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What critics are saying about
Stephanie Caffrey's books:
"A great, breezy, fun read. Reminded me of Evanovich and Parker. Lots of sex and booze which is so Vegas."
—Chucktown Reader
"This is possibly the best first book of any series I have read. I am always looking for new authors and series, and this one is a true masterpiece. I can hardly wait for the next book."
—Mystery Lover
"This was such a refreshing, honest and out of the ordinary detective story. I think it was a cracking read and highly recommend it."
—Top 500 Amazon Reviewer (UK site)
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ROYAL FLUSH
by
STEPHANIE CAFFREY
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Copyright © 2015 by Stephanie Caffrey
Cover design by Janet Holmes
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
CHAPTER ONE
I had just flicked out the lights and locked my office door, happily envisioning the rousing night I had planned for myself, which involved the perfect binge-worthy trifecta: a two-pound bowl of cheesy pasta, a box of merlot, and a DVR stuffed to the brim with Dancing With the Stars. But trouble has a way of finding me, and she did. This version had more mascara than Mary Kay, the shimmering blonde hair of a Clairol model, and a puppy-dog face right out of a Purina commercial. My first reaction was that this was a pretty girl-next-door cutie who was trying too hard to be Vegas-sexy, and it wasn't working to her advantage. She was in her early twenties and smelled faintly of perfume. There was something familiar about her face, too. But one thing was clear: she was a fish out of water. And fish don't do very well in the Nevada desert.
She cleared her throat. "You're Raven McShane? The detective?" Her voice was unusually low and raspy, yet hesitant. The question rang in my ears. It sounded so official. I was the detective.
"That's me. In all my glory," I said, making a mocking hand gesture highlighting my three-year-old yoga pants and decades-old Notre Dame T-shirt, a remnant of a guy I dated briefly.
"I'm sorry, if you're closing up for the day, I can come back some other time. It's just—"
"No, no," I interrupted. "Let's talk." I unlocked the office door and flipped the lights back on, ushering the young woman inside. My visitor stifled a cringe as she surveyed the place. Dusty fluorescent lights hung from the decrepit ceiling in the lobby. A brown plaid couch sat next to the wall facing the door, and a fake wood desk stood off to the left, its plastic faux-walnut surface receding faster than the Channel 7 weatherman's hairline. The poor desk, with a veritable museum of obsolete technology perched atop its surface, was perpetually unoccupied.
My office was off to the right, and I shooed her inside before she inhaled too much of the whiff of shabbiness that permeated the lobby. The girl was still on edge, so I scrounged up what I hoped was a friendly-looking grin and showed her into a chair.
I sat down and tried to look kind. "How can I help?"
"Well," she started, "it's about my boyfriend. Actually, I don't know if he's really my boyfriend or not, officially, you know." At this, she let out a nervous giggle. "But—"
"How long have you been dating?" I couldn't resist asking.
She shifted in her chair. "It's been, like, six months. But, you know, there's distance between us. I live in Los Angeles and he's out here, so…"
I wasn't sure if she had finished her thought, so I paused a few seconds before picking up her thread. And then I felt stupid. "I'm sorry, I don't believe I got your name."
She smiled. "That's okay. It's Melanie Weston."
"Got it," I said, fishing out a legal pad from my desk. I wrote her name on the top of the page and gestured for her to continue.
"So, like, this is weird, okay? I feel bad even doing this. But I need to know, I really do." She paused again, as though she needed encouragement to proceed. She was playing with a gold ring, rolling it back and forth around her middle finger. She seemed nice enough, but my stomach was gurgling and my brain was distracted by visions of noodles and Alfredo sauce.
"So what is it you need to know about him?"
"I need to know if he's for real. If he is who he says he is."
"Okay," I said. Now we were getting somewhere. "And who does he say he is?"
She crossed her legs and stiffened slightly. "It's not as if he brags about it or anything. He only mentioned it once or twice, actually, but now he needs some money. A lot of money."
Apparently I was going to have to beat it out of her. "So who is this guy?"
"Okay, his name is Kent. Henry John Kent. He likes to just be called Kent, though. So that's what I call him. And the thing is, he claims he's part of the royal family."
My eyes got big. A royal. That was hot stuff, like dating an international soccer star or a tech billionaire. "The royal family?" I asked.
"Yes, from England. I don't really know the details, but I think he's like a grandnephew to the queen, or a second-cousin of the queen, or something like that. It's all very sketchy. As I said, he doesn't brag about it or anything."
"No, of course not," I said, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes skyward. The guy whose shirt I was wearing had gone to Notre Dame, and in the space of two weeks he'd found seventy-three different occasions to work his alma mater into our conversations. I doubted that this so-called royal was any different. I could picture the blue-blooded, name-dropping little twit now. When Auntie Elizabeth and I were out riding, she was wearing the most exquisite jodhpurs you've ever seen! Oh, you've not beeeeen to the country house? You must! That's where I used to play cricket with Wills and Harry.
I shook myself out of it. "So you want to know if it's true? You want to know if you're dating Prince Charming?"
