I ignore her protests—which are feeble by her standards—and switch the showgirl outfit for a trapeze dress in a black floral print with multicolored beading accenting the yoke collar and front keyhole. I slip high-heeled sandals with braided straps onto my feet, grab a black patent leather clutch, and I’m good to go.
That is, after I make an abortive attempt at a phone call. Jason’s cell goes straight to voicemail, for the third time that day, and I realize it’s 10 PM in North Carolina—where he’s attending pit school—and we haven’t chatted all day.
I have zero time to dwell on missing my husband as Shanelle appears at my door in an adorable purple slim-cut dress with allover pleating. Seconds later the elevator is whisking us down to the lobby, which I swear is the size of my subdivision back in Ohio.
What’s so wild about Vegas is that everything is crazy over the top but after a day or two it starts to seem normal. Casinos for miles in the lobby of every hotel, the slot machines endlessly pinging and whirring. People gambling and drinking and carousing nonstop. Spending every hour of the day and night indoors, not once venturing into the blistering sunshine, because you careen from hotel to restaurant to casino to subterranean shopping mall to revue to casino …
Whatever your vice—anonymous sex, alcohol, gambling, food—it’ll be catered to here. My personal weakness is exotic cocktails. Did I mention those? They’ve been a staple of our entertainment, and they are about to be again as Shanelle, my mom, and I deposit ourselves in a bar that is totally and completely white because it’s designed to look like a mojito. The only color comes from a strip of bright green neon that runs along the base of the bar, highlighting real mint leaves embedded inside.
There are so many tantalizing offerings it takes a while just to read the menu. Shanelle decides to go for a Spanish Trampoline, my mom surprises us by opting for a Zombie, and—no surprise in my current mood—I am drawn to a Killer’s Kiss, which features pink grapefruit vodka, lychee liqueur, and a dollop of pomegranate syrup.
I hesitate before taking my first sip. “I feel guilty for being out having a good time on the very night Sally Anne’s wedding got derailed by a murder. Of her groom’s nephew, no less.”
“Well, get out your cell phone and call her,” Shanelle says. “Invite her to join us. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Mrs. Przybyszewski?” She whips off those syllables like nobody’s business.
My mother emits a grudging “It’s okay with me” and I phone Sally Anne.
“Yeah?” she answers. She sounds as morose as one would expect.
“It’s Happy. We’re at that all-white bar on the lobby level and wonder if you’d like to join us. And Frank, too,” I add, though I’d rather it were just us girls.
“I’m in no mood. And Frank’s gone back to his apartment. He said he needed to clear his head.”
I frown. “Frank’s not with you?”
My mother slaps the bar. “What did I tell you?” she bleats, loud enough for every bar patron and Sally Anne to hear.
I mouth a silent ssshhh though I don’t like the sound of this, either. As far as I’m concerned, the two halves of this couple should be comforting one another on this tragic night. I do, however, try to be sympathetic. “He must be so broken up about Danny.”
Sally Anne grows animated. “Not to mention that that Perelli broad put him through the wringer! She’s got some nerve.”
I’m thinking Detective Perelli might be considering Frank Richter a person of interest. After all, he was right next to Danny when the murder occurred, and the two have years of perhaps tortured history.
“Appreciate the call, Happy,” Sally Anne goes on, “but I ain’t got it in me tonight,” and she hangs up.
“That’s the problem with some of these women, particularly late in life,” my mother asserts as I return my cell to my clutch. “They’re so desperate to get hitched, they’re willing to marry some bum they don’t know bubkis about.”
“My mother thinks Frank did it,” I inform Shanelle, “if you couldn’t tell.”
“He, what?” my mom goes on. “He gives massages for a living? How does that pay compared to Sally Anne who is the proprietor of her own pageant-wear business?”
“So you think he wants to marry her for her money?” Shanelle asks.
“Darn tootin’.” My mother hiccups. I’m thinking the rum in her Zombie is beginning to take effect.
I weigh in. “Even if Frank does want to marry Sally Anne for her money, that doesn’t mean he murdered his nephew. Why would he pick Danny to be his best man if he wanted to kill him?”
