A Sleuth Is Born Page 7

  Curious, she decided to slide one of the big barn doors open. It stuck so hard, it took three big tugs before she was able to move it and step inside the dilapidated building.

  “Anticlimactic, don’t you think, girl? Unless you like cobwebs and rusty farm implements.”

  The barn’s interior had the same abandoned appearance Angela remembered from when she and Bea first checked it out weeks ago. Maybe Bijou’s trying to tell me we need to fix this big shack up, Angela smiled to herself. No argument from me.

  “OK, let’s go, short stuff.” Angela leaned against the door and pushed hard to slide it back into place. “Phew. Let’s go find Connie and get you your breakfast.”

  Connie answered the door of her suite in a bathrobe. Without makeup, in the mid-morning light, she looked tired and tense. And there’s something else in her eyes, thought Angela—Connie looks a little sad.

  “Come in for a minute,” she whispered. “Billy Ray’s in the shower.”

  Angela sat in an armchair by the window, facing Connie, who sat with Bijou on the unmade bed.

  “He must have an awful hangover.”

  “He doesn’t get hangovers, not really,” Connie replied, her speech colored with her subtle Southern drawl. “Professional-grade drinking skills.”

  Angela could think of nothing to say, so she just smiled sympathetically at Connie.

  “I’ve always wondered if he married me for my inheritance or the endless supply of his favorite whiskey. Smart money’s likely on both.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  “I didn’t want to be alone. And he was nicer back then. He thought I was pretty—and least I thought he thought that.”

  Angela opened her mouth to speak, but once more was at a loss for words. She decided to change the subject.

  “Bijou and I had fun. But I think she’s hungry now, so I thought I should bring her back.”

  “Do you think you could take her again tonight?” Connie said brightly. “It’s just—I think she stresses him out when he’s playing poker. He so wants to win.”

  “Sure, I’ll take her again. Just be careful, I’m getting attached to her,” Angela said, reaching over to scratch the dog’s little head. “You said Billy Ray really wants to win. Do you think he was serious about thinking Mrs. Glastonbury picks favorites somehow?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, he started complaining about that at the last two events. But he always wants to play again.”

  Angela felt her phone vibrate and pulled it from her pocket: a text from Jackson at the front desk.

  Urgent phone call for u, Ms. Garcia. Offered to take message — says he needs to hold.

  “I’ve got to go. Don’t forget, we’ve got coffee and muffins and other things to eat down in the breakfast room. Maybe I’ll see you there later.”

  “Thanks.”

  Angela gave the pup one last pet before heading out the door. “See you later, sweet girl.”

  §

  “That was an interesting night,” Bea said. “Ready to compare notes?”

  Bea and Perry were sitting at one of four round tables in the Inn’s breakfast room. Sunlight was streaming in through a large window. They each had in front of them a pastry and coffee, chosen from a buffet on a sideboard against the wall.

  “Yes,” Perry agreed. “Now’s our chance to discuss the tournament while your opponents aren’t here. Or Lady Lee.”

  “The players might be sleeping in. Lee may be afraid her flesh will burn in direct sunlight,” cackled Bea. “What do we make of her special tournament?”

  “Where to start?” said Perry. “Let’s see, how about her strange rule about all three of your buy-ins staying in the prize pool, even if you have to leave? And that no prizes will be awarded until breakfast after the last game?”

  “Seems like the rest of us players got a very lucky break when Eddie got sick. I keep thinking maybe a player slipped him a peanut. If someone did, do you think they realized Eddie could have died?”

  “I was wondering about that,” said Perry. “Angela saved the day—and Eddie’s life. You’re right that even though it didn’t kill him, we’ll likely have one less player competing for the $100K tonight. And the odds improved for Frank and James when he left last night—since Eddie was by far the chip leader.”

  “Someone could have been hoping for that exact scenario. Less competition, but no blood on the hands, either,” Bea said. “Speaking of ‘competing,’ what did you make of Frank forfeiting last night?”

