Huckleberry Finished (15 page)

But it seemed like everywhere I looked, there was
somebody
with a potential good reason—or more than one—to have broken Webster's neck. Except across the table, of course. Mark had come on board the
Southern Belle
with secrets of his own, no doubt about that, but none of them had anything to do with Ben Webster.

“The casino is closed for the time bein',” I said, “but that doesn't mean you couldn't get in there if you wanted to, does it?”

“Do I want to?” Mark asked with a grin.

“I don't know about you,” I said, “but I'd sort of like to take a look at that roulette wheel of Garvey's.”

“Do you know what you'd be looking for? No offense, Delilah, but since when are you an expert on rigged roulette wheels?”

“I'm not,” I admitted. “I'm just hopin' that it's like pornography.”

That comment brought a puzzled frown to Mark's face.

“I'll know it when I see it,” I said.

T
he casino had two main entrances from the deck, one on the port side, one on the starboard. Detective Travis had posted a uniformed officer at each door to keep everybody out.

She must not have known about the little passage linking the kitchen adjacent to the dining room with the bar in the casino as well. People went to the casino to gamble, not to eat, but many of them drank while they were there and sometimes passengers in the dining room wanted a beer or a glass of wine or a cocktail with their meals. So it made sense to connect things behind the scenes.

That's what Mark and I were trying to do, I thought as we made our way through the kitchen and into the narrow hallway behind the casino, ignoring the curious looks that the kitchen staff gave us as they prepared lunch. If we could connect enough apparently unrelated things, we might come up with a picture that started to make sense.

We weren't there yet, though. I hoped that examining the roulette wheel would give us some more information.

The little door behind the bar in the casino wasn't locked. Mark opened it, and we stepped into the large, shadowy room. The slot machines were still plugged in and lit up. They provided the only illumination inside the casino, but that was enough for us to be able to see our way around.

We headed straight for the roulette wheel, which stood silent and motionless without a human hand to launch it into action. Even though no one else was in here, I whispered as I told Mark, “Webster said the man operating the machine—that'd be Clyde Garvey, I guess—kept touching one particular spot on it, like there was a switch of some sort there.”

“It couldn't be anything that was too visible,” Mark whispered back. “But if there was a place on the machine where the wood was thinner, it might be flexible enough so that you could depress it and activate a pressure switch hidden underneath it.”

“How do we go about findin' it?”

“I don't suppose Webster told you exactly where the place was that Garvey kept fiddling with?”

“No such luck,” I said.

“Then we'll just have to check it over as best we can. I'll take this side, and you take that one. Run your fingers over it and feel for any soft spots.”

“Like the soft spot on a baby's head?”

Mark smiled in the gloom. “I've never been around kids all that much, but yeah, I guess so. Not quite that soft, though.”

“You never had any kids of your own?”

“I never got married…much to my mom's dismay.”

I started sliding my fingers over the smooth wood of the table on which the roulette wheel was mounted. “You don't have to be married to have kids,” I pointed out. “Hannah Kramer was proof of that.”

“Yeah, well, I'm just old-fashioned enough that it seems like a good idea to me for one to come before the other. I like doing things in the proper order.” He searched along the other side of the table as he spoke, spreading his fingers and pressing down with them, then moving his hand slightly and trying again when he didn't find anything.

I had been inside the casino while all the games were running, including this wheel. I tried to remember exactly where the operator had stood, figuring that the switch, if there was one, had to be pretty handy to that location. I couldn't recall, though. I hadn't been paying that much attention. A fella could stand almost anywhere around the table to spin the wheel.

After a few minutes, I whispered, “Any luck?”

“Not yet,” Mark replied. “Maybe we had the wrong idea about this.”

At just that moment, though, I pressed down on the smooth, polished wood of the table and felt it give just slightly under the middle finger of my right hand. I moved my index finger over to that same spot and pressed again, harder this time. The wood definitely flexed, as if it was thinner there than in the surrounding area.

“Mark,” I said, “I may have found something.”

He hurried around the table. “Where?”

“Right there,” I told him, indicating the spot with my fingertip. “You want to try it?”

