“Could you get Frank to let me try it, too?” Trixie wants to know.
“I can ask.” All three of us settle in a cab’s rear seat and I give the driver the address Sally Anne gave me. “What about you, Shanelle? You want to try it, too?”
“No way. I do not believe black people are meant to get that cold.”
Mood-boosting though I have found cryotherapy to be, my spirits sink as we arrive at the Desert Paradise Funeral Home, a drab low-slung structure that seems an unlikely gateway to eternal bliss. And while wakes are depressing even if they’re crowded, they are downright wretched if almost nobody shows up. Yet, sadly, that is the case for Danny Richter, whose near and dear apparently number in the single digits.
The mourners include Frank and Sally Anne and a 50-something woman I learn is Danny’s mother. My heart breaks for her as I watch her sob quietly into a Kleenex. There is no Cassidy in sight.
We offer our condolences and glide past the casket. I note the embalmer has taken care that Danny will not go to his reward with a black eye. It’s been hidden under several layers of the sort of foundation I slather on for pageant competition.
As our trio moves further afield from the deceased, I realize anew that solving murders is not just about showing how clever you are. It’s about delivering justice to the victim. Danny deserves that as much as anyone.
We accept coffee and shortbread cookies from a portly man in a dark suit whom I take to be the funeral director and contemplate the would-be bride and groom from a distance. I detect a chill between them. More than once Sally Anne murmurs something to Frank only to have him turn away without reply.
“What is going on between those two?” Trixie whispers.
“I for one do not foresee a second attempt at a wedding,” Shanelle mutters. “The bloom seems off that rose.”
I down my cookie. “I’m going to work the room,” I murmur, and set off to engage a few of the assembled in conversation. In short order I learn that several of Danny’s casino coworkers are in attendance, as well as a friend or two from high school.
The low attendance is a definite negative investigation-wise. I’d hoped I’d encounter someone who would generate a lead I could follow. No one I’ve spoken to either seems to have a killer gene or has spilled any useful information about Danny’s life. Unfortunately, that means this queen is flummoxed.
The event does perk up when Cassidy breezes in. Though she’s wearing neither short shorts nor a corset, I do not judge her attire to be appropriate for the occasion. She is squeezed into a leopard-print mini dress paired with over-the-knee boots. She throws a glance at me, another at Frank and Sally Anne, then sashays over to the casket. Knowing what I do of Cassidy, I would not expect wailing and gnashing of teeth. Nevertheless I am surprised when she pauses for about two seconds before making a beeline for the guestbook. She scribbles something and bolts.
I go after her. “Cassidy, I know it’s not really my business—”
“No, it’s not.” She keeps moving.
I follow her out to the parking lot and buttonhole her next to her beat-up Corolla. “You know, Danny’s mother is in there. It would be nice for you to say something comforting to her about her son.”
“Oh, please.” Cassidy spins around to face me. “I got nothing against the woman but I got nothing to say to her, either. Danny and I weren’t the loves of each other’s lives, okay? And this whole funeral thing spooks me. I’ll mourn Danny in my own way. Besides, it’s my day off and I got things I gotta do.”
“Like what?”
“Like meet a friend for a drink at Brutus’s Palace, okay? So give it a rest.” Cassidy gets in her car and revs the engine. She’s gone faster than a snowflake in the desert.
I head back into the funeral home and am about to re-enter the viewing room when I detect a movement down the corridor to my left and realize that Detective Perelli is half-hidden behind a potted palm. She must be on the same fruitless investigative mission that I am. I move in her direction.
She’s wearing a menswear-inspired suit in a charcoal gray that she’s livened up with a fuchsia tee shirt and a striking bib necklace with multicolored stones.
“Kind of a small turnout,” I observe. “Are you making progress with the investigation?” I don’t expect her to tell me anything really juicy but it can’t hurt to ask.
She stops chewing her gum. I get a whiff of cotton candy and guess that’s the flavor. “So you trying to solve this murder like you did the one on Oahu?”
