Killer Shots Murder Mysteries - Books 1-3 Page 36

  “But did you know that he and Artie got in a big fight just six weeks ago?”

  Grady stopped and blew out a heavy sigh before turning his head to look at me. “And you know this, how?”

  I shrank back. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Really? Then have a nice day.” He started walking again.

  “Just promise me you’ll look into it,” I called out.

  He held up his hand and went inside the lodge.

  Whether he would consider what I said or not was unclear. What was clear, though, was that I needed more information from Clyde Hornsby, and I knew right where to find him.

  Chapter 19

  If you’ve ever been in a casino, then you can picture Creekside. Dark gaudy carpet, multi-colored lights, bells and whistles. The goal of the casino designer is two-fold: to make sure you can’t tell if it’s day or night outside and to make it hard to find an exit. Both of these strategies were meant to trap the gambler inside for as long as possible.

  It wasn’t going to be easy to find Clyde. He had mentioned dice, so he might be at a craps table. The rows of tables and slot machines were a dizzying maze. Most of the gaming tables were toward the center of the large room. Trouble was, there was more than one room. After searching for a while, I took a different tactic. I asked a waitress if she’d seen a man named Clyde wearing a brown plaid jacket. Since he was a regular, I figured most of the waitresses would know him.

  She put one hand on her hip and held a tray of empty glasses in the other. “What are you? Wife? Ex-girlfriend? His niece?” She drew that last word out as though she’d heard it all too often.

  “I’m just a friend. I need to talk to him.”

  She opened up the cash folder on her tray and looked at me.

  “Oh, I see.” I reached in my purse and found a ten-dollar bill. “Is this enough of a bribe?”

  “Whatever.” She took the bill. “He’s playing blackjack over by the big screen TVs.” She pointed.

  Money well spent. I found Clyde huddled at a table with two other guys. He didn’t notice me at first. When he looked up, he kept his poker face. “What do you want now?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “No, I need to concentrate.” He tapped his hand on the table.

  The dealer dealt himself twenty-one and dragged in Clyde’s cards and chips.

  “See what you made me do?”

  I leaned in, trying to ignore the hair coming out of his ear, and whispered, “Brett Boswell is dead.”

  Pointing to his chips, he looked at the dealer and said, “Watch these for me, will you?”

  The dealer nodded as Clyde got up and walked straight to the bar. “Whiskey straight up,” he said. “Do you want anything?”

  “It’s barely afternoon.”

  “Not in here. In here it’s whatever time you want it to be.” He took the drink and threw down some cash. After swigging half the glass, he turned to me. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Seems he had a run-in with a tree on the mountain. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” I couldn’t believe how much like a TV cop I was beginning to sound.

  “I keep trying to tell you, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

  “Speaking of fights, tell me what happened between Artie and Brett six weeks ago.”

  “Look, missy—”

  “It’s Wendy.”

  “Windy, Rainy, Sunny—whatever. I got nothing to say to you. Now go home and bake a pie or something.”

  He sounded as sexist as Jake’s mother. “Do you really want me to go to the sheriff? You might need me to back up your story when they find your fingerprints on the trash at the Boswell house. If you help me track down Artie’s killer, all of this can stay our little secret.”

  He chugged the rest of his drink and motioned for me to sit on one of the barstools. After ordering another, he began to open up. “Artie and I ran what you might call a ‘racket.’ Nothing too bad, just a little petty theft and some persuasion.”

  “What do you mean ‘persuasion’?”

  He chuckled. “You should know. You’re doing it to me right now, except in our case, there was a fee involved.”

  “Are you talking about blackmail?”

  “Bingo. But we weren’t out to hurt anybody. We thought of ourselves as modern-day Robin Hoods. Take from the rich, give to the poor—except we were the poor in this case.”

  As he spoke, I saw his eyes light up. There was a sense of pride behind his despicable confession. I wanted to lecture him but bit my tongue.

