“Many people feel that way about their pets.” I maneuvered her toward the entrance to the Burger Palais. “I think I can steer you toward an acceptable solution to your problem. Let’s talk about it over lunch—my treat.”
“Is the food good here?” Mrs. Olefson asked, glancing up at the sign.
“The best. And the French chef is to die for.”
A spark of interest lit her eyes as I led her to a quiet booth against the wall and helped her skootch in.
Jean-Charles would have a cow over the dog.
***
As it turned out, neither one of us was very hungry, so we both settled on extrathick chocolate shakes. We drained them dry over talk of estate planning, family dynamics, and mortality. The lunch crowd had thinned by the time Mrs. Olefson formulated a plan—Milo would be happy with the little girl back home, who lived with her mother down the hall—the young lady practically lived at Mrs. Olefson’s apartment as it was. Perhaps she would set up a trust for the girl and her mother—and for Milo, of course. Then what money she didn’t use to fund the trust, she would leave to charity—she already had several in mind.
“I won’t wait until I get home,” Mrs. Olefson announced. “I will call my lawyer when I get back to the room. You’ve been such a help, dear.” She gave my hand a squeeze across the table. “It’s hard to be the last one to get to the end of your bean row. The only folks I have left have their hands in the cookie jar—their opinions can’t be trusted. I have no one else.”
“You have me.” I gave her one of my cards
“So where is the hot French chef you promised me?” she asked, a wicked twinkle in her eye, as she stowed my card in her wallet.
On cue, Jean-Charles stepped out of the kitchen and surveyed his kingdom. Wiping his hands on his ever-present towel, he spied me. With a wave and a grin he launched himself in our direction. I stood as he approached.
He took my hands in his and bussed each cheek. “So wonderful to see you.”
There was that zing thing again. “Jean-Charles, may I present Mrs. Genevieve Olefson.”
He bowed slightly then took one of her hands and kissed it. “My pleasure, Mrs. Olefson.”
“Oh my,” she said, a hand fluttering to her chest. “Lucky said you were delicious, but I had no idea.”
Jean-Charles shot me an amused glance. “Really?”
I felt my cheeks reddening, which must have been visible because Mrs. Olefson said, “Oh, now I’ve said something I shouldn’t have.”
She didn’t look too broken up about it, if you ask me. In fact, I’d say she looked pretty proud of herself.
“You two young people would make a nice couple.” As I slid back into the booth, I shot her a warning glance, which she blithely ignored. “Well, neither of you are wearing any wedding rings.”
“Mrs. Olefson,” I said, trying to regain control of the conversation, “this is Chef Jean-Charles Bouclet.” I caught myself before I said Chef Tastycakes—maybe I was getting a rein on my mouth, but I doubted it.
“The Chef Bouclet? Of J-C Bistro in Manhattan?”
“Madam, you flatter me. You have dined with me?” Jean-Charles scooted in next to me, his thigh pressed to mine, effectively cutting off my escape.
Glancing at my tablemates, it dawned on me there were far worse ways to spend a portion of the afternoon. So, trapped by the handsome Frenchman, I decided to sit back and enjoy my good fortune.
Chapter Seven
“SO you think I am—how do you say it? Delicious?” Jean-Charles asked after we returned Mrs. Olefson to her suite. The excitement of the day had left her needing a nap.
“I think the Mona Lisa is exquisite as well, but that doesn’t mean I want to take her home, so don’t get the wrong idea.”
He grabbed my arm, stopping me in the middle of the lobby. People filed by on either side of us, creating a cocoon of disinterest around the gorgeous Frenchman and me. “But you like me, non?”
Unsure of the proper response, I stared at Jean-Charles. Did I like him? Unfortunately yes… more than I should. So far, he appeared about as deep as a puddle after a storm… and as volatile as a two-year-old. Yet... I couldn’t shake the feeling it was all an act. And there was that heat thing when our skin touched.…
“You were very nice not to mention Mrs. Olefson’s dog.…” I said.