I am of the mind that honesty is almost always the best policy. “I don’t know that I’ll enjoy that kind of success again but I have been snooping around a bit.”
She blows a bubble and snaps it. “Come up with anything?”
“Not much. But you know Danny’s girlfriend Cassidy, who just blew out of here? She’s got a few really expensive items in her apartment that she says were gifts from him. I’m wondering how he got the money to buy them.”
“I get your drift. I saw a few things at his place on the extremely pricey side.”
“Were there prints on the fog machine or the remote? Or anything useful on the streaming video from the chapel?”
“Nada on all counts.” She snaps her gum again, then, “There was a scuffle at the casino a few days back when Richter fingered somebody trying to trade counterfeit bills for chips at his table. The guy went after Richter before security threw him out.”
I am gratified that Detective Perelli is sharing this inside info. “Have you been able to track the guy down?”
“Not yet. We got the idea he might skip bail.”
Interesting. And suspicious.
“You see anything you give me a holler,” she goes on. “You got my card?”
I am assuring her that I do when a commotion erupts behind us. The funeral director is puffing after an aging platinum blonde wearing sunglasses with pink lenses and more bling than I’m accustomed to seeing in daytime. With a little white dog in her arms, she is zipping toward Danny’s viewing room at an impressive rate of speed.
“Ma’am, you cannot bring—” the funeral director is saying, but his words are lost in the piteous yowl the woman releases toward heaven.
CHAPTER NINE
This woman truly puts the lament in lamentation. We all watch mesmerized as she stands at Danny’s casket keening to beat the band. Before long, her dog gets into it, too, throwing back her tiny white head and howling.
“I don’t think there are supposed to be dogs in here,” Trixie murmurs. “Even a cute little one wearing a pink collar and matching bow.”
The funeral director—who seems undone at the display—takes advantage of a breathing break to approach the woman. In a white dress with slanting pink stripes, she makes me think of a faded candy cane. “I am sorry, ma’am, but you cannot have—”
“Pucci goes everywhere with me.” In contrast to her mourning wail, the woman’s speaking voice is as breathy as Jackie O’s. “And if ever I needed her by my side—” One glance at Danny’s tuxedoed corpse sets her off again. I don’t think even the noise of the Strip could drown her out.
Trixie, dog lover that she is, intercedes. “That sweet furball won’t cause any trouble,” she assures the funeral director, and I use that opening to take this intriguing new arrival by the arm and lead her toward a sofa across the room. After she takes a seat, the pooch circles twice in her lap then settles down. Shanelle bustles off and returns in short order with coffee.
“You put a lot of cream in it, thank you, dear,” the woman says, and takes an exceedingly delicate sip. I half expect her to offer the dog some.
I introduce Shanelle, Trixie, and myself. “And you are …”
“Samantha St. James.” She strokes her canine companion. “This is Pucci. Spelled like Gucci with a P.”
I am not surprised to hear that luxury brand name drop from Samantha’s frosted pink lips. I am almost blinded by the diamonds at her ears, throat, and wrist. “I take it you knew Danny quite we
ll.”
“We were”—she gazes at the ceiling as if the word to describe their relationship will appear there—“very close,” she offers finally.
Shanelle arches her brows at me over Samantha’s head. I, too, find this a curious liaison, at least in part because Samantha must be twice Danny’s age. Then again, maybe she is quite the cougar.
Samantha fixes her gaze on me. “I don’t think I heard him mention your name, dear.”
“Sadly, our acquaintance was very brief.” It lasted about a minute and a half at the rehearsal dinner. “Did you know him for a long time?”
“Long enough to understand that he was highly evolved. My psychic advisor and I both agree that he had already been reincarnated through a succession of lives. I know that I must learn to regard his passing not as a tragedy”—she starts to lose it—“but as an opportunity for a fortuitous rebirth.”
Another bout of sobbing ensues. When she quiets down to mere gulps and sniffles, Trixie attempts to steer the conversation in a safer direction. “Your dog is so adorable. What breed is she?”