  “You see, Artie had a gig taking pictures of houses that were being put up for sale. Sometimes he would invite me along, but only if the current owners were moving out of town.”

  “Like the Boswells?”

  “You got it. While Artie took pictures, I would have a look around.”

  “Did you steal stuff?”

  “What do you think?” He flashed his gold rings. “People who are moving leave everything in disarray. Boxes here, boxes there. They don’t notice a piece of gold or silver missing until they’ve unpacked in their next place. Even then they might think it was just misplaced or pocketed by the movers.”

  I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ve all got insurance. It’s not like I’m taking grandma’s gold teeth right out of her mouth.”

  “Nice rationalization.”

  “But that’s not the best part. Sometimes when I would do a little digging, I’d uncover something that Mr. and Mrs. Homeowner wouldn’t exactly want their neighbors or the pastor finding out about.”

  “Such as...”

  “Such as the pot hidden under the mattress or the sex toys in the back of the closet. If you knew what people really did behind closed doors—”

  “I get the picture,” I said. “So then what?”

  “So once the homeowner was safely moved into their new joint, they’d get a letter from an anonymous person with the photographic evidence of their little secret. They’d send a cashier’s check or money order to a post office address in another state. One of my associates would send it to me and he’d get a cut. All very neat and clean.”

  “If you can call dirty money clean. So what does this have to do with Brett Boswell?”

  He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

  “Yes.” My eyes were already burning from the stale smoke hanging in the air.

  He rolled his eyes and jammed the pack back in his pocket. “Remember I told you that Artie got a phone call shortly after we got to the house that morning? Well, he said it was from a lemon.”

  I held up my hands. “A what?”

  “A lemon. That’s what we called the people we were trying to squeeze more money out of.”

  “Cute. Do you think Artie had something on Brett?”

  “That’s what I think. You see, Brett had a big party at his house about a month and a half ago. Someone hired Artie to take some pictures of the goings-on. He brought me along as a lookout.”

  “Why did he need a lookout?”

  “He wasn’t exactly a guest at the party. He was taking pictures through the window while I waited in the car. I was supposed to radio him if I saw anyone coming. Unfortunately, nature called about the same time Brett caught sight of Artie. He came tearing outside and grabbed Artie by the collar. Brett tried to punch him, but Artie got loose and ran back to the car. Brett must have been pretty drunk to let old Artie get the better of him. When we drove off, Brett was yelling obscenities that would make your hair curl.”

  “And do you know who hired Artie to spy on the party?”

  “Nope. Didn’t ask.”

  “For being such good friends, you two didn’t talk much.”

  “Shoot. We talked plenty about sports and horse racing and even politics. Just not about this sort of thing. This wasn’t a job we were in on together. I was just watching his back.”

  “So you think Brett was the latest lemon Artie was trying to squeez
e?”

  “That’d be my guess. Artie was pretty careful not to let people know who was behind their troubles. He might have made a mistake by trying to get something out of Brett since Brett knew his identity.”

  “Do we know for certain that the person who called on the phone was the same person who showed up?”

  “I think so. He mentioned he was busy taking pictures at the Boswell house.”

  My ears perked up. “He said the Boswell house? Are you sure?”

  Clyde scratched his head. Surprisingly, his hand didn’t come back with black dye on it. “Um, I think so. Or maybe he just said he was taking pictures of a house.”

  “Think,” I told him. “It’s important. If the person he was speaking to was Brett, he wouldn’t have called it the Boswells’ house.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right. I can’t remember exactly, but I think he said Boswell house.”

  “Geez, Clyde. If he said that, then not only is Brett innocent of killing Artie, he may actually be a second victim.”

  “Or it could be a coincidence.” Clyde jumped off the barstool. “I’ve got to get back to my chips. Remember, I only told you this stuff to help find Artie’s killer.”

  “And to keep me from talking to the sheriff.”

  “That’s right. I got your back, you’ve got mine. Don’t let me down.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, getting up from the bar. “By the way, do you know a waitress here named Raven?”

