Deadly Gamble: A Girl and Her Dog Cozy Mystery

By two a.m. I had dozed off on the couch, having watched all the TV movies I could handle. The magic hour of midnight had long passed, leaving me grumpy at this interruption of my schedule. Going to sleep knowing you could be awakened at any moment does not exactly make for restful slumber. Three hard raps at the front door, followed by giggles, snapped me awake. I rubbed at my grainy eyes and ran my fingers through my hair on the way to the door.

  "Rusty! Rusty!" Two balls of energy bounded through the door, intent on the object of their affection. The poor dog tried to take refuge behind my legs and we ended up with a tangle of bodies that almost sent all of us to the floor.

  "Hi, Sis." Paul greeted me with a dry kiss on the cheek. He carried two suitcases and had two sleeping bags hanging from his shoulders by straps.

  "We got away later than we'd planned," Lorraine explained, not sounding nearly apologetic enough for waking me at two a.m. Her arms loaded with brown grocery sacks, she pushed her way through the tangle of kids and dog toward the kitchen. Paul headed to the guest room without stopping, apparently worried about losing his momentum with the heavy load.

  Three minutes later we were all assembled in the living room.

  "Would anyone like hot chocolate?" I offered. I noticed they were all wearing light cotton clothing. Lorraine was visibly shivering.

  "Yea, chocolate," Annie and Joe shrieked at once.

  "They slept most of the way here," Paul explained. "I guess they're getting their second wind." No kidding.

  "Why don't you kids check out the games in your room," I suggested. "I'll call you when the hot chocolate's ready." I turned to Lorraine. "Is that everything from the car?" She nodded.

  Paul and Lorraine followed me into the kitchen, with Rusty sticking close to my legs. I found packets of instant hot chocolate mix in a cupboard and rounded up mugs while the water heated.

  "So, how is Phoenix these days?" I asked.

  "Fine, fine. Getting warm already."

  I'd never known a time when Phoenix wasn't warm. The end of February should be no exception.

  "How's the job?" I thought I could see a hint of gray at my brother's temples.

  "Fine, fine."

  Lorraine piped up. "Paul had a promotion last month," she said.

  The conversation continued in this lively vein until we'd finished off the hot chocolate and I couldn't keep my eyes open another minute. We finally got the kids settled into their sleeping bags, although they didn't look the least bit sleepy. I went to bed wondering what we'd find to talk about for the next two days.

  I found Paul wandering in the backyard at eight the next morning. Everyone else was still asleep. He slipped his arm around my shoulders as we walked among the dried stalks of last summer's flowers. The earth smelled faintly damp. I noticed the young green shoots of daffodils and tulips had grown noticeably taller in the past couple of days.

  "Lorraine wants to visit her friend from college, Betsy Royce, today," Paul said. "Betsy's kids are about the same age as Annie and Joe. I think they'll have a good time together."

  "You going too?"

  "Would you mind? Jack Royce and I were pretty good friends."

  "No, I don't mind. You guys make your plans. I've got things to do. Want to meet back here for dinner?"

  "Pedro's?"

  "You got it." Pedro's is a little Mexican food place, just far enough away from the tourist traffic that it hasn't lost its charm. I eat there a couple of times a week. Pedro and his wife, Concha, make the best sour cream chicken enchiladas in the state, and their margaritas are fantastic.

  I puttered in the kitchen, pondering where I'd go next with the Detweiller case, wondering if I was going to be in a ton of trouble for pursuing it on my own. I'd have to bring Ron up to date on it the minute he got back to town. The thought occurred to me that I might have better luck reaching some of those names on Gary's list on a Saturday. After feeding my guests a hearty breakfast of cold cereal and seeing them out the door, I pulled out the list once again.

  About half the names came from the same part of town where Detweiller had lived. Probably neighbors, co-workers, guys he'd met in neighborhood bars. The other half of the list contained a variety, a surprising number located in well-off parts of town. I wasn't sure where I'd get the most information, from the average working-guy types or from the successful ones who might have gotten tricked into the association with Gary, much as Stacy had.

  I stopped at the first gas station to fill up. This might end up being a long day. The Jeep took fourteen gallons, which I put on the credit card we use for company expenses. I'd decided to try the upper-crust neighborhood first. Two of the addresses were in Tanoan, so I headed out I-25 to the San Mateo exit, then up Academy Road. The guard today was a different one, and I hadn't really thought about what my approach would be. I doubted they routinely let in investigators who want to question their residents. Especially when the investigator was really an accountant. My only choice would be to fake it. I told the guard I was going to Stacy North's house, hoping all the while that he wouldn't call her to verify it.

  He didn't. He waved me through like his main concern in the world was what time he'd get off work. I drove straight to one of the houses where I'd gotten no answer yesterday. The place still looked closed up tight. A newspaper rested on the front step. I rang the doorbell without much hope, and was startled when a sleepy-looking man in silk pajamas opened it.

