“That’s almost four hours after Sonny’s death, though,” Louis said.
“We saw Reba,” Marc said. “And Reggie. I mean, of course we didn’t know it was her at the time.”
“When did you see them?”
“Well, we were looking for you in the casino. I’d say before one. Maybe ten of, quarter of.”
“That’s closer,” Louis said. “But still not an alibi. What about Cotton’s phone call?”
“I don’t know what time he called,” I pointed out.
“Logically, he would have gone to Becky as soon as he found out what happened,” Louis said.
“Except he talked to the police before I did,” I pointed out. They kept me waiting, so I’d say he talked to them sometime before noon or twelve-fifteen.”
“So, he would have left you a message sometime between noon and twelve forty-five,” Louis said. “But that doesn’t tell us where he was at eleven.”
“We should have asked the girls for their alibis,” I said.
“That wouldn’t have gone over very well,” Louis said. “They were very much on the offensive.”
“Do you think that was deliberate?” Marc asked.
“Possibly,” Louis said. “At least for one of them.”
“You know,” I said. “Becky mentioned that she was the one who sent Sonny to my mother’s room. That could mean she was in her suite when he went off the balcony.”
“It also implies that she’s the one who sent him to his death,” Louis said.
“Really?” Marc asked.
“If his killer wanted Sonny to die in Angie’s suite, then he needed someone to send him there. And that was Becky.”
14
I’d forgotten my medication, so as soon as we got back to Lucky Days I ran up to my room and took my pills with a large glass of water—well, as much of a large glass of water as I could handle. I’d managed to eat a very large dinner. Then I noticed the red light blinking on the phone. I had a message. I sat down on the bed and listened to it.
It was Javier.
“Noah, you need to call me as soon as possible. I may have found some things you need to know.” Then he left a number I didn’t recognize. Taking a pad and pen out of the nightstand drawer, I played the message back so I could get the number.
I dialed.
“What number is this?” I asked, when Javier answered.
“It’s my apartment. I don’t live at Rampart Station, you know.”
“Oh, okay.” God, I couldn’t say anything right.
“I found something important,” he went on.
“Yeah, Sonny and all the Cottons are connected to The Chicago Outfit.”
“No. Maybe they are. But that’s not what I found. Do you want me to tell you or do you want to guess again?”
“Tell me.” Obviously, he was still very annoyed with me and wanted to show it at every opportunity.
“Katherine Louise Bell. Also known as Katie Caulder, Kathy Redfern and Kate Livingston.”
“She said she’d been married twice.”
“Four times.”
“Oh.”
“In 1969 she stabbed her husband, Calvin Caulder. It was charged as a felony assault but then reduced to a misdemeanor.”
I remembered her saying she wanted to stab her husband. Apparently, she actually had—but that wasn’t so bad. Was it?
“In 1971, she was charged in the death of her second husband, Samuel Redfern. He was an elderly gentleman who died in his sleep. There were indications he might have been suffocated with a pillow, but they weren’t able to make it stick.”
“Was that in Orange County?” I asked.
“Grand Rapids.”
“Oh.” She’d left that husband completely out of her story. Which you might if you’d suffocated him.
“She moved to Laguna Beach and married a man named Oliver Livingston. They were together most of the seventies. He died in a boating accident. She claimed he fell overboard and that she was unable to start the boat. She was alone on the boat for forty-two hours and spent a couple days in a hospital with exposure. No evidence was found that she was lying.”
“But you think she was lying?”
“She does seem to have a penchant for collecting dead husbands.”
“Is there more?”
“She lived with a man in Montana. They never married. He died of complications related to diabetes. There was remarkably little medication in his system, yet he was collecting his drugs from the pharmacy. Foul play was suspected but not proven.”
“Yeah, but she wasn’t married to him.”
“She was still the beneficiary on his insurance.”
“Oh.”
My God, I thought, my Aunt Katie is a black widow. That meant she could be the one who killed Sonny. But why—oh my God, the money. She had to have the money. But where was she keeping it? Her room had been searched and the police found nothing.
“Noah?”
I was still on the line with Javier. “Oh, sorry. Is that all you have?”
“A thank-you would be nice.”
“Thank you. What about Reggie Cotton? I was told she embezzled from Monumental Studios. Do you know if that’s true?”
“Was she arrested? Or charged?”
“No.”
“Then we wouldn’t know about it.”
“And, The Outfit connection?”
“Sonny Leone was probably connected to The Outfit. The law firm he works with does a lot of business with them.”
“And Cotton? Preston Cotton?”
“He’s the man your mother’s marrying?”
“Yes.”
“He may be connected to The Outfit, as well.”
Just as Wilma Wanderly feared, our seats were in the front row. The theater was tiered. Five tiers wrapped around a thrust stage, each populated with velvet-covered chairs, and café tables with white tablecloths and small, hatted candles. Everything was done in blue—a blue that looked to be the same color as Wilma’s famous dress. They must have done it specifically for her show. Which wouldn’t have made any sense except that the theater was filling up and looking close to sold out.
