Reality Check in Las Vegas: A Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 5)

by AR Winters

  “Maybe someone figured out a way,” Steve said. “Did your recent letters say anything?”

  Lana shrugged. “I don’t even bother to read the letters. Who’s got the time?”

  Ian and I exchanged a glance. We’d need to find the time.

  Chapter Nineteen

  We chatted with some more crew members—gaffers, light technicians, makeup artists—and even Pam, the red-haired assistant I’d seen carrying the tray of mini sandwiches. Ian normally makes a fool of himself whenever he sees an attractive lady, but thankfully, he managed to behave himself in front of Pam.

  The crew all mentioned that they thought Lana wasn’t a bad person, but a little too demanding. Brian, a slender, curly-haired crew member, told us that ever since Lana’s assistant quit, Lana had tried to add “coffee gopher” to his list of duties, and he’d told Lana that he just didn’t have enough time to make so many runs to Starbucks.

  Pam agreed with Brian. “Lana expects us all to run around for her. After Brian said no, she told me I’d have to get her coffee. That woman’s demands get tiring after a while,” she said.

  “You sound really annoyed,” said Ian.

  Pam snorted. “Yeah, I’m not surprised someone’s trying to kill her. She just rubs so many people the wrong way.”

  After we finished talking to the crew, Ian and I decided to take a break. Ian made a beeline for the staff cafeteria, and I excused myself and headed up to the thirty-sixth floor.

  The door to Stone’s office was locked, as usual, and the hallway was cold and silent. I couldn’t imagine that anyone else had been up here recently. I wondered if Stone had a janitorial crew, but given his penchant for privacy, he probably had someone on his staff do all the cleaning.

  I tried the door again, swiping my finger, pushing, shoving. Nothing happened.

  I sighed and looked up at the ceiling-mounted cameras. There were no less than three, watching me. And maybe Stone was watching the feed.

  It was worth a shot, I decided.

  I fished my notebook and pen out of my bag and scrawled in big letters, “Hello!”

  I held up the notebook to the camera. Then I turned the page and wrote my message: “It’s me!” Next page: “I’m here to HELP!” Next page: “Get in touch with me.” Next: “I’m worried!” And then: “Call me! PLEASE!”

  I put the notebook away and sat on the floor for a few minutes, trying to think of what else I could do. I’d packed a small Tupperware container in my bag, and it held a cupcake. In an attempt to think more clearly, I pulled out the box and took out the cupcake.

  I was about to bite in, when I had a brainwave. I held the cupcake up to the camera, then wrote in my notebook: “I can bake cupcakes now! Come over! I’ll bake you cupcakes!”

  I held the words up for Stone to hopefully read, and then I went back to my cupcake and ate it. That would’ve worked for me. But Stone—it turned out, I didn’t know him very well at all. I didn’t know what would work for him.

  Once I was done eating my cupcake, I headed back to the studios and ran into Gordon in the long hallway. He was wearing a tight sky-blue t-shirt now, and it matched the color of his eyes. His pecs bulged under the t-shirt, and he smiled when he saw me. “Hey, Tiffany.”

  “Hey.” I smiled back at him. He really was good-looking, and up close, his blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. “What’re you up to?”

  “This and that.” His smiled gently, and the light hit the contours of his face just right.

  What was it with all these good-looking men? I wondered. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Pam and Steve walking down the hallway, deep in conversation. Gordon and I stepped to one side to let them pass.

  “It’s not against the rules,” I overheard Steve say. “If they’re having an affair, I can’t stop it.”

  Gordon and I were leaning against the wall, and I thought to myself that I had to snap out of this silly Gordon crush I was developing. He was a suspect. He might say that Lana was his mentor, but really, he’d be even more popular as a Singing Duos judge if Lana wasn’t there. I couldn’t trust—Gordon interrupted my thoughts by saying, “You know, you’re really cute.”

  I looked at him in confusion, and blinked. “Huh?”

  Before I knew what was going on, he’d pushed me gently against the wall. His hands were on my waist, and his mouth was on mine. His breath was hot, his kiss slow but passionate.

