“Go ahead.” Val poised her pen over the paper.
“We’re offering twenty-five hundred to spend one night in the Frank Sinatra penthouse suite, all expenses paid. Multiple guests have claimed they hear Frank crooning one of his songs, ‘Too Marvelous for Words,’ so we’re especially interested in your recording that. If you hear it, of course.”
That got Del’s attention. A longtime Sinatra fan, he wandered over and stood behind Char’s chair.
“The cocktail parties apparently occur in the living room area around nine, ten at night. Guests have taken photos, which are covered with orbs…”
Val’s grandmother had believed orbs—or specks of light in photos—to be spirits or angels who stayed earthbound to be near people they loved or places that held significance to them.
Val, however, wasn’t so sure. “Something to keep in mind is that specks of dust on a camera lens, or the flash reflecting off something, can appear as orbs in photographs.”
“Wonderful! This is exactly why we wish to hire you! If two pragmatic, skeptical investigators nail evidence of ghosts, we’ll be turning people away. Fantastic PR for the hotel and your detective agency. Of course, if you find no evidence of ghosts—” she turned serious again “—the Riviera will not discuss your investigation, which I’m sure you understand.”
Del frowned. Probably dying to have a word or two with Miss Doyle about that.
“Last, to show the Riviera’s good faith to retain your services, I have sent a retainer, one thousand dollars, to your agency PayPal account. Unfortunately, I must cut this short as I’m late for a meeting, but I look forward to hearing back from you and Mr. Morgan within the next few days.”
Val ended the call, thinking about the PayPal button on the Diamond Investigations website. She knew how to use PayPal, but only Jayne had the password for the agency account.
“No way Frank would choose that dump to hang out in the afterlife,” Del groused, “when he could haunt the Venetian or Bellagio.”
“But he lived in the penthouse suite, honey,” Char said. “It was like a second home to him.”
He cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Frank liked things nice, baby, and that place looks like it hasn’t been vacuumed since Carter was president.” He shifted his gaze to Val. “Take the deal. Two thousand, five hundred clams, and if you find Frank really has the bad taste to haunt there, you’ll get a shitload of free publicity.”
“I need to discuss this with Drake.”
She thought she heard the connecting door to Drake’s office click open, expected to hear his footsteps in the hall to Diamond Investigations’ office. But…nothing. Maybe he’d heard their voices and decided to not interrupt. Or forgot something in his office?
Whatever the reason, she needed to get Char and Del out of here, now, in case Drake did join them and Del grabbed the opportunity to “have a word.”
“You must leave now,” she said, her voice rising to a strange, wobbly pitch. “I have important work to do.”
While Del flashed her a what-the-hell look, Char remained cool.
“Certainly, dawlin’,” she murmured, standing. “But first I’d like to say something.”
Sometimes in life there are people who move your world with just a look, a touch, a comforting remark. Val’s grandmother had definitely had that affect on Val, and so did Char. Maybe because they came from a place, deep inside, that was simple and honest. Or maybe because their hearts were a little larger than everybody else’s.
Didn’t mean they were saints, but they knew that better than anybody else. Val thought it meant they somehow got it about life. That it wasn’t a competition, or a search for its meaning or even trying to arrange for one’s happiness. It had more to do with accepting the joys and sorrows of life. So when Char wanted to say something, Val listened.
“Just because you can’t touch, see or hear something doesn’t mean it’s not real, dawlin’.”
And that was it.
Char smiled at her husband. “Let’s take our leave, Delbert. We told Jasmyn we’d be right back after checking up on Val.”
“Thought you two were out buying supplies,” she said.
Del wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We lied.”
After exchanging goodbyes, Val watched them walk away, their arms around each other, their footsteps in sync.
Two people who were about as real as they came.
After they left, Val headed down the hall to the connecting door to Drake’s back office. Reaching it, she turned the knob.
Locked.
She knocked on the door.
No response.
Pressing her ear to the door, she listened. No sounds.
Had she imagined the door clicking open? Walking to her desk, she wondered if she had wanted to hear it because she was anxious to see Drake, talk about finding the cigarette, hear how things went at his mama’s…
Hearing him when he wasn’t there. Imagining conversations with him. She couldn’t touch, see or hear him, yet she still felt a very real connection to Drake. An invisible link. Dare she think it, a bond.
Her heart contracted, and giddy happiness surged through her. Sitting, she decided to contact Jayne, ask for the PayPal password. She could write her boss an email, but it wasn’t a good idea to send confidential data like passwords through email. Better to call. If she didn’t want to talk, which was likely the case as she was probably tired from the chemotherapy and radiation treatments, she could let it roll over to voice mail and call Val back later.
It surprised her when her boss actually answered.
“This is Jayne.” She sounded worn out.
It broke Val’s heart to realize the toll the treatments and illness were taking on her.
“Jayne,” she said, fighting a swell of emotion, “it’s me, Val.”
“How are you, dear?”
“Fine,” she squeaked. Oh, Lord, she was losing it. She plucked a tissue and dabbed at her eyes.
