"Excellent! I have a wicked idea for a snowboarding event to bring in more casino guests. You know, maybe offer free lift tickets to everyone who books a room."
I paused, heart instantly slowing. Not a date. A business meeting. I closed my eyes and cursed Teen-me for celebrating prematurely. Of course it wasn't a date. Rafe dated size-two, pink-fluff-wearing Barbie managers. He didn't date failed artists turned gallery curators. And he certainly didn't date his temporary boss turned snowboarding pal who was going to clear out of town just as soon as she possibly could.
Not, mind you, that I wanted to date him either. The flush in my cheeks was probably just the hotel's heat turned up too high.
I realized he'd been talking, and tried to tune in before I missed the entire conversation.
"...anyway, I think it could be really good to get some positive publicity surrounding the casino right now, you know?"
"Absolutely!" I said, forcing the cheerfulness maybe just a little too hard. "Should I meet you somewhere?"
"Nah, I'll pick you up at your room. About seven-thirty? I heard about the knockout dress you wore last night. Feel free to wear that again," he hinted before he hung up.
Down Teen-me.
I was just telling myself that Rafe's nature was the flirtatious charmer whether he meant to flirt or not, when I looked up and spotted his polar opposite walking toward me.
Agent Ryder.
If Rafe was naturally flirtatious, Ryder was naturally guarded. I wasn't sure which was more frustrating.
"Ms. King. Mrs. King," he said, nodding at each of us respectively.
"Agent Ryder," I said, trying to match the detached professionalism in his voice even though the way he looked me up and down in my T-shirt and pencil skirt was a keen reminder I'd been wearing a whole lot less the last time he'd seen me.
"You're that Fed, right?" Britton said, breaking through the awkward in the air.
Ryder turned his attention to her. "I am with the FBI," he confirmed.
"Good. Because we know who killed Dickie."
Ryder raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. "You do?"
Britton nodded emphatically. Then she nudged me in the ribs with her elbow. "Tell him, Tessie."
"Me?" I squeaked out.
Ryder's quizzical gaze shifted my way.
I cleared my throat. "Right. Okay. Sure." Then I proceeded to tell him our theory about the valet, Dunley, and Joe Pesci's crime ring headed by Weston, half waiting for him to tell me I'd been watching as many crime dramas as Britton. But at this point, I was willing to risk looking a little nuts if it cleared the name of my dad's legacy. "Look, if my dad found out, it would give them ample motive to want to get rid of him," I finished.
"Our money's on Weston," Britton added. "He's a royal asshat."
I could have sworn I saw the corner of Ryder's mouth twitch upward ever so slightly. "That's an interesting theory."
I perked up. Maybe he would take us seriously after all.
"But it's just that," he added. "A theory."
The perk deflated instantly. "Hey, evidence is your job," I pointed out. "Which should be easy enough to get. Just go talk to Weston."
Ryder narrowed his eyes at me and crossed his arms over his chest. "And say what? That we would like to talk to him about a dancer at his club, a vanishing valet, and some guy who looks like Joe Pesci?"
I bit my lip. Well, put like that I did sound nuts.
"Ask him where he was the morning Dickie died," Britton suggested.
"We have."
I blinked. "You have?"
More eye narrowing. "I am a professional investigator, Ms. King. Of course we asked. He's a known rival of your father's. He was one of our first suspects."
I suddenly felt not only nuts but about two feet tall. "He was?"
Ryder nodded slowly.
"And I'm guessing he's not now?"
Ryder shook his head just as slowly.
"Why the heck not?" Britton yelled. "The man's a snake."
"That may be, but he's got an alibi. Weston was seen at the Deep Blue by over a hundred employees who can account for his whereabouts all day long. Not to mention security footage backing up their story."
I looked up at the ever-present black cameras above us. Of course there would be footage.
"Then he hired someone," Britton spouted, throwing her hands in the air. "The valet. Or even Joe Pesci! God, can't you people see how obvious it is? That's it, I'm getting Alfie on this," she said, pulling out her cell and dialing.
