Beads of Doubt

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  When I finished she looked tired, but she was smiling. “Too bad I’m stuck here.”

  “If you’d just get well, you could help me.” I looked at my watch. “I better go. I have some things I need to do tonight.”

  My hand was resting on the edge of her bed, and she reached out to hold it. “Can’t you stay a little longer?”

  If it would make her feel better, I’d miss poker, dinner, and a night’s sleep. “Sure, no problem,” I said.

  “Tell me your plans for tonight.”

  I started in about poker, making it as amusing as possible.

  “Here’s your juice. Would you like to sit up?”

  “Where are the pills I asked you for?”

  “I’m sorry, but the doctor hasn’t authorized anything for anxiety. Maybe if you sipped your juice and then rested until dinner—”

  “Maybe if you’d just give me the bed by the window, I wouldn’t need to take any pills.”

  “I promise you, as soon as one is available, you’ll have it—”

  “I’m very sick, you know. Just hand me my purse. I’ll bet I have some something in there.”

  “I can’t do that. You might take a drug that would react badly with the medications your doctor has you on—”

  “How would he know? He’s stupid. Call him and tell him I need something to relax me.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll call right away.” The footsteps almost raced out of the room.

  I had done my best to talk over the woman and the nurse, but I kept losing my train of thought because it was so hard not to listen to their conversation.

  “Wait,” Tess said. “You’re playing in a poker tournament? That’s illegal.”

  “I can hear every word you girls are saying. If you’re doing something illegal, I’ll have to call the police. It’s a sin to break laws, you know.”

  “It’s just a fun tournament,” I said to her. “There’s no money involved.”

  “I hope you’re telling me the truth.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Tess turned on her TV and aimed the bed speaker toward her roommate. Then she rolled closer to me, saying softly, “There.” She was fading, and I wished I’d insisted on leaving earlier.

  “You look tired,” I said.

  “Forget that. Kitzi, you could be arrested.”

  I kept my voice down. “Maybe. How else can I find out anything about Andrew’s life?”

  “And people will recognize you. Everyone does.”

  “I have a plan,” I said, leaning over and whispering it in her ear.

  She listened, and when I was finished there was a half smile on her face. “I’ve got to get well to protect you from yourself.”

  “You pick any reason—just get better,” I said. “Now you need to rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She pulled out one of the Red Vines. “Thanks, but go see Rafferty, instead; he needs the company.”

  I kissed her on the cheek. “I will.”

  “Stay safe.”

  A morale boost was what I needed. Something fun and funny. Maybe something that I could tell Tess about on my next visit. Goodwill is a great place for something unique, and I pulled into the one nearest my house. It wasn’t ten minutes later that I was on the road again, grinning.

  When I got home the Bead Tea was closed and Lauren was eating soup in the kitchen. “Oh, hi,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind . . .” She gestured to the food in front of her.

  “If you don’t eat it, I’ll end up throwing it out.”

  “Would you like some?”

  “Sure. I’ll take a bowl upstairs while I get ready.”

  She ladled it out, and I carried it carefully up the stairs, along with my sacks of goodies. This was going to be fun.

  First I mixed the rinse for my hair and put it on, covering it carefully with plastic. While the color cured, I opened my purse and took out the few things I thought I’d need for the evening. They went into a small handbag with a picture of Marilyn Monroe on it. Next I ate my soup and put on fresh nail polish.

  There was a tap on the door. “Kitzi?” It was Beth. It made me think of the candlestick. Damn, I wished I’d never seen that thing.

  “I’m getting ready,” I said. “Come on in.”

  “No, I’m busy, but I just wanted to know what you’re going to wear.”

  I smiled. “I’m going incognito.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t dress up and don’t look like yourself. Want some rinse for your hair?”

  “Conditioner?”

  “Nope. A color.”

  “Uh . . . no thanks. I’ll just look like someone else who happens to have my color hair.”

  “If you change your mind,” I said, “just let me know. Oh, and if you need some clothes, I’ve got plenty.”

  “Thanks.”

  By that time I’d overdone my hair, so I whipped into the bathroom to rinse it off. “Oh, my God.” I’d definitely overdone it. I could only hope that tomorrow it would wash out.

  I took my shower, and as I dried off, found the hair color streaking the towels. Funny, my hair didn’t look like it was missing any.

  Next I put on makeup, lots of makeup, and blew my hair dry. Only I bent over and blew it so that the hair was going up. Then I used the thickest gel I had to separate it and create what might be called whimsical spikes. When I was finished my hair looked like a cross between Meg Ryan’s and Ronald McDonald’s. Not great, but I sure didn’t look like Kitzi Camden.

  Next I put on my “new” crop pants from Goodwill and a sweater from my own closet that was just a little tight. I slipped on some flat shoes and long dangling earrings as well as the bracelet that matched. I took a last breath and stepped to the full-length mirror for inspection.

  In front of me was a redheaded floozy wearing a lime green sweater; pants with lime green and hot pink circles; long, cheap hot pink earrings; and lime green shoes. And blue nail polish.

  “Kitzi.” Beth was back. “We probably need to go. Are you ready?”