  “Bright red hair and legs up to her chest?”

  “That’s her,” I confirmed begrudgingly.

  “She’s usually over in the High Rollers Lounge.”

  “Thanks.” Maybe if I caught her off guard with the news about Brett, she would spill the beans about her affair. If she confessed to being with Brett the morning of Artie’s murder, I could confidently check Brett off the list of suspected killers.

  LIGHTED SIGNS HUNG from the ceiling, pointing to various locations in the casino. The first one I checked didn’t list the location of the High Rollers Lounge. I walked further into the belly of the beast until I found a sign pointing to the lounge. I took a right and serpentined through the tables and slots.

  I found the lounge. It was dark and intimate. I stood at the entrance and looked for Raven, who shouldn’t be too hard to find. I spotted the back of her head and was surprised to see her sitting alone in a booth. Just as I started forward, a twenty-something hostess wearing the tightest black unitard I’d ever seen popped out of nowhere to block my way.

  “Welcome. May I see your ID?”

  “You mean my driver’s license?” I wasn’t used to being carded.

  “No, ma’am, your membership card. This lounge is for members only.”

  Skinny witch. I may not have been a teenager, but she didn’t have to call me “ma’am” like I was her grandmother. I flipped back my hair, which was probably the wrong move. Every girl knows that’s the same thing as slapping a person across the face with a gauntlet.

  “I understand,” I said, mustering up my ooey-gooiest voice. “By the way, you look fabulous in that outfit. I could never pull that off.”

  “Drop the flattery,” she whispered. “You’re not getting in.”

  I gave her the fake “I’m all aghast” look, complete with the hand-to-chest move.

  She sneered at me. “Girls like you are always trying to get in here and find them a sugar daddy. Run along now or I’ll have to call security.”

  “Hey, pull in your claws, Catwoman. I’m just here to see Raven. I have something important to tell her.”

  “If it’s about Brett Boswell, you’re too late. We already know.”

  I stood on tiptoes to look past the dominatrix to see Raven. That’s probably why she was sitting down instead of tending tables. “Well, then you know she’s probably upset and needs a friend.”

  The girl looked me up and down and must have decided I was harmless enough. “Okay,” she said and stepped aside, “but she’s only got a few minutes left on her break.”

  So thoughtful. I sat down across from Raven, who was nursing a drink.

  “Who are you?” She had slipped her heels off and reached down to rub her foot.

  “I’m Wendy.” I handed her a business card so she wouldn’t think I was a creeper. “I’m a friend of Brett’s. I just wanted to check on you. Alex told me you were here. Are you okay?”

  She stiffened. “You know Alex? How come I’ve never met you?”

  Green-eyed jealousy reared its ugly head. “I just met him a few days ago. I’ve known the Boswells since I was a kid.”

  “Oh.” She seemed to relax a little. “I can’t believe Brett is gone.”

  “I know. Such a tragedy. Were you two close?”

  “You could say that. He was Alex’s friend more than mine.” She took a sip of her drink.

  I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but the clock was ticking. “I’m going to ask you something, something important. You heard about the murder of Artie Becker, right?”

  Her whole demeanor changed at the mention of his name. “That creep. Sure he was a good photographer, but all I wanted was a decent video of my wedding and he couldn’t even do that right. I wonder if I can get my money back from his estate? In fact, I should sue for emotional suffering.”

  If she’d been upset about Brett’s death, it was nothing compared to the anger she exhibited over the lost video. The hostess walked by the table and tapped on her wrist to indicate the time.

  “Is that all you wanted to ask?” She downed the end of her drink.

  “No. You see, since Artie’s death occurred at the Boswells’ house, they were checking the whereabouts of all the family members.”

  “Like on TV?” She reached in her purse and began reapplying lipstick.

  “Well, yes, just like on TV. Brett told me he was with you that morning, and I’m just making sure it’s true.”

  She stopped and looked around the makeup mirror. “He told you that?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you think Alex knows?”

