Cashed In Page 5

  “So maybe the killer is after money but gets interrupted,” Delia put in, worry now clouding her eyes.

  “Poker players are gamblers. Maybe these folks got in over their heads and on the wrong side of an impatient lender,” Rick said.

  “The mob?” I asked.

  Ben shrugged. “Maybe it’s not about borrowed money, maybe it’s about won money. What’s that saying—for love or money. Maybe it’s emotion—the other big killer in the world. Could it be jealousy? Maybe it’s somebody knocking out the competition.”

  That halted the conversation for a moment because if that were the case we all were potential suspects, along with the mysterious Sam Hyun. Hmm. I suddenly felt guilty even though I had no reason to be.

  “Now who’s got that bright idea?” A tall, skeletonian senior citizen in a guayabera and Stetson asked. He shook hands all around, then pushed his dipping snuff into his weathered cheek before he continued. “I wish I’d thought of that, considering my tough competition on board this raft.”

  Rick introduced me and Singh to Rawhide Jones, winner of the first ever World Series of Poker almost forty years ago. He doffed his hat for me so gallantly I had to stop myself from curtsying. He shook Singh’s hand so hard the poor kid was left rubbing his arm.

  I instantly liked the man, mostly for his vulnerable bald head surrounded by thinning gray hair and his warm brown eyes that sparkled with vigor and happiness. “Why do they call you Rawhide?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “Don’t I look like a long piece of it?” He grinned, rippling up a hundred wrinkles around each side of his mouth. “I swear my wife has to beat the dogs off on a regular basis.”

  “Dogs in heat maybe, you sly old coot,” Rick corrected. “Come on, Rawhide. Tell Bee the real story.”

  “Not now, boy,” he answered, waving off Rick’s demand. “I interrupted y’all. Continue with what promises to be an enlightening conversation.”

  There was a pause, where we searched for where we’d left off. Ben, who was obviously in his infamous focus mode about the disappearances, broke the silence. “Rawhide, there’s talk that poker winners are the target of some kind of cruise ship hitman.”

  “Ben,” Rick cautioned, turning to Rawhide. “There’s no proof these people are being killed. There have just been a rash of disappearances at sea and some investigator, as yet unnamed, has supposedly found a link that they all played Texas Hold ’Em, and they all had a decent win history.”

  “How do the people disappear?” Delia blurted out, grabbing Ben’s arm. It looked like Ben had fed at least one overactive imagination.

  “Different ways, which is why no one has ever made a connection between them before.” Ben began counting on his fingers. “Some disappear while the ship is at sea, explained away as falling overboard. A couple of them left traces of blood, but no body was ever found. One left a suicide note, the writing of which apparently didn’t match the passenger’s. One lady left an evening bag with a broken strap next to the deck railing. One man was going to meet his wife and young sons and disappeared going from one deck to two below in broad daylight. Several never got back on the ship when at a foreign port, explained away as they wanted to disappear.”

  “Maybe that’s the case, young man,” Rawhide put in. “They all socked enough poker money away in a Grand Cayman account and simply wanted to get outta Dodge.”

  Delia swallowed loudly and asked: “Did all disappear from the same cruise line?”

  Ben shook his head. “No, at least half a dozen different cruise lines. And all different ships. Different ports. Different seas.”

  “But haven’t any of the cruise lines investigated the disappearances?” I asked.

  Ben shrugged. “According to my secondhand report, each instance had a plausible explanation. The woman with the handbag had a history of depression, perhaps the bag got caught as she jumped overboard. The man who disappeared between decks had epilepsy and could’ve had an attack that sent him over the railing.”

  We all paused to look at the four-foot railing, which before seemed more than tall enough to keep us aboard. Now it seemed suddenly ominous.

  Ben continued. “One man who disappeared while at port had been seen by other passengers arguing with his wife that day.”

  Rawhide whistled. “Gol-durn. That happened to me and Sally’d be in the slammer and not for being after my poker winnings. Good thing she stayed home this trip.”

