It was a little after six thirty when we walked back into the ornate oval lobby of the resort. I was glad to see Lurch in his usual somber black suit at his usual spot just inside the double doors. His only nod to the holiday season this evening being a headband sporting antlers, holly berries, and jingle bells. The antlers bobbed around when he moved his head.
Jack lifted a hand as we walked by him. "Lookin' good tonight, Lurch."
Lurch just groaned but did high-five Jack.
Over at the reception desk, a man's voice was on the rise.
Lucy stood in her designated spot behind the counter, arms crossed, trying to keep a smile pasted on her face.
The man in front of the counter, the man pounding his fist on the marble top, was none other than my current number-one suspect, the bookie, Zachary Jones.
"And why can't you tell me, Lucy? Fifty's not enough? Would a Ben Franklin do it for ya?" He reached for his back pocket.
Lucy shook her head and held her hands up, palms out. "Mr. Jones, please. I can't—"
Jack took four long strides, and he was there beside Zachary. "Something I can do to help you, Mr. Jones?"
The bookie turned, his eyes narrowed as if he was trying to remember. He pointed an index finger. "Stockton, right? You're the manager."
Jack offered his hand. "Is there a problem?"
Zachary shook with Jack. "I'm just trying to convince Lucy here to part with a little information I need."
Jack's smile looked so authentic, I was probably the only person in the room who knew it wasn't. "And what would that be?"
"She told me Diane Connor was no longer a guest here."
Jack glanced at Lucy. "That's right."
"Well, I need to know where she went." Jones said. "She's not at home. I checked." He lifted his chin. It looked a little bit like a challenge.
So, now the bookie was stalking poor, screwed-up Diane? I thought about it, considering that maybe Cat and I were lucky to have made it out of his sports book safely. If I had it to do over, I probably wouldn't have taken the risk. If Zachary Jones killed Slim and was looking for Diane, he was dangerous.
And he certainly looked the part in a black long-rider coat and a black flat-brimmed undertaker's hat. He looked like an old-time gunslinger out to take care of business. I fully expected him to mumble, "I'm your huckleberry."
But instead he said, "If you know where she is, Stockton, I can make it worth your while to tell me."
I was still a good eight to ten feet away from them, but I could tell Jack was angry from where I stood. He cleared his throat, probably to keep the anger from it. "Mrs. Conner isn't here."
Zachary narrowed his eyes. If he'd had a moustache, he'd have been stroking it. "Hmm. Not here. Not at home. You think she left the area?"
"No." Jack shook his head, his tone ironic. "Pretty sure she hasn't left the area."
The bookie stared at Jack a few beats then turned his glare on Lucy.
She shrugged and tried to smile but was clearly upset.
"You people know her loser husband owed me a boatload of money, right?" His voice was tight.
Neither Jack nor Lucy answered him.
He went on. "So I'm looking for his wife. In my business, we expect someone to stand good for a man's debts. Even after he dies. If she knows what's good for her…" His voice trailed off.
I swallowed—hard.
Jack's jaw clamped shut, and his face went hard. I stared at him. I'd never seen that look on his face before or heard that steel in his voice. "You wouldn't be threatening a man's widow now. Would you, Mr. Jones?"
Zachary shrugged, but he didn't look away, and the serious expression on his face was more than enough of an answer.
"Really?" Jack said. "Doesn't sound like a good idea for a man who makes illegal book and is maybe even a homicide suspect to be tossing around hints that he might be going after a sick, grieving woman. What do you think? Sound like a good plan to you? A person might believe a man who'd threaten a woman wouldn't think anything about killing a man."
Jones stepped away suddenly and practically shrieked, "Homicide suspect?"
He looked around the room as if he expected a SWAT team to jump out from behind a pillar and arrest him. "What makes you think I'm a suspect in Conner's death?"
Jack's voice was calm and even, like he was explaining unexpected charges on a bill to an irate guest. "Death? You mean murder. Don't you? Well, let's see. You were here that night, captured for posterity on the digital video, with enough time in between your arrival and departure to have done the deed. And you've made it plain you had a serious problem with Slim. Why wouldn't you be considered a suspect?"
