“What can I do you for, Davis, Mr. Cole’s wife?”
No sense of urgency whatsoever. (Which was the exact moment I realized Birdy might not know what was in the dark blue Bellissimo duffel bag on her own report.) “Birdy.” I steadied my voice. “I’m looking at the Incident Report you filed this morning.”
“What a shame,” she said.
So she knew.
And she was right.
Losing five million dollars was a shame. A big shame. Five million shames.
“I found the girl who left it,” Birdy said. “She’s a Sagittarius. You know what that means.”
I did not know what that meant, but at the time, assuming she was talking about the person the money belonged to, I breathed a sigh of relief. Sagittarius, Pisces, Vegan, or Presbyterian, I didn’t care. I needed to say goodbye to my husband before he left for Vegas. Not track down the gazillionaire who accidentally wired in five million dollars that bounced around the resort in a duffel bag all night.
“She doesn’t want it back,” Birdy said.
Wait a minute. “Who doesn’t want what back, Birdy?”
“The bride. She doesn’t want the cake back,” Birdy said. “It’s a beauty too. Buttercream frosting. She called off the wedding and doesn’t want the cake back.”
“I’m calling about the money, Birdy.” Forget the cake. “I need to talk to you about the money.”
“There is no money. I didn’t charge anyone.”
“For what?”
“The cake,” she said. “I sliced the top three layers. I wrapped the slices in cellophane and sent them to the employee dining room. I didn’t charge anyone for the slices. It wasn’t my cake to charge for. I wouldn’t even know how much to charge.”
“Birdy.” I took a deep breath. “On your Incident Report, you listed a blue bag.”
“Yes,” Birdy said. “It was left at my door during the night. It was waiting on me when I clocked in. The cake was already in my office.”
I didn’t care about the cake. “You’ve written a note beside the bag entry. What does it say?” (Something I cared about very much.)
“Well, I don’t know. I’d need to see it.”
“Would you mind looking?”
“You’ll need to give me a minute to find my Xerox.”
“By Xerox, do you mean copy?” I asked.
“Copy of what?” she asked.
“Your Incident Report, Birdy.”
“I have the Xerox,” she said, “somewhere.”
I rolled my eyes. I checked the time. “Could you please find it?”
“I’ll try,” she said. “It’s been a very busy morning. What am I looking for?”
“Your Incident Report, Birdy.”
“From what day?”
I closed my eyes. I shook my head. “Friday, Birdy.”
“Friday!” She said it as if it was the first she’d heard of it. “Here it is!”
Thank. Goodness.
“Could you read your notes to me, Birdy?”
“About the cake?”
“The bag, Birdy. The blue bag. The bag you said was left at your door during the night. The blue bag that was waiting on you. Did you look inside?”
“Yes.”
“What was in it?”
“Money,” she said. “Lots of money. More money than I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I might have fallen out of my chair had my husband, his arms full of daughters, with Candy, tail wagging, circling his legs, not chosen that moment to fill my office door. I looked up from my desk and held up a finger, as in, give me just a minute. He raised an eyebrow, reading the frustrated look on my face. I let it slide to a smile, as in, this is nothing. I whispered, “I’ll be right there.”
I waited until he was out of earshot. If he knew I was in the middle of a five-million-dollar blue-bag snafu, he wouldn’t leave until the problems, all five million of them, were resolved. Chances were it was nothing but a clerical error. The vault guards who picked up the five-million-dollar bag from Casino Credit weren’t given clear instructions. They didn’t know what was in it, didn’t know what to do with it, and thinking it was just a blue bag, left it in the hallway outside of Lost and Found.
They were idiots.
The entire incident was a huge breach of protocol.
Monumental breach of protocol.
Casino Credit and Vault heads were going to roll.
I couldn’t read shorthand.
I spoke slowly. “Birdy, what do your notes say?”
“Well, hold on,” she said. “I need my glasses.”
I shook my head.
“I left them by the cake,” she said. “Hold on again.”
I could hear her slower-than-molasses footsteps on the concrete floor of Lost and Found echoing through the phone.
“Davis, do you have a freezer?”
Did I have a freezer? Didn’t every refrigerator in the world have a freezer? Was she about to ask me to put a five-million-dollar blue bag in my freezer? Because that was an old people thing—hide the money in the freezer. “Yes, Birdy, I have a freezer. But—”
“I’m going to cut you a big wedge of this cake,” she said. “Enough for your whole family. If you don’t have space in your Frigidaire, you could put it in your freezer.”
The cake? We were still talking about the cake? Before I could begin to get her back on track, Bradley yelled, “Gotta run, Davis.”
“I’m on my way,” I yelled back.
“To get the cake?” Birdy asked.
“No, Birdy—”
Then Bradley yelled, “Our car is downstairs. Everyone’s waiting on me.”
I yelled back, “I’ll be right there!”
“Could you bring a Tupperware cake carrier with you?” Birdy asked.