“To throw everybody off,” Shanelle suggests. “Or maybe their relationship just lately went sour. And Frank figured, if I ice him at the wedding, with a gazillion people around, the cops’ll have plenty of suspects. They won’t home in on me.”
It occurs to me that the murderer may not have had anything to do with the wedding. Anybody could have marched into that chapel and done the deed.
“How weird is it,” I ask, “that Danny had a black eye? Who gets a black eye right before they’re supposed to stand up at a wedding?”
“He didn’t have it at the rehearsal dinner,” Shanelle points out. “Maybe it was Frank who gave it to him after the rehearsal dinner.”
The mention of dinner reminds me that my belly is empty. I skipped lunch so my stomach wouldn’t bulge when I had to strap myself into the showgirl costume. Ignoring the danger to hips and thighs, I suggest the hotel steakhouse as our next stop. It’s afterward, when we’re propelling our sated bodies past the spa, that I spy Frank up ahead engaged in an intense conversation with a man I would not want to meet in a dark alley.
I halt my companions. “Stop! And turn around!” I don’t want Frank to recognize us.
I glance over my shoulder to see what he’s up to. I note I’m not the only one casting furtive glances: Frank is, too. Especially when his surly comrade hands him what appears to be a wad of cash. Frank grabs it and skedaddles.
Shanelle and I look at each other.
“So much for Frank being home clearing his head,” she says.
I nod in somber agreement. This is so not the wedding night Sally Anne had been looking forward to.
CHAPTER FOUR
The following morning, my cell phone awakens me at the ungodly hour of 6:12 AM. It is my daughter, who either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that Cleveland time is three hours ahead of Vegas time.
I stumble into the hotel corridor because I don’t want to wake my mom.
“I am up to here with Grandpa babysitting me as if I was two! You will never believe what he’s trying to make me do now.”
My teenager is in a stormy mood. Has been ever since I informed her that no, she could not stay home alone while her father and I were both out of town. I feared nonstop unprotected sex with Ryan, that loser boyfriend of hers, because that’s exactly what I would have gotten up to with Jason at her age.
“Just guess what he wants!” Rachel shrieks.
My semi-comatose brain attempts to crank into action. “I don’t know. Eat breakfast? Go to Sunday mass? Shower?”
“As if I needed anybody, especially Grandpa, to tell me to shower. No. He expects me to go to brunch with that new girlfriend of his!”
At last, a topic on which Rachel and I can agree. “You don’t have to go.”
“I don’t?” She sounds astonished.
“I see no reason why we have to embrace her. Especially so soon.”
She hesitates. Then, “He has been hooking up with her for like a month now. And he says she’s really nice.”
I try to banish the image of my father “hooking up” by focusing on another question. Is it my imagination or is my daughter switching sides just so we have something to argue about? It is what we do most often these days, sad to say.
“It’s up to you whether you go, Rach. But you don’t have to. And if you want me to tell him that, I will.” I cannot imagine how my mom will feel when she finds out about this
new liaison of Pop’s. I know I can’t keep it from her indefinitely but I can certainly delay her finding out. Wimp that I am, that is my goal.
I hear a repetitive slapping sound down the corridor and see a young man with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. The sound is newspapers hitting guest-room doors. He spies me and his eyes widen. I realize I’m wearing my light blue babydoll chemise, which dips low, rises high, and stretches tight. Seeing him reminds me of Rachel’s boyfriend and the dangers he represents to my vision of her future. “You’re not spending so much time with Ryan that you’re forgetting to study for the SATs, are you?”
She sighs heavily. “Honestly, Mom, I’m not gonna make the same mistake you did. Gotta go. Bye.”
She’s gone. I deflate. That mistake—and I suppose I do have to think of it as one—is now 17 and infuriating and the greatest joy of my life.
As I slip back into my room, it occurs to me that getting knocked up while still a minor may not be the mistake Rachel was referring to. Maybe it was marrying my high-school boyfriend.
