A Perfect Murder in Las Vegas
A Tiffany Black Mystery
by
A.R. Winters
Copyright © 2017 by A.R. Winters. All rights reserved.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book is a work of fiction. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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A Perfect Murder in Las Vegas
A Tiffany Black Story
Everyone thinks Samantha Wells died of natural causes. Everyone, except Tiffany and Ian, whom Samantha called the night before, complaining about death threats.
Could this really have been the perfect murder?
Tiffany must juggle her pushy parents, “helpful” Nanna, and blossoming love–life, all while trying to track down wacky suspects and enjoying a cupcake or two for energy.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
* * *
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty–One
Chapter One
My friend Ian and I were hanging out in my tiny apartment. There were still two hours before my shift was going to start at the Treasury Casino, and we had just finished watching an old episode of Seinfeld.
“This is a good time for dessert,” I said.
“You always think it’s a good time for dessert,” said Ian.
“That’s true. Because it always is. When is it a bad time to have a cupcake?”
Ian’s face scrunched up as though he was thinking hard, but he didn’t come up with a reply.
I found the box of cupcakes that my downstairs neighbor Glenn had given me, and some plates to eat off.
“We haven’t baked any cupcakes in a while,” said Ian. “Weren’t you supposed to bake some cupcakes for Elwood? He did help you out a little on your last case.”
I nodded. “We can bake some next week. But my kitchen’s really too tiny for baking.”
Both our eyes trailed over to my tiny kitchenette, with its functional oven, sink and refrigerator. I had a bit of counter space, and tonight, Ian’s kitten Snowflake had decided to make it her napping spot. Her fluffy white body rose up and down as she slept a deep, dreamless sleep.
My apartment is an old one–bedroom place within walking distance of my job at the Strip. Because it’s just me, the lack of space has never bothered me before—until I started baking and realized how much space it takes to make cupcakes.
Ian lives across the hallway, and his apartment is a mirror image of mine—but even grungier. We spend a lot of time hanging out together, since we both have odd schedules. Of course, Ian’s schedule is odd due to his own choosing—he doesn’t have to work, thanks to a substantial trust fund that he accumulated by investing in the right start–up, and all he wants to do is help out on the cases I get as a private investigator.
Ian has a consistently childlike, enthusiastic attitude, and when I first met him, I found his naivety and enthusiasm annoying. Over time, however, I’ve come to appreciate his other qualities, like persistence, loyalty and a knack for getting suspects to admit all kinds of secrets.
“It was nice of Glenn to make these cupcakes just for us,” said Ian. “I know Karma’s trying to encourage him to make sugar–free, herbal things instead.”
“Those herbal things are horrible,” I said. “But I guess the diabetics at the old folks’ home appreciate them.”
I picked up a cupcake and examined it. It was orange–poppyseed, with orange cream frosting and a sugary decal of an owl stuck on top.
“These are so pretty,” I said. “Glenn knows where to get the nicest edible decorations.”
“I know,” said Ian. “I love owls. I think my spirit animal should be an owl.”
I looked at Ian in surprise. “Really?” I said. “You’ve never seemed particularly owl–like to me.”
“Sure,” said Ian. “I can be owl–like. Owls are all cool and wise, and they sit around thinking wise thoughts all day long.”
I looked at Ian thoughtfully. He didn’t seem at all owl–like to me; he was more like one of those hyperactive, happy little dogs. Albeit one with big orange hair, and an eternally enthusiastic demeanor. “When was the last time you sat around quietly and thought wise thoughts?”
“Look at me right now,” said Ian. “I’m just sitting here, thinking wise thoughts about what kind of spirit animal to have.”
I shook my head. “Maybe we should ask Karma what kind of spirit animal she thinks you’ve got. She’s the one who’s into this new age stuff.”
Ian was about to say something when my cell phone started ringing. For a moment, I wondered if it might be my boss at the casino, calling to tell me there wasn’t much work today, and that I didn’t need to come in to work.
Or it might be my friend Stone, a former CIA agent who’d disappeared a few months ago but gotten in contact with me recently. He had said something about needing my help sometime soon, and I wondered if he might have any work for me.
But it turned out to be a number I’d never seen before.
I answered warily.
“Tiffany!” The voice on the other end of the line was female, high–pitched, and panicky. “Thank God it’s you! I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
I frowned. “Who is this?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” The woman sounded all flustered. “I should introduce myself. I’m Samantha Wells, you’ve probably heard of me?”
The name didn’t ring any bells. “No, not really.”
“My husband is Patrick Wells?”
“I still don’t know who you are.”
There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “Never mind. You can look us up on the Internet. I’m only calling you because I’ve been getting death threats for a few days now. I don’t think the person is messing around. I got another one just tonight, and I’m scared.”
