I’d learned from the police report that Bunny Kildare, a former showgirl, now worked as a cocktail waitress in the blackjack area of the Flamingo Hilton. We pulled up in front of the hotel, where a pulsating display of neon lights greeted visitors. Depicting flowers and flamingoes in pink and orange and green, it covered the facade and heralded the color scheme inside. A throwback to the heyday of Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and Dean Martin, the famed Rat Pack, back when Bugsy Siegel and the mob were firmly entrenched and skimming off millions in profits from gambling revenues, the Flamingo was Las Vegas’s oldest casino-hotel. It opened the day after Christmas in 1946 and went through twenty years of renovation before becoming the shocking-pink palace it was today.
“How long will you be?” Oliver asked.
“Hard to say,” I replied. “You don’t have to wait for me if you have other things to do.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” he mumbled.
“Good. I’ll look for you here.”
Inside, the Flamingo’s dazzling atmosphere was as wild and extravagant as every other place in Las Vegas, a far cry from the elegant, exclusive establishment Bugsy Siegel had envisioned for the high rollers and socialites he’d hoped to attract. The neon décor from the front of the building was repeated around the casino, with tangerine and magenta the predominant colors, multiplied by myriad mirrors. I felt a headache coming on.
In the blackjack area, semicircular tables were filled with players of twenty-one, scrutinizing the cards and deciding whether to call for another to be dealt, or to stand pat and hope their hands came closer to the number twenty-one than the dealer’s. I asked several people, and someone pointed out Bunny. Tall and shapely with a fall of dark red hair, she stood next to one of the tables balancing a tray heavy with a variety of complimentary drinks to keep the gamblers happy and playing. She handed the glasses to the customers, started to leave, saw me, smiled, and came to where I stood.
“Hello, Jessica Fletcher,” she said pleasantly. “Would you like a cocktail?” She wore an abbreviated costume in bright pink that left little to the imagination. Bunny’s figure was nothing short of spectacular, which only made her an average member of the waitress staff. Good figures were obviously a requisite for working the Las Vegas casinos.
“How do you know who I am?” I asked.
“I recognize you. I’ve been watching the trial on television.”
“I’m sorry to bother you while you’re working,” I said, “but do you think we could find some time to talk?”
“Sure,” she said, her immediate agreement surprising me. “I get a break in fifteen minutes. Can you wait?”
“Of course,” I said, looking around. “Is there anywhere we can talk privately?”
“How about out in the pool park? There’s an area where we unwind on our breaks. I’ll meet you at the entrance.”
“Good enough,” I said.
I’d intended to go directly to the pool park area, but the musical sounds of the casino and the clink of coins hitting metal lured me to a vacant slot machine on my way. I dug out four quarters from my purse, inserted three, and pulled the handle. Bells clanged and forty quarters emptied into the metal trough. Startled and thrilled that my “magic touch” had worked again, I debated whether to take my winnings to a cashier to exchange them for a ten-dollar bill, or to put them back into the machine and see if I could build on my profit. I opted for the latter, and in a matter of minutes the forty quarters, as well as my original four, were gone.
So much for my magic fingers,
I thought.
That’ll teach me.
I left the machine and found the entrance to the fifteen-acre pool park in which myriad pools were connected by water slides. Bunny arrived a minute later and led me past a waterfall to a walled-off area where dozens of staff members lounged at pink wrought-iron tables. We found an empty one with a large market umbrella to shade us from the sun’s rays. The heat was actually relaxing after the cold climate inside the casino.
“Soft drink, iced tea, lemonade?” Bunny asked. “We can’t have alcohol while we’re on duty.”
“Lemonade would be fine,” I said.
She disappeared behind a partition, returning with two tall glasses of lemonade—pink, of course.
“It must be tiring being on your feet all day,” I said, “especially wearing those high heels.”
She smiled and blew away a wisp of red hair that had fallen over her forehead. “The higher the heels, the better the tips,” she said lightly. “Why did you want to see me?”
“I don’t know whether or not you’re aware that I’ve joined Martha’s defense team.”
“Sure. Beth Karas mentioned it on Court TV.”
