Hocus Croakus (7 page)

Turning back to observe the plastic panels, she noticed that the guards had fanned out beyond the area, which was cordoned off with velvet ropes attached to
sturdy brass poles. More workmen were bringing in a hoist and a flatbed trailer. Once again, people began to gather near the Corvette console.

Pancho stepped out between the panels. “We seem to have an oil leak,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “We're going to have the dealership bring us a new model.”

Some people groaned, others laughed. But their interest was short-lived. Judith stayed in place, once again half-hiding behind the showgirl cutout. The screens were removed to reveal the Corvette covered with a white tarp. It took less than five minutes to lift the car and place it on the trailer. The parade of guards and workers was led away by Pancho Green and the man with the goatee. Bob Bearclaw nodded at Pancho before moving toward the front of the casino in his dignified manner.

Judith felt gypped. “Are you broke yet?” she asked Renie, who was still at the dollar slot.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Renie said with a disgusted expression. “But I only put in forty bucks.”

“Good grief.”

Renie, however, was undaunted. “Want to try roulette?”

“I don't know how to play,” Judith said, a worried expression on her face.

“I'll show you,” Renie replied. “It's not hard. But first, we've got to find the table with the lowest minimum.”

“First,” Judith said sternly, “I've got to find Joe. I have to tell him about Salome.”

“He won't know anything,” Renie said, leading the way to the table games.

“But he knows Pancho,” Judith replied stubbornly.
“Where did he say he was going? To play craps? That seems to be his favorite.”

“Bill likes craps, too,” Renie said. “But he has to study the tables for a long time to make sure there's a decent shooter. Otherwise, he won't play. Let's have a look. The craps tables are near the roulette wheels anyway.”

Joe and Bill weren't at any of the six craps tables. While they were all crowded, the cousins observed neither whoops of joy nor high-fiving of hands. The Hot Shooter had not been found.

At the far end of the table games, they spotted Bill. He was standing a few feet back from a baccarat table, fingering his chin.

Renie approached her husband with caution. She waited until the current hand was played out before tentatively tapping him on the arm.

“Have you seen Joe lately?” she asked in a subdued voice.

Bill didn't reply immediately. Another hand was being dealt. Judith noticed that at least five of the six players were of Asian descent. All but one was using black chips. An ancient Japanese man with a scraggly gray beard put what Judith estimated was at least twenty of them on the space marked
player
.

“Black's a hunsky,” Renie whispered, following Judith's gaze.

“You mean a hundred bucks?” Judith gasped. “He must have at least two grand out there.”

“Which he just lost,” Renie said softly. “Bank won.” The Japanese man put out another stack. Judith saw that he had a very large pile of black chips still in front of him.

“Joe went off a couple of minutes ago with some
body I didn't recognize,” Bill finally said as the new hand was dealt.

“Which way?” Judith asked.

Eyes glued to the table, Bill shrugged.

Renie started to walk away. Judith snatched at her cousin's bronze dolman sleeve. “Where are you going? Aren't you going to tell Bill about Salome?”

Renie shook her head. “Not when he's observing baccarat. He's trying to get into the rhythm of the game. Player-Player-Bank-Bank-Bank-Player-Tie-Player—”

“Shut up!” Judith cried. “I'm starting to wish I'd never come here.”

“Coz.” Renie eyed Judith very seriously. “You came here to relax. For once in your life, could you ignore what may be a tragedy—but has nothing to do with you—and simply enjoy yourself? That's what I'm trying to do. Honest, by the time you leave here, you'll feel refreshed.”

Judith put a hand to her aching head. “Right now, I feel frazzled.”

“Of course you do,” Renie said, taking Judith's arm. “That's because you won't let go. Come on, let's have some fun.”

Judith started to speak, but an announcement over the PA system caught her ear. “The Great Mandolini's second performance tonight has been canceled due to unforeseen circumstances. Anyone holding tickets for the show should request a refund or an exchange at the headliner desk in the front lobby. Thank you. We apologize for this inconvenience.”

“‘Inconvenience'!” Judith murmured. “Good grief!”

“They have to say something that isn't upsetting,”
Renie pointed out. “Would you prefer they tell everybody that Salome didn't defy death?”

