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

by A. R. Winters

  “There’s nothing between Stone and me,” I said, breaking the silence. “But you’re wrong about the CIA thing. That’s all a big misunderstanding.”

  My mother turned her penetrating gaze on me. “How do you know it’s a misunderstanding? Has the CIA made some kind of announcement?”

  I didn’t want to admit that I’d been talking to Stone and doing some sleuthing on my own, so I shook my head. “But it’ll come out soon.”

  My mother snorted. “Well. We’ll see about that. In the meantime, I don’t want you to have anything to do with this Stone person again.”

  “That won’t be too difficult,” said Nanna, “seeing how Stone’s just gone and disappeared.”

  My mother looked from Nanna to me. “Your nanna’s never had any trouble with gentlemen, what’s wrong with you? You never seem to like anyone.”

  “I have good taste,” I said.

  “Perhaps you’re not meeting enough men,” my mother said. “I’m going to ask around with my friends and see whose sons are still single. I thought you’d find someone on your own, but since you haven’t, it’s time for me to help out.”

  Beside me, Ian began giggling softly at the prospect of seeing me set up on a series of bad dates one after the other.

  I glared at him and turned to my mother again. “I don’t want you setting me up with your friends’ loser sons.”

  “They’re not losers,” said my mother.

  “Well, I don’t want to be set up on dates.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I can’t be going out on blind dates. I’m busy with my PI work and then the casino job at night.”

  Before my mother could tell me that my biological clock was ticking, and that this was not the time to put work ahead of relationships, and that gentlemen preferred younger women, and would it hurt me to wear lipstick sometimes, Nanna said, “You don’t need to worry about your PI work. Now that I’m going to be in Vegas a lot more, I’ve decided I’m going to help you out with the snooping around.”

  The whole table went silent again, and after a few seconds, I managed to drag my jaw up off the floor. I turned to Nanna, unable to keep the horror out of my eyes, and said, “You can’t help me with my PI work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re Nanna!”

  Nanna smiled benignly. “Yes, that’s exactly what makes me such a good investigator.”

  I looked at Ian, wondering how he was processing this, but he looked too shocked to be able to react. His mouth was agape, and his face was painted over with of a variety of emotions—shock, amusement, disbelief, hope.

  “I don’t want you running around all day talking to criminals,” my mother said. “It’s bad enough that Tiffany’s decided that she wants to do this. I’m not going to have you do it too.”

  “I’m good at it,” said Nanna. “Tell your mother how I hacked into that suspect’s phone on your last case and helped you find out all that information.”

  My mother went pale. “What did I tell you about hacking? No more hacking!”

  “Relax,” said Nanna. “It’s not like I was hacking into the FBI again. This was perfectly legal.”

  “I’m not sure it was completely legal,” Ian chimed in.

  Nanna made a face and shushed him, and my mother said, “I don’t want another man in a black suit coming to my door, asking me who’s been hacking into things. No investigating.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” said Nanna. “You’re not my mother.”

  “Yes,” said Mom, the desperation reeking from her voice. “You are!”

  “Living in the same house isn’t going to work if you don’t let me do my own thing,” said Nanna. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m dead. Look at Betty White, she’s still going strong. I can be like the Betty White of investigators.”

  “You’re not the Betty White of investigators,” my mother and I said together.

  “I think it’d be fun to have Nanna investigating with us,” said Ian.

  My mother and I glared at him.

  And then, my mother was clearly hit by a brainwave. She brightened up, turned to Wes, and said, “What do you think of your wife going around, hacking into cell phones and talking to criminals?”

  “I let Gwenda do her own thing,” said Wes. “I don’t interfere, I just try to support her as much as I can.”

  Nanna beamed, and I felt my heart twisting with jealousy. When would I have something like that?

  My dad leaned over to Wes, and I heard him say under his breath, “Smart man, never get in a woman’s way.”

  “I heard that!” snapped my mother.

  My dad looked at her apologetically and shrugged. “I was talking more about my own relationship. I never get in your way, do I?”

  My mother looked at him suspiciously but didn’t say anything.

  “We haven’t heard enough of your honeymoon stories,” said Glenn to Nanna. “How was Hawaii? We’re all dying to know.”

  My father and Karma chimed in, saying that they too would like to hear the stories. I knew they were all being polite and trying to divert our attention, but it seemed to work.

  “I’d like to hear, too,” said Ian. “I like living in Vegas, but it would be nice to take a vacation sometime. Tell us about the cruise you took.”

  Chapter Ten

  My shift at the casino passed quickly that night, and I forced myself not to think about Nanna wanting to be a PI. When she gets an idea in her head, it’s hard to dissuade her, and I couldn’t deal with the idea of Nanna sleuthing around with us. In between dealing cards, I spent some time thinking about Samantha’s death.

  I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but Patrick didn’t seem too concerned about Samantha’s death. I still couldn’t get over the fact that he didn’t want to hire a PI to look into his wife’s death; Amanda might have tried to explain it away as Patrick being narcissistic and self–centered, but even then, I felt like a caring spouse would have wanted to know who was sending his wife death threats. But I couldn’t let my suspicions about Patrick cloud my judgment, so I forced myself to think about the other people who Amanda had mentioned.

