Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 05 - A Deadly Change of Luck (14 page)

Sam grinned from one overconfident ear to the other.  “You’re on, Miss Know-it-All.  What’s that teacher’s name, again?”

“Peter Champion.  Why?”

“I’m going over to the university and get a list of his past students.”

I got up and headed for the door.  “Good.  While you’re doing that, I’m going to call around and find out who has the most expensive lobster in town.”

Chapter Thirteen

F
iona invited me to play cards with her lady investors’ club, and since Craig had to stay late at the hospital for a staff meeting, I agreed to join in.  It was going to be sort of a “
girls
night out” and I looked forward to it.

Fiona answered the door in top form, wearing a long, red evening gown with matching shoes and a feathery black hat.  She wore black velvet gloves that went all the way up past her elbows.  I gaped at her attire only long enough for her to grab my hand and yank me into the house.

”
Devonie
!  You made it!”  She led me to the dining room, where a group of woman sat around the table, drinking margaritas and showing off their jewelry.  They were all dressed for a formal affair and looked as though they’d spent the entire day in the capable hands of a professional hairdresser.

“Girls, this is
Devonie
.  She just bought that little estate sale house I had listed.  If we’re all real nice to her, she might join our little investors’ club,” Fiona announced as she paraded me around the table like a poodle in a dog show.

All the ladies stopped their
oohing
and
aahing
and looked me over.  Now I really felt like a dog in a contest.  Fiona didn’t tell me to dress as though I were attending the Oscars.  I’d put on my most comfortable jeans and sneakers, and because it was a little bit cool outside, found a sweatshirt without a stain on the front.  This is how I thought people dressed to play cards.  Hopefully, this would be my only
faux pas
of the evening.

Finally, one of the ladies broke the silence.  “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” she said to me.  “That shirt you’re wearing brings the color out so vividly.”  Then they all nodded and agreed with her, smiling and greeting me with the most gracious hospitality
that I nearly forgot how under
dressed I was.  One of the ladies patted the empty seat next to hers and invited me to sit.

Fiona disappeared into the kitchen for a moment then returned with a tray of chips and salsa and a margarita.  “Okay, everyone knows
Devonie’s
name, so now you all tell her yours,” she said, placing the drink in front of me.

The woman to my immediate left started the show.  I guessed her age to be somewhere around the same as Fiona’s.  Her hair was colored an almost unnatural red, and she wore a forest-green evening gown.  A huge diamond sat perched on her finger like a finch.  “I’m Dorothy,” she said.

“Dorothy owns five duplexes and a triplex.  I sold her every one of them,” Fiona boasted, taking a seat across from me.

Next to Dorothy was a younger woman, maybe closer to my age.  She wore a basic black dress with spaghetti straps and a delicate pearl necklace.  “Hi.  I’m Melissa,” she said, with a kind smile.

“Melissa and her husband buy and sell rehab houses, like you’re doing,” Fiona added.  She picked up a huge stack of cards and began shuffling.

Between Melissa and Fiona sat the most striking woman in the room.  She looked like an Italian movie star from my mother’s era.  Her thick black hair fell down both sides of her face in even waves, like frosting on a cake.  I’ve always wondered how women make hair do that—without lacquer.  She wore a turquoise dress with a matching feather boa.  She also wore at least one ring on every finger, and even two on her thumbs.  I wondered how she’d be able to hold her cards. 
“Pleased to meet you, Devonie.
  My name’s Sophia, but everyone calls me Sophie.”

I smiled and waited for Fiona to describe her real estate portfolio, but she was too busy shuffling that enormous stack of cards in front of her.  There must have been six decks.  “What kind of investing do you do, Sophie?” I asked.

“I own an apartment complex.  It’s small, but it keeps me living the lifestyle I’ve become accustomed to.”

I stared at Sophie for a moment and wondered if she might actually be that actress from days gone by.

“And I’m Millie,” the tiny woman in the seat to my right announced.  She was the most petite thing, and I wondered where in the world she could find an evening gown in a size one.  “I’m a general contractor,” she said.

