Read Online Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) by Gemma Halliday, T.Sue VerSteeg - Free Book Online
Book: Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) by Gemma Halliday, T.Sue VerSteeg
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Authors: Gemma Halliday, T.Sue VerSteeg
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down and ready for me to slip into it. But as soon as I walked into the room, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I froze, my eyes quickly scanning the room. Everything looked just as I'd left it. With the exception of the turn-down service and the fresh towels. I fought the urge to call out, "Hello." Clearly I was alone. Clearly I was paranoid. Clearly I'd had too much apple-tini on too little sleep.
I shook my head, fighting down the feeling that something was off as I unzipped my suitcase. I grabbed a T-shirt and pair of little pink shorts with bunnies on them to sleep in. Then I took the hottest, longest shower I possibly could, staying under the water until my fingers pruned and my skin went a rosy pink. I towel dried my hair as I walked to the windows, staring out at the twinkling lights of the miniature Vegas-like strip below and the hulking white mountains beyond. Thoughts of my dad, both good and not so stellar, warred with each, swirled together with health shakes, FBI agents, and the question of who hated my dad enough to end his life. Unfortunately, the twinkling lights held as few answers for me as the rest of the day had, and I finally shut the curtains, bringing darkness and hopefully sleep with them.
As I snuggled under the covers finally ready to succumb to sleep, something at the back of my mind suddenly startled me back awake. It hit me what was off in the room.
I'd left my suitcase unzipped when I'd left with Tate that morning. Someone had gone through my things.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, Britton called bright and early, inviting me to breakfast at the penthouse. I blame it on the fact that I was pre-coffee that I couldn't think of an excuse not to. So an hour later I found myself staring at a plate of eggs and freshly cut fruit while Britton mixed mimosas.
"I heard you visited Dickie's place last night," she said, handing me a glass.
I paused, forkful of cantaloupe melon halfway to my lips. "His place?"
"The Minstrel's Lounge. Jordan said you sat at Dickie's favorite table."
I set the cantaloupe down, not sure I could get it past the lump in my throat. "Who's Jordan?" I asked, deflecting the emotion.
"The maître de. He said you and Tate were pounding back drinks like there was no tomorrow."
"Goatee Guy told you that?" I asked.
Britton snorted. "'Goatee Guy.' I like that. His facial hair is, like, total last year, right? Yeah, anyway, no, he told Jake who works the late shift at the baccarat tables, who told Amy the cocktail waitress, who told my friend Gigi who was up here doing my nails this morning." She paused, holding up all ten digits, currently painted hot pink with little white flower designs. "Cute, right?"
I nodded. "Fab. Almost as fab as the idea that the entire staff now thinks their boss is a drunk. 'Pounding back' the apple-tinis?" I set my mimosa down, concentrating on my eggs instead.
But Britton waved me off with one hand full of designer nails. "Don't sweat it. Everyone knows you're grieving."
"Hmm." I gave a non-committal grunt, trying to keep my mind focused on eggs lest that lump come back.
"Anyhoo, how did it go yesterday?" she asked.
I shrugged. "The lounge was nice. Very Richard King."
Britton rolled her eyes. "No, silly. I meant the other thing."
"What 'other thing'?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.
Britton shook her head and did a well-duh face. "The investigation into Dickie's murder."
"You mean the one the FBI is doing?" I said around a bite of eggs.
"Riiiight." She winked at me.
"I'm serious. I'm not investigating."
"Uh-huh."
"No, really."
"Gotcha." More winking.
My turn to roll my eyes. "Whatever happened to my dad, I'm sure the authorities are looking into it," I told her. And I was. I just wasn't sure exactly who they were looking at.
"Well, while you weren't investigating," she continued, "I was going through Dickie's den for any clues to who might have had it in for him."
As much as I was
I shook my head, fighting down the feeling that something was off as I unzipped my suitcase. I grabbed a T-shirt and pair of little pink shorts with bunnies on them to sleep in. Then I took the hottest, longest shower I possibly could, staying under the water until my fingers pruned and my skin went a rosy pink. I towel dried my hair as I walked to the windows, staring out at the twinkling lights of the miniature Vegas-like strip below and the hulking white mountains beyond. Thoughts of my dad, both good and not so stellar, warred with each, swirled together with health shakes, FBI agents, and the question of who hated my dad enough to end his life. Unfortunately, the twinkling lights held as few answers for me as the rest of the day had, and I finally shut the curtains, bringing darkness and hopefully sleep with them.
As I snuggled under the covers finally ready to succumb to sleep, something at the back of my mind suddenly startled me back awake. It hit me what was off in the room.
I'd left my suitcase unzipped when I'd left with Tate that morning. Someone had gone through my things.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, Britton called bright and early, inviting me to breakfast at the penthouse. I blame it on the fact that I was pre-coffee that I couldn't think of an excuse not to. So an hour later I found myself staring at a plate of eggs and freshly cut fruit while Britton mixed mimosas.
"I heard you visited Dickie's place last night," she said, handing me a glass.
I paused, forkful of cantaloupe melon halfway to my lips. "His place?"
"The Minstrel's Lounge. Jordan said you sat at Dickie's favorite table."
I set the cantaloupe down, not sure I could get it past the lump in my throat. "Who's Jordan?" I asked, deflecting the emotion.
"The maître de. He said you and Tate were pounding back drinks like there was no tomorrow."
"Goatee Guy told you that?" I asked.
Britton snorted. "'Goatee Guy.' I like that. His facial hair is, like, total last year, right? Yeah, anyway, no, he told Jake who works the late shift at the baccarat tables, who told Amy the cocktail waitress, who told my friend Gigi who was up here doing my nails this morning." She paused, holding up all ten digits, currently painted hot pink with little white flower designs. "Cute, right?"
I nodded. "Fab. Almost as fab as the idea that the entire staff now thinks their boss is a drunk. 'Pounding back' the apple-tinis?" I set my mimosa down, concentrating on my eggs instead.
But Britton waved me off with one hand full of designer nails. "Don't sweat it. Everyone knows you're grieving."
"Hmm." I gave a non-committal grunt, trying to keep my mind focused on eggs lest that lump come back.
"Anyhoo, how did it go yesterday?" she asked.
I shrugged. "The lounge was nice. Very Richard King."
Britton rolled her eyes. "No, silly. I meant the other thing."
"What 'other thing'?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.
Britton shook her head and did a well-duh face. "The investigation into Dickie's murder."
"You mean the one the FBI is doing?" I said around a bite of eggs.
"Riiiight." She winked at me.
"I'm serious. I'm not investigating."
"Uh-huh."
"No, really."
"Gotcha." More winking.
My turn to roll my eyes. "Whatever happened to my dad, I'm sure the authorities are looking into it," I told her. And I was. I just wasn't sure exactly who they were looking at.
"Well, while you weren't investigating," she continued, "I was going through Dickie's den for any clues to who might have had it in for him."
As much as I was
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