“Not technically.”
“Then technically, it’s not our problem. And, just to clarify, don’t they use dogs to find truffles these days?”
“Yes, but a pig is just more . . . prosaic, don’t you think?”
“Clearly it doesn’t matter what I think, just don’t tell me there is a four-legged pig in my hotel.” I was well aware that, at any given time, there were several hundred of the two-legged, Y-chromosomed variety, hence the need to clarify.
“It’s a very special pig.” Miss P. sounded hopeful, as if that might make a difference.
“And where is this special pig . . . exactly?”
Her eyes skittered from mine as she developed a sudden interest in something over my shoulder. She worried with a button on her cashmere sweater as she chewed on her lip, which didn’t make me feel very good. “Bungalow 7,” she whispered.
I stared up at the ceiling as if praying for guidance from a higher power. My mother organizing a grassroots constituency of working girls. Turkeys running loose in the basement. My chef and his sister caught up in homicide and betrayal. The pig in the Kasbah was just the cherry on top of a real sundae of a Sunday. . . . At least I thought it was Sunday. Or was it Monday? In Vegas, day ran into night until one lost track of not only hours but also days and weeks and months. Some days, I couldn’t even remember the season and if I should dress warmly or not. Looking outside never helped—it was always sunny.
Just another day in the asylum.
Miss P. seemed a bit stricken, maybe even contrite—an unusual state, so I thought it wise to milk it for all it was worth. I tried to look stern, but really, when I thought about it, all I could see was the humor . . . well, about the pig anyway, but I refused to let Miss P. see that. “You put the pig in the Kasbah.” I used my best irritated-hotel-executive tone, and I focused on a spot on the ceiling, afraid that I would grin if I looked her in the eye.
The Kasbah was our high-roller compound—hidden, exclusive, decadent, it was a real feat to score a room there. I could just imagine what Cher would say if she got wind that we had given one of our most opulent bungalows to a pig. Last time she stayed with us, she had to settle for our largest suite on the twenty-ninth floor—the second most coveted location in the hotel.
I bit down on my lip, fighting another smile. To be honest, pigs weren’t that worrisome. And they just declared miniature horses to be seeing-eye animals, requiring the hotel to accommodate them, so I’d better get used to handling a barnyard. Frankly, I was relieved it wasn’t that horrible man with all the cockroaches . . . who had returned with an anaconda. The memory chased a shudder of revulsion down my spine.
“That means someone is walking on your grave.”
“What?”
Miss P. nodded mater-of-factly as I struggled to keep my tenuous grasp on reality. “A shudder means someone is walking on your grave.”
“I’m not dead, so I don’t have a grave.” I held up my hand, stopping her from interjecting. “Never mind. You’re changing the subject. Back to the pigs . . . both of them.” If she was going to drop a couple of pigs in my lap, I was bound and determined to make her pay for it, just a little. “You do know pigs will eat anything? Including prized truffles?”
Miss P. waved a hand at me. “The truffle is under lock and key, so don’t worry about that.”
“Whenever anyone says ‘don’t worry about that,’ I get a really bad feeling. Sort of like when someone says ‘I need to hook you up with my brother’s college roommate.’” She started to take the bait, but I shut her down with a glare, although it failed to wipe the smug smirk from her face. “You know, you are not making my day easier. I need to find better staff.”
“Good luck with that.” Miss P. didn’t seem bothered, which was understandable—she was as close to indispensable as anyone could be.
“Do you think I could fire family as well?”
“Yours?” She scoffed. “Not a chance. Even if you shot them, they’d come back to haunt you.”
Now that was a scary thought. For a moment, I ran through the list of people I could pass off the pig to. It didn’t take me long—the list was pretty short, just two names: mine and Jerry’s, and Jerry was busy penning up poultry at the moment. He was also handling Mona, so I didn’t feel right about dropping another farm animal in his lap. Although we were both well versed in farm animals . . . one of the perks of the job. “Just so you know, pigs will also eat thousand-dollar-per-yard damask for starters.”