  The next day, Ian and I caught up over a quick lunch of leftovers that my mother had made me take home after dinner.

  “It’s great that you can make cupcakes now,” said Ian, “but you should probably learn to make some food, too. My parents keep telling me that I can’t live off pizza my whole life.”

  “Maybe that means you should learn to cook?”

  Ian shook his head. “No, I don’t really care about food that much. You’re the one who likes good food.”

  I looked down at the vegetable lasagna I was eating. The mozzarella topping was delicious and cheesy, and in between the lasagna noodles were layers of spinach and ricotta, and eggplant and sun–dried tomato. “I wouldn’t mind learning to make something like this,” I said. “But every time I try to cook or bake, it seems so difficult.”

  “If you learned to cook,” said Ian, “you could even make a meal for your new boyfriend.”

  I leaned back and sighed. “Things with Detective Ryan are going really well. You’re right, I should probably invite him over for a meal sometime. That’s what all the grown–ups seem to do.”

  “Doesn’t he know you can’t cook?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but it would be nice to surprise him. Home–cooked meals always taste different from the stuff you eat out. Home cooking’s always so much more fresh and tasty.”

  Ian nodded. “And you can make whatever you feel like eating, instead of having to order off a menu.”

  I chewed my piece of vegetable lasagna thoughtfully. I loved the ricotta and spinach filling that Glenn had used, and I wondered if I could make some kind of ricotta and cheese pastry. But that wouldn’t be a meal. Perhaps I could learn to make something simple, like spaghetti, and feed it to Ryan for dinner sometime. Visions of my apartment smelling all delicious, the lights dimmed down, and my
tiny dining table covered with a clean tablecloth floated through my mind.

  I could light some nice candles, maybe even find a vase and some flowers for the table. It would be all grown–up and romantic.

  I’d gone out on two dates with Ryan so far. He was handsome, considerate, and a good listener. This was my first serious relationship in a while, and things were going well. I wouldn’t mind making things even better by hosting a proper, sophisticated dinner for him.

  “Earth to Tiffany, Earth to Tiffany,” I heard Ian saying.

  I snapped back to attention and stared at him. “What?”

  “I was just asking if you’d found anything interesting online about the people Amanda had mentioned?”

  I shook my head. “I only had a few minutes to Google Patrick Wells last night before I headed off to my shift. There wasn’t anything particularly unusual.”

  Ian nodded. “I stayed up and did a bunch of research. Aren’t you glad you’ve got me on your team?”

  I smiled at Ian and felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards him. “That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

  Ian laughed. “You don’t pay me anything. I’m the one who’s buying wigs and supplies for us. If my lawyers would let me access my trust fund, we could afford to print out some flyers.”

  “It was just a figure of speech. But yeah, I’m glad I’ve got you by my side to do all this for me. It’s hard to get everything done and work at the casino full–time.”

  Ian beamed happily. “I’m glad you think so. I really like doing this PI work. But there wasn’t any interesting dirt on anyone, and I stayed up almost the whole night looking.”

  I nodded. “Patrick Wells seems like any other businessman. He’s got a couple of ventures going on, and he appears in the business papers every now and then. But he hasn’t done any big interviews, or been profiled in a magazine or anything. So he probably doesn’t like the spotlight too much.”

  Ian nodded. “That’s exactly what I found about Patrick. And I looked up the three board members that Amanda had mentioned—Julie, Darren and Peter. Julie seems like your typical socialite, she goes to all these charity events and seems to care about poor people. Of course, you never know with these rich people if they really care or if they’re just doing something for show. Either way, she comes across as someone who’s sweet and caring. I’m not sure she could have been malicious enough to kill Samantha.”

  “You never know with these women,” I said. “Sometimes they just pretend to be nice.”

  Ian nodded. “And the other two guys on the board, they’re just your typical rich people. They’re kind of like Patrick, they appear in the business papers sometimes. One of them, Peter, seems like a kind of investment prodigy. He keeps investing in start–ups that take off. The other guy, Darren, invests in online gambling businesses. Both of them seem like workaholics, and I’m not sure they’d be too concerned about Samantha Wells. Besides, Darren hasn’t been in Vegas for the last couple of months.”

  “What about Samantha’s housekeeper, or that artist Andrew who she didn’t get along with?”

  “I couldn’t find anything on the housekeeper. Carmela isn’t famous enough to appear in any of the papers, and her social media profiles are all set to private. I could only see her profile picture, and that’s it. And as for Andrew, he had a website about his art, and a newspaper article mentioned him as an up–and–coming artist. But there wasn’t anything that really jumped out to me about him.”

  It was almost three p.m. by the time Amanda called me, letting me know that she’d finally managed to reach Patrick and had told him about hiring a PI. “He wasn’t too thrilled about it,” Amanda said, “but I don’t think he could find a reason to tell me not to hire you. Anyway, he’s going to put your name down on the list with the guard, so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting into the estate to talk to the housekeeper.”

