by AR Winters
A few seconds after she’d left the apartment, Ian stepped out of the bedroom looking miserable. “That’s that,” he said.
I was still staring at the door in disbelief. “The woman’s horrible!”
“I know. Maybe she’ll poison Snowflake next time.”
“She just might.” I caught a glimpse of the wigs Ian had given me, lying in one corner of the room. “Let’s go. We need to get Snowflake back.”
Chapter Seven
I opened my front door to see Mrs. Weebly standing by the elevator. “… brings property prices down,” she was saying.
“Get out of my way,” Katrina said. “I don’t even live here.”
By the time Ian and I got to the elevator, the sliding doors had closed.
Mrs. Weebly turned to us, shocked. “That woman had a cat. Can you believe it? I tried to tell her—”
But Ian and I were already running away, over to the fire escape, down the stairs. We got to the lobby as Katrina stepped outside.
“What now?” Ian said, panting loudly.
I jammed the wig I was carrying onto my head. It was blonde, with a heavy fringe that covered my forehead. “We go after her.”
I strode purposefully, wondering what I looked like as a blonde, and from behind me, Ian said, “What if she drove here?”
“She lives near the Strip,” I said. “She didn’t drive.”
Ian and I walked quickly, unwilling to let Katrina out of our sight. My wig fitted me perfectly, but Ian’s bald wig kept slipping off his head. We turned onto the Strip, and a man with a pink Mohawk grinned at Ian from a distance, thinking he’d found a fellow hair-buddy. But when Mohawk Man got closer, his grin disappeared, and he looked away quickly, as though he’d witnessed something too hideous to bear.
“You look terrible,” I told Ian. “Why didn’t you try on the wig when you bought it?”
“I did. The sales lady told me I looked like Bruce Willis.”
I burst out laughing but forced myself to stop when I saw Ian’s hurt expression. “You look a little like Bruce Willis,” I said soothingly.
“Ah, whatever. She didn’t see me.” Ian yanked his wig off in annoyance, and we watched as Katrina turned into The Caribbean Towers, a new residential high-rise on the Strip. Apartments there weren’t cheap, and I knew that unlike my apartment building, the lobby probably had good security.
I rushed inside the building and almost bumped into Katrina.
“Hi, there!” I said brightly.
Katrina looked at me like she’d just seen a bug. “Do I know you?”
“No, I’m T—Scarlett. And this is my brother, James. I thought we should say hi, since we’re neighbors!” During my entire spiel, my maniacal smile never left my face. I probably looked more like a deranged psychopath than anything else.
“Uh-huh.” Katrina glanced from me to Ian.
“James owns a tech firm,” I went on. “He’s thinking of relocating here.”
Interest glimmered in Katrina’s blue eyes. “Really.”
“Sure,” Ian said modestly.
“After he cashed out of Google,” I said, realizing just which nerve I’d hit, “he made it big with his own startup.”
Katrina looked at Ian like he could be her next meal ticket – if things got too rough with her current boyfriend. “That’s nice,” she purred. “I’m so glad you came over to say hi.”
We strolled through the lobby, and Katrina nodded at the uniformed security guard sitting at the front desk.
“How long have you been living here?” Katrina said, as we stepped into the lobby.
I glanced down at Snowflake who was standing up in the little pet carrier, and left Ian to fend for himself.
“I – uh – three months,” Ian said.
“Which floor?” said Katrina.
She’d just pressed seven, so I said, “Seven.”
“It’s funny I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Well, you know…” Ian said, looking at me in desperation.
“He’s always working,” I said, giving Katrina a you know how it is glance.
“Of course,” she said. “I understand.”
We stepped off the elevator and we all turned left.
“It was nice meeting you,” I said to Katrina, as she stopped at a door labelled 709 and began fiddling with keys.
“Likewise.” She graced Ian with a dazzling smile and then went back to her keys.
Ian and I walked slowly to the end of the corridor. We must’ve passed at least ten doors, and I finally stopped at one. I glanced back in Katrina’s direction, but she’d already stepped inside and her door was closed.