“Birdy,” I said into the phone. And I said it firmly. “I’m not on my way to Lost and Found to pick up cake. Nor do I want to talk about the cake. Ever again. We’re not talking about the cake. We need to talk about the blue bag full of money you found. I have a very important question for you. Are you ready?”
“Fire away.”
“Where is it now?”
“The cake?”
I dropped my phone a second time. I threw my hands in the air. I turned a circle. Or forty. I picked up the phone again. “I’m talking about the money, Birdy, the money. Not the cake. Not one more word about the cake.”
“You got it, Davis, except for this last word. If you’re not coming right now, how about I put your wedge in my freezer?”
From my foyer, I heard, “DAVIS!” (my husband) and “MAMA!” (my daughter Bexley) and “ARP, ARP, ARP!” (my dog, Candy).
I lowered my phone to my side and yelled all the way through the house at my family. “I’ll be there in a minute!” (He was flying to Vegas in a Bellissimo jet. It wasn’t like the plane would take off without him.) Then, back on the phone, “Birdy?”
“Yes.”
“About the money.”
“What money?”
“The money in the blue bag, Birdy. The blue bag you found at your door.”
“What about it?”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
Whew.
“Is the money still in it?”
From the foyer, “DAVIS!”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I’d have to look.”
I was far past frustrated. “Birdy, where is the blue bag?”
“It’s in 516.035.”
I smacked my own forehead. She was speaking Dewey Decimal. “Has anyone claimed it?”
From the foyer, and sounding just a teeny bit more irritated, Bradley yelled again. “Davis! Have the girls had breakfast?”
“No!” I yelled back. They’d
just woken up. They hadn’t had time for breakfast.
“No, what, Davis?” Birdy asked.
“I was speaking to my husband.”
“Such a nice young man.”
Yes. He was. Nice, handsome, an excellent husband, and a wonderful father, all of which we could discuss any other time. “Let’s back up, Birdy,” I said. “Has anyone claimed the money? Has anyone walked in your door and said they’ve lost five million dollars?”
“No.”
“Has anyone called about it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Who?” I asked.
“You.”
I rolled my eyes. “Where is it now?”
“The blue bag?”
I might lose my mind. Right then and there, I might just lose my mind. “Yes, Birdy. The blue bag. Where is it?”
“In 516.035,” she said.
“Birdy.” I measured my words. “Where is 516.035?”
Like pulling senior citizen teeth.
“At the end of row five. It’s the only cage I have large enough for the cake.”
I vowed to never eat cake again. For the rest of my life. No cake. Ever again. Not one bite. Just say no to cake. “Stay right where you are, Birdy. Don’t move a muscle. I’m sending someone to pick it up.”
“How many someones?”
From the front door, Bradley yelled, “Davis, the girls are hungry. They want me to take them downstairs for pancakes and I don’t have time.”
Clearly, I didn’t either. I yelled back, “Can you call Room Service and have them deliver it here? Please?” Because that would buy me two more minutes. Then, to Birdy, I said, “How many someones what, Birdy?”
“How many someones are coming to pick it up?”
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“They’ll want cake.”
Someone save me from Birdy James.
I told her it wasn’t important. What was important was that they locked it in the vault, but I didn’t know how many guards would pick it up, probably two (maybe twenty), and at that point, I really couldn’t wait to get off the phone.
I flew to the front door.
“Is everything okay?”
I pasted on a fake, fake, fake smile. “Fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Because if it’s not, tell me now, before I leave.”
“Everything’s under control.”
Everything was not under control.
He told me breakfast was on the way for all three of us, then he tipped my chin up and looked me in the eye. “Sorry I snapped at you.”
“It’s okay. Sorry I was on the phone.”
“What was that about?”
“Cake.”
“Cake?”
“I’m kidding.” I was not kidding. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded. I wondered if I should tell him.
“You’ve got this, Davis.”
I nodded. I wondered if I should tell him.
“It’s going to be a fun week,” he said.
I wasn’t so sure. I wondered if I should tell him.
“I’m sorry I’m missing it.”
“Me too.” Then I wondered, for the very last time, if I should tell him.
He tipped my chin up. “You’ve got this?”
And that was when I said, “I’ve got this. Don’t worry. I promise I can handle the girls and the casino for one little week. Nothing will happen.”
He kissed my forehead, elicited promises of being good girls for Mom from Bex and Quinn, gave Candy one last head rub, said, “Viva Las Vegas!” then took off.
I should have told him.
I sent the girls, the two blondes and the furry one, to the kitchen table to wait for breakfast while I stepped into my home office to put the five-million-dollar problem behind me. I took a deep breath, then dialed the Bellissimo operator and had her connect me to the vault.
“Vault,” a man said.
“This is Davis Way Cole.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Cole.”
No time for niceties. “How many guards do you have?”
“On payroll?”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. “At this very minute.”
“Three,” the man said.
“Send two to Lost and Found immediately for a pickup.”
“And do what with the pickup?” he asked.
