Read Online Deadly Gamble by Linda Lael Miller - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Lael Miller
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cabana, taking notes, or lurking on the other side of the towering stucco wall enclosing at least an acre of backyard. The windows of the guesthouse, opposite the pool, caught the colors of the sunset and turned opaque. âYes,â she said, and it seemed to me that sheâd gone to a lot of trouble, scoping out the landscape, just to say one word.
âLillian had you checked out at a free clinic in Vegas, remember? You were fine. No STDâs, no residual effects whatsoever. It wasnât the hooking, Greer.â
She tensed, and what little color sheâd had drained from her cheeks. âKeep your voice down!â
âSorry,â I said, chagrined. I always felt out of place at Greerâs, and I tended to put my foot in my mouth. âYouâre alone here, arenât you? Carmen is gone for the day?â
Carmen was her housekeeperâa very nice woman, but not much for overtime.
Greer nodded miserably. âI didnât mean to snap,â she said.
I patted her hand. âItâs okay.â
She fortified herself with more wine. I decided it was probably cramps that made her look so woebegone and beaten. âNothing in my life,â she said, âis âokay.ââ
CHAPTER 4
Iâ d love to report that Greer and I got right to the heart of things, over our dinner of thinly sliced smoked salmon, gourmet bagels and cream cheese with capers, and settled all our collective and individual problems, but we didnât. Greer drank wineâfirst hers, then mine. She shook her head when I told her about Heather and the supermarket incident, and said I ought to move to a civilized neighborhood.
What one had to do with the other was beyond me then, and I still donât exactly get it.
I tried to communicate. I really did. I told her about Lillian and the Tarot cards, and running into Uncle Clive at the nursing home.
She recalled that he was a state senator and wondered aloud if he and his wife would ever make the trip up from Cactus Bend to attend one of her gala parties. It wasnât so much that Greer was uncaring; she just couldnât seem to get any kind of grip on the conversational thread.
I would have been better off talking to Chester, and I donât think the evening did much for Greer, either, except perhaps to provide some brief respite from whatever was weighing on her mind.
At eight-thirty, I thanked my sister for her hospitality, said my goodbyes and left. Greer was a lonely, shrinking figure in my rearview mirror, standing in her brick-paved driveway, watching me out of sight.
I was too restless to go straight home. I knew the cat was gone, and if heâd come back, the chances were all too good that Nick was with him. I wasnât up to another dead-husband fest, so I headed for one of my favorite placesâthe casino at 101 and Indian Bend.
Talking Stick was doing a lively business that night, its domed, tent-shaped roofs giving it a circus-type appeal. I parked the Volvo at the far end of the eastern lot and trekked back to the nearest entrance, my ATM card already smoking in my wallet.
Inside, I pulled some money at the handy-dandy cash machine next to the guest services desk. A security guard gave me a welcoming wave; I won a lot, though I was usually careful to keep the jackpots small, so I wouldnât attract too much notice, and it had gotten to the point where everybody knew my name.
âCheers,â I told the guard as I breezed by, weaving my way between banks of whirring slot machines beckoning with bright, inviting lights. I passed the Wheel of Fortunes, with their colorful spinners up top, and the ever popular Double Diamonds, which were always occupied. I used to play them a lot, but then the powers-that-be cranked the progressive jackpot down by a thousand bucks, and it became a matter of principle.
I passed the gift shop and the bar and came to the black-jack tables, lining either side of the wide aisle. A shifting
âLillian had you checked out at a free clinic in Vegas, remember? You were fine. No STDâs, no residual effects whatsoever. It wasnât the hooking, Greer.â
She tensed, and what little color sheâd had drained from her cheeks. âKeep your voice down!â
âSorry,â I said, chagrined. I always felt out of place at Greerâs, and I tended to put my foot in my mouth. âYouâre alone here, arenât you? Carmen is gone for the day?â
Carmen was her housekeeperâa very nice woman, but not much for overtime.
Greer nodded miserably. âI didnât mean to snap,â she said.
I patted her hand. âItâs okay.â
She fortified herself with more wine. I decided it was probably cramps that made her look so woebegone and beaten. âNothing in my life,â she said, âis âokay.ââ
CHAPTER 4
Iâ d love to report that Greer and I got right to the heart of things, over our dinner of thinly sliced smoked salmon, gourmet bagels and cream cheese with capers, and settled all our collective and individual problems, but we didnât. Greer drank wineâfirst hers, then mine. She shook her head when I told her about Heather and the supermarket incident, and said I ought to move to a civilized neighborhood.
What one had to do with the other was beyond me then, and I still donât exactly get it.
I tried to communicate. I really did. I told her about Lillian and the Tarot cards, and running into Uncle Clive at the nursing home.
She recalled that he was a state senator and wondered aloud if he and his wife would ever make the trip up from Cactus Bend to attend one of her gala parties. It wasnât so much that Greer was uncaring; she just couldnât seem to get any kind of grip on the conversational thread.
I would have been better off talking to Chester, and I donât think the evening did much for Greer, either, except perhaps to provide some brief respite from whatever was weighing on her mind.
At eight-thirty, I thanked my sister for her hospitality, said my goodbyes and left. Greer was a lonely, shrinking figure in my rearview mirror, standing in her brick-paved driveway, watching me out of sight.
I was too restless to go straight home. I knew the cat was gone, and if heâd come back, the chances were all too good that Nick was with him. I wasnât up to another dead-husband fest, so I headed for one of my favorite placesâthe casino at 101 and Indian Bend.
Talking Stick was doing a lively business that night, its domed, tent-shaped roofs giving it a circus-type appeal. I parked the Volvo at the far end of the eastern lot and trekked back to the nearest entrance, my ATM card already smoking in my wallet.
Inside, I pulled some money at the handy-dandy cash machine next to the guest services desk. A security guard gave me a welcoming wave; I won a lot, though I was usually careful to keep the jackpots small, so I wouldnât attract too much notice, and it had gotten to the point where everybody knew my name.
âCheers,â I told the guard as I breezed by, weaving my way between banks of whirring slot machines beckoning with bright, inviting lights. I passed the Wheel of Fortunes, with their colorful spinners up top, and the ever popular Double Diamonds, which were always occupied. I used to play them a lot, but then the powers-that-be cranked the progressive jackpot down by a thousand bucks, and it became a matter of principle.
I passed the gift shop and the bar and came to the black-jack tables, lining either side of the wide aisle. A shifting
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