A Treasure to Die For Read online

  “We both know, Henry, that I can afford to take us to nice places now, especially if we share a room. We’ll have fun here. The crystal mining, the trip on the lake, the hot baths, and the massages...ummm.” Her shoulders wiggled. “And, well, you know, fun.”

  He gave up the stoic attempt to ignore yearnings Carrie probably hadn’t a clue he was feeling and allowed his thoughts to wander where they pleased.

  But he was no more than a heart-beat into a warm, cozy picture of the coming week’s companionship before she yanked him back into the car by asking, “Do you suppose there are still gangsters in Hot Springs?”

  His answer came immediately and without any need for thought.

  “Yes, I’m sure there are.”

  Years in the Kansas City Police Department had ruined any long-ago imagining that there could be a city or countryside anywhere without a crime problem. That would be especially true of this city, which, from what he’d read, had once been known as the “wickedest town in North America” and deserved the title. True, there had been a massive clean-up years ago, a smashing of slot machines and gaming equipment, closing of sports books and bars and houses in the red-light district, all led by a governor too rich to be bribed. But not everything would be gone. They wouldn’t see it during this coming week, but oh, yes, he was willing to bet it would still be there if people, especially men, cared to look in the right places.

  Thank goodness he no longer had to deal with that sort of thing. He was out of detective work now. Well, except for when Carrie—who was drawn to humans with problems—found them and the evils that sometimes came with them. Then the two of them worked together to help solve those problems.

  But this was a vacation. No possible entanglements for them this week, just fun and some sort of classroom stuff that couldn’t be too bad. There would still be one big problem for him though: living in the same room with her all week long and being a gentleman every single minute!

  He wished she hadn’t asked about gangsters. He wished all the dark parts of law enforcement could be erased from his memory just as it had been from his life.

  Carrie’s next words broke into his thoughts and proved she wasn’t really interested in delving into Hot Springs’ crime except as intriguing history.

  “I read somewhere that they once had 500 sports books in town and lots of liquor, even during prohibition, as well as many houses of ill repute. I’m not sure I understand all of it exactly, but maybe it was something like in The Sting? Did you see that movie?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She spoke her next words slowly as her thoughts traced the past. “Amos and I saw it together. He was never interested in movies, but someone in his law firm recommended it as a study of unique criminal activity. I think that was how he put it. Anyway, we got a baby-sitter for Rob and went one Saturday night. I loved the whole thing, the story and especially the music. Amos didn’t. Said it was silly. From then until the time he was killed, if I went to a movie, I went alone.”

  Henry nodded again, remembering when he’d seen The Sting. “I went alone. Irena only goes to movies if what’s showing is a highly-praised foreign film or it’s some kind of benefit. At least that’s how it used to be, and I don’t suppose she’s changed much. She attends plays, ballet, the opera. Even when we were married, she usually went to those with friends because I was so often on duty and, even when I wasn’t, could count on being called out at awkward times. The people in her circle felt sorry for her—married to a common policeman. She loved the sympathy, all that stuff about being the wife of a cop who ‘put his life on the line.’ She always managed to make me feel like a servant to her wealthy family and friends. Being called a public servant by the mayor was okay. When Irena called me that, it wasn’t okay.”

  He knew he’d already told Carrie the story of his role as Irena’s exhibition cross-to-bear, but he couldn’t keep himself from repeating it. The bitterness of Irena’s aloofness, her put-downs, rather than fading, were fresher than they had been in years, so real they made a metallic taste in his mouth now. Why was that?

  It was Carrie, of course. Her genuine interest in police work and obvious admiration of the way he’d faced challenges and dangers as a homicide detective were such a contrast. Not like Irena, not at all. His marriage to Irena had been a long-term habit, just “what was” until Irena finally got too bored with him and walked out. All during their marriage he’d avoided thinking about what he might be missing and concentrated fully on his work. If that had made him a better detective, well, it was some compensation.

