Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (24 page)

Had Eve not been so bedazzled by our surroundings and our impending meeting with Victor Pasqual himself, she might have been more accurate.
We
were not awesome at Peter's Texas Hold'em clinic on Monday night. In fact,
we
played pretty much like the amateurs we were. Eve, on the other hand, was awesome.

Who could have guessed that a li'l ol' beauty queen from the South would somehow instinctively know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, and know when to twinkle her way through bluffs so outrageous the players around her crumbled and she was left winning hands that she never should have played in the first place.

There was an attendant at the door of the private elevator to the far right, and after Eve showed him her invitation to the night's poker game, he called the elevator and we waited.

Eve is not one to get nervous. She never has been. I remember sitting in the audience while she was onstage at countless beauty pageants. My hands shook. My heart raced. My blood pressure climbed until it felt like my head was going to pop. And Eve? Then, like now, she was as icy cool as her brilliant white gown.

"Do I look OK?" she asked.

"Of course you do. You look better than OK." There was no denying that. Though Eve always dressed with care and a whole lot more pizzazz than I ever had or could ever hope to have, she'd pulled out all the stops that night. Besides her knock 'em dead gown, she was wearing diamonds that glittered on her ears and at her throat. They matched the sparkling rhinestone collar Doc was wearing and when I complimented her, Eve smiled down at the dog in her arms.

"You hear that, sweetie pie?" She rubbed noses with the dog. "Annie says I look good."

"You look cool and confident, too." She did. She was. At the same time I envied her the ability. I wondered and panicked and worried--just as I'd been wondering and panicking and worrying since the night of our poker clinic. What if we weren't doing the right thing?

I swallowed my misgivings along with the sour taste in my mouth and told Eve, "You're going to do great."

"I'd better." Eve handed the dog to Jim, who was too surprised to do anything but take Doc off her hands. Jim is not an unkind person by any means, and I know for a fact that he has a soft spot in his heart for animals. I've seen the way he greets every dog we meet when we walk in the park. But Jim is also not one to forget, and I don't think he'll ever forget the time Eve snuck Doc into the kitchen at Bellywasher's, or the digestive disaster that resulted when she fed the dog too many rich foods. Now Jim held the tiny dog a little uncertainly, as if he wasn't sure what it would do, or what he should do with it.

"I don't want Doc to know," Eve whispered, turning her back on Jim and the dog. "You know, about the c-o-l-l-a-r."

"Doc can't spell. And he doesn't know what you're talking about when you say collar, anyway." As if to contradict me, Doc yipped. I ignored him and went right on. "The dog isn't going to know that if you--"

"Lose tonight, I won't be able to get his diamond collar out of hock." Under the perfect coating of perfect pink blush that complimented her skin tone perfectly, Eve paled. "You hush, Annie. Don't say it. Don't even think such a thing. I pawned Doc's collar for a good cause, so we had the stake to get me in this game. But I am not going home empty-handed." She turned around and scooped the dog out of Jim's hands so she could give him a hug. The dog, not Jim. "I wouldn't do that to my sweet'ums."

And really, I might not see the need to spell in front of Doc, but I wasn't about to complain. That's how grateful I was. Without Eve's generous offer, we wouldn't be here in the first place, not after we found out that it cost twenty-five thousand dollars just to get into Victor Pasqual's Friday night Texas Hold'em game.

As to how it all happened in the first place . . .

I glanced to my left, and at the man in the tuxedo who waited for the elevator with us, and honest to gosh, if I didn't know it was Norman under that dark, shaggy wig and behind the bushy, glued-on mustache, I never would have suspected a thing. I never argued with Norman when he said he wanted to come along. After all, he had as much right to be there as we did. More, really, since this was his chance to check out Victor Pasqual after all these years and see if the millionaire gambler looked anything like the man who walked into Tres Bonne Cuisine and shot Greg.

I never questioned Norman when he said he would feel safer wearing a disguise, either. I understood exactly why he wanted to keep a low profile. Especially after Norman had finally talked to Tyler, been officially eliminated as a suspect--and officially put on notice that the killer who was still out there somewhere was probably still looking for him.

Besides all that, if it wasn't for Norman, we wouldn't be there at all. It turned out that he still had a few connections from back in the day. He knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who claimed he could get one of us into the game, and, true to his word (and after a goodly sum of money had exchanged hands thanks to Norman, who was more than willing to pay it), our invitation to the card game was couriered over the next day. Of course, all along, I had every intention of being the one who would sit in on the game. That way, I could get close to Victor Pasqual and make what Peter called "table talk," in an effort to find out what he knew about Norman Applebaum--and Greg's murder.

That was before reality sank in, and when it did, I saw the error of my ways. I was too conservative to win at poker. I was too hesitant, too cautious. Jim, on the other hand, was too emotional. It didn't take an expert to pick up on his not-so-subtle body language he started signaling the moment Peter had us together for our how-to class. When he held good cards, Jim's burr deepened almost beyond understanding. When his hand was bad, he had a way of tapping his fingers against the table, impatient to get things over with. He might as well have spelled out
loser
in Morse code. Over time, Peter assured him (and me, for that matter), there was a slim chance we both might actually turn into decent players.

But time was the one thing we didn't have.

Eve, on the other hand, was one thing we did.

"Peter could have played for us. If I drummed it into his head enough, he might have asked Pasqual the right questions." I kept my voice down when I said this to Jim and I didn't have to worry, Eve was busy cooing to Doc.

Jim, too, spoke quietly. "You losing your nerve?"

"No. Yes." I paced in front of the elevator. "This could be a disaster."

