“Do you want to know?” Laney Harris walked me to the stage, passed me the jeweled microphone along with the tap-on, tap-off ring and went over what was left of the evening’s itinerary with me one more time. “Matthew Thatcher always knew. He wanted to know.”
The slot machines’ reels had also been switched out during our Blueberry Martini Matinee. They’d gone from 31 Flavors to one—vanilla, and just one topping—diamonds. One of the machines had three special symbols, three little jewels that would line up for one lucky player. Laney Harris knew which one. (She knew which machine. She didn’t know which player.)
“I really don’t want to know, Laney,” I said. “I’d rather be surprised.”
“You’re sure?” she asked. “You’ll need to let the crowd know when it hits.”
“Won’t the person scream and holler?”
“You never know,” she said. “The person might pass out.”
“What happens if I drop it?”
“Drop what?”
“The diamond. At the awards.”
Laney hesitated. “The winner doesn’t get it tonight. It’ll be delivered by armored courier tomorrow.”
I was so disappointed. (I was so many things—scared for Bradley, anxious for this to be over, worried that I’d have to catch a plane wearing the twinkling bandage, exhausted, and a twinge of sorry that I’d missed my grandmother’s wedding.)
“It’s the insurance company’s call,” Laney said. “Not ours.” She opened a leather portfolio, looked both ways, then let me peek. It was a beautiful sparkly solitaire.
“I’d like to have one of those.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” She tucked the portfolio under an arm, then pulled me to face her. She tucked a stray strand of moisturized hair back into the beehive on my head. “Good luck out there.” She spun me toward the curtains. “Do Bianca proud!”
I froze and looked over my shoulder.
She winked, then pushed me through to the stage.
Cue the lights (house down, spot up), cue the orchestra (Elvis Costello’s “She”), then deafening applause and a standing ovation.
I no longer remember how I got from a town of four hundred to here.
I did know the second this was over I would be with, or on my way to, Bradley Cole.
7:10 Welcome
Richard and Bianca Sanders
I floated. (Around the room.) Which was more like ran around the room.
“This old thang? I picked it up at a yard sale.”
“I told him this morning, ‘Richard,’ I said, ‘no goofing off. Get back here to see who wins this tournament.’”
“Say cheese!”
“Mrs. Conner, you look absolutely amazing. Monty Conner, you do not deserve her.”
“All I know is someone’s going to win a million dollars. I don’t know a thing about anyone winning anything else.”
“He’s wonderful! Thank you! He’s fourteen now, straight As, and plays lacrosse.”
“I don’t know what lacrosse is either.”
7:25 Machine Assignments
The players drew. (Numbers. Out of a hat.) Which was not a hat at all; it was a silver bowl full of numbered, etched, crystal, goose eggs.
Each of the fifty tournament players came to the stage to be introduced and draw a number. They were lined up by current rank—lowest score first.
“You draw it, Mrs. Sanders.” It was Emmett Reese (Furry Ears), from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
“I can’t do that, Emmett!”
The crowd weighed in. “Do it, Bianca!” “Draw the number for him, Bianca!”
A quick meeting among suits convened behind two solid white baby grand pianos in a corner. Accountants from Delloite, there to verify the wins, bent heads with Bellissimo legal eagles, there to protect the bottom line. They must have flipped a coin rather than discuss it, which would have led to conference rooms, thick documents, debates and mediation, because they gave me the go-ahead quickly.
“Oh, the pressure!” I dipped a hand into the goose eggs. I pulled one out. “Thirty-two, Emmett!” (Furry Ears!) “You’ll play on lucky machine number thirty-two!”
7:45 Player Seating
Bianca Sanders makeup check
I ducked backstage for lip gloss.
Fantasy had an orange juice on crushed ice for me.
“STRAW! STRAW!” one of the powder and paint people yelled. “SOMEONE GET HER A STRAW!”
Fantasy leaned in. “The Georgia authorities have Mary Ha Ha and her husband.”
“Any word on Bradley?” I slapped at anonymous hands that had moved in and were physically hoisting up my chicken cutlets.
Fantasy pressed her lips together in a smile and nodded. “It’s all good.”
I caved, she caught me, and someone yelled, “NO TOUCHING MRS. SANDERS! BACK OFF!”
“I’ll show you some back off, lady.” (Fantasia.)
I stumbled back to the ballroom.
8:00 Go Time!
The fifty players were seated. The audience, drinks in tow, were pressed against the white velvet ropes. I rang the opening bell and the machine display switched from the Double Dip Tournament graphics to play mode, and a spectator screamed it first.
“It’s diamonds!” You’d thought someone had presented her with one. “It’s diamonds! The surprise is diamonds!”
We counted down together and they were off. All fifty players beat the play buttons on their slot machines as if their very lives depended on it. I tugged the pearl-drop diamond at my ear and spoke to Fantasy, “Let’s be players in this next year.”
Sixteen minutes in, we were all about to drop. So far, Mrs. Dragonfly, who had a jeweled lizard crawling across her shoulder tonight, was the clear point leader for this round, because her slot machine almost couldn’t spin anything but triple scoops, diamonds exploding everywhere, and much of the audience had migrated her way. Twenty minutes in, the screaming was unbearable. I stepped back to take it all in. I welcomed the focus on the tournament play, so I could be ignored for a minute. And breathe.
