Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) Page 27

  There were trucks and construction equipment and chain link fencing setting off certain areas. I wandered over to where a group of men were unloading pieces of pipe from a pallet. They hauled it over and put it into a cargo box on a forklift.

  “Looking for the foreman,” I said to one of the men.

  He made a single nod. “That’s me.”

  I glanced at my clipboard, flashing the printed form toward the foreman, then looked up at him. “The county is working on a historical record of hotel renovations going all the way back. Nothing to worry about. This isn’t about code violations or anything. We’re just building a database of past remodels and using the cost-to-social benefit modality in order to expedite future projects and make our county more business friendly.”

  The look on the man’s face showed frustration.

  “I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you,” I said. “I just need to find whoever has worked construction around here the longest and ask him a few questions. Would that be you?”

  He shook his head. “I just moved to Truckee from Kansas last year.” He turned and called out to his men. “Hey, guys, any of you worked this area before this project?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Sorry,” the foreman said. “We’re hired out of San Francisco. I guess you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  “Are there any other crews working here today?”

  “Sure, inside the hotel. But you can’t go inside without an appointment and someone from the main office accompanying you.” He pointed to a long office trailer at the edge of the lot. “You could ask at the on-site office.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and I walked off toward the trailer.

  He called after me. “If the trailer’s closed, check the Tahoe Biltmore across the street. Our Crew Chief went over there about twenty minutes ago looking for some…” he stopped.

  “Looking for what? Did he get our mailer?”

  “Looking for toilet paper. We ran out.”

  “Ah. Hate to run out of that, right?”

  There was a portable three-step stairs at the trailer door. I walked up and knocked a couple of times, but no one answered.

  The Tahoe Biltmore Hotel was a short walk across the highway. I waited for a break in traffic, then trotted over. Once inside the lobby, I walked over to the check-in desk and repeated my phony story to a young woman behind the counter. She glanced at my clipboard and frowned.

  “Well, I’m kind of new, so I don’t know everyone who works here. But no one comes to mind.” She pulled out a business card from a cubby under the counter. “This is the manager. You could contact her in the morning and see if she can help.”

  I took the card. “Thanks much.” I was about to head outside when I about-faced and went back to the counter.

  “Here’s another thought.” I gestured toward the casino area. “Is there any chance that you have any oldtimer customers? You know, someone who’s been coming in for years?” I held up my clipboard and pointed to an unchecked box. “We actually have a space on the form for non-official information contributions.”

  She frowned again, maybe wondering why a supposed official like me would want to talk to anyone who wasn’t part of the hotel staff. She must have decided the idea was benign for she said, “Well, I suppose you could talk to old man Joseph. He comes in every day and plays the slots. I hear he once won big dollars on the slots, and he’s been trying for a repeat ever since.”

  “Old man Joseph?” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s what he calls himself. Like it’s his actual name or something. He’s here now if you want to talk to him.”

  “Sure. Where would I find him?”

  “He still works the slots.” She gestured toward the casino.

  “What does Joseph look like?”

  “You can’t miss him. He’s real old, and he has a crooked mustache and long straggly hair pulled back into a ponytail.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked to the slot machines in the center of the casino. There were several customers scattered about, but only one fit the description.

  “Joseph?” I said to him.

  He had a plastic jug of quarters in front of him. He put a quarter into the slot and pushed the button. The electronic facsimile of wheels pretended to rotate. When they came to a stop, none of the symbols matched. The machine sang out its beeps, noise to some, no doubt music to others.

  “Joseph?” I said again.

  He turned and looked at me, his eyes seemingly dead from decades of staring at slot machines. He had earbuds in his ears.

  I held out my hand and spoke louder. “My name’s Owen McKenna.” I flashed him my clipboard.

  He didn’t notice it. Nor did he notice my outstretched hand. I realized he was blind.

  I changed my story.

  “I’m a private investigator researching a case that may have connections to this area a long time ago. Fifty, sixty years, in fact. I’m wondering if you knew this area back then.”

  The man pulled his ear buds out. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Owen McKenna.”

  The man picked up his jug of quarters, hefting it as if to judge its weight. “Time for my lunch. We can talk in the bar.”

  He stood up, picked up his white cane, which had been leaning against the slot machine, carried his quarters in his other hand, and walked out of the casino. Joseph headed for the bar with the assurance of one who’d made the trip a thousand times, tapping the floor with his cane but not swinging it. He picked the barstool at the end, set his quarters on the bar top, hooked his cane over the bar rail, and pointed to the stool next to him.

  “You can sit here.”

  I sat.

  The bartender poured a draft beer and set it and a packet of peanuts in front of Joseph. “Your lunch, Old Man Joseph,” he said as he winked at me.

  Joseph took a sip, the head foaming over his mustache. He used his forearm to wipe the foam off his mustache. Then he reached out his hand. “I’m Old Man Joseph.”

  We shook. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “You want some lunch? Will, bring this man some lunch.”

  The bartender pulled another beer and set it and another pack of peanuts in front of me.

