Charlie wondered if he did. “Does Evan have any connections to organized crime?”
“Everybody does. It’s big business now. International. We all brush up against it. Trick is to ignore it. Pretend you don’t know. Safer that way.”
In a way she didn’t really want to inspect, Charlie knew what he meant. She’d wondered about Richard more than once too, but it’s not that easy to question a paycheck.
“Richard, is Louis Deloese really Toby’s uncle? Evan and Mel teased him so about all his uncles and Toby claimed he didn’t know it was the Hilton that would be hit that night.”
“Family has different meanings for different people. Toby Johnson was obviously for hire—Evan would know he had a relationship to Loopy’s, and wouldn’t want Louie to know which casino to bet on.”
“For hire—you mean Evan could have hired Toby to kill Patrick Thompson and Officer Graden with his limo?”
“Charlie, what did I tell ya? Lay off Black. Somebody connected to Groom Lake, the Janet Terminal, and all that hired Sleem and Boyles to take out the pilot who was bringing secret stuff out of the base. They use one of uncle Elmo’s limos to run him and the bicycle cop down so it’ll be blamed on Toby.”
“Who has connections with both Evan and Loopy Louie.”
“So Toby takes them out when him and Mel catch them ransacking Evan’s house. And look, Charlie, when Evan’s project is on the screen, he’s going to get even with the real murderers—the guys that hired Sleem and Boyles. You got to deal with what’s out there—not what you wish was there. Okay? Is it clear now?”
No, it wasn’t clear and it wasn’t okay. But after two nights and three days without sleep, Charlie was fading fast. “Wake me up when we get there.”
* * *
Charlie and her ulcer slept and ate and lounged at home for the rest of the week, trying to recover from their vacation. They had lots of help from the little condo community.
Betty Beesom showed up with her famous creamy chicken noodle supreme, which owed much of its flavor to Campbell’s condensed soup and the baked-to-crunchy buttered crumb topping. Probably four thousand calories a bite, but soothing.
“Cut up hard-boiled eggs in it, knowing how you like eggs.” Food from Betty came with Betty-to-dine, which once annoyed Charlie. But she’d come to depend on it in times of stress.
Mrs. Beesom’s hair grew whiter, her paper-thin skin more mottled, her busy steps a tad slower. But her curiosity and her prominent tummy hadn’t shrunk. They sat at the table in the breakfast nook, which was part of the kitchen but enclosed by high-backed booth seats that ended in a sunny window. It was Charlie’s favorite part of the house.
Betty began with the news Charlie’d missed encountering dead bodies and not playing blackjack. Jeremy’s latest live-in had moved out, and good riddance. Couldn’t have been much older than Libby, sat around on Jeremy’s patio picking her nose and reading filthy magazines. Maggie Stutzman came home two nights in a row real late during the workweek, and single-women lawyers ought to know better. “Just hope it’s not some Mr. Candy Bar.”
That nice Esterhazie boy appeared to be hanging around again. Betty, who had been not too fond of Doug Esterhazie several years ago, hoped his reappearance meant Libby would shuck that Eric, who drove such a noisy car.
And Tuxedo, when not busy peeing on Charlie’s shoes, had apparently been busy fighting with Hairy, who lived across the alley from Betty. “Enough to wake the dead.”
That last word, of course, leading back to Charlie’s vacation. So she gave her neighbor a shortened version of her trip to Las Vegas and pushed her plate away, her stomach swollen with PMS and creamed chicken noodle supreme with boiled eggs.
“That was just wonderful, Mrs. Beesom.”
“Well, I should think you needed every bite. Sounds like you spent most of your vacation throwing up.” Betty motioned for Charlie to stay seated and rinsed their plates, put the glass lid on the casserole, and put it in Charlie’s refrigerator.
Her hand on the doorknob, Betty Beesom paused to blink tired, watery eyes. “Seems to me, next time you take a vacation? You might consider just staying home. We won’t tell anybody.”
* * *
Jeremy Fiedler, who lived behind Maggie, dropped by when he saw Charlie on her sunken patio with yesterday’s Hollywood Reporter.
He had receding reddish brown hair, a Ferrari, and a Trail-blazer. Charlie figured he was a trust-funder. His job description changed often, but he never worked regular hours. Right now, he fancied himself a landscape architect but spent more time working out at his health club than architecting.
Tuxedo appeared from nowhere to jump on his lap when he sat in a chair facing her. “I understand from Mrs. Snoopy, you ran into some trouble in Vegas.”
Charlie was halfway through describing her murder-filled vacation once again when the cordless bleeped next to her.
“Evan, tell me you’re not in jail.”
Evan was in Spain. So was Mitch Hilsten.
“How can you film Conspiracy in Spain? And you can’t call it that. Too soon after the Mel Gibson one.”
“You can film anything in Spain. It’ll mix great with what we’ve got in the can. And we’re going to call it Paranoia Will Destroy Ya.”