“You?
  But you’re so tiny,” I marveled.

She stuck her chin out, pulled up her chiffon sleeve and made an attempt to flex her bicep muscle.  “Don’t let these little chicken wings fool you.  I’m tough as steel,” she said.  The entire group broke out laughing.

Fiona continued cutting the cards.  “Millie is a general contractor by trade, but she hires subs to do everything but the decorating.  She’s the smartest woman I know.  After her husband passed away, she studied for the state licensing exam and passed with flying colors.”

I gave her a smile appropriate for how impressed I was.  Then I turned to Fiona.  “Why didn’t you tell me the dress code?  I feel like I should be sitting in the kitchen with the maid.”

“Oh, nonsense.
  I didn’t think you’d come if I told you we crazy old broads dress up like a bunch of floozies for our monthly game of Spite and Malice.  You can dress up next time if you decide to join.”

Millie took a swig of her margarita and wiped the salt from the edges of her mouth.  “Come on, Fiona.  Deal the cards,” she said, anxious to get started.

I held up my hand.  “Wait a minute.  I thought we were playing poker or blackjack.  I don’t know how to play…what’s it called?”

“Spite and Malice.
  It’s easy.  We’ll play a practice round to show you,” Fiona said.

As the evening rolled on, it became clear to me that these women didn’t care who won or lost.  Tonight was a night of dress-up and socializing. 
Nothing more.
  Dorothy kept insisting that no one let their hands be seen by any of the other players, yet consistently announced the cards she drew from the pile on the table, as they were so useless to her that she’d never have a chance of winning.

Millie kept bending the rules to allow me to take back plays that were not in my best interest.  No one seemed to mind.  The fact that there was no money on the table probably had a great deal to do with their agreeable temperament.

Fiona dealt the next hand.  “Did I tell you girls that Devonie found a lottery ticket worth millions in that little house I sold her?”

The women nearly choked on their chips and gaped at me.  “What?” they all said in unison.

Fiona continued dealing.  “But someone stole it.  Turns out that poor man who owned the house was murdered, probably for the ticket.  How’s the investigation going, toots?”

Everyone’s eyes were on me.  I straightened my cards on the table and took another sip of my margarita.  They weren’t letting me off the hook until I spilled the beans.  “Sam hasn’t made any arrests yet.”

Millie gasped and put her hand over her mouth. 
“Oh my.
 
Murder?
  How exciting.  Tell us more.  Maybe we can help solve it.”

“I really don’t think we should talk about it.  I mean, it’s still an ongoing investigation,” I said, hoping she’d drop the subject.  I should have realized that once the cat was out of the bag, there’d be no putting it back without some serious scratches on my arms. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.  You’re right, of course.  You can
’t talk about the details
,” Fiona said.

I was finally able to breath
e
again, and relaxed my fists to allow my fingernails to
dislodged
from my palms.

“But everyone already knows that Arthur Simon got that lottery ticket.  It was all over the news,” Fiona blurted, before I could stop her.

I cringed as soon as I heard her say his name.  I thought Millie was going to explode.  “Arthur Simon murdered him?” she gasped.

I shook my head frantically.  “No!  No!  Arthur Simon didn’t have anything to do with it.  Please, Fiona.  We really shouldn’t be talking about it,” I insisted.

Fiona frowned.  “I’m
sorry
.  It’s just that it was all over the news and all, how Arty won that money.  And it had to be the ticket you found in that little house.  I mean, it was for fifty-eight million, just like yours, and it was just about to expire.” 

Fiona couldn’t help herself.  The women around the table were eating this up like chocolate covered strawberries.  I wanted to slide under the table and disappear.  Sam would kill me if he knew what was going on.

“Fifty-eight million?
  My God!  How did Arthur get the ticket if he wasn’t the murderer?” Dorothy asked.

“Please, ladies.  Arthur Simon is not a murderer.  This whole conversation should not be taking place,” I pleaded.  “Fiona, can we just play the game?”