I looked back and forth between Jack and the bookie. The way Jones was dressed, I almost expected him to draw a six-shooter and fill my man full of lead. He brushed aside the coat and reached inside.
I drew in a sharp breath and said, "Wait!"
But Jack and Zachary Jones just kept staring at each other like cowboys at high noon.
"Wait for what?" Jack said, his eyes still fixed on Jones.
I felt a little foolish. This was Mystic Isle, not Dodge City, and it was the 21st century, not the 19th.
Everything slid back into perspective when Zachary relaxed and shoved the brim of his hat back a bit. "You people watch too much television. Why on earth would I want to kill someone who owed me fifty-two large? That doesn't make any sense—I'd be in exactly the crappy situation I'm in today. Out an enormous amount of money and nowhere to turn for payment. You must think I'm an idiot." He looked around the lobby and said loudly, "Does anyone here know where I can find Mrs. Conner?"
The few people in the lobby looked up in confusion.
I moved over beside Jack and cleared my throat, anxious to get rid of Zachary Jones and the tension he brought with him. "You might check with the sheriff's office," I said.
He looked at me, blinking. His voice seemed to have risen in pitch. "Why would I want to talk to someone at the sheriff's office?"
"Because," I said, "the sheriff will know how you can get in touch with Diane Conner. They took her into custody a few hours ago."
Zachary Jones went pale and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He turned abruptly toward the front door and walked quickly away, looking around and back over his shoulder as he went.
We watched him go.
Lurch saluted as he left. "Thank you for visiting The Mansion, sir. Have a Merry Christmas."
I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw Zachary Jones give Lurch the bird.
"Mr. Jones seem a little nervous when you brought up the sheriff?" Jack asked.
"Little bit," I said. "Yeah."
Seeing Jack go up against Zachary Jones without flinching. Exciting.
Realizing Jones wasn't the badass he represented himself to be. Enlightening.
Seeing the big bully speechless. Priceless.
Jack and I stopped at the employee locker room where I picked up my overnight bag, and then we walked across the grounds to Jack's little domicile.
After his shift, Quincy planned to cross the river and spend the night at our place with Cat. Awkward—for me anyway. I'd twice caught him in his tighty-whities, bum turned up, head stuck down, rummaging through the refrigerator in the middle of the night. It hadn't seemed to bother Quincy. The first time he'd just straightened up, waved a fried chicken leg at me, and gone back to Cat's bedroom, and the other time he'd poured a glass of milk and stood there in his briefs talking to me about how most people never got enough calcium and vitamin D in their diet. Then there was the time I'd left the house early and walked down to Café du Monde at the French Market for some warm breakfast beignets only to return to find Quincy strolling out of my shower, a towel wrapped around his head and nothing else.
"Oops," he'd said. "Cat's having a bubble bath in the other tub. Thought you wouldn't mind if I used your shower."
I'd been so traumatized I'd gone back outside and ate all the beignets myself. You just can't unsee something like that, and the handsome Cajun didn't seem to have a modest bone in his studly bod.
So when Cat told me she and her lover boy were having a slumber party at our place, I'd asked Jack if he was up for a sleepover at his place.
"You betcha I am," he'd said.
As we walked across the grounds under a clear night sky, I pointed at a bright star low on the horizon. "That one's Venus," I said.
"Yeah? How do you know?"
"Stella," I said. "She knows all the stars and planets, where they are, what they portend to us?"
"Nice," Jack said, swinging our clasped hands between us. He was quiet for a while then said, "That bookie is an interesting guy."
"Where do you think he got that outfit?" I asked. "That'd look real sexy on you. If you had one, we could do some role-playing, pretend you're the nameless gunslinger in town, and I'm the schoolmarm."
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it, a wicked glint in his eye. "Let's hurry on over to my place and check out that scenario."
"But you don't have the outfit," I said.
"Outfit?" He pretended to snarl. "I don't need no stinking outfit."