There went that tick at the corner of Ryder's mouth again. I could swear it was even threatening to turn into a full-fledged grin as Britton stomped toward the elevator, stabbing the up button.
He turned to me. "Is she always like that?"
I jutted my chin out, suddenly feeling defensive on her behalf. "Passionate? Pro-active? Determined? Yes."
"Boy, you two make quite a pair."
I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or a jab. But I didn't have a chance to analyze it further as his grin disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and he was all business again. "Look, leave the investigating to the authorities, okay? We know what we're doing. We will bring your father's killer to justice."
"Meaning you don't believe me at all," I translated.
"I didn't say that," he hedged. "But I can't just haul someone like Weston in for questioning based on a hunch."
"Even a good hunch?"
"Even a good hunch," he said definitively.
I pursed my lips, staring him down. He did his patented poker face. Finally I cracked first.
"So what are you doing here anyway?"
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. "There's been a development in the case. And I..." He paused, the stony face slipping just the slightest bit into something softer, almost emotional. "...I wanted you to hear it from me first. Before the media."
Uh oh. Emotion from Agent Poker Face was not good. I licked my lips, steeling myself for whatever came next. "What is it?"
Ryder took a step forward, his voice lowering. "We found the poison that killed your dad."
"Where?" I asked, already fearing the answer.
"The penthouse. I'm sorry, Tessie," he said, putting a hand on my arm. "It belongs to Britton."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"No, way," I said, shaking my head violently against Ryder's suggestion. "Britton did not kill my father."
"I know it's hard to think badly of family—"
"She's not my family," I shot out, more from instinct than anything else.
"Okay," he said. "But she is a suspect."
"Seriously?" I pointed to Britton, waiting on the elevator, dressed in her powder pink tights, and matching baby-doll T with Hello Kitty on the front, twisting a blonde lock of hair around her finger as she talked into her phone. "Does she look like a criminal mastermind to you?"
"Looks can be deceiving," he said. "And I have to point out that she doesn't exactly look like a grieving widow, either."
"People grieve in different ways."
"Tessie, a massive amount of hydromorphone was found in your father's system."
"And this points to Britton how?" I challenged.
"A bottle of Dilaudid, which is the prescribed oral form of hydromorphone, was found in Britton's medicine cabinet. Hers were the only prints on the bottle."
"Maybe the killer wiped it clean," I suggested.
Ryder raised an eyebrow my way. "At which point we would have found no prints."
"Unless Britton touched it after the killer," I said, proud to put my hours of CSI watching to use.
Ryder rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Which, again, is a nice theory."
"Hey, pal, all you have is theories, too," I pointed out.
"Did Britton tell you where she was when your father's drink was spiked?" Ryder asked, ignoring my statement.
I opened my mouth to respond, but then shut it with a click when I realized th
at, in fact, she hadn't. I guess I'd assumed she was at Pilates or getting her nails done or somewhere like that. But I hadn't actually asked her.
"No," I admitted. "But I'm sure the cameras caught her somewhere," I said, gesturing up to the black circles above us.
Only Ryder's stony expression made that "surety" waiver on the spot.
"Actually, they don't," he told me.
I bit my lip. "Maybe she was in the penthouse?"
There went that eyebrow heading north again. "Exactly my point." Ryder punctuated it with a nod my way.
I shook my head. "The penthouse is big. Someone could have spiked the drink without her even knowing. She could have been in the shower, in the den, or sleeping off a late night martini binge in the bedroom." But even as I defended her, my mind was reeling. Why hadn't Britton told me she didn't have an alibi?
"Look, I'll admit the police don't yet have enough to issue a warrant for Britton," Ryder told me. "But I know you two are close, so I just wanted you to know. And to...be careful," he ended, that softer look returning to his features.
I bit my lip, nodding even as a million thoughts swirled through my head. I thought Britton and I were getting close. But the truth was, I'd only really spent any time with her these last few days. What did I really know about Britton anyway? That she was a former cocktail waitress who clearly did not want to go back to that life. Had things been as rosy as she painted between her and my dad? Or had they actually been having problems?
