by Maia Chance
I uncapped the water bottle and took a swig. “I hate this town.”
“No, you don’t. You’re hating yourself. It’ll pass.” She pulled the little red string to unseal the plastic wrapping around her pack of cigarettes.
“You can’t smoke at a gas station,” I said. “The entire thing will blow up.”
“Then we’d better get going.”
I stood. I felt dizzy. “Does every single speck of plooey have to hit the fan at the exact same time?”
“Apparently.”
We were climbing into the Dustbuster when Effie’s phone, still in my hands, rang. My heart juddered. Otis! Otis was calling back to say he’d made a huge mistake and he still loves me!
I knocked the phone in the abyss between the seat and the door, and I had to open the door to fish it out.
But when I saw the screen, it wasn’t Otis calling.
I pushed ANSWER. “Hello? Chester?”
“Agnes!” A tinny, excited woman’s voice said with a lot of road noise in the background.
“Lo?”
“Yes, bubbeleh, it’s Lo, and I’m in the car with Chester—”
“And her husband!” Myron cried in the background. “Even though I’m pretty sure she wishes it was Josh Groban—”
“Shush,” Lo said, sounding as if she’d put a hand over the phone. Then, louder, “We’re tailing the mark.”
“Who’s Mark?” This was too much for my brain, already overloaded with adrenaline and grief.
“Not Mark,” Lo said impatiently. “The mark.”
“Start at the beginning,” I said. “Weren’t you going to stake out Darrell Dvorak’s apartment in Rochester?”
“We were,” Lo said. “I mean, we did. And we saw him come out, get into his car, and start driving. He went all the way out to an all-night diner at a truck stop on the Thruway.”
“Okaaay,” I said.
“It gets better, don’t worry,” Lo said. “By the way, are you in bed?”
“No, I’m actually sitting here in the minivan at a gas station with Aunt Effie. Why?”
“Perfect! Start driving while I talk.”
“Start driving?”
“Toward the Thruway. Believe me. You’ll want to.”
“Okay, sure.” Why not? Heck, the night had already reached Looney Tunes levels of ridiculous, so why stop now? I put the phone on speaker, turned up the volume, and put it on the console. Then I pushed the key into the ignition, and we were off. Effie didn’t protest; she was complacently smoking.
“Okay,” I said to Lo, loud enough to be heard over the vroom of the Dustbuster’s engine. “Keep going.”
“Well, that awful man had a tall stack of pancakes, sausages, and three—no, maybe four—cups of coffee,” Lo said.
“Made my bladder hurt just watching him,” Myron said.
“Can we fast-forward to the part where I find out why I’m driving to the Thruway in the middle of the night?” I said.
There was some rustling, possibly some cursing, and then Lauren was on the line. “Agnes,” she said briskly, “Hi. Here’s the thing. Darrell had some kind of business meeting with a really sketch-looking guy at the all-night diner during which an envelope changed hands, and now he is this very second pulling into the Lakewinds Casino parking garage.”
“Lakewinds Casino?” I said.
“Oh, my,” Effie murmured.
“He’s either a compulsive gambler,” Lauren said, “or he works at the casino. We thought you’d want to know. We can keep track of him until you and Effie get here. Call us when you do. Got it?”
“Uh—”
“Great.” Lauren hung up.
“It seems as though we might be about to find out what Darrell was doing in Naneda,” Effie said.
“Guess so.” I stepped harder on the gas.
*
It was 11:51 when I pulled into the parking garage of Lakewinds Casino. As Effie and I rode the parking garage elevator down to the casino entrance, I dialed Chester’s number.
“Yeah?” Chester said. It sounded as if he was eating something.
“We’re here.”
“Great. We’re in the Spirit Rock Lounge. Don’t ask. There’s nothing spiritual about it except for the liquor fumes.”
“And Darrell?”
“He’s tending the bar.”
Fist pump! “There in a minute.”