Ah, that shot down Miss P.’s smirk.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with the pig and exactly why it’s in Bungalow 7?”
“Chef Gregor threatened to pull the truffle if we didn’t cater to the pig. You know how he is, ranting and raving, threatening to go to the press. I thought it was easier to placate him than fight back.”
“So, you left that for me,” I added unnecessarily; after all, handling turkeys was within my job description. Some days, whining just felt good, and this was one of those days. I’d get over myself soon. “Apparently, Chef Gregor wants his fifteen minutes, let’s give them to him.”
“For the record, I’d like to shoot that man.” Miss P. tossed that out as an afterthought.
“You’d have to stand in line. But patience, my friend, perhaps he’ll choke on his dinner, get a bad piece of fish or something. It could happen.” I fought the urge to give her Mona’s double barrel when she was through with it—taking Chef Gregor out of the gene pool would be a huge favor to future generations. With half a mind, I wondered if that fact alone would be sufficient for an acquittal. I pulled my feet back toward me and leaned forward, my hands on my knees. Better not take that chance. “I’ll handle Chef Gregor. But what’s the problem with the pig?”
“She’s depressed.”
* * *
As I strode through the casino, I tried to get my mind around the idea of a depressed pig, but I was struggling with the concept. What did a pig have to be depressed about? Especially a pig ensconced in Bungalow 7, replete with hot-and-cold running foot servants and a twenty-four-hour chef.
Other than having to deal with a swine like Chef Gregor, of course.
The casino echoed the Persian theme of the lobby with palms, darkly hued walls dotted with open flames under glass, and leafy plants in the corners to add warmth. Cloth dyed in an array of bright colors tented above the rows of slot machines and sheltered Delilah’s, a watering hole set in the center of the room on a raised platform. Guests crowded around the bar and the piano as I moved past. Teddie used to play that piano. My heart constricted. Teddie. He’d broken my heart. I’d patched it as best I could, but now he was back, breaking open the thin scab. The pain lingered. I wondered when it would go away, or if it ever would. With him underfoot, my chances at a cure were slim, that much I knew. But what to do?
Why did life always throw me a curveball just when I’d timed the fastball?
From the tables around me, the energy level rose on a crescendo of enthusiasm. Throngs two and three deep circled each game. Collective groans, occasionally offset by cheers, rolled through the room, overriding the thump of the energetic background music. Cocktail waitresses darted in and out of the crowd like hummingbirds testing the nectar of various flowers. The fact that the waitstaff could manage that dance on five-inch heels continually amazed me.
At the far side of the casino, tucked at the end of a long, nondescript corridor that, like the cave leading to Shangri-la, offered not one hint of the riches that lurked beyond: a world of opulence, decadence, and comfort.. The Kasbah, where a guest’s every need would be met promptly and discreetly. Okay, perhaps not their
every
need. The crazy Russian who demanded we hang gilded swords from the Tsarist era over her bed had been a bit of a challenge, but our resourcefulness prevailed—one of our bellmen knew a guy in L.A. who collected the things. Another guest wanted a bed that Frank Sinatra had slept in. That one had been a bit easier. Vegas’s history wasn’t very old, and her fans were rabid.
With each new request came a new challenge. As the chief problem solver, I got to establish the boundaries of reason.
Although fairly understanding, I drew the line at farm animals . . . for now.
After all, that Hollywood hunk who wanted a goat had left unsatisfied. So some overly inflated culinary bombast wasn’t going to get his pig, either.
Huge double bronze doors folded back, open like an inviting embrace, marked the entrance to the Kasbah. Hieroglyphics of thin figures that looked suspiciously like ancient Egyptians had been pressed into the metal for that ever-important air of authenticity. Potted date palms softened the corners. I half expected to see a camel lurking to the side—I mean, that would sort of fit with the whole animal farm problem I had going on. I glanced around. Alas, no camel. I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved or disappointed, which had me worried.
