A Sleuth Is Born Page 4

  “This outfit isn’t about looking good. It’s about fitting in anywhere I want. I just pass as a security guard. It’s handy for any situation where I want to nose around,” Pat said. “It’s the kind of thing you should start thinking about, Bea, since you want to learn how to be a detective.”

  “Wait, what?” said Angela. “Somebody’s learning to be a detective?”

  “Nobody, Angie. I thought it would be fun to learn what detecting’s like. You know I told you how I found something to do over Christmas—before we had our big client. That’s what it was—I wanted a detective course designed for a curious layperson. That’s why I invited Pat.” Bea waited until she thought Angela wasn’t looking, then shot Pat a look of near exasperation.

  “It can’t hurt to have another security guard at our fat-cat tournament tonight, though, right Angie? Pat could play security guard but keep her eyes open for real—assuming you don’t mind, Pat.”

  “Works for me,” Pat said. “But I assume one of you will tell me what the event’s all about?”

  “I suppose we can’t have too much security,” Angela replied. “Why don’t you fill Pat in on our high-roller situation before we our hair and makeup. I’m going to go figure out what to wear. See you at 5.”

  “Good gravy, I thought she’d never leave!” Bea said as she closed the door behind Angela.

  “I guess I neglected to tell you a few important details, Pat. Angela can’t find out what we’re up to with those reviews! You saw for yourself how particular and straight-laced she is. She doesn’t want me posting replies, but who knows what we’ll find when we start digging? What if we want to cook up some way to respond without replying? She might not like that, either, so let’s not give her a chance to react. Operation Troll Patrol is just between us, OK?”

  “Got it.”

  “Ditto for the detective thing and especially the mystery writing. She’ll get all nervous that I’ll kill Betty the Golden Goose. The timing’s gotta be just right when I tell her.”

  “No problemo.”

  “You know what else? Your security guard getup could come in handy. I’ve been thinking that this high-roller poker event might turn out to be an even bigger mystery than those reviews. My gut says it’s not entirely kosher, but I can’t figure out what they’re up to. Since I’ll be busy playing, I can use your extra eyes and ears.”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Pat. “And here you were mocking my getup. I’m dressed just right for hiding in plain sight.”

  §

  Angela’s suite was on the other end of the Inn, so she often preferred to walk the grounds instead of taking the interior hallways. She couldn’t get enough of the stunning landscape of the ranch, its wide-open, rolling green fields, dotted here and there with mature trees. There was a field of dormant grapevines across the road, and vineyards and wineries on either side of the property, all providing beautiful boundaries. The air was crisp and the winter light had a peaceful, golden cast.

  As she walked, Angela considered Lee Glastonbury. Angela hadn’t been around family money enough to guess whether the woman’s regal attitude and low-key appearance were genuine artifacts. But could they be too spot-on—as if Lee came out of central casting?

  Shoot! I forgot to ask for details about the charity.

  Wasn’t it weird, though, that Mrs. Glastonbury had volunteered almost nothing about it?

  Whether she was a real Brahmin or a skilled faker, the woman put Angela on edge—as did the pressure of meeting the expectations of the millionaire players. These people were used to having the best of everything. She hated the prospect of missing the mark in even the tiniest way.

  Back at her suite, Angela opened the door and caught her breath—then laughed. Though she hadn’t ordered anything for herself, a large box, a bigger and grander version of the one she’d brought Bea, sat on her bed.

  A card was tucked under the huge satin bow on top of the box:

  “I’m sure you were planning to wear that little black dress of yours. You always look great, but shouldn’t our company president make a bold statement? See what you think of these.”

  Angela lifted the lid and found, under billows of tissue, an outfit wrapped in electric blue paper. She peeled the wrapping to reveal a shocking tube top in a neon animal print and a hot pink leatherette miniskirt.

  Very funny, Bea. But then she noticed something else: another note tucked in the pocket of the eye-searing pink skirt.

  “Hahaha girlie! Just kidding. Save that getup for when I drag you to the cardroom for poker. You’ll distract all the fish and we’ll clean up! Keep looking, there’s more underneath.”

  Beneath more tissue Angela found three gorgeous dresses.

