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

by A. R. Winters

  “Anyone in particular that she disliked?”

  “I didn’t keep track of names. It was just people in general that she didn’t like.”

  “Do you live nearby?” I asked.

  Carmela shook her head. “I live just off Balzar Avenue,” she said, naming one of the most dangerous, crime–ridden streets in Vegas. “Yeah, it’s funny to come into work every day and stay in this posh house. Like I said, I saw Samantha, and she was just never happy. It taught me there are far worse things in life than having to live on a dodgy street.”

  “And what about Patrick?” I said. “What was he like?”

  “He’s a good boss,” said Carmela, smiling. “I’m not sure how he managed to stay so cheerful and laid–back with a wife like that. But he’s not like Samantha. He goes to work, he doesn’t talk much. He seems like a nice person.”

  “And did he and Samantha get along well?”

  “No, not at all.” Carmela glanced from me to Ian, as though wondering if she might be saying too much. I thought she might clam up, but instead, she said, “The two of them were always arguing.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  Carmela shook her head, her eyes wary. I got the impression she was hiding something, and not just because she didn’t want to speak ill of the dead. “I’m not sure what they fought about, but I know he wanted to get a divorce. But she wouldn’t let him.”

  Ian and I exchanged a glance. “That’s not what we heard,” said Ian. “We heard that Samantha wanted to divorce Patrick, but he wouldn’t let her.”

  Carmela shrugged. “Well, I heard the opposite. He wanted a divorce, but there was some big deal about splitting up assets. So she wouldn’t let him go file the papers.”

  “Are you sure?” I said. “That Patrick wanted to get out of his marriage?”

  Carmela nodded emphatically. “Yes, absolutely.” Our eyes met, and her gaze became hesitant. “Or maybe not. Maybe I misunderstood.”

  I smiled, trying to put her at ease. “It’s fine. We know they weren’t happy and wanted to get divorced, but it wasn’t practical for them. It doesn’t matter who wanted the divorce and who didn’t.”

  Carmela nodded. “Yes, they were definitely unhappy together.”

  “I know you had the day off when Samantha died, but can you remember what you were doing at ten o’clock that day?”

  Carmela chopped up the last of the tomatoes and poured them into a bowl that already held some washed lettuce leaves. “I think I’d gone out to run some errands,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I was at some bodega near my house.”

  “And you walked to the bodega?”

  Carmela nodded. “Yes.”

  “Do you remember which bodega it was?”

  Carmela shook her head no. “But I remember I had to get some special enchilada sauce.”

  “And what about Patrick?” I said. “Do you know where he was?”

  Carmela shook her head again. “I think he was out, wasn’t he? He and Samantha didn’t spend much time together. Even now that she’s dead, he’s not the one who hired you, is he?”

  I looked at Carmela in surprise. “How do you know he didn’t hire us?”

  Carmela smiled. “He never liked his wife much. I don’t see how he’d spend money on an investigator to find out what happened to her.”

  Ian and I were silent for a few seconds, and then finally, I said, “I guess there’s no harm in you knowing. We were hired by Samantha’s sister, Amanda.”

  Carmela nodded thoughtfully. “Isn’t that how it is.”

  “Did you notice anything odd about Samantha in the days before she died? Did she tell you anything about being scared, or worried for her life?”

  “No, she never talked to me about those things. She was her usual grouchy self. To be honest, I think what happened was just an accident. May God rest her soul, but I don’t think it was anything more than an accident.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After we finished asking Carmela all the questions we could think of, Ian and I hung out in the kitchen for a little while longer.

  We watched as Carmela added the finishing touches to the salad—some goat’s cheese, some dressing that she’d made earlier in the day, some baby spinach leaves, and some walnuts. When she was done, the whole thing looked fancy and delicious, like something you’d be served in a gourmet restaurant. It was the best–looking salad I’d ever seen.

