by Norma Lehr
This convertible had been Renee’s husband’s. Renee laughingly called it his midlife crisis toy, though he was well past middle age when he bought it. Renee had taken his death, two years earlier, like a trooper. Though saddened, she admitted that she’d expected it. At the memorial service held at his country club, she had told everyone, “No matter how he tried, Howard couldn’t lose weight, and that did his heart in.”
Renee’s marriage had truly been one of convenience. Howard was a retired building contractor many years her senior. He had been more like a doting father than a husband. After he was gone, Renee confessed to Abby that, much as she’d cared for Howard, her true love had been, and always would be, Tommy. Abby had smiled at this news because it wasn’t really news at all. Abby knew her friend too well.
Thank goodness Renee had finally come to her senses.
Abby turned right from the Cal Neva and drove east up Stateline Road. In less than fifteen minutes, she turned left on Tahoe Boulevard, climbed the hill to a forest setting, and pulled up to the curb behind a row of parked cars crammed into the driveway of Vince’s condominium.
Nice place. She pulled on the hand brake and stepped out. The balmy night didn’t require anything warmer than her silk blouse, but she’d found the weather at this altitude could change abruptly. Reaching for her sweater from the passenger seat, she draped it over her shoulders and made her way up the steps. Noisy chatter and R&B music floated down from the condo deck, a welcome change from the constant stream of Frankie and Elvis standards at the casino.
She rang the bell and Vince answered, holding a drink. He flung open the door to the living room. “Look who’s here. Miss Abby Rollins, another beautiful and vivacious show-stopper.” His announcement got the attention of a few guests gathered in small groups. Men lifted their glasses in a salutary tribute, and the women gave brief smiles of recognition before they turned back to their small talk. Other guests mingled outside on the wooden deck.
Abby recognized a few faces from the hotel. The pretty young desk clerk who claimed her mother had been a fan stuck her head through the open French door, smiled at Abby and waved. She hung on the arm of another familiar face, a security guard who gofered for Fromer when he needed help rounding up people to be interrogated.
Vince bowed from the waist and took her wrap. “Snacks and drinks are on the table next to the far wall, pretty lady. Compliments of the catering chef at the hotel. I can introduce you around now or wait until you’ve grazed.” He laughed boyishly, and Abby could see why Melanie had been taken with him. With his blond hair and dark eyes, this young man was quite handsome. Couldn’t be a day over twenty-five.
“You’ve got to be hungry after that workout,” he said. “A great show! You women have still got it.” He leaned in close, his breath reeking of bourbon. “Don’t ever lose it.”
Abby stepped back. “Thanks. I’ll take you up on that drink while I check out the chef’s goodies. I’ll have white wine, please.”
Vince bowed again, a tad tipsy this time, and left for the bar in the opposite corner.
Her stomach gave a warning rumble as she headed for the food. First order of business, tame her hunger. Next, find Blythe and Gail. She did want to ask Gail what she knew about Tom Moran.
Vince’s place was compact but trendy, sparsely furnished with guy stuff. The living room featured a black leather sofa, two oversize chairs with matching ottomans in antique brown, a black metal and chrome entertainment center, and a painted portrait over the river rock fireplace of a young boy and girl holding hands. They looked vaguely familiar, though Abby couldn’t imagine why.
The sofa and chairs were empty, but as she made her way to the snack table, she spotted Gail perched on the edge of one of the ottomans, dressed in a stunningly simple black cocktail dress, holding a long stem glass of champagne.
“I’ll join you in a second.” She pointed to the chef’s simple but elegant spread of fresh berries, crudités, chicken and beef skewers, bread, and cheeses.
While Abby filled her plate, Gail crossed her shapely legs and finished off her champagne. Before joining Gail on the ottoman, she grabbed two napkins. She offered to share, but Gail waved her empty glass. “I’ve already done that. All I need is a refill.” Vince returned, took her empty glass, and handed Abby her wine.
“Thanks, honey,” Gail said. “Same as before.” She glanced over Abby’s shoulder. “Your ex-cop couldn’t make it, huh?”
