Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) (15 page)

“Come on,” he shoved Priscilla toward the conference room. “I can search you here nicely, or you can resist and we can do it at the station which will not be so nice.”

“Are you the realtor?” I said to Luther. “Somebody has to represent Venture when you get the keys to the empty offices. And you’ve got a day job a few doors down from Venture Realty. Little Jimmy’s working in the Green Room and drafting guys to play poker. They probably don’t even know it’s a scam, do they? Just an opportunity to have a little fun at some chump’s expense.”

Luther stared at me stone faced.

So unhelpful. I glanced at Byron. “Help us out. Use my sketches and point out who played poker with you at FBN.”

Cop Number One uncuffed Byron and they circled the room together. Byron tapped on the face of Elvis, then pointed at the Elf, “This was Mr. Smith.” At Chet’s picture, he hesitated.

“What the hell,” said Chet. “I’m not involved with these people. You’re trying to set me up.”

“Why’d you have Little Jimmy shred my sketchbook?” I said.

He eyed Cop One’s notebook and pressed his lips shut.

“Don’t want to see any evidence connected to your underground business?” I looked at Byron. “Was it Chet?”

“Wasn’t Chet,” said Byron. He tapped on Fred’s picture.

“Dang,” I said. “I liked Fred. He had those cute dimples.”

“Baby.” Todd flashed me a look to remind me of his own dimples.

“How about Lucinda?” I said.

“You wish,” she replied.

Priscilla and Cop Two returned from the conference room with a bag packed with such an exorbitant amount of money, it made me want to cry. Cop Two laid the bag on the cooler with the other evidence he had collected.

“I can’t believe the amount y’all are willing to risk on games.” The money in that bag would have paid off my student loans and gotten me a decent used vehicle. “Now Byron’s family is really sunk. A daddy spending Christmas in jail and not a penny to their name because of poker. I hope you learned something from this, Byron. You, too, Todd.”

“It’s not worth the risk without a big reward, baby.” Todd shrugged. “If you don’t understand, I can’t explain.”

“Come on.” Cop One shoved Priscilla, Luther, and Little Jimmy toward the exit. “There’s an escort waiting for you outside.”

“What about them?” Priscilla looked over her shoulder as she stumbled out the door behind Little Jimmy.

“I’d focus on worrying about yourself just now,” said Cop Two, guiding Priscilla out the door with a not so friendly push.

“We’ll meet again, Miss Thing,” called Priscilla over her shoulder.

“I hope so, Priscilla.” Despite her criminal inclinations, I liked Priscilla. And Eddie.

“What’s going to happen to us? I wasn’t involved in any scam,” demanded Chet. “I had no idea we were trespassing.”

Candy Cane Man sauntered from his corner observation spot to our group. “Let him go,” he said to Cop Three. “I won’t press any charges on him or the others. I want the instigators. The Colonel, the artist, the blond guy, and the other painter.”

As Lucinda hurried past Todd, she made the international phone sign. “Call me when you get out,” she winked.

I would have said something, but I had more important considerations than jealousy. Like the fact that Todd, Byron, the Colonel, and I were cuffed and under police custody. With the conference door still opened, blue lights flashed through the room’s open window and played a disco pattern over my drawings. A December breeze drafted in, ruffling the paint tarps. I shivered.

“Well, what can I say?” said the Colonel, his eyes fixed on the blue lights outside. “You win some, you lose some.”

THIRTEEN

The Suicide King

Absorbed in our own thoughts, our small, cuffed group watched the blue lights disappear.

“You win some, you lose some.” Todd’s grin met his ears. “But I sure like winning better than losing.”

Byron laughed. “I think you had to work harder at losing than you did at winning.”

“And to think I made fun of you in high school for acting in all those school plays.” Todd slapped his back. “You can cry on cue better than a soap opera star.”

“I will never understand poker,” I said, shaking out my hands as Cop Three—also known as Marylou Draeger, Lonnie’s receptionist—pulled the handcuffs away. “Man, those cuffs are uncomfortable. I hope I never have to wear them again.”

“Really?” said Todd. “I thought I’d keep a pair and bring them to Vegas. We could have some fun...”

“Think again, smart guy,” I said, but gave him a celebratory kiss that would have the extra effect of making him forget Lucinda. I’m a believer in killing birds with as few stones as possible.

“Byron, collect Jupiter’s stuff.”

Barry tossed his hat and tie to the floor, ridding himself of the Colonel, his Heartache Motel uniform. “He’s coming back in thirty minutes to pick it up. We better get before the next shift comes on. Cherry, you need to get rid of those pencil marks. Lonnie, hurry up and count that money. We need to pay Byron and Todd back before we divvy up the rest.”

“Sure thing,” said Lonnie, the candy cane rotating around his lips. He pulled a handful of cellophane wrapped treats from his pocket and handed one to me. “Want one?”