  The man looked almost as startled at seeing me. His curly blond hair stuck out at angles and his pajama top was skewed off to one side. He blinked at the sunlight, trying to focus on my face.

  "Charles Tompkins?"

  "Who are you?" If I'd been an attacker, he would have been an extremely easy mark.

  "My name's Charlie Parker. Do you know a Gary Detweiller?"

  "Who?"

  "Gary Detweiller. Your bookie."

  He suddenly stood very still. His eyes had no trouble focusing directly on mine now. A white rim showed around the edges of his thin lips.

  "I don't know who you are, or who you're looking for, lady, but you got the wrong address." His hand had moved to the edge of the door.

  "Fine. Detweiller's dead, and I imagine the next ones to come knocking at your door will be the police." I turned away. "Have a nice day," I said sweetly.

  "Uh . . . wait. What did you say your name was?" He had removed his hand from the door. I noticed a sheen on his forehead.

  "Charlie Parker. RJP Investigations. Someone else with, shall we say, a not exactly legitimate connection to Detweiller has asked me to look into his death. This person is another Tanoan resident. With the information I've found so far, I suspect Detweiller had targeted you folks, figuring he'd found a gold mine."

  "Look," he glanced behind me nervously, "why don't you come inside a minute."

  I stepped into a cool white hall, from which I could see a white living room on one side and a white dining room on the other. The chrome and glass furnishings didn't add any color. Only brief dashes of black accent pieces kept me aware that I hadn't fallen into a snow bank.

  "Excuse me a minute," Tompkins said, walking up a staircase to my right. He returned two minutes later, slipping his arms into a paisley silk robe. He hadn't combed his curls.

  We took seats in the chilly living room. Tompkins reclined in a puffy down-cushioned chair. He couldn't maintain the pose, though. He fidgeted, crossing and re-crossing his legs, scooting to the edge of his seat.

  "Now what about this man, what was the name?"

  "Detweiller." Don't play ignorant with me, bud.

  "Yes, now who was he?"

  I stared at his face for a full minute, while his eyes darted around the room.

  "How much did Detweiller take you for?" I finally asked.

  "What makes you think. . ." He drew himself up defensively.

  "I think Detweiller was a schemer and a con man. He worked his way into his victim's confidence, then took whatever he could. With the women, he used sex, with the m
en, I imagine there was some kind of money scheme. He played the horses a lot. Maybe that was it with you."

  "Horse racing? I hardly think so," Tompkins tone was scathing.

  "What, then?" I stayed patient, letting him think about it. Two or three plans crossed his mind. I watched them play out rapidly.

  "Okay," he finally said. "You're right. It was an investment scheme. And oddly enough it did involve horses." He chuckled dryly. "I met Detweiller in the Card Room at the club. He wasn't a member. I was pretty sure of that. I assumed he was there as a guest. We got to talking. I've always been fascinated by horse racing. Not so much as a bettor. I was interested in the horses themselves, the breeding, the bloodlines. Gary picked up on that and told me he'd done a lot of investing in race horses. Said he could get me into this consortium that had already bought into some of the finest champions in the country. He knew all the names, their records."

  "Because he hung around the tracks all the time."

  "I found that out later. This guy was smooth."

  I thought of the picture I'd seen of Detweiller. I couldn't see how a well-off man like this wouldn't have seen right through the facade. Then again, why hadn't Stacy seen through it either? Maybe Detweiller was a chameleon.

  "And you ended up losing your money," I suggested.

  "Twenty thousand. He had me thinking I was one of the small investors, too—that most of them were putting in hundreds."

  "So, when did you find out the whole thing was a sham?"

  "Just now, really. I'd been calling Gary for a week, wondering when I would get some word about the investment. I was supposed to get reports, statements, and so forth. It had been over a month since I'd given him the money and I was getting concerned. I'd called for several days in a row, and was really starting to get mad."

  Mad enough to kill? I wondered.

  "Now wait a minute," he protested, reading my thoughts. "Yeah, I was mad that he was ignoring my calls. But twenty thousand dollars is not enough to kill for. An embarrassment, maybe, but not worth risking my neck over."

  I believed him. Twenty thou was a new decorating job for the living room to this guy. He wasn't going to risk this lifestyle over a man of Detweiller's caliber.

  Back in the car, I considered visiting the other names I had whose addresses were in this area. But I had the feeling I'd get the same story. Whatever scheme Gary had used with each of them, the bottom line was not financial ruin. Poor Gary Detweiller, for all his illusions of importance, was nothing more than an embarrassment to these people.

  Which brought me to consider the other half of the list. What about those working class slobs who might have sunk all they had into one of Detweiller's schemes?

  Chapter 7