Fiona gave me a sympathetic smile.  “Sure, toots.  We won’t say another word, will we girls?”

They all pretended to lock their lips and throw the imaginary keys over their shoulders.

“I’m sorry.  It’s just that I could get in a lot of trouble if Sam—”

Fiona shushed
me.  “Don’t you be
sorry
.
  We all understand.  Now let’s play.”

“Thank you,” I squeaked.

Fiona played her hand and swallowed the last of her margarita. 

“Didn’t you used to date Arthur Simon, Fiona?” Dorothy piped up.

“Just the one time, but I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, ever since
he
—”

Fiona spotted my glare and stopped herself. 
“Just one time, Dorothy.
  Now I think we better concentrate on the game.”

Not another word was spoken about Arthur Simon or the lottery ticket or the murder for the rest of the evening.  At the end of the night, the group invited me back to the next monthly game.  I promised I would attend, although it would mean I’d have to shop for a suitable outfit.  I wondered if my wedding dress would do. 

Chapter Fourteen

I
’d just sent Craig off to work and was about to head over to Rancho Costa Little to see if I could do some yard cleanup since Sam wouldn’t let me remove anything else from the house until he completed his investigation.  I grabbed my keys and was headed for the garage when I heard tires screech in the driveway.  Seconds later, someone was pounding violently on the front door.  I hurried over to the window and peeked out to see Sam banging with one hand and holding a newspaper with the other.

“I’m coming!  Settle down!” I hollered through the door before he busted it down.  Once I’d opened it an inch, he shoved his way in and slammed the door behind him.

“What have you done?” he demanded, waving the paper in my face.

I stared blankly at him, unsure what to say.  “I haven’t done anything.  What’s wrong?”

Sam’s face was beet-red and his chest heaved with every breath.  He slapped the newspaper down on the table and jammed his finger on a spot on the front page.  “Read this,” he ordered.

I read the headline and immediately realized why he was
furious.  It read:
SIMON CLAIMS MURDER VICTIM’S PRIZE.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know anything about this,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at me.

I read the story, which confirmed the fact that Lou
Winnomore
had indeed been murdered, and the motive was believed to be for the winning lottery ticket.

“I didn’t do this.  I swear.  Why would I?” I insisted.

“Then who did?” he boomed, still seething.

I melted into a chair and rubbed my temples to ward off an impending headache.  “I might have an idea,” I admitted, squeezing my eyes shut and cringing at the anticipation of his reaction.

“I knew it!  I swear this is the last time I let you get involved in an investigation.  I don’t know what I was thinking,” he hissed.

“Now wait a minute.  Just because I think I might know who’s responsible for the story doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it,” I said in my own defense.

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.

“And besides, there wouldn’t even be an investigation if it weren’t for me.  Don’t you forget that, you…you,” I couldn’t get the words out, I was so mad.

Sam stood in the middle of the room with his arms folded across his big chest, glaring at me.  I picked up the phone next to the chair and dialed Fiona’s number.

As I suspected, the conversation at last night’s game let to the story on the front page.  Dorothy’s son is a reporter for the
Union Tribune
.  Dorothy must have left the card game last night and went directly to his house to give him the scoop.  I explained to Sam the events of last evening.  He didn’t cool down much, but at least his hostility was transferred from me to Fiona and her cronies.

“So, what does this mean to the investigation?” I asked, already pretty sure what the answer would be.

“Up till now, it looked like the killer was sticking around town.  This story might scare him off.  He’s got a million bucks to play with.  He can go just about anywhere.”

“She,” I corrected.

“Whatever.  The point is
,
we no longer have the luxury of time to figure this one out.  It may already be too late.”

“I’m not sure we ever really did have the luxury of time.”  I spotted a cufflink under the coffee table that Craig had lost a few nights ago.  We’d searched the entire house, and there it was, in plain view.  I picked it up and stared at it, dumbfounded at how we could have missed it.  “Why don’t we go back over to the house and look again.  Maybe we’ve missed something,” I suggested.

