A Perfect Murder in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 8)

by A. R. Winters

  “Okay, so what was the deal with the people in the household when Mrs. Wells died?”

  Elwood shrugged. “It was just one of those things. The maid had her day off, the housekeeper had her day off too, the chef was supposed to show up in the afternoon, and Mr. Wells was out. Mrs. Wells was home by herself.”

  “Hmm.” I leaned forward and stared at Elwood intently. “And the fact that she was all by herself doesn’t raise any red flags?”

  Elwood shrugged and began to walk back to the living room, with Ian and me following close by on his heels. “People stay at home by themselves all the time,” he said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  When we got to the living room, we discovered the CSI techs had already finished their work and bagged up the broken statue pieces. “We’re ready to go,” said one of them.

  Elwood nodded, and I took this opportunity to walk closer to the display cases and have a good look.

  “Look at these masks on the lower shelves,” I said. “They look like they haven’t moved. If the statues on the top shelf fell off, why wouldn’t these lighter masks on the lower shelves fall off too?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Elwood. “Maybe it was just the way the shelves vibrated.”

  I looked at the display case on the other side of the room. The items displayed on it looked completely unmoved. “And how come those objects look perfectly in place? Why wouldn’t the same thing happen there?”

  “You’re reading too much into this,” said Elwood. “Accidents do happen.”

  Chapter Five

  I was disappointed by Elwood’s attitude, but in a way, I wasn’t too surprised. The LVMPD has a lot on their plate, and investigating the death of a paranoid woman was obviously not at the top of their list of priorities.

  Nevertheless, I kept an eye on the papers, wondering if something might come out. A week later, I hadn’t heard or read anything more about Samantha Wells’s death, and I could no longer contain my curiosity.

  Sunday morning, after my shift was over and I’d had a long nap, I enlisted Ian’s help in baking two dozen red velvet cupcakes with pretty floral frosting. As soon as the cupcakes were ready, I put them in a box and drove over to the precinct.

  As I predicted, Detective Elwood was sitting at his desk, grumbling angrily to himself as he filled out his paperwork and sipped his stale, watery coffee.

  When he saw me approaching his desk, he looked up and scowled, and then his gaze dropped to the box of cupcakes I was holding; immediately his brow cleared, and I had a glimpse of one of his rare smiles.

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “I’m not,” I said as I placed the box on his table with a smile and opened the lid. “I remembered what you said the other day about red velvet cupcakes being your favorite.”

  Elwood grabbed a cupcake greedily and began devouring it. My stomach began to growl as I watched him, so I helped myself to a cupcake too before Elwood put the lid back on the box and hid it under some files. I noticed a couple of other detectives glancing in our direction, but Elwood pretended not to notice them.

  When he caught my inquisitive glance, he said, “You’re nuts if you think I’m going to share these with the other detectives.”

  I shrugged. “I made them for you anyway. I was wondering what happened with the Samantha Wells case?”

  Elwood washed down the last bite of his cupcake with a long swig of coffee.

  “Nothing to tell,” he said. “It was an open–and–shut case. Severe trauma to the head and neck area. It was definitely caused by the earthquake.”

  I shook my head. “Are you sure? She seemed really worried when I talked to her on the phone.”

  Elwood shrugged. “People who are paranoid always seem worried. But we looked into everything. Dusted for fingerprints, checked with the front guard see if anyone had visited Mrs. Wells that morning. Nothing.”

  “And what about the phone and the death threats?”

  “We looked through the phone. She didn’t have anything new on her voicemail. No more suspicious calls or messages. No death threats; she must’ve deleted them. Nothing suspicious. Relax—you’ve been a PI for too long. You’re seeing murder where there’s nothing to investigate. There’s no way her death could have been anything but accidental.”

  Chapter Six

  By the time I got home, I wasn’t in the best of moods. So instead of going back to my apartment, I headed over to Ian’s.

  I thought I would spend some time snuggling with Snowflake, which usually makes me feel better, but as soon as I approached her, Snowflake dashed into Ian’s bedroom, jumped onto his bed, and pretended to be asleep.

  I glared at Snowflake and grumbled, “I know you’re just pretending. Nobody can fall asleep that fast.”

  But Snowflake continued to lie there with her eyes shut, and no amount of glaring was going to make her act any differently.

  I headed back to the living room, where Ian was sitting on the couch, watching me.

  “What’s with her?” I said.

  “She doesn’t like it when people are in a bad mood,” said Ian. “What’s with you? Why are you in a bad mood?”

  I shook my head, sighed, and sank down on the other end of the couch. “I went to see Elwood, and I asked him about Samantha Wells’s death. The cops have closed the case; they’re completely sure it was just an accident.”

  “And you don’t believe it? Coincidences do happen.”

  I frowned and stared at the floor. “It really bothers me. The woman wanted our help, and we couldn’t provide it in time. And now that she’s dead, whoever killed her is just going to get away with this. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “We can investigate anyway,” said Ian, suddenly sitting up straighter and beaming at his brilliant idea. “We should go and talk to her husband. You can convince him to hire us—he’s got lots of money, so he won’t be worried about the expense of hiring a PI. Besides, if he’s a grieving widower, and he’s sad about his wife, he’ll want to know the truth.”

