A Sleuth Is Born

by Pepper Frost

  Lee Glastonbury stood a good three or four inches taller than Angela. She wore tweed slacks, penny loafers, a strand of pearls, and a vintage cashmere twin set. Seems like something a frugal, old-money dowager would have owned for years and years, Angela thought—or exactly the vintage stuff you’d buy if you wanted to imitate such a person.

  Ugh, Bea is getting into my head, Angela told herself. Angela adored Bea, but it sometimes felt like she saw scams around every corner. Angela preferred to believe positive things—and good people—were around the bend.

  The client deserved the benefit of the doubt, Angela told herself. She was paying a premium price for an easy event that would even benefit charity. But little suspicions nagged as Angela took in the client’s cheap dye job: an unnatural, monotone brown. The color read harsh against her aging skin and sparse brows.

  “Why don’t we start with the attendee list,” Lee said, peering down at a clipboard in her veiny, crepe-papery hands. “Then I’d like a tour of the facility.

  “We’ve got nine players. You mentioned Ms. Snickerdoodle might like to join, and that would make ten,” she began.

  “I think she will play.”

  “Wonderful. More money for our charity. I assume she has the cash on hand now? Not to be pushy—it’s for the cause,” she was quick to add. “For the prize pool, too, of course. But our players aren’t in it for the money. The high stakes simply spark the competitive fires for these super-wealthy men.

  “Our players tend to stick with us,” the client continued. “When players drop out, it’s usually due to health issues. Well, that’s a polite way of saying we’ve added new players as some of our older ones have passed on—no one seems to leave our game voluntarily. Our new addition this year is Drew Foxworth, a bitcoin investor in his mid-thirties. He heard about our game from the Fischer twins—Rex and Max. They joined a few years ago. The twins made over $100 million investing part of their trust fund in biotech startups. Now they’re getting into bitcoin—that’s how they met Drew. Apparently, he’s been pleading for a while to be included. We don’t add people until we know them very well, but the Fischers vouched for Drew. I’ll be meeting him for the first time here.

  “Eddie Kawai has played for the past seven or eight years. Made his fortune on skateboarding gear and apparel in the 90s. He’s well into his 50s now, but you’d never guess it. He’s still the same risk-taking lion who manifested that business out of nothing. Important thing to know about him: He’s got some severe allergies—that’s one of the reasons we wanted to supply the meal ingredients.”

  “Food allergies are serious business,” said Angela. “No wonder you want to be careful. Our chef is very educated on the subject. Food allergies seem common here in Northern California.”

  “Good. Allergies can be very serious indeed, which is why we’re being so cautious,” said the client.

  “Next we have Walter Wells, the reclusive Sacramento-area property developer. He is a real bear about privacy. He needed to approve our change of location—we were delighted your new Inn was available before it opened to the public, to help us avoid attracting unwanted attention.

  “The other long-timers value discretion, too—almost above all. Frank Lowell, James Weston, Harry Belmont—they’ve all been with us since the beginning.

  “Harry is our oldest player—he’s 63. He’s got family money of some sort—he never really explained, and of course no one pressed the matter. Discretion is, as I’m sure you’re understanding, our top priority. He’s not picky about food, but he’s got some dietary concerns, since he’s on various medications.

  “Frank and James, they’re of the same generation—in their late 30s. They made their fortunes in the social media boom. They’ve known each other since college.”

  “So, Lee—may I call you Lee?—if I’m counting right, that makes eight. Is there one more?” asked Angela.

  “Mrs. Glastonbury, please. I prefer we keep things professional. And, yes, of course you’re right. The ninth player is one of our most… interesting characters. Billy Ray Bandy. He has no special food needs, at least none I’m aware of. But keep plenty of his favorite whiskey, Heavenly Mash, on hand.”

  “We’ll send out for some immediately.”

  “I brought a bottle as part of our bar set-up, and I doubt anyone else will drink much at all. The others will want to stay sharp for the poker games. But best to get a couple more bottles for the rest of our stay.”

  “With the money involved, I assumed there wouldn’t be much drinking.”

