Hot Dish (41 page)

“They’ll never believe that.”

“I don’t care!” Steve said gleefully. “What’s she going to do? You can’t steal something you own, can you? And when
Muse
went missing, we were still married.”

They pulled up in front of the Lodge and Steve turned the engine off. He climbed out of the cab, collected the grocery bags, and started up the slope toward the front door. Verie pulled his antique alligator-trimmed suitcase from the floor and began trudging after him.

“I’m going to love it here,” Steve said, the image of the barn doors flung wide and steel and sparks and fire flaring within filled his head, marching right alongside the image of Jenny and him eating hotdish on the bench under the pine trees.

“Hm,” Verie said, pausing at the top of the slight incline to catch his breath and let his gaze travel over the Lodge. “Is it safe?”

“Where you’ll be staying it is. It’s dangerous where me and Prince sleep.”

“Prince?” Verie’s face lit with delight. “Dear boy! I’ve been waiting forever for you to come out—”

“Prince is my dog.”

The delight faded. “I knew it was too good to be true. And since when have you had a dog?”

“Since here,” Steve said, turning the knob and ramming his shoulder into the door.

It took three tries before it finally flew open. Steve stepped aside and Verie entered on tentative steps, like someone expecting an ambush. He took one look at the haphazard interior with its seventies-style living room suite and swung his hooded gaze toward Steve. “Charming.”

“Is that you, Steve?” a man called.

“That’s Cash,” Steve informed Verie.

Cash arrived a second later followed by Prince, who took one look at Steve and went into paroxysms of joy. Gingerly, Verie sidestepped the happy reunion taking place mostly on the floor and extended his hand to Cash. “Thank you, sir,” he intoned, “for allowing me to stay in your home. I understand I am a rare exception to an understandable rule.”

“Nina is going to love you,” Cash said, shaking his hand. On cue, Nina appeared in the doorway. Today she was wearing Audrey Hepburn ski pants and a Tyrol patterned sweater.

Verie played his part to perfection, gliding across the floor and taking Nina’s hand. Brushing his lips across her knuckles, he declared himself “enchanted.” Not to be outdone, Nina tipped her head to a regal degree and pronounced her pleasure at meeting so celebrated an art authority. Any observer would have sworn her hand was kissed on a daily basis by diplomats and ambassadors, and just as Steve knew he would, Verie reacted with amazed delight. In short, they fell for each other like a ton of bricks, Nina offering to take Verie on a tour and Verie insisting only if she allowed him to offer her his arm.

They strolled off in total harmony, leaving Steve and Cash behind, and finally Steve could ask the question uppermost in his mind.

“Where’s Jenny?” Light of my life, goddess of my hearth, he might have added had he not intuited this might be a bit much for her father.

“She called a little while ago. She’s still at the Valu-Inn with Natalie, her agent, and said she would probably stay with her the night. She said there’s some stuff they have to hammer out concerning AMS,” Cash finished, looking disgruntled.

“The whole night?” Steve echoed unhappily. It wasn’t just that he wanted to see her—he just wasn’t as eager to make the call to Fabulousa as he thought he should be and he wanted to know why and Jenny—clear-sighted, practical Jenny—would have some insights. He also just wanted to be with her. He liked
being
with her.

“She also said she’d call you later.” Cash shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Not as much as I am,” Steve said.

Having delivered his message, Cash picked up the newspaper Steve had bought for him and wandered off toward the great room. Alone, Steve stuck his hand in his pocket and withdrew the crypt key. He’d spent twenty years anticipating this moment. What the hell was he thinking? No, he hadn’t.
When
he thought about it, which wasn’t all that often, he’d certainly anticipated the next few moments with relish. Unholy relish.

Yup. There was nothing wrong with unholy relish.

He headed for the kitchen. He had a call to make.

12:15 a.m.

Monday, December 11

Blue Lake Casino

The snow and wind that had kept the poker players in the city were also keeping the fishermen who’d come up for the sesquicentennial off Fawn Creek’s lakes, streets, and snowmobile trails. As Fawn Creek had a dearth of nightlife, the fishermen had headed north, bringing with them a full complement of Fawn Creekians. The town’s movers and shakers followed their guests, nipping at their heels like nervous sheepdogs, afraid their charges would get lost. Among them was Paul LeDuc, who had grabbed a stool at a slot machine by the poker tables, where he had a pretty good view of the entire casino floor.

