A Crossworder's Gift Read online

  “So,” Rosco said as he stepped up behind Belle, wrapped his arms around her, and perused the notes she’d made on a memo pad, “I gather this means we have the rest of the evening to do a little gambling?”

  “I was thinking of something else, actually.”

  “Actually … so was I.”

  “I was wondering if Reggie daCoit is in Las Vegas right now.”

  “Believe it or not, that’s not what I was thinking about.”

  Belle drummed her fingers on the writing desk. “If he’s here, he’d certainly be worth talking to, don’t you think?”

  “You were asked to come here to help decipher a crossword puzzle, not get tangled up in a probable murder.”

  Belle regarded him with wide and innocent eyes. “Rosco! How can you suggest I’d even consider—”

  “You’re right; what could I be thinking of?” He shook his head, reached around her, and picked up the phone. “Okay. If he’s here … he’s here. At Cactus Cal’s.” Rosco punched zero into the phone and waited for the operator. “Yes, Mr. Reggie daCoit’s room, please.” It was answered after only one ring, and Rosco went into a practiced routine: “Mr. daCoit, I’m with Today’s Gambler magazine. My apologies for calling at what must be a painful time for you, but we’d scheduled an article on your famous late uncle some time ago, and Editorial wants to pursue the piece despite the altered circumstances … As someone who obviously knew him well, I was wondering if you might be able to spare a few minutes and share your thoughts? If it isn’t too much to ask …?” Rosco looked at Belle, then returned his focus to the phone. Flattery was the best approach in these situations. Everyone liked seeing their name in print. “I’m hoping you can supply some personal details … maybe, what it was like to be related to someone so well known in the city? Oh, that’s super … Could we meet”—Rosco flipped through the Cactus Cal’s brochure—“in Gila Gil’s Grill, say in a half an hour? Great … I’ll be with my intern. She’s a very pretty young blond woman. We’ll see you then.”

  “Intern?” Belle remarked the moment Rosco hung up the phone.

  “That way it won’t seem odd if you ask some questions as well … I notice you didn’t have any problems with the very pretty and the young part.”

  GILA Gil’s Grill was located on the third floor of the hotel and seemed to be a transplanted tract of land from Death Valley. The walls were faced with rough-hewn red desert rock; and pebble-stoned walkways weaved in and out of small cactus groves and arroyos, allowing each seating area a feeling of seclusion that was almost unmarred by the slot machines set beside the individual tables. Elevated at the room’s center, as if on a natural plateau, was a horseshoe-shaped bar also fashioned from desert stone. Ceramic lizard heads poked out from the crevices while behind the bar stood the eatery’s namesake: a huge gila monster formed from clay, resin, and a substance that resembled rhinoceros hide. It was ten feet high and thirty feet long, and was surrounded by a number of stuffed gophers in various, lifelike poses. Despite every effort at realism, the desert, the real 110-degree desert, could have been a million miles away, but perhaps that was because the three barmaids and waitstaff—also all female—sported the skimpiest of two-piece costumes. Unlike the lobby staff, Gila Gil’s were already attired for the Christmas season: red uniforms trimmed with furry white fringe.

  After strolling the stone walkways for a minute or two, Belle and Rosco found Reggie daCoit. He was just as he’d described himself: late twenties, slight of build, carrot red hair already thinning. He wore faded jeans, a denim shirt, and a black leather vest with a large Arizona state flag stitched onto the back. An untouched, aqua blue drink with a green paper umbrella sat on the table in front of him. Reggie’s attention was devoted solely to his personal slot machine.

  “Mr. daCoit?” Rosco said. Reggie slid pale, mistrustful eyes in the intruder’s direction, but didn’t immediately reply, so Rosco extended his hand. “Bo Dakota, Today’s Gambler. We sure do appreciate your giving us some time. This is my intern, Ann Jones.”

  Reggie’s thin face broke into a leering grin that revealed tobacco-stained and yellowed teeth. “The Devil in Miss Jones?” He extended his hand. “A real film classic. I’m a movie buff, a serious movie buff, if you want to start taking notes, honey … Have a seat. And call me Reggie.” He patted the chair next to him, but Belle moved to the opposite side of the table, and Rosco sat beside her.