I was devising a plan to spend the whole show peeking over my giant souvenir program, when I remembered—
“We need to get one of these for my mother. She loves Wilma Wanderly.”
“Even after her son tried to kill you?” Leon asked.
“We gloss over that.”
“It’s such a shame she couldn’t come,” Marc said.
Was it, though? She cared deeply about Cotton, that much was obvious. Wasn’t it better to be where you were needed? Better to have someone who needed you? I mean, I needed my mother. Sometimes. And someday I might…
Someday I might be gone. And she’d have no one to need her if she didn’t marry Cotton. Without Cotton she’d be alone and that was a terrible thought. I realized I should be more supportive of the wedding, that it would make her happy and if I died, not as sad. That mattered.
“I was thinking,” Louis said. “After the show we should probably break into Becky’s room. Any ideas on how to keep her busy while we do that?”
“What? No!” I said. “We’re not doing that.”
“But what if she has the money?” Marc said. “If she has the money then we know she’s the murderer.”
“We’re not breaking the law.”
“Your mother would do it,” Leon said.
“Well, then ask her.”
A waitress came by and everyone ordered drinks. Well, everyone but me. The scotch I’d had at dinner was more than enough for the evening. I ordered a milkshake. I thought that was decadent enough after our delicious but very rich meal.
I knew I had to tell them about Aunt Katie being a black widow, but I was holding off. It did seem like Becky was behind her husband’s death, so did it matter if my Aunt Katie also had a habit of killing a husband here and there? I mean, I had no evidence she’d killed them—but it certainly seemed l
ikely, didn’t it?
“Do you think your mother and Cotton will be able to fly out tomorrow?” Louis asked.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“Probably not,” Leon said.
“How do you know?”
“Well, A) it’s a holiday weekend and B) I checked the weather while you were getting dressed,” Leon said. “There’s a late snowstorm expected in Chicago.”
“You checked the weather where?” I asked.
“On the TV. We have The Weather Channel.”
HBO? The Weather Channel? I decided I should turn the TV on when I got back to the room. Who knows what other channels it has?
“So why won’t they get out? I mean, it’s not going to snow in Las Vegas.”
“Thunder showers all across the Midwest. They’re flying through O’Hare, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sure they are,” Leon said. “There’s no way there won’t be canceled flights.”
Our drinks arrived. The milkshake actually tasted better than I’d expected. In fact, it was almost as good as dinner. I’d taken in so much food I was beginning to feel like a balloon about to pop.
“My Aunt Katie likes to kill her husbands,” I said very casually.
“What?”
“Huh?
“Really?”
“How did you find that out?” Louis asked.
“I called Javier,” I admitted.
“Mmmmhmmm, tall, dark and very far away,” Leon murmured.
“Shut up.”
“So why isn’t she in prison?” Louis asked.
“Because they haven’t been able to prove anything.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“Kind of.”
The lights went down. The audience settled. The room quieted. There were a couple of coughs, and then a spotlight picked up Wilma Wanderly. She seemed to be floating. She wore a filmy lavender dress and stood inside a simple metal frame. It came up behind her and circled around her waist. Most of the audience couldn’t see it, but we could in the first row. The music began to play her signature song, “I’m Too Blue to Be Blue” and half-naked male dancers began writhing below her.
Holding my menu in front of my face, I turned around and looked for an empty seat. My plan was to grab my milkshake and go sit in a spot where Wilma Wanderly couldn’t see me. That’s when I saw the woman with the red hair. She was standing in an aisle two rows back, whispering to another woman; a woman wearing a scarf on her head, dark glasses and a raincoat. Obviously, she was in disguise, but that was silly because it was clearly Aunt Katie. But why was Aunt Katie talking to the red-haired woman?
Trying not to be seen, I crouch-walked over Marc and Louis and Leon to the aisle. When I was in front of Leon, I lost my balance and, trying to right myself, I stuck my hand right into his lap.
“Darling! I didn’t know you cared!”
“I DON’T!” I yelled, snatching my hand back so quickly I threw myself off balance. Attempting to right myself, I stepped backward into the aisle, knocking over a waiter carrying a full tray of drinks. Everyone at the table across the aisle from us screamed as they were drenched in ice, bar mix and alcohol.
Then, behind me, Wilma Wanderly began to scream too. Some members of the audience, thinking it was part of the show, began to applaud. I suppose it was ‘well-choreographed’ if you wanted to fall into the aisle and knock over a tray of drinks.
Aunt Katie caught sight of me, said something to the red-haired woman, and ran up the aisle toward the exit. I raced after her, nearly jumping from tier to tier. Aunt Katie barreled through the double doors into the lobby area. I was right behind her. Behind me, an usher yelled, “And don’t come back!”
I decided to give yelling a try, too, and screamed, “Aunt Katie! Stop right there!”