  We all laughed, everyone but Delia. “But we all have arguments from time to time,” Delia said softly, glancing nervously at her husband. “That shouldn’t be reason enough to explain a desertion.”

  “I think we are being melodramatic,” Rhonda announced. “Statistics can prove any theory. This is the same concept. You fish long enough for a connection, you will find one. Remember Rick’s ‘blue eyes’ comment. It’s ridiculous. We need to drop this macabre theme, get on with dinner and our favorite game.” She’d been so quiet during the intense discussion, I had almost forgotten she still stood with us.

  Before any of us could comment, Kinkaid pulled up next to us in a pink tafetta ruffled minidress that made her look like an upside-down overfrosted cupcake. “What macabre theme?”

  We shot furtive guilty looks around the group, before Ben, who’s never felt guilty in his life and didn’t know Kinkaid on sight anyway, said, “Cruise ships seem to be eating poker players for breakfast these days.”

  Leave it to Ben to be ever tactful. Kinkaid lost the color in her face, leaving her cream blush standing out like two round pink stains on a white canvas. She cleared her throat in an effort to compose herself, then thrust an arm-wrestling hand forward. “I haven’t met you yet. I’m Alyce Kinkaid.”

  Ben brought her knuckles to his lips. “Jamin Cooley at your service.” Oh, come on.

  Instead of succumbing to Ben’s charm, Kinkaid pulled his hand down into a hearty shake. I remembered her bone crusher as Ben winced. I had to like the woman a little more. “Not the same Ben-jamin Cooley who is Bee Cool’s agent?” Ben looked uncharacteristically ashamed for an instant before nodding. The rest of the “stars” stared at me, perhaps impressed, most likely amazed. I waved off both as Kinkaid continued sternly. “I certainly hope you enjoy our cruise, Benjamin, but I have to ask you to be careful of your comments. In this age of terrorism, we have the same concerns as airlines do, and our travelers’ safety comes first. I have to caution you that if you make any more inflammatory or threatening comments I will have you put ashore at our first port.”

  Delia gasped and Rawhide interjected: “Miz Kinkaid, you’re recollecting me of my toy fox terrier Rex going after a possum in the barn. Ben wasn’t trying to stir nothing up. And, by the by, neither was the possum, he was just going after dinner.”

  Kinkaid nodded once. “And just like Rex, I am just doing my job, Mr. Jones.”

  Rawhide raised his eyebrows and the bill of his straw Stetson in acknowledgement of her touché.

  Rick said: “Miss Kinkaid, I think you’re trying to scare us into being quiet. We all could ask you to address the topic Ben brought up—considering poker winners are going poof and we happen to qualify.”

  A ramrod had gone into Kinkaid’s spine and apparently super glue on her lips, as they barely opened to issue the next statement. “We’ve heard about that theory and our investigators don’t find it a plausible connection. Still, in an effort to make you all more comfortable, we are stepping up our security.”

  “How?” Delia and Rhonda both asked.

  Kinkaid smiled tightly. “If I told you that, I would compromise our efforts, wouldn’t I? If any of you don’t feel safe, I will arrange for your transport home as soon as we dock tomorrow in Key West. But if you ask me, the whole thing is the result of paranoia.”

  Ben’s tail was now firmly tucked between his legs and I was enjoying it. Before she swished off, Kinkaid reminded us all to be a little early to the tournament so we could get our table assignments first.

  “Did you g
et the name of that insurance investigator?” Rick asked Ben.

  Ben shook his head. “All I know is he has a handlebar mustache, wears a bowtie and has a propensity for bowling shoes because they don’t make noise when he walks.”

  Rick nodded. “Ought to be easy to pick out of a crowd.”

  “What do you want to bet that investigator will be the one who disappears next?” Singh asked quietly.

  That was a bet none of us wanted to touch.

  “Since when did you get in the agenting business, Jamin?” I leaned in and whispered to Ben as we walked toward the dining room. He flicked me a dark look, before he was distracted by a bodacious blonde in a see-through white gauze dress.

  “I’m just looking out for you, Bee Bee,” he said with an impish grin at the blonde who winked, waved and wiggled.