  “He just walked away from $100,000! You don’t see that every day,” Perry said, laughing out loud. “It doesn’t seem like something you do if you want to get rich. Or stay rich.”

  “Something else I noticed—I’m not sure, but I think the chip stacks might have been altered after Eddie went to the hospital. Like Frank had even fewer chips than before, and James’s stack had somehow grown.”

  “I thought some chips had been moved during one of the breaks,” Perry said. “But I wasn’t sure. We could watch for it tonight—and check the video later.”

  “Were Frank and James also playing a lot of hands together? Seemed like an odd coincidence. And did you also notice both of them raising a lot at the start of the hand, with one of them always abandoning ship without even seeing the flop?”

  “You thinking it could be some kind of collusion? As in, one of them helps goad a third player into building a pot for their buddy?”

  “Something like that.”

  “It fits. I’ll ask Aseem to show me the video before we start again tonight.”

  “Good morning, ladies and germs,” said Pat, bounding into the room. She was wearing a soft, plaid flannel shirt and baggy jeans.

  “I’ve got big news,” said Pat, helping herself to coffee and a muffin. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “We can’t say no after that intro, can we?” snarked Bea. “Spill it, sister!”

  “I started looking into the reviews this morning, Bea—and I found something interesting.”

  “I knew it! They are all written by the same person.”

  “I think so. But there’s bigger news than that.” Pat leaned forward towards Bea and Perry and whispered. “We should keep it to ourselves for now, because Angela’s not going to like it.”

  “What won’t I like?” Angela said, arriving at the wrong moment. She looked quite serious—even more so than usual. “You might as well tell me, because whatever it is, I guarantee it is not the worst news of the day. Go on.”

  Bea nodded at Pat, encouraging her to continue. “Well… I shouldn’t have, but I looked into those negative reviews. Before you get mad, I looked at them on my own. Bea didn’t help me. I just got curious.”

  Angela raised an eyebrow at Bea. “Yes, yes, I’m quite convinced that Bea wasn’t involved, and there was no plan to respond in any way.”

  “It’s true, Angie! I’ve been busy with poker,” Bea said. This was, strictly speaking, true—Bea had been busy playing and helping Perry with poker. But it was hardly sincere. Bea would have happily joined Pat in her detecting if she’d had the time. And Pat was only digging into the reviews because Bea asked her to.

  “What else? Might as well tell me everything.”

  Cautiously, Pat continued. “Somebody’s started a blog, and it’s all negative comments about Betty and the Inn. I think it’s the same person who’s been trashing Betty’s book. There’s a new review on Betty’s product page. And—shock of the century—it links to the blog.”

  “Big deal,” Angela said. “That’s all you got?”

  “You’re taking this awfully well. I suppose your rule about not responding goes for the Inn, too?” Pat said. “I mean… not that we were planning anything.”

  “We’ve got much bigger problems than bad reviews. My news is dreadful,” Angela said, sighing sadly.

  “You mean like the fact that our secret event is not so secret anymore?” barked Billy Ray, storming in. He was holding up a tablet computer and pointing at
an article with a large, grainy picture of several of the players arriving at the Inn. “Not quite the complete privacy Lee promised.”

  Angela took the tablet from Billy Ray with one hand and covered her mouth with the other. “How on earth… no one could have known we were even open.” Color drained from her face as she tried to puzzle out how anyone could have found out about the secret event.

  “Angela, you OK?” said Foxy. He’d just entered the breakfast room with the Rex and Max, all three of them looking freshly showered. The twins wore preppy slacks and sweaters. Along with his designer jeans, Foxy wore a fitted t-shirt and cardigan emblazoned with the logo of his fancy car.

  Foxy hurried to Angela’s side. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders protectively.

  “Would you look at that,” he said, pointing at the picture on the tablet. “Isn’t that Walter and Harry arriving—and James and Frank right behind them? OK if I take a closer look?” He tapped the screen of the tablet and scrolled down. Under the picture was a block of text with a huge headline in an ugly font:

  “The Truth about Betty: The Queen of Christmas Just Wants More Money!!!”