“I need to take some aspirin,” Judith replied wearily. “Where's a water fountain?”

“For some reason, they're hard to find in casinos,” Renie said. “You can get a glass of water right over here at the Autumn Bar.”

The cousins made their way through the drifting leaves that dissolved upon contact, like the snow in the Winter section and the blossoms in the Spring section. She hadn't noticed any special effects in the Summer portion of the casino. Maybe that was because summer was supposed to be clear skies and sunshine. In her present mood, Judith would have expected mosquitoes and wasps.

The water that she sipped to wash down the aspirin reminded her of drinking out of the rushing streams around the cabin. Facedown on a flat rock, she and Renie would slurp and gurgle in the riffles. It had been the best-tasting water in the world, and they'd been heedless of health hazards.

“I think I'll just sit here for a while,” Judith declared. “Go ahead, play on. I assume you'll be at one of the roulette wheels.”

Renie nodded and was off like a shot. Judith remained on the stool, studying the icicles that dripped above the liquor bottles, the small waterfall that tumbled under the glass-topped bar, and, most of all, the people.

One of them was familiar. The dishwater blonde drinking brandy at the far end was the same woman Judith had met at the elevators that afternoon. Griselda Something-or-other, nicknamed—eerily enough—Grisly. She looked upset, and Judith thought she knew why.

The place next to Grisly was occupied by a chubby beer drinker who was talking to another man on his right. Cautiously sliding off the bar stool, Judith took her unfinished water with her and sidled up to Grisly.

“I'm so sorry about what happened tonight,” she said in a confidential tone. “You must be very upset.”

Grisly turned sharply to stare at Judith. “What? Who are you?”

“Oh!” Judith put a hand to her breast. “I'm sorry. Of course you don't remember me. I'm nobody, really. We met this afternoon at the elevators.”

Grisly's gray eyes were suspicious. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I vaguely recall you now. But…” She turned away and stared into the brandy snifter, apparently gathering her thoughts. “Why,” she finally inquired, looking again at Judith, “did you act sympathetic?”

Having gone this far, Judith had to brazen it out. “About Salome, of course. Have they had time to figure out what happened?”

Grisly choked on her brandy. Indeed, she went into a coughing fit. The chubby man next to her looked concerned; so did the silver-haired bartender. Judith proffered the rest of her water and told Grisly to raise her hands above her head.

Seconds later, the cough subsided. Grisly accepted the water glass and took a slow sip. Still gasping, she nodded at Judith as if in thanks. But as soon as she got her wind and her voice back, the wary look returned to her eyes.

“How do you know about Salome?” she demanded in a low, hoarse tone.

The chubby man finished his beer and left with his buddy. Judith sat on the vacant stool next to Grisly.
“My husband's a detective,” she said quietly. “He's also a friend of Pancho Green.” The first part was true enough, so was the second. But the inference was misleading. As usual, when Judith stretched the truth or conveyed false information, her conscience didn't bother her one bit. The “fibs” were always for a good cause.

Grisly looked alarmed. “Pancho shouldn't allow anyone to know about this. What's wrong with him?” The question was rhetorical. Grisly wrung her thin hands in her lap.

“My husband is very discreet,” Judith assured the other woman. “He's a retired police officer. He takes on a private case now and then, but naturally he knows how to keep mum.”

“He told you,” Grisly said accusingly.

“Not exactly,” Judith admitted, since she had no idea if Joe knew anything whatsoever about Salome. “I was with Pancho when he found Salome.”

Grisly's eyes widened. “You were?” She put a hand to her head. “I don't understand. You've got me all confused.”

“Well, it is confusing,” Judith declared. “You must have heard only in the last few minutes.”

“That's so. I came straight to the bar after Pancho informed me of what had happened.” Grisly shoved her brandy snifter aside. “In fact, I should go back to the greenroom right now. That's where everybody's congregating.”

“Really.” Judith watched Grisly get up and glance uncertainly around her. “What are they going to do?”

“I don't know,” Grisly replied, then grimaced. “Whatever they do, they'd better do it right.”

