“We do, we do. And our people benefit from it every single day. Is this your first time here?”
“Yes. I heard about the casino from Walter Russom.” Sort of. “Is he one of your investors?”
Jimmy’s smile didn’t falter, but he blinked as if this was unwelcome news. “Hah, well, Walter certainly does his bit to support the cause.” He pointed a finger at me. “I’ve gotta keep moving. Very nice to meet you, Roberta. Have fun with our little games.” And he was gone.
Little games like slot machines? Or not telling me whether Walter was an investor? It was more likely Jimmy meant Walter supported the cause by losing lots of money at the poker tables.
Blond Ponytail arrived as I scooted back into my seat. My drink was among three others balanced on her tray. After she handed it to me, I thanked her and laid a ten-dollar bill on the tray.
“You don’t have to tip me, ma’am.” She tried to give it back.
I waved her hand away. “It’s okay. I didn’t pay for my drink, after all.” I smiled. “Put it toward your college fund.”
She thanked me and slid the bill into her apron pocket. “I do plan to go to college. I want to be an engineer.”
“Good for you. I studied engineering, too. What’s it like working here?” I asked before sipping the beer.
“Not bad. Close to home. I have a three-year-old who stays with her granny while I’m working. And people who hit the jackpot? They’re the best tippers.” She glanced toward the door. “Oh, look, there’s Mr. Russom. Want me to tell him you’re here?”
“No, it’s all right,” I blurted. “I’ll, uh, find him later.” He was pretty much the last person I wanted to see right now.
My server headed off to deliver the other drinks. I put my head down, studying the machine, and tilted my face away from the central aisle. But if I hadn’t wanted to run into Walter, I shouldn’t have come here at all. Another stupid idea. I was full of them this week. Why hadn’t I listened to the detective, or to Madame Allegra?
Sure enough, a moment later a hand clapped me on the shoulder. “Is that Katherine’s friend I see?” Walter asked in his reedy voice. “You must be hoping to get lucky like all the rest of us.”
I glanced up, mustering a smile. “Hello, Mr. Russom. How are you?”
“Good, good. Knocked off work early, headed over here with an eye to picking up some fun money.” His tone was pure joviality. The smudges under his eyes and the lines in his forehead told a different story altogether.
Chapter 39
Alana dropped me at the café at four thirty, saying she had to get back for dinner with her parents.
“And I’m afraid this is good-bye for now, Robbie. I’m driving home tomorrow.”
“Already? Too soon.”
“I know. I do miss Antonio, though, and I need a weekend at home to prepare for a big project meeting at work on Monday.”
“I’m flying home Saturday, anyway,” I said. “It’s been so awesome to hang with you. You have to come and visit in Indiana. I have B-and-B rooms—at no cost to friends and family, of course—and I can show you the area. Bring the man, and you can meet mine, too.”
“Deal.”
“Pinky promise?” I asked.
“Always.”
We hooked pinkies and went straight on to a hug.
“You have my number,” she said.
“Hey, I’ve had your number since kindergarten!” I climbed out and shut the door. I leaned into the open window. “Say hi to the ’rents.”
She gave me a thumbs-up and drove off. I watched her go, shaking my head. Why in the world hadn’t we seen each other in the last decade? We had picked up this week exactly where we’d left off, except with the added richness of new experiences thrown into the mix.
I stood in front of the café and thought. It was four thirty and the sun wouldn’t set for another hour. Still, it was a bit late to start a bike ride, considering I would have to change first. And I’d had a good ride early this morning. I realized I hadn’t walked around the mission yet this trip. I’d only ridden by at the start of the week.
Despite the Catholic Church’s sordid history of enslaving hundreds of Chumash people centuries earlier—a fact about which I’d been unaware as a child—I’d always loved walking the mission grounds and imagining the monks walking silently in their habits, hands hidden in the joined sleeves. I decided to pay a visit for old times’ sake.
After I ran up to my room and used the facilities, I slid into my rental car. Soon enough, I pulled into the parking area to the left of the graceful old mission. I stared. Why was it empty? I checked the mission’s Web site on my phone. Oh. Because the mission was closed for the day. It was still a working church and monastery, and the members of the religious order who lived there needed their privacy. I didn’t care. I hadn’t planned to go inside, anyway, and the grounds outside the walls were always open for strolling. I parked and stashed my bag on the floor, pocketing the key.
I put Paul’s death, Walter’s gambling, and everything else firmly out of my mind and strolled about as any Midwesterner on vacation would. I meandered along the covered walkway in front of the mission building, which featured arches ending in pillars every eight feet, typical of the colonial architecture. I imagined monks and Chumash alike being shaded by the roof. Shade was a lot more important than shelter from rain in this part of the world. The walkway was paved with antique stones that had settled, so their uneven surface now presented something of a walking hazard.
The antique lavandería sat