Samantha rallies. “A Maltese Pomeranian mix.”
“Ah. A Ma-meranian.” Trixie furrows her brow. “Or … would that be a Pome-tese?”
“She is pure love is what she is,” Samantha says. “She adored Danny. The poor thing hasn’t been able to touch her organic kibble since … since …”
I pat Samantha’s hand, noting the absence of diamonds on her ring finger. “Is there a Mr. St. James?”
“My Calvin took a step toward another life eight long years ago.”
We all murmur a platitude or two.
“But don’t you agree that death is part of the grand design? Danny’s as well, unexpected though it may be.”
I’m trying to craft a reply when she goes on.
“I simply cannot allow myself to consider any other possibility.” Abruptly she stands up, nearly spilling Pucci onto the carpet. “My psychic advisor was right. I shouldn’t have come here. Maybe if this had been an energy-focused ceremony, I would feel Danny’s spirit presence all around me. But it isn’t and I don’t. Will you give my condolences to his family, dear?” she asks me. “And escort me to my car? It’s time for me to go home and chant.”
“Of course.” My mind races. I want to see more of Samantha St. James. As I lead her and her bling past the casket, I find myself very eager to understand her mysterious alliance with Danny Richter. “Oh, the guest book!” I blurt as we exit the viewing room. “The family would so appreciate it if you would sign.”
“Really? All right.” Fortunately, Pucci In Arms is not a hindrance to her completion of that task.
“Your phone number and address, too. The family will want to send you a thank you note for coming.” This is a blatant lie in service of the nefarious scheme taking shape in my mind, but to my delight Samantha obliges.
I usher her to her white Cadillac, which features custom pink slipcovers and a matching doggie carrier belted into the front passenger seat. I note that another car trails Samantha’s Caddy as she drives away. Behind the wheel is Detective Perelli, who must find the wealthy widow’s role in Danny Richter’s life as intriguing as I do.
My threesome piles into a cab a few minutes later, once we’ve said our goodbyes and I’ve entered Samantha’s address into my smart phone. “Mrs. St. James looks just like her dog,” Trixie points out. “Of course, that’s not unusual. You’d think my Uncle Spence is twins with his basset hound.”
“Let’s go to Brutus’s Palace for cocktails and dinner.” I make the suggestion because I continue to have another female on the brain besides Samantha St. James, titillating though her relationship with Danny might be. “Can you believe Cassidy stayed at the wake for like ten seconds?”
“Can you believe what she wore!” Trixie screeches. “Even though Mrs. St. James was in pink and white, which aren’t really wake colors, her outfit was in good taste.”
“Except for that dog accessory,” Shanelle mutters.
For the duration of our ride back to the Strip, Trixie leaps to the defense of Pucci and all other four-footed creatures. Up in my room, I find my mother organizing her coupons. She employs an elaborate system involving a 13-pocket expandable file complete with tabbed dividers and inserts. With a polypropylene exterior and elastic closure, it is travel ready. After she reports on her thrill-packed afternoon at the senior care center frequented by the friends she’s made at the Liberace Museum—which throws the geriatric crowd into a panic when it closes on Mondays—I tell her about the wake. What she prefers to discuss is the mode of transportation I used to get there and back.
“You paid the full meter price?” She looks aghast.
“The three of us shared it. What else were we supposed to do?”
She hands me a Clark County coupon book for reduced fare taxicab rides for disabled seniors.
“Mom, this is for local residents. How did you get your hands on this?”
She looks away. “I have my methods.”
I am beginning to suspect that these oldsters get up to quite a bit of mischief when left unattended. “Well, I am not a senior, I am not disabled, and I don’t live in Clark County. And even in your case, only one of those things applies.”
“Details,” she huffs. “And you forget I am on a fixed income.”
It takes some doing to convince her to abandon her filing in favor of a jaunt to Brutus’s Palace but eventually she caves. “I suppose I can finish it tomorrow. After all, when I get back from the Liberace Museum, what the hell else will I have to do?”