  And Susan was compensation. Thirty-two years ago his loneliness had led to a one-night-stand with her mother. A baby girl had been the unexpected result. What happened that night was wrong, and, thank goodness, Irena never found out, but after so many years and the deaths of his daughter’s birth mother and the parents who’d adopted her, Susan now knew him as her father. Carrie, doing very good detective work on her own, had learned about his daughter and found a way to bring them together. Susan was worth whatever had been wrong in the past. She was...

  “Penny.”

  “Uh, what?”

  “For your thoughts. You were miles away. I think I can guess though. Come back, Henry. We agreed we’d both drop the past. My Rob and your Susan are all we’re cherishing about the past.”

  “Sometimes that’s hard.”

  He felt, rather than saw, her head duck, almost as if in prayer. “I know,” she said softly, and his bitterness was replaced by anger, but only at himself. He’d brought her into the sadness of her past just by dwelling on his. And he could think of no words now to erase the pain.

  But Carrie, God bless her, could. “Do you remember that house in the movie—you know what kind of house I mean—where the Madam had a merry-go-round in a special inside room, and her girls could ride on it when they didn’t have, um, customers? I loved that merry-go-round music and all of Scott Joplin’s music. I bought the sound track recording. I still have it.”

  She hummed a few bars from “The Entertainer,” then said, “It would be fun to see that movie again, Henry. It would be fun to see it together. Let’s rent it when we get home.”

  Yes, God bless her. He smiled as Carrie unfolded the city map the Elderhostel coordinator had sent them and sounds of paper rattling filled the car again. But he didn’t need the map. There was the expressway turn-off for Central Avenue.

  They had arrived in Hot Springs.

  Chapter II

  Carrie

  She knew the descriptions by heart.

  Sin City, Spa City, Fun City. A well-known resort for nearly two centuries. Once a place for pleasures and hope, whether you were a gangster from the east coast, a member of the posh aristocracy, or any person, rich or poor, seeking the curing waters.

  Today the majority of visitors to Hot Springs would be ordinary tourists just as she and Henry were.

  Carrie hoped the glowing descriptions in the brochures she’d collected at the Arkansas Tourist Information Center where she worked were all true. She’d sold the Elderhostel trip to Eleanor from those brochures without any trouble. Eleanor had then taken over the selling to Jason while Carrie tackled Henry.

  It was Eleanor who had suggested meatloaf.

  “Can’t hurt,” she’d said. “Meatloaf is a favorite with most men, and it’s my observation that they’re never more agreeable than when they’ve just finished a good meal. You want proof, Carrie? Well, isn’t that why so many men are willing, even happy, to help with clean-up after the meal when they’ve had not the slightest interest in helping with the preparation, let alone getting a meal by themselves? Jason Stack always does our meal clean-up now that he’s retired. But cook? He gets the shudders at the very word. You’d think we were talking about weird ingredients mixed by some bewildering scientific formula, rather than simple recipes.” She’d winked a bright blue eye at Carrie. “And you know, to be honest, I’m not so sure I want him to think differently. I like Jason Stack being
awed by my ability to cook.

  “So you go home, make meatloaf, and invite Henry over. He’ll probably be awed too. And he’ll be okay about this trip to Hot Springs. You’ll see.”

  Carrie didn’t tell Eleanor, whom she considered the epitome of old-fashioned womanhood, that she felt uncomfortable using such manipulative methods to convince Henry he’d enjoy attending the Hot Springs Elderhostel with her. That was way too feminine. She wanted him to decide based on logic and reason, on wanting fun and the opportunity to enjoy a vacation with her. Not on meatloaf.

  But...maybe, to be absolutely sure? Meatloaf would be an interesting challenge. So why not create one?

  She couldn’t remember having ever made meatloaf. Until her marriage to Amos McCrite when she was nearly thirty, she’d lived at home with her parents, and her mother had insisted on doing all the cooking. Becoming the wife of an already established, very busy lawyer did nothing to improve her cooking skills. Amos thought any word connected with a meal was hyphenated: business-breakfast, business-lunch, working-dinner. Except for the time when Rob was growing up, she’d eaten most meals alone, reading while she ate, barely noticing the food she chewed and swallowed.