  Even though Ian and I eyed the dish longingly, Carmela didn’t offer us any; instead, she put the bowl away in the fridge and told us that if we were going to wait around to talk to Cynthia, the maid, and Roberta, the chef, we were welcome to hang out in the TV room.

  The TV room turned out to be a small sitting room with two large sofas and a large flat–screen TV.

  “You can watch something here while you wait,” said Carmela.

  “Do you have the Cartoon Network?” said Ian. “I’m in the mood for some cartoons.”

  I looked at Ian and frowned, and then I turned to Carmela and said, “Thanks for the offer, but I feel like we should be using our time more productively. Why don’t you show us to Samantha’s bedroom, and Ian and I can have a quick look around?”

  Carmela’s face was immediately awash with doubt. “You would like to see Mr. and Mrs. Wells’s bedroom? But that’s private. Nobody’s supposed to go in there.”

  “Mr. Wells knows that Ian and I need to have a look,” I fibbed. “A person’s bedroom can give you clues about their life.”

  Carmela hemmed and hawed some more, and Ian and I tried to convince her to let us through.

  “We won’t tell Mr. Wells that you took us up,” said Ian, “if that’s what’s bothering you.”

  “And besides,” I said, “Samantha would’ve wanted us to have a look. We need to investigate everything as thoroughly as possible.”

  “And if we can’t go today,” said Ian, “we’ll have to ask Mr. Wells to take us through another day. That’ll be a hassle for him; I’m sure he would prefer that we do everything today.”

  Ian’s words seem to have the desired effect on Carmela, and she nodded thoughtfully. “There’s no point putting Mr. Wells through all that hassle,” she agreed reluctantly. “I’ll take you up there, but I don’t want you rifling through drawers or anything.”

  “We’ll be very respectful,” I said as we followed Carmela out of the room.

  Samantha’s house was large and sprawling, but I tried my best to keep track of the path Carmela took. We headed over to the dining room with the open–plan kitchen we’d seen on the day Samantha had died, and for the first time, I noticed some stairs at the far end of the dining room.

  “You can take the front stairs to the bedroom as well,” said Carmela, “but Mr. and Mrs. Wells usually take these stairs. The landing’s closer to their bedroom.”

  At the top of the stairs, there was a long hallway that led from one end of the house to the other. Carmela turned left and walked to the end of the hallway before opening the door.

  Samantha and Patrick’s bedroom was huge—large enough to contain a king–sized bed and a separate sitting area with its own flat–screen TV. The bed and sitting area furniture were all a dark mahogany wood, and the bed linens were a crisp white. There was a large abstract watercolor on one wall, but the room was devoid of any personal photographs. Instead, I could see a few picture hangers clustered together on one wall.

  “What used to hang there?” I asked Carmela.

  “There were some photos of Mr. and Mrs. Wells on their wedding day and a few from their honeymoon and various vacations.”

  “And he just took them down after she died?” said Ian, looking shocked.

  Carmela shrugged. “Different people have different ways of coping with grief.”

  “That doesn’t seem like coping with grief,” said Ian. “It’s like he’s trying to erase her presence from his life.”

  “If they weren’t happy together,” I said thoughtfully, “maybe he sees this as his
chance to get a fresh start.”

  “Isn’t that better than wallowing around in grief?” said Carmela.

  I looked at her curiously. “You’re being awfully broadminded about this. If I was married, and then I died, I wouldn’t want my husband removing all my photographs a week after my death.”

  Carmela bit her lip and looked thoughtful. “I guess so,” she said finally. “But then again, you and I probably would marry for love. We wouldn’t marry someone just because he had money, and then stay trapped in an unhappy marriage because the guy was rich.”

  “So,” said Ian, “you’re saying that rich people are allowed to behave differently? They don’t need to be sad when their wife dies?”

  Carmela shrugged. “It takes all kinds, that’s all.”

  I looked through the bedroom, but there wasn’t much else to see. There were a couple of golfing magazines on the coffee table in the sitting area, and when I turned on the TV, it went straight to ESPN.