  A waitress sidled through the cactus, nearly catching her frothy fringe on the fake thorns. She beamed at the new patrons. “Hi, y’all … What’ll it be?”

  Belle ordered a ginger ale while Rosco asked for a beer. Then he glanced at the slot machine. “How’s your luck been running?”

  “South,” Reggie grumbled.

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “Ah, it’s just nickel stuff … Something to pass the time.” Reggie snapped his fingers dismissively and chuckled to himself. “Of course, with Dr. Jazz’s passing, things are gonna start lookin’ up. Yes, indeed.”

  “My condolences on your loss,” was Belle’s gentle reply. She seemed sympathy itself.

  “Yeah, well … one of those things, what can I say? Life, y’know … Besides, I stand to pick up about a mil-five after the dust settles. A million-five can mop up a lot of tears. A whole lotta tears.” Reggie grinned again. It was not a sorrowful expression.

  Rosco pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. “That’s the extent of your uncle’s legacy?” He made a note. “Interesting … Given the fact that the great Dr. Jazz was such an institution in the world of no-limit poker, I would have thought he was worth considerably more than that. It was my understanding that his winnings were three hundred grand alone the night before he died.”

  “Nah, man … Uncle Dave was incorporated—Vegas style. You know how that works, dude. He hardly ever played with his own jack. He had backers. They owned his pots—they took the losses, they took the winnings, and Dr. Jazz took his cut … Sure, sometimes he’d roll out his own wad, but he was a careful man. Me? I ain’t never been careful, that’s my big problem. I’m a reckless kinda’ guy, what can I say? I like to take my chances wherever I find ’em.” He winked at Belle, then looked back at Rosco. His manner reverted from boastful optimism to one of wounded injustice. “See, Dr. Jazz knew he had some fish in the line last week, and he hooked ’em for himself. Big-time.”

  Belle was also taking notes. “Vegas style … That’s good. It has a clever ring to it … We could use that as a tag line, or maybe even a lead-in, don’t you think, Bo? If that’s acceptable to you, Mr. daCoit?”

  “Reggie.”

  “Reggie.” Belle graced him with a sweet and grateful smile.

  “Yeah … quote whatever ya want, honey. I just made that up … that Vegas-style thing. You can write that in the mag. Tell your readers all about Reggie daCoit. Don’t forget the movie thing.”

  Belle smiled anew. “Thank you … So, you were with your uncle just before he died? And you and he were close enough to share …?”

  “Well … No. Not exactly. I was in L.A. But I heard who he was playin’ with … A bunch of chumps … They ain’t a lotta secrets in Vegas.”

  “So I hear.” Belle said. “Perhaps I should get their names, though? They might be worth chatting with for the article.”

  “Hey, doll, I don’t know no names. A couple a’ dudes from Seattle. That’s all I know.”

  Belle continued to take notes. “I understand the police believe your uncle might have been murdered.” She looked at Reggie; empathy etched her brow.

  “Life in the city, doll. Life in the big, scary city. Happens every day here in Vegas.”

  The waitress arrived with the drink order. Rosco signed the tab Bo Dakota in such a way that it vaguely resembled B. Graham, scribbled Suite 1014, and said, “Of course, you’re aware that your uncle’s latest winnings are missing, aren’t you?”

  Reggie stiffened. “What’s all this got to do with Today’s Gambler?”

  Belle assumed a
nother sympathetic pose. “Well, Mr … Reggie … I’m sorry to admit this, but murder sells magazines. It’s the sad truth about today’s media environment. I guess that’s why Editorial decided to push the story rather than kill it. I apologize if that seems insensitive—”

  “Let me get a little background,” Rosco interjected. “Your uncle was born here, in Vegas?”

  “Nah, Reno.”

  “And where does the moniker ‘Dr. Jazz’ come from?”

  “I don’t know … He played piano in a band when he first got here. I guess that’s where he picked it up.”

  “Any other relatives?”

  “Nope. His sister, my mom, died when I was thirteen.”

  “That’s tough,” Rosco said.

  Reggie’s tone fell to a near whisper as he fed another dollar bill into the slot machine. “Yeah, it’s tough.”

