“It’s settled then.” The heavyset man sighed deeply. “So what about the boyfriend?”
The older man’s expression hardened as he rose from the table. “Do what you think best. I have no interest in him.”
Happy Smith wheeled another load of rubbish up to the industrial Dumpster. The wind whistled down the canyon and he shivered as he zipped up his windbreaker. The foreman would be plenty surprised when he came up the mountain tomorrow and found all the construction trash and debris hauled away.
A strange set of circumstances had prompted Happy to start work one day early. It had to do with the mission and their Sunday schedule. First they fed you the food, a nice chicken dinner with soup and mashed potatoes and little green peas. But then, after the apple pie that Miss Alden made in a big pan for the men she called her lambs, she herded them all into the chapel to say prayers all afternoon.
Happy had already resigned himself when he’d heard Miss Alden tell another man that he’d better hurry or he’d be late to work. And that had given him the idea. The slip from the foreman was in his pocket and he’d folded it over so the date didn’t show. Miss Alden had been so excited about his job that she’d given him a nice yellow windbreaker and a pair of gloves from the charity box. And Sam, an old wino who’d been at the mission since they’d opened the doors, had loaned Happy his horseshoe ring for luck.
Happy turned around to stare at the building on Deer Creek Road. The foreman had told him it was almost finished, a high-rise with nine condos that took up a whole floor apiece. Even though he wasn’t supposed to do any cleanup inside the building, Happy had been itching to see those million dollar condos.
The parking garage was wide open, its iron security gates propped up by the entrance, waiting to be installed. Happy hurried in and climbed the stairs to the first floor. He knew he was snooping, but he wouldn’t touch a thing. No one would ever know he’d been inside.
When Happy opened the door to the first floor condo, he gasped out loud. It was carpeted with the thickest rug he’d ever seen, plenty soft enough to sleep on. And the rooms were so big they could hold every one of Miss Alden’s lambs, without anyone ever bumping into anyone else.
There was a smile on Happy’s face as he wandered through the rooms, trying to imagine being rich enough to live in such a place. The kitchen looked as if it belonged in a restaurant, with a walk-in freezer, a mammoth stove with four ovens, and enough shelves in the pantry to store food for a year.
After he had peeked into each of the rooms, Happy decided to head straight up to the penthouse. The foreman had told him they were putting a whole spa up there. Happy didn’t see how they could build a pool without digging a hole in the ground, but the foreman had assured him that was exactly what they were doing.
It took time to climb up nine flights of stairs, and even though he stopped to rest at several landings, Happy was panting when he pushed open the door to the penthouse. The sight that awaited him made him gasp in awe. Metal girders curved around in a series of interlocking arches to make a domed ceiling. It wasn’t finished yet, but several panes of glass were in place and Happy could see that there would be an unobstructed view in all directions. He stopped to look out at Mount Charleston and watched the pattern of the clouds just brushing its peak.
The view was so spectacular that, for a few moments, Happy lost himself in contemplation, forgetting the man-made marvels at his feet. Then he whistled in awe as he gazed down at the immense hole in the floor, lined with steel beams. He guessed they needed all that reinforcement because the pool was all the way up on top of the building. He’d watched some men put in a backyard pool once, but all they’d done was prepare the hole, install all the pipes, and drop in one of those premade shells.
There was the sound of a motor outside and Happy looked out to see a brown van pull into the driveway. When the doors opened and two men got out, Happy ducked behind one of the girders. His heart was beating fast and he rubbed Sam’s horseshoe ring for luck. If the foreman was down there, he’d be in big trouble.
The men walked around to the back of the van and Happy sighed, relieved that he’d never seen those two men before. They opened the back door and helped another man out. He was staggering a little and Happy could see that he’d had too much to drink. They must have gone to a party and now they were taking their friend for a little walk to sober him up before taking him home.
The men looked startled as Happy leaned out and shouted, but they promised to give him a ride back to the mission. He should stay put and they’d come up to get him.
Happy was smiling as he walked back to explore the rest of the spa. If he’d watched just a moment longer, he would have seen that one of the men carried a gun. And that the third man was staggering because his hands were tied behind his back.
Chapter One
The Castle Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada
Lyle Marshall was smiling as he threaded his way past a group of high rollers at the craps table. He’d signed the papers this morning and now he was officially retired. Since he’d made a hell of a profit by selling his share of Paradise Development to his partner, Marc Davies, he could afford to plunk down a sizable bet, but Charlotte was waiting in the banquet room and he didn’t want to be late to his own twenty-fifth wedding anniversary bash.
A short stocky man in his early fifties, Lyle was dressed in a custom-made gray linen suit. Charlotte always went to the tailor with him, choosing the material and cut that looked best. She also picked out his shirts and ties, even the smoking jacket she insisted he wear at home. Charlotte was a lady of impeccable taste.
