You Bet Your Life

by Jessica Fletcher

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Teaser chapter

  A Friend in Need

  Martha was the last one in. She slid onto the seat and lifted the phone, familiar by now with the routine.

  “Jessica, thank you so much for coming. I’m embarrassed to be talking to you in such a place.”

  “Martha, I tried to reach you many times,” I said.

  “I know. Please forgive me. I was so humiliated to be in here, and then so depressed. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone but my lawyer. God, it’s grim in here.”

  “Are you all right? I mean, do they mistreat you?”

  “No. It’s just that—” She started to weep, sat up straight, drew some deep breaths, and forced a smile at me through the glass. “I’m sorry. I haven’t cried for weeks, but seeing you...”

  “No need to be sorry, Martha. I certainly understand.”

  “Everyone in here claims they’re innocent. The guards think it’s a joke. But I swear to you I didn’t kill him.”

  I nodded. I meant it when I said I believed her....

  Other books in the Murder, She Wrote Series

  Manhattans & Murder

  Rum & Razors

  Brandy & Bullets

  Martinis & Mayhem

  A Deadly Judgment

  A Palette for Murder

  The Highland Fling Murders

  Murder on the QE2

  Murder in Moscow

  A Little Yuletide Murder

  Murder at the Powderhom Ranch

  Knock ’Em Dead

  Gin & Daggers

  Trick or Treachery

  Blood on the Vine

  Murder in a Minor Key

  Provence—To Die For

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany,

  Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Signet Printing, October 2002

  Copyright © 2002 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-67361-0

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Bill, Eleanor and Hy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For generous contributions of their time, knowledge, and experience, we’d like to thank the following people:

  At the Clark County Detention Center: Sgt. James A. Morganti, Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department.

  At the Clark County Courthouse: Manager of Court Operations Michael W. Ware and District Judge Kathy A. Hardcastle.

  At Bellagio: Director of Guest Services Paul Berry and his associate Linda Love; and Jacqueline Montoya, Director of Wedding Chapels.

  And journalist Ulf Buchholz.

  All efforts were made to accurately reflect the information provided, although some liberties were taken for the sake of the story. Any errors are solely ours.

  Chapter One

  It’s called the Strip, and a more mundane name for such a fanciful boulevard would be hard to find. Where else in the world can you see a twenty-foot statue of Julius Caesar, a pirate ship, a pyramid, the New York City skyline, and the Eiffel Tower, all within a mile of each other?

  No more than five minutes after my taxi made the turn out of Las Vegas’s McCarran International Airport, I was craning my neck to see the astonishing architecture, giant-screen advertisements, and flashing lights, blazing night and day, for which the city is justly famous.

  “You ever been here before?” the driver asked.

  “I was here two years ago,” I said, “but the city changes so quickly.”

  “Yeah, Las Vegas is constantly changing. We got a new Aladdin Hotel. They blew up the old one in 1998. Blew up the Dunes, too. That was a good one. Saw it on TV. The Sands and the Hacienda also got imploded—that’s what they call it. We like to blow up old hotels.”

  “Any still standing?”

  “Not too many. The Stardust is still here, of course. Wayne Newton sings there.”

  “The city likes spectacular events of all kinds, I gather.”

  “You could say that. We got some good ones goin’ on all the time—the pirate ship battle at Treasure Island, the volcano at the Mirage, the fountains at the Bellagio. Broadway shows. Chorus girls. The best restaurants in the world. Siegfried and Roy—everyone wants to see their white tigers. You never get bored here.”

  “Do you have a favorite hotel?”

  “Not really. It’s kind of old hat to me by now. Been here twenty years. The wife likes the Venetian. That’s where the Sands used to be. They’ve got gondola rides on what they call the Grand Canal and guys singing opera and kissing her hand.
And when the kids were little, they liked Circus Circus.”

  “I heard that Las Vegas hotels were trying to attract more family business. Is that still true?”

  “Used to be the case, but it’s shifting back around now. You can’t take kids into the casinos, and that’s where the money is. The MGM Grand closed down most of its theme park. The hotels would rather have the parents leave their kids at home and spend their time here gambling. The Strip is really more of an adult playground than a place for kids.”