  But she had a brain, didn’t she? Surely she could figure out meatloaf. Simple. Hamburger plus seasonings.

  As soon as she got home she sat down at her kitchen table with pen and paper, trying to think what might have gone into the various types of meatloaf she’d eaten. The base was probably more than just ground meat. As she recalled, the loaf was pretty solid. And the seasonings? Onion, of course, salt and pepper, but what else?

  Several minutes later all she had written on her piece of paper was “hamburger” and “chopped onion.”

  Pride wouldn’t let her call Eleanor, or even another friend, and admit that meatloaf was a mystery to her. She should have kept a basic cookbook out of her garage sale when she was preparing for the move to Arkansas, but it was too late to remedy that now, and the nearest town with a bookstore was thirty miles away.

  Oh, bother! What went into the confounded loaf?

  Finally, in a down-to-the-wire burst of inspiration, she thought of the County Extension Service. After a long conversation with a woman who had the grace not to act astounded that her mature female caller didn’t know how to make meatloaf, Carrie set out to create.

  Picking up her pen again and referring every now and then to her notes, she designed a recipe for Magic Two Meatloaf.

  And, for whatever reason, after dinner that night, Henry had agreed to come to this Elderhostel with her.

  Now they were almost there, almost in “The Valley of the Vapors,” the place with forty-seven steaming springs and a history of human use spreading back more then ten thousand years. A place to go for “The Cure” before the advent of modern medicine, and for enjoyment today.

  It had better live up to its publicity. If not, well, she’d eat crow instead of meatloaf.

  Right now they were passing vast parking lots, shopping centers, big-box stores, fast-food places. So far Hot Springs looked like Anyplace, U.S.A. Plain old city. The interesting part had better show up soon.

  And it did. Easily recognized, with the main grandstand rising above everything around it, there was Oaklawn Park. A fancy horse racing track like this was something she certainly wouldn’t see anywhere else in the state of Arkansas.

  She read the lighted sign aloud. “Excitement! Simulcast racing, Wednesday through Sunday—can you slow down, Henry?—Post time 1:00. Arlington, Belmont, Louisiana Downs, Santa Anita...”

  She twisted in the seat to look behind her as the car moved past the huge electronic board. “Instant Racing, umm, hard to see, Jackpot—$800. Thoroughbred Mania—$1250. Henry, I thought gambling was illegal in Arkansas except on races here. But did you see that sign? Doesn’t it mean you can bet on all kinds of races?”

  Before he could reply she went on, “There’s the track itself. It’s a lot like the race track we visited in Kentucky years ago.”

  Then they had passed Oaklawn and were back among the ordinary buildings. She turned to face front again. “We went to Kentucky to visit relatives when I was fourteen. I remember the green, green grass. Lots of green grass inside the fence back there too, but I didn’t see any horses. I remember the horses in Kentucky. They were beautiful. I dreamed of riding...”

  As she thought back to the dream her voice trailed off, and fifty years vanished. She imagined the racing horse under her and rolled her hand through the air behind her head, dipping it up and down in waves as if she were describing the sea. “Racing the wind, long hair flowing like melting gold in the sunlight.

  “Long gold hair,” she repeated, “not the short red kinks I had on my head then. In that dream, I was beautiful.”

  After a pause, Henry said, “You’re beautiful now, Carrie, and I like kinks, especially when they’re white.”

  She felt a flash of warmth zing through her body. Her hand stopped wave-making, dropped to the side of her head, and she began twisting one of the white curls around a finger. “Uh, thanks,” she said, blinking her eyes rapidly, not looking at him. “But,”—and now she looked up—“you just wait until I wash my hair this week and you see it all wet. It will...”

  She stopped, forgetting her hair, as a space opened up between the cars ahead of them and she could see down the street. “Oh! There’s Bathhouse Row, and it looks just like the tourist brochures! How elegant! Our hotel must be a block or so farther on. I do wonder what the Downtowner Hotel and Spa will be like, don’t you?”

