Despite the issue with Daisy lingering, it had been an awesome kind of afternoon and evening, I had to admit, once I got past my sense of being a fish out of any kind of pond that felt familiar. With huge gratitude for George, when I received a text from Crew asking how my day was, I was able to tell him in all honesty it was fantastic, and I was looking forward to day two.
My weariness didn’t hit me until the room started to empty, a faintly dizzy feeling coming from the extra exertion sending me to find something to lean against. I chose one of the bars lining the room on the other side of the gallery, watching the space empty out, players talking and laughing, some not so happy, observing and trying to muster the strength to walk to my car and drive home.
Yup, kind of overdid it, but no regrets. As long as I didn’t pass out in front of anyone, today was a win.
I took the opportunity to check for messages as I gathered my strength, a vet reminder for Petunia’s next checkup, a few random work things from Toby about all that I had in my inbox. No message yet from Pamela or Fleur, which reawakened my worries about the O’Sheas. Only then did I take note of the one major difference about this tournament that had been niggling in the back of my mind but didn’t come to the surface until right then.
No Olivia Walker. No sign of the typically front-and-center mayor of our little town, no hint or whisper of her eagerness to hype Reading during events like this, her usual middle of the thick of the fray a telling and rather troubling truth I frowned over.
George appeared at my elbow with a satisfied smile, gesturing to the bartender. “Scotch, neat.” He winked at me. “Buy you a drink?”
I shook my head at that, knowing alcohol would make my weariness worse. “Thanks, I have to drive.”
He sighed over the glass before sipping, leaning into the bar, and grinning at me with his white teeth flashing against his dark skin. “Thanks for the help today,” he said. “Extra eyes are welcome, especially keen ones like yours. You learn fast.” He tipped his glass at me. “If you ever decide the private eye gig isn’t working out, I’d have you on my team in a heartbeat.”
Well now, how flattering. “Thanks, George,” I said.
He tossed back the rest of his scotch and sighed. “My favorite part comes next,” he said. “Tomorrow’s play will be really exciting with the better players in smaller numbers. Easier to watch the tables, but more stressful in a way because they are better at cheating at this level.”
“I never realized how complicated it was,” I said. “I’m really impressed, George.”
He shrugged that off like it was nothing but didn’t stop smiling. “You’re off for the evening?”
I nodded, finally trusting my body had the energy to make it to my car without giving up on me and embarrassing me with a tumble thanks to weakness in my knees and trembling leg muscles. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I headed out, though realized I probably should stop at the bathroom before driving home. Fifteen minutes or not, I’d failed to pay attention to my body’s needs in the excitement of things and really would prefer not to wriggle my way down the mountain.
Task complete, hands washed, and mind on a late dinner of leftovers thankfully heat and eat in the fridge (I loved my husband), I headed out of the bathroom and down the hall for the lobby, pausing in surprise when I spotted two people tucked behind one of the tall plants next to the bathroom. It was clear from the intense and unhappy expression on Isla Alverez’s face she wasn’t enjoying her interaction with Jameson Kale who brushed her off shortly after I stopped to observe, though she grabbed for him and tried to pull him back when he attempted to exit their conversation.
“Snooping is rude,” a voice whispered over my shoulder. I squeaked in response, spinning to find Eve O’Shea standing behind me with a wicked grin on her face. When I turned back to catch the original argument, Jameson had walked off, Isla being held back by Gabriella, his mother keeping the tournament director from following.
“Their little tête-à-tête has nothing to do with you,” Eve said then. “You might want to mind your own business in this case, Fee.” She shrugged as she walked past me. Paused and winked. “Just this once.”
I let her go, annoyance simmering inside me.
As if I was going to let an O’Shea—estranged from her family or not—tell me what to do.
Considering my mood was already on the irritated side, with my weariness adding to the annoyance of Eve’s little brush off not making the end of my day as bright as I’d hoped, my next encounter shouldn’t have surprised me. In fact, the place I was at in my head surely meant a continuing downward spiral into crankiness and frustration was, in fact, inevitable.
I just wished it wasn’t Daisy and her two new friends that filled that particular bill. Mind you, maybe it was for the best, though I only told myself that when I turned the corner to leave the side hall and reenter the foyer only to be forced into a full halt by the three of them—my bestie with her naturally open and sparkly expression completely wiped clear—lurking and talking.
Correction. Scarlett was giggling and whispering to her brother, that fake red hair of hers hanging down her back in shining coils of carefully curled perfection, deep crimson dress an affectation of a 50sesque housewife gone demon while her clearly drunk and snide brother wobbled next to her, sipping from his ever-present drink while the two observed with unearned disdain over the passing groups of humanity who had every right to be there.
“Seriously, did she look in the mirror before she left her room?” Scarlett’s scathing tone wasn’t lost despite the fact she hinged it on a laugh as a means to fake out her truly horrific nature behind humor.