I nodded. “I’m trying to help clear Martha of Victor’s murder and thought you might know something that would help me.”
She screwed up her pretty face in thought. “I can’t imagine what, but if I can help Martha, I’d like to.”
I thought, too, before saying, “I find it unusual that a former wife would be sympathetic to a current wife.”
“I don’t have any reason to dislike Martha,” she said flatly. She slipped off one patent leather stiletto and then the other and, crossing her long legs, bounced one foot up and down. “She’s been very nice to me. That’s more than I can say about the other two.”
“Daria and Cindy?”
“Uh-huh. I met Victor right after his divorce from Daria. I think it was a rebound kind of romance, you know what I mean? He was alone for the first time in years and he missed his kid, although why I’ll never know. Miss Spoiled Princess, you could call her. And so was Daria He once told me that after Daria had Jane, she wouldn’t give him the time of day. In bed, that is. That was never a problem with us—when Victor was home. He used to travel a lot. Anyway, I guess when we met it was a vulnerable time for him. That’s what he told me, anyway. Daria used to use the kid to bamboozle him out of more and more money. Plus, she had me investigated and told him a nasty story about me, the bitch. It wasn’t true, but for a while there, it put a strain between us.” Bunny sucked on her straw, highlighting the cheekbones on her lovely face and lowering the level of lemonade in her glass by half.
“And Cindy?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Cindy stole Victor from me.” Her foot bounced faster, a barometer of her irritation. “She’s a liar, Jessica, a conniving, sneaky liar. Oh, she can be Miss Charm in person, but don’t turn your back.”
Her assessment of Cindy wasn’t far off my own impression of Victor’s third wife.
“Cindy likes to stir things up, you know what I mean? She’ll tell one person one story and tell another person a completely different story. It depends on what she’s trying to get. She was Miss Refinement for Victor, Miss Culture Vulture, talking to him about art and stuff like that. He was really snowed. I like art as much as the next person, you know? But I don’t know a lot of names of artists and such. Anyway, he must’ve thought he’d met a real society dame, but in the end, she was just after his money.”
Having declared her feelings about the other Mrs. Kildares, and seemingly satisfied that she had, she sat back in her pink metal web chair and nodded emphatically. It was a little disconcerting being there with her. She constantly shifted her posture to keep her sizable bosom within the confines of her skimpy uniform, obviously an ongoing challenge.
“When you were married to Victor, did you become involved in any of his business dealings?” I asked.
“No,” she answered, drawing on the straw and draining her lemonade with a loud gurgle. “Victor was always pretty secretive about his business. At least he was with me. I don’t think he thought I was smart enough to understand, although he never said that to me.” She laughed. “It was just as well,” she added. “I really wasn’t interested in what he did.”
“Were you friends with his business partners?”
Another laugh. “No. I mean, I knew them. I knew Tony a little.”
“What about Tony?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did Tony and Victor get along? Were there any bad feelings between them?”
She shrugged, then said, “I don’t think Tony dared to get mad at Victor. He owed him big-time.”
“I thought they were equal partners.”
“In some things, but not all. Tony had invested in a business deal without Victor. Just on his own. Thought he’d make a big score. You know, like some gamblers. But the guys he was in with weren’t straight and left him holding the bag. Tony almost went to jail, lost all his money, didn’t have two cents to rub together, and owed big bucks.”
“What happened to keep him out of jail?”
“Victor happened. He rode in like the cavalry to save Tony’s hide.”
“Tony must have been very grateful.”
“Sure. But I think he was embarrassed, too—you know what I mean?—to have to have Victor rescue him.”
“What about Henry Quint?”
“Henry? Why would you want to know about Henry? He’s just an employee,” she said. “He’s all right, I guess, harmless enough, likes to imitate the big guys. But I don’t think he’s smart enough, or has the guts to do anything on his own. Tony and Victor spoke, Henry jumped. And then he made Pearl carry out their instructions. She’s like most of the secretaries I’ve known. The business could never run without her.” She glanced at an expensive jewel-encrusted watch on her tanned, slender wrist. “I’d better get back,” she said, adjusting herself again into the confining wires of her uniform’s built-in bra. She wedged her feet back into her high heels. “Sorry I can’t stay longer.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said, standing.
