Cashed In Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Bee’s Buzz

  Sore Loser

  I nailed the full house on The River with an Ace of hearts and shook my head in amazement. Smiling again, Sam turned over his two pair, Aces and Kings, and cupped his hands around the chips. He’d slid them halfway toward himself when I slowly turned up my cards. His eyes widened, then narrowed to black slits as his grin faded and he lifted his hands up off the felt. He snatched up his jacket, jammed it on and stuck a hand on the pocket where I’d slipped the note I’d written earlier. His brows drew together as he pulled it out. The dealer had distributed our pocket cards, so I peeked at them while watching Sam read my note.

  Meet me at the aft deck after the tournament and I’ll share some tips on how to win the game of modern Hold ’Em.

  —BC

  Sam stared at me a beat and then stomped off, anger radiating from him in almost tangible waves. He was mad enough now to kill, that was for sure. I just hoped Jack wouldn’t let me down or I was going to be in real trouble.

  The Poker Mysteries by Jackie Chance

  DEATH ON THE FLOP

  CASHED IN

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  CASHED IN

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2007

  Copyright © 2007 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

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  eISBN: 9781101374276

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  This is for my godparents,

  my aunt and uncle,

  Ann and Bob Coleman

  The poker player learns that sometimes both science and common sense are wrong; that the bumblebee can fly; that, perhaps, one should never trust an expert; that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of by those with an academic bent.

  —David Mamet

  Prologue

  You know it has been said that money creates more problems than it solves. I never believed that. Until now.

  One

  Sexy mama!”

  I looked up not because I was either sexy or anyone’s mama, but because I recognized the voice of my reprobate twin. He waved at me over the hordes of people between us on the ship dock then paused to wink at a truly sexy mama—an Angelina Jolieish siren complete with big lips and big boobs but skinny everywhere else, holding a Shiloh-looking baby on her hip. I glanced back down at the envelope the travel agency had sent that proved I’d paid a small fortune to be in this sweaty cast of thousands waiting to be cleared to get on a chunk of metal bobbing around in the Gulf of Mexico. This was part of the reason I now believed that money causes more problems than it solves. At first, I foresaw the three hundred and fifty thousand I’d lucked into six months ago by winning Vegas’ Big Kahuna—the Lanai casino’s Pro-Am Texas Hold ’Em Tournament—as a ticket to a new life. I’d just turned forty, lost my fiancé, my career and almost my life. In the rush of adrenaline following the tournament, murders and Sin City, I’d agreed to take my brother and my potential significant other, aka lifesaver, with me on a poker cruise. Already, that was going to hell—the significant other hadn’t shown, my parents had, and now I had to share a room with a modern day Don Juan. Nothing could be worse than a guy on the make when that guy was your brother and, when he made his make, you had to sleep on the pool deck. This was going to be one heck of a cruise.

  I watched as Ben threaded his way to me, greatly enjoying the appreciative glances of 93 percent of the women he passed (the other 7 percent being obviously vision impaired or related to him), and reviewed another reason money had created more problems than it had solved for me. It had given me the opportunity to tear up my résumé, allowing me to start my own business as an advertising consultant. To be my own boss meant more to me than most, since my old boss had been my fiancé who I’d caught doing the nasty on top of one of my ad campaigns with his executive assistant. Freedom on two fronts. I should have known better. Instead, one of my first big jobs was with an airline that hired me as a creative adjunct to my former advertising firm. Yes, you guessed it, my ex-fiancé, Toby McKnight, was head of the account. I had to see him and his twenty-year-old, gum-smacking, booty-wiggling floozie nearly every day in the heat of the campaign—the airline’s, not theirs. Or maybe both, except now I was trying not to notice theirs.

  Have I mentioned I have really bad karma?

  And it was just getting worse.

  “Bee-Bee,” Ben finally sidled up to me, slid his arm around my waist and squeezed as he whispered in my ear. “I’m next in line, so I’ll check out the room and catch up with you later.”


  I was about 1,042 in line and since he’d been 1,043 until he’d left to go to the restroom ten minutes ago, I cocked my head at him and raised my eyebrows. He shook his just-a-little-bit-too-long black hair out of his face. His green eyes twinkled. A woman walking past sighed.