  I was lost for a few seconds, immersed in the kiss. I could hear footsteps passing us in the hallway. Gordon’s muscular body pressed against mine, and I forgot about everything for a few long moments.

  And then my brain snapped on again. I pushed Gordon away and tried to catch my breath. “Wh—? What was that?”

  Gordon leaned back smugly and stuck his thumbs into his pockets. “I like you. I know you like me, too.”

  I shook my head wildly. “We can’t do this,” I said. I was trying to convince myself, more than him. “I’m investigating this—Lana thing. And we can’t…”

  “Why not?” Gordon’s blue eyes teased me gently. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  I shook my head. “No, but we can’t.”

  I ran off before I could make an even bigger fool of myself. I’d thought that wild singing last night had been humiliating, but this was worse! How could I just kiss Gordon like that? It wasn’t like me to let my hormones overpower my brain. And despite what I’d told him, Gordon definitely was a suspect. If anything, kissing me just made him look guiltier. Why would he randomly kiss me? He was probably just trying to distract me from the investigation.

  I didn’t know where I was going, and managed to wind up in the staff cafeteria. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I saw Ian sitting at one of the tables.

  He waved at me, and I made my way over. My knees were about to give way from all the excitement of kissing Gordon, and then feeling stupid for kissing him.

  “What’ve you been up to?” I asked Ian, sinking down onto a chair next to him.

  “This is John, and this is Miguel,” said Ian, introducing me to the two men who were sitting opposite him. “They’re on the camera crew.”

  We chatted for a bit, talking about the show and what it was like to work the cameras. What they thought of Lana and the other judges. How Steve was a good director, and would probably be moving on to better things once this season was over.

  I was feeling a bit calmer as more time went by, and then Tim, one of the show’s assistants, appeared with mail. Tim was a twenty-something-year-old with brown hair and a thick, hipster-style beard.

  “I was handing out fan mail to everyone,” he said. “And it seems like you got a letter, too. Tiffany Black, right?”

  I nodded, and took the envelope from him. It was hand-addressed, and there was no stamp. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Someone left it at the Riverbelle reception. Most of our mail’s addressed to the Riverbelle.”

  I turned the envelope over in my hand. It was light. Clean. But who would send me mail?

  Tim walked off to distribute the rest of the mail, and I opened the envelope.

  There was a single typewritten letter inside.

  “Dear Tiffany,

  I know who Lana’s stalker is. He’s dangerous.

  Meet me at Mulligan’s Pub to chat. Five o’clock.

  See you there.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Mulligan’s Pub was a small Irish pub just off Fremont Street. It was dark inside, with small tables and booths crammed inside a tiny place half the size of my apartment. The floors were dark wood, and the walls were lined with various faded posters and certificates. The beer was supposed to be quite decent, and the place was popular with tourists and locals alike.

  Ian and I arrived at four thirty and managed to get a small table at the back. The pub was already packed, with people standing around and chatting, crowding the bar, and getting quite tipsy. I tried to keep an eye on the entrance, but I couldn’t see past all the people standing around, blo
cking my view.

  Ian and I ordered club sodas and sipped in silence, both of us too nervous to talk.

  I’d visited the Riverbelle reception desk right after reading the letter, hoping to get some leads on who might’ve dropped it off. Unfortunately, the man at the reception desk told me that someone dressed in a baseball cap and dark sunglasses had hand-delivered the message, and I knew that anyone dressed in that outfit would be a ghost on the surveillance system. The cap and sunglasses were an effective disguise, and they’d never show up on the casino’s facial recognition system.

  I didn’t like the idea that the messenger had thought to disguise himself before dropping off the letter, so I’d stopped by my apartment on the way here and grabbed my gun. But I didn’t think that would do me any good in a crowded bar.

  As we sat, I ran a list of names through my mind. Since the note had been delivered to me at the studio, whoever had sent it knew that I was working there, and that I was working for Lana. That meant it was sent from someone who was either a contestant, or worked on the crew.