“And those shoes.” Sloane slurred his words, leaning into his sister, practically breathing in her ear. “An injustice to fashion. She should be shot.”
Scarlett’s wicked giggle cut off as she caught sight of me peripherally, half-turning to look me up and down all over again. The simple suit I wore, white button-up beneath, and the practical shoes that had been a gift from my former FBI friend, Liz Michaud, likely wasn’t to her approval but I didn’t really care. At least my hair was actually red, you poser.
So there.
“The help is here,” Scarlett said with another of those hideous giggles of hers, waving off Daisy’s inhale to protest, Sloane’s snide grin as he joined her in judging me with those bloodshot eyes of his. “Just teasing.” Right. Sure, she was. “Daisy dear says you’re some kind of private investigator.”
“Maybe you can help me.” Sloane swayed with a dramatic wrist pressing to his forehead, showing me his glass with the ice cubes at the bottom tinkling in a pair of lonely blobs. “Someone seems to have made off with my drink!”
Scarlett shot him a rather nasty and hateful look, but he ignored her wordless demand for his silence, looking mournfully down at the lack he’d created.
“Oh, wait,” he said. “That was me.” He beamed a smile at me, teeth far too white to be real enamel, his porcelain veneers making him look like a cartoon character. And while I didn’t have anything against men wearing makeup, he had on more eyeliner than I did and really needed to tend to it before it began tracking further down his sharp cheekbones.
And a hamburger. The boy could do with more food and less alcohol and whatever else he was substituting reality for in his emaciated appearing body. Shrouded in an expensive suit and flashy jewelry or not, it was clear to me Sloane Hawthorne had issues that no amount of drinking or drug-taking would ever fix.
“Let’s go get you another drink then, shall we?” Daisy gestured for the brother and sister duo to join her, but while Sloane seemed amenable, Scarlett wasn’t done with me yet. Maybe because I hadn’t stopped staring at her in a flat and empty way that had to translate to my dislike growing by the minute. Surely, she hated the fact I had, as yet, to speak as well, holding my tongue out of sheer determination and out of what lingering respect I was losing for Daisy for putting up with these two. Sure, they might be Emile’s friends, but she was his fiancé and deserved better, knew better.
Scarlett took a long moment to again take me in fully before flicking her fingers at me as though she’d just written me off. As if. I knew a budding vendetta when I saw one, had lived one from a young age with our very own Queen of Wheat, Vivian French. Lived to become her friend, in the end. If someone like Scarlett Hawthorne thought she held a tiny spark of a flame next to the utter collected class of someone like Vivian, she was sadly deluded.
Daisy, for her part, didn’t even look at me, eyes downcast, expression so unhappy I could barely stand it. Scarlett finally glanced her way, that evil—yes, I decided, she was evil, pure and simple—the smile she wore designed to torture my friend and not even trying to hide it.
“Shall we?” The sister of the pair led the way, Sloane grabbing for her arm and using her to stay upright, Daisy pausing one moment to finally look up and meet my eyes.
“They’ll be gone soon,” she whispered, but was she talking to me? Didn’t seem to matter.
“Daisy dear, yoo-hoo!” That was Sloane looking back, waving with his empty glass, the two cubes flying free to land on the stone floor and shatter before scattering in bright, wet shards. “Drinky-poo!”
She left, going after them, while I slowly, oh so slowly, unclenched my jaw, my shoulders, my stomach, my entire body, enough I was finally able to inhale a full breath.
Let it out with a snort as the lingering scent of Scarlett’s overpowering perfume made me sick, before heading for the exit.
I needed to get out of here before I became the problem Emile hired me to guard against.
It wasn’t until I was almost to the doors that I realized I’d forgotten my purse in the main room, kicking myself for adding steps to my weary retreat. By the time I ducked behind the bar and retrieved my property, I was about ready to just stretch out on the carpet and pull a tablecloth over me and call it a day. Instead, Fleming stoic determination screwed firmly in place, I headed back the way I’d come.
Hard to miss the sight of Jade Saito tucked behind one of the open doors, her distinctive tattoo almost like a beacon as much as the shining emerald of her silk dress. The fact Miles Weston hovered next to her, whispering something that seemed to make her anxious, wasn’t lost on me. Hey, I was tired, but no amount of weariness beat the old busybody in me. She fished what looked like a small, insulated tube out of her matching green clutch and handed it to him with a hissing response that had him nodding but smiling. Miles opened it, slid out what appeared to be a glass vial, a hint of mist rising from it, the chill the insulation created wafting from the surface before he slid it back inside again and sealed the top. He tried to hug her, the obvious attempt expertly dodged while Jade spun on her spiked heels and marched away from him.
I considered asking him what the exchange was about, but he spotted me standing there like an idiot—okay, I was tired—and flashed me a grin before hurrying off himself.
Making a mental note to tell George about the exchange, I chose sleep over curiosity and headed for home. Finally.
***