I slid my finger aside. Mark rested his finger on the wood. It was difficult to be sure in the bad light, but I thought the spot was just a little darker than the surrounding wood. The oil in the skin of the wheel operator's finger had probably caused that, I thought, as it pushed against the hidden switch hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of times.

If there
was
a hidden switch, I reminded myself. “What do you think?” I asked Mark. “Can you feel it?”

He pushed down on the table, leaned close to it and cocked his head so that he could listen. He pressed the spot two or three times, then straightened and grinned at me.

“I can feel the switch engaging, and I can hear it, too,” he said. “Webster was right. This wheel is rigged.”

“Clyde Garvey must know about it.”

“Sure he knows about it,” Mark said. “He'd have to, because he's the only one who could activate the switch. I haven't known him very long, but I don't think he would come up with something like this by himself.”

“Rafferty,” I said.

Mark shrugged. “Could be.” He was about to say something else when I sensed as much as saw his muscles stiffening. He leaned closer to me and whispered, “Someone's coming.”

I looked at the main doors, but neither of them was opening. Instead, Mark gripped my arm and pointed to the door behind the bar where we had come in. It was swinging open slowly and soundlessly. I hadn't heard the knob turn.

Somebody else had come skulking around.

Mark tugged me away from the roulette wheel. We didn't want to get caught in here, but we couldn't hide behind the bar. That was where the door was opening. We headed for a bank of slot machines instead and ducked behind them. By looking between a couple of the one-armed bandits, we could still see the roulette wheel, but unless whoever was sneaking into the casino knew we were there, they weren't very likely to spot us where we were hidden.

A shadowy figure came out from behind the bar and started across the casino. I could see the person well enough to know that it was a man, and a fairly good-sized one, at that. But not as big as Rafferty, who had been my first thought. I couldn't make out the newcomer's face. When he reached the roulette wheel, he turned so that his back was toward us as he began running his hands along and underneath the table.

Son of a gun
, I thought. Whoever he was, he was looking for the same thing Mark and I had been looking for.

But it didn't take him even a minute to find it. I could tell he was pushing with a finger against the same spot where the hidden switch was located. He even bent over to listen and cocked his head, just like Mark. When he straightened, even though he was alone, he gave a nod of satisfaction.

Then he turned so that the glow from the slot machines reached his face, and I had to catch my lower lip between my teeth to keep from gasping in surprise.

The other fella sneaking around the casino was Vince Mallory.

That wasn't the end of the surprises, though. Vince stood there and looked around the darkened casino for a moment, then said, “I know you and Mr. Lansing are in here somewhere, Ms. Dickinson. You might as well come out.”

Mark and I looked at each other. Whoever Vince Mallory really was, it was a pretty good bet he wasn't just a former soldier and potential grad student indulging an interest in Mark Twain. I found myself wondering if he really worked for Rafferty.

That didn't make a whole lot of sense, though, I realized. If Vince had been part of the crooked gambling operation, he wouldn't have had to look for the concealed switch on the roulette wheel. He would have known where it was.

I could tell that Mark didn't want to come out of hiding just yet, though, and neither did I. Not until I knew who Vince Mallory really was and knew I could trust him.

Vince sighed and reached inside the back pocket of his jeans. He brought out a wallet, opened it, and held it up, turning so that what was inside the wallet was visible to anyone who was hiding in the casino—like me and Mark.

It was a badge.

“My name really is Vince Mallory, Ms. Dickinson,” he said. “I'm a special investigator for the state attorney general's office. I'd appreciate it if you'd cooperate with me.”

Mark winced. “I guess we've got to take a chance,” he whispered.

“You don't happen to have that gun on you, do you?” I whispered back. “Just in case he's lyin' to us?”

Mark shook his head. “We'll have to risk it. You stay down until I've talked to him.”

“No, we'll both get up,” I said, letting my stubborn streak come out. Before Mark could argue with me, I put a hand against one of the slot machines to steady myself and rose to my feet, saying, “We're over here, Vince.”

He turned toward us with a smooth, unhurried efficiency and smiled as Mark stood up beside me. “I saw the two of you slip into the kitchen and figured you were heading back here,” he said as he closed the wallet and put it back in his pocket.