  There were two doors at the far end of the room. I opened the door toward my left and found myself in a massive, glamorous dressing room, complete with a round ottoman in the center of the room covered with a white sheepskin. Next to the ottoman, there was a jewelry display case. On the left–hand side of the dressing room, there were men’s clothes; on the right–hand side, there were women’s clothes.

  The opposite end of the dressing room had two large floor–to–ceiling mirrors, and two shelving units on either sides of the mirrors displayed shoes and accessories. I recognized a couple of Hermès handbags, and what looked like Manolo Blahnik stilettos.

  “This is like being in some glamorous movie about fashion,” I breathed, letting my sense of awe overtake me for a moment. “It’s so gorgeous, I could just live in this dressing room!”

  Carmela smiled. “Yes, and look at all those handbags. They cost more than my entire year’s wages, but look how gorgeous they are.”

  The three of us stared at a particularly beautiful Birkin handbag, with golden–brown crocodile–skin leather and gold hardware.

  “I wish I could afford something like that one day,” I said. “And I don’t even like handbags!”

  Carmela laughed. “I know what you mean, it would be more practical to just buy a car with that money. But rich people, huh? They can’t find enough things to spend on.”

  “It’s funny how Patrick got rid of his wife’s photos, but he still keeps her clothes and handbags around.”

  “I guess he hasn’t finished figured out what to do with them,” said Carmela. “He could give them away, but that would take some planning.”

  “Imagine just giving a Birkin handbag away,” I breathed. “I wouldn’t mind helping him out with these accessories.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Ian frowning at me. I wasn’t being particularly professional, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “We should keep looking,” said Ian to me, “unless you want to drool over the bags a bit more.”

  I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “No, you’re right. We should look around some more.”

  The three of us left the dressing room, and as Carmela closed the door behind us, and I opened the other door. It led to a large bathroom, complete with his–and–hers basins, a freestanding bathtub, a triangular spa bathtub in one corner, a toilet partially hidden behind a decorative wall, and a large shower area.

  A large frosted glass window let in copious amounts of light, and I started looking through the storage area under the sinks. There were cabinets under each of the basins, and a set of drawers between the cabinets.

  Patrick’s cabinet contained shaving foams, shaving oils, aftershave lotions, colognes, and a couple of hairstyling products. An electric toothbrush stood by its lonesomeness on the countertop, and when I opened one of the drawers between the cabinets, I found a tube of toothpaste. The other drawers contained cleaning supplies, a first aid kit, grooming tools, and some extra razors.

  Samantha’s side however, was empty.

  “That’s odd,” I said, “wouldn’t you think Samantha’s makeup and creams would be in here? I didn’t notice any makeup in the dressing room either. Do you know where Samantha used to get ready?”

  “I think she used to get ready in the bathroom,” said Carmela, “She used to keep reminding me that I needed to keep the basin area all clean, because the light in here was better for her to do her makeup.”

  “Then where would all her makeup be?”

  Carmela was silent, and Ian shrugged.

  “Did you see Patrick throwing Samantha’s makeup away?” I asked Carmela.

  She made a silent facial grimace. “I’m not sure. He might have thrown it all away when I wasn’t looking.”

  I nodded. “Perhaps he’s getting rid of all of Samantha’s things, one at a time. Starting with the photos and her makeup—he’ll probably move on to her clothes and accessories pretty soon.”

  “It’s all so creepy,” said Ian. “Why would you get rid of your wife’s belongings so soon after she died?”

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time Ian and I had finished looking through Samantha’s bedroom and bathroom, Cynthia, the maid, and Roberta, the chef, had both arrived.

  We talked to Cynthia first, while she dusted down the knickknacks in the formal living room, but we didn’t learn anything new from her. She’d hardly ever interacted with Samantha, because by the time she got to the house, neither Samantha nor Patrick was usually home. She thought that the pay was generous enough, and she had been a little creeped out when she’d first heard of Samantha’s death, but other than that, she didn’t have much to say about either of her bosses.