  The first was a knockout: a long-sleeved sheath covered in black sequins and tiny, light-catching beads—understated and refined in shape, but with a sexy low back.

  The second was equally stunning. A gold metallic halter dress with a cinched waist, it had loose waves of a mysterious, soft fabric that draped to just above the knee.

  When Angela pulled the last one out, though, she couldn’t stop smiling. “This is it. I’ll wear this tonight.”

  It was a sweet but chic sleeveless dress made of gorgeous midnight blue silk taffeta. Under its nipped-in waist was a flouncy skirt with a light crinoline.

  “It’s perfect!” she proclaimed as she modeled it for herself in the mirror. The dress had just the right amount of sex appeal to put a spring in her step—as did the gorgeous black velvet stilettos that were also in the box. Angela found them inexplicably cloud-like when she slipped them on.

  She took off the dress and hung it inside the bathroom. She turned on the hot water in the shower to steam out a few small wrinkles in the silk.

  In her bathrobe, while waiting for the shower to do its magic, she fired up her computer for a quick scan of those reviews Bea had been determined to conceal. She frowned as she saw the same mean comments Bea had.

  The Treacle Town series had scarcely received a negative comment in a review before, much less a one-star rating. The books were written for people who loved sweet stories of love and the holidays—and they hit their mark perfectly. Yet it seemed that people who’d never enjoy a sweet Christmas romance in the first place were dinging Betty’s latest for being what it promised.

  Or possibly not “people,” but person: just as Bea had, Angela noticed the odd similarity of the trashy reviews.

  Just what I need, she thought—a marketing mess and no time to figure out what to do about it. No chance Bea and Pat would stop digging, either, or planning some kind of retaliation. If there was one thing Bea could never, ever resist, it was dishing out well-deserved smack-down.

  Angela sighed. No point in worrying about it now. Thank goodness the millionaire event would keep those two occupied for the night, where she could keep an eye on them—along with all the moving parts of their luxe event.

  Chapter 6

  The four ladies—Angela, Bea, Lee, and Pat—made their way from Angela’s suite back to the ballroom. The beauty treatments seemed to have perked them all up (except perhaps for Pat, who hadn’t partaken and had just come along for company).

  Angela was particularly chipper, thanks both to being all dolled up and the thrilling sensation she was pulling off her first VIP event.

  They walked two-abreast heading to the ballroom, Angela next to Bea, towering over her thanks to the new heels. “I’m as tall as Mrs. Glastonbury now,” Angela whispered, leaning down towards Bea’s ear. “I can look her right in the eye, even when she’s talking down to me.”

  Bea snorted, a little too loudly. The client looked back at them, trying to figure out what she’d overheard.

  A few steps later, Bea caught Angela’s attention and mouthed “we need to talk—in private!” Angela nodded.

  Bea reached up and swiped her hand across Angela’s mouth. Her finger left a trail of red lipstick from Angela’s lips to her chin.

  “Hey!” hissed Angela.r />
  “Angie, you look so pretty, but how did you smear your lipstick?” Bea announced in a stilted, loud voice.

  “Oh, I didn’t know I smeared it,” Angela replied, equally oafishly. “What should I do?”

  “Let’s just stop in my suite and fix it,” Bea said. “We’re just about to walk by it.”

  “Good idea. Pat, would you mind accompanying Mrs. Glastonbury to the ballroom? It would be helpful to have your reassuring presence there right from the start, anyway.”

  “Sure, Angela, why do you think I got all duded up in my best uniform?” Pat said.

  Angela stood by the mirror in Bea’s bathroom and repaired her face. “Sheesh, what a mess, Bea. Good thing I had my lipstick in my pocket. So, let’s hear it, what’s your opinion of Mrs. Glastonbury?”

  “She’s a puzzle, all right,” Bea said. “Still not onto her game, but give me time.”

  “Do we have to assume there’s a scam involved? I see why you’re suspicious—I do—but isn’t it possible she’s just a demanding cow?”

  “Not a matter of either/or, Angie,” snorted Bea.

  “She didn’t say much during our manicures. It seemed a little rude,” Angela admitted. “But I don’t know any old-money people. Maybe that’s just how they are.”

