Deadly Gamble: A Girl and Her Dog Cozy Mystery

"Why didn't you tell me Jean was killed in the car?" I wasn't actually yelling, but I could feel my vocal chords stretching to reach their current level.

  "Now wait just a minute," Kent Taylor responded. "You're not a police officer, not even a licensed private investigator. You just don't have the right to certain information."

  "Okay. I know that." Feeling somewhat deflated, I realized I better tread lightly. "It's just that you've arrested Stacy for this and I'm trying to help her."

  "I know, Charlie, but did it ever occur to you that maybe you can't help her? Maybe she's guilty? You can't fix the world, Charlie, much as you'd like to. I'm being pretty tolerant with you as it is."

  He was right, of course. But it didn't make me ready to give up.

  "Can you tell me whether you found any evidence in the car?"

  "No, I can't." Meaning he wouldn't.

  "Have you found the murder weapon?"

  He shuffled a little as he admitted they hadn't.

  "Then you can't definitely prove Stacy did it, can you?"

  "You're on thin ice here, Charlie. Better just drop it."

  I was, and I did. Besides, it was getting late and I'd about had it after the previous sleepless night. I picked up Rusty from the now-deserted office, went home, microwaved a frozen dinner, and watched the news on TV. That was even more depressing than what I was facing in real life, so I popped a video tape of Casablanca into the VCR. Two hours later I was weeping but happy. I went to bed.

  I awoke the next morning with the oddest feeling that I was forgetting something vitally important. I looked at the calendar, convinced that I'd missed a tax deadline or dentist appointment but that wasn't it. I poured cereal in a bowl, added milk and couldn't get the nagging feeling out of my mind. Halfway to the office I remembered Gary's papers on my desk at home. I couldn't believe I'd let an entire day pass without checking them out. At the very next intersection, I made a left, then another, circling the block. Ten minutes later, I was on the phone telling Sally that I'd be working from home this morning.

  The wad of papers waited just where I'd left them. In my haste in the Detweiller bedroom the other day, I hadn't taken time to unfold or straighten them all. I'd picked out most of the old newspapers and racing forms, leaving them behind, but these notes were in their original state. It was an assortment of notebook pages, cocktail napkins, and scribbled-on business cards. I carried the whole mess to the kitchen table and made myself a cup of tea for fortification.

  Carefully, I unfolded and flattened each sheet. At first, there was no way to categorize them. I simply laid each new item out until the table top was covered. I had no idea what to look for but I tried to keep an open mind. Blackmail material, IOUs, dirty pictures—I'd take whatever I could get. Unfortunately, there was nothing quite that obvious. Most of the scraps appeared to contain bets. Little scribbled notes where someone down at Penguin's had told Gary to place a bet for him. I began stacking those in one pile.

  I spread the business cards out like some kind of solitaire game. Many of them were Gary's own cards, Detweiller Enterprises, with notes written on the backs. Others belonged to an interesting variety of people. Among them, Charles Tompkins, the Tanoan resident in the cold white house who'd been shafted to the tune of twenty thousand dollars. He'd brushed me off when I'd spoken to him, but now I wondered. His name appeared several times, along with some hefty sums of cash and names of race horses. One caught my eye—Bet The Farm. An odd name for an animal. As far as I could tell, Tompkins—Charlie T. as he was referred to in the notes—had wagered fifty thousand on that one. He'd been cavalier about losing twenty thousand, but if his total losses were closer to a hundred, could even he afford that? A few other names on the list were recognizable, including some of our city's sleazier attorneys and politicians. I got the little spiral notebook from my purse and wrote down a list of names, addresses and phone numbers. I had no idea what I'd do with them, but it was handier having them listed in one place than on fifty little bits of paper. Having done that, I debated what to do next. I chewed my pencil, although it's hard on the teeth and not particularly good for the pencil, either.

  The big dilemma I was having with all this was in finding Jean's connection to it. It wasn't hard to find dozens of people that might have been cheated or, cheated on, by Gary. But how did Jean's death tie in? The only thing that made sense was that somehow she'd known something about someone. Thinking back to the day I'd visited their bedroom, I couldn't see that the papers had been disturbed in weeks. I seriously doubted that Jean had gone through them, learned something, confronted that person, and gotten herself killed for it. So, if these papers weren't her information source, what was?

  Sitting here chewing a pencil and agonizing over this wasn't solving anything. And it was driving me crazy. I had to do something. It was nearly noon. I picked up the phone and dialed Stacy's number. She answered on the second ring.

  "Stace, hi. Just thought I'd check in with you."

  "Hello, Charlie. I'm fine, thank you." Her tone was stiff enough to starch shirts.

  "Stacy? Is everything all right."

  "Yes. Just wonderful, thanks." I'd swear the words came out through clenched teeth.

  "Is this a bad time?"

  "It really is," she replied.

  "Do you need help? Should I come over?"

