Panty Raid

by Diane Vallere

  It seemed the missing pages in the guestbook were a dead end. At least it seemed that way until I spotted the name of the witness for the nuptials: Joey Cheeks.

  31

  “This name, Joey Cheeks—do you remember him?” I asked.

  “We all know Joey. He’s a regular around here,” Irene answered.

  “Do you mean he likes to gamble?” I lowered my voice. “Does he have a problem?”

  She laughed. “Oh, no, dear. He’s married to our hotel manager.”

  “Alain Remie?” I said. “Alain is married to Joey?”

  “Yes, such sweet boys. Joey used to work here as an Elvis impersonator to get money to finance his collection. That’s how they met.”

  This meant something, I knew it. Alain had taken the photo of Lydia that ended up in the newspapers. The photo that showed off Joey’s brand slogan across her bottom. The photo was in such poor taste that I’d assumed Alain was an opportunistic parasite who’d probably been selling off images like that for years, but this took it to another level. When Alain took that photo, he knew he’d be using Lydia’s death to further his husband’s career trajectory.

  Either Marbury was doing a poor job investigating, or he knew all this and hadn’t told me. I hated when the police played their cards close to their chest.

  “Dear, you look a little pale. Can I get you a bottle of water?”

  “No, thank you. I’m just feeling a little lightheaded.”

  She patted my hand. “Don’t try to rush things. You’ll know when the time is right.”

  I left the chapel and tried to call Nick again. This time the call went directly to voicemail. Either his phone was off, or his battery had died. It was well past midnight, and the after-effects of the champagne and too much mental energy spent trying to figure out what was going on left me exhausted. I went back to the room and found Amanda asleep in my bed.

  I took a quick shower and changed into pajamas. As silly as it seemed, I felt responsible for Amanda. I scribbled a note to Nick and left it on the door, grabbed a spare blanket, and slept on the sofa.

  ***

  The next morning came all too quickly. It wasn’t my alarm that woke me. It was Amanda. “Samantha,” she said, gently shaking me. “Wake up.”

  “Huh?”

  “How much did we drink last night?”

  I blinked against the bright light streaming into the room and slowly picked out several empty champagne bottles. “That wasn’t us. That was Kristin and Sue Ellen. We mostly stuck to splits from the minibar.”

  “Then explain this hangover?” She had her hands on her head.

  I shook myself awake and sat up. “I don’t know. You’re a lightweight?” I squinted at the clock. “It’s only six-thirty. Why are you awake?”

  “It’s the last day of the trade show. I’m double booked with appointments. I have to get to my hotel, get ready, and get to Flush before the shows open.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  I removed the Privacy sign from the door in the hopes maid service would arrive early and went to Marc’s room, expecting to find the men crashed in much the same manner (without empty champagne bottles) as Amanda and me.

  Nobody answered my knock.

  I admit I started to worry. Had the people who threatened Marc gotten to them while they were out? Or had Nick being a friend to Marc turned into another guy’s night out?

  I called the hospital and asked for an update on Chryssinda’s condition. The woman refused to tell me anything, saying the information was protected by HIPAA guidelines. I asked if two men had come to visit her. She politely explained that answering that question would confirm Chryssinda’s hospital presence. Finally, out of desperation, I cut to the chase.

  “I’m trying to reach my fiancé. He isn’t answering his phone.”

  “Well, dear, we do have a strict no cell phone policy, so hypothetically speaking, if he had come here, he would likely have turned his phone off or set it to silent.”

  “‘Hypothetically speaking?’”

  “That’s the best I can do.”

  “Sure, that makes sense.” I thanked the nurse and hung up, mildly impressed with her ability to both protect and skirt the rules.

  Amanda, being an employee of one of Marc’s companies, would have his phone number. When I arrived at Intimate Mode, I’d have her call him to make sure they were okay.