  “Rude? I’d say more likely shrewd. I bet she was hoping I’d reveal something. She was sizing me up, just like I was her.”

  “Did it seem to you she was faking her old-money image?”

  “I dunno. Too bad you couldn’t run her pearls over your teeth.”

  “Honestly, Bea. Where do you come up with your crazy ideas? That’s gross.”

  “That’s how you tell if pearls are real. If they’re rough, they’re real.”

  “Interesting, but I doubt I’ll have an opportunity to stick her necklace in my mouth. Anyway, she told you about some of your poker competitors. That was at least nice, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, really useful information. In case you’re wondering later, Frank’s the one with the sideburns, Harry’s the old quiet guy, Walter’s the next oldest, and Billy Ray’s the good ole boy. That’s some high-level intelligence. And she still told us nothing about her ‘charity,’” Bea said, making exaggerated air quotes with her knobbly fingers.

  “So what do we do?” Angela sighed.

  “Just keep our wits about us, girlie. And be glad we already got that $25K deposit.”

  “There’s something else I wanted to tell you. I met one player, Drew Foxworth. Goes by ‘Foxy.’ He kept asking about the security for the tournament. He was getting under Mrs. Glastonbury’s skin. And they both made a big deal about having rooms right near the ballroom.”

  “Foxy?” snorted Bea. “Oh, brother.”

  “Mrs. Glastonbury insisted on reviewing the rooms. She said some of the players were picky about whose rooms were next door. Foxy seemed very interested where the other players’ rooms would be, too, but Mrs. Glastonbury eventually nudged him to get his key and move along while she assigned the rest.”

  “Sounds like he’s another one for us to keep an eye on.”

  “You look pretty, Bea.”

  “Oh no! I hope not too pretty. I don’t want my good looks to interfere with my doddering old hag routine.”

  “Uh-oh. You might have to fall back on skill,” Angela said, smiling.

  “The old hag routine is my skill. Better wish me luck, girlie.”

  §

  Angela surveyed the ballroom with satisfaction. Everything looked just right.

  The servers and bartender wore black tuxedo pants, white tuxedo shirts, and red plaid cummerbunds and bow ties. The dealers were similarly dressed, but their cummerbunds and ties were dark green.

  Perry, who was sharing last-minute instructions with the dealers, was dressed like them, except with a tuxedo jacket on top. The slight smile on his craggy face conveyed confidence and experience. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed. Pat was standing guard at the door, looking strong and official in her all-purpose security guard outfit.

  “Pat, have you seen Aseem?” Angela asked Pat.

  “He’s inside the control room. He said he’s just double-checking the video set-up. Then he’ll open up the safe for the games and stand guard outside the open door to make sure only you or Perry gains access.”

  Angela tilted her head saw Aseem there working on the monitor beside the safe. “Perfect. I should have known that’s where he’d be.”

  Elegantly dressed guests were now arriving. Everyone seemed to enjoy the dignified yet festive atmosphere.

  Angela walked toward Lee Glastonbury, who was standing beside one of Angela’s splendid Christmas trees. The client’s red silk gown and matching bolero jacket sat slightly off the shoulder, exposing a little skin. A suitable choice, Angela thought, for a moneyed matriarch.

  “Does everything meet your expectations so far, Mrs. Glastonbury?”

  “How could it not?” declared Drew Foxworth, who appeared out of nowhere and draped his arm around Angela’s shoulder in a proprietary fashion. “Everything here looks almost as beautiful as you. I’m impressed.”

  “It’s Mrs. Glastonbury’s event, Mr. Foxworth. All I’m doing is executing it to her specifications,” Angela said. Mrs. Glastonbury was appraising his perfectly fitted midnight blue tuxedo with irritation. To Angela, Foxy looked… foxy. But his bold choice seemed to have the opposite effect on her fussy client.

  “C’mon, Lee, admit it, it’s great, right? At least tell Angela you appreciate her hard work.”

  Mrs. Glastonbury looked away from him and addressed Angela. “Let’s confer before my introduction, just before the games start.” Then she walked away from them both towards another group of guests.