  We drove over to Samantha’s Lake Las Vegas house immediately after Amanda’s phone call; when we got there, Ian and I knocked loudly twice, and waited for what felt like at least half an hour.

  Finally, the door was answered by a woman in an expensive–looking floral–print wrap dress.

  She was of average height, slightly chubby, with olive skin and long, wavy brown hair. Her chocolate–brown eyes were fringed by long lashes accentuated with thick mascara, and her makeup was perfect. The dress she wore was clearly expensive and emphasized her curves. If I hadn’t known who to expect, I would have thought that Carmela lived in this house.

  Carmela peered out at Ian and me, a flicker of annoyance making a brief appearance in her eyes. “Yes?”

  “We’re Tiffany and Ian, and we’re looking into Samantha Wells’s death. You must be Carmela.”

  Carmela’s perfectly penciled–in brows knit slightly closer together, and she pursed her lips and nodded. “Mr. Wells told me you’d be coming around. He’s not home at the moment.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, trying to sound friendly and put her at ease. “We’d like to talk to you. It’s important for us to know a bit more about the kind of person Samantha Wells was, and I’m sure you knew quite a bit about her.”

  I smiled, trying to look charming, and I knew that beside me, Ian was grinning like a maniac, his version of a friendly smile.

  Carmela nodded again and said, “Follow me.”

  Ian and I dutifully walked behind her through the foyer, a formal sitting area, a long hallway, and an informal dining room, before walking through a door and into a large kitchen we hadn’t noticed the other day. This was clearly the “real” kitchen, the one that was actually used for food prep. The other kitchen that we’d noticed next to the dining room, with spotless appliances and gleaming countertops, was clearly just a “show” kitchen, probably intended to be used for reheating food or making a cup of tea or coffee.

  The kitchen we were standing in was almost as large as my entire apartment. There were granite countertops and gleaming white shelving along three walls, plus a large kitchen island. I could see at least two massive ovens, and two stovetops with five burners each. Although it seemed to be used regularly, the place was clean and gleaming, the counters empty of appliances or knickknacks. Except for the island in the middle, where Carmela seemed to be chopping up veggies and making a salad.

  When she caught my glance, she said, “I’m just getting Patrick’s dinner ready. The chef’s going to come by in a few minutes to make some pasta sauce and a mango sorbet. I like to make some of the sides, even though she does the cooking. We can chat while I work.”

  There were barstools on the opposite side of the island, so Ian and I pulled out two stools and sat down. We watched in silence for a few seconds as Carmela chopped cherry tomatoes neatly into quarters.

  Finally, I said, “Have you been working for Mr. and Mrs. Wells for a long time?”

  Carmela’s eyes softened, and she smiled. “Not that long, about six months now.”

  “And you like working here?”

  Carmela shrugged. “It’s better than many of the other jobs I’ve had.” She looked me in the eye, and I could see the speculation in her gaze. “It’s terrible about Mrs. Wells dying. But other than that, it’s been good. There’s a maid and a chef who come in, in a little while, and there’s a gardener who takes care of the garden. So I don’t have to do too much work—I just have to make sure everyone else does their job properly. And I have to pick up when the maid’s not here. Like, if she comes by and cleans, but then afterward there’s a spill or something, I’m the one who rushes out and cleans it up. Or if Mrs. Wells decides she isn’t feeling well, and she’s out of aspirin, I go to the pharmacy and get some. I mean, if she decided, when she was alive, may God rest her soul.”

  “What kind of boss was Mrs. Wells?”

  Carmela shook her head. “I got a real shock when I learned she just died. How tragic.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was. But what kind of person was she?”

  “You’re not supposed to talk i
ll of the dead,” said Carmela.

  “I’m sure you can make an exception when you’re talking to a private investigator.” Something about Carmela’s manner made me feel uneasy. Perhaps it was her superstition getting to me, or perhaps it was the fact that she was so reluctant to tell us any details. “I’ve already heard that Samantha could be a pretty mean person.”

  Carmela looked at me speculatively, as though trying to decide whether or not she should say something unkind but true about Samantha.

  Ian said, “I think you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead because they can’t defend themselves. Tiffany and I are trying to find out if Samantha might’ve been murdered. She can’t tell us the truth, so we need to depend on other people to do so.”

  Carmela looked down at her chopped veggies, and sighed and shook her head. “It’s horrible, what happened to her. But I’m sure it was just an accident.”

  “Even so,” I said, “what was Samantha like as a boss? Was she very mean?”

  “Yeah,” said Carmela finally. “She was always in a bad mood. She was so rich and pretty and happily married, but she was never happy with her lot. Look at me—I’ve got no money, no husband, and I work for a living, but I think I’m doing quite well. Samantha never seemed grateful. She was always nitpicking things, always criticizing the food that the chef had cooked, or if I’d made her a quick salad, she kept complaining that I used too much dressing or too little salt or that the maid had overlooked some dust somewhere.”

  “Do you know if she had any enemies?”

  Carmela nodded. “I’d hear her talking to her husband, or on the phone. She was always unhappy about everyone. She kept saying that this person or that person wasn’t doing a good job, or wouldn’t be nice to her, or they were insulting her.”