  For my last day at the lingerie fair, I dressed in an oversized white shirt which I belted loosely at my waist, narrow black pants, and black ballerina flats. I tied a pink scarf around my neck and spun the knot to the side. I caught the Deuce and arrived at Flush just as the doors were opening. The last day of a trade show is usually the busiest since many vendors relax their security measures to meet new contacts and give away swag they don’t care to pack up. I headed directly for Amanda’s booth when I heard my name.

  “Samantha Kidd from Tradava! Wait up!”

  Even before I turned around, I knew who it was. Slowly I pivoted and watched as Joey Cheeks approached. Anxiety filled me, but his expression looked even more fearful than I felt.

  “Joey,” I said. “Good morning.”

  “It’s not all that good for me. I spent the night in the police station. Somebody told them I murdered Lydia and knocked out Chryssinda. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I don’t think this is the appropriate place to have this conversation,” I said.

  “Come to my booth,” he said. “We canceled all of our appointments. I need to explain to you what happened.”

  That got my attention. I followed him to the Blue section, behind the pink velvet stanchion, into the back room. Teresa, sporting a T-shirt that said #OverIt, black nylon track pants with white stripes down the side, and highlighter yellow patent leather stilettos, remained in front of the curtain by a table filled with tiny gift bags. She handed them out freely to anyone within a five-foot radius of the booth.

  “What happened to protecting the secrecy of your designs?” I asked Joey.

  “I don’t care anymore. I want anything with the #GetCheeky logo on it out of my sight.”

  “Why? Three days ago, you were ready to be the star of this whole show.”

  “You accused me of murder. You accused my husband of selling a publicity photo for financial gain. If his hotel believed those accusations, he’d lose his entire career. Neither one of us would work in this town again.”

  “Didn’t he?” I asked.

  “Didn’t he what?”

  “Sell a tasteless publicity photo of Lydia’s dead body to the Las Vegas Sun for financial gain?”

  Joey looked horrified. “No!” He looked away, chewed his bottom lip, and took off his Elvis glasses. Without them, he looked young and innocent. “You believe everything you told the police, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t tell them lies,” I said.

  “I had a photo shoot at The Left Bank. Lydia was in the Marry Rich: Pending T-shirt and the #GetCheeky panties. I booked a whole group of models for a mock bachelorette party, tacky veil and all.”

  “I saw them in the lobby.”

  “That’s my exact point. The pictures Alain took were of the photo shoot. I told Lydia I wanted some natural, un-posed shots. Like outtakes. I wanted something I could use on social media to make the entire campaign seem like fun.”

  “More reality show than advertising campaign.”

  “Exactly. The photo that ended up in the newspapers was taken while Lydia was alive. I never would have used it if I’d known she was murdered. The story we leaked was ‘lingerie photo shoot at The Left Bank kicks off Intimate Mode fashion show.’ Alain thought it was a good way to get publicity for his hotel plus a little boost for Cheeky Panties. The paper paid him a standard two-hundred-dollar fee for the copyright. The Las Vegas Sun made all the money selling that photo to other papers, not him.”

  “What about Teresa? What did she think of it?”

&
nbsp; “What does Teresa have to do with it?”

  “I saw you two argue during Yarvi Tatum’s presentation. What was that about?”

  “You don’t miss a trick, do you?” He shook his head. “Teresa gave her notice two weeks ago. She shouldn’t even be here. But I needed help, and somebody had to run interference between me and Lydia. I begged Teresa to keep it quiet—promised her a five-thousand-dollar bonus too—and she agreed. But the house that panties built is collapsing.” He smoothed the sides of his gelled hair with his palms. “Teresa wants her money and she wants out.”

  The words had a ring of familiarity to them. They were almost verbatim what I’d heard his line manager say when I was hiding under the stage.

  I looked away from Joey and thought through what he said. I first took note of Lydia in the lobby while checking in. She, and all of the women, were dressed in their Marry Rich T-shirts, and Chryssinda had been hot gluing condoms to Lydia’s veil. Lydia had been on the phone, and she’d been annoyed.