Abby, whose mouth was too full to speak, just shook her head.
“Too bad. He’s a real cutie. Bet he’s nice, too.”
Abby used her napkin to slip a bit of chicken from the skewer. “It seems like it; I don’t know him very well. We both work at the Galleria Mall in Roseville. He’s a part-time security guard, and I have my shop. That’s how we met.”
“What’s he doing here? Did he come to watch you dance?”
“He was attending a vintage car show in Reno. He offered me a lift and then decided to attend our performance.” Gail was asking a lot of questions. Abby didn’t come to this gathering to placate her curiosity. She was here to uncover facts about Tom Moran.
Vince returned with Gail’s champagne, plopped down on the ottoman opposite and gave them his full, if slightly tipsy, attention.
Gail jumped at the opportunity to complain that the performance had been tainted by the falling sound boom. Vince disagreed loudly, but Gail was on a roll. She moaned about how tight the machines were in the casino, rarely paying off, and how two of the blackjack dealers copped an attitude whenever she asked questions. She stopped to take a sip of her champagne. “I could go on forever about how impossible it is to find a maid for extra towels.” Vince opened his mouth to speak but apparently she hadn’t finished. “And the drinks at the Circle Bar taste watered down.”
Somehow, in a short period of time, Gail had managed to touch on every discomfort of the last few days except the murders. When she started in about Jan’s attitude at rehearsals and how she snagged Sinatra’s office backstage as her own private space, Vince held up his hand. “Whoa. Hold it. I’ve got a suggestion. Write down your complaints and leave them at the front desk, but don’t lay it on me about my sister. What Jan does is strictly her business. My job was to set up this gig with the manager.” His gaze went to the picture above the fireplace mantle. “She might be difficult to work with, but she’s an awesome sister.”
Gail’s face turned scarlet. “I had no idea you were related. I agree,” she stammered. “It’s awesome that she managed to pull this show together on her own.” She turned to Abby for help.
Abby jumped in. “It’s nice that you two can spend this time together.” Jan happened to be their coach, not their friend. The fact that her brother worked at the Cal Neva hadn’t come up in conversation. Abby motioned toward the fireplace. “Beautiful oil painting. I admired it when I came in. You and your sister?”
He nodded. “I’d just turned eight, and Jan was almost ten when we sat for it. I couldn’t stay still long enough, so my face had to be touched up from a photo. Jan did good, though. She’s way ahead of me when it comes to patience.”
Gail finally found her voice. “Wonderful of you to have invited us here. You’re a gracious host. Please forgive me if I’ve offended.” She studied her glass. “Sometimes champagne sets me off.” She excused herself, gave a weak smile, and wandered off down the hall to the bathroom.
A young male guest, wearing a tux jacket over an orange T-shirt and faded jeans, stopped and asked Vince if it was okay to smoke.
“Not in here. If you have to, go out front.”
Abby made a mental note that it couldn’t have been Vince lighting up in Melanie’s chalet the night before her murder; however, he had been the last one at the hotel to see Dana alive.
“Vince, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“What do the hotel managers think about these killings? Have any of the employees been put on the spot?”
Vinc
e raised an eyebrow. “Detective Fromer has been asking questions, but as far as I can tell, I’m the only one who ever had a real conversation with either of the dead dancers. So, I’m the one under the microscope. Not that I have anything to hide, but I get uneasy when Fromer prowls around the blackjack tables and stops to watch me deal.”
Abby chose her next words carefully. “My roommate mentioned she saw you and Dana together in the lobby the night before she died. I suppose you were the last one at the hotel to see her alive. Am I right?”
“Yeah, according to Fromer.” He rubbed his nose. “We were chatting, that’s all.” He eyed Abby. “It’s like I told the detective. I enjoy being around attractive older women. They’re more interesting than most of the younger ones. They have something of value to say.”
Smart young man. He had no argument there!
Abby waded in. “Did Dana have anything important to say? Like who she thought might have killed Melanie Mars?” Abby hesitated. “I realize Fromer has probably questioned you over and over again, but stuff can be shared during a conversation that doesn’t seem important at the time but really is.