  About ten minutes after we sat down, a waitress in a green dress and white apron appeared at our table.

  “This is for you,” she said, setting a drink down on our table. “Chocolate martini. Compliments of the guy at the bar.”

  “Good thing you’re single,” Ian told me. “So many guys are into you suddenly!”

  I hadn’t told him about Gordon kissing me, but I winced nonetheless. “I’m not here to meet people,” I told the waitress, but she shrugged.

  “The guy over there in the gray hoodie,” she said, turning to the bar. She pointed at someone, but I couldn’t make out who.

  In any case, I didn’t care. The waitress walked off, and Ian sniffed the drink. “It smells delicious,” he said. “Like a chocolate milkshake for adults.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t drink it. I’m still hoping to make my shift at the Treasury later on.”

  “Are you sure? Because if you don’t want it, I’ll have it.”

  “It’s all yours.”

  Ian grabbed the drink and took a long sip. “It’s delicious!” He took another sip. “You’re really missing out!”

  I glanced at my watch. It was a little past five by now, and I tried to see the entrance of the pub. Whoever had sent that letter wasn’t here yet. I was craning my neck, trying to check if anyone from the Singing Duos crew was here, when someone bumped into our table. “Oops,” she said.

  I turned around in time to see a girl wearing a printed summer dress bump into Ian again. “Sorry!” she said. “My friends and I are doing shots! You wanna join us?” Her eyes had the bright optimism of someone who’d already drunk too much, and a friend of hers pushed her from behind, shoving her against Ian’s hand.

  The cocktail glass fell out of Ian’s hands, the drink spilling everywhere.

  “I’m so sorry!” she said, before dissolving into giggles.

  “Join us for shots?” said her friend.

  I frowned at the two girls, feeling very schoolmarmish. “Sorry, we’re busy.”

  They shrugged and meandered off, while I grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the spill quickly, before it could get onto my clothes or handbag.

  “Oh, well,” said Ian. “At least I got a few sips. Cocktails are so expensive here.”

  “I didn’t think you cared about the price of cocktails,” I said, looking around again. I still couldn’t see anyone I recognized. “You’ve got a trust fund.”

  “Yeah, but buying drinks for all those ladies. Suuure. Adds uuup.”

  I frowned at Ian. His voice had gone all funny. “Why are you slurring? You only had half a drink.”

  “I…” I noticed that Ian’s hand was trembling. “All goooood. Just sleeee. Pee.”

  Ian slumped forward, and his head crashed onto the table.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The scream left my throat unbidden, and I grabbed Ian’s shoulders and tried to shake some consciousness into him. When that didn’t work, I pulled his head up and threw my club soda in his face.

  Nothing.

  I checked his pulse—it existed—as I dialed 911. The pub clientele made way, and the paramedics loaded Ian onto the ambulance and took him to the hospital, where some kindly doctors pumped his stomach and told me he’d be fine.

  By the end of the ordeal, my whole body was shaking. I was in the hospital for what felt like half a day and at some point I remembered to call my shift manager, making sure to cough till my throat was dry. I was still sick, I told him. No shift for me.

  I stayed at the hospital, with its bright white lighting, antiseptic smell and stark, clean corridors, until the doctors told me that Ian could go home. He was fine, they said. Just needed some rest.

  Ian and I cabbed it home in silence. I could tell that Ian had been shaken by the whole experience and would never drink a chocolate martini ever again. As for me, I would never accept drinks from a stranger; my knees felt like jelly and my hands were trembling from a mixture of fear and relief.

  It was clearly no stranger who’d sent the drink our way. I tried to think back to the bar. The waitress had said that a guy in a gray hoodie had sent me the drink. And the man at the Riverbelle reception desk had said that someone in a gray hoodie had dropped off the note for me. Was it the same person? I had no way of knowing for sure, but I’d keep my eyes peeled for gray hoodies.

  I walked Ian up to his apartment, where Snowflake was ready to greet us.

  “Take a nap,” I told Ian, who looked like he could really use one. “I’ll be back soon.”