He was at the casino for one reason alone: duty. Duty to the sesquicentennial, to their town, and to many of the families in that town. Someone definitely needed to keep an eye on things. As mayor, it seemed natural that the duty should fall to him.

Hopefully, by tomorrow things would have righted themselves. “Things” being the huge percentage of people here from Fawn Creek, not only the tourists and fishermen but townspeople, his townspeople. Worse, the fools were betting on this fool tournament and betting heavily, too. Including Ken Holmberg, who seemed to have lost his mind. Ken had entered the casino with the fevered look of an addict, marched right up to the registration table, and slapped down a thousand dollars to enter the tournament.

Paul was worried about Ken. He really was. A sheen of oily sweat covered Ken’s round, troll-like face, and his comb-over kept sliding off his balding dome. He had a feverish quality to him that went beyond the physical. When Paul had questioned Ken about the wisdom of gambling, he’d grabbed hold of Paul’s wrist with shaking fingers and declared he intended to let “Providence make the call”—whatever the hell that meant.

Paul, who’d gotten more intelligence from his wife earlier today, had a feeling Ken’s luck and his drive had less to do with the divine than with desperation. Ken was trying to fund that damn pension before he was publicly exposed as a crook, which would force him to leave the town in shame.

But so far, Ken was doing okay, too. He’d made it through the first round of play and was cleaning up at the second table. Paul wished he could feel good about it since Ken sure as hell did. With each hand he won, he seemed to gain more confidence. He wasn’t sweating quite as freely as he had earlier, and the uncharacteristic tentativeness and humility with which he’d earlier addressed Paul had disappeared. His usual smug, overbearing manner was quickly returning.

He must have felt Paul watching him because he tossed his two pair faceup on the table with an arrogant flourish, caught Paul’s eye, and gave a complacent shrug, lifting his thumb heavenward as if to say,
The Big Guy’s with me
.

Paul managed not to shake his head and turned around on his stool, noting that the guy from
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
was chowing down on a burger at the bar while the entire crew from AMS was dolefully plugging nickels into the slot machines and sipping the free beers Ed White, the casino’s manager, had ordered up in the hopes of loosening up some inhibitions. Not local inhibitions, Paul knew because Ed—who was at heart a good guy—had confided that he didn’t encourage the Fawn Creekians to gamble because he didn’t want to have to pay for a lot of community goodwill Gamblers Anonymous stays.

The Poker Network’s cameraman was wandering around shooting random footage. Earlier Ed had also confided that the cameraman was here returning a favor to the assistant manager but so far hadn’t found anything interesting enough to hang a story on. That had abruptly changed when she showed up.

Paul had been talking to his wife on his cell phone, seated in the booth next to the registration table, and had bent double under his own table in order to hear his wife over the din in the casino when he’d heard a woman ask, “If I played in your tournament, would you have to know my name?”

“Yes,” Ed had said. He sounded surprised and excited. “You know, we have to report it for tax purposes and that sort of thing.”

Paul, interested, had quickly finished the call. Cautiously, he’d unfolded from his crouch and lifted himself up to peek over the top of the banquette.

“Crap,” she said. “Would anyone else?”

She wore a black wig and wraparound sunglasses, her face covered in a thick layer of beige makeup with bloodred lipstick extending way beyond the edge of her natural lip line. Not a hint of emotion showed on her smooth countenance. She might have been wearing one of those semi-translucent Halloween masks. She also wore what had to be, in Ed’s admittedly limited experience, the ugliest evening gown he’d ever seen. It was far too small for her figure and her bosom overflowed its neckline like a half-set custard.

“No. I can keep that quiet. Just you and me and Uncle Sam.”

“Okay,” she said and snapped open her purse, withdrawing a thick wad of bills, mostly tens and twenties. “Where do I sign up?”

She was incredible. Heads had started turning the minute she’d entered, most notable among them that of the Poker Network cameraman, who’d taken one look, stubbed out the cigarette he’d been puffing, and picked up his camera.

He’d been following her ever since.