  My hotel, the Bellagio, was in the middle of the playground. At the base of the drive leading to the front entrance was an enormous sign, its moving figures advertising the Cirque du Soleil show “O” that was being featured at the hotel. Signs for other hotels and other shows competed for attention on either side of the street, not unlike the colorful billboards and moving signs of Times Square in New York, but multiplied and spread out over a mile.

  The driver pulled up under the enormous porte cochere of the Bellagio, and a uniformed bellman opened the cab door for me.

  “Welcome to the Bellagio. Are you checking in?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’ll take care of your luggage,” he said, handing me a ticket.

  I thanked him, paid the cabdriver, and looked around. In front of the hotel was a huge lake where the famous fountains of the Bellagio would dance to music later that afternoon. Across the street was the Eiffel Tower, a half-size version of the French original. Seth Hazlitt and I had taken a ride to the top when we were here two years earlier for a friend’s wedding. We could see all of Las Vegas below—the Strip with its skyscraper hotels, bright, flashing lights, palm trees, and water displays, a mecca for thirty-five million visitors a year. And farther out, where the burgeoning population of one of the fastest-growing cities in the country had put up flatter buildings—homes and schools and shopping centers. And beyond the buildings to the dry expanse of still-untamed desert, and to the dramatic folds of the Spring Mountains to the west. The noise of Las Vegas had been muffled on top of the faux Eiffel Tower, where the wind ruffled our hair and the distant view reminded us that nature was even more stunning than anything man could build.

  The elevator had taken us back downstairs to the electric sound of the casino in the Paris Hotel, and its arched ceiling painted to look like the sky, and with its shops and restaurants on winding narrow “streets,” a whimsical replica of the Left Bank.

  The Bellagio was more opulent than whimsical, but it still offered enough fantasy to attract an abundance of brides and grooms who posed for pictures under the glass ceiling of the conservatory, an indoor garden on the far side of the lobby. As I stood in line waiting to register, I watched a young couple—she in a white gown and veil, and he in a gray tuxedo—as they gathered family around them for a photographic portrait against the lush greenery. Another bride and groom waited their turn for pictures in front of the trees and flowers. And a third bridal couple walked hand in hand out of the garden and into the casino, trailed by their photographer.

  I sighed. The last time I had been in Las Vegas, it was also for a wedding, a joyous event. The bride and groom had been so happy. We toasted their future and wished them well.

  Now, two years later, I’d flown to the fabled “Sin City” with a decidedly heavier heart. There would be no celebration this time. Murder is nothing to celebrate.

  Chapter Two

  Two years earlier

  “Have you known the bride a long time?” the lady in the flowered pantsuit and straw hat asked as she slipped past the extravagant floral arrangement at the end of the pew and took a seat next to me.

  “Oh, my, yes,” I replied. “She and I were neighbors for almost twenty years.”

  “I’m so glad some of her old friends were able to come for the wedding,” she said, looking around the small chapel before her eyes came to rest on mine. “I think she’s been a bit lonely since coming out here. I’m Betsy Cavendish, by the way. Martha and I met right here at the Bellagio—she just loves the slots, although I imagine she’ll move on to bigger games, now that she’s going to be Mrs. Victor Kildare.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher, a friend of Martha’s from Cabot Cove, Maine. These are my friends Mort and Maureen Metzger.” I indicated the couple on the other side of me.

  “Oh, you’re the sheriff. I’ve heard about you,” Betsy said. “Nice to meet you both.”

  Mort dug a finger under his collar and gave Betsy a nod and a wan smile. “Ma’am.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Maureen said to Betsy.

  “And Doug and Tina Treyz,” I said, as the couple in front of us turned. “They’re from Cabot Cove, too.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Doug said.

  “Yes,” Tma added. “How do you do?”

  “I’m very well, thank you,” Betsy said, settling back on the gold-and-cream-colored upholstery. “I’m delighted to meet people on the bride’s side. I was afraid she wouldn’t have anyone but me.”

  “Our friend Seth Hazlitt is here, too,” I said. “He’s giving the bride away.”