“What do you mean?” Judith asked, joining the
other woman as she walked purposefully away from the bar.

Grisly frowned at Judith. “Why, the investigation, of course.” She halted in midstep, her eyes narrowing at Judith. “What else can they do when someone's been murdered?”

F
ROZEN IN PLACE
by Grisly's grisly announcement, Judith put a hand over her racing heart. Not murder. Not again. Not on vacation.

And not any of her business. Renie was right about that.

Giving herself a good shake, she looked up ahead for Griselda Vanderbehr. But Grisly had disappeared into the crowd. Judith moved on, toward the table games. She spotted Bill, observing a second baccarat table. He probably wouldn't be interested in a mere murder, Judith decided, and continued on toward the four roulette wheels.

Renie was sitting at the far end of the nearest table. As Judith approached, all she could see was her cousin's taffeta skirt as she leaned far over the table to place her bets.

“Hi,” Renie said in a detached voice. “How's your headache?”

“Worse,” Judith replied in a low voice as she stood behind her cousin's chair. “Salome was murdered.”

The bearded croupier passed a hand over the board as the ball spun in the wheel. Renie held up a hand to hush Judith. “Hold it.”

The wheel slowed down, the ball began rolling in a leisurely manner, jumped out of two numbered slots, and landed on the double zero.

“Ah!” Renie turned around to grin at Judith. “I bumped up my bet on the green—that's the single and the double zeros—which means I won a hundred and forty bucks.”

Judith leaned down to whisper sharply in Renie's ear. “Salome was murdered.”

Renie jerked around to look at Judith. “Good Lord!”

Judith started to explain how she'd met Griselda Vanderbehr at the Winter Bar, but Renie was thanking the croupier as he handed her a black chip, and a stack of red ones. “Hang on. I have to place my bets. Lenny here is really throwing my numbers.” She put two red chips on eleven. “One for me, one for you,” she told the croupier, who smiled his appreciation.

“Griselda,” Judith began, “is also known as Grisly. Anyway, after she told me that Salome had been murdered, Grisly rushed off to the greenroom, where everybody was meeting. With the tribal police, I suppose. Which,” Judith mused, “may explain why Salome and the car were removed so quickly. One of the men I thought was a security guard had a weapon. He may have been a cop. I'm guessing the older man with the goatee was the doctor.”

“Hold it,” Renie requested, zeroing in on the wheel as it began to spin.

Judith waited patiently. The ball rolled into nineteen. Renie clenched her fists in victory. “Another straight-up thirty-five to one. All right!” She glanced at Judith and held up a red chip. “This is a five-dollar minimum inside table. You can't get anything cheaper at night. Never bet the outside. That's only a
two-to-one payback. You can take two numbers by putting your chip on the line, or three by putting it on the edge of the row, or four by taking the corner where they connect. Take one of my chips, try it. I insist.”

Judith hesitated. Renie was collecting more red chips, two of which she handed back to the croupier.

“No eleven,” she said to Lenny, “but you've been good to me.”

“Thank you, miss,” Lenny replied, tapping the chips on the table and putting them to one side. “Good luck.”

Renie began to make more bets, leaning between the other players to reach the far end of the board. “Sorry,” she apologized, bumping a short man and a tall woman. “I've had shoulder surgery. It's hard for me to bet the low numbers.”

Judith stared at the black and red numbers that went up to thirty-six. The high number was the easiest to reach. With a sigh of resignation, she reached under Renie's outstretched figure to snatch at a chip and set it on thirty-six.

“Have you seen Joe?” Judith asked, gazing at the craps tables.

Renie shook her head. She was concentrating on the new roll. “Wow,” she murmured, “somebody must feel lucky.” She pointed to thirty-six, where a single black chip rested. “That's a hundred-dollar chip. Too bad, that number hardly ever comes up.”

Judith gulped. She didn't realize the chip colors represented the same amounts for all the games.

“I wonder who put it out there?” Renie mused.

Judith clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. The ball bounced into seventeen, then four, then ricocheted into thirty-six. A wave of relief swept over her.

“I'll be darned,” Renie whispered. “Let's see who placed that bet.” Her brown eyes roamed the table.