She seemed put off by my tone. "It's not that I care. Royalty is outdated and even decadent. In fact, I wish he wasn't a royal. They hunt foxes, you know. And the inequality is outrageous. There are people slaving away at minimum wage while they sit around eating crumpets, whatever those are." Her face was piqued, the natural reddish hue contrasting unfavorably with her eyeliner.
I could go for some crumpets right now, you little commie, I thought. I tried to re-center my focus on her story rather than judging her. And, in a flash of brilliance, I remembered I had some walnuts squirreled away in my desk somewhere. That might hold me over until dinner.
"Anyway," I said, "if you don't really care about royalty, why do you want to know?"
"Well, as I mentioned, now he wants some money. He says he's fighting another cousin over the title to an estate in the north of England, and the legal bills have wiped him out. His parents aren't alive to help anymore, and if he doesn't pay his lawyers then the cousin will inherit the property. It's a good in
vestment, he says. If I lend him the money, he'll pay me back double if he wins his court case."
A zillion cynical thoughts and questions raced through my mind as I chomped on some nuts. Among these were, Are you insane? And, Run, run for the hills! But Melanie's voice was so earnest and hopeful that I couldn't bear to let her down hard. I just hoped she wasn't responding to any late-night emails from Nigerian princes who needed fifty grand to unlock their royal fortunes.
"I see," I said. "An orphaned cousin, a land dispute, an estate. Anything more, and an episode of Downton Abbey is gonna break out."
Melanie winced, again not appreciative of the cynicism that must have been creeping into my voice.
"Sorry," I said. "But obviously you have some concerns, or you wouldn't be here."
She nodded. "Right. It's just that it's a lot of money, that's all."
"How much are we talking about?"
"He said a quarter-million would hold him for a year's worth of lawyer fees."
An involuntary whistle escaped my lips. "That's a lot of money, no doubt about it. Especially to borrow from a twenty-something woman who may or may not even be your girlfriend."
"I'm twenty-four," Melanie said softly.
I leaned back in my chair, which rewarded my effort with a low creaking noise. "Okay, and so the obvious question is: how do you have that kind of money to lend? You wouldn't bother hiring a detective if you couldn't afford the loan in the first place."
She uncrossed her legs and looked down. "It's family money. I have a trust fund, and—"
"Wait, you said your name was Weston? As in the Weston Wing of the LA Art Museum?" I wasn't exactly an art snob, but I had just been there a year earlier, and the name jumped out at me. In fact, the only reason I remembered it was that the wing housed a giant sculpture made entirely from parts of different colored toilets. Now that was my kind of art.
She smiled. "That's my grandpa Hugo. He started an oil refining company during the Depression, and then the war hit and everybody needed lots of fuel. The short version is that now the company has twenty-thousand employees, and my dad owns part of the Lakers."
That was a nice short version, I had to admit. "Wow," I said. "So I assume at some point you let it slip to this, uh, Kent, that you had some money jingling around in your pockets, right?"
Melanie sighed. "I felt as if I had to keep up, you know, with him being royalty and all. It's not as if I was always talking about Daddy's helicopters or anything like that. But Kent's been to my apartments, seen my car, and my jewelry, I suppose, too."
"Your apartments? Plural?"
She smiled. "One in LA and I got one here a few months ago. Just for visiting, you know. Actually, you and I are neighbors," she added enthusiastically.
"You mean—"
She smiled. "Yes, I live in your building. The penthouse on fifty-one. Not the one with the great view, the other one."
That would explain why she looked vaguely familiar. "So that's why you're here today? Because we're neighbors?"
She shrugged. "Pretty much. I did a little searching online, and most of the stories about Vegas detectives came back to you. You got Ethan Longoria off the hook, after all. So I figured you could help me out."
She was referring to a young singer who'd been wrongly accused of murder. Through a little bit of luck, I'd managed not only to prove him innocent but to avoid getting myself drugged and murdered in the process. So far, in my months-long career as a private eye, I'd managed to find myself in the headlines more often than most people do in a lifetime. Apparently it was good for advertising, but I didn't want to make it a habit. The body count was getting too high.
"So tell me a little more about Kent," I said.
She beamed. "He's very nice. Bold. Fashionable, but not over the top."
I cut her off. "I mean, I'd like to know about his roots, his life. What is he doing in Vegas, for example?"
Melanie nodded. "Studying. UNLV has one of the top hospitality programs around, and he's here for a masters in hotel management."
I frowned. "Seems an odd choice, doesn't it? Hello, I'm the Earl of Chattingham. Welcome to the Best Western. Enjoy your stay!"
She was shaking her head vigorously. "No, no. See, he wants to turn his family estate into a resort, where people can come and live like earls and dukes for a week. It's actually not a bad idea, I think."
I shrugged. It was clear she was buying Kent's story hook, line, and crumpets. But at least she had enough sense to hire someone to check the guy out. "I suppose a resort could work," I said. "But he has to win his court case, and that will take money."
Melanie nodded. "Right."
