The Tomahawk—an off-reservation casino owned by the Sauk (or Sac) Indians—was located among the cornfields (or “maize”) about ten miles west of Antiqua, just off the interstate. I had been to the gambling establishment once before, when it first opened, accompanied by few of my gal pals, seeking to try our luck with the one-armed bandits. After an hour, however, I became bored and laid my modest winnings down on the all-you-can-eat buffet, which turned out not to be a good bet.
The parking lot was almost full this evening, and finding a decent spot seemed impossible . . . until I remembered who I was, and parked my wheels at the curb near the front entrance.
I disembarked, then passed beneath an archway where a huge tomahawk was poised as if an indication that its patrons were about to be massacred. In the entryway, where the mosaic walls depicted pictorial American Indian scenes, stood a security guard in blue uniform. He had distinctly Indian features—high cheekbones, his dark hair pulled back in long braids—and reminded me of the Native American in that classic public service spot of decades ago, who cried at seeing garbage strewn across the landscape. Remember when commercials were fun?
“Sheriff Vivian Borne,” I informed him. “Serenity County.”
He raised a hand. “How—”
I raised mine, palm outward. “How!”
His eyes widπened. “Uh . . . I was going to ask, ‘How can I help you? ’ ”
“Oh, I apologize,” I replied. “I need a powwow with the top man on the totem pole.”
(Brandy to Mother: You didn’t really say that, did you?)
(Mother to Brandy: I was trying to speak his lingo.)
(Brandy to Mother: Well, that was offensive.)
(Mother to Brandy: I’m of another generation, dear, and you will simply have to learn to leave your prejudice about my people behind. It’s ageist.)
The security man, who for some reason was chuckling and shaking his head, walked over to a wall phone, and punched in numbers.
Shortly he returned and said, “Mr. Saukenuk will be right with you. He’s the casino manager.”
I thanked the guard, and stepped aside so he could return to scrutinizing incoming customers.
Before long, I was approached by a gentleman in his forties, smartly attired in a black suit, purple shirt, silver tie, and mirror-polished shoes. His blond, wavy hair was parted on the side, and his dark-framed glasses could not detract from the Paul Newman blue eyes.
“Sheriff Borne?” he asked. “Ben Saukenuk.”
Reading my expression, he said with a little smile, “Not what you expected?”
“No,” I admitted.
“I get that a lot. My great-grandfather was Sauk, but his wife was Swedish, and her genes had their way with great-granddad’s offspring all down the line. Now, what can I do for you?”
When I told him I needed information on a casino patron who’d been here Thursday night, he suggested we talk in his office.
As we walked along a shiny, beige-tiled corridor, the casino manager filled the silence by asking, “Ever been to the Tomahawk before?”
“Once,” I said, “before I became sheriff.”
“I hope you enjoyed your experience.”
“I made heap plenty wampum myself, but my girlfriends really got scalped.”
(Brandy to Mother: Mother!)
(Mother to Brandy: The casino manager laughed. You need to lighten up.)
(Brandy to Mother: And you need sensitivity training.)
(Mother to Brandy: Do I? What about the usage of moccasins and kayak? Anything wrong with those? And did you know that the words barbecue and caucus come from American Indian languages? Are we to completely eradicate any vestige of the Native American’s influence?)
(Brandy to Mother: I surrender, like Custer should have. Cowabunga, Mother.)
(Mother to Brandy: That’s not from a Native American language, dear. It’s from Howdy Doody.)
Ben Saukenuk escorted me into an executive office, its paneled walls arrayed with black-and-white photos of various Indian chiefs, their clothes and headwear becoming more modern with the passage of time.
He gestured to a padded chair in front of the desk. “Please take a seat.”
I did.
“Can I interest you in a beverage?” Ben asked.
I declined the offer, and he settled in behind the desk. “Now, about this customer . . .”
“Morella Crafton.” I handed him her driver’s license, which I’d taken from the purse. “Do you know her?”
He studied the photo. “Can’t say I do. But we have thousands of regulars. And I’m mostly stuck in this office. Let me bring in our floor manager.” He reached for the phone on the desk.
While we waited, I admitted I knew very little about the Sauk Indian tribe, except that they lived on a small Indian reservation in adjoining Tama County and had their own law enforcement officers. Ben proceeded to enlighten me with a few other facts.
The Sauks had no chief. A tribal council, headed by a chairman, ran the reservation, which also had its own court system, public works, schools, medical facility, and bank. While the Sauk reservation was a little nation unto itself, it did work with area law enforcement and other outside entities as necessary. The tribe currently numbered about thirteen hundred.
The door opened and a man of indeterminate age entered—tall, beefy, and bald. He looked formidable, like a wrestler. His dark gray suit seemed barely able to contain his bulk. No one would give this man any trouble.
Ben said, “This is Jim Soaring Eagle, our floor manager. Jim, meet the new Serenity County sheriff, Vivian Borne.”
Jim offered a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt, and I shook it as best as I could.
“Jim,” Ben said, holding out the driver’s license, “do you know this woman?”