Sam nodded.  “At this point, that’s about all we can do.  I’ll follow you over.”

I dumped the contents of one of the big plastic garbage bags onto the garage floor.  Sam had already been through the bags once, the first time he searched the house, but we had more information now.  Maybe something would stand out this time around.  Sam and I sifted through every scrap of paper or bit of miscellaneous trash, looking for something we might have missed.

“Did your guys ever come up with anything on the e-mail message sent to Arthur Simon?” I asked as I gingerly unfolded a slimy, disgusting piece of paper that turned out to be a grocery store receipt.

“No luck.  This guy really covered his tracks.”

I frowned as I picked out another gooey bit of trash from the pile.  “Did you get the class list from the university?”

“Got it.
 
Sixteen hundred and forty-eight students.
  I’ve got my guys cross-checking it with students from classes that have access to cyanide in their lab work.”

Sam grimaced as he pulled an old, black banana peel out o
f the heap.  He tossed it aside
.

We’d separated the items that didn’t seem totally without worth into categories.  Receipts went into one stack, notes and lists into another, bills and correspondence into a third.  Anything that didn’t fall into any of those categories went into a miscellaneous pile.

By the time noon rolled around, I was ready to get up off that hard concrete floor and regain some circulation in my lower half. 
“You hungry?”
I asked.

“I was, until I found that moldy sardine sandwich,” he replied, nodding toward the heap of useless trash in the corner.

I headed for the door.  “Well, I’m starving.  There’s a little grocery store around the corner.  I’ll get some drinks and stuff to make sandwiches.  What do you want?”

“Anything but fish,” Sam said as he struggled to get to his feet.  “I’ll stay here and keep working.”

I
walked into the quaint little Mom and Pop
grocery store and smiled at the sound of the clanking cowbell hanging on the door.  I recalled from a news report that this was the store where the winning lottery ticket had originally been purchased.  I grabbed a basket from a stack near the entrance and searched the aisles for bread and mayonnaise and plastic forks and knives.  I found fruit juices in the cooler, and to my amazement, the little store boasted a full deli.  I added the sliced turkey and ham and provolone cheese to my basket and grabbed a head of romaine lettuce from the produce section.

The tiny store had two cash registers, but only one was open.  A large, bald headed man wearing a green apron stood behind the counter, putting groceries into a bag for his customer.  I stepped to the back of the line and waited, enjoying the smells of the produce and the fresh bread that had just been delivered.

“Thanks, Margie,” the big man said as he handed the little old lady her bag of groceries.  “You need help out with that?” he asked.

Margie’s bony hand shook as she grasped the handle of the bag.  She smiled and waved him off.  “No thank you, Otis.  I can manage.”

Before Otis could help the next customer in line, a bell rang from somewhere in the back of the store.  Otis stretched as high as he could to see who was at the back counter.  The bell rang again.  “Be right with you!” he hollered to the impatient customer.

“I just want to buy a lottery ticket,” a voice called back from a distant corner of the market.

The man in line in front of me placed his groceries on the belt and gave Otis a sympathetic smile. 
“Hey, Otis.
  You a one man show today?”

The counter bell rang again.  Otis clenched his teeth.  “I said I’d be right there!”

“I’m sort of in a hurry,” the impatient voice called back.

Otis’s customer stretched to see who the annoying man was, then turned back to Otis.  “Go ahead and help that guy.  I’m not in a hurry.”  Then the man turned and noticed I was in line behind him. 
“Oh, sorry.
  Maybe you are?”

I smiled and shook my head.  “No.  Go ahead and help him before he has a seizure.”

Otis smiled. 
“Thanks, folks.
  I’ll be right back.  Sorry about this.”