  “No. Brett said he wasn’t going to tell him.”

  “Good. It’s not like our marriage isn’t rocky enough already.” She snapped the compact closed and rubbed her lips together.

  “So you don’t deny it?”

  “Honey, you’ve seen Brett. You don’t think I’m the only married woman who was ever tempted by him, do you?”

  I didn’t know what to say. So much for the grieving lover.

  She slipped on her shoes and got up. “You can tell Alex I was upset but holding myself together. Or better yet, don’t talk to him at all. I’ll tell him myself when I get home.” She flashed a little smile and whispered, “I can’t believe they actually gave me an extra break. Well, back to the grindstone.”

  I got up. “Raven, one last question. Do you know why Brett might have had a fight with Artie Becker?”

  “A fight? That doesn’t sound like Brett.” She picked up the cocktail glass from the table.

  “It was at Brett’s house about six weeks ago. He was having a big party.”

  She looked around as though making sure no one could hear her. “Look, there was only one thing about Brett I was interested in, if you know what I mean.” She pulled the cherry out of the glass and bit it off the stem. As she walked away, she flipped her long red hair.

  Raven was about as cold-hearted as anyone I’d ever met.

  By that time my ears were ringing, my eyes were burning, and my head was pounding like a drum. I felt dirty and wanted a shower. No, a hot bath. Anything to wash away the grunge of these careless people and their loathsome behavior.

  Brett was in the clear.

  But as I made my way toward the exit, I couldn’t shake the thought that the two deaths, Artie’s and Brett’s, were connected and I still needed to find out how.

  Chapter 20

  Guilt and anxiety had poked at me until I finally turned my car around and went to the studio instead o
f home after leaving the casino. I had neglected work long enough.

  When I put my head down and got into editing zone, it was easy to lose track of time. I had a strict rule for myself at work: No checking Facebook or Twitter or emails, at least until the work was done. Instagram was another thing altogether. The beautiful pictures I posted helped drum up business. It was business, not social. I rubbed my neck, sore from three solid hours bent over my computer, working on my clients’ photos.

  I headed home and drew a hot bath, just as I’d promised myself earlier. Cricket took her usual spot on the bathroom counter, wary of the bubbles practically overflowing the tub. She proceeded to lick her paws as if in solidarity. Unlike me, though, she didn’t have a pre-supper glass of wine to soothe her mind. This was the first time I had been truly able to relax since the break-in, and I was going to enjoy it.

  It was ladies’ night at Benny’s Barbeque and Bar, and Nancy and I would soon be up to our elbows in chicken wings. Maybe after another glass of wine I’d get up the nerve to invite Jake to join us. Nancy wouldn’t mind. That was a good plan, and I sank deeper into my foam-filled bath.

  It didn’t take long, though, before thoughts of Artie and Brett crept up on me. Maybe the timing of their deaths was just a coincidence. Some might even have said they got what they deserved. Hey, I’m as big a fan of karma as the next person, but death is taking things a bit too far.

  Would the coroner be able to tell if Brett’s accident was a suicide? If Alex hadn’t kept calling Brett’s cell phone, his body might still be out there in the cold, dark woods. Despite the warm water I shivered, picturing a snow-encrusted corpse not uncovered until spring. I shooed the image out of my head. Got to stop watching so much Dateline.

  Alex and Raven. What a strange couple. Maybe it was a case of opposites attracting. He was sweet and caring; she was self-centered and heartless. I wouldn’t be surprised if their attraction had been mainly physical. Hopefully, they’d be able to work out their kinks.

  Still, anyone who cared more about a stupid wedding video than a man’s life—two men’s lives—was pretty much soulless. Who even watches their video more than once anyway? I had been trapped a few times by my girlfriends insisting we relive the big day and had sworn never to do it again. Most of the time the footage was shaky and grainy. You could barely make out the “I do’s” or toasts by the wedding party. The problem was too little light and the inability of most video cameras to pick up quality sound through the ambient noise.