  “Ingrid talked me into joining her in line.” He flashed a grin toward the head of the line. A six-foot-tall Scandinavian princess, surrounded by a dozen other college coeds, all shorter but no less nubile, waved at him to hurry back.

  “Is Ingrid over eighteen?” I muttered, fanning myself with the ship map. It had to be one hundred degrees in the shade here at the Port of Galveston.

  “What kind of question is that? She was just being kind, letting me in like that.”

  “Uh-huh,” I muttered, frowning at the lithe Amazon.

  “You old worrywart.” Ben gave me a noogie. “Live a little. Have fun. Oops, I forgot. You wouldn’t know fun if it slapped you on the butt.”

  The tanned, sexy Marlboro Man I’d been admiring in line behind me snorted in disgust. Probably at my un-fun-loving rear end. I resisted the urge to tuck my heinie behind a nearby potted palm. Ben grabbed for my braid. I was a forty-year-old worrywart on a cruise with a twin who acted liked Dennis the Menace. I might start to get depressed. And that was before I’d even begun to contemplate what the aforementioned heinie looked like from behind.

  Ben winked and sauntered off as if he were doing the Earth a favor by being on it. Most women wouldn’t argue with his supposition. God may have shorted him in maturity but more than made up for it in looks.

  “Belinda!” Another unfortunately all-too-familiar voice shouted above the din.

  Ack. In my peripheral vision, I could see them coming up on my right.

  I turned left, trying to strike up a conversation with the Marlboro Man, but he was already talking to the bodacious blonde behind him. That noogie really turned him off. Damn Ben.

  “Howard, is it really Belinda? It looks like her, but I didn’t think she’d look quite so frumpy.”

  Frumpy? My hands reached to smooth my khaki capris. Oh dear. I’d imagined poor form but not that poor.

  “See, Howard, she is our girl. Come to think of it, I think it’s those ridiculous high water pants that make her look like she’s packing two half-full water balloons.”

  I’d been hoping to avoid my parents. This was why.

  “Look, Howard, she’s smiling. I told you she’d be happy to see us. She just didn’t hear me calling earlier, did you, pookie?”

  “What?” I fanned my hot face as I forced a smile. “Of course not, Mom. Were you calling?”

  Unbelievable as it may seem, it hadn’t been difficult to talk me into letting my parents have my cabin on the ship. It all happened during one of Frank’s half-dozen visits to Houston, a really, really nice weekend.

  He was the one who’d convinced me to make a family vacation of the poker cruise. He said he liked my parents. I think he was just entertained by my reaction to them, most especially to my mom, Elva. I didn’t fight it because I thought it would be a good excuse to spend a lot of time together, in his cabin. My parents would have to take mine, since the inaugural cruise of the Sea Gambler was full . . .

  And where was Frank now?

  I had no idea, actually. He’d called my cell phone and left a message this morning saying he was so sorry. He had a “crisis” with a job and told us not to wait on him at the port. He said he would make it up to me. Uh-huh. Frank was in the “security” business and despite the time we’d spent together since Vegas, I knew no more about what he did for a living than the first day in a Vegas bar when he’d handed me his card. He carried a gun and sometimes handcuffs. He lived in L.A. but didn’t have a home phone, so I had been given only a cell number. He had an ex-wife and two kids I’d never met, who he rarely talked about. He was a recovering alcoholic who still occasionally fell off the wagon. He would leave unexpectedly on jobs and sometimes go days before returning a phone call.

  Frank Gilbert didn’t sound like the kind of guy that could engender trust, but somehow he did.

  Or maybe I was just desperate.

  Or maybe I just remembered that weekend in May all too well . . .

  My first goal on this trip was to find someone to make new memories, so I could forget steaming up glass elevators. Forget slow dancing in the rain. Forget where champagne tasted best.

  “Belinda, are you alright?” Mom slapped her hand on my forehead. “You are very red, and you’re breathing hard.”

  I cleared my throat and snapped the stretchy beaded bracelet around my wrist, then used it to wrap my braid up into a bun. “It’s just a little warm out here, Mom.”

  She eyed me suspiciously, but nodded and changed the subject. Or so she thought. “We saw Ben with his new women friends. They’re quite taken with our boy.” She paused proudly before nosing on ahead. She looked around at the masses surrounding us. “Where’s Frank?”

  Oh dear. I cleared my throat and tried for nonchalant, blowing a curl of hair out of my face to buy a bit more time.