“Really?”
“I miss you.” The words spilled out. She couldn’t have stopped them if she’d tried.
“I miss you, too, dear.”
Val sniffled back a sob. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Val was supposed to make the call, sounding cheery and professional, offering words of comfort and support. She would discuss business rationally, get the password, wrap up with decorum. Leave Jayne feeling that Diamond Investigations was in good hands with P.I. intern Val LeRoy.
Instead she was on the verge of being a blubbering, emotional mess who needed Jayne’s virtual shoulder to lean on.
“Shall we start at the top again?” her boss said softly. “How are you?”
“You know me,” Val said, struggling to keep her voice level, “I’m a challenge.”
A soft laugh. “Everybody, at some time, is a challenge.” A moment of silence. “Are you and Drake getting along?”
“Yes. Actually, I’m calling because…a potential client paid a retainer, without my knowledge, to the business PayPal account and I don’t know how to access it.”
“The password…” She coughed. “Margaret1978.”
Val spelled it out to ensure she got it right.
“Val, I agree with…whatever decision Drake makes…about this case.”
Jayne was sounding breathy, as though it was an effort to finish her sentences. Val knew she should sign off, but it was hard to let go. She wanted to ask so many things—how were the treatments going? What were her doctors saying? When might she return…Jayne, please return. Please don’t go away.
Instead she said, “Thank you, Jayne, for giving me a chance.”
“I thank you…for the same.”
After ending the call, Val let the tears fall.
* * *
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Drake and Hearsay walked in the front door of Diamond Investigations.
Val sat upright at her desk, her hands folded in front of her, looking like a stalk of lilac in that lacy purple dress, which was
pretty miraculous considering she’d worn it while picking her way through piles of garbage.
Her welcoming smile was like a shot of life. Rejuvenating, encouraging. Damn, his heart was pumping like a teenage boy’s. He couldn’t think when he’d ever been filled with this much anticipation and eagerness to see a lady.
He stopped at her desk, and Hearsay plopped down next to him.
She stood and peered over the desk at Hearsay. “So this is your dog! What’s your name, sweet thang?”
“Hearsay,” Drake answered, watching the dog’s tail thump double time. He brought his hand from behind his back and held out a vase filled with miniature lavender roses. “These are for you.”
For a moment their gazes held. Her brown eyes darkened with emotion as a smile curved her lips.
“They’re beautiful,” she murmured, accepting the flowers.
“The color reminded me of your dress.”
She let out a short laugh. “I’ve decided I’m always going to wear it on our trash hits. It’s my miracle dress.”
He didn’t know what to say, so he nodded as though he understood. “I bought them to thank you for your stellar work as an investigator.”
Her smile blossomed and her eyes twinkled, but she didn’t say anything, which made him all the more nervous.
He pointed to the vase. “It’s crystal.”
She turned the vase in her hands, admiring it. “We used to have lead crystal vases in our antiques shop—haven’t had one since then. My nanny also had collections of crystals and stones. She used to say that they could never be owned, but they always found a path to a person if it was meant to be with them.”
Dipping her head toward the roses, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, releasing it on a long, breathy, appreciative groan of pleasure.
It was all he could do to remain standing.
He’d never met anyone like her before. A fighter, an imp and a temptress all in one woman’s body. She made his blood burn, his head pound and sometimes so damn mad he wanted to throttle her. And then she could do something so sweetly hot and teasing it took every fiber of his being to not give in and satisfy every base, primal urge he’d had since the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
She set the vase of flowers on her desk.
“Their scent is like heaven.” Her plump breasts strained against the lacy purple dress as she took in another deep breath. He hoped to God she didn’t release it in another one of those elongated, admiring groans, because somebody would have to revive him.
“Want to see it?” she said, a sly look in her eyes.
He nodded stupidly.
She opened her desk drawer and carefully lifted a plastic baggie. Inside was a half-smoked, yellowish cigarette. Beaming a smile, she handed it to him.
He looked at it, impressed all over again that she’d found it, and equally impressed that he’d been so caught up in her, he’d momentarily forgotten all about it.
“Great job.” He slipped it carefully into his pants pocket. “Thank you.”
Hearsay yapped.
“Hey, there, sweet thang, you feeling left out?” She leaned over her desk and petted the dog’s head.
Drake had a straight view down the neckline of her dress. Past the soft edge of her collarbone, creamy swells threatened to overwhelm a peachy-pink satin slip bodice. He felt a tightening between his legs and forced himself to shift his gaze to Hearsay, who was staring up at Val with a big, goofy doggie smile.
“I wish I had a treat to give you, sweet thang.”
Her breathy, soft voice was like warm fingers caressing his face, teasing his senses, firing his needs…
He scrubbed his hand over his brush of hair, sweaty from the hot drive over, more so from the blasts of heat he felt being around a certain P.I. intern. He needed to reel it in, focus on work.