“Chappy is the one you should talk to,” she said, taking another loud sip of what was left of her lemonade. “He was Victor’s go-to guy.” She stepped close to me and pressed an index finger against the side of her nose. “I think Chappy is connected, if you know what I mean,” she whispered.
“Thanks for using your break to speak with me,” I said as we walked together to the door that led back into the Flamingo. “I imagine you treasure your time off.”
“It’s a double-edged sword,” she said. “I love getting off my feet, but if I’m not on the casino floor, I’m not getting tips.” She opened the door and I felt a blast of the cool air-conditioning as we entered. “You never know when some high roller will show up and start betting wildly, big bucks, thousands a hand at the table. I had one last week. Told me to keep bringing him bourbon on the rocks, the best kind, single-barrel or single-something. Every time I brought him a drink, he gave me a hundred-dollar chip.”
“A profitable day for you.”
“But never enough of them. Of course, the more he drank, the sloppier he got at the table, making bad decisions and losing his shirt. Gamblers shouldn’t drink, but the casino wants them to. That’s why the drinks are free as long as you’re gambling.”
“I understand,” I said. “Thanks again for your time. Oh, Bunny, by the way, did you know Victor left you a million dollars in his will?”
She’d taken a few steps from me, but my words stopped her as though they’d reached out and physically turned her around. She leaned forward—
please don’t let her fall out of her uniform,
I thought—and said, “Would you repeat that, please?”
“Tony is the executor of Victor’s will. He told me Victor provided for each of his ex-wives—you, Daria, and Cindy. Once the estate is settled, you’ll receive a million dollars.”
For a moment, it looked as though she might cry.
“You didn’t know?” I asked.
She shook her head, her red hair swinging from side to side. “I knew he left me something—some lawyer called months ago—but he never told me how much. Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“I can’t believe it. Oh, my God. I can sure use it. Now I can pay off that creep and get him off my back. I could even retire with a stake like that.” She closed the gap between us, and asked, “What’s holding up settlement of the estate?”
“The trial, of course. Martha inherits if she’s acquitted, but not if she’s convicted.”
“But the million for each of the wives? That stays the same either way, right?”
“Yes, of course. But the will can’t be probated until the trial is over.”
“And if there’s an appeal?”
“Then the settlement is delayed.”
“I sure hope you can help Martha get acquitted. I don’t mean that just because I want the money. I mean, I do want the money, of course, but I can wait. It’s more important for Martha to get off. She’s a nice lady. Tell her Bunny sends her love when you see her. Okay?”
A tear ran down her heavily made-up cheek, and she walked away. Somehow I believed her sentiment about Martha, but whether she really knew nothing about the size of her inheritance—well, that I wasn’t so sure of. I’d been around long enough and heard enough from seemingly honest people to trust my instincts only so far. I wanted the facts—“Just the facts, ma’am,” as the line from that old-time TV show went.
Oliver was talking with a parking attendant when I exited the Flamingo. He opened the rear door for me and I got in. He continued his conversation for a few moments before sliding behind the wheel, starting the engine, and driving me back to Adobe Springs. This time he drove me to the front door.
“Thank you,” I said as I got out. “I won’t need you anymore today, but please be ready to drive tomorrow morning.”
“Sure. Anytime.”
Inside, the answering machine on the kitchen counter was beeping and flashing. Because I’d given the number to people as a way to reach me, I hit the play button and listened. The single message was from Seth, calling from Cabot Cove, who sounded uncharacteristically excited; he was always so even-voiced and calm.
I checked my watch. If I called right away, I’d probably interrupt his dinner. I decided to wait and call later. Besides, I wanted to try to reach Chappy. His was a name that kept surfacing. He was Victor’s most intriguing and mysterious business associate, the only character in the drama being played out before me whom I hadn’t met. But how to find his number? I walked down the hall, entered Victor’s office, sat down on the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, and swiveled to face his telephone on the credenza. Sure enough, on the list of names whose numbers had been programmed into the phone, there was one for Chappy, although I didn’t know if it was his office or his home.