  “Well, perhaps it’s different when you’re playing with your wife’s money—but you didn’t hear that from me,” Mrs. Glastonbury said tartly. “Billy Ray’s wife’s family money just happens to come from Heavenly Mash Distillery. So I suppose at least his habit puts some money back in their coffers. But in any case, I doubt Mr. Bandy believes his drinking affects his play.”

  “Isn’t Heavenly Mash one of those liquor companies that started before prohibition?”

  “I believe so, yes. Storied history. Perhaps you can ask his wife to share a bit of the saga.”

  “What’s Mr. Bandy’s wife’s name?”

  “Connie. Connie Hollander. You don’t read the society pages, I guess,” Lee added, with a touch of disdain. “She’s going by Connie Bandy now.”

  “That reminds me to ask, will the other players bring their wives? Just wanting to be sure we set up properly for breakfast.”

  “Sometimes, one or two bring a female companion. We don’t ask about these relationships—and I expect your staff to use the same discretion. It won’t affect the room count, I assure you. And, frankly, I doubt the companions will show up at breakfast, although it can’t hurt to plan for an extra person or two. Now, let’s move on to the facility tour.”

  “Of course,” said Angela, turning toward the ballroom as the sound of a roaring engine grabbed their attention. An exotic car—a gleaming, lipstick-red machine—zoomed into the driveway. Angela leaned towards the lobby doors to get a peek at its driver: a rangy, broad-shouldered man who was now striding into the lobby.

  “Lee!” the man called, extending his hand smoothly towards Mrs. Glastonbury. “You’re Lee Glastonbury, right? Drew Foxworth. How are you? You suggested we players arrive later today, but I decided I’d show up a little early, get comfortable, relax a little.”

  With latte-colored skin, close-cropped black hair, and a neat goatee, Drew Foxworth was head-turningly handsome. He wore jeans, driving moccasins, a boldly colored fitted shirt—and a look of unshakeable confidence. Angela cracked a discreet smile when she saw Lee wince at his informality. Despite his smarm, there was something magnetic about Drew Foxworth.

  “There’s no reason you can’t enjoy the afternoon here,” she replied, seeming uncomfortable. “We’re going to do a walk-through of the event space.”

  “Great!” he enthused. “I’ll join you if you don’t mind.” Angela saw Lee open her mouth to say she did, but Drew continued, undaunted.

  “Now Lee, who is this ravishing creature?” he gushed while cradling Angela’s right hand in both of his. “Why have you been holding out on me, Lee? You didn’t mention any women when you walked me through the player list.”

  “She’s not a player, Drew. She runs the Inn. Her name is Angela Garcia.”

  Still holding her hand, Drew turned to face Angela, who hoped her makeup concealed the flush spreading across her cheeks and neck.

  “Beautiful and accomplished, too. Lovely to meet you, Angela. As you heard, my name’s Drew Foxworthy—but I hope you’ll call me Foxy. All my friends do.”

  His almond-shaped, dark-brown eyes were looking into hers with an awkward intensity. His perfect teeth stood straight and sparkling. A little voice in Angela’s head warned her intellect not to be too dazzled by his buttery swagger, but the rest of her was paying zero attention.

  “OK, well, nice to meet you Foxy—er, Mr. Foxworth. Shall we all head to the ballroom? Mrs. Glastonbury, I’m looking
forward to showing you the set-up for tonight.”

  As Angela led the way down the hall, she made a point of focusing on her client, even as Foxy kept trying to divert her attention. She was determined to meet Lee Glastonbury’s demanding expectations, starting with a great first impression.

  She opened the large center doors of the Inn’s ballroom and revealed the opulent, classic holiday décor she’d put so much energy into designing. Angela noticed with relief that her client seemed to relax once she saw the space and recognized that preparations for the evening’s event were well in hand. Though the expansive ballroom was big enough for events many times bigger than Lee’s, the furniture was arranged in a focused way in one section of the room, creating an unexpected sense of coziness. Christmas trees, a bar area, and conversational seating areas helped fill some of the extra space. Perry was there, arranging luxurious leather chairs around two freshly re-felted poker tables—the focal point of the event.