  “You want history from a long time ago, I’m the man,” Joseph said. “The Biltmore’s been here since nineteen forty-six, and I’ve been here longer than any three of their employees.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Why? Because I look so old?” he said.

  “Well, that, but mostly because I’m good at reading people. You telegraph history.”

  “And I’m not senile, either. That’s no small thing, you get to my age.” He moved his arm over and bumped my elbow.

  “Got it,” I said.

  “I’ll be eighty-seven in two days.”

  “Wow. You don’t look a day over ninety,” I said.

  Old Man Joseph threw his head back and laughed, his mouth open so wide I could see his gold crowns. “You’re a funny guy,” Joseph said. “Will, is this man a funny guy or what?”

  “Yeah, Joseph. Wish I’d thought of that line myself.”

  “You come here often?” I said.

  “Now he’s trying a pick-up line on me.” Joseph said, laughing even harder. Then he lowered his voice and leaned close to me. “I like you, but I’m more of a ladies man.”

  “Right.”

  “Anyway, yes, I come here every day. I live in a cabin just up the street. Sixty-two years. First, my wife and I rented it. I was twenty-five, and Stella was twenty-seven. I had a taste for older women, ha, ha. We saved our pennies and bought the cabin seven years later. Life was good. She worked bookkeeping, and I ran telephone lines, and we used to come to the Biltmore for dinner once a week. Thirty years ago, Stella caught the cancer. I couldn’t stand to watch her as she died. That’s what made me go blind. The doc said it was a neurological disorder, that the blindness was in my brain, not my eyeballs. So be
it. Still can’t see. After Stella passed, they told me not to make any major changes in my life for awhile. So I didn’t. And I’m still doing the same thing all these years later. I’ve got my monthly check, which buys these.” He rattled his quarters. “I’ve got Will to bring me my lunch.” He turned and pointed toward the check-in desk. “And Mandra got me this.” Joseph pulled open the front of his jacket and showed me an iPod. “Mandra put my favorite music on this pod. And every afternoon when I’m leaving, she plugs it into something that puts my favorite radio news show on this thing so I can listen to it at home with no regard to when it was actually broadcast. You can get interviews, too. Have you heard of that? It’s called downloading.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” I said. “What kind of music do you have on it?”

  “Swing era. Big band stuff. Duke and the Count, anyone Riddle worked with. But mostly Sinatra. He’s still the best. ‘That Old Black Magic’ was our song, Stella and me. I still get teary eyed when it comes on. That’s what Stella had, and I was under her spell of magic until her last day. Strange that sightless eyes would still make tears, don’t you think? But that’s what happens when you really love a woman.”

  Joseph drank some beer, chewed more peanuts. “Our favorite joke was about the Norwegian who loved his wife so much that he almost told her. I can say that because I’m Norwegian. I told her I loved her every day.”

  Joseph drank more beer. “Tell me about your case,” he said.

  I decided to tell the whole thing starting at the beginning. I left out a few details to save time, but I explained the murders and how Sinatra had his mother buy the Blue Fire Diamond and my theory that it was a gift for Marilyn Monroe to woo her back from President Kennedy.

  “So I’m looking for someone who might have known Sinatra or any information about the diamond.”

  Joseph nodded. “Stella and I saw Sinatra perform several times at the Cal Neva. He was amazing. But we never knew anything about his personal life. So we were surprised when that information about him and the Kennedys and Marilyn Monroe came out. I never heard anything about a diamond, though. I suppose the best thing would be to go where Sinatra hung out. Talk to people.”

  “That’s why I’m talking to you. The Cal Neva is empty and undergoing renovation. None of the construction guys has been around for any length of time. Do you know other places where Sinatra spent time?”

  “Well, you could search out the places where The Misfits was filmed. Marilyn’s finest performance. I heard that Sinatra spent some time on the sets. He invited everyone in the cast up to the Cal Neva where he sang for them. There was The Mapes Hotel in Reno, too. He often stayed there and performed there along with many of the greats. But you can’t go there because they tore it down in the year two thousand. There must be people in Reno who used to work there. You could run an ad or something.”

  “Do you know anyone who was a real Sinatra buff?”

  “Well, I’m pretty much of a Sinatra buff.”

  “What about people who collect his stuff?”

  “That would describe me.”

  “What kind of stuff do you collect?” I asked.

  “You got some time? I started with an autographed napkin. It was so innocent in the beginning. Then I got an autographed drink coaster. From there, I started going to fan conventions, collecting various memorabilia. My first significant acquisition was one of his gold records. That really fired up my interest.”

  “How does someone get an artist’s gold record? Isn’t there only one? Why would Sinatra part with it?”

  “I don’t know anything about gold records. But a vender I’d worked with before - a guy I trusted - said he had one, and he sold it to me for only five hundred dollars. It wasn’t one of those commemorative knockoffs. It was the real thing that Sinatra used to have on his wall. Every time I picked that record up, I felt like I could actually feel the gold.”

  “What record was it for?” I asked.

  “‘September Of My Years.’ Nineteen sixty-five. A great piece of work.”