  “You and Lydia fought about something that day,” I said.

  “Lydia was a diva. I’d just found out some sleazy tabloid was saying she used to work in the escort industry. That’s not the image I hired her for.”

  “Marry Rich T-shirts?”

  “It was too coincidental. If I put a bunch of models in those T-shirts, it would have been funny. But when a story breaks that one of those models worked as a high-class call girl, my brand goes in the toilet.”

  “That looks a lot like motive. Plus you said you wanted to find a way out of Lydia’s contract. Murder is one way out.”

  He looked shocked. “How do you know about that conversation?”

  It was not the time to lie. “I overheard you telling Teresa. And then I heard Chryssinda tell Teresa she thought you were involved in Lydia’s death.”

  Joey paled. “And Chryssinda’s body was found in my booth. No wonder you thought I was involved.”

  I studied him. The Elvis bravado was gone. It was like a vacuum had sucked the confidence and high energy out of him, leaving a scared little boy who didn’t know which way to turn. My heart went out to him, but my head wasn’t 100% on board with his story. Not yet.

  “Joey, I saw you the day I arrived in Las Vegas. You and Chryssinda were on the sidewalk between The Left Bank and Paris. You looked like—well, you looked like you always do, but Chryssinda was dressed like Madonna. You were in the same spot where Lydia’s body was found. It looked to me like you were casing the background. Maybe for later?”

  Joey looked like I’d given him a suitcase filled with cash. His eyes got bright, and he leaned forward. “You’re right. Did you tell the police?”

  “I didn’t figure that out until last night, but I plan to show them the pictures today.” Why was he so happy? I’d expected him to be sweating bullets right now.

  “You took our picture?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you, Samantha Kidd from Tradava!”

  “Thank me for what?”

  “You’re the proof I need. I left the shoot early to work a private celebrity wedding party. I performed two sets as Elvis at their pre-reception and accompanied them to the airport for their honeymoon in Hawaii. I told the police, but they can’t verify my alibi because the couple is unreachable, and I don’t get my copy of the confidentiality contract until they return.”

  “Surely somebody else could back you up?”

  He leaned forward. “Elvis impersonators are a dime a dozen around here. But if you took pictures, those pictures show me in costume. They fit my timeline. That would be enough to make the police track down the celebrities to confirm my statement. They’ll see there was no way I could have been involved.”

  32

  Whatever vacuum had sucked the life out of Joey shifted to me. He couldn’t have murdered Lydia, not if he was in a private ceremony with people who could afford private planes, Elvis impersonators, and confidential non-disclosure agreements. Joey couldn’t be in two places at the same time, and the evidence showed me that on the night in question, Elvis had left the building. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  I apologized for the trouble I’d caused and promised to write an order for Tradava when I returned home. Joey seemed genuinely happy with the apology and not particularly concerned with the order, which told me Joey had a new respect for the priorities of life. I left his booth and wandered back into the trade show.

  The answer to the puzzle had to be here somewhere. Both Lydia and Chryssinda were lingerie models. Their day jobs brought them to Intimate Mode. Lydia had been found dead in the very product line she was contracted to represent, and Chryssinda’s body had been left behind in the designer’s booth. Someone was using Joey’s love of the limelight to create the illusion that he was a murderer.

  Holy smokes. Illusion. That was the key to everything. The information I gave the police, the trail of clues I’d followed, the trickle of information that had forced Flush Casino to double down on security measures and screen every attendee at the trade show. It all was for one reason.

  To throw us off the scent of the real murderer.

  ***

  On my way to Amanda’s booth, I bumped into Lisa, the buxom black model who had coached me through my bang bang reveal on Yarvi’s runway presentation. “Girl, slow down! You wanna run, you better put on a sports bra.”

  “I can’t slow down.”

  “Then hold your girls in place. Otherwise, they’re going to be down by your knees before you hit forty.” She grabbed my wrists and placed my hands on my boobs. “Go.”