  “How sweet. Now it will be a proper wedding, won’t it? I always say you should have an equal number of guests on both sides, to be fair. Isn’t this a beautiful chapel? Those chandeliers came all the way from Italy, I’m told.” Betsy eyed the amethyst crystal fixtures above our heads. “Victor would pick the Bellagio hotel to get married in—do you know Victor? It’s so elegant here, not at all like those dreadful little chapels downtown with the Elvis impersonators. You must have. heard about those.”

  “Sure. Everyone has....”

  “You can’t believe the couples who end up getting married in them. I attend a lot of weddings. Sort of a hobby of mine. It’s like going to court trials. Anyone can sit and watch a trial. Same with the wedding chapels. I think they like having an audience. Is this your first time in Las Vegas?”

  “Well, actually—”

  “He has such fine taste. Victor, that is. You can see it in the way he dresses. Always wears a jacket. Can’t tell you how rare that is here, among the visitors anyway. T-shirts and shorts, that’s the tourist uniform. In my day, you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such an outfit, even in your own backyard. Of course, Victor’s not a tourist. He lives here.”

  My talkative companion prattled on as the last guests took their seats across the aisle. The wedding of Martha Reemes and Victor Kildare was not a large affair and had been hastily put together. There were no friends or relatives from Martha’s hometown in Canton, Ohio, and only six of us from Cabot Cove where she’d lived for a long time with her first husband, Walt, a general surgeon at our local hospital. Her intended had a half dozen people scattered in pews on the groom’s side of the aisle.

  “Oh, there’s Jane, Victor’s daughter.” Betsy pointed out an attractive young woman walking into the chapel with an older female companion, who was wearing a lace mantilla. Jane was very fashionable in a pink silk suit, the pastel shade softening the sharp lines of the severely tailored garment. Her curly auburn hair was caught up on the top of her head with a few spiral strands artfully framing her face. “Isn’t she pretty? I’m surprised she’s not in the wedding party.” She lowered her voice. “She’s his daughter by his first wife, the only child, I believe. He never had any more with the others.”

  I couldn’t help it. I had to ask. “How many wives has he had?”

  “Three. Didn’t Martha tell you? She’s going to be his fourth.”

  “No. She never mentioned it.”

  “Daria, Jane’s mother, lives over in Henderson. She must be in her fifties by now, but she still looks pretty good. The other two didn’t last very long. One was a showgirl at Caesar’s Palace. Pretty, but nothing up top”—she patted the crown of her straw hat—“if you get my drift. That was Bunny. And then Cindy. She was a sharp cookie. Don’t know where he found her, but she spent his money so fast, it was cheaper to pay her alimony than give her free rein with the cred
it cards.”

  “You must know Victor well.”

  “Only met him.once or twice. Martha introduced us.”

  “Then how do you know so much about him?”

  “When you’ve lived here a long time, you hear all the gossip. We’re much more of a small town than most people realize. Word is he’s quite a catch. Plus, Victor shows up on the society pages in the papers every now and then, usually for some charity event, and always with a beautiful woman on his arm.”

  My Cabot Cove friend Martha Reemes was certainly a beauty, I thought. Tall and curvy with long-lashed hazel eyes dominating an oval face, thick black hair, and a golden complexion, she had an exotic look that turned heads wherever she went. She’d had acting aspirations as a youngster when she’d landed in New York, fresh from Ohio State University, but soon found that beauty, talent, and even ambition were not enough to break into show business in the Big Apple, where such commodities are in plentiful supply.

  She used to love to tell the story of how one captivating spring day, she’d skipped an audition her acting coach had suggested she attend. A vivid blue sky and warm sun had directed her steps away from the theater where the audition was being held, luring her uptown to the lake in Central Park, where there was a miniature regatta taking place with remote-controlled model sailboats. While purchasing a hot dog from a vendor in the park, she encountered a handsome young man, also playing hooky.

  Walter Reemes, a medical student from Maine completing his studies in New York City, had ducked out of a luncheon honoring the departing dean of the medical school to bask in the sunshine that April afternoon and watch the little boats, guided by their owners, tack across the water. The rest, as Martha would say, was history, and they were married a year later. Walt set up practice in Cabot Cove and Martha joined our local amateur theatrical company. They never had any children, and remained devoted to each other through twenty years of marriage, which ended with Walt’s long illness and eventual death from cancer.