  I took a quick glance around his apartment before leaving. The lounge area was a mess, and there were freshly washed baking implements drying in the kitchenette. Bags of flour and sugar sat on the countertop, remnants of our previous baking adventure.

  I took a deep breath, awareness washing over me. I’d been terrified for Ian. Thank God he was okay. If anything had happened to him… I tried to shake the fear off. Maybe I shouldn’t encourage him to go investigating with me.

  I heard Snowflake purring, and the sound of Ian brushing his teeth drifted over from the bathroom. “See you soon,” I called, stepping outside and closing the door behind me.

  I was back at Mulligan’s within a few minutes. The night was getting busier by the minute, and the bar was packed with crowded revelers. I got to work, quizzing the bartender and the waitress about the man who’d ordered the chocolate martini.

  “Oversized gray hoodie,” said the busy dark-haired bartender. “Full beard, baseball cap. I wouldn’t remember normally, except no one orders cocktails here. It’s always beer. Wine, at most.”

  The waitress nodded in agreement. “I hadn’t seen him before, and I don’t remember if he got anything for himself. Wore thick-framed, hipster-style sunglasses, too, now that I think back.”

  I wondered if there was a chance it might have been Gordon who’d ordered the spiked cocktail, so I said, “Was he good-looking?”

  The waitress gave me a funny look. “I don’t remember. And hard to tell, under that hat and sunglasses. And with that beard covering half his face. I’d love to chat more, but I’ve gotta deliver these drinks.” I handed her a big tip before she walked off with her tray, and then I turned to the bartender again.

  “Do you have a security system? Cameras?”

  “No point.” He jerked his chin towards the two burly security guys standing at the door. “They’re our security system.”

  I sighed and thanked him. It wasn’t much to go on. And I was sure that since he’d failed once, the guy in the gray hoodie would try to strike again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I grabbed some frozen pizzas from Anderson’s on my way back home, as well as some more baking supplies. When I got to Ian’s place, he was lying on the couch and watching reruns of Seinfeld.

  “I brought food,” I told him, trying to sound more cheerful than I felt. “And I thought we’d try making more cupcakes.”

  “Great
plan!” Ian grinned happily. “I was just getting hungry.”

  I smiled wanly. Ian seemed to have almost gotten back to normal.

  I put the frozen pizzas in the oven and called my mother. I was supposed to have gone over to my parents’ place for dinner tonight.

  “I can’t make it,” I said. “Ian got sick, and I need to stay here and make sure he’s okay.”

  “I hope he’s not too sick?” my mother said.

  “No. He just had some bad juice. We were out together at a bar, so I feel it’s kinda my fault. I’m gonna stay here and make him some food.”

  My mother snorted. She knew me well enough to know that “making food” was my preferred euphemism for defrosting supermarket junk, or grabbing some takeout.

  “I can come by tomorrow,” I suggested. “Ian should be feeling okay by then.”

  “Well, bring him along. Glenn and Karma are coming over for breakfast, and you can join them. Karma’s bringing her grandkids.”

  I felt a sudden pang of nostalgia, as I missed Nanna’s presence at these shindigs. Nanna had gone off on her honeymoon with Glenn’s brother, Wes, and she’d be moving to Indiana afterward. I sighed. “We’ll be there.”

  The pizzas were defrosted, and Ian and I munched them thoughtfully. “What’s this other stuff you got from Anderson’s?” he said.

  “Cupcake cookbook! It’s a Baking for Six-Year-Olds series, so I think I can do it.”

  Ian nodded sagely. “Good idea, not going for the Martha Stewart.”

  I wrinkled my nose in distaste. Housekeeping stuff for adults was way too difficult for me. “Anyway, I read one of the recipes for orange-poppy seed cupcakes, and I’m gonna make them now.”

  “I can do the frosting again,” said Ian, his mouth half-full. “We’ll be good today, and not eat the frosting first.”

  It sounded like a good plan, and Ian and I stayed true to our promise and waited for the whole enchilada—mixing, baking, frosting—to be finished before we sank our teeth into a cupcake.