Reunions and Revelations in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery

by A. R. Winters

  If they didn’t say it, they should.

  Chapter Seven

  “Everyone, let’s get out of this room. We’ll meet in the drawing room. Maeve, do you have a spare sheet?”

  “Hmm?” The old housekeeper stared at me, not comprehending.

  “To cover her with. We’ll put a sheet over her.”

  “Oh. A sheet. Yes. Yes, I can get a sheet.”

  “And check on Norm, will you?”

  “Norm?”

  “Norman. The lawyer. Remember? With the concussion?”

  “Right. Yes. A sheet for Norm. No, that’s not right. A sheet for you and a check for Norm.”

  “You’re just going to put a sheet over… it?” Roman asked me, incredulity in his voice.

  “That’s right.”

  Jini pushed forward and peered behind me. “You’re just going to leave her there?”

  “It’s a crime scene.”

  “It’s a dead body,” Roman said, shaking his shoulders to mimic a shudder. “You can’t just leave it here.”

  “I’m sure the police will be here tomorrow. We’ll just close the door.”

  “But… it’ll still be there. Behind the door.”

  “I don’t like it,” Jini said in agreement.

  “Tiffany’s a detective,” Uncle Joe said in my defense. “Let’s do what she says.”

  “She’s not a police detective,” Jini said.

  “We work with the police,” Ian said in my—our—defense. “Don’t we, Tiff?”

  ”I may not be a police detective, but my boyfriend is, my friends are, and even more importantly, I’ve watched a heck of a lot of police procedurals. We don’t disturb the crime scene. Let’s go, everyone. Downstairs.”

  “I think we should put her in the woodshed,” Roman said. “It’ll be cold as a morgue in there.”

  Yumi pulled at his arm. “Come on, love. Leave it. Let’s go.”

  Slowly, everyone left the room. Ian made for the door along with them.

  I grabbed his sleeve. “You stay here.”

  Maeve returned shortly. She handed me a folded white sheet, old but clean. She seemed calmer than when she left the room earlier.

  “Norm is still fast asleep. I gave him some morphine last night.”

  “Morphine?”

  “He was in pain, and it’s best to keep people with concussions as still as possible.”

  “You had morphine in the house?” Ian asked her.

  “I like to keep a supply, just in case the worst happens. We can be cut off for days at a time out here. Better to have it and not need it.”

  “I guess you’re the nurse.”

  “Retired nurse.”

  “Why don’t you go join the others in the drawing room. Perhaps make some coffee, if you’re up to it? I don’t think we’ll be getting any more sleep tonight.

  “Coffee. Right.” Maeve nodded slowly and then left the room.

  “She looks like she’s in shock,” Ian said when she was gone.

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “No. Unless she did it. What are your thoughts so far?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Let’s have a look and take some pictures before we cover her up.”

  We walked around to the side of the bed that was not covered with pieces of smashed porcelain from the former bedside lamp.

  I held up my lantern so we could both get a good look. Apart from the body on the bed itself, there was a nightstand on each side of the bed. The lamp on the far side had fallen and shattered, but there was a matching one on this side which was still in pristine condition. Of course, without electricity, it didn’t work. Beside it was a rather ugly turquoise plastic pill box. We turned our gaze to the body.

  Beryl looked impossibly pale. Before going to bed, Beryl had washed off her thick layer of rouge. And now, with the pallor of death, her skin was almost as white as the sheet we were soon going to cover her with. She looked positively ancient.

  My gaze traveled down to the knife. I held the lantern above it. Without being told, Ian took several pictures of the handle with his phone.

  “Look at it. It’s got writing on it. Chinese characters.”

  The handle of the knife was indeed decorated with black painted characters.

  “Are you sure it’s Chinese?”

  “The writing is, yes. But they use those characters in other places, too.”

  “Other places, like Japan?”

  “Like Japan,” Ian confirmed.