  “Well?” Elva demanded.

  I forced a cheery tone. “He called and said he had an emergency. It sounds like he won’t make it before we shove off.”

  “Humph. Sounds fishy to me. I bet he found a new girl. You should have dragged him down the aisle when you had the chance. Now you’ve lost the best catch you’ve had in years.” Mom tsked. Behind her, Marlboro Man and the blonde both tsked. Super.

  “When did I have the chance, Mom?” I asked, staring at the shiny head of the bald man in front of me, willing the line to move faster.

  “You were in Vegas, weren’t you?” Mom was aghast, liver-spotted hands flying around, cherry red lipsticked lips pursing and moving soundlessly with my failure.

  “We were in Vegas when we’d only known each other three days.” I pointed out. Why I continued to justify this vein of conversation, I don’t know. A lot must be said for underage brainwashing. Be respectful of your elders, Belinda . I knew she’d had an ulterior motive with that life lesson drilled into my brain from birth.

  “That’s longer than a lot of people know each other before they get married in Sin City. Who was that star who only knew her husband something like an hour before they tied the knot?”

  “Mom, they got an annulment three days later.”

  “So? You’d never agree to something like that. Neither would Frank. He’s a guy who keeps a promise. He’d stand by you even if he had second thoughts. Get him to say ‘I do’ and you’re in like Flynn.” Mom nodded once decisively.

  Great, how romantic. Anyhow, both of us were so far away from thinking about marriage that if the altar were in Boise, we were in Siberia, or maybe Mars. And what about the promise to go on the poker cruise with me? He sure hadn’t fulfilled that one, had he?

  “So.” Mom rushed on. “Call him and tell him you’ll meet him in Vegas. Get him a little tipsy and haul him in front of an Elvis preacher and get it done.”

  Mom didn’t know about the alcoholism. Maybe I should tell her and derail her train. I didn’t have the heart to do that to Frank, even though he’d ditched me. With my parents to boot. I sighed. “I’ll think about it, Mom.”

  With that she gave a sharp, satisfied nod. “Good.”

  “Hey, girlie, how’s that house coming along? I thought you might not make the cruise, what with having to ride herd on all those subcontractors.” Dad chuckled, waiting entirely too long to change the subject.

  Which brings me to yet another reason why I think money causes more problems than it solves. The house I bought. The house that may not be finished until I retire. I love old historic homes and there are some terribly cute ones with great character in University Oaks. But being properly mature and wise, I resisted because I didn’t want to be constantly working on something already on its way down—if it wasn’t the plumbing, it would be electrical, or the lead-based paint would start peeling, or asbestos would need eradicating. I thought I’d
be smart and build a brand-new house, getting the mess all over with before I moved in. Now it’s if I move in. So much for wise. Two weeks after they poured the foundation, the day after they began the framing, my contractor disappeared with half the money for the house. No licensed contractor worth his salt in Houston would take the job before sometime next year, so I got my contractor’s license and hired the plumbers, the painters and the electricians to name a few. And what I’ve learned is that they show up when they are supposed to about 10 percent of the time. They do what they are supposed to about 5 percent of that time. At this rate, I’ve calculated the house will be finished when I am sixty-four years and two months old.

  “I told them not to come back for a week,” I answered. “Which probably means they will all show up every day, on time, and put the stove in the bathroom and carpet on the ceiling.”

  Dad chuckled. “It would go a lot faster and easier for you if you’d agree to let me go crack the whip.”

  I didn’t miss the warning look from Mom. A regular checkup had surprised Dad with a 90 percent blocked artery and he’d had a shunt put in his heart a month ago. “Thanks, Dad, but you need to enjoy your retirement.”

  He pulled a face and turned to look at an exotic Polynesian model walking through the crowd in a string bikini. Smiling to show a row of brilliant, capped teeth, she passed him a card. “Remember to shop in our gift shop on board. We have great prices on everything from lingerie to jewels—and, remember, once in international waters, everything is duty free! And I can tell”—pause for heavy lidded look down his form—“you’re going to win a lot at the Hold ’Em tables, handsome, so get ready to spend it on your special lady or anyone you choose.” With a wink she was gone. He looked like he wanted to chase her and, since his heart operation, I was repeatedly worried he would do just that. He’d gone from perpetually tired to perpetually peppy. I hoped Mom could keep up.