“You knew about the passage between the kitchen and the casino?” Mark asked.

Vince nodded. “I studied the plans of this boat before I ever came aboard, so I'd know my way around. I believe in being prepared when I'm on an assignment.”

“You're here to find out if the games are really rigged,” I said as understanding dawned on me.

“That's right. There have been quite a few complaints about the gambling on the
Southern Belle
, and we take them seriously. Charles Gallister's an important man, so the AG decided to keep the investigation as quiet as possible until we know more about what we're dealing with.” Vince gestured toward the roulette wheel. “And now we know. That wheel, anyway, is as crooked as a dog's hind leg. I'm betting a lot of the other games in here are, too.”

“A man as rich as Gallister is supposed to be wouldn't bother with something like that,” I said. “If you ask me, somebody else is behind it.”

“That's possible,” Vince admitted with a shrug. “You're thinking about Logan Rafferty, aren't you?”

“I don't like the son of a gun, I don't mind admittin' that. Cheatin' folks seems like something he'd do.”

“Well, now that we have proof that cheating is going on, we'll get to the bottom of it,” Vince promised. “Of course, nothing I've found so far is actually admissible as evidence, but once I call the AG's office and get a search warrant, we'll have the State Police swarming all over this boat in a hurry. Rafferty, or whoever's behind the crooked gambling, won't have a chance to cover it up.”

“I'll bet you this has got something to do with Ben Webster's murder,” I said.

“I'm not here to solve a murder,” Vince said with a shrug. “But if Rafferty or someone else involved with this scheme was responsible for Webster's death, it'll all come out in the end. I think you can count on that.” He looked at me with a stern expression. “So the two of you can stop playing detective now. I've got this.”

Mark opened his mouth to say something, and from the look on his face, the words were going to be angry ones.

Before any of them could come out, I took hold of his arm and squeezed it, hoping he'd understand that I meant for him not to say anything just yet. I spoke up instead. “I guess you're right, Vince. It just bothered the heck out of me that one of my clients was murdered, right in the middle of a tour I'd put together. The only thing I could think of that might have anything to do with what happened to Ben Webster was that ruckus he got into with the fella runnin' the roulette wheel. I was tellin' Mark about it, and he said he knew a way in here so we could take a look at the wheel.” I shook my head. “I didn't have any earthly idea that a real detective was already on the trail.”

“Well…no harm done, I suppose,” Vince said with a smile.

“We'll run along now,” I told him. “Come on, Mark.”

For a second when I tugged on Mark's arm, I thought he was going to be stubborn and not come with me. I could tell he didn't like Vince's attitude, and I didn't blame him very much for that. But Vince worked for the attorney general, and I figured it would be better if he didn't know that Mark was a private eye investigating a case that was still open. I didn't know exactly what the law was concerning such things, but I had a pretty strong hunch the authorities frowned on it.

“Sure,” Mark finally said with a grudging note in his voice. “Sorry if we got in the way of your investigation, Mallory.”

“You didn't, not really,” Vince said. He nodded toward the door behind the bar. “Go out the way you came in. I'd just as soon not alert the local cops that anything is going on in here. I don't want to get mixed up in any petty jurisdictional squabbles.”

I couldn't claim to know Detective Travis all that well, but I had a feeling she might be pretty territorial when it came to the cases assigned to her. She wouldn't like it when she found out that the state was moving in and taking over, and I didn't blame Vince for wanting to postpone that showdown for as long as possible.

We left the casino, and as we walked along the narrow corridor between there and the kitchen, Mark said quietly but emphatically, “I'd like to give that smug kid a piece of my mind. He may be some hotshot investigator for the AG's office, but I was a detective when he was still in grade school.”

“That's right,” I said, “and you're not here to break up any crooked gambling ring or even to solve Ben Webster's murder. You're here to find out who's responsible for Hannah Kramer's death. That's what we'll concentrate on, from here on out.”

“You still want to help me?” he asked as he glanced over at me in surprise.

“Sure. I like you, I like Louise, and heck, I guess even Eddie's not all that bad. Hannah deserves justice, and so do her folks.”