“I think it’s likely that whoever poisoned Melanie Mars on Wednesday bludgeoned her partner, Dana, on the beach. If Dana suspected the identity of the killer, she had to be silenced. Make sense?”
“Yeah, it does, but I can’t think of anything to confirm that.” He looked sheepish and awfully young. “I admit bourbon doesn’t improve my memory, but it was all routine. We introduced ourselves and I invited her for a nightcap. I admit that I put the moves on her, but she wasn’t interested.” He let out a laugh. “Rarely happens.”
Abby ignored the last remark. “During that chat, did she ask you any questions?”
Vince thought a moment. “Yeah. She asked my last name and where I came from. The question was kind of out of nowhere, but,” he made a sweeping gesture, “I just let it roll off my back.” He shrugged. “I wanted to hook up with her. Not answer questions.”
Abby walked to the fireplace and studied the painting. “Fine brush strokes, and the portrait is signed.” She leaned closer and studied the name. “This artist—was she a relative or personal friend?”
“Our mom,” Vince said, joining her. “She gave this to me to keep.”
She offered Vince a warm smile. “I so admire creative talent. Your mother left you a lovely legacy.”
“She did.” He smiled. “She was a multi-talented lady. I think Jan takes after her.”
Abby was about to ask what talents Jan had inherited when an attractive girl in her early twenties rushed over and scooped his arm, demanding that he play a special CD in honor of her upcoming engagement.
After Vince had been whisked off, Gail rejoined Abby. “Put my foot in it that time. I complained to the wrong guy. If he tells Jan, I’m in for it.”
“He probably won’t, but if he does, what does it matter? You only said what you really thought. The way I have Jan pegged, she doesn’t care what we think. Her job is to be a coach. It’s obvious she’s not out to win any popularity contests. I do admire her attitude, though—not putting up with crap from any of us and holding the line like she has. No small effort.”
Abby changed the subject while she scanned the room. “I haven’t seen Blythe or Jan. Are they out on the deck?”
“Blythe’s out there with a pit boss who snagged her away. He drove us over here and only had eyes for her. Jan didn’t make it. She called Vince and apologized. Said she had work to do with the detective getting the stage back together for tomorrow night’s show. Personally, I think that heavy sound boom dropping so close scared her. I know I’d be terrified, especially if that threatening note had been pinned to my wall. Jan would be wise to stay close to that detective.” Gail tapped her glass. “Why didn’t Renee come? Her foot still sore?”
“Yep. Sore and she’s got a throbbing headache.” It was none of Gail’s business why Renee chose not to come tonight. She realized Gail was curious, but still … Abby looked around at the guests as she finished off the last bite of cheese and wadded up her paper napkin. “Did the emcee get here? I heard he was invited.”
“He couldn’t make it. He had a late appointment in South Shore. He’s currently appearing there, you know.”
Too bad. Since Tom had business elsewhere, Renee could have joined the party after all. Abby decided to call her. She could take a taxi over, and they could ride home together. She excused herself and found a quiet spot down the hall next to a bedroom. After twenty rings from her cell phone to the chalet with no answer, she gave up. She didn’t have a good feeling about this.
When she returned, Gail had finished off her champagne and was using her fingertips to steady herself against the fireplace mantle. “When this mess at the Cal Neva is over and we all get back home, I hope you and Renee will keep in touch.” The frown lines between her brows became more pronounced. “I didn’t want to say anything to the others, but Paul and I are not getting along. I’m thinking of moving into my own place, staying in the Saratoga area, of course. We’ll remain partners in the health club, but if Powrdanz goes like I’m hoping, I can make it on my own. Paul says I’m a dreamer and that there are too many products on the market already, but he lacks vision. What I really need is a financial backer.
“Since I’ve been here, I’ve been hoping to win big, but I’ve lost more than I’ve won playing the tables. Still, if I can get that one lucky card or that big progressive payoff on the dollar slots ...” She sighed. “Feel like some fresh air? I need a break. Let’s go outside.” She set her glass on the mantle. Abby reached for her sweater and followed her out. They avoided the crowded deck and headed out the front door.