“Umm…” Judith began, then stopped. She couldn't remember the odds that her cousin had mentioned. Inside, outside, straight up, betting the green, halves, quarters…

The croupier cleared away all of the other chips, but left the black chip on the table. “How come…?” Judith started to ask before Lenny gave her a big smile.

“That was a bold move,” he declared, deftly counting out black chips. “There you go. Good luck.”

Renie gasped as the piles of black chips were placed before Judith. “You bet my hunsky? My God! You won thirty-five hundred dollars!”

Judith gaped at her cousin. “I did? No!”

“Would you like some of that in smaller chips?” Lenny inquired.

Judith turned her stare on the croupier. “Yes. No. I mean, I…Just give me all black. I think I'm going to pass out.”

Lenny indicated the chip still on the board. “Want to try it again?”

“No! That is, I don't think so.” She felt as if she were hyperventilating. “It actually belongs to my cousin.”

“Tip her ten percent,” Lenny laughed with a wink.

“I will,” Judith said, piling the chips into her plastic bucket. She was ashamed to look at Renie. “But first, I'm going to cash in.” Without another word, she raced off to find the cashiers' cages.

Stopping to ask two slot mechanics for directions, it took Judith some time to reach her destination. As it turned out, the cashiers were on the same side of the casino as security. Passing the desk, she noticed that a
fair-haired young man who looked barely old enough to shave was now on duty. Judith assumed that Amos and the others were in the greenroom, involved in the investigation of Salome's murder.

Salome's murder.
The phrase ate at Judith as she stood in line in front of the first of six cages.
Who could have killed her?
Judith moved up one place.
When was she killed? What was the cause of death?
Judith moved up another space.
And why was her body put into the Corvette in the middle of the casino?

Surely the power failure hadn't been a freak of nature. It had to be deliberate, to tie in with moving the body to the car, maybe even to camouflage the murder itself. Mechanically, Judith took another half dozen steps forward. Yet Salome was still alive when the power failure had occurred. Judith was next at the window. She was so absorbed in Salome's death that the platinum-haired cashier had to rouse her.

“Hey, sweetie, you cashing in?”

“Huh?” Judith bobbled the plastic bucket. “Oh! Yes! Sorry.”

The buxom cashier's name tag read “Dolly.” “Wow, you did all right! Do you want a cashier's check or bills?”

“Um…A check, please.” Judith couldn't imagine walking around the casino with thirty-six hundred-dollar bills in her purse.

“We can keep the check in the safe, if you like, sweetie,” Dolly offered. “You married?”

Judith nodded.

“You want to do that?” Dolly leaned forward and spoke in confidential tones. “You never know when hubby might get the itch to play with the high rollers.”

Judith felt stupid. She had money on the counter, but
murder on the brain. “Okay,” she agreed in a feeble voice. “A check sounds fine.”

After presenting her driver's license and allowing her thumbprint to be taken, Judith watched as Dolly went to the rear and printed out the check. “Here,” she said, “take a good look. When you go home, spend it on yourself. Why even bother to tell hubby about it?”

“Ah…Right. Thanks. Thanks very much.” Judith forced a smile as Dolly handed her a receipt and slipped the check into an envelope.

“Sure, sweetie. The safe's in the back. Each drawer is filed under the guest's name.” The cashier gestured with a long, manicured fingernail. “When you check out, just come here and ask for it.”

“I will,” Judith promised, then jerked to attention. The PA system was calling her name.

“Judith Flynn, please report to security on the main casino floor.”

As ever, Judith worried that the summons was about Gertrude. Or Aunt Deb. Surely Bart Bednarik wouldn't call at this time of night. He never worked past five. She covered the short distance to the security desk and identified herself as Judith Flynn.

“Right,” the young man said, then looked down at what Judith presumed was a message. “Mr. Flynn wants you to meet him outside the greenroom. Do you know where that is?”

Judith had no idea. After complicated directions involving clearance from more security guards, an apprehensive Judith headed off to meet Joe. What could he be doing in the greenroom? Had Pancho Green consulted him about Salome's murder? Having noticed that clocks in the casino were as hard to find as water fountains, she glanced at her watch. It was going on
midnight. No wonder, she thought, that she felt tired. She'd been up since before six that morning.