The floor manager took the card, studied it, then nodded and said in a deep growl of a voice, “I recognize her. She likes to play blackjack.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
Jim looked at me. “No, just blackjack.”
“I mean, can you tell us anything else about her?”
“Oh. Well . . . no. But you might check with Kimi Wanatee. The lady in this photo is usually at her table.”
“Thank you, Jim,” Ben said. “Kimi works most nights, doesn’t she?”
“Yes. From six until midnight. She’s here now.”
“Find a substitute for her, please,” Ben instructed. “And ask her to come to my office.”
“Sure, boss. Nice to meet you, Sheriff.”
“My pleasure,” I said.
The floor manager left.
While passing time for the blackjack dealer to arrive, I learned more from Ben about the Sauk Indians, who originated along the St. Lawrence River in Ontario and northern New York state. Driven out by more powerful tribes, the Sauks migrated westward to the great lakes of Michigan, and then the fertile Mississippi Valley.
(Note to Vivian from Editor: While the aforementioned is interesting, does it have anything to do with the story?)
(Note to Editor from Vivian: Just trying to redeem myself a little here.)
The door opened and a beautiful young woman came in. She had exotic, almond-shaped eyes; a long, slender nose; a wide mouth with full red lips; and shoulder-length dark hair, shiny and straight. She wore a white long-sleeved shirt with black bowtie, vest, and slacks—standard for Tomahawk dealers.
Ben made the introductions, then showed Kimi the photo of Morella.
“Yes,” the dealer said with a nod, “she’s one of my regulars.”
I asked, “Did Morella ever talk about herself?”
“No. We only exchanged a little polite conversation.”
Ben said to me, “We discourage dealers from getting too familiar with the customers. For them it’s recreation, but for us it’s business.”
I nodded, then looked at Kimi.
“There are quite a few blackjack dealers here. Why do you think Morella always wanted to be with you?”
Kimi considered my question, then replied, “I don’t think it was me so much as, well . . . my other customers.”
“Please explain,” I said.
She shifted her stance, eyes going to Ben for help.
He again spoke for her. “Miss Wanatee is very popular among our high rollers.”
With a smile, I said, “The male high rollers, I assume.”
Kimi, a tad embarrassed, smiled and nodded. “The majority of high rollers are male.”
“And,” I asked, “Morella was attracted to such men?”
“Well,” the attractive dealer said, “she certainly was very friendly with them . . . especially after a few drinks.”
“Do you recall seeing her overdo any of that friendliness?”
She shook her head, arcs of dark hair swinging. “No. Most players are deadly serious about the game and not interested in anything else. Now, if Morella ever met up with anyone afterward, I couldn’t say. But she usually left before any of the others.”
“Because she ran out of money?”
Kimi nodded. “Morella did generally lose.” The dealer frowned. “Now, there is something odd. . . .”
“Yes?”
“She was here just the other night—”
“Thursday?”
“Yes. From about, oh, nine until ten or ten-thirty.”
I nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, for a change she was having a winning streak. Then she got a cell phone call. And I reminded her that if she answered it, she had to leave the game—casino policy.”
“And?”
“She let it go to voice mail. But she bowed out anyway and left, which I didn’t understand because, like I said, she was running hot.”
Perhaps Morella had decided to quit before the tide turned.
I asked, “Any chance you saw the number?”
“No. She had the phone in her lap, under the table.”
I gave her a smile. “Thank you, Kimi. That’s all the time I need from you.”
The dealer hesitated. “Is . . . is Morella in some kind of trouble?”
“No,” I said.
Not any longer.
After the door closed behind Kimi, I told Ben I would like to see any surveillance footage of Morella Thursday night, and he agreed to provide it.
The surveillance area was in the bowels of the casino, and when Ben escorted me into the room, I remarked with surprise, “I was expecting something more substantial.”
The operation was only a bit larger than Serenity’s communications department.
I asked, “How can you possibly cover the entire casino?”
Ben, smiling patiently, explained, “Although there are only ten monitors manned by six employees, we have hundreds of cameras positioned throughout the casino and parking lot, and we can call up any of these cameras at any time. Since it’s impossible to follow them all in real time, we rely on playback of the feeds and concentrate on certain areas.”
“Which areas?” I asked.
He smiled a little. “The cashier cages, for instance. If someone is going to rip off the casino, it most likely will be an employee, or a customer stealing another patron’s purse.” He sighed. “You’d be surprised how dull a surveillance job can be.”
“I understand,” I said. “A lady reports her purse missing, and you find her on the playback and watch to see who took it, then follow that person out into the parking lot and get their license plate number.”
“Yes. And that’s about as exciting as it gets.”
“What about card sharks and card counters?” I asked. “Are your employees trained to spot them?”
Ben shook his head. “That’s the job of the pit bosses. When they see something suspicious, they notify surveillance, and we get a camera on the player, if one isn’t. Then we watch the playback and take the appropriate action.” He gestured with a hand. “Let’s go over to the playback station.”
I followed him to an area where a female in casual attire sat at a computer with large monitor. No introductions were made, but Ben told her what day, time, and area of the casino to bring up.
Soon Morella appeared on the screen, recorded from above.