“Yes. Hell’s bells, I’m starving.” I looked at Barry. “I really had no idea how boring most of this night would be. We should have gotten this deal catered.”

“You are too much,” replied Barry. “I was sweating bullets as it was. I love a good thrill as much as the next guy, otherwise I wouldn’t tend bar at the Heartache. Or play poker. But this sting near gave me a stroke.”

“But you had a great idea meeting up at the Heartache, Barry. You were right about Priscilla and her crew falling for a big game. And we appreciate you doing all this for Byron.” I hugged him, then popped the candy cane into my mouth.

“Byron, Lonnie, and I have been in the same fantasy football league since Byron moved here. Tina won’t let Byron play the tables with me at the Green Room, but we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well during our league meetings and watching the games on Sunday.”

“Yeah, thanks, Barry,” said Byron. “I owe you and Lonnie big. Y’all get my first picks in the draft this year. Thank you, too, Todd and Cherry.”

“Anything for my cousin,” said Todd.

“We were going to Vegas, anyway,” I said. “And it’s not like you have to beg Todd to play poker.”

“I didn’t know the real cops were coming,” said Barry. “I thought I would lose my lunch. No one said anything about real cops in the original plan. Lonnie and I should have known about this days ago.”

“I made a call home.” I squeezed Todd’s hand. “I know you thought real cops would scare everyone away, but the FBN scammers needed a greater punishment than just losing to you in a poker game. Uncle Will ran the pictures and sketches I faxed and collaborated with a detective in the Memphis PD. They found our charity poker tournament amusing, so we’re not in trouble.”

“Charity poker. Pretty much true,” said Lonnie, smiling. He handed Byron a candy cane. “Guess you’ll get out of the dog house yet.”

“Still got to find a new job,” said Byron, “but yeah, my kids will have full stockings this year thanks to y’all. Mostly it feels good to get even with those bastards.”

“And I bet you’ll find that wedding ring in the Venture Realty’s office safe,” I said. “Or in the pawn shop next door.”

“You’re so smart, baby.” Todd hooked an arm around my neck and kissed my head. “We’ve still got the Blue Hawaii suite for the rest of the night. Let’s say we go back and I teach you my best poker moves.”

I thought about Priscilla’s words of wisdom on my ineptitude as a girlfriend. Even though she had no qualms about ripping off innocents at Christmas, she might have had a point when it came to relationships. I needed to let go of my tall, dark, and dimpled past and focus on a possible future of tall, blond, and dimpled. Todd might not be ambitious or brilliant, but he did have interesting creative pursuits like music and making bucketloads of money off folks stupid enough to bet against him. He liked living in Halo and wanted to support my art career.

And, as it turned out, he was an excellent smoocher.

“Guess we could practice a little Viva Las Vegas before the real deal,” I said, stretching on tiptoes to meet his lips. “Merry Christmas Baby.”

He broke off the kiss to pin me with a glassy, blue-eyed gaze. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

PART 3:

Dateline Memphis

by

LynDee Walker

ONE

(Three months after
Buried Leads
)

Welcome to the Heartache

Christmas vacation lesson number one: don’t leave hotel reservations to chance, especially when visiting a major tourist attraction. Lesson two: crime reporters don’t get holidays. Criminals, it turns out, are everywhere.

I committed the first of those to memory before I technically stepped foot in Memphis, sitting in my little SUV fifteen miles west of Graceland behind a run-down Denny’s wannabe.

“This is the only place in town with an available room?” I asked my toy Pomeranian, who was strapped into her carrier in the backseat. The boarded-up window punctuating the stucco facade of the Heartache Motel gave it a menacing air in the fading daylight. I wondered about the odds of catching something horrifying from the “deluxe bathroom with shower” advertised on the sign.

Maybe it was just the only available room with an Elvis theme, since that was the only requirement I’d given the operator. Arriving to find the official Elvis hotel had been booked since August left me scrambling.

Whatever. It was one night. I inherited my mom’s love of classic rock, and was more excited than a bride at a Filene’s basement sale to be stopping at Graceland on my way to Dallas for Christmas.

Plus, it wasn’t the scariest building I’d ever set foot in. In more than half a decade covering crime, I’d ventured into some seedy digs.

“And they do take pets.” I turned and smiled at Darcy, who looked happy to have the car parked.

With the dog tucked under one arm and my overnight bag slung over the other, I walked through the glass doors, which were outlined with washed-out Christmas lights. An ancient, peeling Triple-A diamond sticker was the only evidence of better days.

The lobby stank of cigarette smoke and something else I didn’t try too hard to place, the sixties-style furniture matching the C-9 bulbs in worn-out sadness. A positively pitiful tree leaned in the far corner, one half-functional strand of orange lights draped around it. Droopy garlands dangled from the walls with the “throw it up and see what sticks” look of al-dente pasta.