  The sloppily written paragraph was chock-full of texting shortcuts and misspellings, but still managed to drive home its mean message.

  Foxy pulled a cell phone in a gaudy gold case out of his pocket. “What’s that web address? I’ll snap a pic if no one minds—I might like to check it out myself later.”

  Angela shook her head in disbelief. “We’re not even officially open yet, and we’re getting slammed.”

  “Didn’t you say a bad review was no big deal?” Pat said.

  “It’s the pictures. Someone’s trespassing and spying on our event.” Angela scrolled down and found another grainy evening shot of Mrs. Glastonbury speaking with Frank and James in the driveway, all of them dressed in their evening finery.

  “I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it,” Angela stammered, composing herself. “We’ll have someone walk the grounds during our event tonight. We’ll shut the drapes of the ballroom, so no one can see in?”

  “And block the beautiful moonlight?” said Connie Bandy, who’d followed her husband in and now stood passively behind him, Bijou at her feet.

  “You’ll still see the moon through the transom windows. But because they’re high up, above those huge doors, no one will be able to see in from the outside.”

  Lee marched into the room, Walter and Harry just behind her. She was back in her old-money-matron tweed garb. “I guess you’re thinking better late than never works for security, Angela?”

  “Nice that you’re blaming everything on Angela, Lee,” said Foxy, moving between Angela and Mrs. Glastonbury. “Didn’t you promise us you were personally overseeing the security?”

  “Last time I checked, Drew, Angela was running this establishment. Or not running it, as the case may be.”

  “I was already wondering why I keep coming back for these shindigs, Lee,” brayed Billy Ray. “Am I the only one who notices the same people always seem to win—and I ain’t one of ’em. Now we can’t even count on privacy. What, exactly, is in it for us players? The coffee’s nice and all, but I can get one of these muffins down the street for five bucks. If Connie and I wear shades, there’s a good chance we can do it without seeing our picture on some sleazy website.”

  Angela winced. “Lee—er, Mrs. Glastonbury—why don’t you and I step outside to talk. I’m sure we can figure out who took this photo, and I promise we’ll tighten up the security tonight. Everyone else, please sit down and enjoy your breakfast.”

  Angela wiped a tiny bead of sweat from her brow. The atmosphere in the room was becoming stuffy and warm. The tension seemed to add a few degrees to the temperature.

  “Before we go outside, wasn’t there something else you wanted to tell everyone, Angela? I am well aware you’ve heard the important news of the day. Would you prefer I tell them?” Lee said sourly.

  “I was about to tell them when you walked in.” Angela paused and exhaled audibly. “I’m sad to have to tell you… Eddie has died. I heard from the hospital a few minutes ago. The coroner is investigating.”

  Silence fell over the room for a moment, except for Connie’s gasp. The others looked stunned.

  “Coroner… does that mean they think it’s… murder?” blurted one of the twins.

  “Well ain’t that grand,” said Billy Ray. “Now we got a murderer in our midst! And here I was thinking a dirty game and a sleazy reporter were the worst things I had to worry about. Watch your backs, people.”

  “No one’s said anything about murder. The hospital said that it’s standard practice to investigate when someone dies in a hospital under irregular circumstances,” said Angela. “But the police do not suspect foul play. Eddie was trying to leave against medical advice, and no one noticed, so no one could stop him. Then they think he had another reaction—something called a biphasic reaction, meaning it was related to the one he had last night. In all likelihood, it was a tragic accident.”

  “That doesn’t mean no one was at fault, Angela,” said Lee sternly.

  “Mrs. Glastonbury, why don’t we find a private place to talk.”

  “Sure, how about the kitchen? I’d like to make sure your chef is not destroying any evidence.”

  “Everyone, please enjoy your breakfast. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, but I promise Mrs. Glastonbury and I will work out the security issues. Also, although this is not a murder investigation, the police have asked that no one leave town for the next couple of days. Please don’t worry, it’s only a formality. Of course, with two more nights of tournaments to go, I can’t imagine any of you were thinking of leaving. But I promised to pass that information on to you.