  “Mrs. Glastonbury, this is Perry James, professional tournament director.”

  “Nice to meet you, Perry. Poker set-up looks good. We won’t need those, though,” she added, pointing to the sealed packages of tournament poker chips and Christmas-themed card decks on the table. “We always provide our own.”

  “Of course,” Perry replied neutrally.

  “Too bad,” said Drew, picking up a deck and examining the design. “They’ve got a lot of holiday spirit.”

  “With so much money at stake, I’m sure you can understand why we want to keep a tight rein on all aspects of the game. I consider it my personal responsibility.”

  “Well, then, thank you for watching out for us players, Lee,” Drew said.

  Perry pointed up towards the ceiling in the corner of the ballroom. “I’m sure you’re interested in security. Note the small camera. The door it sits above goes to the control room—where there’s a safe for storing cash and chips.”

  “Excellent.”

  Drew walked up towards the control room, for a better view of the camera. “Looks modern. Can I get a peek at the server and the safe?”

  “Door’s locked at the moment. No one here has a fingerprint with access,” Perry replied. “Aseem will be here shortly. He’s our tech expert.”

  “Drew, I’ll confirm the security is all in order before we get started. You have my word,” Lee Glastonbury said, eying him suspiciously. “You’re new to our event, but players have entrusted security to me for years because I couldn’t be more particular about it if it were my own money. Perry, can I count on you to show me the full set-up once Aseem arrives?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll also have an elegantly dressed guard at the door,” Angela chimed in.

  “Thank you. An atmosphere that projects both security and exclusivity is very important to us.”

  “Oh yes, that reminds me, with only a few hours now until your event begins, perhaps we should go get ready—assuming you’ve seen enough, I mean. I’ve engaged a hair and makeup specialist—you’re more than welcome to join me and Bea.”

  “That sounds lovely. But one more thing, Angela. You haven’t mentioned room assignments yet. I’d like to be sure my room is as close as possible to the ballroom—for convenience,” she added quickly.

  “I hadn’t considered that. But we can make a quick change. Let’s head to the front desk right now.”

  “Good. And I can review all the room assignments and locations, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” said Angela, though she wondered why the room assignments would matter so much. All the suites were similar in size and furnishings.

  “I’d like to be close to the ballroom, too,” piped up Foxy. “Next closest after Lee chooses her room, of course. Would that be OK with you, Lee? I prefer being close to the action.”

  “By all means,” said Lee, with forced agreeableness.

  “Great! So I guess we’ll all head back to the front desk together. Lead the way, gorgeous Angela.”

  Chapter 5

  Angela stopped off at Bea’s suite on the way back to her own. She was carrying a large box—a package she’d been anxiously waiting for.

  She found the door ajar at Bea’s suite—and a curious conversation underway inside.

  “See what I mean?” Bea was saying. “They’re not just rude, they’re incredibly stupid—and they look to me like they were all written by the same person. See? All posted on the same day.”

  “Looks like we’re dealing with a type of troll,” said Pat. “Trolls can be tough, though. They’re usually good at covering their tracks. Requires a lot of monitoring and luck to catch ’em in the act.”

  “A troll! I love it!” said Bea. “We’re up for the challenge. Operation Troll Patrol is underway. How do you like my code name? It’ll help us keep our project a secret, like real detective—”

  “Knock-knock,” said Angela, pushing the door open and entering the suite. “OK if I come in?”

  “Oh hi, Angie!” Bea squeaked. She yanked the computer’s power cord out of the socket, forgetting that the laptop had battery power. The web page she’d hoped to conceal remained brightly displayed on the screen. She tried unsuccessfully to block it with her diminutive frame.

  “Angie, this is Pat—Pat Rogers, you recall, the private eye from Charlie’s building. Pat meet Angela, Angela, Pat,” Bea said, simultaneously lowering the laptop screen behind her back.