Effie and I went through a side entrance into a vast, gaudily carpeted, low-ceilinged room filled with blinking, bleeping slot machines. I saw only two people playing—if you could call that slack-faced, robotic punching of touchscreens “play.” It looked more like garden-variety compulsive despair to me.
Speaking of compulsive despair … I needed carbs. Like, now.
Next, we passed through a slightly less depressing room full of blackjack and poker tables. There was only one of each game going. The rest of the tables sat empty. This wasn’t Vegas.
Effie took big sucks of the air. “I just adore casino air.”
“Because you don’t even have to light up to get a nicotine rush?”
“No, because they pump oxygen in.”
“Really?”
“Mm. Keeps you feeling great. They want you to feel great so they can keep taking your money. It’s a win-win.”
We went out into a shopping atrium area, complete with naturalistic fountains. All the shops—selling jewelry, techno gadgets, and tart-wear—were closed, with metal grills pulled down tight. We studied the directory next to the all-glass elevator.
“There,” I said, pointing to the map. “Spirit Rock Lounge. Mezzanine level.”
Up we went. My heart was pounding in anticipation of talking to Darrell Dvorak. I couldn’t stop picturing the gun he’d pulled on me at the funeral home.
We entered the bar, which was dim, pulsating pop music, and smelling faintly of bleach. Only a few tables were occupied, and we found Lauren, Chester, Myron, and Lo at a table under a curve of faux rock.
“Where is he?” I said softly.
Lauren tipped her head in the direction of the bar.
I turned.
My belly did a triple Salchow.
Darrell stood behind the bar, wearing a black mandarin-collared shirt with a name tag on it, pouring liquor into a jigger. A male barfly was draped on a stool nearby.
“Go get ’im, slugger,” Chester said.
“Yes, do,” Effie said, sliding into a chair next to Lo. “And while you’re at it, would you order me an extra-dry vodka martini, extra olives? Oh—and see if they have potato vodka. I’m going gluten free.”
“I’m doing this alone?” I said.
“I think that would be best,” Effie said. “So he doesn’t feel bullied, you know.”
For the love of Mike. “Okay, fine. Anyone else want a drink?”
I’d meant that to be sarcastic, but Lauren said, “Yeah, a lemon drop,” and Chester said, “I’m good. I’m the designated driver.” He puffed his chest in Lauren’s direction. “Also, I’m training.”
“For what?” she said. “A poetry slam?”
I walked slowly to the bar. I leaned against it and cleared my throat.
“Help you?” Darrell said, not looking up from his mixing.
“I, um, need … we need to talk.”
“Thas what my ex-wife is always thaying,” the barfly slurred.
Darrell looked up and squinched his eyes at me. “Wait a minute—do I know you?”
“Sort of.”
“You’re the weirdo who was going through my wallet!”
“And you’re the weirdo who pulled a gun on me.”
“You deserved it.”
“We have some unfinished business.”
“That right?” Darrell plopped a drink in front of the barfly, and liquor sloshed.
I fully expected Darrell to try to intimidate me. Instead, he strode in the opposite direction, passing the shelves of liquor, and shoved through a swinging door.
If this were an actio
n film, I would’ve vaulted over the bar and chased him down. Alas, although my sweatpants might’ve been able to handle such a feat, my body said forget it.
Darrell was getting away.
“Can I help you, hon?” someone said.
I turned to see a female bartender approaching from the other direction. She had an aggressive push-up bra, wrinkles between her tanning salon–ravaged cleavage, a moussed blonde updo, and loops of thick black eyeliner around faded eyes. She could’ve been thirty or sixty. Her name tag said BRITT.
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah. I, um—I wanted to talk to Darrell.”
“What, you one of his exes? Don’t you gals know better than to come to a man’s place of work and give him the shakedown? If he’s a deadbeat dad, talk to a lawyer.”
“No, it’s not—I’m not one of his exes.”
Britt looked me over. “Yeah, I guess you don’t really look like Darrell’s type.”
As if my night couldn’t get any worse, now I wasn’t even up to nasty, probably-criminal Darrell’s standards? Jeez.