  "Not right now. I'll talk to you later." She hung up before I could think of the next thing to say.

  I slammed the receiver down, pulled my jacket from the coat rack near the door, and had it halfway on before I stopped to think. She said she didn't need help. In fact, what had she really said? Granted, the conversation was stiff, the call clearly not welcome, but there could be other reasons. Maybe I'd caught them in the middle of great sex. Maybe they were having the reconciliation of a lifetime.

  I took a deep breath and shed my jacket. I had to tell myself that Stacy's problems were not mine, thank goodness. She had to work out whatever was going on at home. She'd only hired me to find out who killed Gary Detweiller. So far, I was doing a sorry job of that. I went back into the kitchen and gathered Gary's papers into a bundle. I folded the whole wad and stuffed them back into my purse. I should probably try to find a way to put them back, although I couldn't imagine what Josh would want with them. All his parent's belongings would probably be thrown out when he moved. I wondered if he'd contacted his aunt about moving in with her. On impulse, I dialed his number. The phone rang twelve times but no answer.

  I wanted to talk to Josh again, and to Stacy. And then there was Larry Burke. I'd still like to know whether he'd followed me Friday night or if it was someone he knew, or if it was purely random. Both my visits to Penguin's had ended badly. Slashed tire one time, terrorized by a dark truck the other. Seemed like more than coincidence.

  In the meantime, since I couldn't reach anyone I wanted to talk to, I decided my only choice was to go to the office and get some regular work done. Maybe I'd try Stacy again later this afternoon.

  As it turned out I didn't have to. I'd been at the office a couple of hours, picking through the work on my desk wishing that something in the stack looked appealing enough to do. Sally had left at one, and I found myself wanting the phone to ring, just so I wouldn't have to answer letters or worse yet, get back to my tax returns. I wandered the halls like a lost waif, making cups of tea, scrounging through the kitchen drawers for snacks but only coming up with two vanilla sandwich cookies loosely wrapped in torn cellophane. They were disgusting to look at and, after I'd finished the second one, I decided they really didn't have that much flavor.

  By three o'clock I was beginning to feel ridiculous. Why was I here, pretending to work, when my mind was elsewhere? I felt itchy about the Detweiller murders. The answer had to be here close by somewhere. I told myself that the police were working on it, but that didn't make me any less anxious to be out there myself. I left Rusty to help Ron with the phones and started out to my car.

  The weather had turned nasty
again, our few days of spring sunshine gone. A bitter wind drilled through my jeans, making my legs feel like they were encased in ice tubing. Clouds hung low, shrouding the Sandias in gray, obscuring their jagged face. The air smelled moist and the ground was faintly damp from a five-minute sprinkle that had passed through. I zipped up my jacket and jogged toward the Jeep. Inside, the air felt heavy and warm, a nice contrast to the cutting wind outside. I let the engine idle while I thought about what to do next.

  My thoughts kept flitting back to the papers I'd looked at this morning, Gary's betting notes. And the name that kept coming back to me was Charles Tompkins. The man had been extremely nervous when I'd approached him the last time. Then he'd brushed off his twenty thousand dollar loss like it was nothing. From Gary's notes it appeared Tompkins had lost a great deal more than twenty grand. The next thing I knew, my Jeep was on I-25, heading north for the San Mateo exit.

  The Tanoan guard didn't question me when I said I was going to the Tompkins residence. I wove my way through the winding streets. A tumbleweed that had somehow found its way into the neighborhood rolled across the road in front of me. I felt pretty sure that weeds weren't allowed here but I slowed down for it anyway.

  Charles Tompkins' house showed no signs of life. I pulled up to the curb and stared at it for a couple of minutes. All three garage doors were closed and all the windows wore a blank look, hidden behind white sheer drapes. It wasn't even four o'clock yet, I realized, a little early for the over-achievers to be home from the office. I debated whether to wait around or try again later. Curiosity got the better of me. Watching how the rich folks conduct themselves might prove entertaining.

  I cruised past Stacy's house. It, too, stood like a large empty-faced mammoth. Brad's Mercedes waited in the driveway though, so I decided not to stop for a chat. Whatever was going on behind their closed doors right now wasn't something I wanted to get involved in. Around the neighborhood, cars were beginning to arrive—executives who allowed themselves to come home early, teens out of school who drove better cars than mine. I wondered what these kids would strive for in their lifetimes. They already had so much, all handed to them by virtue of the fact that they were born when and where they were. Would they grow up to want even more, or would they languish into do-nothingness, never having done anything for themselves. I pictured a lot of lost souls here.

  Back at Tompkins' place a car now stood in the drive, almost a junker by these standards, a Ford Thunderbird that must have been at least three years old. Charles Tompkins himself was just stepping out of the car. He wore a dark business suit and conservative tie. He balanced a briefcase and cellular telephone while reaching for a plastic sheathed garment from the cleaners and trying to lock the car door at the same time. I parked by the curb and walked toward him. I'd reached the rear of the car before he noticed me.