  Henry paused in front of the hotel to let Carrie out, saying he’d find a parking place while she went inside to locate a luggage cart and get started with checking in. Grateful for his awareness that she was wildly curious about the inside of this spa hotel, she bounced out of the car and rushed to climb the wide steps.

  The cool, high-ceilinged lobby was dimly lit and 1965 chic. People were moving about in several directions, and a large group clustered near the registration counter, but crowd noises vanished somewhere in the oriental carpets, heavy furnishings, and air space.

  Reminds me of a fancy men’s club, thought Carrie, except they’ve got brochure racks over there like we do at the information center. She felt as if she’d shrunk to miniature size in the lobby’s vastness and stood rooted to her spot inside the entry doors until a very low, very smooth voice said, “Excuse me, are we lost in thought, or just lost?” The deep tones dripped sarcasm.

  Carrie jerked around, lifted her head, and looked up. The man was tall and she supposed he was smiling at her, but his smile seemed more like a sneer. Then she realized she was blocking his way into the lobby.

  Paladin, she thought, her mind flashing back to the memory of a long ago gunfighter on television. “Have Gun, Will Travel.” Richard Boone. The man in black.

  But this man didn’t look like a gunfighter. He looked exotic. And handsome. Very. Oh, my goodness, yes.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she said aloud, “I am sorry, I was just taking it all in. I’m, uh, we’re here for the, uh...”

  “Elderhostel, I’d bet,” the man said. “Well, I am too, and I think we go over there.” He pointed. “See the lady at that table?”

  Now Carrie felt like mush, her spine turned soggy under the man’s superior smile. He held a black-clad arm out toward the table, indicating that she should move now, go ahead of him.

  After only a short hesitation she did, wondering if she looked as silly as she felt. White-haired women didn’t go mushy over handsome men, even chillingly handsome men in black leather vests, silk shirts, and the tightest jeans she’d ever seen. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a page in GQ. She knew what that was like because she’d peeked inside a copy on the supermarket magazine rack just a few weeks ago, looking around first to be sure the aisle was empty both ways, since the cover model—definitely female—seemed to be dressed only in whipped cream. She’d been searching for an idea about new male styles, maybe something up-to-date as a g
ift for Henry.

  Huh! What she saw inside that magazine was definitely not Henry, nor any other man she knew. It had all looked so exotic and peculiar, though now this man...

  The table the stranger had indicated wasn’t identified, but it was stacked with red folders, and the woman standing behind it looked at them expectantly. When Carrie was about four feet from her, she purred, “Hello there. Elderhostelers? Good. Welcome to Hot Springs.”

  The purr continued without a break. “I’m Greta Hunt, call me Greta. Your trip here was pleasant? Good. Ready for a terrific time in Hot Springs? Good. Now, if you’ll tell me your names, I have information packets and a few little gifts for you.”

  Carrie, who hadn’t opened her mouth or even nodded her head during Ms. Hunt’s speech, wondered what would happen if she didn’t say anything now. Would the welcoming speech continue: “I’ll bet you’re Ms. McCrite. Good?”

  “I’m Carrie McCrite.”

  “Then you must be Henry King,” Ms. Hunt said, turning to the man in black. “I have your packets right here, and, uh, oh, my goodness, did you say McCrite? I think I put you down as Carrie King.”

  “No,” said Carrie stiffly, “it’s McCrite, and this is not”—she glanced at the stranger, saw his lips press together, to stifle a laugh probably—“this is not Henry King. Mr. King is parking the car. He’ll be here in a...oh, there you are, Henry. We’re just, um, registering.”

  The stranger in black moved toward Henry, coming so close to Carrie that his body pushed against hers. He extended his hand to Henry. “I’m Everett Bogardus and I guess we’re in this together for the week. Nice to meet you, King. You’re lucky to be rooming with such a charming lady.” He looked down at Carrie and lifted his black eyebrows as if to say “you wicked woman, you, rooming with this man.”