“What now?” Ian whispered.
I shrugged. “I look for keys, I guess.”
I began rooting through my tote bag and found my set of lock-picks. If I needed to, I could pick a lock on one of these doors and hide in the apartment until Katrina left.
We heard a door opening again, and I turned to see Katrina stepping out, sans pet carrier. “Don’t look,” I hissed to Ian. “Pull out your phone and pretend to be talking.”
He did as I said, speaking in a hushed voice, and I heard the elevator doors ping open. I gave Katrina a few seconds to step inside, and then Ian and I rushed over to her apartment.
It only took me a few seconds to open Katrina’s door using my lock-picks, and then Ian and I walked in. It was a gleaming, minimalist-style apartment with a white leather sofa and bare walls, and I didn’t have to look around to find Snowflake – Katrina had just dumped the pet carrier near the front door – without even bothering to take Snowflake out. Ian wasted no time in undoing the carrier door and scooping Snowflake into his arms.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I hope Katrina’s boyfriend doesn’t get too sad.”
We stepped out, locked the door behind us, and started to walk towards the elevator, when I noticed that the floor numbers on the top indicated that it was coming up. The elevator pinged, and the doors began to slide open.
I grabbed Ian’s arm, pivoted around and began to walk casually in the opposite direction. Footsteps followed us, and I tried to keep my breathing steady. When I heard the footsteps stop, I glanced behind me surreptitiously to see Katrina standing in front of her apartment door, looking for her keys.
“Oh, crap,” I muttered, hoping and praying that Snowflake stayed quiet.
“What?” Ian whispered.
“Keep walking,” I hissed.
I had my lock pick in one hand, ready to use it on any of the doors, but we’d almost reached the end of the corridor.
And that’s when I saw it. Like a mirage in a desert, it was improbable – but I needed it to be real.
One of the apartment doors was slightly ajar.
Chapter Eight
I pushed it open and stepped inside. Ian followed.
I’ve got some experience walking into strangers’ apartments. The first time I did it, I met my friend Glenn. The second time, I met Ian. So I wasn’t too worried about walking into some random person’s apartment – Ian and I could explain how we were rescuing a kitten from an evil woman, and pretty soon all of us would become good friends.
“Hello?” I called out softly. “Anyone home?”
Silence.
There was nobody in the lounge room. A threadbare Persian rug lay on the floor, and a mid-century modern style sofa faced a large-screen TV. The room had no windows, and was lit by overhead downlights. Two doors stared at us from adjacent walls; they probably lead to the bedroom and the kitchen.
I could hear the tick-tick-ticking of an alarm clock coming from one of the rooms.
I handed Snowflake over to Ian, and closed the door behind us. I called out again, just to be sure we were alone. “Hello? We’re not here to make trouble, we just want to wait for a few minutes.”
There was no response and Ian said, “Maybe they stepped out to get the mail.”
“We wait five minutes, and then we leave. Make sure you don’t put Snowfl
ake down; don’t get fur on anything.”
“I wonder who lives here,” Ian said, and we glanced around nervously. “Nice furniture. Let’s check out the other rooms.” Before I could stop him, he walked off in the direction of what looked like the kitchen door.
“I don’t know, this isn’t…”
“The kitchen’s all shiny,” Ian called out.
“Don’t eat anything,” I replied, although, that was more my style. Maybe there was a bit of cake lying in the fridge…
I walked into the bedroom to avoid the temptation of cake. This room was decorated in dark wooden tones – a mahogany bed that hadn’t been made up, and a lovely dark wooden desk with that loud-ticking alarm clock. I sat down at the desk and stared at the notebooks strewn across the surface. A familiar-looking book caught my eye: Comprehensive Poker Mathematics. Nanna owned that book too.