  I looked at Ian doubtfully. “You really think so? He didn’t seem to care much about the death threats on the day we met him.”

  Ian waved his arms about enthusiastically as he spoke. “Maybe he was just too upset and in shock that day. But now that he’s had time to think about it, he probably realizes that he should have somebody looking into the death threats.”

  Ian’s enthusiasm was infectious, and I could feel my grumpiness dissipating a little. “I guess there is hope,” I admitted. “Just because the cops have given up doesn’t mean that we should.”

  “Exactly!” Ian jumped up and ran his hands through his hair. “Let me put on some shoes, and we can go talk to Patrick Wells now.”

  A nervous flutter raced through my stomach. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Shouldn’t we call him first and make an appointment?”

  Ian headed into his bedroom, and I heard him rifling around, looking for clean socks.

  “No, no. If we call him, we’ll just give him a reason to delay the appointment. Or he might get cold feet about hiring a PI. It’s better to just go in and surprise him.”

  By the time Ian and I got to the Lake Las Vegas estate, it was past lunchtime. The sun was beating down, the palm trees shimmered a dark green, and across the road, the lake lay perfectly still, a crisp blue sheet that reflected the sky. I was reminded of the day we’d driven up to meet Samantha, and I wondered if things would’ve turned out any different if I’d gone to meet her the night she’d called instead of waiting till the next day.

  But when we pulled up to the entrance, the guard wouldn’t let us through. He was a middle–aged chubby man with thinning hair and a dour expression. “Your name’s not on the list,” he said.

  “We’re here to pay a surprise visit to Patrick Wells,” said Ian. “Can’t you just let us in this once? I promise, he’ll be happy to see us. And we don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

  The guide shook his head and looked at Ian as though he h
ad sprouted horns and was speaking in Latin. “That’s not how it works. If you really need to see him, I can call Mr. Wells and ask him if I should let you through.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Why don’t you do that?”

  Ian and I sat in nervous silence for what felt like an hour as the guard chatted to someone quietly. Finally, he put down his phone and said, “Mr. Wells says he’ll see you this time.”

  Ian and I breathed a collective sigh of relief, and when the gate swung open for us, we drove through happily.

  Patrick Wells met us at the door and led us through to the formal living room.

  The place looked almost the same as before, the furniture unmoved, the same artwork hanging on the walls. The only visible difference was the empty shelves in the display case where the statues had been—those shelves now held various baseball memorabilia and a golf trophy.

  Patrick followed my glance, and as we sat down on the sofas, he said, “The empty shelves bothered me. I’m not into art, so I took some stuff I had lying around and used that to fill the space.”

  I nodded politely. “I understand.”

  “What is this about?” said Patrick. “I can only talk to you guys for a few minutes. I need to go out soon.”

  Suddenly, I was at a loss for words. I’ve never approached a potential client before, asking if I could work for them—it’s always the other way around.

  Ian stared at me for a few seconds, waiting for me to say something, until his impatience got the better of him. “Mr. Wells,” he said, “we’ve talked to the police about your wife’s case. They’ve closed it.”

  Patrick nodded. “Yes, they came to the same conclusion I had. It was entirely an accident.”

  “It can’t be an accident,” said Ian. “Your wife contacted us the night before, asking us to look into the death threats. We feel obligated to look into what was going on, especially now that she’s dead.”

  A corner of Patrick’s mouth twisted up cynically, and he let out a contemptuous snort. “Really? We all had to pander to my wife’s paranoia when she was alive. I’m not about to indulge it even after she’s dead.”

  “But don’t you think,” said Ian, “it’s just too much of a coincidence? Aren’t you curious about whether anything else happened?”

  “No,” said Patrick shortly.

  “I think it might give you a better sense of closure,” I said, finally finding my voice. “Mrs. Wells was obviously worried about something. Even if she died from an accident, aren’t you curious about who was sending her death threats?”

  “No,” said Patrick. “My wife was the kind of woman who made many enemies through her rudeness and bitterness. I don’t believe anyone wanted to kill her. Maybe someone was just trying to scare her—and I don’t care who it was.”

  Ian and I exchanged a glance.

  “You sound awfully uncaring for a man who’s just lost his wife,” said Ian. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious as to who might have hated her enough to send her threats?”

  Patrick glared at Ian. “What are you trying to say? That I’m not sad enough that my wife’s dead? That if I really was sad, I would hire some two–bit PIs? You guys have a hell of a lot of nerve trying to shake me down for money.”

  “I’m so sorry about Ian,” I said quickly. I always seem to be apologizing for Ian’s behavior, but I don’t mind that anymore; sometimes, Ian manages to annoy people into admitting all kinds of things. Okay, so today, all he’d done was antagonize Patrick Wells to no good effect, but still. “Ian’s not very good with words. And we’re not trying to force you to hire us, or anything like that. We were just wondering if you had the least bit of curiosity as to what was actually going on in your wife’s life before she died.”