  “You collected more Sinatra stuff?”

  “You can’t imagine,” Joseph said. “This wasn’t like Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle baseball cards. This was a big time obsession. Of course, I never saw part of my collection, the stuff I got after Stella died and I lost my sight. But that stuff was like Sinatra Braille. I could hold and touch and admire.”

  “What, besides records, do you have?”

  “I had notebooks, a fedora, a tie, more framed photos than you could count, lots of autographs, napkins, newspaper articles, statues and statuettes.”

  “Where did you get your Sinatra stuff?”

  “Everywhere. There’s a whole industry surrounding famous musicians. Lots of people make a living buying and selling memorabilia. But Sinatra is tops. There are shows just for Sinatra items. I used to go to those shows. I scoured flea markets and garage sales, always keeping my eye out for Sinatra stuff. But my biggest haul was the stuff from the Cal Neva.”

  “What was that?”

  “They had a lot of stuff from the Sinatra years, and they stored some of it in a trailer. When I found out about it, I made the manager an offer, and he agreed to sell it, trailer and all. He just wanted it out of their hands. So I had a hitch installed on my car, they hooked it up, and I drove it home and parked it in my driveway. Of course, I went through it, and displayed some stuff in the house. But most of it I just left in the trailer.”

  “When was this?”

  “Lemme think. It was just a few years before Stella died. So maybe twenty-five years ago.”

  “Did you ever know a woman named Scarlett Milo?”

  Old Man Joseph made a huge grin. “Sure did. She was another huge Sinatra fan. Met her back during the heyday of the Cal Neva. She used to come there a lot. She was fresh out of college at Stanford. Living up here at the lake one summer. She had some kind of job nearby, I forget what. Real smart girl. But not all stuck up, you know, like some of those Stanford kids.”

  “Do you think she knew Sinatra?”

  Old Man Joseph shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Could she have dated him?”

  Joseph guffawed. “Now that’s funny. Sinatra had an eye for women, that’s true. But he was spending time with the likes of Marilyn Monroe. I don’t think Scarlett Milo would have been very noticeable with that kind of distraction nearby.”

  “Have you talked to Scarlett Milo recently?”

  “Nope. Not for years, best I recall.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you that she died recently.”

  Joseph’s face seemed to lose its life. He frowned, deep and hard. “I’m sorry to hear it. She was one of the live ones. Big personality. Big opinions. I hate to ask, but did she get the cancer?”

  “No. She was killed by a gunshot.”

  Joseph leaned his elbows on the bar and put his face in his hands. “Another one of those gun accidents?”

  “It was intentional. She was murdered.”

  “Oh man, that’s even worse. I don’t know what to say. I don’t have words for that. Did they catch her killer?”

  “Not yet. I was the last person to talk to her. Scarlett wrote me a cryptic note in the last few moments before she died. I’d like to ask you about it.”

  “What did the note say?”

  “It said, ‘Medicis BFF’”

  “What’s that mean, Medicis?”

  “They were a powerful family during the Italian Renaissance.”

  He nodded. “And BFF is like best friend forever, right?”

  “You’re sharp to know current lingo,” I said.

  “I heard it on one of those interviews that Mandra downloaded for my pod. So what does it mean, the Medicis BFF?”

  “We believe the Medicis BFF refers to the Blue Fire of Florence.”

  “Ah. The diamond you asked about.”

  “Right.”

  Joseph was silent a moment. “It’s obviously valuable if
Scarlett Milo was killed because of it.”

  “Yeah.” I saw no reason to name an amount. “That’s why I’m asking about Sinatra memorabilia because I think the diamond may have once been in his possession, stuff which could have gotten into a collection such as yours. You said you went through all of the Sinatra stuff that was in the trailer?”

  “Every single piece of paper, every photo, every letter. Every trophy, every award certificate, every knick knack, every bit of kitsch.”

  “I assume there was nothing that suggested a diamond.”

  “No. Nothing like that.” Old Man Joseph shook his head. “When I lost my sight and later sold my collection, I had a friend help me go through all of the new stuff I’d gotten. No diamond there unless it was tiny and hidden well. Anyway, I decided that the collecting phase of my life was over, so I sold it all.”

  “Any chance you remember who bought it?”

  “Sure. The radio guy. What was his name? He had the radio show about Sinatra back in the nineties. Vince something.”

  “Any memory of how much you paid for the trailer full of Sinatra stuff?”

  “Three thousand.”

  “How much did Vince pay you for it?”

  “Russo.”

  “What?”

  “I just remembered Vince’s last name. His show was called Vince Russo’s Sinatra Hour. Anyway, he paid me thirty-five thousand for my entire collection. The trailer stuff and all the other stuff, too. And he has lots of other stuff besides what he got from me.”

  “Did Scarlett ever find out that you sold your collection to Vince Russo?”

  Joseph paused, thinking. “I don’t know. Vince bought it several years ago. And it’s certainly been several years since Scarlett and I have spoken. But I can’t remember which came first or whether the subject of Vince ever came up with Scarlett and me.”