.” He smiled. “The old ways of our people don't always desert us. You shouldn't be out alone at this time of night.”

The thought hadn't occurred to Judith, and though Bob didn't mention danger, she knew he referred to the fact that a killer was lurking somewhere around the resort.

“I needed some fresh air,” she explained. “Do you enjoy animals?”

“Enjoy?” Bob looked skyward. “I admire and respect animals. They should not be in cages. They should roam free, as nature intended. I come to console them.”

“That's very moving,” Judith declared. “I imagine they appreciate your concern.”

“Perhaps.”

“They didn't growl after you spoke to them,” Judith pointed out.

Bob shrugged. “It's the least I can do. Unfortunately, it's also the most I can do.”

They had approached the casino entrance. “What time do you get off work?” Judith inquired. “It's going on midnight.”

“Oh—it depends. I enjoy the night. The quiet. The feeling that the sky is so much closer. Sometimes, especially in winter on a clear, crisp night, you feel as if you could almost touch the Great Spirit.” He stopped at the foot of the stone steps. “We speak of the sun going down, the moon coming up. That isn't right, you know. It's the earth that moves, not the sun or the moon. But we humans are so bound to our world that we speak of it as the center of the universe. It's not. We need to understand how small we are in the Great Spirit's plan.”

Judith was silent for a moment. “That's true. I don't know if I've ever thought of it that way myself.”

Bob's smile was gentle. There was something in his dark eyes that Judith didn't fathom. Pity? Compassion? Encouragement? A challenge? He tipped his cap. “Good night, Mrs. Flynn.”

Judith didn't know what to say. But for a few moments, she felt as if she'd regained her sense of well-being.

 

Potentially explosive furnaces and deficient fuse boxes weren't what Joe wanted to hear about at two minutes after midnight.

“It's your house, it's your B&B, it's your problem,” he declared, unceremoniously dumping the contents of his pockets on the dresser. “I'm supposed to be on vacation.”

“So am I,” Judith shot back. “And it's
our
house. You live there, too, unless you'd like to move into the toolshed with Mother.”

“Come on, Jude-girl. The house is in your name. Your mother”—he winced at the word—“deeded it over to you years ago. Though, as I recall, not without threatening to burn it down first.”

“Somebody did try to burn it down, which is why we're in this mess,” Judith countered. “Not to mention whatever is going on at the family property on the river.”

“That was your idea,” Joe said with a wag of his finger. “I tried to talk you out of it. Jeez, we're at an age where we should be doing less, not more. And in case you haven't noticed, I'm actually working on this vacation. I may not win a giant jackpot, but I
will
get paid.”

Judith took a deep breath. Joe had a point. Several, in fact. He
was
on the job at the casino. Maybe building a second innkeeping establishment wasn't wise. Hillside Manor was their home, but it was also Judith's business.

“Okay,” she said in a tired voice.

Joe scowled. “Okay what?”

“Okay, let's not argue. I'll leave here a little before nine tomorrow. With any luck, I may be back before Easter.”

Joe paused in the middle of undressing. “How much does a new furnace cost these days?”

“A lot,” Judith replied. “I'm guessing, but around four or five grand. Maybe we can pay it off on the installment plan. Aunt Deb also mentioned something about a discount.”

“Is there any way our insurance will cover it?”

Judith shook her head. “Not unless it actually blows up.”

“Hmm.”

“Don't even think about it!” Judith cried. “Not after all the work we've put into the house so far.”

Joe shrugged. “It was just a passing idea.”

 

Judith needed more than a doughnut and coffee to start her arduous day. When she rose at seven-thirty, Joe was already on his way out the door. She asked if he'd like to join her for breakfast in the coffee shop, but he couldn't. His first meeting was at eight, and breakfast would be provided in Pancho's office.

Knowing that Renie wouldn't be awake at least until ten and that Bill had probably gotten up at the crack of dawn, Judith decided to go it alone in the coffee shop. For a fleeting moment, she considered eating with her mother and Aunt Deb. But the equivalent of the Battle of the Bulge was no way to start her day. Solitude would serve her better.

There was a short line of guests waiting for breakfast. All signs of the evening's mayhem were gone except for the rest room area, which was still out of bounds. To Judith's surprise, the person in front of her was Inga Polson.

Judith considered whether or not she should approach Inga directly. The woman seemed very fidgety, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, scratching her hands, and looking this way and that. Except, unfortunately, at Judith.

But opportunity arrived when Inga got to the front of the line. The hostess apologized, saying that at present there were no small tables available. Singles were being seated at the counter. Would that do?