  “I know what was going on in my wife’s life,” said Patrick. “She was a spoiled rich woman who did what she pleased. Her death was an accident. I’m not interested in thinking about her enemies.”

  I stared at Patrick for a few seconds. Whenever someone dies, the spouse is the main suspect. There are so many reasons why a husband might’ve wanted his wife dead, and he would have had so many opportunities to kill her. The fact that Patrick didn’t want us investigating Samantha’s death just served to make him look even guiltier.

  “I guess there’s no way we can convince you to hire us to investigate Samantha’s situation,” said Ian. For once, his enthusiasm seemed to have died down a bit.

  “No, there isn’t,” said Patrick. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Ian and me steadily.

  I believed him. So instead of trying to convince him to hire us, I said, “Who was Samantha’s nearest kin?”

  “Her father passed away, and her mother lives by herself in Texas. I guess her sister’s her closest relative here. Amanda lives in Vegas too, but she and her husband seem to spend half the year in Paris.”

  “Are they in Vegas at the moment?”

  Patrick nodded. “Amanda came to the funeral. Why?”

  I shook my head. “No reason, I was just curious. A lot of people who move to Vegas don’t have any family.”

  “Well, Amanda and Samantha were quite close.”

  “And what about all the evidence the police collected after Samantha died? Have you gotten that back?”

  Patrick nodded. “Yes, but I’ve given it all away to charity. I didn’t want to have that stuff lying around the house.”

  “Even her cell phone?”

  Patrick nodded. “Yes, I don’t see how having that stuff around would make me feel any better.”

  “And—”

  Patrick stood up abruptly. “I think you really should get going. I’m not about to hire some PIs for no good reason, and I need to leave within the next minute or two if I don’t want to be late for my appointment. Please don’t bother me again.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ian was silent on the car ride home, and every now and then he muttered something under his breath. I didn’t like to see him being so dejected and unlike his usual self; I had a plan, but I didn’t want to share it with him until I knew that it would work.

  If it didn’t, Ian might get even more depressed, and that would be no fun for me. I imagined him moping around the house, scaring away Snowflake and eating up all my cupcakes: no, that would be no fun for me at all.

  When we got back home, Ian followed me to my apartment, and I fired up my computer so that I could log into my PI database. I looked up Samantha Wells and found out that she did indeed have a sister named Amanda Paxton. A few more clicks brought up Amanda’s address and phone number.

  Amanda lived in an expensive gated community in Summerlin, and I knew I couldn’t just show up and try to surprise her, so I reluctantly dialed her number and held my breath. Thankfully, she answered the phone after just a few rings, and I introduced myself nervously.

  “A private investigator?” Amanda didn’t seem that pleased to know who she was talking to. “Is anything wrong? Is this about my husband?”

  “No, no. It’s actually about your sister, Samantha Wells? She called me the night before she died, complaining about getting death threats.”

  “She really called a private investigator? She told me about those death threats, and how the police wouldn’t take her seriously, so I told she needed to get in touch with a PI. I’m glad she did.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I wasn’t able to help her. I was going to meet her at noon on the day she died. Her death has me feeling all rattled.”

  “But I thought the cops said it was an accident?”

  I shook my head, even though Amanda couldn’t see me on the other end of the line. “That’s what they said. But I feel like there are still a few loose ends; is it okay if I come by to talk to you about them?”

  Amanda sounded hesitant. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “I would appreciate it. Samantha died just hours after I talked to her, and that bothers me. I can come by anytime that suits you.”

  “I’m home now,”
said Amanda before reeling off her address. “You can come over now.”

  After I hung up, I turned to Ian. “Amanda’s the one who suggested that Samantha talk to a private investigator. So hopefully, she won’t be too dismissive of us.”

  “But what’s the point?” said Ian, still wallowing in his misery. “We’re not going to investigate the case for free, are we?”

  I shook my head. “I’m hoping that Amanda will hire us.”

  “That might be a good plan,” admitted Ian. “But what if Samantha’s death really was an accident? We might not uncover anything useful.”

  “At least I’ll know I’ve tried,” I said. “I want to know what actually happened that day.”

  Amanda’s house in Summerlin was a two–story McMansion—large and impressive, but modest compared to Samantha’s.

  A uniformed housekeeper led us through the foyer and an informal sitting room, into a more formal sitting room with a heavy door. The room was decorated in shades of royal blue and cream—comfy–looking sofas upholstered in blue fabric, with blue–and–white embroidered cushions scattered around. A cream rug with an intricate blue floral pattern lay on the floor, and the walls displayed watercolor paintings of the ocean. The place smelled of vanilla and bergamot, and outside the window, I could make out a garden lined with rose bushes.

  “Mrs. Paxton will be with you shortly,” said the housekeeper, closing the door behind herself.

  Ian and I waited for just a few minutes before Amanda showed up. She was a slim blonde who looked ageless, a fact that I put down to subtle plastic surgery, facelifts, and regular fillers. Her stylish reverse–bob was perfectly blow–dried, and she wore light makeup and a pink–and–white floral–print dress.

  Ian and I stood up, and greetings were exchanged all around. “Thank you for meeting us like this,” I said politely.