Jason was my Ryan but—despite what my mother continues to insist—Jason was never a loser. He was the cutest guy in my class and he played on the football team and his heart was always in the right place and so what if he didn’t get top grades? He knew from early on that all he wanted was to be a mechanic like his dad. Well, that and have something to do with NASCAR. Which now he’s doing. So there.
I’m so riled up by this impromptu mental defense of my husband that there’s no way I can go back to sleep. In the next bed, the mound that is my mother continues to snooze contentedly away. I throw on my turquoise Juicy Couture tracksuit—with sequin detailing on the drawstrings—dash my mom a note, and slip into the corridor again, grabbing my newspaper so I can get a clue as to what is going on in the great wide world. The Ms. America titleholder must be up on current events.
At this hour, the hotel seems deserted. I’m making my way to the Starbucks when I spy a lone individual at the slot machines. It’s Sally Anne. I stop and watch her poke nickels into a machine called the Egyptian King, featuring illustrations of pyramids and Tutankhamun and a desert-like expanse. If ever there were a picture of dejection, this is it. There’s not a speck of makeup on her face, her coppery hair is as close to uncombed as I’ve ever seen it, and she’s wearing big old yellow sweat pants and a black warm-up jacket. The poor woman looks like a bumblebee. Plus she’s pulling the handle on the slot machine with about as much enthusiasm as I can muster for balancing my checkbook.
An intervention is called for.
“Sally Anne”—I draw up beside her—“let me buy you a coffee. And a pastry,” I add, which prompts her to glance in my direction with a flicker of interest.
“Well, I’m not winning squat. Plus I do have to eat.” She heaves herself to her feet.
Once seated and armed with java and bear claws, I am emboldened to ask after her would-be groom.
“He’s a basket case,” Sally Anne reports.
“Stayed in all night?”
“He didn’t even want me to come over.”
I’m thinking that’s because he wasn’t home.
“I don’t know how he’s gonna get through this,” Sally Anne goes on. “He did so much for that kid over the years.”
“Danny?” I mumble, because my mouth is chock full of bear claw.
“His father was a good for nothing. A drifter. Never gave a penny to that kid. Never even married his mother.”
Rachel might approve of that arrangement but I can see that Sally Anne does not. “So Frank stepped in?”
“He was always cleaning up his brother’s messes. Last night he had to call Danny’s mother and tell her.” Sally Anne shakes her head. I have to stop chewing. I cannot fathom either making or receiving that call. “She lives with her sister somewhere, I don’t know where the hell she is.” Sally Anne raises bloodshot eyes to mine. “Nobody even knows where the so-called father is, to tell him. Can you believe that?”
I cannot. I’m starting to feel bad that I allowed myself so quickly to form a negative opinion of Frank. Then I remember what I witnessed the prior night, which looked like shenanigans to me. And now I also know he lied to Sally Anne about his nocturnal whereabouts.
“How did both Frank and Danny come to work at this hotel?” I ask.
“Because Frank got Danny the job! That’s how.”
“Does Frank have any kids?”
“Just an ex but she’s back in Atlanta. Can’t be far enough for me.” Sally Anne grunts in emphasis, then goes to work on her bear claw.
I push mine away. I am getting a picture of Frank Richter as a caring, supportive uncle, not someone who’d pump a bullet into a blood relation. But nonetheless I cannot help suspecting that he has something fishy going on.
Poor Sally Anne. I wonder again how well she knows her fiancé. Then again, I can only imagine how lonely she might be after decades without someone by her side.
I slide my hand across the little table and lay it over hers. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you yesterday how very sorry I am that”—
I stop. What is the etiquette in this situation? To finish with: a murder interrupted your wedding? Seems to me it was the victim who really got the raw end of that deal. So I settle on something else.
—“things didn’t go the way you hoped yesterday.”
She grunts again.
“Have you and Frank talked about setting another date?” I’m not happy at the prospect of strapping myself into that showgirl costume again but in the name of Sally Anne’s connubial bliss, I’ll do it with gusto.
“Not yet.”
