Lucky Bastard by Deborah Coonts

going to school on each other. Each one would be looking for tells, subconscious signs a player might give that would indicate what kind of hand he was holding, whether he was bluffing or not, whether his card had come on the river, or whether he was betting the bundle on less than stellar odds.
    To me, watching a poker game was as scintillating as trimming the lawn with nail clippers. But, for reasons best not explored, the game seemed to hold men spellbound.
    “You may converse with Mr. Weston prior to the game starting and during the breaks,” I said to the interpreter. “In fact, it would be beneficial if you could interpret the rules as they are being given to the table. But I would appreciate it if you would not communicate while the game is in progress. One hand, one player, I trust you know the drill.”
    “Understood.”
    I raised an eyebrow at the game steward who was standing within earshot. He nodded in understanding.
    Leaving the operation of the game to the pros, I wandered to the back of the room to observe the play occurring there. Sidling in next to the game steward, I stopped and watched for a moment. The gamesmanship was subtle, but it was there. It took guile and cojones to play poker.
    Something it seemed the former Mrs. Dane had in spades.
    “How long have you been monitoring play?” I asked the steward at my side.
    “My shift started at midnight. I rotated to this table an hour ago.”
    Stepping away from the table, I motioned for him to follow me. With a nod he summoned another steward to take his place.
    “Do you remember a young woman, platinum hair, silver dress?” I asked when we were comfortably out of earshot. “She busted out of the thousand-dollar buy-in a few hours ago.”
    The young man gave me a grin. “Ms. O’Toole, I’m young, male, and have a pulse.”
    I fought back a grin. “I’ll take that as a yes. Did you notice anything unusual about her?”
    “She wasn’t at my table, but I could tell she played pretty aggressively, for a girl.” Pausing, he blushed when he realized what he had said. “No offense, ma’am.”
    “After that remark, it’s ‘sir’ to you.” At his stricken look, I said, “I’m kidding. Anything else you notice about her?”
    “Well, not that jumped out, but she did cause a bit of a dust-up between Rachael and The Stone— Mr. Johnstone.” He colored at his near faux pas.
    This time, when I fought with my smile, my smile won, surprising me—I thought it had gone on tour with Teddie. “Really? What about?”
    “I don’t know.” The kid cast a furtive glance at Rachael. “I’m speaking out of turn here, but since it’s you.…Whatever it was, it was pretty serious. Mr. Johnstone was really angry. Rachael was crying when the silver dress lady left.”
    “Did you notice the silver dress lady leave with anyone? Did anyone pay more attention to her than they should?”
    “Half the room couldn’t keep their eyes off her. And she left while I was dealing with a break and a reset of the blinds at my table.”
    “Anything else you notice?”
    “The game broke up pretty soon after she left. The amateur cleaned everyone out. Nobody was too happy about it—excepting him, of course.” He paused, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes in concentration. I let him think. Finally, he said, “There was one other thing. I don’t know if it’s important, but Mr. Johnstone left the Poker Room right after.”
    “Left?” I crossed my arms and leveled a stern gaze on the young man. “Really? Managers don’t just abandon the room when high-stakes games are getting underway.”
    “I thought it was weird, too.” The kid’s eyes widened, sincerity infused his features. “He wasn’t gone long. And when he came back, he ducked into the back for a minute. If you ask me, he looked sorta spook-eyed, like he’d seen a ghost or something.”
    I struggled to keep my face a mask—news of Sylvie Dane’s fatal foot fetish was still under wraps.