Blowing out a gust of breath, he checked out the wall, the floor, anything but her. His gaze finally settled on the notepad, where Val had scribbled a series of words—Ghosts, Riviera, Miss Doyle, Sinatra, Too Marvelous for Words, cocktail party in living room—as well as $2,500 and $1,000.
“What’s that about?”
She straightened, her hands at her sides, and gave him a funny look. “Manager from the Riviera called. Wants to hire you for a case.”
He didn’t like the word ghosts on the paper, but decided to not attack that issue. Yet. “How’d this manager know I was here?”
“Sally told her.”
“Sally?”
“The bartender at Din—”
“I know who Sally is,” he snapped, “just didn’t know she knew I was here.” He thought for a moment. “She used to work at the Riviera…they must be friends.”
“She also told Tony you worked here.” Val handed him a business card. “He left this for you. Said he has some news, wants to meet with you ASAP.”
Whatever steam they’d felt before had evaporated. Val was acting like some kind of ubersecretary, standing there all straight backed, giving him curt, professional answers. He was annoyed that he was having to ask what the hell was going on, trying to string together random words like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle to form the big picture.
Whatever barrier he’d thought they’d crossed was back up, stronger than ever.
He tossed Tony’s card into the trash can. He already had one. “Why did you write the word ghosts?”
“Seems people have been seeing ghosts at a cocktail party in the Frank Sinatra suite.”
“What’s ‘Too Marvelous for Words’?”
“Frank—well, his ghost—has been heard singing that song.”
“At these ghostly cocktail parties.”
She nodded, her eyes wide.
“Let me guess…they want me to investigate these ghosts?”
Val nodded again, fidgeting with a sash on her dress. “But it’s not a paranormal investigation. The Riviera wants a legitimate investigator to try and capture images, voices of…ghosts. They will pay two thousand, five hundred dollars for one night’s work, plus expenses.”
“And you believe this garbage?” When she opened her mouth, he cut her off. “Of course you believed it. After all, spirits pulse messages to you through cell phones.”
Her annoyed sigh was a work of art, starting with a deep, diaphragm-bursting inhale all the way through a prolonged, labored exhale.
“Pardon my language,” she said tightly, “but sometimes you’re meaner than chicken shit.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Where I come from it does. I’m only relaying to you what your potential client said. As to ghosts and pulsations—”
He snorted his disgust. “I don’t give a fu—”
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice rising, “but I would be ever so obliged if I could finish what I was saying. When I was a teenager, I thought I had the gift of psychometry—reading impressions from objects—but I now believe I just wanted to share something special with my nanny, who really had the gift.”
Drake waved her off and started heading down the hallway. Hearsay trotted behind him.
She followed both of them. “As to hearing your father the other night, I’m sorry, that was my mistake. There was an older couple sitting behind us, and I must’ve overheard him telling his wife he loved her. I’m also sorry I listened to Miss Doyle, but I didn’t want to hang up on her as she sounded like a very nice, sincere lady. I’ll call her back, turn down the case and return her retainer, okay?”
He halted. “Retainer?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice a thin whisper.
He turned, furious. “You accepted a retainer from a prospective client?”
“No, I…well, yes, but…” She wrapped her arms around herself, her chin trembling. “She sent it electronically through Diamond Investigations’ PayPal account.”
“I don’t give a damn how she sent it. We’ve been down this road before, just a few days ago, when you accepted investigative work without a license, and were told,
in very clear terms, that by doing so you broke the law. Today, by accepting a retainer, you formed a contract with a client, which is again acting as a private investigator without a license. You’re trouble, Val. You can’t be trusted.”
“How dare you.”
Something inside of him cracked. It seemed that life had become a roller coaster of issues and problems and people with attitudes. He liked his world to be contained, not bleeding out into everyone else’s.
But the problem was his world had lost its structure. Nothing could be contained because there were no walls, no roof, just doors and more doors, all of them opening, none of them closing, letting in a cast of characters who’d make the film One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest look downright boring.
He had no choice but to be part of everyone else’s world because his had gone up in smoke. Which meant his turf became wherever he stood, and right now it was here.
“Well,” he snarled, moving so close he could see the gold flecks buried in her wide brown eyes, “How dare you play games at that desk? You’re an intern who needs to learn the job, not be some wannabe Charlie’s Angel playacting a role. I had hoped you learned your lesson after that honey-trap fiasco, but no. Two days later, you’re negotiating retainers for sleuthing spooks.”
“I didn’t nego—”
“Is that what you think this profession is about? Playing hooker to prove infidelity and chasing ghosts to determine the afterlife?” He gave her a twisted smile. “You picked the wrong career, sister. Go after a job that’s all show, no substance. Vegas offers plenty of those. If I were Jayne, I’d have fired your ass long ago.”
Her eyes glistened with tears.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to cry now.”
Blinking rapidly, she shook her head vigorously. “No,” she said in a strained voice, “because it would give you too much satisfaction. I’m going to my desk to sit down.”
She turned and left, and damn if Hearsay didn’t follow her.
* * *
Sleepless in Las Vegas Page 14