  “Who’s Gabby?” Belle’s question startled both men.

  Reggie sat bolt upright; his narrow shoulders jittered. “Where’d you hear about Gabby?”

  “I think we got it on the wire service, didn’t we, Bo?”

  “Ah, yeah,” Rosco stuttered. “What can you tell us about Gabby?”

  “Who are you people?” Reggie shot back. His pale eyes raced from face to face; his gaunt cheeks twitched.

  “Today’s Gamb—”

  “You didn’t hear about Gabby on no stinkin’ wire service of no stinkin’ mag—”

  “Yes, we—”

  Reggie glowered as he purposefully sucked the remainder of his blue drink through the straw. “That Vegas style I mentioned a while back? That’s for my use only, doll. It’s not for publication.” He stood with all the fierceness of a small and insignificant man, and stormed out of the restaurant.

  “So,” Rosco said after he’d disappeared, “care to tell me who Gabby is?”

  “There’s a straight flush framed on the wall in Dr. Jazz’s suite. It’s signed Gabby.”

  “Huh … Seems to have struck a nerve.”

  “And I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How come you get to be someone cool like Bo Dakota, and I get stuck with Ann Jones?”

  “Okay, next time you get to pick the names.”

  BELLE and Rosco spent the better part of the evening strolling through Cactus Cal’s and hashing over the snippets of information they’d picked up from Hollister and Reggie daCoit. Hollister’s theory that the killer had not found the three hundred thousand dollars seemed logical, leaving the two unknown men from Seattle as the primary suspects, but they’d left town earlier in the week.

  By the time Belle and Rosco had finished dinner, it was nearly eleven P.M., two in the morning by East Coast time, and they were exhausted. They dragged themselves back to their suite, took showers, and slid into bed, hoping some answers would come their way the next morning during their visit to the Blue Diamond Animal Shelter.

  “You know, we’ve been here all day and we haven’t played one single slot machine?” Belle said as Rosco made an attempt to give her a kiss.

  “So?”

  “Well, it just seems wrong. Las Vegas is all about gambling, right?”

  “But you’re not a gambler. Besides, only the casinos win at slots.”

  Instead of responding, Belle rolled out of bed, walked over to the dresser, and picked up two quarters that were lying next to Rosco’s wallet. “I’ll be right back. There’s a machine at the end of the hall.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “No. I can’t go to bed without at least trying my luck once.” She wrapped herself in a hotel robe and trotted out the door while Rosco sat up in bed and shook his head. Belle was back in three minutes, holding the hem of the robe up to her waist. She walked over to Rosco’s side of the bed and dropped the hem, releasing an avalanche of quarters onto the floor. Rosco sat up farther in bed.

  Belle stepped over the pile of money, crawled on top of him, and gave him a long kiss. “The trick,” she said after their lips parted, “is to quit while you’re ahead.”

  NINE A.M. found Belle and Roscoe southwest of Las Vegas, in Blue Diamond, Nevada, at the animal shelter, where Karen Wise greeted them like long-lost friends. Her manner, her whole being, was so relaxed and affable that Belle couldn’t imagine a person or creature not taking comfort in her kindly presence. As for age, Belle couldn’t venture a guess; Karen’s stature as well as a certain mature and thoughtful presence indicated that she could have been in her sixties or early seventies, but her youthful appearance, her curly, dark hair only slightly flecked with white, and her high energy could have belonged to a woman in her middle to late forties. The woman’s enthusiasm and joy were positively contagious; it was obvious to Belle that Karen Wise was incapable of harming a single thing, let alone committing a murder.

  She led Rosco and Belle through the shelter, stopping briefly to pat, talk to, coo at, examine, or mildly reprimand her many charges. She also introduced the couple to a volunteer assistant, a man of equally indeterminate age who was as upbeat and as friendly as his “boss.” Finally, Karen conducted the couple to Blue Diamond’s office for a cup of her special sun tea—a concoction laced with rosemary and mint. The room, like the rest of the building, was teeming with wildlife: healing birds in cages, desert turtles and young jackrabbits also on the mend, and three orphaned coyote pups squabbling over the rights to a tattered dish rag.