“Lucky! There you are!” The Big Boss called to me across the lobby, turning heads and saving me from sure disaster—I’d never been so happy to see him.
The crowd parted for The Big Boss. When he arrived in front of us he shook the chef’s hand. “Jean-Charles, I trust Lucky is taking care of your needs.”
Well, I had been happy to see him.
Jean-Charles kept his face impassive. “For the most part, oui.”
“Good.” The Big Boss narrowed his eyes and looked at me, then back at the chef. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t dig the hole I was standing in any deeper. I breathed a sigh of relief when he said, “If you two are finished, Lucky, I’d like a word.”
Jean-Charles nodded then, taking my hand, he raised it to his lips as he gave me a penetrating look, and took his leave. What was that about? And why did my hand fit so well in his? Thinking like that would do nothing but get me in trouble—even I knew falling for a co-worker was an invitation to complete ruination. And then there was Teddie… who couldn’t seem to put enough distance between us.
My father hooked my hand through his arm. “Let’s go for a walk in the Hanging Gardens.”
Our garden area surrounded three swimming pools, one for family, one for adults only, and one for VIPs, hidden by tall palms, where topless bathing was allowed. A lazy river connected the three pools, widening into grotto bars at strategic locations. A jungle of flowering vegetation lined the pathways and trailed from the balconies of rooms above. A Swiss Family Robinson–inspired tree house, the open-air Garden Bar, dangled above a small section of the adult pool, providing much needed shade—and a wonderful viewing platform for the bar patrons.
We settled on a bench in a secluded corner of the gardens. My father cast a jaundiced eye at me. “What was that back there? There was enough spark between you and Jean-Charles to jump-start the space shuttle.”
“He’s like a pretty woman, using his charms to get what he wants. I’ve got a handle on it.”
“Mmm.” My father didn’t look convinced.
“So what did you want to see me about? Mother isn’t plotting the overthrow of a small nation or something, is she?”
“No, no. Not today, anyway. At least not that I’ve been told, but I’m often left out of the loop.” Distracted, my father tore a flower from its stem.
I waited him out. Frankly, I didn’t want another problem, another issue to resolve, but the look on his face told me that’s what I was going to get.
A hummingbird darted from flower to flower in the warmth of the sun. Bees buzzed, but I couldn’t see them. The murmur of happy voices drifted on the cool breeze as guests greeted the day and went in search of the perfect lounge by the pool. Glasses clinked, a champagne cork popped—late lunch at the Garden Bar.
My father had plucked every petal from the flower when my patience ran out. “So, does she love you, or love you not?” I asked.
“What?”
I nodded at the pile of petals at his feet.
“She loves me,” he said with a smile, but his eyes had that worried look to them. “That’s the problem.”
My heart sank, but I tried to keep my emotions off my face. “Getting cold feet?”
“Of course not!” He snapped, looking annoyed.
“Well then, would you stop being so darned obtuse and tell me what’s going on?”
“You don’t need to get angry.”
“Sorry. Apparently I have a lot of my father in me.”
He glared at me but didn’t disagree. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Like a child lost in the forest, he looked nervous, unsure—I’d say terrif
ied even… if I didn’t know him better.
The fight in him ebbed away and he sighed. “What do women expect from a marriage proposal?”
I don’t know what I had been bracing for, but that wasn’t it. I didn’t try to hide my grin as I leaned back and turned my face to the sun. Love—it brings all of us to our knees—even the mighty. Closing my eyes, I lifted my face to catch the last long angles of sun. What did women want from a proposal of marriage? What would I want?
After a moment of thought, I said, “Sincerity.”
Openly skeptical, my father asked, “That’s all?”
“That’s everything,” I replied.
***
Housekeeping occupied the entire first basement level of the hotel. The amount of machinery, staff, and supplies required to keep a hotel the size of the Babylon operating at its five-star level was overwhelming. Sonja Falco, a force of nature, rode herd over all of it. She used a small, cramped corner near one of the huge steam presses as her office and base of operations. I could usually find her there.