“O–kay.”
“I need you to find out who’s sending me the messages.”
“Are you sure it’s not just some prankster?”
“No, no. It’s serious. And I’m terrified. You will help me out, won’t you? I’ll pay you very well.”
I looked at my watch. “I need to head out to my job soon. But I can come by sometime tomorrow around noon, would that work?”
“Oh, but what if that’s too late?” Samantha’s voice rang out with melodramatic despair. “Are you sure you can’t come by today? Where do you work, anyway? I thought you were a private investigator. That’s what’s Sophia Becker told me.”
Sophia had been my very first client, a former stripper who’d married a multimillionaire.
“The PI work is only part–time,” I said to Samantha. “And I’m afraid I
do have to go to work. If you’ve been getting death threats for a few days, a few hours isn’t going to make much difference.”
“I suppose I’ll wait till tomorrow,” said Samantha. She didn’t sound happy at all, and I imagined she was one of those spoiled middle–aged women who was used to getting everything done their way.
She gave me her address, informed me that money was no object, and then hung up.
“That was odd,” I said to Ian. “We might start working on a new case from tomorrow.”
As we devoured our cupcakes, I filled Ian in on my conversation with Samantha, promising to take him along with me when I investigated.
There had been a time when I’d resented Ian’s fervor and willingness to help, but the more I worked on cases with him, the more I appreciated his company. Dealing with murderers and unpleasant people can be depressing work sometimes, and having someone as cheery as Ian around helps the time go by quicker. Sure, sometimes Ian says the most inappropriate things to suspects, but at the end of the day, it’s nice to have company when you’re trying to extract secrets out of a dangerous murderer.
Chapter Two
Ian and I researched Samantha and Patrick Wells online for a little while, learning that they were a wealthy, influential Vegas couple, and then I headed over to my job as a dealer at the Treasury Casino.
I’ve been working as a dealer for a while now, and though I have bad days at work, there are many good days as well. There was a time when I couldn’t wait to quit my job; and then, ironically, I went through a period when I thought I might get fired. Facing the reality of not being able to work at the Treasury Casino made me realize how much I appreciate this job.
Sure, I have to deal with drunken boors. And yes, there are always the arrogant frat boys who think that making fun of my name, calling me fat and ugly, and then asking me to sleep with them, is the definition of a fun time. It’s even worse when the men insulting you and simultaneously asking you to perform lewd acts on them are grey–haired respectable types who should know better.
But, on the other hand, my job pays okay, I can walk to work, and whenever I need to put in a few more hours on one of my PI cases, I can call in sick with no repercussions.
The Treasury Casino always has a happy, friendly ambiance; the temperature is moderated perfectly; and the whole area smells of something vaguely citrusy and invigorating. The lights are bright, the music and the jingle of the slot machines are loud and constant, and the carpets are garish and outrageously colorful.
There’s a constant chatter of tourists and laughter from happy gamblers, and most of the time I get tipped quite well. Sometimes I have to concentrate on dealing out cards and keeping an eye out for gamblers who think they’ve discovered a way to count cards or cheat their fellow players. But there are also times when there’s a lull in the action, and I can allow my mind to drift off and ruminate over whatever case I’m currently working on. I have a theory that I think better about my cases when I’m at a slow table at the Treasury, and I’ve come to enjoy the contrast of being a PI versus being a casino dealer.
Today, the first half of my shift passed quickly. The casino was packed with tourists and everyone was in the mood to gamble large. Quite a few of the players at my table had winning streaks, and my tips piled up quickly. But halfway through the shift, everyone seemed to call it a night, and I was able to zone out for a bit.
As I stood at an empty table, waiting for someone else to walk up, I thought back to what I’d learned about Samantha and her husband.
Samantha Wells had been born into an old money Texas family. She’d inherited a nifty trust fund and had moved to Vegas when she married Patrick, a local businessman. From what I could tell, Patrick was involved in the import/export industry and also dabbled in property development.
According to the local tabloids, Samantha and her husband were regulars at charity galas and fundraisers in Las Vegas, and they enjoyed globetrotting. I’d studied the photos of them that were published in various tabloids—Patrick was tall, with silvery–grey hair, and looked as though he might have been extremely handsome a decade or so ago. According to my math, Samantha was in her late thirties, but she had a plasticky, botoxed look. Her eyes were blue, her hair a perfect blond, and her face seemed to be frozen in time. Past encounters with women like her told me that she probably spent half of each day at the beauty salon.