  "Hi. Charlie Parker," I reminded him.

  He gave me a puzzled look over the top of the briefcase.

  "I'm investigating the Gary Detweiller case."

  "Oh, yes." His tone was noncommittal, his face closed and guarded.

  "Could I talk to you again for a minute?"

  I could tell he didn't want to talk, and he especially didn't want to invite me inside. But the wind was ferocious now, even stronger here near the foothills than it had been in the valley. His cleaning bag was whipping around like an unruly pet trying to get away. He hesitated a minute, then ungraciously invited me in.

  It was almost comical to watch him juggle his many burdens while trying to open the front door and disarm the alarm system. He positioned his body between me and the keypad so I couldn't see what code numbers he punched in. Having a lot of possessions certainly breeds paranoia.

  "Excuse me a minute," he said. He disappeared into a room off the den, leaving me standing in the white entry hall.

  The white and chrome living room waited, silent and unoccupied. Undisturbed vacuum cleaner tracks made neat white paths in a perfectly symmetrical pattern. On my right, a formal dining room had the same freshly cleaned look. The almost invisible table had chrome legs and a heavy glass top. In the exact center stood a glossy black bowl filled with spiky black twigs. Some decorator had probably charged him a fortune for the thing. Beyond the table, an all-glass hutch held a set of shiny black dishes. They stood out like large bullseyes in contrast to the white walls, white carpet, and non-color of the rest of the house. I wondered what it would feel like to pull out a slingshot and ping them from their colorless perch.

  "Now, what can I do for you?"

  Tompkins' voice startled me, caught in the act of mentally vandalizing his dining room. He had loosened the knot in his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his gray-striped white shirt. He had dumped all the excess baggage he'd carried in with him. His fingers combed through his mass of curly blond hair, trying to restore order to the mess the wind had made.

  "I just wondered whether there was anything more to your association with Gary Detweiller that you might not have mentioned to me the other day."

  Something flickered in his eyes, something so fleeting that it was gone in a fraction of a second. A tiny pucker showed on his upper lip but that, too, disappeared instantly.

  "I don't believe I've thought of any other information," he said.

  "Not even the name of a race horse you lost heavily on," I prodded. "A horse named Bet The Farm."

  His thin lips pursed together noticeably this time. "I'm not sure what business this is of yours," he said tersely.

  "Truthfully, it probably isn't any of my business, except that you grossly underestimated your losses to Detweiller. Except that a hundred thousand dollars might be a lot stronger motive for murder than a mere twenty. And except that our client is still on the hook for something she didn't do." I stopped, realizing that I'd said a lot more than I intended, a lot more than was probably smart.

  Suddenly the house felt very lonely and very quiet. I realized that, although these homes might be packed together like sardines, the neighbors probably weren't home. I felt a hollow sensation low in my stomach.

  Tompkins' mouth twitched in a half-smile.

  "How'd you find out about the other losses?" he asked.

  "Gary kept very thorough records," I told him, keeping my voice flat.

  "He did, hunh?" he said. He turned toward the den, pulling off his tie as he went. I followed without speaking. He chose a glass off the shelf above the bar and reached below for ice cubes from an ice maker built into the cabinets.

  "I should have known this would come down to some kind of blackmail scheme." He filled the glass half full of whiskey and took a long swallow before speaking again.

  "Blackmail? Excuse me?"

  "Just come out with it. What is it you want?"

  "I just want some answers. I don't personally care whether you lost a million bucks to the guy. Your finances are your own problem. I'm just trying to find out who killed Gary Detweiller."

  "Well, I sure as hell didn't." He downed the rest of the drink and poured another.

  "Where were you Wednesday night a week ago?"

  He chuckled. "You sound like a little skinny Perry Mason."

  I stood my ground. Skinny?

  "Actually, I was out of town all week. At a banking convention in Atlanta. You can have that verified through my office, the hotel, and about two hundred other people who heard me give the keynote speech."

  "Blackmail? I don't get it."

  He set the glass down and leaned against the bar, perching his butt against the edge of the counter top, arms folded across his chest.

  "My ex-wife. Or I should say, soon-to-be-ex. She's got people practically digging into my underwear drawer to find hidden assets. I assumed you were working for them."

  "I told you what I was looking for, right up front," I said.

  He gave me a look that basically said, Get real. "Do you think her investigators are going to come out with the real questions?"

  Well, okay, probably not. I didn
't say it. I left a couple of minutes later, feeling a little sheepish. Until I got into the car and thought about it. Tompkins was a cool one. He had been careful to steer the conversation away from Gary, away from their dealings. I didn't care what he said, though. A hundred thousand dollar loss doesn't come easy to anyone. And a hundred thousand is plenty of reason for murder.

  Chapter 20