know what they say—first time’s lucky.”
“That they do.” He traced his finger around the rim of the cup. He picked up a blue and white chip, flipping it with a magician’s dexterity between his fingers before placing it back on top of the pile. “What’s your game? Slots? Roulette? Craps?”
This guy was definitely a player she wanted to meet. “I like card games.”
“A little strategy to balance the luck, eh?” He tapped the token on top of her pile. “You know, you can trade these in for a ticket. It’s easier—and safer—than carrying around tokens or chips or cash. I can show you how to exchange them.”
The blackjack dealer had already told her how. “I’d appreciate that.”
“I’m Austin, by the way.” Unlike Teddy Wolfe, this man offered her a traditional handshake. “I’m the architect responsible for redesigning this place.”
“I’m Rebecca.” The bar was looking up, after all. She’d think of this potential source as Austin, and let the whole Cartwright coincidence slide. “The Riverboat is lovely. I feel like I’ve gone back in time with these surroundings.”
“Authentic as the retro look is, everything behind the historic facade is completely high-tech. I did all the research and design elements myself.” Perfect. A man who bragged about his accomplishments was a man who liked to talk. About a lot of things. Maybe she could even get him to show her the blueprints for this place. Rebecca had hit paydirt.
“So, you know the Riverboat inside and out?”
“Probably better than anybody.”
“Mr. Cartwright.” The bartender demanded Austin’s attention again.
“You’d better take care of business,” she suggested.
Pressing for information right now would only arouse suspicion. She’d follow up with Austin later. Maybe ask him to show her around. He could take her into the bowels of the boat, into the parts that would have been in place at the time of her father’s death. She imagined she could learn more from that tour than from the places she suspected Teddy Wolfe wanted to show her.
“What’s up, Tom?” the older man asked.
“Can you speak to Mr. Wolfe about getting another waitress for this shift? When one of them calls in sick like tonight…At least bring someone in off the gaming floor. Melissa’s running ragged.”
“Is she complaining?” Austin asked.
“Of course not. You know her.”
Rebecca turned the direction he pointed and saw the waitress schooling her patience with a smile at a table with three college-aged men who were flirting with her. While Tom and Austin discussed options across the bar, Rebecca noted how Melissa flexed her fingers on her sore arm before collecting their empty beer bottles. She was mentally girding herself to take the extra weight. Once she had the bottles and the order, she turned back toward the bar.
But, with a suggestive quip, one of the men reached for her, tugging her off balance. Melissa yelped in pain and the tray went flying.
Rebecca was on her feet before the last beer bottle hit the floor and shattered.
The man who’d caused the accident was instantly apologetic, but Melissa waved him off when he tried to help. “No. It’s fine. Really. Don’t get up. Please.”
Rebecca picked up two intact bottles and righted them on the tray before squatting down beside the blond waitress. “Here. Let me.”
Melissa paused in her frantic retrieval of the broken brown glass. “This isn’t your job.” Her blue eyes were moist and wide with unshed tears as she met Rebecca’s gaze. She dropped a shard onto the tray and cradled her left arm against her chest. “I can do it. I have to.”
Son of a bitch.
Lifted up to the subdued light of the bar’s chandeliers, the pattern of bruises on Melissa’s swollen wrist became evident. Five of them. With the span of long, strong fingers. The imprint of a man’s hand.
Rebecca swallowed the bile in her throat and reached for the next shard of glass. “I’m helping,” she insisted, resisting the urge to ask who’d hurt her. Was it Tom? Was that why he was so protective and anxious to get her off the floor? Was it a customer? Boyfriend? Husband?
She’d written pieces on domestic violence before. She knew the numbers to call, the words to say. But her dad…She owed him so much. Could she help Melissa without betraying a plan that had been months in the making?
“I’m helping,” she repeated, positioning herself between Melissa and Tom when the bartender hurried over with a towel to mop up the splatters of beer.
Maybe making a friend tonight, making this friend, was just as important as finding her father’s killer. Maybe there was more than one story here on the Riverboat, more than one reason why Rebecca needed to become a part of this world and discover all the secrets hidden here. Maybe she could help the living as well as the dead.
The perfect opportunity lay scattered at her feet.
“Hey—Melissa, is it?” The waitress nodded, blinking away the tears she refused to shed. “I’m assuming you guys have a first aid kit here. Why don’t you go wrap your wrist for some extra support, and I’ll cover for you for a few minutes. Just tell me which tables are waiting on drinks and I’ll deliver them. I can clear away the empties, too.”
When Tom seconded the idea, Rebecca wondered if he was sincere in his concern—or eager to cover the evidence of his assault.
Melissa shrugged, clearly reluctant to showcase her injury, despite the practicality of the suggestion. “I couldn’t let you do that.”
Rebecca grinned, including them both in her offer. “I want to.” She beat big Tom to helping Melissa to her feet and carried the tray to the bar. “I’ve been looking for a second job to help make ends meet.”
Austin was waiting for them at the waitress’s station. “Melissa, are you all right?” He shifted on his feet, burying his hands in his jacket pockets. “What happened?”
“Just an accident.”
He nodded, than darted a glance at Rebecca. “Thank you.”
Rebecca picked up on his uneasiness. Good Lord, was Gramps the man responsible for her injury? He was certainly fit enough to do some damage. “No problem. I worked my way through college waiting—” that’s when she noticed a handful of her chips and tokens had disappeared from her cup “—tables.” Perplexed by the discovery, she couldn’t quite breathe a sigh of relief. Austin was guilty of something, if not abuse. “If you could use another waitress, I’d love to have the job.”
Melissa was the first to respond to the proposition. “I don’t know. Really, I’ll be okay. We’ve been shorthanded before. Right, Tom?”
The big bartender glared a response. But Melissa glanced away from the message he tried to convey. Whether concern had been rebuffed or a threat satisfied, Rebecca couldn’t tell. Tom dumped the mess into the trash and grumbled,
