The Bleached Widow

Tempers had simmered down in Judd’s office by the time Rankin walked in. The growing heat had solved the problem of the high cost of lobsters. It was too hot to serve them, as usual, steamed with butter sauce. It was far cheaper to make lobster salad. The chef complained bitterly about the extra work, but all agreed that the guests would enjoy something cold. For non-lobster lovers there were a variety of equally popular cold platters, and for the finale, Chef Emil’s famous old fashioned strawberry shortcake.

“Welcome to the inferno,” Judd said as he greeted his old friend. “I guess you’re used to this kind of heat in Vegas, but here we’re always touting the cool ocean breezes. But enough of that. Did you get a chance to meet the famous Mrs. Truesdell? Quite a dish. Around here she’s known as the “Bleached Widow.” Not quite lethal, but still dangerous. Card players, beware. She and her partner have been cleaning up at all the best hotels and cruise ships. They’ve got a system going and even a pro like you might not be able to figure it out. But, maybe you could find yourself a partner and join their game to do a bit of reconnoitering. The stakes are high . . . but if you lose we’ll pay you back – up to a point, that is. I’m not interested in giving away the hotel to those two! But, I’ll take a chance with you just to get rid of them if they are cheating. Allowing that sort in here will scare away the good guests. Unfortunately, no hotel or cruise ship that I’m aware of has been able to catch them in the act of cheating, but even the best players don’t win as consistently as those two. There won’t be any bridge tonight, but meanwhile keep an eye on the two of them. You might get a ‘feel’ for something that’s not quite kosher. Use your instincts.”

“That’ll be easy. That Truesdell woman is quite a package – sexy and mysterious. We had lunch together at the snack bar. How’s that for moving fast! There’s a lot there to uncover – if you’ll excuse the expression. How come she wins at putting? There’s no way she can cheat at that. Ya know, I’m a pretty damned good putter myself. Maybe I could win that five grand!”

Judd was not amused. “That’s not what we’re paying you for. Just keep your eyes on the bridge table. Above all, if you do catch them at something fishy, be discreet. We can’t have any cheating scandal around here. Incidentally, did you bring any formal clothes with you?”

“Judd, don’t you remember? I’m a Boy Scout – always prepared!”

As he left the office, he smiled to himself. Judd was a great guy, whom he’d known since high school. There were times, though, when he got a bit stuffy. Yes, Judd, I won’t let you down at the dance tonight. My white linen jacket’s all starched and ready to go. Bet that widow’s got some great moves on the dance floor, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his room.

******

It was three-thirty, and there was still enough time for Marjorie to select another costume for the putting contest. The cool shower had invigorated her and, as usual, she felt stimulated by meeting a new man. A man of her own age, who – though he certainly wasn’t handsome – was strangely attractive, even if at times he had seemed a bit nosy. Well she could deal with that. She could tell from his response to her that the loose shirt had not hurt her chances with him. She could tell that he was attracted. Like some animals, Marjorie had a sixth sense about people who liked her . . . or didn’t. Cats, for instance – she hated them and they sensed it. Yes, Carl had warned her about wearing that provocative halter. Usually she followed his advice. This time she ignored him and slipped the gaudy top over her head. What did Carl know about sexy women? He was gay. So what if she distracted her rivals on the putting green? Hadn’t she a right, as last year’s victor, to celebrate in a spectacular outfit? At the Ocean View, there was a double standard: as long as the men wore jackets to dinner, what the women wore – or didn’t – made no difference. She decided on wearing a very short, navy blue golf skirt and her expensive gold flip-flops. High heels would have been sexier, but she would save them for the dancing that evening. And besides, they weren’t allowed on the putting green.

Would Lowell Rankin be at the dance? Of course he would not be as great a dancer as Carl, who was incredibly graceful, and whom she had once suspected of having taken ballet as a child. The two of them were so sensational on the dance floor, that Marjorie once joked, “They should pay us here as entertainers.” Carl was kind enough not to voice what was in his thoughts, “Too bad you’re not younger.”

Like a prima donna, Marjorie arrived at the putting green at the last minute. About fifty persons – mostly male – had gathered in a circle. To her gratification, there were a few whistles, of the gentlemanly kind, hardly audible. There were only two or three younger men among the contestants. Most of the others were grey-haired, middle-aged guests who looked more like well-fed executives than sportsmen. From the way they gripped their putters Marjorie could already sense their tension. Where were their wives? she wondered. Too nervous to watch, or busy at the spa or beauty salon?

Lowell Rankin had evidently changed his sweaty polo shirt to something cooler, a grey, open mesh number. He came to greet her as she approached. “Didn’t your friend come to watch you perform?”

“Oh no, it makes him too edgy. He may be out on the short course now. He’s really addicted to the game.”

“And you don’t play at all. How odd. Where did you learn to putt so well?”

“Practice, practice, practice. Carl gave me one of his old putters and since then I’ve been working at it at most of the resort hotels in Florida where we go in the winter. Frankly, I hate real exercise – except for dancing. I’ll bet you’re a good dancer. Will I be seeing you at the dance tonight?”