Her route took her close to the roulette tables, but Renie wasn't there. She scanned the immediate area, spotting her cousin next to Bill, by one of the craps tables.

Judith brushed up beside Renie. “Did you tell Bill about Salome?” she whispered as a few shouts erupted from the craps game.

Renie scowled and shook her head. “He may have found a shooter, somebody who can roll for a long time and not crap out. I think it's the guy in the maroon sweater with the wavy brown hair. We'll see how he does next time.”

Rolling her eyes, Judith started to walk away, but Renie pulled on her sleeve. “Don't forget, you owe me a hunsky.”

The way to the greenroom took her past the cabaret entrance and down a short hallway to a door where the security woman with the braids stood guard.

A quick glance at the guard's name tag informed Judith that she was Emily Dancingdoe. “Security on the main floor told me to meet my husband outside the greenroom,” Judith explained.

Emily nodded. She was about thirty, with broad cheekbones and well-defined features. If the braids were a stereotype of her Native-American origins, she wore them with pride, like a badge. “I heard you were coming, Mrs. Flynn. Isn't it awful about Sally?”

Judith was taken aback. “Sally? Is—was that Salome's nickname?”

Emily shook her head, the braids swinging at her shoulders. “Her real name is Sally. Sally Quinn. She used to be married to Freddy, but they got a divorce.”

“Freddy?”

Embarrassed, Emily put a hand to her cheek. “I'm sorry. Freddy Polson is the Great Mandolini. Anyway, Sally remarried a man named Manny Quinn.”

“I see,” Judith said, then added, “Manny Quinn? Is that his real name?”

“I think so,” Emily replied, very seriously. “I've only spoken with him a few times.”

Judith tried to file all the names and relationships inside her head, which still ached. Then she asked Emily how she could find Joe.

It turned out to be simple. On the other side of the door that Emily was guarding, there was a long corridor that led to the backstage area, some of the dressing rooms, the technical areas, and, at the very end, the greenroom, where cast members waited for their cues. Judith couldn't miss it, Emily assured her. There was a sign on the door.

Judith couldn't have missed it if she'd tried. At the end of the corridor, Joe was pacing up and down.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

“Don't yell at me!” Judith snapped. “I have a headache, and I'm really tired.”

“Okay.” Joe composed himself. “Here's the deal. Salome was stabbed to death. The casino is on tribal land, but in partnership with some development outfit in Phoenix. After they moved the 'Vette and Salome—which they shouldn't have done so soon, damnit—Pancho got hold of me. Not only am I an ex-homicide cop,” he went on, his voice growing louder and more intense, “but a PI. And,” he all but shouted, “it seems my idiot wife found the frigging body!”

Judith flinched. Joe was very red in the face, looking as if he were about to explode. “That's not my
fault,” Judith said angrily. “I looked up and there she was. Besides, I was trying to win you the car. If your MG wasn't older than Mother, I would never have been there in the first place!” Judith turned her back and stomped off down the corridor. At the halfway point, she whirled around to give Joe one final blast. “Furthermore, if you hadn't gotten drunk thirty years ago and eloped with Herself, you'd never have met Pancho Green! So there!” For emphasis, she actually stomped her foot.

Even though a good thirty feet separated the Flynns, Judith heard Joe heave a sigh. “Come back here,” he called in a weary, much lower voice. “There's no point in throwing blame around.”

“You started it,” Judith said, not budging.

Joe sighed again. “I find it unbelievable that when somebody gets murdered, you're always on the scene. Why couldn't you have taken up another hobby, like collecting small, vicious animals?”

“It's not my fault,” Judith declared for what she figured was about the hundredth time.

“If I were a rational man,” Joe said, still in that tired voice, “I'd agree with you. But I'm no longer rational. I may be going crazy.”

“Oh, Joe…”

“Never mind.” He waved a hand. “Here's the situation. Having anyone get murdered—let alone one of the performers—at a casino is bad business. And don't start telling me how Renie once figured that, for you, murder is a marketing tool. Pancho could call in the FBI, since the casino is on federal land because it's owned by Native Americans.”