None of our research had pulled up anything particularly suspicious about them. Patrick and Samantha seemed like your run–of–the–mill clueless wealthy couple. I couldn’t imagine anyone hating Samantha enough to want to kill her. But then again, my experience has taught me that things aren’t always what they seem on the surface.
Chapter Three
I got home from my shift in the early hours of the morning, and I wasted no time in slipping into my pajamas and drifting off into an exhausted sleep.
I was busy dreaming about going out to a fancy tea party and eating a chocolate fudge cupcake, with decadent rich chocolate icing, when suddenly, the icing began to quiver. The cupcake began to shimmy me around, partying like it was 1999, until it disintegrated into a million pieces and evaporated.
I woke up, disappointed at the disappearing cupcake, and realized that the party was continuing in my room. Everything was shaking and vibrating, as though huge speakers were pounding nearby—except I couldn’t hear anything. The room began to spin around me, like I’d had a few too many drinks.
This is a strange party, I thought to myself. I couldn’t remember drinking anything, and why was I lying in bed if this was a party? Where was everyone else?
It took me a few slow seconds to realize that the party wasn’t real. Everything really was vibrating—but only because we were having an earthquake.
My heart pounded wildly, and suddenly, I was wide awake. I could barely remember what to do in case of an earthquake. Were you supposed to hide under a table? Or perhaps you were supposed to hide under the bed—but I hadn’t vacuumed under my bed for at least a month, and I didn’t want to deal with whatever was under there. As a sort of halfway gesture, I pulled the pillow out from under my head and placed it on top of my face. Wait, I thought, perhaps that would just lead to me being suffocated instead of crushed.
But before I could think of anything clever to do, the shaking and vibrating stopped.
I removed the pillow and looked around. The quake must be over, I decided, and I lay still as I wondered how the casinos were dealing with this, and if my parents had felt it up in the north.
I found my cell phone on my bedside table, sent off a quick text asking my parents if they were okay, and then snuggled back in under the covers.
A part of me wondered if I should go and see how Ian and my other neighbors were doing. But another part of me was tired. Far too tired to ever think of getting out of bed again. Before I knew it, I had drifted back to sleep.
I slept fitfully, memories of the earthquake still fresh in my mind. I couldn’t sleep for more than a half hour, and when I woke up and checked my phone, there was a text from my parents letting me know that they were fine, and another one from Ian saying that he knew I must’ve slept through an earthquake.
I got dressed and headed over to see Ian, who opened his door after just two knocks. He was carrying Snowflake under his arm and nodded at me to come inside.
Ian’s place looked like a college student’s bachelor pad, and I suppose that isn’t too far from the truth. A shelf of “collectible” action figures lined one wall, and Star Trek posters graced the walls in lieu of art. The place looked like it hadn’t been cleaned out in a month or two, and I could smell the leftover takeout Chinese food and pizza that Ian lived off. Only Snowflake’s bed, scratching post and bowls looked clean.
When we sat down on the couch, Snowflake glued herself onto Ian’s lap, and he obliged by petting her gently.
“Snowflake got a big fright,” said Ian. “She was asleep until an hour before the earthquake, and then she suddenl
y jumped onto my lap and began meowing. I didn’t understand what was going on, but she wasn’t happy.”
“Animals are smart. They know when something big is about to happen.”
Ian nodded. “I watched Netflix through the whole thing. The Wi–Fi didn’t go out or anything. And I texted Glenn and Karma to make sure they were okay.”
“My parents are fine too,” I said. “I guess I should see how Mrs. Weebly’s doing.”
“I don’t think anyone’s been too affected,” said Ian.
I nodded and stood up. “I haven’t had breakfast yet. Did you want to come over for some food?”
“What do you have?”
“Bread. Jam. Peanut butter.”
“None of that sounds like fun,” said Ian. “I’ll come over with Snowflake and some Pop Tarts. And then we can go check and make sure Mrs. Weebly’s okay.”
“And by then it’ll be time to go meet Samantha.”
“I’m sure she’ll be a good client,” said Ian. “Sounds like an easy enough case.”
Chapter Four
Samantha Wells lived in a gated community near Lake Las Vegas. It was a small, well–maintained area where the richest people in Vegas lived, the mansions of wealthy Vegas businessmen sitting side by side with vacation homes of interstate billionaires, athletes and pop stars.
By the time Ian and I showed up at the estate entrance, it was almost lunchtime. On the other side of the road, Lake Las Vegas glistened a gorgeous teal blue under the midday sun, and a couple of yachts drifted lazily across the surface. Majestic palms lined the road that led to the gated community, and in the distance, beyond the lake, we could make out the hazy forms of the Muddy Mountains. Silence filled the air, punctuated every now and then by a lone bird chirping away.
A Perfect Murder in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 8) Page 1