A blue, spiral-bound notebook lay on top of the poker book. Unable to help myself, I picked it up, and began flicking through it idly. A messy hand had written out poker notations and the probably of various hands. Whoever owned this place was really into poker – they’d probably get along with Nanna. On a whim, I turned to the end of the notebook, where there was a grocery list: Salad greens, apples, milk, cereal, bread, chocolate. Below the list, there was a name jotted down in different colored ink: Wynona?
“We should go,” I called to Ian. It had been a couple of minutes, and I was starting to feel uncomfortable about lingering in a stranger’s apartment.
Ian entered the bedroom. “The kitchen’s neat,” he said. “The guy has one of those expensive Kitchenaid mixers that Glenn has.”
“He must bake a lot. Where’s Snowflake?”
“She fell asleep in the kitchen. I wonder what the bathroom’s like.”
Before I could stop him, Ian wandered into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom. He seemed to be in there forever, and finally, I called out impatiently, “Ian. We really need to go now.”
“Tiff.” Ian’s voice was choked. “You need to get in here.”
Chapter Nine
I rushed into the bathroom, and when I saw what Ian was looking at, my hands flew to my mouth in an attempt to stifle my scream.
A dark-haired man in his late thirties lay draped over the beautiful white bathtub. His skin was pale, his eyes glassy, and his white t-shirt drenched with blood.
Ian was saying something, but I couldn’t hear because of all the blood thumping in my eardrums. I scanned the bathroom, wondering where the killer was. There was no sign of anyone else, or of the murder weapon. I couldn’t believe we’d just been hanging out so calmly while there was a dead body in the bathtub – and possibly a killer behind the curtains.
“What do we do?” Ian asked.
“Look around,” I whispered. “Make sure we’re alone.”
Ian took a few steps away from me, and I grabbed his arm. “Together.” For once, I was glad of his company.
The bathroom was compact and wasn’t harboring any murderers. We stepped out into the bedroom together and checked under the bed, behind the heavy drapes, and inside the wardrobes. Nothing. The living room was clear too, as was the kitchen, where Snowflake had fallen asleep in a corner. Ian scooped her up protectively and looked at me.
“We have to call the cops,” I said. “We can say…”
“That we were rescuing Snowflake?”
I shook my head. “That’s kidnapping. Pet-napping. Something.”
“You want to lie?”
“It’s no big deal. Better than losing Snowflake to that woman, right?”
Ian nodded, and I told him the story I’d concocted, before we called 911 and waited for the cops to arrive.
Detective Elwood was one of the first arrive on the scene. He was a fat, grumpy man I’d first met a few months ago when I’d been working on a case.
“You again,” he said when he saw me. “How’s your nanna doing?”
“Fine.” I nodded, feeling a little shaken by the dead guy in the bathroom. “How’s your wife?”
“Going to couples’ therapy with me. Nothing I do seems to make her happy.”
“Roses once a week,” said Ian.
Elwood shook his head. “I tried that, but she said she wants surprises. And she never likes my surprises. What’s going on here?”
Ian told him about finding the guy in the bathtub, leaving out the part about us wandering in and having a good look around first. A forensics team arrived, and they went into the bathroom with Elwood and presumably started up their investigation.
“We need to talk,” Elwood said when he came out of the bathroom. “What’re you two doing here anyway?”
“We thought this was a friend’s house,” I said. “We came to show him our new kitten. We must’ve gotten the address wrong.”
Elwood glanced at Snowflake. “Dumb story, even for you two. What’s really going on?”
Ian smiled nervously. “We got a bit confused. Tiffany’s all sleep-deprived from work, and I haven’t slept for three days since I’m on a Star Trek marathon. I’m watching all the episodes in a row.”
Elwood looked at me. “What’s he on about?”
“It’s a TV show.”
Elwood rolled his eyes. “You two need to give statements.”
“Sure,” said Ian. “Do you know who killed the guy?”
“This is a police investigation,” Elwood said. “We can’t tell you what’s going on.”
I didn’t want to antagonize Elwood and make ourselves seem like suspects but I had to ask. “Have the forensic guys found time of death?”