  “Well, that went well,” Angela giggled, smiling up at Foxy’s handsome face. Inner alarm bells warned her not to, but she couldn’t help enjoying Foxy’s flattering attention. “Excuse me, Mr. Foxworth, I’d better be sure she’s not displeased.” She ducked out from under his arm and started to walk away. “Good luck in the tournament.”

  “She’s fine. And please, enough of that ‘Mr. Foxworth’ nonsense. Call me Foxy,” Foxy said, deftly moving his arm back around Angela’s shoulders and guiding her the other way, towards the bar. “Look at us, a matched set in midnight blue. It’s like we belong together. Walk with me to get a beverage.”

  “OK, sure, Mr.—er, Foxy,” Angela said. “But just for a moment. I’ve got work to do.”

  “I understand. Perhaps later you can give me a tour of the Inn and the grounds? I’d love to learn more about the business. I don’t know much about hospitality.”

  “Frankly, I’m just getting started myself. I’m more of a marketer by trade—but I’m learning. I’d like to know about your business, too. Bitcoin, right?”

  “You’ve done your homework. Impressive.”

  After a half glass of champagne and a full dose of Foxy’s charm, Angela was giggling coquettishly. All the cautions she’d repeated to herself earlier were thrown to the wind.

  From his post in front of the control room, Aseem tried to get her attention. He had an urgent expression on his face, but she waved him off. She held up one finger, then turned back to Foxy—soon becoming so engrossed again that she didn’t even notice Bea walking straight toward her.

  “Angela, may I have a word?”

  “Is this your granny, beautiful?” Drew said, more charm dripping from his pillowy lips. “Drew Foxworth,” he added, extending a hand towards Bea. “But my friends call me Foxy.”

  “Hahaha, Foxy, good one. I bet some people say that’s girl’s nickname, but who cares? I say you wear it well.”

  Angela shot Bea a mortified glance, which Bea ignored.

  “I’m Bea, but all my favorite people call me Betty. Betty Snickerdoodle. My name’s on the door of this joint. Angela tells me you’re one of the poker players. I hope you won’t play too tough on an old lady like me.”

  “You play? I hope you’re not a shark. I’m ne
w to the game myself,” Foxy said. His patronizing tone suggested he was on deck to join the large ranks of poker players who regretted underestimating Bea.

  “Me? A shark? That’s rich!” Bea laughed, slapping her knee reflexively. “Angela’s always saying I’ve got more money than brains. Isn’t that right, Angie? I’m just a dumb romance author that got lucky and hit it big. Now that I’ve got all the cash, I’ll try anything once. I heard about the tournament and couldn’t resist giving it a go. Granny ain’t getting any younger, right? I got that thing you young people call foaming.”

  “Foaming?” said Angela.

  “You know, when you’re sad because everyone else is having fun right under your nose.”

  “FOMO?” smirked Foxy. “Fear of missing out?”

  “Hahaha, I guess that’s it, Foxy,” guffawed Bea, giving her knee another good smack. “See what I mean? I’m half out of marbles. But don’t you worry about me. I just want to have fun and get my little taste of the high-roller life—and believe me, I can afford it. Besides, it’s for a good charity, right?”

  I bet that’s what she’s up to, Angela thought. She’s trying to get the lowdown on that charity. Or she’s priming the pump to take Foxy’s money. More likely both. That foaming thing was clearly an act—but Foxy seemed none the wiser. Bea always says that an old lady can get away with virtually any lie, as long as she’s playing dumb.

  “I’m mainly here for the poker, Betty. Lee didn’t tell me much about the charity at all. Something about children. Rex and Max—the Fischer twins—have been telling me about the game for a while now, and it sounded like a lot of fun. But we’ve hardly talked about the charity.”

  “Guess it’s just a clever way to nudge us richie-riches to do our part, huh?” said Bea, punching Foxy on the bicep. “Ooh, someone’s been working out!” She pinched the underside of his muscular arm in a manner that bordered on groping. “What do you think, Angie, could we break away for that word?”

  Angela cringed with embarrassment, but her face lit up again when Foxy winked at her. Bea grabbed her hand and pulled her away.