“Darrell wasn’t in to work yesterday, was he?” I said.
“Nope. Said he was sick.”
“You don’t believe he was?”
“Let’s just say that he has a side business.”
Well, well, well. “Which is?”
“Can’t say.”
“I’m a good tipper,” I said.
“Oh, yeah? How good?”
“Um—” I burrowed into my bag. Keys, Tums, Snickers bar, eyebrow pencils galore, wallet. I took out my wallet and unzipped it. “All I have is two dollars in cash—but I could credit card it.”
“How about you give me that Snickers, and we’ll call it a deal? I’m starved.”
I thunked the Snickers on the bar. It disappeared into Britt’s apron pocket. Her eyes roved the bar, settling briefly on the barfly. I guess she decided that the barfly was too drunk to eavesdrop, because she leaned closer and whispered, “I heard Darrell’s a twister.”
I frowned. “A twister?” I pictured Darrell playing Twister with Britt. Not pretty. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he gets paid to twist peoples’ arms.”
“What people?”
“People who owe his boss money.”
Oh. Oh.
“You mean … his boss here at the casino?”
“No, I mean his boss the loan shark.”
That took a second to sink in. “A loan shark who loans money to … gamblers?”
Britt shook her head. “You sure are one little greeny, aren’t you? Yeah. Loan sharks loan to gamblers. At ten percent interest a week, I hear, and if you don’t pay up, well, that can be a problem, if you know what I mean.”
I had been toying with the idea of still trying to corner Darrell. But, what with his gun, the loan shark, and his twister side hustle, that was now seeming like an exceptionally bad idea.
“How come you’re checking up on Darrell, anyway?” Britt asked.
“I’m a private detective.”
Britt laughed. “You? In those sweatpants? Sweetheart.”
“I need a lemon drop and an extra-dry gluten-free vodka martini,” I said stiffly.
Chapter 28
After I carried the drinks back to the table, in a hushed voice I filled everyone in on what Britt had told me about Darrell Dvorak. “Theory,” I said. “Someone in Naneda has a gambling problem. They borrowed money from a loan shark and didn’t pay him back, so the loan shark sent in their twister to breathe down their neck.”
“Clarification: the killer has a gambling problem,” Chester said. “The killer took Mikey’s cash. The killer likely took Clifford’s cash.”
“That’s easy, then,” Myron said. “Which one of your murder suspects has a gambling problem?”
“Randy plays poker,” I said. “Then there’s Belinda. Could she be a compulsive gambler?”
“Hard to picture,” Effie said. She tamped out her cigarette and in the same fluid motion, pulled another from the pack and stuck it between her lips. Snick went the lighter. “Then there is Karen and eBay.”
“What?” I said. “eBay?”
“We know she’s obsessed with bidding on used designer shoes on eBay, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t that a kind of gambling? The thrill of the clock running out, escalating the bid at the last second, and so forth?”
“Kinda sounds like you at an estate sale, Aunt Effie,” Chester said.
I said, “That the killer is a gambler makes sense, too, since, you know, bludgeoning people to death is risky behavior.” I waved smoke out of my face. “I want to get out of here. We’ve learned what we came here to find out, and”—I glanced over at the bar—“I don’t want to run into Darrell, like, ever again.”
“Don’t you want to stop by the all-you-can-eat buffet?” Lo asked. “It’s open.”
“Nope.”
“I heard they have great curly fries and General Tso’s chicken.”
Normally I make detours for curly fries, but this loan shark stuff had killed my appetite. “Let’s go.”
*
On the road, Effie and I didn’t talk much. Between learning about the Peeper Prize bribe conspiracy, that Darrell Dvorak was a twister, and that the killer was very likely a gambler who was in over their head, we had a lot to process.
And, despite knowing all that juicy stuff, I just felt … sad. Deflated. I just wanted to quit investigating, yet how the heck could I quit without first clearing Otis’s name?
Even though he had dumped me. The reality of that was so excruciating, it didn’t even fully register. Maybe I was in shock.