Well, that was a shocker—Gail’s pending split. That first night at the circle bar she’d told everyone how hard she found it to sleep alone, leading them all to believe she had the perfect marriage. Guess that was all for show. A mountain breeze blew down the hill. Abby buttoned up her sweater. “Is it too chilly out here?”
“Not for me. I’ve been struggling with hot flashes over the last few months.” Gail fanned the area around her neck. “Anything cooling these days—especially at night—is welcome.” The condo’s front stoop consisted of a redwood bench on a small cement slab. Gail brushed off a space with a Kleenex before she sat. Abby joined her and, once settled, decided to jump right in. “You do know who our emcee is, don’t you?”
Gail gave Abby a curious look. Her champagne fuzziness seemed to be fading fast. “Sure. He’s T.J. Barry from L.A. Pretty fair comic according to local revues.” Her eyes took on a dreamy look under the golden porch light. “Turned me on tonight when he sang, ‘You’re My First, My Last, My Everything.’ ” She hummed a few bars. “Really brought back old times. His voice isn’t the best—a little flat—but the emotion’s there. When he dedicated that old Barry White song to us, the former Toppettes, I almost cried, because I knew who it was really meant for.” She tapped her heart. “Me.”
Yeah, right. Old times, and a little flat. How about a lot flat. As for tears, they should be saved and shed for those he hurt by his womanizing. “T.J. Barry is Tom Moran.”
The dreamy look faded from Gail’s eyes. “I know that, but how did you find out? Did you recognize him after all these years?”
“No, but Renee did. He came on to her at the Biltmore last night and again this morning at beach.”
Gail stood and glared down at Abby. “No. The beach! I don’t believe you. He called me at the hotel and said he’d been missing me all these years.”
Abby looked up. “Well, he probably lied. Nothing’s changed. He played you dancers back in New York and it looks like he’s up to his same old tricks.” She waited until Gail got her bearings and sat back down. “Were you the one he invited to his room at Harveys?”
Gail slowly shook her head. “When I told him I was married he said we should put off meeting alone for now. That flyer you found in Renee’s car must have been for Blythe. That’s got to be wher
e she went when she purposely ditched me at South Shore.” Her eyes narrowed. “Whatever business he had with her is beyond me.”
“What did he talk about when he called you? Was it before or after Melanie’s death?”
“After. He’d heard the news on local TV and read about it in the paper. He knew the six of us were coming here; that’s why he took this gig.”
“Did he tell you he and Melanie were married here in Tahoe after they left New York years ago? That they’re still legally married?”
Gail’s eyes widened. “Get out! How could that be? She’s had three husbands, hasn’t she?”
“That’s what I heard, but she and Tom were never divorced. Melanie might have been a bigamist, but he’s the legal spouse—and heir to her fortune.”
Gail was suddenly completely sober. “Son of a ...! Then he could have murdered Melanie for her money.”
“No one knows that, but anything’s possible.”
“Does Detective Fromer know about Tom?”
“I don’t know,” she lied. He does now, she thought.
“Well, let him find out on his own. That damn Melanie made life miserable for me back in Manhattan. Not only did she always get center stage, no matter who she had to kiss up to, but she owes me for all the sleepless nights she caused, and all the money she borrowed with her tales of woe. I loaned her half my savings, and she never paid me back. That tousled diva jostled me once too often. If Tom’s going to be rich from her money, then I’m going after him. Renee and Blythe can stow any devious plans they have to snag him. If they don’t, they’re in for a fight. I need funds to further Powrdanz, and it looks like Tom’s going to be flush. No matter what anyone says, I believe it’s me he’s loved all these years, and I’m the one who deserves to reap Melanie’s rewards.”
Chapter 18
After declaring her intent to go after Tom, Gail stood and, without another word, went back inside to join the party.
What an eye opener. In the past, Gail had always been competitive, working at getting an edge, but now she was ready to fight Blythe and Renee for a portion of Melanie’s lottery winnings she considered rightfully belonged to her.