  “Sure.” I picked up my purse and hurried out the door. Beth and Lauren were both in the hallway. “Well?” I said, opening my arms to give them the full view. “What do you think?”

  There was shocked silence.

  “You have to admit no one’s going to know it’s me,” I said.

  Beth started to laugh. “You look like LaVern at the Laundromat, that character Cher used to play on her TV show.”

  I remembered her. “Too bad I don’t have some of those things that go around your neck to hold your eyeglasses. She always wore those.”

  “That might be overkill,” Beth said, still grinning.

  “Oh, you think this is subtle?” I held out my purse and showed her my nails.

  “Subtle isn’t quite the word I’d use.”

  Lauren was stuttering. “I can’t believe it. I mean, you look so, well, it’s very, um, well, different, and uh . . .”

  “She likes it,” I said, patting my hairdo. “Now, shall we go? I have the directions and our money. My treat.”

  “Okay, Lupe,” Beth said.

  “No, no. You’re Lupe. Lupe Muscadine. Like the grapes. I’m Katherine Zoelnick. Only you can call my by my nickname.”

  “Which is?”

  “Acey.”

  Seventeen

  “Turn down that road,” Beth said, pointing to a country lane with barbed wire fencing on either side. “See, it says Pincher’s Antique Auction.”

  I turned and went about five hundred yards when, just as the instructions said, there was a big, yellow metal building with cars parked all around it. As I pulled into the driveway, I said, “We’re here.”

  “But do we want to be?”

  “Yes.” I found an empty space next to the building and parked in it. “Take your money out of my purse,” I said. “And remember, your name is Lupe. Lupe Muscadine. And I’m Acey. Acey Zoelnick.”

  “How can I remember our names? I can’
t remember if a straight beats three of a kind.” She counted out the bills and took her eighty dollars.

  “It does,” I said. “And a flush beats almost everything.”

  Before either of us could lose what little courage we had, I got out of the car and locked it with the remote. Unfortunately, Beth was still in the Land Rover and hadn’t opened her door yet. When she did, the alarm went off and the lights started flashing. Nice inconspicuous start to the evening.

  I finally hit the right button, and the car stopped its attention-getting routine.

  Beth stepped out. “Way to go.”

  “Thank you. Could you reach my purse?”

  She did, then slammed the door behind her. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “That’s just nerves.”

  “No, it’s tortilla soup.” She looked at me and shook her head. “If this place does get raided, you’re not only going to get arrested for illegal gambling, I’m betting they book you on prostitution, too.”

  “I’m a little too old for that. No, a lot too old for that.” Then we were silent as we spotted the front door and a stream of men going in the building. A few were looking in our direction, probably because of the car alarm.

  I don’t know what I expected gamblers to look like, but at least half of these looked like college kids. There were also a couple of men in golf shirts and jeans, an older guy in western clothes with enough mud caked on his boots to convince me that he was a real cowboy, and a man in running shorts and tennis shoes. Across the front of his T-shirt it said, “I believe you have my stapler.”

  Beth and I looked at each other; it was clear neither of us understood that one.

  The line split into two just inside the door, and within a minute we were in front of a card table with a metal money box on it. The woman behind it looked like my ninth-grade English teacher; she said in a smoker’s voice, “Names?”

  I told her, and she checked us off a computer list, then added, “That’ll be eighty dollars a piece.” As soon as we handed over the cash she held out a huge stack of playing cards. Some were the regulation type with red or blue backs while others had hunting dogs or wolves on the back side. “Pick a card and find the matching one at the tables. Red and blue are the tables on this side of the room; animals are on the other side. Aces deal.”

  We each pulled a card. Mine was a wolf back, and wouldn’t you know, I pulled the ace of spades.

  “Lucky,” I said. Why didn’t I feel that way?

  Next, the woman delivered a spiel in a monotone that made it obvious she’d said it lots of times before: “There are three thousand dollars in chips at each place; blinds are twenty-five and fifty dollars. They go up every half hour. Any questions or problems, you raise your hand and the tournament director will come around. Good luck.”

  “Thank you kindly,” I said.

  We were inside a barnlike building with high ceilings, a few windows around the outside, and bright lights. Eight round tables were spaced out on the concrete floor, and each had places for either eight or ten. About half the seats were already occupied, and as far as I could tell, they were all occupied by men.

  “Well,” I said to Beth, “at least there won’t be a line at the ladies’ room.”

  “We have to go to different tables.” She held up the seven of hearts.

  “That’s a good thing,” I said. “We’ll learn twice as much. Now remember, ask about the other players. Tell them you knew Andrew; ask—”

  “Kitzi, I’m here. That’s about as much as you can expect of me at the moment.”

  “Are you about to have an anxiety attack?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m about to have a heart attack. Damn, I wish I’d brought my beadwork. That would have calmed me down.”

  “Next time you’ll know,” I said. “Well, good luck.”

  “There won’t be a next time. And same to you.” She went off to find the hearts table.

  In front of Beth I had remained cool, but the truth is I was shaking in my lime green shoes. Here’s what I realized: I can play poker, I can speak to a room full of people, and I can have red hair, but I can’t play poker in a room full of people when I have red hair and I’m wearing weird clothes. Or, maybe I can, but it seemed like a lot to ask.