“What’s next?” I asked Aunt Effie as I turned onto the Naneda exit.
“Figure out which one of our suspects is a compulsive gambler.”
“How?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Ask their families if they frequent the casinos, I suppose? We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
“We’re running out of time. We’re supposed to go to the police station tomorrow right after the parade.”
“I’m well aware of that. But we must get some sleep.”
*
I tossed and turned in bed. Tiger Boy had inexplicably joined me, and he curled at my feet, purring like a chainsaw. I hoped the fleas would keep to their end of the bed.
I had just about given up on sleeping, my digital alarm clock glowing 4:56, when I must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, it was bleeping me awake. I slammed it off and sat blearily up.
Three hours of sleep. I was in hell.
And yet, my day of hamming it up on a pumpkin float, desperately trying to unmask a compulsively gambling killer, being shunned by the love of my life, and possibly being arrested for breaking and entering had just begun.
I needed coffee and carbs, STAT. Good thing it was my turn to go to the Flour Girl Bakery to pick up brekkie for everyone.
I went out into the chilly dawn, bundled in my puffer jacket and wearing my backup glasses. The lenses were a little scratched, making the misty morning look even fuzzier. The Dustbuster was icy inside, and I hunkered behind the steering wheel.
When I turned onto the road, I noticed a blue Prius parked beside the hedge, but I couldn’t see who was behind the wheel, and I didn’t much care.
I drove toward downtown.
The Prius followed.
I sped up a little.
So did the Prius.
Okay. Someone was stalking me. Great. I was so sick of the whole thing, I didn’t feel panicked or frightened so much as weary.
I pulled into a spot in front of Flour Girl.
The Prius rolled past. I peered into my rearview mirror but still couldn’t make out who was behind the wheel.
And anyway, they were gone. Maybe the whole following thing had been a coincidence.
I was sitting at a table in the bakery, sipping my latte and waiting for the rest of my order, when someone sank into the chair opposite me. I looked
up from the newspaper I’d been leafing through.
It was Hugh Simonian, the Peeper Prize judge, with a smattering of stubble, a slept-in-looking plaid shirt, and a down vest.
“Well, hello, little lamb,” he drawled.
“Hello, snoogums.” Hugh had left Randy’s garage the previous night before Effie and I had been discovered, so this probably wasn’t about that. I slapped the newspaper shut. “That was you in the Prius, I assume. What is it this time?”
Hugh snorted. “That’s rich. Cool as a cucumber, aren’t you? Why aren’t you returning my calls?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if this is about that date that you so kindly offered me, the answer is no thanks.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Hugh said. “The fact that you’re just not my type?”
“What?”
“Indulging in a little revenge? Yeah. Okay. I get it.”
“Why are you following me?” I cried. “I am so sick of shenanigans!”
“Shenanigans?” Hugh leaned in and lowered his voice. “You blackmail me for seven grand and then get all cute on me?”
Hold on just one ever-lovin’ minute. Blackmail?
Hugh slouched back in his chair and folded his arms. “Don’t worry. We’re still on for nine fifty at the community pool—yeah, I can tell by the look on your face that you’re worried about the bargain—”
He could?
“—and I need a little more time to get the funds together, but I wanted to clarify something before you go and get too high on your own cleverness.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
Hugh sneered. “Tough as nails, huh? No one would know it by looking at you. Well, joke’s on you, because I have technology on my side, and tech always wins. You listen up.” He stabbed a finger at me. “After I give that stupid speech right after the parade today, I’m outta there. I’m due at the opening ceremony for the foliage festival in Montpelier, Vermont, and I don’t want to make the hippies impatient. A lot of them are Wiccans.”
“Okaaaay,” I said.
“I’m warning you, if there are any other copies of that file—even if I find out you emailed it to yourself—this town is toast.”
“Toast?”
“You may be squeezing me for cash, little lamb, but I’ve got insurance. I engineered North America’s number one leaf-peeping app. If it turns out any copies of that recording remain, or if you breathed a word about it to anyone, I destroy Naneda with my app.”