“That’s the Kinks. You can’t—”
“Recognized it right away, didn’t you? We’re talking immediate name recognition. It’ll get out the baby-boomer gray heads even.”
“Your critics will call it ‘exploitive.’”
“My fans will call it ‘derivative.’ And the kids will love it. We’re going to blow up Vegas. Well, the Strip—one casino at a time, and maybe Fremont, and for sure McCarran, We’re talking Independence Day meets The Godfather here, Charlie. Louie has these fantastic craftsmen making sets and miniatures. Vacated two of his horse barns for it. And Toby’s going to finally get to strut his stuff.” The second unit got to do all the dangerous explosive stuff.
Somehow this didn’t sound like the “quiet, creep up on you and you’ll never forget it” film Evan pitched to Mitch on the boat moored on Lake Mead.
Louie Deloese was putting up the production crew and cast on his estate there. He had a certain grudge against Las Vegas and the U.S. Government for some reason. Toby, Mel, and Caryl sent their hellos. Did she want to talk to Mitch now?
“No, but remember those two favors you owe me, Evan? I don’t want any harm to come to Mitch over there, okay?”
After a prolonged pause, he said, “You got my word, Charlie.” He knew what she suspected, and here was old trusting Hilsten filming at a Spanish villa with a gang of thieves and murderers. “What’s the second one?”
“There’s been a fund set up for Officer Timothy Graden’s family that could use a healthy donation.”
“God, you’re not only beautiful and have a great imagination, you’ve even got a heart.”
“More like a conscience—”
“Don’t worry, I already thought of it, and so did Louie. We wired healthy chunks—through laundered donors, of course. So you still get another one.”
“I’d like to know who killed Ardith Miller, the waitress at the Hilton.”
“I’ll see the word gets out on the street—but that’s a long shot, Charlie. Probably just some addict at the bus stop saw her stuffing money from the heist into her purse. But I’ll be in touch.”
Charlie came back to Jeremy and Tuxedo, squinting at her with doubt.
“So there were eight bodies? The pilot, the cop, Hanley from Wisconsin, the two enforcers—Boyles and Sleem—and the insurance investigator—Tooney—and then the waitress and the grizzle-haired guy who got a scimitar in his back.”
“Actually, there were nine. They found the body of Eddie Hackburger, the Hilton security chief, in the ashes of Evan’s home.” Charlie had received an envelope with the tiny newspaper clipping from Detective Jerome Battista.
“So, who set the fire?”
“Probably Eddie Hackburger—didn’t g
et out in time. But he was part of a patriotic vigilante group with Mr. Undisclosed and his boys.”
“And Ben Hanley?”
“Much as I hate to admit it, probably too many cheese balls.”
“And the waitress at the Hilton?”
“Somebody saw her with a wad of hundred-dollar bills stolen from the black plastic bags. They could have grabbed the money. Why’d they have to kill her?”
“Didn’t want to be identified. And you saved all those unconscious people from a burning house.” Jeremy looked impressed. Tuxedo didn’t. The sleek black creature sat up to wash his white chest fur. “But here’s Toby Johnson, responsible for at least three of the bodies, perhaps countless others, alive and well in Spain. Modern-day justice for you.”
“No more responsible than the official agencies that hire ex-armed response personnel to take care of problems they deem dangerous or embarrassing to national security. And Toby was the last person you’d ever think a hit man. Young, wiry, carefree, not totally selfish.”
“So what was that humongous orange thing between Merlin’s Ridge and Groom Lake? Another secret government invention?”
“I sure hope so.” If anybody in the universe has that kind of power, Charlie wouldn’t want it to be somebody else’s government.
CHAPTER 41
THURSDAY, CHARLIE GOT through to Keegan Monroe in Folsom. He’d thrown out his novel and started over. Charlie wasn’t surprised. It was a habit of his. But she did remind him that his was not a life sentence and when he got out, if he didn’t start back on screenplays, his career was in the toilet. If he couldn’t finish a novel with all that time on his hands, he never would.
Thursday was also the day Richard called. He was home too and not a happy boss. “So, Charlie, tell me again what happened between you and Millrose?”
“She fired me and signed on with Jethro Larue. You know that. You said not to sweat it, that she wasn’t worth it.”
“You haven’t seen the trades today.” It wasn’t a question. “Larue started the bidding at two mil for a trilogy. First one’s written. Rumor has it the ante’s just reached seven mil.”
“You’re kidding. Nobody takes a chance like that anymore. They steal best-selling authors from another house. Who would—”
“Pitman’s and Norseman are still duking it out. Face it, kid, you didn’t pay attention. Like I told you before, you were coasting with Georgette Millrose. Look what happened.”
Friday, Charlie discovered the source of the threatening E-mail she’d received in Las Vegas. Edwina had decided to go modern. The strange address resulted from the fact that she used the university as her server. The strange message was due to a suicidal impulse, from which she’d recovered—and Edwina notified Charlie of that in a subsequent communication she’d thought to sign.