She didn’t.
I sped up and just before she reached the first bank of slot machines I jumped forward and grabbed the collar of her raincoat. I successfully brought her down… on top of me. She didn’t weigh that much, but it was enough to illicit a deep, embarrassing burp. Totally humiliating.
As I lay there beneath Aunt Katie, I thought, Oh my God! I just tackled an old lady! And then burped on her!
She rolled off me and asked, “Was that really necessary?”
“You ran.”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“Who was that woman you were talking to?”
“I don’t know. She just—”
“Yes, you do. Who was she?”
She didn’t want to answer, but then she must have realized there was no way to avoid my questions—without getting in her car and speeding back to Arizona—because she said, “All right, I’ll tell you. That was Linda. Linda Cotton. Happy now?”
“Cotton’s ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“What is she doing in Las Vegas?”
“She wants to break up Cotton and Angie.”
“And why were you talking to her?”
“I know her from the old days.”
“And you recognized her with that crazy hair?” I was in no position to call someone else’s hair crazy, but really there was no other way to describe it.
“Um, yeah, I did.”
“Liar.”
“I don’t think your mother would appreciate—”
“Does she know you’re talking to Cotton’s ex?”
“Please don’t tell her.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“It will hurt her feelings.”
“Because you spoke to her? You did more than that, didn’t you?”
“I may have taken some money from her.”
“Money for what?”
“To stop the wedding. But I didn’t do anything. I mean, I thought about it. Angie seemed so happy, though, I just couldn’t.”
“So, you were giving the money back?”
She pulled a face and asked, “Are you kidding?”
“You were taking credit for the wedding being postponed, weren’t you?”
“A little.”
“Did you have anything to do with Sonny’s falling off the balcony?”
“What? No. That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? You could have guessed that they wouldn’t get married if something like that happened. You might even have the bag of money—”
“I didn’t push Sonny off the balcony.”
“Just like you didn’t kill any of your husbands?”
She pursed her lips and glared at me.
“Look, I like older men. Older men worry about what might happen to a younger wife, so they buy insurance. That’s all that happened.”
“Is it?”
“I didn’t kill any of my husbands and I didn’t kill Sonny.” She took a deep angry breath. “I’ve never killed anyone in my life. You can ask Cotton.”
“Cotton? Why would I ask him?”
“He was my attorney. Twice.”
“Your defense attorney?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know that he’s the right—”
“He knows all the details. I can give him permission to talk to you if you really insist.”
“What details could he possibly—”
“Look, I dated this cop for a while just out of high school. He was a creep and I dumped him. He sort of stalked me—this was way back before that was even a thing—and when things happened, accidental, natural causes type things, he tried to get me put away.”
“In Grand Rapids. What about—”
“Even in the seventies we had telephones. The guy kept tabs on me. Called police departments and warned them I was some kind of black widow.”
“You have to admit that it all—”
“Yes, I know what it looks like, but it’s just bad luck. Really, really bad luck. I even liked a couple of my husbands if you must know.”
“Where’ve you been all day?”
“With the police. Do you think you’re the only one who can di
g around in my past? Do you think you’re the only one who can jump to cruel conclusions?”
I translated that in my head. The Las Vegas Police discovered her history and looked at her really hard for Sonny’s murder. The fact that they’d let her go made me think she might just be innocent.
But then, if she didn’t do it, who did?
15
“I want to talk to her.”
“To who?”
“Linda Cotton.”
“I’m not sure she wants to talk to you.”
“Yes, she does. She called my room. She accosted me in the casino. Call her; set up a meeting.”
“I don’t know if I can get a hold of her. She might not have gone back to her room.” She looked pleased with herself, as though she’d just avoided something.
“Let’s go to her room then,” I said.
“She might not be there. I just said that.”
“Then we’ll wait.”
She frowned and adjusted her sunglasses. “Fine. I told her to meet me at the Pot o’ Gold lounge.”
“After you got rid of me.”
“Yes, after I got rid of you.”
“All right, let’s go there,” I said.
She sighed heavily. “It’s this way.” She led me across the casino. As we walked, I asked her, “So, you swear you didn’t kill Sonny?”
“That’s a silly thing to ask. You think I’d tell you if I did?”
I wondered if that meant she didn’t. If she had, I’d have thought she’d be more interested in denying it. Keeping the possibility in my mind, I asked, “Who do you think did?”
“The mob probably.”
“But why would they try to blame it on my mother? Why wouldn’t they just kill him in his own room?”
“Despite what you might think, I’m not that well versed in contract killings.” And then she switched gears and begged, “Please don’t tell your mother about any of this.”
“Sure, no problem,” I said. “You can tell her.”
“What? No, I can’t.”
“Well, then I will have to tell her.”
“She’s going to hate me.”
“She’s not like that and you know it.” And it was true, she might back into your car a half a dozen times, but she really didn’t hate anyone.
Cash Out Page 13