The way she says it, and the way her eyes scuttle away, give me the funniest feeling that she did bring it up with Frank but didn’t get the reaction she wanted.
A lovey-dovey couple gets in the Starbucks line and a new thought occurs to me. “Was Danny married or dating anybody, do you know?”
“He was seeing some hottie named Cassidy.” Sally Anne swipes a napkin across her lips. “Works here.”
Everybody who’s anybody works at this hotel. “What does she do?”
“Serves drinks at the casino. Till she can land a gig on a reality show.” Sally Anne guffaws. I gather she doesn’t think much of that plan. Neither do I, truth be told.
“Will you point her out to me?” I realize I’m investigating. I haven’t really set out to investigate—plus I’m supposed to leave Vegas in 48 hours—but I’m investigating. “Oh, but you won’t be able to point her out to me,” I remember. “She won’t be here for a few days, I’m sure, because of Danny.”
Sally Anne eyes me as she swigs her coffee. Then, “She worked last night.”
That stops me short. “You mean … after she heard what happened?”
“Frank had to find her to tell her. She strapped that cigarette tray of hers right back on.”
Wow. There are hardhearted individuals in this town.
“Thanks for the grub, Happy. And the company.” Sally Anne rises from her chair. “I’m checking outta here today. Gotta go back to my house.” She sighs again.
I feel another surge of sympathy. A bride returning alone to her homestead is a far cry from a bride embarking joyfully on a honeymoon.
“If you want to find Cassidy,” she goes on, “just ask around the casino for her.”
As I rise to hug Sally Anne, I get the idea she’s no fan of Cassidy. But I am trying to avoid a snap judgment myself. They are not good for life or for homicide investigations.
Upstairs, I find my mother awake and dressed in a cute navy and white pants and short-sleeve cardigan outfit I got her at Chico’s. “Since some people apparently have things to do that don’t involve their mothers,” she says, “I am going to church and then to the Liberace Museum. It provides a shuttle service.” Her tone turns even primmer. “I am assuming you will not be joining me at either location.”
I admit I’m not much of a churchgoer these days. I have been in the past and I
may well be again in the future but I’m not right now. “I’ll go with you later to the Liberace Museum.” I wouldn’t mind a gander at Liberace’s famed costume collection. There’s a man who knew a rhinestone from a sequin.
“Maybe tomorrow.” Now my mother’s playing hard to get. “I intend to focus on the guided tour today. There may be people there I can talk to.”
I chuckle as she heads for the door. It appears she will be happily occupied until the cocktail hour.
By the time I’ve showered and changed into another Juicy Couture ensemble—this time a black and white polka dot tank dress with a big keyhole in the back—Shanelle has called from the casino to crow about winning a couple hundred bucks at roulette.
“Lunch’ll be on you,” I tell her a few minutes later. We’re standing in line so she can collect her winnings. She’s wearing olive-colored cropped cargo pants with glitter detailing on the pockets, paired with a tight black tee. Her hair is curly and natural, held back by a textured headband.
By this hour the casino is a mob scene. I look around for young women bearing cigarette trays and relay to Shanelle what Sally Anne told me about Frank, Danny, and Cassidy.
“Dang, that girl must have a heart of stone!” Shanelle says. “Even if I dated a man just a few times, it’d set me back for at least a day if he got knocked off.”
We make it to the collection window. As Shanelle pockets her cash, I quiz the clerk about Cassidy and he tells me he’s already seen her that morning. We’re to keep our eyes peeled for a brunette with short hair.
Long hair is a feature of most of the women serving drinks so it’s easy to spot her. Taking in a view from across the casino, I whisper to Shanelle. “That outfit might be even tackier than our showgirl costumes.”
Cassidy is sporting a too-tight-to-breathe burlesque-style corset, a teeny-tiny ruffled tutu skirt, and a bowtie choker that matches the silk straps on her cigarette tray. Like Shanelle and me the prior day, she’s also wearing fishnets and gloves that rise above the elbow. She looks one sly wink away from landing on her back, no doubt a tip-doubling strategy.
Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas Page 3