  “You thought I wanted to give up my anonymity? You thought I wanted to be thrown in with a bunch of poker experts like I know what I am doing? You thought I was dying to be accosted by strangers around every corner wanting my advice on how to win? You thought I would be so bored on the cruise I would look forward to spending a couple of hours giving a seminar on the Softer Secrets of Winning at Hold ’Em?”

  “Ooo, that sounds erotic. I might even come to that one,” Ben winked.

  I glared.

  “Come on, Bee Bee, at least this will keep you so busy you can’t sulk about Frank not showing . . .” he put in with arched eyebrows.

  “I am going to kill you, Ben!” My voice rose a few decibels out of whisper range. A couple of people stared.

  “Oh, Bee Bee, you don’t play well anyway. This just gives you some work to do for fun. Besides, just think of what a boring cruise you would have had if it weren’t for me.”

  “How wonderful that sounds. A boring cruise in my own room that you gave away to some group of girls who will end up spending most of the time in our room anyway—”

  “Well, you’re right about part of that, at least one girl will be spending most of the time in our room.”

  “I knew it.” I stopped and stomped one Jimmy Choo before marching on through the crowd headed into the dining room. “I’m doomed to sleep on a pool lounge while you have some sort of ménage à quad—”

  “No.” Ben had a look that was completely unfamiliar to him. It was so rare, I stopped and stared as he continued reluctantly. “Ingrid and I switched. I’m staying in the comped room with the other girls. She wants to stay with you. She says you are more fun than I am”—ouch, that hurt him—“and she insists you need her help.”

  I finally placed the look. Ben was sulking. I’d stolen one of his play toys. Only I didn’t want it. “Ben, I don’t want Ingrid in my room. I want her in my room less than I want you in my room. Besides I can’t think of what kind of help she can give me.”

  “Well, there is that one position . . .” Ben mused.

  I shot him a warning look, opening my mouth. He put his hand up in defense. “Just joking. You probably already know it anyway.”

  I huffed. He grinned. From the table in dead center of the big room, just under the incredibly overdone crystal chandelier, my mother in a too snug, orange, eyelet dress, stood up and started waving frantically. Half the room looked our way. Ben leaned in and whispered, “Ingrid says she will be your fashion consultant on the cruise. And considering how well she did with your getup tonight, I’d say she is going to make it memorable for everyone on board.”

  Just when I thought this vacation really couldn’t get any worse. And this was only day one.

  Six

  Dinner was better than I expected in some ways and worse in others. Frank’s empty chair kept staring at me, but so did Ian Reno (even hotter in real clothes) from across the room. The good and the bad of those facts kept flip-flopping, depending on if Frank’s chair was staring at me with reproach like I was a two-timer while Ian was staring at me like I was dessert, or if Frank’s chair was staring at me like he was a poor working man called to make a living while Ian stared at me like I was the world’s worst fashion disaster.

  Meanwhile, the conversation buzzed around me. Somehow (I try not to figure out how my brother gets things done), Ben had managed to get Ingrid, Stella and the last muskateer, Callie Rogers, at our table for eight. Dad, who was to my right, entertained Callie with the turkey calls he’d perfected for hunting. Ingrid, who was to my left, and my mother of all people, spent most of their time with their heads together discussing my fashion choices for the rest of the trip, living proof it can always get worse. Across from me, Ben flirted with Stella so mercilessly I thought she might be arranged over the strawberries Romanoff before it was all over. It was a no-brainer that these two would be sharing one of the beds in my comped room. Maybe I should take pity on Callie and invite her to join me and Ingrid.

  I tried to concentrate on the food, which was exquisite—portabella bisque, buffalo mozzarella and tomato salad, apricot-cured lamb chops, garlic couscous and snow peas—and my poker strategy for that night, which I thought should be tight. I really didn’t know what to expect from the floor—were cruise Hold ’Em players mostly brick-and-mortar tournament players who just chose a cruise as one of several possible venues in which to play a game they lived and breathed? Or were they Internet poker addicts? Or were they vacationers who barely knew their way around a deck of cards but thought poker sounded sexy?

