Up Against the Wall. Julie Miller

and commotion. But she could feel him with her, like a restless spirit lurking in the shadows until revelation of the truth could finally give him peace. Rebecca fingered the chain around her neck, imagining his warmth before the chill of isolation could take hold of her.

      “Has to be done,” she whispered. She tipped her chin, stood straight and tall, and walked into the bar.

      Rebecca nodded to the faceless bouncer who waved her inside without checking her license. Her eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimmer ambiance, her ears to the more human, less mechanical sounds. By the time she’d pulled up a stool at the polished walnut bar and ordered her ginger ale and lime, she’d introduced herself to the bartender, Tom Sawyer.

      “You’re kidding, right?” She looked up from the nametag on his black silk vest and offered a teasing smile.

      “My mother was an English teacher. She had a thing for literature.” The dexterous giant who created drinks with a speedy sleight of hand winked and moved down the bar to fill the cocktail waitress’s drink order, clearing away abandoned glasses as he went. The literary giant was too busy to press for information right now. So Rebecca pulled the straw between her lips and swiveled around to seek out other prospects.

      Most of the tables were filled with gamblers celebrating their jackpots or drowning their losses. Some were doing their best to impress a date, others were hoping to find one. The lone waitress, in a short, showboat-style costume that matched Dawn’s, was running like crazy to fill orders and clear tables. “Two drafts and two rum and colas, Tom.”

      Rebecca traded a sympathetic smile with the other woman as she brushed a droopy feather off her forehead and leaned against the brass railing to catch her breath for a moment. But the instant she rested her full weight on her left arm, the waitress winced and pulled back, drawing Rebecca’s attention to the dark violet and purple marks on her wrist.

      The bartender had noticed them, too. “You sure you’re okay to work tonight, Melissa? I can ask Mr. Wolfe to call in someone else.”

      “No. Don’t do that.” But, realizing she may have answered too quickly, the waitress tucked her long, golden hair back into its French twist and smiled. “You know I need the tip money.”

      “I’ll stake you for it,” Tom offered. “Go home and rest that arm.”

      “I am not taking charity from you. Now load up my drinks.” She gritted her teeth as she lifted the tray in her left hand. “But thanks.”

      Melissa was too busy to do Rebecca much good, either. And she didn’t think any of the customers could give her the kind of information she needed. Maybe the bar would be a bust tonight. Was it too soon to go snooping through the offices and private rooms upstairs? Of course, it was. But Rebecca had been hoping to find some piece of evidence on this first visit to the Riverboat. At least a clue that would point her in the direction of something useful.

      “Mr. Cartwright?”

      Rebecca froze with a sip halfway up her straw as the bartender called to someone in the archway behind her. There was that name again. No. The fates wouldn’t be that cruel. C’mon, Dad. You’re supposed to be watching out for me here.

      She slowly turned. Ginger ale pooled back in her glass as she breathed again. Not Seth Cartwright.

      Though the stocky build of the man buttoning his cream-colored jacket reminded her of the burly detective, the similarities ended there. This man had enough gray on his head to give his blond hair a silver sheen. His suit and tie and easy smile were a definite contrast to the streetwise style and smart-mouth attitude of his namesake at KCPD. This distinguished fellow must be the “fix-it-up” guy Dawn had said was in charge of something at the casino. He was definitely an acquaintance she needed to make.

      So when he sidled onto the stool beside her, and his knee brushed against hers, Rebecca returned his glance with a smile. “Hi.”

      The older man eyed the cup of chips and tokens sitting on the bar beside her drink. “Looks like you’re having a good night.”

      “You 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