  “Now Mrs. Glastonbury, shall we?” Angela said, motioning towards the door.

  “Angie, hold up,” said Bea. “I’ll join you if you don’t mind.”

  She hopped down from her seat behind the large table. “Nice outfit,” Perry leaned over and whispered, grinning. Bea winked at him. “Festive, no? Too bad I forgot my elf hat.”

  Bea was wearing red and green striped harem pants with a crotch that sagged to her knees, paired with her standard sheepskin boots. On top, she wore a holiday sweatshirt boldly decorated with sequins, a large image of chocolate blocks, and the message, “I FUDGING LOVE CHRISTMAS!” in huge letters.

  “Um, Bea, perhaps you’d like to change first?” said Angela, taking in the full measure of Bea’s appearance with a familiar sense of futility. Lee stared at Bea with disgust.

  “They’re dance pants. What’s wrong with dance pants?” Bea said. “I admit, it might not be elegant like the outfits from our gift shop, Angie. But you can’t say it’s not merry. We don’t have to be elegant when we’re not playing poker, right?”

  With a forced grin plastered on her face, Angela leaned in to speak directly into Bea’s ear. “Bea, you must realize that’s not the kind of outfit Mrs. Glastonbury would approve of. Why don’t you put on a pretty sweater from our shop? And some plain black pants?”

  “Is it possible you’re taking kowtowing to your client a little too far, Angie?” Bea whispered back. “I’ll do it—for you, Angie. Don’t start that meeting without me.”

  “Mrs. Glastonbury, let’s meet in the kitchen, as you suggested, in half an hour. OK?” Angela said. “In the meantime, please enjoy some coffee and a pastry.”

  “Provided it doesn’t poison any of us,” Lee said. “I’ll see you in the kitchen in 30 minutes. Don’t be late.”

  Chapter 11

  “Bea, wait up,” said Pat, following Bea out into the hall. “Can we have a quick chat while you change?”

  “Good idea.”

  Back at their suites, the adjoining doors between them were open, allowing them to talk while Bea changed in privacy in her own room.

  “So where the heck did you even get that outfit, Bea?” Pat laughed. “It doesn’t look like something Angela would pick for the Betty Snickerdoodl
e line.”

  “I ordered it from Rebecca—the internet tube,” Bea said. “It’s like magic. All the rooms have one—do you see yours in the corner? I use it for everything: shopping, research, my alarm clock. I even use it as a phone. Once the Inn’s officially open, we’ll use it for room service. You say ‘Rebecca’ to wake her then say what you want. You could use it for your detecting, too.”

  “Us detectives tend to shy away from those devices for research. I don’t believe they have an incognito mode. Good first lesson for you: private detecting’s about finding tracks, not leaving them.”

  “Incognito mode—I like the sound of that. It sounds like real detective talk.”

  “That’ll be our first lesson: basics of web research. OK for me to come in now?”

  “Yes,” said Bea glumly. “I’m changed.”

  Pat entered the room and began to laugh. Just giggles at first, then full-throated guffawing.

  “What’s so funny? This is a 100% Angela-approved holiday ensemble.”

  Bea was wearing a black cardigan with a frilly collar that went up to her chin. It had a prim white bow around the neck and tiny holly decorations embroidered at the wrists. As Angela suggested, she wore black pants with it. The only part of the outfit that looked truly Bea was the footwear: black Velcro-strapped sneakers.

  “This sweater’s going to sell for $180 in the gift shop. It’s already selling like gangbusters on our website.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s hard picturing you as a schoolmarm,” Pat giggled. “What will you wear tomorrow? A habit?”

  “It looks very chic in the catalog. At least that’s what Angie tells me. Besides, Betty’s fans are very modest. They like things sweet.”

  “You ain’t joking that you and Betty are two different people.”

  Bea scrunched her eyes to figure out how to respond to Pat’s comment. Did she not realize that Betty wasn’t a person at all? People were so illogical!

  She decided to change the subject. “My meeting’s in a few minutes. Any progress on Operation Troll Patrol?”