  “Huh.” I stared at the knife some more. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet.”

  “Yeah. Yumi’s too nice to have done it.”

  “I said let’s not jump to any conclusions yet. Positive or negative.”

  “I’m not jumping to conclusions. I’m just saying she’s too nice.”

  I felt the same way. But it was bad sleuthing to let those kinds of feelings cloud your judgment, especially about someone you’d just met. While I generally trusted my gut feelings, it took more than that to solve cases.

  “No one is crossed off our list yet. No one.”

  “We have a list?” Ian asked in surprise.

  “Sure. Everyone’s name is on it. Except mine.”

  “And mine?”

  “Yeah. I guess. Yours too.”

  Technically I shouldn’t have even scrubbed his name off my list of suspects yet, but it was Ian. The little cousin I never wanted. Never knew I wanted, as he insisted on me putting it.

  “Take a few more pictures, then we’ll cover her up.”

  Ian stood back and took pictures of the whole scene while I used my lantern to provide as much lighting as I could.

  When we were done, we laid the sheet over the corpse of the old woman.

  “Right,” I said to my investigative partner. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and figure out who did this.”

  “Black and Cousin are on the case!”

  “Please don’t call us that.”

  Ian pretended not to hear.

  “Black and Cousin, the finest detective team this side of Mount Washington.”

  * * *

  By the time we got downstairs, everyone was re-assembled in the drawing room. Roman and Marcus stood in front of the fire, which they had coaxed back to blazing life. The writer was now feeding more logs on top of the flames, while Joe’s son jabbed at the coals underneath with a poker.

  No one was talking. They were spread out, bleary-eyed, staring into the flames, all waiting for something to happen.

  That something being us.

  Every head swiveled our way.

  “Well?” Uncle Joe said. “What’s the verdict?”

  “It appears Beryl was murdered in the night—”

  “Could it be suicide?” Yumi asked, interrupting. Her voice was eager, hopeful.

  “The evidence points to it not being suicide. There were sounds of a struggle—”

  “How do you know?” Roman asked, interrupting.

  “I heard them. I was awake.”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Presumably you were sleeping.” Or you were there and were lying. “On top of that, there were other signs of a struggle—the smashed lamp. And furthermore, wedging a knife like that into one’s own chest would require considerable strength and determination. It’s not exactly a common form of suicide. At Beryl’s age, it’s simply a physical impossibility. I’m sorry to say it, but someone killed her.” Everyone stared at me. “Someone here.”

  The fire crackled. The wind whistled past the black windows. Jini began to sob, quietly. The silence was finally broken by the loud rattling of Maeve’s trolley.

  “Coffee.” She brought the cart to a halt just behind the sofas. “I’ll start breakfast in a minute.”

  Maeve dished out a hot mug to everyone there. Except for Angel, of course. She was sitting on Amber’s lap in an armchair, fast asleep.

  When everyone had their mug, Maeve left us to return to the kitchen.

  “Could
someone have broken into the house?” Jini asked.

  As if to answer, the wind picked up speed again, stopping me from replying for several seconds as it shrieked around the house.

  “Seems unlikely in this weather, considering how remote we are,” I said when the wind dropped again.

  “Does anyone have a phone signal?” Ian asked.

  There were head shakes and negative replies. No one did.

  “Please keep checking regularly. We need to contact the authorities as soon as possible.”

  “You need to investigate, Tiffany,” Uncle Joe said. “Someone here is a killer. It’s not safe for the rest of us.”

  “Why should she investigate?” Roman asked. “She’s just as much of a suspect as anyone here.”

  I put Roman’s words down to simply being disturbed by the whole situation. Not due to an attempt at misdirection. Not yet, anyway.

  “Good point, Roman. And this was supposed to be a vacation for me, anyway. I’m not exactly thrilled to be in this situation. All I’ll say is, I have no motive to want Beryl dead, and nothing to gain. I’m not related to her, I don’t stand to inherit anything, and I have no long-standing grudge against her either. And, somehow, miraculously, I even managed to stay out of her crosshairs during our meals. But I know she upset every last one of you here.”