  “Hi Pat, nice to meet you in person,” Angela said tossing the big box on the bed and peering around Bea to get a look at the laptop. “Bea, isn’t that the sales page for Betty’s last book? Were those reviews on that screen? And what’s this talk of a ‘code name’?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Angie,” Bea said. She shot a warning glance in Pat’s direction.

  “Why do I sense you two are up to something—something to do with those reviews? Bea, may I remind you we agreed that I would deal with any negative reviews—and that besides, the only appropriate response to any reviewer is a respectful ‘thank you’?”

  “You might not want to say ‘thank you’ if you saw these!” blurted Pat.

  “Now, now Angela, you don’t need to worry,” interrupted Bea, glaring at Pat. “Pat and I are just having fun. We’re not planning anything related to reviews that may or may not have recently appeared for Betty’s ebooks. What’s in your box, girlie?”

  “Bea, this discussion isn’t over, OK? We can put a pin in it until after our big event. In the meantime, I assume we’re on the same page about not responding to reviews. If there’s any reason I shouldn’t assume that—”

  “Consider it assumed,” said Bea. “Now, let’s see what’s in this chichi box you’ve brought me.”

  “OK, let’s see if you like this,” Angela said, lifting the lid of the extravagant box and pulling back clouds of pretty tissue. “I just thought you might like something new, to help you meet our black tie optional requirements. I mean, only if you want to wear it. Fancy… but I still hope you’ll like it.”

  She held up a charcoal gray top that was soft like a comfortable jersey, but was covered in delicate sequins hand-sewn in a beautiful pattern.

  “It’s easy as anything you’d normally wear, but still dressy. There are black silk pull-on pants to go with it—just as comfortable as sweats—and more tops and pants for the other nights.”

  “Aw, thanks, Angie!” said Bea. “These will go great with my black sheepskin boots. I did some shopping myself, but I didn’t find anything this good.”

  Angela shuddered to think about what Bea chose for semi-formal attire on her own. What a relief that her gift had passed the test. The outfits weren’t quite “black tie,” but she doubted it was possible to get Bea any more dressed up.

  “The hair and makeup expert will arrive in a couple hours. I invited Mrs. Glastonbury—Lee—to join us.”

  “‘Mrs. Glastonbury?’ Sounds hoity-toity. What’s she like? The curiosity is killing me.”

  “You’ll have a chance to deci
de for yourself,” Angela said. “Hair and makeup will be at my suite at 5:00. Bring your new outfit to change into. We’ll go to straight to the ballroom after. Pat, did Bea tell you about our black-tie event?”

  “I might have forgotten to mention it,” Bea said. “Sorry, Pat, I didn’t know about it yet when I invited you. Could you borrow one of these outfits?”

  “Oh yeah, great idea, Bea,” Pat chuckled, picking up a pair Bea’s new pants and squeezing her arm inside one leg. “Fits like a glove—literally. Don’t worry, though—I’ve got the perfect solution. Just wait a minute and I’ll show you.”

  Pat left through the interior door that led to her adjoining suite. Moments later, she burst back through it.

  “Ta-da!” she said, doing a model’s twirl. “It’s my P.I. secret weapon. I never travel without it.”

  “Close your mouth, girlie,” Bea chortled, elbowing Angela. “The whole world can see your tonsils!”

  Pat’s secret weapon was a beige uniform of stiff khakis and a matching shirt. The ill-fitting outfit seemed to have lopped half a foot off Pat’s height—and added it right onto her hips. Massive black combat boots completed the look.

  “Those boots are delightful,” cackled Bea. “I am surprised you can lift your feet. Were you planning to take a hike through nuclear waste?

  “Suggest you loosen that big belt, though. You look like a mealbag tied in the middle,” Bea continued, guffawing and slapping her knee over and over.

  “Bea!” Angela gasped. She didn’t actually know what a “mealbag” might be, but she was pretty sure Bea’s comment was an insult.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Garcia,” said Pat. “I’m grateful for constructive criticism from such a well-known fashion icon.”

  “Good one, Pat,” said Angela.

  “Respect,” said Bea, nodding and holding her gnarled fist up to Pat’s for a bump.