When we meet downstairs, Shanelle and I are still in our wake outfits but Trixie has changed into a wrap-style chiffon maxi dress with a peacock feathers pattern and rhinestone-encrusted belt. My mother is delighted to see her. Trixie—the reigning Ms. Congeniality, after all—is a particularly amiable beauty queen.
We soon discover that Brutus’s Palace might be even more over the top than the other properties on the Strip. That is saying something. The sprawling structure is illuminated for the all-important night crowd with multicolored spotlights, many of them trained on the faux Greco-Roman statues that adorn the façade. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a collection of nude marble bodies, all of them anatomically correct, and I know my mother hasn’t.
“I’m glad Rachel isn’t here to see this,” she whispers to me.
I say nothing though I have a strong suspicion that my daughter would not be seeing anything she hasn’t seen before. And not in marble, either.
The statuary continues in the hotel’s interior, which also features fountains, sarcophagi, and, in an inner courtyard, a replica of a Roman bath. It’s as though a temple surrounds an Olympic-size swimming pool except that the water is tinted a pale green and there are no lane markers. Many guests are lolling about, a goodly number sporting laurel wreaths on their heads and carrying cocktails. Maybe those two things go together.
“I’m ready for an adult beverage,” Shanelle says, so we quickly locate the main bar, called the Circus Maximus. I gather from the décor that’s where the chariot races were held back in the day. I half expect Charlton Heston done up as Ben-Hur to ask me what’s my pleasure. The servers, male and female both, are wearing togas, gladiator sandals, and helmets which feature both plumage and a piece that extends down the nose. I must report that the togas are of a rather more revealing nature than I expect the Ancient Romans wore.
“Those have got to be the shortest togas I’ve ever seen,” Trixie breathes.
“I don’t think they’re wearing a dang thing underneath, either,” Shanelle adds.
My mother is scandalized. “They spin around too fast, you can see their private parts!”
“I think that’s the point, Mrs. P,” Trixie whispers.
We settle into a booth shaped like a chariot. “It’s Vegas being Vegas,” I declare. “Let’s order.”
Three of us pop for a Roman Holiday, a bright orange cocktail with gin, OJ, and the bittersweet Italian
aperitif Aperol. My mother requests a Dolce Vita.
“Campari, orange zest, and Prosecco,” Trixie reads off the menu. “Very nice, Mrs. P.”
We’re midway through round two, and have dispatched some prosciutto-wrapped melon appetizers, when I notice none other than Cassidy in her own chariot-style booth across the bar. I had hoped I might run into her—it is why I chose this location, after all—but I did not anticipate seeing this.
She is not alone. Big time.
“Do not turn around,” I say in a low voice, “but Danny’s former girlfriend is playing kissy face with another man only 48 hours after Danny met his Maker.”
“I know that type,” my mother says. “We had them in my day, too.”
“Is she still wearing the leopard-print dress?” Trixie wants to know.
“Yes,” I reply. “But from the look of things, she won’t be for long.”
Indeed, within five minutes of that prediction, Cassidy and The New Man stand up and weave their way out of the bar.
“I bet they’re going up to his room.” I make this declaration with confidence. “Are you game to follow them to find out, Trixie? She doesn’t know you so she won’t recognize you.”
Trixie edges out of the booth. “You don’t think she saw me at the wake?”
“She got out of there so fast, she wouldn’t have noticed the Queen of England.”
Trixie scuttles after the disappearing pair. The three of us are debating whether to try the Italian restaurant at the Brutus for dinner when she reappears.
“You were right, Happy! I got into the same elevator they did and let him push the button first and then giggled and said, Oh, that’s my floor, too, and then he let me out first and I pretended I had to find my key card in my clutch to let them go ahead and then I saw them go down a corridor and then go into a room.” She pauses to take a breath. “I think we all know what’s happening in that room right now. Pardon my French, Mrs. P.”
“That’s all right. It was no different in my day,” my mother says. I have noticed she’s started to repeat herself after a cocktail or two.
Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas Page 7