  I paced while I spoke, irritated to be in this ridiculous predicament. I’m happy for us to just leave Beryl under the sheet in her room and wait for the authorities. However, judging by the weather, and our lack of power and ability to communicate with the outside world, it could be several days before we can get the actual police here. That’s fine with me. We can just keep Beryl’s door closed. Out of sight, out of mind. If that’s what you want, I’ll stop talking about the topic this very second. I’ll give you a moment to decide.” I nudged my partner. “Come on, Ian.” I addressed the room again. “We’ll be back in five minutes.”

  We left the drawing room.

  “Very good, Tiff. You sure told them what’s up.”

  “Coming here was supposed to be a break,” I muttered.

  “Are we just waiting out here?”

  “No. Come on.”

  Ian followed me up the stairs. When we got to the room Maeve had put Norman in, I gently knocked on the door.

  There was no response.

  I knocked again, louder.

  Nothing.

  Gently, I opened the door and peered inside. Holding up my lantern, we walked over to the bed and looked down at the occupant.

  Norm was lying on his back. His head was wrapped in a thick layer of white bandages. His chest was slowly rising and falling with steady breaths.

  “Norman?”

  No answer.

  Ian poked him in the side. “Norman?”

  Half-asleep, Norman’s hand brushed Ian’s hand away. His eyes fluttered open and closed several times. He swallowed, muttered something, and his breath returned to a slow steady inhale and exhale.

  “Norman? Can you hear me?” I asked again, louder.

  Ian tapped him on the shoulder six times. “Norman!” he hissed.

  Norman mumbled something incomprehensible and sighed deeply.

  “What are you doing?” said a sharp voice.

  We both turned around.

  “Just checking on him.”

  “Please don’t do that,” Maeve said. “He has a concussion, and he’s had morphine. You won’t get any sense out of him for several more hours at the very least. If the concussion is bad, it could be even longer.”

  “Sorry. I thought it might have worn off by now.”

  This wasn’t true. I actually wanted to see if Norman was faking. Perhaps he hadn’t swallowed the drugs Maeve had given him. He did seem to be fully out of commission though.

  “There are eggs and bacon downstairs. Since we are all together, I decided to serve them in the dining room.”

  “I thought we weren’t allowed in the dining room,” Ian said, “except in the evening?” He actually sounded worried about the rule breaking.

  “Perhaps the rules need updating,” Maeve said. “We can do that now.

  Of course we could. The person who made the rules was no longer with us.

  The three of us closed Norman’s door and went back downstairs. Ian and I went straight to the dining room, now lit with candles and battery-powered lamps, and Maeve went to summon the rest of our group. In the center of the table were two giant silver platters, one loaded with a whole mess of scrambled eggs, and the other with a mountain of bacon, and two smaller mountains of mushrooms and fried tomatoes. A basket was filled with toast. Plates were stacked up at the end of the table, and we began to serve ourselves.

  More coffee was brought in, and soon we were all digging in.

  “Murders make you hungry,” Ian said, by way of conversation.

  “Ian!”

  “Maybe it’s just me.” He shrugged.

  “We were talking while you were out of the room,” Uncle Joe said, “and we decided. We want you to try and figure out what happened to Beryl.”

  “And you’re all in agreement?”

  “We are now.”

  “I wasn’t consulted,” Maeve said with some acrimony. “But if you’d like to hear my opinion…”

  “Yes, please,” I said to her.

  “I concur. We must find out what happened to Beryl. I’ve been with her more than twenty years. This is such a shock for me, and I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”

  “Okay. Let me tell you how I intend to proceed.”

  I put my knife and fork down. Everyone looked at me. I tried to analyze whether they were looking at me with interest, discomfort, annoyance, or some other telltale emotion. But in the dim light of the lamps and candles, it was hard to make out expressions.