  Our conversation with Roberta went pretty much the same way: neither Patrick nor Samantha was usually home when she was working. Roberta would come just after lunchtime and make something for that day’s dinner, with enough leftovers for the next day’s lunch.

  Mrs. Wells liked to have half a grapefruit for breakfast, and Patrick would either have some toast with jam, or Carmela would make him an omelet. Roberta thought that the pay was generous, the house was beautiful, and it was a shame that Samantha had died the way she had.

  Just when Ian and I were getting ready to leave, Patrick arrived home.

  He scowled when he saw the two of us and said, “I thought you would have left by now.”

  “Well, we haven’t,” said Ian brightly. “And since we’re here, perhaps you’d like to talk to us.”

  Patrick shook his head. “I’ve brought work home with me. I don’t have time to talk to you now.”

  “We don’t want to intrude,” I said quickly, not wanting to alienate Patrick any further. “But it’s rather important that we talk to you about Samantha’s death. Is there any time we could talk to you, maybe tomorrow?”

  Patrick looked from Ian to me, his expression bristling with annoyance. “You’re not going to leave me alone until I agree to talk to you, are you?”

  I shrugged apologetically, and Ian said, “It’s our job.”

  Patrick let out an exasperated half–grunt, half–sigh, and said, “Come over to my office tomorrow. Early morning, let’s say seven o’clock.”

  I grimaced internally; a seven o’clock meeting meant that I wouldn’t get much sleep after my shift at the casino. But at least Patrick was willing to talk to us, so that was progress.

  “We appreciate you making time for us,” I said politely before grabbing his office address and heading out to go back home.

  As we drove home, Ian said, “Patrick’s behavior is pretty odd, don’t you think?”

  I nodded. “But Carmela has a point. Different people deal with grief in different ways. And even if Patrick’s not really grieving his wife, it doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  My shift at the casino was particularly tiresome that night. Almost all the players seemed to be drunk and belligerent, and every now and then, security had to throw somebody out.

  It was one of those times when the end of
my working day couldn’t come soon enough, but it was almost five in the morning by the time I got home. I had a half–hour power nap, and then I forced myself to get ready and have a breakfast of Pop Tarts and coffee.

  As I washed down my sweet meal, I thought to myself that perhaps it was time to start having healthier foods, and I decided that on my way back home today, I would stop at Anderson’s and pick up some groceries.

  Ian banged on my door at 6:45, and when he saw me wide awake and dressed, he looked shocked.

  “I thought I’d have to wake you up,” he said. “Did you get any sleep this morning?”

  “Some,” I said. “I put a bunch of concealer under my eyes to hide the dark circles.”

  Ian peered at me closely and said, “I wish I could wear concealer. Women are lucky they can wear makeup to change how they look.”

  Patrick’s office was housed in a large three–story building opposite McCarran Airport. The place looked boxy and uninspired from the outside, and inside, it was just as unimaginative—steel–grey carpets, a couple of cubicles, and then Patrick’s office in one corner of the floor. His room barely managed to house a fake rubber plant, a large desk, and a couple of chairs.

  Patrick sat on one side of the desk, and when Ian and I sat down opposite him, he half–joked, “I thought you two might not show up. I thought private investigators did most of their work at night.”

  I smiled politely. “We like to keep appointments.”

  “Besides,” said Ian, “we don’t work in the evenings, since Tiffany also works as a dealer at the Treasury Casino.”

  I blushed, wishing Ian hadn’t said that, and Patrick looked at me speculatively. “So you’re not really a professional investigator.”

  “We are professionals,” I said. “It’s just that I like to work at the casino some nights. I’ve been a dealer for a long time, and I didn’t want to quit.”

  Plus, the wages from working at the casino helped me pay my bills, but Patrick didn’t need to know that.