  I rounded the corner and waved my hands to get Amanda’s attention. She was assessing a rack of samples and a trio of models, two that I recognized as Kristin and Sue Ellen from last night. I grabbed three hangers from the rolling rack and dealt them to the women. “Make it work,” I said. “I have to talk to Amanda.”

  Sue Ellen handed the red robe to Kristin and took the aqua robe from the third woman. They looked at Amanda, who said, “Fine,” and pointed to the changing screen.

  I grabbed Amanda’s forearm and pulled her to a secluded corner. “Have you heard from Nick and Marc?”

  “Not today. Why?”

  I waved my hand back and forth. “No time to explain. Do you have Marc’s number? Nick’s phone is either off or dead and I need to reach them.”

  “Sure.” She scrolled through her contacts until she found the number. She read it off and I typed it into my phone. “Thanks. I have to go.”

  “Samantha!” she called out. “What can I do?”

  “Keep an eye on Teresa Kander.”

  “Teresa? Joey’s line manager?” Amanda’s features scrunched together in confusion. “What does she have to do with anything?”

  I was fairly sure Teresa had nothing to do with anything. If Amanda kept her eyes on Teresa, then Amanda would be nowhere near the murderer. “I’ll explain everything later. Trust me.”

  I collected my things and left the show. On my way back to The Left Bank, I called Marc.

  “Marc Rico,” he answered.

  “Marc, it’s Samantha Kidd.”

  “Sammie, what’s up?”

  “Is Nick with you?”

  “He’s in the john. Why?”

  “I haven’t been able to reach him since the two of you left last night. Is everything okay? With Chryssinda?”

  “Chryssie is going to be fine,” he said. There was a note of blind optimism in his voice, and I wondered if he believed the power of positive thinking was going to pull her out of her coma, or if he knew something I didn’t (which could pretty much be anything considering the HIPAA guidelines).

  “Are you at Intimate Mode?” he asked.

  “I just left. I’m headed back to The Left Bank.”

  “Done already?”

  “Yes. To be honest, I don’t think the lingerie business is right for me. With the attack on Chryssi
nda and some things I’ve found out about one of the vendors here, I don’t feel all that comfortable.”

  “Do you know who is responsible?”

  “I have a suspicion, and that’s enough. I can’t shake the fact that somebody here has been watching me. If staying away from Intimate Mode can keep those people safe, then I’ll stay away.”

  “Nick’s a lucky guy,” Marc said. “It’s too bad you got caught up in this.”

  “With any luck, it’ll all be over soon.”

  The Deuce pulled up in front of The Bellagio and I exited. It was a short walk to The Left Bank, and when I entered the hotel, I went straight to the concierge desk. Jacques was working, and he froze when he saw me.

  “Miss Kidd,” he said, with no trace of an accent.

  “Bonjour, Jacques,” I said. “Comment allez-vous?” It was one of the few French phrases I remembered from high school, and I hoped that by speaking his adopted language, I could show him I was making an effort to respect his cover.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Je suis Samantha Kidd,” I said. “Mon crayon est grand et jaune.”

  “Your pencil is big and yellow?” he asked.

  “It’s a line from Gotcha. I’m running out of French.”

  “I see.” He looked to his left and right and back to me. “Eees there anything I can help you weeeth, Meees Keeed?”

  I smiled. “In fact, there is. Have you seen Nick Taylor or Marc Rico today?”

  “Oui. Ze two men are upstairs. They called for room service not long ago.”

  “Perfect. Have there been any unusual charges on their room service bill?”

  “Non.”

  “Perfect again. Would you relay a message to Nick for me? Tell him I’m going to pick out my dress and veil in the wedding store in the lobby and will be coming to the room to get changed in half an hour. It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony, so I prefer if he’s not there. He knows I’m superstitious. He’ll understand.”

  Jacques looked surprised. “You’re getting married here? At The Left Bank?”