I smothered a guffaw when my eyes landed on a gilt-framed velvet Elvis on the wall. “They’re not serious,” I whispered to Darcy. She sniffed the air and tucked her face under one paw.

I was just about to spin back for the door—the Elvis theme wasn’t that important—when a deep voice with an obviously-affected feminine lilt stopped me in my tracks. “Can I help you?”

I turned to find the biggest, bustiest, most spectacular drag queen I’d ever laid eyes on. Not that I saw drag queens every day, but I had done a story on a bar frequented by them in college. Some of the nicest folks I’d ever met.

The queen behind the registration desk was a full head taller than me—and in my stilettos, I touch six-three—with red-orange hair teased into a bouffant that probably required enough White Rain to eat a hole in the ozone right over top of this joint. She had a dainty brown mole on the bow of her top lip, a thick layer of blue eyeshadow, at least three sets of false eyelashes, and cracked true-red lipstick outlining an earnest smile. Her square-necked orange top matched the era of the lights and furniture.

She gave the dingy little Heartache Motel a certain level of awesome. How many hotels have a seven-foot drag queen with a sweet-tea smile working the front desk?

“I called about a half-hour ago,” I said, smiling and striding to the desk. “I got your last room, I think? Nichelle Clarke.”

“Welcome to Memphis, darlin’,” she drawled, pushing a paper across the desk. “I’m Man-Margret, and you’re in our Love Me Tender suite.”

“And you said pets are okay?” I asked, looping Darcy’s leash around my wrist and setting her down so I could fill out a registration card that looked older than my mom. I jotted my cell number in the top corner and printed my address in Richmond on the faded red lines.

“Dogs and cats, sure. Some asshole brought a snake in here last summer and the damned thing got out and hasn’t ever been seen again, so no exotic animals. I ask you, who the hell keeps a python as a pet? Weirdos.”

“Different strokes and all that, I guess,” I said, grinning. “Which floor?”

“The fifth. The top floor is always the best, like Elvis said.” She winked. “Drink specials and menus are in the TV stand. There’s a nightly show in the bar. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas.”

I grabbed the key—a real one on a pink, heart-shaped fob with what probably used to be the hotel’s address in faded gold print—and turned for the elevator.

“It’s too bad we don’t have a travel section anymore,” I muttered as the doors rattled open. “This place would make a hell of a feature story.”

As if on cue, my Blackberry binged a text from my editor. “Having fun yet? Crime doesn’t take holidays, you know.”

I shook my head. Bob had been giving me shit for taking this week off since before Thanksgiving. It was good-natured. Mostly.

“R&R is good for productivity, chief. Try it sometime,” I tapped.

The elevator opened and I scrunched my nose at the stale-B.O. smell. “Gross. Haven’t these folks heard of Febreeze?”

The lights flickered when the doors closed. I studied the green walls as we lurched upward—until I figured out I was squinting at a crude drawing of some kind of advanced tantric-sex move. The walls were decorated with several others, and some misspelled dirty words for good measure. Before I’d deciphered them all, the elevator wheezed and the doors rattled open to a hallway that belonged in a Stephen King movie.

“Stairs. Definitely the stairs.” I would’ve kissed the red shag carpet in the hall if it hadn’t smelled faintly of urine and smoke.

Darcy growled at a flickering light as I picked my way to room five-twenty-eight. I shoved the key into the lock and jiggled it, then turned the dirty brass handle and pushed the door open.

The fluorescent overhead fixture only turned halfway on, but it was enough to decide I probably didn’t want to see the Love Me Tender suite in any better light.

The whole room was decorated in a bad cowboy theme, down to the cacti mural on the walls and the faux (I hoped) barbed wire outlining the mirrors. The back of the door was home to a cracked stick-on of young Elvis on horseback. Life-sized. Watching me sleep. Yay.

I put Darcy down, folding her carrier top back and making her a little bed. She looked around, sniffed the carpet and the leg of the lone chair, and shot me a you’re-not-serious look before she hopped into her bed and curled up.

I tossed my bag onto the round bed. The saddle-printed spread slid to one side and revealed sheets I was sure weren’t actual satin in an unfortunate vomit-brown hue. Lovely.

This place was sold out? Really? Who knew Memphis was a Christmas tourist destination? The clerk at Graceland’s hotel had apologetically explained that holiday pilgrimages were a fan tradition because Elvis loved Christmastime. My cell-phone operator search for an Elvis theme and a reasonable rate had led here. That operator might get a call back in the morning.

I filled Darcy’s water bowl and spooned some Pro Plan into her food dish. She eyed the carpet like she didn’t want to step on it again, but gave in because she was hungry.