A chill of Bradley Cole anticipation ran through me when I realized the tournament was almost over.
“Are you hiding?” Someone shouted in my ear. It was Laney Harris. “Come with me.”
She led me down the row. She pointed. “Watch.”
Slot machine number sixteen was being played by the slightest little old man, Cornelius something, from Metairie, Louisiana. With two minutes of play left, he lined them up.
Diamond diamond diamond.
They were the size of baseballs on the screen, positively brilliant, and they sat there quietly on the three reels, as did Cornelius. He looked around to see if anyone else noticed, and found me.
“Congratulations!” I mouthed above the ridiculous din.
“Thank you!”
Someone else noticed the diamonds and the energy in the room, barely contained to begin with, doubled.
The slot machines, in unison, popped up the tournament graphics screens.
The Double Dip Tournament was finally over.
8:30 Dessert
Credit Meter Verification
It was hard to believe the players weren’t passed out on the machines. I found it equally hard to believe I was still standing. The exhausted audience slowly peeled away from the white velvet ropes, found their seats, and fell into them. The shiny bandaged waitresses swarmed. Accountants and lawyers, machine by machine, verified the final round points. Champagne flowed freely. An army of white-gloved white-tuxed servers invaded the ballroom from all points carrying silver trays with silver domed lids.
Ben & Jerry, have a seat. In the back. Farther back.
It was ice cream, of that I was certain, and it was decadent—I had my own teeny s
ilver spoon I carried around the ballroom double-dipping into every other dish—but past that, I’d never seen or tasted anything like it in my life.
Fantasy, in my ear, “Stop eating after people.”
I picked up a few details between bites. Double scoops of Tahitian vanilla bean ice cream infused with Madagascar vanilla were in Waterford crystal goblets. The ice cream was sprinkled in 23K edible gold, then drizzled with Delafee chocolate from Switzerland. It was served with miniature chocolate-dipped petit fours (I ate twenty of those), passion fruit, and snifters of fifty-year old Hennessey cognac. I confess to having a few of those, too.
Fantasy, in my ear, “You’re going to get fat.”
The accountants finished recording scores, and scuttled off to tally. The players stumbled to their tables. My earpiece beeped again, and I asked, “What now?”
Fantasy, in my ear, “Look at the door.”
My boss, Richard Sanders, wearing a black tuxedo, strolled in. It stunned us all so much, the only thing in the room you could hear was the ice cream melting.
He was alone.
He shook hands, slapped backs, found me, gave me a smile and a wink, then made his way to Cornelius Diamond Winner to congratulate him. Laney Harris passed him a cordless microphone.
My heart was pounding.
“Did I miss all the fun?” The crowd roared. “If you all will excuse me,” he said, “I’d like to say hello to my wife.”
He hustled me backstage.
9:00 Winners Announced
“Did you find him? They released him from the hospital. Where is he? Did you look for him?”
“Davis, slow down.”
Davis fell down. A wooden box caught her.
Mr. Sanders looked around, found a straight chair, pulled it next to me, then sat down.
“I found him at the Grand Palace, Davis, and yes, he’d been released from the hospital.”
“Surely, they didn’t make him stay and work, after what he’s been through.”
“No,” Mr. Sanders said. “He flew back with me.”
But…where was he? My heart broke in two.
Someone yelled the time out—nine-oh-eight, the natives were getting restless—and Mr. Sanders waved them off.
“He said he’d catch up with you later.”
My heart broke in four.
I wanted to ask Mr. Sanders if those were his exact words: catch up with me later. Catch up with me?
I’d dreamed it up. I made everything right with Bradley in my own little world. I had to hold the sides of the box to steady myself.
Someone yelled the time.
“Stay here, Davis,” Mr. Sanders said. “I’ll go announce the winners.”
I nodded. I think I nodded.
It was dark and I was cold and I was alone, except for the orchestra’s empty instrument cases. I scooted the shiny ace bandages back until I found a wall to hold me up.
What now? Where would I go from here?
Mr. Sanders’ muffled voice snuck backstage. Muted applause broke out. Drum rolls and squeals from far, far away. I closed my eyes and rested the back of my head against the cold, cold wall.
My eyes popped open when I heard him say, “Scoot over.”
My first frantic thought was there was nowhere to scoot to.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s try this.” Bradley Cole scooped me up, we sat on the crate together, and I finally found a good crying place. I’d been looking for one for so long.
“I brought you something.”
The center stone was square. Baguettes bowed all around it. Tons of them. It was set in platinum, to which, I cried all the harder.
“Marry me, Davis.”
Someone did leave the tournament with a great big rock.
Me!
About Gretchen Archer
Gretchen Archer is a Tennessee housewife who began writing when her daughters, seeking higher educations, ran off and left her. She lives on Lookout Mountain with her husband, son, and a Yorkie named Bently. Double Dip is the second Davis Way crime caper. You can visit her at www.gretchenarcher.com.
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ARTIFACT
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2 Double Dip Page 25