  I reminded myself that I was doing this primarily for Rebecca and secondarily because I’d thought it would be a hoot. I needed to get into character and start having some fun.

  I found the spades table right away and took my spot where the ace was. “Evenin’, gentlemen,” I said, seating myself. I could feel myself falling into Texas-good-ol’-boy speak. In Texas it’s a way for a woman to fit in when she otherwise wouldn’t.

  There were two college kids, one with frizzy black hair and a floppy beige fishing hat, and a second with red hair. Not as red as mine, but close. He was wearing a T-shirt from Las Vegas. I wondered if that impressed the other players.

  “Hey,” one of them said in response to my greeting. The red-haired one nodded.

  There was a man about my age, nice looking, with salt-and-pepper hair and green-gold eyes. Cat’s eyes. He was talking with a guy of about thirty who had a shaved head and a Texas Longhorns T-shirt. They looked up at me, nodded, and went back to their conversation.

  The cowboy from outside walked up, turned one of the chairs around, and straddled it. “Howdy,” he said to the table in general.

  There were mumbled hellos before the guy with the stapler T-shirt sat down, followed by a mousy young woman. That was it. We had a full table, and no one had introduced themselves or shaken hands. I guess that’s protocol when you might be arrested; that way you can’t rat on anybody else.

  The woman from the front door was suddenly at my elbow. “Deal ’em up.”

  Someone handed me a deck of cards, and the tournament started.

  “Blinds,” the young woman said, and the two college kids counted out a few of their chips.

  I stood up to deal, because if I’m sitting down I can’t get the cards all the way across the table, and wouldn’t you know, first thing, I flipped a card. “Shit.”

  The good-looking man said, “Make that your burn card for the next deal.”

  “Sure.” I was handed back the card, and I placed it facedown in the middle of the table and finished the deal. By the time I looked at my own cards I was hoping for something really terrible so I could fold and concentrate on dealing. I got two aces. Pocket aces, as they’re called, since no one else can see them.

  The stapler guy said, “What are the denominations on the chips?”

  I can’t tell you how grateful I was that he asked so I didn’t have to. Betting went around the table, and when it came to me I said, “I call.” And put out my chips.

  Time for the flop. I remembered to move the burn card, and then I dealt three cards facedown in the center and turned them over quickly. Two-king-ace. I now had three aces. I was going to end up winning this hand, and that had not been my intention.

  This time I raised, half the table folded, and the cat’s-eyes guy raised me back. I dealt one more card in the middle—a six. More betting. I was still raising, and everyone dropped out until it was just the good-looking cat’s-eyes guy and me. One last card, a two of hearts, more bets, and a good third of my stack was on the table. If I didn’t win, it would be a very short evening.

  We showed our cards. I had a full house with aces and twos. The guy tossed his cards in, facedown.

  “I guess you’ve played this game before,” he said.

  “Mostly with my grandkids,” I admitted, collecting the chips.

  Twenty minutes later I looked at the thirty-year-old with the shaved head. “You know, you’re about the same age as a friend of mine. He plays here, too.”

  He grunted and put his gaze right back on his cards. Not much interest there. I picked up my two cards and found they were both kings. With this run of luck, I might have to go to the Bellagio in Las Vegas.

  The flop, the three center cards, we
re put down: jack-king-ten. I could almost see the salivating around the table as everyone decided which cards they’d need to make a straight. I was looking at three kings and hoping they’d hold. The fourth card was a five, so we lost a raft of bidders. It was just the cat’s-eyes man and me left.

  “I bet,” he said, putting out a stack of green chips, which were the next to the highest.

  I nodded. “Okay, I raise.” And I put out twice as many.

  He raised again. “There you go.”

  I smiled sweetly. “Do you know who you’re betting against?” I asked.

  “Yes, and I’m quaking in my boots, but I can’t back down now.”

  “In that case, I call.”

  The fifth card was dealt to the middle of the table and it was a seven. Cat’s Eyes made a bet, and I raised it; I was pretty sure I had him. He called, and we both flipped our cards. My three kings won.

  One of the college kids said to me, “Who are your grandkids, anyway? World Poker Tour champs?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “They’re only five.”

  Eventually I started settling in, winning a few and losing a few. Two players from our table were already out of the tournament. One of the college kids—the one with the red hair—and the cowboy. At different times they’d gone all-in, betting their whole stack, and hadn’t won the hand. I decided it was time to try asking about Andrew before any more went out.

  I looked straight at the thirtyish guy with the shaved head. I used good-ol’-boy speak. “I didn’t hear what you said last time. Did you say you knew my friend Andrew Lynch?”

  Shave head shrugged. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “About five-eleven, slender, dark-haired with some gray at the sides?” Most of the players were looking at their cards.

  Under other circumstances I might have mentioned, politely, how rude it is not to answer when someone asks you a question. Especially when that someone happens to be your elder, but since I wasn’t in familiar territory I wasn’t sure the same rules applied. Maybe I was being rude by talking. I gave it one more try. “Andrew handles investments for a living.” I was careful to keep it in the present tense.