diamonds-I’d read that somewhere-from the ceiling. Huge sprays of loose orchids-not the sad little orchids in our shop; these orchids were on steroids-sprang out of spectacular, gilded china vases on white marble tables with thick mahogany legs.
The marble floor was rippled with golds and browns and creams, ending in a busy carpet to the left, where the casino began. The slot machines were all lined up like little soldiers, ready for anything. Since they’d done away with actual coins, the familiar
Tasteful signs with cursive gold lettering pointed guests to the front desk, concierge, elevators, gaming area, shops, restaurants, and pools.
I sidestepped one of the flower displays, drinking in the scent as I lugged my case over to the front desk.
The guy was in costume, like the valet out front, this one with a permanent-marker mole sitting on the top of his cheekbone. I wondered if I should tell him I could make that really permanent. I did, after all, have my needles and ink with me.
“May I help you?” he asked, with a distinct French accent.
I wondered if he’d been imported for this very purpose.
I felt like a moron, but I leaned forward and whispered, “Minnie to see Mickey.”
His face lit up like one of the chandeliers. “Yes, yes, miss.”
I felt someone touch my arm and stared straight into the face of another costumed Frenchman offering to take my case. I clutched it a little tighter. “No, thanks,” I declined. “I can carry it.”
For some reason I felt that if I handed it over, I might not get it back, and I didn’t want anyone here knowing what was inside, since I was on this Top-Secret Mission.
The Frenchman waved me into a special elevator, separate from the bank of elevators that would bring regular people-well, incredibly rich regular people-up to their rooms. The elevator was also mirrored, and I began to feel like I was being watched again, although this time it was definitely just me watching myself. And maybe hotel security. Cameras were everywhere, even if you didn’t see them. A little disconcerting.
The doors slid open at a floor that was undesignated. The French footman-because that was what he looked like-stretched his arm out and turned up his hand, indicating I was to disembark. So I did.
The doors shut behind me, with the Frenchman behind them, and I stood alone in what I assumed was the Marie Antoinette Suite.
The pale yellow wallpaper was speckled with tiny pink roses and interrupted with elaborate white molding, the chandelier balanced delicately over yet another orchid spray on yet another marble table. I was uncomfortable and began to understand why the French had a revolution.
I took a couple of steps and peered around, seeing no one.
“Excuse me?” I said into the silence, venturing a little farther into a living room area. A grand piano sat next to a long floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the gardens, and beyond them, the Strip. It would be a great view at night, especially with all the lights.
I moved into the suite step by step, saying, “Excuse me?” as I went.
Still no answer.
The adulation that rushed over me when Jeff had said this guy’s name and the thought that I would get up close and personal with his ass were quickly dissipating. He could only be crazy. How else to explain “Minnie” and “Mickey”? And this cat-and-mouse in the suite? Would he have done this to Jeff? Was this some sort of sick misogynistic thing?
I moved through the bedroom and saw the open bathroom door. All the lights were on. I still didn’t hear anything, though.
I was going to see his naked butt anyway, so I decided against shyness and poked my head into the bathroom. I was tired of this and just wanted to get to work.
I realized, though, that my easy five hundred wasn’t going to be so easy.
He lay slumped over the edge of the Jacuzzi bathtub, his head lolled on its side, an eye staring up at the ceiling. There was no water in the tub, and I was pretty sure he was dead.
But it wasn’t the celebrity I’d been expecting to see.
I had no idea who it was.
Chapter 18
I didn’t want to put my fingerprints anywhere, so I hit the elevator button with my elbow. I had a minute or two before the doors opened, and I took a couple of deep breaths to try to calm down. I immediately thought of Jeff Coleman and how he’d sent me over here. Did he know about this? Had he set me up?
I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I was having a hard time with that.
The elevator finally arrived, and I again hit the lobby button with my elbow and felt the drop in my gut. When I stepped out, a footman-a different one this time-was waiting. He was frowning.
“Is there a problem, miss?”
“You might say that. There’s a body up there, in the bathroom, in the bathtub.” As I said it, I started to feel a little woozy.
I sank down on the floor, dropping my case at my side, and put my head between my knees.
“What’s the problem?”
It was a baritone, with an English accent.
“She says there’s a body in the Marie Antoinette Suite,” I heard the footman whisper.
“Who are you?” I felt his breath on my cheek, and I looked up into deep brown eyes that twinkled at me.
“Brett Kavanaugh. The Painted Lady.”
His mouth quivered slightly, as if he wanted to smile but stopped himself in time. I felt myself get warm all over as his eyes now moved to my arm and then across my chest to the dragon’s head, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. In fact, just the opposite.
“Yes, Miss Kavanaugh, I see that. What were you doing in the Marie Antoinette Suite, and what did you see up there?”
I glanced behind him to see a crowd starting to form. I cocked my head and said, “Maybe we should just go up there and I can show you.”
His hand was under my elbow-sending a small electric shock through me that I told myself was just from the carpeting, but from the way he was looking at me, I wasn’t totally able to convince myself of that-and he gently helped me up, leaning down slightly to pick up my case with his other hand. “Let’s,” he said simply and nodded at the footman, who fetched the elevator for us.
Once inside and going up, my stomach doing more flip-flops, I noticed the stranger was slightly taller than I was and had a sort of rakish, Hugh Jackman look about him. His hair was blonder, streaked with natural highlights, brushed back to emphasize the angles of his face. I figured he was mid-thirties or so. He wore a navy suit with a red tie but carried it off better than the Young Republican I’d seen earlier.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He did smile then.
“Simon Chase. I’m the manager.”
“I thought everyone here had to be French.”
His eyebrows arched slightly. “It
“And I guess what Bruce Manning likes, Bruce Manning gets,” I said, happy to have a small distraction from what we were about to walk in on.
“Perhaps now that you know who I am, you can tell me why you’re here, Miss Kavanaugh.”
“I was here to give a guy a tattoo, but when I showed up, I didn’t see the guy I was supposed to see. Instead, I saw some other guy dead in the bathtub.”
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