Every time I stepped into the Kasbah, I felt like Dorothy landing in Oz. Under a domed glass roof high above, the Kasbah nestled in a bath of natural sunlight—diffused and filtered for the perfect ambience, of course. Water burbled from the fountains and foliage lined the stream that pooled and meandered through the complex of separate bungalows. With private swimming pools, floor plans larger than most homes in the Valley, and a staff-to-guest ratio of five to one, our very private,
très chic
bungalows were the most sought after prizes in Vegas.
And we’d put a pig in one of them.
Bracing myself, I pulled the heavy cord hanging by the door to Bungalow 7. Chimes echoed inside and footfalls quickened to the door. Contemplating the pressed images on the door, which was a smaller replica of the large doors bracketing the entrance to the Kasbah, I half-expected a Nubian to swing the door open and usher me inside with a bow. Instead, a member of our solicitous staff greeted me with a nod and a pained expression.
Before I could say anything, he was muscled aside by the person I came to do battle with, Chef Gregor. With a pasty complexion flushed with exertion and misted with sweat, jowls that folded his skin like a venetian blind, beady dark eyes, and thin, mean lips, he looked one pat of butter shy of a heart attack. At just over six feet, he could almost carry the extra hundred pounds or so, but his stomach oozed over his belt, and his sleeves stretched over the flesh of his arms like casing around sausages. To add insult to injury, he wore his thin black hair greased back—completing the disgusting picture—which his personality perfectly complemented.
The chef pointed a thick forefinger at me. “You! What have you done with my truffle?”
“What truffle?” I stammered, blindsided once again—a recurring theme today. “I heard you have a problem with a pig.”
He waved his hand as if shooing flies, then leveled a pitying look. “You are misinformed.”
I felt like saying,
Honey, that’s where I live
, but instead, I summoned years of practice to keep my voice steady and asked, “How so?”
“The problem is not with the pig. It is with the truffle.” Turning on his heel, he stalked into the bowels of Bungalow 7.I had no alternative but to follow him.
The smell hit me first. Musty and ripe, it wasn’t the normal potpourri of blended spices and exotic unguents used to fragrance the bungalows. As I entered the great room, the scene in front of me left me speechless—a rare and somewhat dangerous occurrence. The hand-knotted silk carpet had been casually rolled back, exposing the rough-cut oak flooring. Burnished to a dark, rich sheen, it was a work of art. I’d personally supervised the men on their hands and knees as they’d polished the wood with their little steel wool pads, then stained it so many times I’d lost count.
My eyes got all slitty.
Like some life-sized Erector set, a metal fenced enclosure grew from the middle of the wooden expanse. A puffy bedding of straw filled the pen. A metal trough completed the bucolic picture . . . well, the trough
and
the huge black-and-white pig that stared into the filled feed bin, but didn’t eat.
Chef Gregor stopped in front of the pig and turned to face me. With a superior look, he reached into a burlap sack on the floor and extracted a large, bulbous object that looked curiously like a white truffle. But it couldn’t be, could it? Hadn’t Miss P. said she had the thing under lock and key? After all, it was worth a small fortune to the proper culinary expert.
“Where did you get that?” I was getting a real bad feeling.
I watched him struggle with himself for a moment, then he looked me in the eye. “Fiona had it.”
“Fiona Richards?” I tried to keep the shock off my face and out of my voice. If he knew she was dead, he hid it well. “Where did she get it?”
“She made a delivery to Burger Palais. She saw the box. When no one was watching, she took a look. When she saw the truffle, she pocketed it and brought it to me. She knew it was not my truffle, not the Alba.” Gregor pulled out the same handkerchief I’d seen him use earlier, which I found a bit disgusting—or maybe that was just the chef’s normal effect on me. This time, he blew his nose into it.
“Where did she give it to you?” I searched his face. If he was lying, I’d broil him myself.
“Right here in this bungalow.” His eyes held mine.
“Was anybody else there?”
“No.” His voice was firm.