As had what was quickly becoming an impromptu “mystery woman” fan club. They crowded around the table she was playing at now, jostling one another for a better view. She was pretty impressive, Paul had to admit. She played like a professional, her face utterly impassive as she slowly but surely worked her way through first one group of competition and then another.

At this rate, she and Ken would end up playing against each other.

Wearily, Paul rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the first rasp of morning stubble sprouting on his chin. His eyes stung from the smoke, and his mouth felt cottony and probably smelled foul. He was already bone-tired and—he glanced down at his wrist watch—there were still at least another six hours to go before the tournament ended and the visitors went back to town and he could go home to bed for a few hours’ rest before the next day’s festivities began.

Which reminded him: he’d better call Ned and Jimmy and make sure they were out plowing.

* * *

“Yeah, yeah, I understand, mayor!” Ned slammed down the phone and turned to Eric and Turv. “The mayor wants us out plowing an hour before sunrise.”

Turv got up and stretched, a flurry of cheese doodle crumbs raining from his lap. The munchies hit Turv harder than most. “We better get to bed then,” he said.

“I suppose. Just think, you guys, by nine o’clock tomorrow morning, I’ll be telling Paul LeDuc where he can drive his plow.” The thought made Ned smile. “I know we coulda seen if Jaax would be willing to up the ante, but fact is, I’m getting a little sick of this.” He flapped his hand toward the butter head.

In point of fact, Dunkovich had unnerved Ned that morning when he’d threatened to do unspeakable things to him if he did go to Jaax. Not that he’d told Turv and Eric about that part of the conversation. Nor did he intend to.

“And we’re not greedy bastards, you know,” he added, peeking from the corner of his eyes to see if this bit of bullshit would be accepted. It was. “Yup,” he went on expansively, “our luck has changed! We’re golden, guys. Twenty-four carat. Nothing can stop us now.”

“Then why didn’t you tell Paul LeDuc to screw himself now?” Eric asked.

Ned looked at him in pity. Sometimes Eric could be a real moron. “Because, Eric, a guy can’t be too careful.”

6:05 a.m.

The Lodge

Fawn Creek, Minnesota

Heidi Olmsted, worried that Bruno might not be adjusting to his new role as Celebrity Companion, decided to take advantage of one of the few mornings she didn’t feel like heaving her guts out and drive to the Lodge. Blizzards didn’t bother Heidi, who had raced the Iditarod five times, and she knew Jenny liked to get up before dawn to begin the busy business of being Jenn Lind, so she wasn’t worried about waking her when she arrived before dawn.

She went to the kitchen door and peered through the window, fully expecting to see Cash sitting at the table, furtively packing away his day’s portion of forbidden calories. Instead she saw a big, solid-looking, middle-aged man in a ruby red dressing robe, his silver hair neatly combed, his cheeks so closely shaved they gleamed, gracefully buttering the piece of toast he held in a beautifully manicured hand.

Heidi had no idea who he was.

Her gaze fell to the floor. A pair of jean-clad legs lay protruding out from the other side of the table. The rest of the body was lost to view. The thought had just occurred to Heidi that the man at the table might have killed the man on the floor when the man at the table looked up and saw her. He smiled and, using the butter knife, waved for her to come in.

She hesitated. On the one hand, she had another life to consider these days. On the other, she owed it to the Hallesbys, all of whom she was very fond of, to confront their potential murderer. Or what if he had them tied up somewhere? Stranger things had happened in Fawn Creek. But then the man lumbered to his feet and Heidi realized how easily she could outmaneuver him, so she pushed the door open and stepped inside, eyeing him uncertainly.

“Hello.” He had an elegant, cultured voice shaded with an accent Heidi recognized as German. “I am Verie Meuwissen, sole proprietor of the works of Steve Jaax.”

“Where is Steve?”

Verie pursed his lips and inclined his head in the direction of the legs. Heidi inched sideways until she had a view of the man lying on the floor. It was Steve Jaax and he was most definitely alive. His forearm, flung over his face, obscured most of his features but his chest rose and fell easily, or at least as easily as possible with a giant malamute head on it.

“Hi, Heidi,” Steve said. He sounded melancholy. Bruno opened his eyes and gave her a thump of his tail in recognition but otherwise didn’t make any effort to get up. So then, Bruno was easing into his new role without too much trouble.