"You okay?" Ryder asked, putting a hand on my arm.
I nodded again, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone voice one.
"Look, just lay low for awhile, Tessie. Leave the investigating to the authorities. Take some time to de-stress, maybe go to the spa."
Why was it every guy thought I needed a spa day?
But instead of arguing I just nodded dumbly again. "Yeah. Sure."
He smiled, patted my arm, and walked off toward the main entrance, presumably heading to gather more evidence with his police pals to gain that warrant.
I watched, my mind racing at full tilt. I knew for a fact that Britton was not as dumb as she looked. Had she been playing me all along? What if she and my dad had been having problems? What if she'd been the one who'd killed him, then wanted to play investigator with me just to divert my attention from her? It had worked. I hadn't even thought to ask Britton where she'd been when he'd died. She'd had means and opportunity to kill him.
I took a deep breath, pulling myself together. It was time to find out if she'd had motive, too.
I waited for Ryder to disappear out the doors and into the sunshine before I made my way to the elevator. I punched the up arrow, then once the carriage arrived, hit the button for the 4th floor. Stintner's offices were at the end of a long corridor that housed the casino's human resources, accounting, and legal departments. I pushed through the glass doors of legal and Stintner's secretary greeted me immediately.
"Ms. King, to what do we owe the pleasure today?" the polished brunette in a sharp blouse and blazer asked.
"I was hoping that Mr. Stintner might have a minute to speak with me," I told her, glancing behind her at the short hallway leading to more inner offices.
"I believe he does. Please have a seat." She waved me over to a couch before disappearing down the hall.
The waiting area was furnished much the same as the rest of the hotel—tasteful, clean, modern. I didn't see any evidence of Stintner hiring his own decorator, though a couple photos of the lake graced the walls, the stunning blue a contrast to the pale beige wallpaper. Along one side of the room ran the same tall windows as in the penthouse, the view of the white-capped mountains here almost as stunning. I drank them in, hoping the calming scene would wear off on me.
"Tessie."
Stintner's voice startled me, pulling me away from the serene landscape.
"Mr. Stintner. I'm glad you could see me," I told him, regaining my composure.
"Of course. Please, come on back." He motioned toward his office with one hand and smoothed his silver comb-over with the other.
I followed him down the hall and into his corner office with yet another prime view of the mountains. A dark, cherry wood desk took up the bulk of the room, with matching bookcases and a small liquor cabinet filling the far wall. A pair of leather club chairs sat in front of the bookcase, a small table holding a decorative globe between them.
Stintner sank into a black, leather chair behind the desk. "I hope everything is okay."
I sat in one of the club chairs, hearing the leather squeak beneath me. "I do, too," I told him, honestly. "Look, I...I'm not sure how to ask this," I said, trying to remember just what sort of stuff came under client-attorney privilege. But, considering my father was dead, he couldn't really complain, right?
"What is it?" Stintner asked, his bushy brows falling in concern.
"I'd like to see my dad's will," I blurted out.
His eyebrows didn't relax any. "I believe we already went over the terms for your inheritance."
I nodded. "We did. But I'd really like to know how his other assets were split."
"I see," he said, his gaze slowly assessing me. "Well, I suppose you have a right to that information. But there's really not a whole lot else to know." He shuffled through his desk drawer and pulled out a thick folder, perching his glasses on the end of his nose. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"
I nodded, feeling knots form in my stomach. "What did he leave Britton?"
Stintner paused, peering at me over the glasses. But if he was curious why I wanted to know, he didn't say so. "Your father had most everything staked in this casino. Even his shares are leveraged for loans to keep it afloat. There wasn't much to leave."
I narrowed me eyes. "Define not much."
Stintner sighed. "It's more complicated than that. She has a non-controlling number of shares, some stakes in a couple of funds he invested in, but very little else. Your father was quite short on liquid assets."
"So, what are you saying?" I asked. "That my dad was broke?"
