Furniture Fatality in Las Vegas

by A. R. Winters

  “You should let me help out,” said Nanna. “I’m getting quite good at this stuff.”

  My mother glared at her, but before she could say something disapproving, I quickly said, “That’s okay, I’ve got Ian helping me out.”

  “Yeah,” said Ian. “And I’m getting to be a pretty good investigator, too. Now if only things would work out so easily in my love life.”

  “What’s wrong with your love life?” said Wes, who hadn’t known Ian long enough to have seen him go through women like a puppy goes through sneakers. “Is there someone you like who doesn’t seem interested in you?”

  “No,” said Ian. “It’s the opposite. There’s this woman who won’t leave me alone.”

  Everyone looked surprised, and then Wes said, “Well, I suppose that’s better than the opposite problem.”

  Nanna said, “Back in our day, a woman would never approach a man. That made things kind of difficult, so I like the modern ways better now. Makes life easier for everyone.”

  “You can’t always depend on a man to make the first move,” said my mother. She shot me a pointed glance. “You’re not seeing anyone now, are you?”

  I wasn’t ready to tell her about Detective Ryan. Maybe after a few more dates… “No, I’m not. Why do you ask?”

  “Isn’t it time we started eating?” said my dad. He sounded almost as surprised as I felt—I couldn’t remember the last time my mother had us sitting around the dining table for so long without food in front of us.

  “Just give me a few more minutes,” said my mother. “I don’t want the food to get cold.”

  Suspicion trailed its icy fingers down my spine. “Why would the food get cold?”

  As if on cue, there was a knock on the door, and my mother jumped out of her seat. “I’ll get it!”

  I looked at Nanna and groaned. “Did you know about this?”

  Nanna shook her head. “Your mother’s learned to keep her matchmaking a secret these days.”

  “At least whoever she comes up with can’t be any worse than that guy Pearce,” said Ian, trying to be encouraging.

  I nodded. My mother had invited Pearce over for lunch a few weeks ago. He was a socially inept, four–hundred–something–pound man who lived in his mother’s basement and wanted to find a girlfriend so that he would be able to live a life that was both rent–free and housework–free. I was pretty sure he’d never had a steady job in his entire life, and these days, he called himself a blogger. He wrote about weight loss, which was a little ironic given his own weight, and likened his blog to “art.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said to Ian and braced myself for whoever my mother had selected to be my date today.

  When I saw the person who walked in through the door after my mother, I almost gasped out loud.

  “Pearce,” said Ian. “We were just talking about you.”

  Pearce beamed at us stupidly. “That’s great. I figured Tiffany couldn’t forget about me, which is why I was asked to come to lunch again today.”

  I glared at my mother, but before I could say anything, she said to me, “The food’s about ready now. I’ve made your favorite lasagna, along with potato salad and those zucchini fries that you liked so much last time.”

  My anger dissipated somewhat, and I figured that maybe spending time with Pearce was worth the delicious meal that I was going to dig into. On the other hand, maybe I could feign an emergency and grab some food to have in my apartment. That way, I’d be able to have the delicious food, without having to tolerate Pearce’s company. Win–win.

  As though she’d just read my mind, my mother said, “I’ve also got chocolate lava cake for dessert. I know you wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  I settled back into my chair. I would probably sell my soul to have a slice of my mother’s chocolate lava cake, and she knew it.

  Pearce took a seat opposite me and smirked at me annoyingly. “So, Tiffany. How’ve you been? You must’ve been thinking about me for these past few days. You could have just called me, you know.”

  I narrowed my eyes and was about to say something snarky, when my mother walked in with the dish of lasagna. It’s not worth it, I told myself. Just sit through the meal, and it’ll be over soon.

  “I’ve been busy with work,” I said politely. “How about you?”

  “I’ve been real busy too,” said Pearce, helping himself to about half the lasagna. “I’ve decided to start a blog on relationships.”

  “What about your weight loss blog?” said Ian. “Did you stop doing that because of your own weight?”

  “I still do that,” said Pierce. “And I lost five pounds since the last time I saw you guys. I’m doing this really good carb–free diet.”

  “That lasagna has loads of carbs in it,” I pointed out, unable to stop myself.

  “That’s okay,” said Pierce. “It’s more of an experimental diet. I experiment to see what works and what doesn’t. Besides, like I told you, I’ve already lost five pounds.”

  Everyone at the table tried to stare at him discreetly, but if anything, Pearce seemed to have gotten even wider since the last time we met him.

  “Maybe it’s just water weight,” said Ian. “That’s what girls keep telling me whenever they gain a pound or two—apparently, you retain more water at certain times of the month. Maybe you’re going through your time of the month, and you lost weight instead of gaining it.”

  Nanna burst into a fit of suspicious coughing, and I hid my grin as Pearce said, “Maybe you’re right about this time–of–the–month theory. Some days I weight ten or twenty pounds more, but I know I’m not really putting on more weight.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “Maybe you gain and lose weight because of your time of the month.”

  “Anyway,” said Pierce, “I figured I shouldn’t just blog about one thing. I should diversify. Which is why I’ve decided to write about how to attract women.”