  It would make a difference. I would have to be ready to adjust to circumstances, but I expected to be able to play tight at the top of the tourney in order to be able to play looser if I was still alive in it at the end.

  Now I could relax. I hadn’t given much thought to my strategy before, expecting to wing it and learn a lot along the way, considering it was only my second major tournament and I would be invisible to everyone but Frank, who wouldn’t care. With my sudden and unexpected high profile, the pressure was on to make somewhat of a good impression, or at the very least, not embarrass myself.

  “Are you excited, B-Bee, uh, Belinda?”

  I’d been so lost in thought, the whispering voice startled me. I looked around at the table and found everyone engaged in conversation. No one looked at me expectantly. Huh? Was I so stressed out I was hearing voices?

  “Nervous, then, m-maybe? But not enough to affect your appetite. Obviously.”

  The voice, a high tenor or perhaps low alto, with a slight stutter, seemed to come from behind. I looked over my left shoulder, then my right and jumped to see a man crouched below my elbow. He flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Well, which is it? None of the above?”

  “What are you doing down there?” I whispered.

  “Important work.”

  Frightening notion. What important work was to be done crawling around under tables? I really didn’t want to think about that. I glanced around my table to see if anyone else was noticing my strange encounter. Of course not. “What important work constitutes harassing vacationers about eating too much?”

  “That’s n-not it, I was just being observant there. We j-journalists are always supposed to be observant.”

  “Why are you being observant under the table? Seems like you could see a lot more from up here,” I whispered. Why was I whispering? Because he was whispering, of course. I suddenly realized I had a bad habit of fitting myself to life instead of fitting life to me. Maybe that was the root of all my troubles.

  He tugged at my pants leg, reminding me of my most pressing issue at the moment. “I have a p-problem.”

  “Join the club. I have more than one.” I chipped in, first on the list being accosted by a whispering stranger at my feet. I imagined what kind of problem he could have—did he wet his pants? No, he said he was a journalist. Maybe he needed to pass me some secret evidence in an undercover investigation? Deep Throat at work.

  “You don’t have my problem,” he challenged.

  “Try me.”

  “I have s-social anxiety disorder.”

  “Huh?”

  “I am p-pathologically shy, sev
erely socially introverted, c-chronically debilitated by shyness.”

  I barked out a laugh. I couldn’t help it. He glared. Everyone around the table shot me looks. I glanced down and shut up. This was going to be hard to explain.

  “Look, we all feel that way sometimes. I test as an introvert on those personality tests. I don’t really like crowds or strangers.”

  “You don’t get it. I sweat, blush, tremble, get dizzy, feel my heart racing and my mouth go dry just with the thought of sharing the same six feet with someone.”

  Okay. Maybe he had it a little worse than I did. “I thought you said you were a journalist.”

  “I do mostly investigative pieces where I don’t have to talk to people face-to-face. There’s a lot of meeting in confessionals and things like that.”

  “I see.”

  I was talking to a pathologically shy journalist under the table at dinner on a cruise with my parents, with my secret “agent” brother, with his walking s’more lover and fashion consultant friend, without my boyfriend and with a possible poker player abductor on board. Okay, I know I was doing what Rhonda accused us of, but really, who else was being accosted by someone with a social phobia? Why me?

  I looked around the room again. No one. On the bright side, according to the luck and love theory Richard and I hammered out, I was bound to win at Hold ’Em tonight. If I ever made it.

  “Hey!” My shy friend nudged my knee. “Don’t patronize me. I have real problems.”

  “Look, you think you have problems?” I whispered.

  “You’re just shy. Try being an old maid, redheaded forty-year-old woman who’s been thrown over by a fiancé and a boyfriend in the last six months, been almost killed by smut film smugglers, been pandered about by a brother who is masquerading as her agent and now has to deal with her parents on the same cruise.”

  He looked a bit taken aback at that. “Okay. You might have me there.”

  “I thought so.” I sighed. “So now that you are over yourself, tell me why you’re under my table?”

  “I’m doing a piece for Cadillac of Poker magazine.”