It would not, Inga asserted in no uncertain terms.

Judith came to the rescue. “Ms. Polson, remember me? I'm Judith Flynn. I'm alone, too. Do you mind sharing a table?”

Inga's raisinlike eyes scrutinized Judith. “Oh. You're that detective's wife. Yes, we've met.” She hesitated, perhaps trying to recall if the meeting had been satis
factory. “Very well.” She snapped her fingers at the hostess, apparently signaling that she wished to be seated.

“How's Freddy this morning?” Judith asked after they'd been seated toward the rear of the restaurant.

“Not so good,” Inga said, disdaining the menu. “He had a very bad night. I hardly slept at all. Griselda's sitting with him now. I just had to get away for a bit. It's so difficult to watch him suffer.”

“Emotionally, you mean,” Judith said, wearing her most sympathetic face.

“Yes, of course. Freddy's so sensitive.” Inga paused as a waitress whose name tag read “Greer” poured coffee and asked for their orders. “See here,” Inga said, tapping the table, “I want a three-egg omelet with Gruyère cheese and porcini mushrooms. Whites only, no yolk. I'd like the leanest hamburger patty you have, well done. Seven-grain toast, two slices, no butter. And a glass of goat's milk.”

Greer, who had iron-gray hair and looked as if she served herself nuts and bolts for breakfast, glared at Inga. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Yes, you will,” Inga asserted. “And you'll do it with haste.”

“I do what's possible,” the waitress retorted. “Yesterday you wanted quail eggs. We couldn't do that.”

Inga shook her head. “Nonsense. I had quail eggs. Four, to be exact. Of course it took forever to be served.”

“Ha!” Greer cried in derision. “How many eggs do you think we could squeeze out of those canaries your brother has stashed back in his zoo? Most of those birds are males.”

“What?” Inga exploded. “Don't you dare tell me—”

“Honey,” the waitress interrupted, “I wouldn't try to tell you anything. You know it all. And you'll get what we got.” She turned to Judith. “How about you? Grilled lamb kidneys, maybe?”

“No,” Judith replied, “I don't eat lamb kidneys.”

“Well,” Greer replied, “some goofy woman around here does. She ordered them yesterday from room service. What kind of nut eats innards?”

“That nut would be my cousin, Renie,” Judith murmured, then meekly asked for the number three special of ham, toast, hash browns, and two eggs.

“How would you like your eggs?” the waitress inquired.

“Any way the cook wants to make them,” Judith said, handing over the menu. “Thanks.”

The waitress started to walk away, but Inga had one more request. “Separate checks. You hear me?”

Nodding, the waitress kept walking.

Inga reached into her purse to take out what looked like a paperback book, but was a reference guide to theatrical bookings. As she flipped through the pages, she kept shaking her head. She also scratched her hands, which seemed less blotchy than Judith remembered from the previous day.

“Do you have allergies?” Judith inquired politely.

Inga looked up over her half glasses. “Yes.” Her eyes went back to the guide.

“I do, too,” Judith said. “Especially this time of year. The pollen bothers me quite a bit.”

Inga ignored the comment.

“I admire the way you take care of your brother,” Judith said after a lapse of at least two minutes. “Particularly when he's so sensitive and such an outstanding
artiste
.”

Inga not only looked up, but closed the book. “Our parents died young. Being somewhat older than Freddy, I virtually raised him. Make no mistake—I was more than willing. Freddy's such a special person.”

Having struck the right note, Judith nodded sympathetically. “You've done a wonderful job. I'm sure you've been a large part of his success.”

Inga shrugged. “The talent is his. I've merely encouraged him and tried to give him guidance in his career.”

“Your participation must ease Mr. Fromm's responsibilities as well,” Judith remarked.

“Well.” Inga put a hand to her bosom and made a futile attempt to look modest. “Mr. Fromm handles the business side mostly. But it's true—not that I like to flatter myself—that I make many of the artistic decisions. For example,” she went on, pointing to the guide, “I select certain venues for Freddy and submit them to Mr. Fromm with a strong recommendation. He then follows my instructions and takes care of the actual arrangements.” She tapped the guidebook. “It occurred to me that Freddy should get away for his next engagement. Europe, perhaps. He's never been there, and the change might do him good. Too many sad memories for him now in the States.”

“Remarkable,” Judith murmured. “I don't see how you do it, especially after Freddy has suffered two terrible losses. You must have known Sally and Micki extremely well. I'm sure you're grieving, too.”

“Of course.” Inga turned in the direction of the serving area. “What's taking that waitress so long? Did the cooks all go on their break at the same time?”