  “Ian and I will interview all of you, starting today. This means we’ll be asking you questions. Now, I must warn you, some of the questions we have to ask may be upsetting. We’re not trying to upset, annoy, or implicate you. We’re simply trying to get to the bottom of this mess. Please bear that in mind, and please don’t hold it against us if we ask you something that you don’t particularly want to answer. We’ll be fair to everyone. We’re professionals, and we’ve done this before. Any questions?”

  “We’re supposed to trust Ian, too, are we?” Roman asked.

  “Yes. For the same reasons you can trust me. We have only the most tenuous connection to Beryl, and nothing to gain by her death. In fact, this ruins our vacation.”

  “You could be doing it for your reputation. To drum up business,” Roman suggested.

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “Yeah? You think so? If that was the case, either I catch myself and go to prison, or I fail to catch myself and add a failure to my resume.”

  Roman looked cowed. “I suppose you’re right,” he said quietly.

  “I have a suggestion,” Marcus announced.

  “Yes?”

  “A couple of us could hike into Mount Washington once the sun’s up. Let them know what’s happened.” Marcus looked at Ian. “What do you say?”

  As if to answer, a particularly loud gust of wind roared around the house.

  “I’m up for it,” Ian said nonchalantly.

  “No,” Uncle Joe said. “Not with the weather like this. You wouldn’t get more than a few yards without being turned around in that.” He nodded toward the window. “It’s too dangerous. Gotta wait for the weather to settle.”

  “Right.” I nodded at Joe. “We don’t need any more Normans, do we?”

  There was agreement. No one wanted any more concussed wanderers.

  “Maeve? We’ll need a space to work in. Where should we go?”

  “You could use the library,” she suggested. “And Beryl’s paperwork is in there, too.”

  “Her will,” Uncle Joe said, “that she wrote yesterday.”

  “Then that’s where we’ll go.”

  As soon as we were finished with our breakfast, Ian and I
walked over to the library.

  Our investigation was about to begin.

  Chapter Eight

  Maeve led us into the library. It was a little bigger than the dining room, with large bay windows at one end, and the other three walls were lined with bookcases which soared above my head. In front of the window was a large, highly polished desk, and a single high backed chair sat in front of it. The chair matches the ones we’d seen in the drawing room.

  There were several stacks of paper on the desk, as well as a large blotter and several pens and pencils in a little wire pen-holding cup. One of the stacks of documents was neatly tied with a red ribbon.

  “Tiffany?” Maeve asked, her voice unusually hesitant.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m worried about Norman. I checked on him again while you were eating. I think the concussion may be worse than I first thought.”

  “Do you think his life is in danger?”

  Maeve nodded. “It might be. He needs to be seen by a specialist. He needs his head scanned.”

  I turned to look out the window behind me. The sun was, somewhere, beginning to rise and the outside world was slowly turning gray. Flurries of snow danced. The wind continued to soar.

  “Do you have any other communication equipment in the house? A radio or something?”

  Maeve shook her head. “No. We just have the phone. And that’s down.”

  “I know what Joe said, but maybe I could—” Ian began.

  “No,” I said. While I didn’t mind letting him indulge in playing at being an outdoorsman on a fine day, I wasn’t about to let him make a fool—and possibly a corpse—of himself in weather like this.

  “Maeve, I’m sorry. Until the weather clears, the phones are fixed, or someone comes to find us, we can’t get any help. Please just do the best you can. No one will blame you if…” I winced.

  “I don’t want anyone to think I didn’t try and help him. Everyone knows I didn’t like him, but I wouldn’t wish what happened to him on anyone.”

  “We know you did your best, Maeve. You’ve bandaged him, you’ve checked him. You’ve given him medicine. There’s nothing more we can do.”

  “I did. It wasn’t medicine though. It won’t make him better, just rest easier.”