Elwood looked like he was weighing up the pros and cons of answering me directly. Finally, he said, “They’ve got an idea. We think he’s been dead for a while, now. But don’t ask me anything else.”
The next day, there was a small article in the Vegas Tribune about a man found dead in his apartment, but it didn’t mention any important details – like the fact that he’d been shot. I kept an eye out for any news over the following week, but there was nothing. Finally, a fortnight later, Ian and I succumbed to our curiosity and dropped by the station to visit Elwood.
The station looked like a fifties-style boring brick building from the outside, but inside it had been renovated in the bland, shiny-white-office style. Elwood lead us to a small conference room and sat opposite us with a bored expression on his face. “Let me guess,” he said drily. “You found another body.”
Ian missed the sarcasm and said, “No, but we haven’t been trying too hard.”
Elwood turned to me, so I said, “We were wondering if you found the killer.”
“What killer?”
“You’re still investigating?”
“Yes. And I can’t talk about it.”
“Of course,” I said, mindful of the fact that I needed to stay on Elwood’s good side; I kept running into him during my investigations. “We understand. This is none of our business. Let’s go, Ian.”
Four months went by. Ian kept Snowflake hidden in his apartment, and I visited her every now and then. She grew cuter by the day, and I loved how happy she was to have cuddles whenever I visited. But there was no more news about the murder that Snowflake had led us to – nothing in the papers and nothing on TV. I didn’t want to bother Elwood again, and assumed we’d heard the last of the case. It was strange to discover a body and then never find out what had happened, but I supposed that was life – not every criminal act required me to investigate it, and not every murder was solved.
I was perfectly happy to forget about the case and go on with my days like the murder had never happened – until I met Margo.
Chapter Ten
It was six in the evening on Thursday when my cell phone rang.
“This is Margaret Langton,” said the voice on the other end. “I’d like to hire you as a PI.”
I frowned. “Have we met? Did someone recommend me?”
“No. And yes.”
“What do you mean, ‘no and yes’?”
>
Margaret sounded smug and confident that I’d want to work for her. “We haven’t met. Sophia Becker recommended you.”
Sophia’s was the first case I’d ever worked on. She’d been accused of murdering her casino-tycoon husband, and she’d introduced me to Stone. “Well, we can make an appointment to chat sometime. Let me check my schedule.”
“How about now?”
“I can’t make it right now.” I was meeting Jack in an hour’s time, and then I had a shift at the casino. “How about…”
“This will only take five minutes.”
“I’m sorr—”
“I’m outside your door.” She hung up abruptly and I stared at my phone, and then I stared at my front door. My heartrate had suddenly gone up sixty-fold.
The woman had sounded quite normal, up until that last sentence – how had she found my address and why was she here? I’ve had my share of run-ins with the crazies, and I began to picture Margaret as a crazy-haired, wild-eyed psychopath who was planning to kill me.
But then again, she had mentioned Sophia.
I tiptoed up to my front door and peered through the fish-eye. The lady standing outside was dressed in a pink-ish tweed-style skirt suit and had silvery-grey hair shaped into a chin-length bob. She wore rimless glasses and a strand of pearls.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I said hesitantly.
Margaret looked like a well-off librarian. Maybe she wasn’t crazy; maybe she was just distraught, or anxious. Although she’d looked and sounded very calm.
I went to my wardrobe, found my spare handbag and checked that my gun was still in there. It couldn’t hurt to be safe. I slung the handbag over my shoulder, and opened the door. “Come in, have a seat, Mrs. Langton.”
“Call me Margo,” she said, sitting down on my sofa and crossing her legs. Up close, I could see that her makeup was immaculate. She must’ve been at least sixty, and with her grey eyes and pale lipstick, she didn’t look like a psychopath at all. She placed a black quilted Chanel handbag on her lap. “Everyone does.” Margo glanced around, but didn’t seem appalled by my living conditions. “I apologize for barging in on you, but I wanted to meet you before I left Vegas.”