I surreptitiously dug out a few more walnuts and jammed them in my mouth, something I should have done after speaking, not before. "And how did you two meet?" I asked.
She chuckled. My question had come out about as garbled as you'd expect with a mouth full of walnuts. "He was in LA visiting one of his friends, who was the brother of the guy I was dating at the time. We all met up, and the two of us hit it off. I admit, it was partly his accent. What is with that?"
I shook my head. "That whole British thing doesn't do it for me, I have to admit. They're all so pasty white. And their heads are too big for their bodies. Ever notice how British men have no shoulders? Their heads are just perched up there like big jack-o'-lanterns. Come to think of it, I've seen more than a few carved pumpkins that had better teeth."
Melanie pretended to take offense, then smiled. "Well, Kent isn't like that. He's not exactly a fitness freak, but he at least knows where the gym on campus is. And he has fabulous teeth!"
I nodded, pretending to be impressed. "Okay, so here's how this works. Up front I get a retainer of ten thousand. I'll deduct my fees and expenses out of that, and then, if I need more, I'll come calling. How's that sound?"
She had already reached into her bag for her checkbook and was now scribbling away on a pink check. She ripped it out and handed it across the desk.
"Oh, and there's this," she said, opening up her purse again. She produced a sheaf of twenty or so pieces of paper and laid them on my desk. "That's what I've found on my own. Family history stuff off of the internet, mostly."
I thumbed through the papers quickly. A lot of charts and family trees mostly, and a few photos of stately country homes.
"Is his estate in here?" I asked.
"No, I couldn't find a picture of it. The internet can only get you so far. But it's supposed to be in the north, somewhere in Yorkshire, wherever that is."
"Okay. This will be helpful. Anything else?"
She crinkled her nose a bit. "Well, just the obvious."
"The obvious?"
"Well, he can't know I'm doing this, of course. It would devastate him to know that I don't completely trust him."
I nodded. "Even though you're not even dating, possibly, and even though he's asking for lots of money?"
She shrugged. "Men!"
I smiled. We stood up, and I showed her out. I took another look at the ten-thousand-dollar check, shoved it in my pocket, and got the hell out of there. Fettucine Alfredo was calling.
CHAPTER TWO
For more than a decade, my Tuesdays had been like most people's Sundays. Mondays and Tuesdays were slow nights at Cougar's, the club I danced at, so I didn't bother trying to compete with the younger girls for a limited amount of tips. Not that I couldn't compete with them, I just didn't want to go to all that trouble just to score a few lap dances with some balding accountants from Akron. Later in the week, things started to heat up. That was when the stuffy business conferences let out, and the people who liked to party tacked an extra night onto their trips just to let their hair down after their bosses had flown home. Thursday nights paid my mortgage, Friday nights covered everything else, and Saturday and Sunday nights went into my self-employed retirement account. That is, until my budding private detective business took off. I was getting to the point where some of the new eighteen-year-old dancers were
almost half my age, and for years Fr. Sweeney at St. Christopher's had been on my case about what I did for a living. A few months earlier, I had finished my detective training and now found myself slowly on my way to becoming an ex-stripper, which, I had to admit, was not exactly much higher on the social ladder.
The transition was underway. This Tuesday would be a workday, but not at Cougar's. But first, breakfast. An annoyingly healthy friend of mine had been harping on me about her low-carb diet for more than a year, and it was hard to ignore the fact that she looked fantastic and seemed to be able to eat mountains of food without gaining weight. And then one day I read an article online that stated the unthinkable: fat was okay. Despite being brainwashed to think that grease, butter, lard, and cheese were going to send me to an early grave, the opposite seemed to be true. By eating low-fat and avoiding all that stuff, we were all turning into carb fiends and diabetics with an insatiable craving for more bread, chips, and pasta. When I mentioned this at my last checkup, my doctor looked at me as if I was crazy, which told me I was onto something. Dr. Schwartz was a nice man, and he'd cured me of gout a few years earlier, but one look at him told me he didn't know the first thing about nutrition. I wasn't ready to give up my pasta, but change was in the air.
This is all by way of explaining why I was making hollandaise sauce at eight-thirty on a Tuesday morning. Egg yolk, butter, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and a little cayenne to wake up my taste buds. I had already learned the hard way that making an edible version of eggs benedict required a certain amount of orchestration, and I was no Leonard Bernstein. The bacon has to be ready at the same time as the sauce, not to mention the poached egg. I was going without the English muffin, so that would make things easier. In theory. What the theory didn't take into account was the fact that I was an idiot. I'm a zombie without my morning coffee, and also not very bright to begin with, so I had somehow gotten mesmerized watching the bubbling fat as the bacon fried in the pan, a symphony of sizzling pork bellies. As I stared at it, entranced, I managed to completely forget about the three eggs I was trying to poach. By the time I snapped out of it, they had turned into three hard, white globs in the boiling water. After I threw them out, I spun around to get more eggs, but in the process my elbow knocked over my bowl of hollandaise sauce, spilling the deliciousness all over my tiled floor. At that moment, a word beginning with "F" escaped my mouth, I am sorry to admit.
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