“Thank you, Clayton.” Lyle tried to match Clayton’s serious expression. He didn’t give a fig if anyone wanted to grow Marshall roses, but it was obviously important to Darby and Clayton.

“I’ve got a present for you, too.” Johnny Day stood up and motioned to a waiter who was hovering in the background. Almost immediately, twelve silver ice buckets were wheeled out, each containing a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

“Oh, Johnny.” Charlotte clapped her hands in delight. “My absolute favorite champagne!”

“Your absolute favorite caviar, too.” Johnny nodded and the waiter produced a crystal bowl filled with the finest Beluga caviar. “This is just the appetizer. I’ll let Marc tell you about the rest of the meal when he gets here.”

Moira Jonas got to her feet. A large woman with more muscle than fat, her red hair was twisted up into a knot on the top of her head, making her appear even taller. Moira’s physical appearance matched her imposing presence as Vegas’s leading interior decorator.

“That’s simply a stunning outfit, Moira. You look wonderful,” Charlotte complimented her.

Lyle noted genuine envy in Charlotte’s voice and couldn’t imagine why. Moira was wearing one of the caftans that had become her trademark. This one was a vivid blue embroidered in bright red thread, and it was decorated with shiny gold beads interspersed with mirrored disks. Lyle thought she looked a little like the toy stuffed elephants found in a New Delhi bazaar.

“Aw, bullsh . . . I mean, horsefeathers! I know I look as big as a house.” Moira caught herself just in time and her roommate, Grace DuPaz, did her best to suppress a smile. As the only daughter of a career army sergeant, Moira’s choice of expletives had been pretty colorful when Grace had met her ten years before. Since then, Moira had made a considerable effort to clean up her language.

“Thanks anyway, Charlotte.” Moira tried to accept the compliment gracefully. “Can we bring out our present now? Grace has sixteen dancers on hold out there.”

“Sixteen dancers?” Lyle was clearly puzzled as Grace jumped up to join Moira. Thin and graceful, she was the exact opposite of Moira and wore her dark blond hair in a long ponytail. Grace had been the toast of Vegas, the featured dancer in all of the Castle’s glitzy extravaganzas. She’d left the stage last year to become the head choreographer.

Charlotte had expressed her doubts when they’d wanted to buy into Deer Creek, as it was no secret that Moira and Grace were live-in lovers. Then, when Moira had offered to decorate all the units, Charlotte had quickly changed her mind. Since Moira and Grace never discussed their intimate relationship and Charlotte refrained from personal questions, the three women were now good friends.

“I wanted to stage it perfectly, even though Moira said it really didn’t matter, that you’d appreciate it anyway. And then, at rehearsal today, I noticed these perfectly lovely costumes from last year’s show just hanging right there on the rack. Naturally, once I explained the situation, all sixteen girls wanted to help, so I asked for volunteers and . . .”

“Gracie dear, you’re babbling,” Moira interrupted gently. “What she really means is that our present’s too dang big for one person to carry.”

Charlotte winced. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your inheritance, does it, Grace?”

“Yes and no.” Grace laughed. “It’s not the moose head, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Thank God!” Charlotte gasped. Grace’s father had been a taxidermist and Paul had designed a special climate-controlled storage room for their unit. When Lyle had seen Grace’s collection and wanted to buy a moose head for their den, Charlotte had objected strenuously. Moose were ugly in the first place and she certainly didn’t want some horrid dead creature on her wall, staring at her with its glassy eyes.

“Okay, guys . . . hit it!”

At Moira’s cue, Jayne began an African melody on the piano. Grace crossed the room to open the door and a crowd of dancers dressed in Zulu costumes and carrying spears came in, holding a tiger-skin rug, complete with head.

“Oh, Lord!” Charlotte began to laugh. “That animal has to be six feet long.”

“It’s actually a little over nine. I can take the head off if it really bothers you, but it adds such a nice touch of authenticity and it’ll be on the floor, not the wall. Moira says it’ll fit perfectly in front of your fireplace and I think it’ll look very . . .” Grace stopped in midsentence as she felt Moira’s hand on her arm. “Okay, Moira, I’ll stop. But do you like it, Charlotte?”

Charlotte reached out to touch the fur. “It’s beautiful and you can leave the head on. I can always put a sleep mask over its eyes.”

“Since we’re doing the presents . . .” Alan Lewis got to his feet. The owner of a chain of upscale building supply stores, Alan had provided Deer Creek materials at cost in return for his first-floor unit. An overweight man in his fifties with a cherubic face and a completely bald head, he placed his meerschaum pipe in an ashtray and cleared his throat. Alan’s doctor had told him to quit smoking last year, and he’d tried everything: hypnosis, acupuncture, even aversion therapy in a famous clinic. Finally, the doctor had conceded that a pipe might be less harmful than chain-smoking unfiltered Camels, provided Alan didn’t inhale, of course. Alan had left his doctor’s office and ducked into the nearest pipe store. The salesman had been very helpful and Alan had emerged four thousand dollars poorer, with two hand-carved, antique meerschaums and a set of seven Dunhills, one for every day of the week, in a custom-fitted presentation case. His wife, Laureen, had picked out the tobacco, an aromatic blend that smelled a lot like cookies baking. Now Alan’s doctor was happy and so was Laureen, and only Lyle knew that Alan still sneaked a Camel now and then.

“We wanted to give you something special.” Alan beckoned to his wife. “Laureen? You do the honors, honey.”

“I just want you all to know that this was Alan’s idea.” Laureen Lewis picked up a silver-wrapped box and carried it to Charlotte. An attractive blonde who was always watching her weight, she hosted a cooking show on the local Las Vegas television channel. Usually unflappable, Laureen’s face was pink with embarrassment as Charlotte began to unwrap the package.

Charlotte lifted the lid and stared into the box with disbelief. “What is it?”

“It’s a toilet seat.” Alan grabbed it and lifted it out. “See? It’s silver, that’s in honor of your twenty-fifth anniversary, and it hooks on like this. The fixtures are genuine gold and that’s mother-of-pearl inlay on the edges. I can install it in a jiffy if you tell me which bathroom you want it in.”

Charlotte couldn’t help it. She started to giggle. Leave it to Alan.

“I think it should go in the guest bathroom.” Lyle took over when he saw that Charlotte was virtually speechless. “That way more people will get to admire it. Thanks, Alan. That was very . . . generous.”

When Jack St. James stood up, Lyle gazed at him in shock. He was a short, muscular man in his early forties with light brown hair closely cropped in the military style. Today he was dressed for the occasion in a dark blue three-piece suit, quite a change from the chinos and NRA sweatshirt he usually wore. When Jack had applied for the job as live-in security officer, he’d told them that during his employment with a big security outfit, he’d designed the highly rated home security system that several of Charlotte’s wealthy friends used. Jack was a lifelong member of the NRA, an organization that Charlotte abhorred, but his mention of a gold medal won in Olympic rifle competition had confirmed that Jack St. James was the man for the job. The tough little man inspired their confidence, important since their building was so isolated. In return for a small, one-bedroom apartment just off the garage and a reasonable salary, Jack had agreed to design a special security system for the entire building and to act as their in-house security chief.