"Aye." When the elevator arrived and the doors swished open, Jim stepped aside so I could go first. "But think of how much more of a disaster it would be if you weren't investigating. We wouldn't know nearly as much as we do now, and Norman might not be safe. Plus--"

Just as the elevator doors closed, a man raced inside. "Investigating. Oh, I like the sound of that!"

"Peter?" I gave him a careful look because, let's face it, I figured I was hallucinating. "You're not supposed to be here. You're supposed to be back in Arlington."

"And miss all the fun?" Peter chafed his hands together. He looked Eve's way. "You might need some pointers. And besides, I always wondered what it might be like to be part of the Scooby Gang. You guys are as close as I'll ever get." Peter leaned nearer to me. "Who's the guy with the mustache?" he asked.

Luckily, I didn't have a chance to answer. After a smooth, quick ride, the elevator doors opened and we found ourselves in a lobby even more sumptuous than the one downstairs. Walls of glass allowed us a bird's-eye look at the Boardwalk and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Tiny lights twinkled on a terrace that overlooked the view. In front of us was another wall of glass and beyond that, we saw tuxedoed waiters and dealers getting ready for the game.

"It's like something out of a James Bond movie," Jim said, and I had to agree with him. The men around us were high rollers; I could tell by the way they were dressed and by the smell of their expensive cigars. Of course when Eve announced that she was there for the game, there were a couple of chuckles. And more than a couple of guys who couldn't keep their eyes off her.

She, though, is nothing if not single-minded. Especially when it comes to being the center of attention. Eve held back, and when an elevator across the lobby opened, and Victor Pasqual stepped out, she made her move, jockeying for position and making her way through the crowd of dour, serious gamblers as easily as Moses through the Red Sea.

I recognized Pasqual's face, of course, from seeing him on TV. He was a little older than middle-aged, a little shorter than average, and a little wider than large. He wasn't an attractive man, and in a loud orange and brown plaid sport coat and brown pants in a shade that didn't match, he certainly wasn't the best-dressed fellow in the room. What he was, though, was larger than life.

"Hi, fellas!" Pasqual's voice was a lot like Atlantic City, loud and brassy. He marched across the plush carpet like he owned the place and, since he did, I guess that was perfectly appropriate. He shook hands with a couple of the cigar-smoking men and stopped cold when he got to Eve.

"Well, good evening!" He grabbed her outstretched hand and kissed it with more enthusiasm than style. "It's a little early for me to be dreaming. Don't tell me you're here for the card game, sweetie." He pressed a hand to his chest. "I don't think my old heart could take it!"

Eve knew just how to handle comments like that. "Why, Victor, honey!" Her accent was more Southern than magnolias. "Aren't you just the sweetest thing."

I left them at it, stepping into the hospitality room we'd been told was reserved for the guests of those playing in the game. As soon as we were out of earshot, I buttonholed Norman.

"Well?" I watched him watching Victor through the open doorway. "Is it him? Is that the man you saw walk into Tres Bonne Cuisine and shoot Greg?"

Norman had to part the bangs on his dark wig for a better look. He squinted and stared. "I dunno."

Before I could let go the breath I was holding, Peter was at my side. "You think Pasqual is a murderer? That's what this is all about?" He was so hopped up on adrenaline and the excitement of being in the presence of a real poker hero, he could barely stand still. "You're crazy. You know that, don't you, Annie? No way Victor Pasqual would ever kill anybody."

I hissed to remind him to keep his voice down and, grabbing his arm, I dragged Peter closer to the windows and farther from anywhere anyone could hear us.

"He's a legend, Annie." At least Peter got the message. He whispered, just like I did. "And he's rich. Hey!" When he saw movement in the glass-enclosed room where the game would be played, Peter headed for the door. "They said we could watch from here if we weren't any distraction. Oh, man, this is the most exciting night of my life!"

That's funny, I thought the most exciting night of his life was--

Never mind.

As soon as Peter was gone, Jim came over and wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"It will be when we get out of here. And if . . ." I glanced toward the poker game. There were seats for nine, and Eve had taken the one on Victor's right. "If she can stay in the game long enough. And if she can get him to talk."

"I WISH WE COULD SEE THE CARDS EVERYONE WAS
holding."

For about the hundredth time since the card play started, Peter stood in the doorway of the hospitality room and craned his neck for a better look into the card room. He moved to his left. He moved to his right. "If I knew what Pasqual's pocket cards were--"

"I'm sure that's why they have the rooms set up this way." I poked Peter in the ribs to stop him from dancing around and looking too anxious. "If we could see the cards, we might signal the players."

"I know, I know." He scraped a hand through his hair the way he always did when he was antsy. "But I can't stand the suspense. And Eve--!" When Eve tossed in another red chip, Peter groaned. I didn't know how much the red chips were worth. I didn't want to know. "She's not listening to anything I told her. She shouldn't be grinning and chatting and acting so girlie. She's giving too much away."

"Or not!" Eve reached to the middle of the table and scooped all the chips to her pile and I poked Peter in the ribs again, telling him without a word that he didn't know everything there was to know about Texas Hold'em. Apparently, a grinning, chatty, girlie girl could do pretty well at the game. "Look." I pointed when Pasqual stood up from the table. "They're taking a break."

Two of the card players who'd started the night had already run out of chips and when the door to the card room opened, one of the men stalked to the elevator and left. The other didn't look nearly as upset by his losses. He stuck around to say good-bye to his fellow players before he came into the hospitality room for a glass of Scotch.

When she sauntered out of the card room, I closed in on Eve.

"So?" I tried not to sound too anxious, but really, how could I help myself? "You're talking to Pasqual. I've seen you talking to him. Did you find out anything?"