A huge blond woman, slightly resembling Brunhilde in the one opera Charlotte had dragged him to, hit a jackpot on the nickel slots. Bells rang, lights flashed, and she let out a shriek that deafened everyone within earshot. Lyle grinned; definitely a soprano. Charlotte was the founder of the Friends of the Las Vegas Civic Light Opera Company and was always complaining about the lack of good strong sopranos.
Lyle sidestepped the gawking tourists and entered the restaurant. An almost palpable sense of relief came over him as the piped-in music muted the clatter of the slot machines outside. Vegas was hard on the ears. And on the savings account. If Charlotte ever guessed how much of their money had been converted into chips and scooped up by the croupier, she’d kill him.
They’d come in the sixties as newlyweds. Charlotte had wanted to stay near her parents in Arlington, Virginia, but he’d convinced her that a real estate agent could make it big in a town like Vegas. The casinos employed a lot of people and all of them needed housing. There was a hell of a turnover, too.
From day one Charlotte had complained about the glitz, the heat, and what she called the gambler mentality. It was true there wasn’t much culture, and the young city had little historical heritage. All those things meant a lot to Charlotte, but she missed the change of seasons most of all. Smack in the middle of the desert, Vegas didn’t really have much weather to speak of. The wind blew a little harder in the winter, and the nights got colder, but that was about it. Shifting sand, bright lights, dry heat, and the feeling of being caught in the middle of a never-ending party—that described Vegas.
Marc and Lyle had formed Paradise Development fifteen years ago and it had been a growing concern from the very first day. Marc was a wizard at finding prime building sites at ridiculously low prices, and Lyle pre-sold the houses he built. The only fly in the ointment had been Charlotte, but Marc had solved that one, too.
It had all started two years ago, when Marc picked up some great mountain property dirt cheap. One look at the land and Charlotte had fallen in love. There were trees that turned colors in the fall, snow in the winter, wildflowers in the spring, and real summer thunderstorms. They’d contracted with Paul Lindstrom, their architect of choice, to design the perfect apartment cluster, to feature an exclusive country club type environment. Given the slope of their mountain site, Paul had designed a high-rise building, each unit consistin
g of an entire floor individually tailored to suit the occupant’s needs. There were two common areas. The garage and the penthouse spa, complete with pool, jacuzzi, sauna, tennis court, weight room, and jogging track. Totally enclosed by a climate-controlled glass dome, the spa afforded a spectacular view of the Mount Charleston area.
Charlotte and Lyle had moved in last year along with eight other couples who’d passed Charlotte’s muster. Like one of those blue-blooded clubs back in Virginia, its members had to be perfect or they couldn’t buy in. Charlotte loved the view from their eighth floor condo, thirty-five minutes from Vegas on Deer Creek Road. “Mountain living at its finest” was the phrase she’d used two years in a row on their Christmas cards.
“Hi, Mr. Marshall.” The hostess, a leggy blond in a slit skirt that left very little to the imagination, greeted him with a perfect smile. “Everyone in your party is here except for Mr. Davies. He called and said he’ll be delayed a few minutes.”
Lyle grinned as he followed her to the plush private banquet room Johnny Day had reserved for the occasion. Lyle had always liked Johnny. He seemed like a regular guy, and Lyle had recommended him for membership in their Deer Creek Development, even though there were rumors about his womanizing. An Italian lounge singer who’d had a couple of hit records, Johnny’s passion was mechanical musical instruments, and he had a whole warehouse full of antique music boxes of all sizes, along with player pianos and giant orchestrions. The orchestrions were fascinating—built in Europe before the turn of the century, the elaborately carved wooden cabinets contained string instruments, horns, woodwinds, and percussion. Johnny had explained that the orchestrions in his collection operated just like player pianos. The mechanical arms that drew the bows across the strings, the bellows that pumped air into the wind instruments, the levers that activated the drums, and the cymbals were all cued by a roll of pre-punched music. Charlotte, though a loyal supporter of classical symphony, admitted that the sound the orchestrions produced was nothing short of incredible for its day.
It had been touch and go overcoming Charlotte’s aversion to anyone in show business, but now Johnny owned the fourth floor unit. Johnny’s collection had done the trick. When Lyle had first introduced them, Johnny had presented Charlotte with a heart-shaped music box he claimed had belonged to Queen Victoria. It might even have been true.
Charlotte was sitting at the head of a table decorated with white satin wedding bells and roses, an empty chair next to her. Lyle stopped in the doorway and gaped at his wife of twenty-five years. The long brown hair, always worn high on her head in a French twist, was gone. Through the wonders of modern cosmetology it had been lightened to a golden cap cut in a fluffy feathered style. Lyle blinked, then started to grin. It looked pretty damn good. She was wearing a bright pink jersey dress with a short skirt and it clung to her in all the right places. Charlotte’s figure had always been good, but she’d been going to exercise classes for the past six months and there was definitely something to be said for all the toning and tightening. Lyle felt like he’d just been presented with a brand-new wife.