"I'm saying, Mrs. King will have to make some lifestyle changes in the near future," he answered. "The shares are worthless unless she cashes out, and even then she'll get pennies on the dollar with the way Mr. King had them leveraged. The cars, the furnishings, all of that belongs to the casino. There were a couple of personal bank accounts, of course," he said, shifting through the papers again. "But the balances on all of these combined is not significant. In all honesty, Britton will be lucky to get a decent studio apartment with it."
"Apartment? What about the penthouse?"
Stintner removed his reading glasses and folded them on the stack of papers. "The penthouse will belong to whoever is named chairman after you leave. Britton has less than a month to vacate the property, according to the lease agreement with the casino board of directors."
My mind tripped over the memory of all the boxes Britton had been packing, how sparse the place had looked. She wasn't just packing up my dad's things; she was packing up the entire place. Despite my previous suspicion of her, I felt a pang of remorse.
"You're sure that's all?" I asked, peering over the desk at the paperwork.
Stintner nodded. "Quite sure. I'm sorry, Tessie, but if you're looking for money, there just wasn't any."
I shook my head. "No, I was just..." I trailed off, loath to admit that I'd just been looking for a motive for Britton to have killed my dad. "Never mind. It's not important now," I finished, standing and backing out of his office. "Thank you for your time."
I made my way to the elevator and hit the button for the penthouse. The front doors stood open, the moving crew obviously in the midst of removing items from the place. As I walked into the penthouse, the knots tightened in my gut. More boxes were stacked around the perimeter of the living room, bookcases and curio cabinets left bare. Though, I could plainly see that the more expensive items were staying—the crystal chandeliers, the leather sofas, the
Persian rugs and the Vermeer. I felt a weight in my chest at the thought that someone new would soon be occupying my dad's "castle".
"Tess, is that you?" Britton called from down the hall.
I cleared the emotion out of my throat. "Yeah."
"Be out in a sec," she called. Then true to her word, a moment later she appeared, dressed in a pair of teeny running shorts, hot pink spandex top, and pristine white running shoes. With pink laces. "Hey," she said. "I've got to go work out some aggression in the gym. Ugh, that Alfie is such a chauvinist, you know?"
I nodded. But chatting about Alfie's backwards views on feminism wasn't why I was here. "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" I asked.
Britton blinked at me. "Leaving?"
"The penthouse. The casino," I said, gesturing to the stacks of boxes.
"Oh." Her face fell as far as the Botox would allow. "Right. Well, I guess I just figured you knew. I mean, I figured Stintner read you the will."
I shook my head. "No, he didn't. At least, not until today. I...I had no idea my dad didn't leave you anything. Britton, I'm so sorry."
Britton shrugged. "It's just stuff," she said, though I could see the words didn't quite make it to her eyes, now threatening to brim with shining tears. "None of it really matters, you know. I mean, I know Dickie left me what he could. It wasn't like he was planning on checking out, you know?"
"I'm so sorry, Britton," I said again. And I was. Not just that circumstances had left her high and dry but that I'd ever suspected her of hurting my dad over money. I could clearly tell that Britton liked her lifestyle here—and who wouldn't? But the tears in her eyes now were not over the end of her stint as the reigning Mrs. King, but over her lost king. "Can I do anything to help?" I asked.
Britton let out a big breath and walked to the large patio doors, leaning against the fogging glass. She wrapped her arms across herself, hugging her shoulders. "I just want to wake up in the morning with Dickie by my side. I want him to wrap me up in a hug so tightly I can't breathe and have him joke about how love hurts sometimes." She paused and drew a heart on the misty glass, adding her initials and my father's to the center. "I knew I wouldn't get much of anything in the will. But, that's not what Dickie and I were about. I am kind of bummed to have to move from here. This was the only place that ever felt like home to me, you know?" She looked over her shoulder at me, tears still welling in her eyes. "But I wouldn't have felt right taking anything, even if he had left me a pile of cash. I came into the relationship with nothing."
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