The noise of the machinery, the hiss of steam, made talking impossible, and shouting only modestly effective, so I nodded at the staff members shepherding the laundry through the process as I worked my way toward Sonja’s office. She’d made the journey difficult on purpose—she didn’t want many visitors.
A trap even for the wary, the laundry area was a maze of knee-knockers and head-bangers. By the time I’d run the gauntlet, I’d hit my head twice on low-hanging pipes and singed my calf when it got too close to a steam relief valve, but I was getting better—the last time I’d visited Sonja I’d needed stitches.
Sonja looked up when I loomed over her. She didn’t frown, which for Sonja equaled a smile. A short, round woman, her long black hair captured in a net at the base of her neck, she was known for her sharp tongue, but respected for its judicious use. And if you wanted a favor from Sonja, you’d better ask her in person.
“How’s everything going?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard.
“You didn’t come all the way down here to ask me that.”
“I want about forty or fifty old blankets, if you have them.” The Babylon regularly took blankets out of service—if they were a little bit worn, had a hole from someone smoking in bed (even though smoking was not allowed, guests did it anyway, and we charged them for the resulting fumigation), or were otherwise deemed less than five-star quality, they were stockpiled for the Salvation Army, Goodwill, and other charitable organizations.
“We got at least that many. Are you hitting the tunnels again?” At my nod, she continued, “I’ll pull some aside for you. When do you want them?”
“Tomorrow, late morning?” At her nod, I continued, “I’ll arrange for the truck.”
***
I made it out of the laundry without further bodily harm. Flipping open my phone, I hit the button for Romeo.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” I said when he answered on the second ring. “How come you didn’t tell me the cat burglar left a note in the Daniels apartment?”
“I didn’t know,” he replied. “The cop working the case got pulled to work a double homicide in North Vegas. She’s up to her ass in alligators and hasn’t had time to return my phone calls. It’ll be a couple of days until she comes up for air, I suspect. Simple burglaries aren’t sexy enough to get much attention anymore. Who told you about the note?”
“Do you know anything else you haven’t told me?” I said, ignoring his question. “Like maybe what the thief took?”
“As I said, I haven’t been able to corroborate any of this with the detective in charge, but one of our men on the scene told me the thief took cheap jewelry—nothing of any value.
“From the safe?”
“Apparently.”
“Who had access?’
“Only Mr. Daniels. The wife claimed she didn’t know the combination and had no idea what her husband kept in there.”
“What did the note say?”
“Eden.”
“That’s a word, not a note,” I said. “Do you have any idea what it means?”
“Not a clue.”
“Have you found Molly Rain?”
“Haven’t even picked up a scent.”
“I need a favor,” I said.
“Only one?” Romeo said with a lilt in his voice.
“No, actually two. First, could you run Dr. Jenkins through your computer?”
“Jenkins? How does he fit in?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t need your help. But he did this weird mind-reading thing on me last night. Really spooked me. I couldn’t tell how he did it. Flash has tied Danilov to Area 51, I was just wondering if Jenkins might have a connection as well since they both are into that mind-reading stuff. It’s a long shot, but the more info we have…”
“I’ll put him through.” Romeo paused.
I figured he was taking notes, so I waited.
“What else do you need?” he asked, not sounding at all put out—if anything, he was a good sport.
“If you let Mr. Mortimer look at the Houdini thing, he’s going to tell us who owns it,” I announced, as if I knew that for a fact.
Romeo paused while he did a mental cost/benefit analysis. “Couldn’t hurt to let the guy look at the thing, and maybe we’ll get one piece of solid information.”
“Great! How about tomorrow afternoon around two?”
“Are you coming with him?”
