22. Lottie

LOTTIE

I t’s a monetary warzone in here with the bright flashing lights, the popping swirling sounds of the one-armed bandits, the occasional burst of laughter, the even more frequent bloodcurdling screams, far too much crimson décor, far too much bass that threatens to break my bones, and the unmistakable scent of desperation mingling with cheap cologne.

This place is a sensory overload.

But despite all that, I’m focused on one thing—beating every person at this table round after round.

I can’t help it; it’s my competitive nature.

Okay, so I’m not here to beat anyone. I’m here to get Orson Wingate to talk and hopefully crack two homicide cases wide open.

The moment I slid into the seat next to this man, it was as if I could feel the weight of the room shift. He looks harmless enough with his thick white hair and his handsome face outlined with time. His fingers are slightly gnarled, his frame is on the thinner side, and he looks as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. But alas, my track record with investigations leaves me wondering if he’s harmless at all.

The man glances my way and his eyes are clouded with something I can’t quite put my finger on. My guess is grief. It’s so much easier for me to speak with people who are only loosely connected to the deceased. This man lost his wife. And for that reason alone, I know this isn’t going to be easy.

But I know what to do. I’m practically a seasoned detective at this point.

Subtlety is king in a situation like this.

Carlotta, of course, is far less concerned with subtlety. She’s more of a freight train through a crystal factory— Waterford Crystal. She pretty much goes big.

She jabs me in the ribs as if to prove her point. “Lot Lot, you need to hurry up and clean house. I’ve got places to go and people to be kinky with.”

“Good grief. Would you hush? I’m trying to concentrate here.” I shoot Orson a dirty look without meaning to.

The dealer points to each of us as half the table takes a hit and folds. I take a hit and land on the exact number I need.

“Twenty-one,” I say and lay down my cards. And before I know it, I’m collecting another chip, this time from the dealer himself.

Just as the dealer starts to shuffle the cards once again, I feel a cold breeze at my back as Petey leans in.

“What’s the game, Lot?” he asks, his deep voice vibrating through me like the bass from the club’s speakers. “I haven’t seen a setup like this since they tried to teach the chimps back at the zoo how to play poker. Let’s just say, it didn’t end well. But a few of the cards landed in my enclosure and I enjoyed them quite a bit. They had an earthy taste to them and a crunch I could appreciate.”

I hide a smile, pretending to adjust the strap on my bag. “The game is blackjack,” I whisper. “And I wouldn’t eat these if I were you or those little round things either. They might be called chips, but they’re not nearly as tasty.”

Orson gives a little chuckle. “Hungry, are we?” He glances down to my belly. “Hey, I think I recognize you.” His expression sobers up. “Weren’t you one of the girls that they were throwing that party for a few days ago back in Honey Hollow?”

“That’s me,” I say. “I’m Lottie Lemon.” I hold out a hand and he shakes it. “My mother owns the B&B.”

“Ah, Miranda.” He offers a kind smile. “She’s been a real saint to me these past few days. It was my wife that lost her life that day.” A heavy sigh expels from him as he looks across the table and his mouth falls open as he zeros in on Noah. “Detective?” He looks more than a little stymied at the moment.

Drats.

Why Noah insists on following me around when I’m trying to do my job is baffling to me.

Doesn’t he realize people clam up when he’s around? How many times do I have to spell it out for him?

I shoot him a look that expresses just that and he lifts his shoulders my way in lieu of an apology.

Everett sighs as if he shared my frustration. Usually, it’s Everett who wants to lose Noah like a bad wig. Not that Everett will ever have to wear a wig. His thick dark locks are so glossy and lush. I can’t wait to run my toes through them tonight.

I make a face at the thought of holding my hormones in check for a few more hours.

“Good evening, Orson,” Noah says to the man. “I’m glad to see you’re up and about. Again, I’m so sorry about your loss. My wife here just wanted a night out before the twins arrived.”

My mouth falls open as I cast a glance his way.

Everett growls when Noah claims me as his own. Although I can tell it was an honest mistake on Noah’s part. It just feels natural for him to reference me that way. I know for a fact Noah believes that I’m just seeing where things might lead with Everett while the two of us are on a break. Well, that may have started off true, but they’ve led to twins and I’m pretty sure that cements us as a couple. However technically, Noah might be able to build his own case using Lyla Nell.

“Twins?” Orson looks mildly horrified for me, as most people tend to do—mostly women. “Well, congratulations. I’m sorry your party came to such an abrupt end.”

“Please don’t apologize,” I’m quick to tell him as we all fold and the house wins big. “I’m so sorry about your wife. Do they know who did this?”

The question would have sounded so much better had the “they” of the conversation not been sitting to my right. Noah really is just putzing everything up for me tonight.

“Well?” Orson nods to Noah. “What’s the scoop?”

“It’s still an active homicide investigation,” Noah says as the dealer passes out another round.

My cards are low and so are the amounts of clues I’ve garnered thus far.

I ask for a hit, and just like that, my luck changes. And I’m hoping my luck is about to change with Orson as well.

Petey swoops past me, and that icy breeze that seems to follow him cools me off. It might be the dead of winter, but with two infernal baby heaters cooking inside of me, it’s been more like one long, hot summer.

“Ask him about my Ursula,” Petey whispers as if he had to. “I’m dying to know what she had been up to all these years.”

“Orson, your wife seemed so vivacious when I met her in the conservatory,” I say to the poor man. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to know a little about her.”

I nod as the entire lot of us folds once again and the house cleans up.

Jimmy Canelli really is the crookedest crook that ever did crook. He might let you win a chip or two, but he’s taking back ten.

The dealer finishes shuffling and starts doing what he does best, dealing out a bunch of lemons. As the cards are laid out, I take a moment to glance at Noah and Everett. They’re both watching me but for different reasons.

Noah looks like he’s ready to jump in if things go south, while Everett—well, he’s offering up those bedroom eyes and mentally outlining every last thing on his agenda tonight.

Me.

I would be the one and only thing on his agenda tonight.

But I know him well enough to see the concern lurking behind those stormy blue eyes as well. He wants to keep me safe just as much as Noah does.

I glance at my cards. Not bad, but I’m not here to win a few bucks. I’m here to win answers. I turn to Orson, offering him a small, sympathetic smile.

“I’d love to tell you about my wife.” Orson’s face softens just a bit as the hard mask of grief gives way to something warmer, something that almost resembles a genuine smile.

He nods my way as if he was about to give me an earful.

And I’m hoping he gives me exactly that and more.