My doorbell rang. My dog barked her head off and ran for the door. My daughters flew after the dog.
“Straight to the vault,” I told the man on the phone. Then I repeated it. “Straight to the vault until you hear back from me.”
“Will do.”
“And call me back the minute you have it locked up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He did. My phone rang eleven minutes later, it was Vault man, who said, and I quote, “All locked up, Mrs. Cole,” just as I finished cutting pancakes into perfect triangles and sat down to eat with my daughters, almost too relieved to be hungry.
I was glad I hadn’t told Bradley.
I was proud of myself for handling it.
It almost felt like the good old days.
After breakfast, I sent the girls to their room to change out of their pajamas and into their swimsuits—it was already a million degrees out—while I called Casino Credit with my very last five-million-dollar blue-bag chore before I changed out of my pajamas and into my swimsuit for a fun Saturday morning with my daughters. Tying up what I felt sure would be the last loose thread of my Incident Report, I would track down the cashier who’d received, then for some reason cashed, the five-million-dollar wire, only to be told she, Megan Shaw, wouldn’t be back at work until two in the afternoon on Monday. I spoke to her supervisor, Gray Donaldson, a woman I’d known for years, and a woman I liked and trusted. Gray was married to a commercial scuba diver, Troy, who built and repaired bridges. She was captain of the Bellissimo’s ax-throwing team, whatever that was, other than what it sounded like. And they had a retro travel trailer they hooked to the back of Gray’s Durango and dragged to New Orleans for overnighters when the Saints played at the Superdome. Obviously, they had no children, because who could fit children into a teeny travel trailer? Instead, they had Schnauzers. Who were also Saints fans.
“Hi, Gray. It’s Davis.”
She said, “Oh, boy, I know what you’re calling about.” Gray was well aware of the errant wire. She explained the routing number hitch. She said her employee Megan Shaw cashed the wire to keep it off Casino Credit’s books—understandable, from an accounting perspective, although not nearly a good enough reason to cash a five-million-dollar wire, but water under the bridge at that point—then went on to tell me the plan was to leave the cash in the vault until Monday afternoon when it would be wired to the title company it was supposed to go to in the first place, Nelson Title, in Seattle, Washington, at five Central, three Pacific.
“I still don’t understand why she cashed it in the first place,” I said. “Has she ever done anything like this before?”
“She’s only worked for me since we reopened after the storm, Davis.”
Flag.
Red flag.
“Where did she come from?” I asked.
“She was a cage cashier.”
“For how long?”
“Several years.”
“If she was a cage cashier for several years, she certainly should have known better than to cash that large a wire.”
“I didn’t say she was one of our cage cashiers,” Gray said. “She was a cage cashier for Harrah’s.”
That was two flags.
Two red flags.
“Harrah’s down the street?” I as
ked.
“Harrah’s Las Vegas,” she answered.
I backed it down to one and a half flags.
One and a half red flags.
Harrah’s Vegas knew how to train cashiers.
“Did you fire her?” I asked.
“I wrote her up and sent her home for the weekend, but I didn’t fire her on the spot. I didn’t want to wake you in the middle of the night.”
Gray was right. With that colossal a breach of protocol, firing Megan Shaw would be on me.
I hated firing people.
The only thing I hated more than firing people was being fired.
Honestly, it was easier to shoot people than to fire them.
“Not only that,” Gray went on, “I need her signature to send the money to Seattle on Monday.”
Well…I’d forged a few signatures in my day.
But only when I had to.
“I will say this, though,” Gray said. “She was profusely apologetic and borderline mortified. A nervous wreck too. She said it was late, she was tired, and on her way out the door after a long day when the wire hit and she didn’t realize the funds weren’t meant for us until she was halfway through the transaction, then went on to tell me wire-cashing large amounts, regardless of who the money was from or who it was intended for, was common practice at Harrah’s Vegas.”
“She said what?”
Gray told me again.
“If that were true,” I said, “all money laundering in the world would go through Harrah’s Vegas.”
After the longest, Gray said, “Oh, boy.”
Oh, boy was right. The handling of monies that didn’t belong to you followed a rule so rudimentary it didn’t even need to be in place: don’t take money that isn’t yours. “There’s nothing we can do about it now,” I said, “and the money’s in the vault. No harm, no foul, just gross negligence on Megan’s part.” I went on to tell Gray I’d personally accompany the cash transfer from Vault to Casino Credit on Monday and stay until we received a confirmation from Seattle that they’d received the money.
Then I’d take care of firing Megan.
I was already dreading it.
And I’d never met the girl in my life.
Gray said she’d see me then, at which point, there was nothing left to say. We let it go. With the exception of the cash temporarily waylaid in Lost and Found, a five-million-dollar mistake I’d already corrected, I didn’t think about it one more time until my phone rang Sunday morning, at what felt like the middle of the night Saturday night, when Zest for Life called Bellissimo Security sounding the Birdy James alarm.
Double Trouble Page 3