  “You’re aware that Lieutenant Hollister considers you a suspect?” Rosco said in a tone that indicated he thought the idea absurd.

  “He’s a very mistrustful man.” Karen waved a sun-burnt hand as though casually brushing off a fly. “Always has been, poor guy. Uptight. Rigid. It can’t be easy being his ‘little lady.’”

  Belle laughed. It was clear Karen Wise had been the recipient of Hollister’s not-so-subtle put-downs. Then she sighed. “I feel terrible that I haven’t been able to come up with a solution to this mystery of yours … Although I imagine disposing of Dr. Jazz’s painting collection should bring you a handsome—”

  “I so dislike that term, ‘Dr. Jazz,’” Karen protested. “He was a fine person, a true friend to us here … but the name made him sound like a thug. Of course, I never much cared for his other choice either.”

  “Dave Narone wasn’t his real name?” Rosco asked.

  “Oh no. His real name is daCoit, same as his nephew. He changed it when he moved down here.” Karen shooed a fledgling roadrunner away from her tea glass. “Beat it, Otto. You don’t drink tea.” Otto paid no attention to the injunction, instead pecking noisily on the glass while Karen raised indulgent eyebrows and continued her recitation. “As far as the artwork is concerned, it’s nice of you to imagine the stuff is valuable, but the truth is I did those oils myself. They were intended as a ‘thank-you’ from the shelter. I daresay they’re hardly worth the canvas they’re painted on—unless some high-priced gallery suddenly discovers Karen Wise.”

  “Oh …” Belle murmured. “But they’re really good.”

  “Nice of you to say so.” Karen shrugged her shoulders. “I like keeping busy, that’s all.”

  At that moment, Otto landed on Belle’s lap and settled in as though he’d found the perfect nest.

  Karen chortled. “Don’t mind him. He’s very friendly. They’re in the cuckoo family, roadrunners, did you know that? Geococcyx californianus.”

  Belle looked down at the still-fluffy bird with the bold and inquisitive stare. “So I see.” She thought for a long moment. “So the shelter inherits nothing …”

  “Not unless I get discovered as a latter-day Grandma Moses … Or those ‘non-liquid’ assets miraculously turn up.”

  The three sat in gloomy silence; only Otto and the other rescued creatures seemed unperturbed by the discouraging news.

  “Did Mr. daCoit ever talk about someone named Gabby?”

  “Gabby … Gabby … Oh, yes … I believe there was a lady friend some time ago … I think he told me they broke up on account of his arthritis
. Very sad—and selfish, on her part. Bodies can be ailing. It doesn’t mean the spirit is.” Karen sighed. “He made such a fuss over those ‘non-liquid’ assets …” She lifted her head. “Well, no use crying over spilled milk … though to tell you the truth, things are going to be real tough around here without his annual gifts. Our volunteers are wonderful, but food and medication don’t come cheap.”

  Belle also released a sigh. “I still believe you’re right about the crossword puzzle, Karen. Mr. daCoit clearly had a reason for making the instructions so cryptic. Perhaps, as he suggested, it was to keep his nephew from finding the money first.”

  Rosco nodded. “If those ‘assets’ were not located in the suite at Cactus Cal’s, they’d belong to Reggie … Do you have any idea how much money we’re talking about, Karen?”

  “‘A lot’ was all I was told. I never thought to ask for details.”

  “So, we have to assume the legacy intended for the shelter is still in his suite … maybe in the form of securities.” Belle looked at Rosco for confirmation, but his response wasn’t encouraging:

  “I doubt we’ll find any such documents. If someone did make off with the three hundred thousand dollars in winnings, he or she would have pocketed any other paperwork that appeared valuable.”

  “Well, that’s it then,” Karen said after another long and painful pause. She looked at Otto and then at the various cages with their various hopping or fluttering inhabitants, and then finally mustered a smile as she turned to Belle. “Thanks for trying to help.”

  Rosco stood. “We’re going to head back to Las Vegas. If the money’s still in that suite, we’ll find it, Karen, don’t worry.”

  Belle placed Otto in Karen Wise’s capable hands.

  “You can keep him if you want, Belle … He needs a good home.”

  “We have a dog … Besides, I don’t know what roads he’d run on in our neighborhood.”