“Do you really think I would consider ducking out of this show just as it’s getting good? Fool that I am, I’m riveted. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
***
Miss P and I met at the door to the stairwell—she was on her way out. With her purse over her arm, her sweater around her shoulders, and a silly grin on her face, I’d bet my last dollar she was through working and on her way to play.
“Knocking off early?” I asked.
“No, I’ll be around for a while—I thought I might stay close until the UFO folks get their cocktail party underway. I’m just heading to the bar for a quick drink with Jeremy.”
“Your job driving you to drink?”
“No, just my boss,” she deadpanned. “Want to join us?”
I hesitated, vacillating between duty and dereliction for about three nanoseconds. “Sure, but only if you knock off and leave the UFO people to me.” Maybe her job wasn’t driving her to drink, but mine was… along with a few other things.
“You sure?”
“My evening is free.” I said, trying not to pout. “Go have some fun with your Aussie-boy.”
Jeremy had snagged a corner table in Delilah’s. As I trudged up the steps to the bar, I noticed he wasn’t alone—Dane lounged in the second of four chairs. The two men stood as we approached.
“You’re late,” Jeremy teased Miss P, then gave her an enthusiastic kiss that made her blush to her roots. She looked at the chair next to his, then decided his lap looked better. He didn’t seem to mind as he handed her a flute of champagne.
As I took the seat next to him, Dane gave me a grin, but his eyes skittered away—he looked uncomfortable.
“Hey,” he said. “Want something to drink?”
“How about a Diet Coke?” I hadn’t had much to eat and the night was still young.
Dane headed toward the bar, leaving me stranded with the lovebirds, who cooed between themselves.
I hazarded a glance at the piano—the bench was empty. Many a night I sat there while Teddie played me a tune and sang me a song—a distant memory… not to mention a distant lover, which wasn’t working for me at all.
Aware of Dane’s presence at my side, I looked up. Clutching his Bud in one hand and my soda in the other, he stared over me—a look of panic in his eyes.
I turned, following his gaze.
Flash advanced upon us. She eyed the Diet Coke. “Cowboy, if that’s for me, you’ve got me all wrong.” Then she reached a hand behind his head and pulled him into a long, slow kiss. “I’v
e missed you. Thanks for calling.” Then she saw me. “Hey, Girlfriend, are you joining us for dinner?”
“No, just holding your place until you got here,” I said, launching to my feet. “The Diet Coke’s for me, I’m still on the clock.”
“Never knew that to stop you before.”
“I’m turning over a new leaf.” I relieved Dane of my soda. “Thanks. You guys have fun.”
I smiled, probably a stiff smile, but it was the best I could do. Nothing like being the fifth wheel. As I left, I didn’t look back. I might be lonely. I might be sad. I might even be jealous. But at least I had my dignity.
On the other hand, dignity never kept anyone warm at night.
Dane and Flash? I wrestled with that picture as I stalked across the casino, into the lobby and up the stairs to the Mezzanine. She’d never mentioned him before. She missed him? What did that mean? Did he like her? Had he slept with her? And why did I care?
After draining the last of the Diet Coke, I crushed the can in my fist, tossed it into a waste bin, and headed for the Golden Fleece Room. The cocktail party for the UFO crowd was just getting underway.
***
At the cash bar, I traded virtue for a double Wild Turkey on the rocks. Two long sips dulled the pain a bit.
“Man, you’re suckin’ on that like a calf on a tit,” Junior Arbogast said, appearing at my elbow. “Havin’ a bad day?”
“More than one—I’m stringing them together.”
“Corn whiskey won’t help.”
I looked into the concerned eyes of my friend. “You’re right. Thanks.” I handed the glass back to the bartender. “Things are sort of piling up on me right now.”
“They do that from time to time. Haven’t ever heard of anyone dying from it, though.”
“Not directly,” I said, as I scanned the crowd for familiar faces, ignoring Junior’s quizzical look. “Have you heard any more from the commando radio guy?”
“He’s holed up in Rachel waiting for dark, then he’ll move into place. His show doesn’t air until eleven.”
So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 12