I said, “I’m interested in the cell call she received.”
The surveillance woman fast-forwarded the video, then stopped at the moment Morella reached into her pocket and withdrew her phone. The feed recorded the time as 10:26.
But the phone’s screen was not visible.
I asked, “Is there another camera with a different angle?”
The technician replied, “I could check other cameras in that area, and zoom in, but it will take a little time. And the result will likely be very blurry.”
“Contact me if you have any luck,” I said. “I’d like to see the rest of the playback in real time, please.”
I watched on various angles as Morella pocketed the phone, picked up her chips, left the table, and cashed the chips in at a cage. Then she walked out of the casino, got into her blue Toyota, and drove away.
During that time Morella spoke to no one, except to exchange a few words with the cashier. No one followed her out when she left.
I thanked the surveillance woman, and Ben walked me back as far as his office, where I thanked him. We shook hands and parted.
I decided to take a shortcut to the main entrance through the casino, and on my way I spotted a quarter on the carpet.
I had long been a believer in the old adage “See a penny, pick it up and all the day you’ll have good luck.” But due to my bad knees, I had upped that from a found penny to a quarter, so I stooped and retrieved the coin.
After spying a row of older coin-operated slot machines with arms to pull, I put the quarter into one, pulled the lever, and walked on, certain that I wouldn’t win one red cent—excuse me!—single penny.
But I was wrong. Was I ever wrong!
Sirens wailed and lights flashed as a rousing rendition of “Money (That’s What I Want)” played, the cacophony of noise nearly sending me into an epileptic fit.
I had won $109,987.14!
Before I left, I was congratulated by Ben, who had me fill out some tax information before I arranged for the funds to be deposited in the First National Bank of Serenity.
When I arrived back at the Pullman, around one, I found the lights on, meaning Brandy was awake and waiting for me. I braced for a lecture.
Sure enough, the moment I stepped through the door, she started in. “Where have you been? Do you know what time it is? I was worried to death! Why didn’t you call me? It was bad enough you turned your phone off.” She paused for a breath. “And you should never have taken the car!”
Oddly, these were the same words I’d more than once spoken to Brandy when she was a teenager and sneaked out at night.
I waved a hand. “Not now, dear. We can have it out in the morning. I’m tuckered.”
And I headed back to the bedroom.
My head had barely touched the pillow when I conked out, and it seemed like only a short time had passed before Brandy was shaking me awake.
“Let me have my coffee first, dear,” I groaned. “Then we’ll discuss my commandeering of the SUV and following up a lead at the casino.”
“All of that will have to wait,” Brandy said, her tone urgent.
I sat up on my elbows. “What’s happened?”
“The mayor is missing.”
Vivian’s Trash ’n’ Treasurers Tip
When a dealer finds the book you requested, be prepared to pay the asking price. If you are a regular customer, however, it is permissible to inquire about a discount—but don’t expect much. (It’s always helpful to have a little dirt on the person.)
Chapter Five
Poe Bono
Saturday morning, Mother and I downed a quick cup of coffee before leaving the Pullman at a little after eight. We headed to the mayor’s home, which was about five miles south of town in the opposite direction of the interstate.
&nbs
p; Behind the wheel of the Explorer, I said, “Maybe His Honor will have shown up by the time we get there.”
Mother, recording our destination in the computer, replied, “That’s not what my bones are saying, dear.”
I’d only ever heard Mother’s bones say “pop.”
I turned left onto County Road G, where the flat farmland suddenly gave way to a forest of lush trees; after about a mile, I made a turn down a narrow, shade-tree-canopied gravel lane. And then, like Manderley in Rebecca, a mansion materialized out of the lingering morning haze.
Okay, so the Hatcher place wasn’t anywhere close to the size of Manderley, or as venerable if almost as spooky; but for the residence of a mayor of a tiny town, the three-story Gothic revival limestone house, looking like an ancient church, made a pretty darn impressive abode.
I parked in the driveway behind a pristine burgundy Buick, and Mother and I exited.
Gazing up at the structure, she gave a long, low whistle. “Wonder what the history is of this cottage?”
Knowing Mother’s fascination with antique homes, I warned, “Well, please don’t get into that till you’ve conducted the interview. Remember why we’re here. The owner is missing, remember?”
“I will not allow myself to be distracted, dear,” she said, still looking up in wonder and stumbling on the first of nine stone steps to the stoop. Before we’d even rung the bell, a cathedral-style front door yawned open and the lady of the manor appeared, wringing her hands.
“Thank you for coming right out,” Mrs. Hatcher said.
She was somewhere in her late fifties, tall, well-dressed in a pale blue pantsuit, her gray hair arranged in a short pageboy, her makeup slightly smeared from tears.
Mother clasped her hands together. “Any word of Myron?” she asked, working a little too hard to seem concerned. I knew that, in detective mode, she was about as sensitive as cast iron.
“Nothing,” the woman said, shaking her head. She appeared dazed, framed there in the doorway, obviously lost as to what to do next. Mother took the initiative to brush past her and invite herself in.
Antiques Ravin' Page 7