“Hello, darling! You’re just in time.” Charlotte had spotted him in the doorway and Lyle crossed the room to kiss her. Jayne Peters and Johnny Day were playing show tunes at the piano and Lyle notice that Johnny was pale beneath his tan, a telltale sign to anyone who knew him well. Johnny had been gambling again and things hadn’t gone well for him.
“Let’s do our song, Jayne.” Johnny switched on the microphone and they both started to croon.
Darling, when you’re old and decrepit
And liver spots make you look like a leopard,
I’ll stick with you through stormy or sunny
’Cause you’re the one with all the money.
Charlotte giggled and pulled Lyle down into his chair. “That’s awful! You must have written it, Jayne.”
“Don’t shoot. I confess.” Jayne raised her hands in mock surrender. A petite woman in her late thirties with high cheekbones, her jet black hair was pulled back into two long braids. She was wearing a white satin cowboy shirt embroidered with red roses, white jeans studded with rhinestones, and red high-heeled cowboy boots. Since Jayne wrote strictly country-western songs, her agent had insisted on the cowgirl image. Public admission that her family name was Petrono-vitch and her parents had emigrated from Russia could be disastrous.
“Good afternoon, Lyle.” Jayne’s husband and Paradise Developments architect, Paul Lindstrom, stood up and extended his hand. A quiet man whom Jayne called her “textbook Norseman,” Paul spoke slowly and precisely. As always, he was impeccably dressed in a snowy white shirt and dress slacks. At slightly over six feet tall and in his early forties, Paul was slim and fashionable, the only discordant note being his unruly halo of sandy hair. It reminded Lyle of pictures of Einstein and gave Paul the look of a sleepy lion.
“Hi, Paul.” Lyle reached out automatically to complete the handshake. Paul had never dropped his Norwegian habit of rising to shake hands whenever anyone entered the room. When Paul and Jayne had first moved into the ninth floor unit on Deer Creek Road, his firm handshake and polite bob of head had driven Lyle crazy. There were handshakes in the sauna, on the tennis court, and in the hallways. It had taken Lyle quite a while to get used to Paul’s curious habit, but all the women in the building, including Charlotte, found the ritual utterly charming.
“Look at the lovely flowers Darby brought us.” Charlotte gestured toward the centerpiece, a massive bouquet of roses.
Lyle turned to smile at Darby Roberts. Clayton and Darby lived on the fifth floor and Paul had designed a large domed greenhouse garden. “Yours?”
Darby nodded. “The yellow ones in the middle are my own hybrid. I’ve been working on them for years, and Clayton registered them with the association last week. I named them Marshall Golds and that’s my anniversary present. Smell ’em, Lyle.”
Darby smiled as Lyle bent over to inhale the fragrance. She was a small dark-haired woman, so thin her skin resembled white parchment stretched over a road map of blue veins. On the other hand her husband, their resident lawyer, wanted to look healthy, tan, and athletic and gave his workouts the same priority as his appointments with clients. At eight every evening, Clayton arrived at the rooftop spa, spending five minutes in the tanning booth, followed by twenty-five minutes on the exercise bike. Next came a fifteen minute sauna and then thirty laps in the pool. Despite his efforts, Clayton still carried a roll of flab around his waist, and Lyle knew why. Clayton indulged himself with three-martini lunches at Alfredo’s, where the entree was always pasta.
“Here’s the paperwork.” Clayton pulled a legal document from his pocket and presented it to Charlotte. “I personally checked the registration form. Since it didn’t cover several salient points, I constructed an addendum, which gives you clear title and protection against unauthorized use.”
“Thank you, Clayton.” Lyle tried to match Clayton’s serious expression. He didn’t give a damn if anyone wanted to grow Marshall roses, but it was obviously important to Darby and Clayton.
“I’ve got a present for you, too.” Johnny Day stood up and motioned to a waiter who was hovering in the background. Almost immediately, twelve silver ice buckets were wheeled out, each containing a bottle of Dom Perignon.
“Oh, Johnny,” Charlotte clapped her hands. “My absolute favorite champagne!”
“Your absolute favorite caviar, too.” Johnny nodded and the waiter produced a crystal bowl filled with the finest Beluga caviar. “This is just the appetizer. I’ll let Marc tell you about the rest of the meal when he gets here.”
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2014 by H.L. Swensen, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2013955215
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8037-4
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2014
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8039-8
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8039-4
First Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2014
Blackberry Pie Murder (A Hannah Swensen Mystery) Page 31