I set my basket on the floor while we waited for Otis to return.  The customer in front of me whistled and gazed at the collection of tabloid papers stacked in a rack next to the checkout stand.  “Look at that,” he said, point
ing to a hideous photo of a woma
n standing next to some alien creature.  “Woman is visited by alien and loses fifty pounds overnight.  Gee, and I thought diet and exercise were the only way to do that,” the man said, chuckling.  I laughed with him. 

Otis rushed back through the aisles to get to the checkout stand.  “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.  Where’s Casey?  Why are you all alone here today?” the customer asked.

I thought I could see steam coming from under Otis’s collar.  “Don’t get me started,” he said as he passed a can of corn across the UPC scanner.

“She
have
finals this week?” the customer pressed.

Otis shook his head.  “Not that she told me.  Had her on the schedule to open with me this morning, but she never showed up.  Darn kid.  If I weren’t her father, I’d fire her.  Maybe I will anyway.”

“Can’t you get someone to come in for the day to help you out?”

“Leslie’s coming in at one.  Mark went to lunch, but he’ll be back soon.  She couldn’t have picked a worse day to be a no-show.  I had deliveries this morning, and yesterday was government-check day, so we’ve been twice as busy as usual.”

Another customer walked in and headed for the back of the store.  Otis scowled at the man’s back, waiting to see if he went toward the lottery ticket counter.

“Thanks, Steve,” Otis said, handing the customer his change and receipt.

I placed my basket on the counter and gave Otis a sympathetic smile.  “So Casey’s your daughter?” I asked, politely.

“Not today she’s not,” he barked, grabbing the bread out of my basket and squashing it as he waved it across his scanner.  I wondered if it would ever regain its original shape.

“I hope she’s not sick,” I said.

Otis snatched the mayonnaise from my basket.  “She
ain’t
sick.  Saw her bright and early this morning, eating a bowl of oatmeal and reading the paper. 
My
paper, as a matter of fact.”

Otis took the last item from my basket and totaled my bill.  “That’ll be nineteen forty-six.”

I handed him a twenty.

“You got the forty-six cents, by chance?  I’m running short on change and I can’t get to the bank until Leslie gets here.”

I dug through my change purse and produced forty-six cents.  Otis handed me a dollar bill and my receipt. 

I put the change away and stared at the receipt while he bagged my groceries.  The receipt looked the same as the ones I’d dug out of Lou
Winnomore’s
trash.  He probably shopped here regularly.  It was close to home and convenient.

The counter bell at the back of the store rang again, and Otis rolled his eyes as he handed me my bag.  “Thanks for being patient,” he said.  Then he rushed out from behind the counter and disappeared behind a stack of paper towels.

I started out the front door,
then
stopped.  Something Chuck had said instantly replayed in my head. 
You could wallpaper his house with that box full of all those tickets he bought.
  Those were his exact words.  I turned and went back into the store.

I wandered down an aisle to the back counter where Otis was busy selling another lottery ticket.  When his customer left, he smiled at me.  “Forget something?” he said.

“Yeah.
  I need a lottery ticket,” I said.

“Quick pick?”

I nodded.  “That’s fine.”

I placed the dollar bill on the counter as Otis handed me the ticket.

“Your daughter’s a student at UCSD
?” I asked, making small talk.

“Yeah.
  Probably the biggest waste of money I ever spent,” he complained.

“Education’s never a waste of money.  What’s her major?”

“Get this. 
Undeclared.
  Tell me what she’s
gonna
do with that?” he replied, rolling his eyes.

I smiled politely and looked at the lottery ticket in my hand.  “Well, I’m sure she’ll think of something.  Thanks again,” I said, then headed back
to
the front of the store.  Over the door was a large poster with Otis’s smiling face beaming down on the customers.  Under the picture, the caption read: O
TIS
B
IGGSMUTH
,
YOUR FRIENDLY PROPRIETOR
.

Otis
Biggsmuth
.  Casey
Biggsmuth
.  I made a mental note as I hurried out the door to my car.  It took me less than two minutes to get back to the house, where I found Sam babbling to himself about rotten eggs and moldy cheese.  I left him working in the garage.