Friday was also the day Libby told off Perry Mosher and quit her job at Critter Spa and Deli, then promptly rear-ended a semi and totaled her already wreck of a car.
Neither of these events came as a surprise. Libby’s reaction to her accident, however, did.
She took responsibility for it.
“I tell you, Maggie, I’m just stunned,” Charlie told her best friend and neighbor that night.
All four houses in the complex were identical originally. It was interesting how they’d been individually modified. Maggie Stutzman had taken the wall out between the kitchen and living/dining room. Which only proved she didn’t live with a teenager.
“Well, you should be proud of her, for godsake. You’re always complaining she blames her problems on other people. And the best part is that nobody was injured. If she’d been driving a small car like yours, they could have been beheaded. That big old rusty Detroit steel you carried on about so could have saved a lot of grief in your household.”
“I am proud of her and grateful all the kids were belted in.” Eric had a cut on his cheek, Lori broke a finger, and Doug and Libby came through without a scratch.
Maggie set the bowl of fresh-popped corn on the coffee table and gave Charlie a hug that needed no explanation. After all Charlie’d been through, Libby’s accident was what had made her knees shake.
They curled up on the ends of a couch, facing each other, with their shoes off and toes stuck under the center cushion, a ritual that had grown with friendship.
The popcorn was hot and salty. Charlie sighed. “Mrs. Beesom says if I ever go on vacation again, I should just stay home. Sounds good to me.”
“Jesus, Greene, there goes the neighborhood.” Black hair, pale and perfect skin, blue eyes that flashed mischief. God it felt good to be home. “Don’t think we could handle it.”
“You’re one to talk, Stutzman. Hear you’ve been keeping late hours on work nights.” If you get a man in here, which you need to do and is right for you, I won’t be able to come over for popcorn and soul talk.
“Betty Snoop strikes again.” Maggie wrinkled a seriously silly nose and grinned. “Charlie, he’s the most delightful, wonderful, gorgeous man I’ve ever met, and you can breathe now—he’s married.”
“You’re dating a married man? You know better than that. I can’t even leave town but what you—how married?”
They crunched corn and stared each other down.
Maggie broke first. “Well, he can’t compare with Mitch Hilsten, but—”
“Maggie, that’s cheap and you know it.”
“Okay, he’s married, but separated from his wife, and he’s—”
“Where have we heard that before? Where’d you meet him?”
“He’s my stockbroker.”
“You too? Like dripping and compounding and everything?”
“Charlie, I’ve been investing for years. You just never wanted to discuss that kind of thing. Now, I’ve heard some from Jeremy and Betty Snoop, but I want to hear about your Vegas experience firsthand.”
“Not till you fill me in on Mr. Married Dow Jones.”
Another impasse, but Charlie couldn’t buffalo Maggie Stutzman twice in one evening. So, she sang for her popcorn.
Maggie thought Bradone sounded fascinating and wanted to meet her. “Living in Santa Barbara with a houseboy, traveling around the world, enjoying guys and then dumping them first, and all that money—makes my life sound so dull.”
Charlie didn’t comment for once. Unfortunately, Maggie’s life was dull.
Maggie must have had a window open, because a piercing scream brought them to their feet. Another took them out the kitchen door barefoot and into the middle of the concrete courtyard ringed with patios and parking.
“Was it Libby? Didn’t really sound like her.”
“She’s not home. It didn’t, like, sound human.…” Charlie had stood and then raced out here so fast, she felt dizzy.
Mrs. Beesom turned on the light over her door and stuck her head out. She wore a funny nightcap to protect her curls between weekly visits to the hairdresser. Even with her glasses off, she spotted them.
“It’s them cats in the alley again. I was sure hoping now you’re home, Charlie, you’d put a stop to it.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Beesom. I’ll take care of it. You can go back to bed.”
“I don’t know how she can go to sleep so early and still keep track of her neighbors like she does,” Maggie complained as they headed for the metal gate at the back of the courtyard.
Before they reached it, Tuxedo Greene insinuated himself between the bars, his body all a shadow except for his white chest and toes. And his eyes, which refracted the dim light from Jeremy’s windows.
For a moment, Charlie imagined she saw them through a residual smear of orange.
ALSO BY MARLYS MILLHISER
FEATURING CHARLIE GREENE
It’s Murder Going Home
Murder in a Hot Flash
Death of the Office Witch
Murder at Moot Point
OTHER NOVELS
Michael’s Wife
Nella Waits
Willing Hostage
&nb
sp; The Mirror
Nightmare County
The Threshold
NOBODY DIES IN A CASINO. Copyright © 1999 by Marlys Millhiser. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Millhiser, Marlys.
Nobody dies in a casino / Marlys Millhiser. — 1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-20344-6
I. Title.
PS3563.I4225N63 1999
813'.54—dc21
99-12859
CIP
First Edition: May 1999
eISBN 9781466843417
First eBook edition: March 2013
Nobody Dies in a Casino Page 25