  I raised one cynical eyebrow. “And you have lots of luck with women?”

  Pearce smirked modestly. “You don’t need to be jealous.”

  “I always have the worst luck with women,” said Ian.

  Pearce nodded sagely. “You’re probably doing everything wrong. You need to focus on body language. Plus, girls in Vegas pay a lot of attention to what you do. They like to go out with men who are successful, not men who are… I don’t know, what do you even do?”

  “I help Tiffany out with her investigations,” said Ian.

  Pearce shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like it pays very well. Women like men who earn a lot of money.”

  “Then how do you get so much success with women?” I asked. “You’re not making anything off your blogs right now, are you?”

  “No,” said Pierce, “but it’s all in how you say it. So, for instance, I don’t tell women I have blogs. They don’t like that. I tell them I run a weight loss business, stuff like supplements, and vitamins.”

  “But you don’t sell supplements, do you?”

  Pearce shrugged. “Sometimes I talk about supplements on my blog. And I’d like to start a supplement line someday.”

  “So you basically lie to women and pretend that you’re making lots of money.”

  Pearce’s eyes narrowed, and his face started to take on a purplish tinge. “I don’t lie. I just experiment, till I find the right thing to say.”

  “And how’s that line been going for you so far?”

  Pearce shrugged, and the purple started to drain out of his face. “Not too bad. But it’s hard for me to seal the deal since I live in my mom’s basement. I have to ask the women if I can go back with them to their hotel room, and they usually don’t want that. Come to think of it, maybe they don’t really believe that I’ve got a supplements business. Maybe I should try saying something else.”

  “Girls like to hear that I’ve got a trust fund,” said Ian. “Tiffany says I should stop telling them that, so I don’t attract gold digge
rs.”

  Pearce looked at Ian as though he’d just seen a vision of what his life might be. “That’s brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  One of my eyebrows shot up disapprovingly of its own accord. “Because you don’t actually have a trust fund?”

  “I might have a trust fund,” said Pearce. “If I opened a bank account, and decided not to touch it for another ten years, that’s kind of like a trust fund.”

  “I’m not sure that’s how it works,” I said.

  Pearce smiled condescendingly. “Don’t be jealous, Tiffany. I’m not actually going to use that line. Not if you don’t want me to.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I really don’t mind if you ask other women out.”

  “I wouldn’t, if you’re interested in me,” said Pierce. “I’m thinking, maybe we should stop meeting at your mother’s house like this. She has to go to all the trouble of cooking for us. Maybe we should meet somewhere else for dinner or something.”

  I looked at him skeptically and made a fake, noncommittal noise. Ideally, I would never, ever have to see Pearce again, but I wasn’t about to say that and lose my chocolate lava cake privileges.

  Chapter Twelve

  When I walked into the casino that night, it was as bright and welcoming as ever. The pit smelled of the mysterious, citrusy Treasury smell, and the slot machines rang out in choruses of wins.

  I spent my shift in a sort of half–daze. It was a busy night, with bustling, enthusiastic crowds who hopped from one table to another. The noise level seemed louder than other days, and even the lights felt brighter. I only had a few seconds of free time between gamblers, and I was too busy zoning out during my break to think of anything useful.

  I came home from my shift without getting any new brainwaves about Janice’s death. I thought it vaguely optimistic that we had a couple of suspects, and as I drifted off to sleep, I thought about the Betta Furniture employees and what Ian might’ve uncovered about their past.

  The next morning, Ian was over at my place having breakfast when his phone rang.

  “It’s Cecilia again,” he said. “I’m sure she’s out there in the hallway, knocking on my door.”

  I sipped my coffee thoughtfully. “I wish there was some way we could get rid of her. But I’m not sure how to handle someone like her. I don’t know if she’s crazy, or just willfully ignorant.”

  Ian’s phone buzzed again, this time with a text. He looked down, and said, “It’s her. She says she’s in the hallway, am I still asleep?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t think she’s about to leave easily.”

  “She might even camp out there, or try to talk to Mrs. Weebly again,” said Ian, looking worried. “What should I do?”

  “Normally, I tell you to be honest with the girls you like, but that hasn’t worked with her. And none of your disguises have worked either.”

  Ian’s face lit up with sudden inspiration. “Maybe I should try to disguise myself as a woman! I haven’t tried that yet.”

  I looked at him doubtfully. “No, you haven’t. But I can’t really imagine you as a woman.”

  “How hard can it be? I’m already wearing jeans and a T–shirt, which is unisex. And I can wear a long wig, and you can put some makeup on me.”

  “It can’t hurt to try,” I admitted. “Even if you can’t disguise yourself, perhaps you can scare her into thinking you’re a cross dresser or something.”

  “I don’t think that would deter her,” Ian said morosely, and I had to agree with him.

  He looked through the bag of wigs that he made me keep in my apartment and selected a long, curly Goldilocks–style wig. He tried it on, fluttered his eyelashes like a geisha, and flicked the curls back, but he still looked like Ian in a wig.

  I shook my head. “That’s not going to work.”

  “I just need some makeup,” Ian insisted. “I’ll look completely different with makeup—I’ve seen those makeovers they do on YouTube.”

  I stared at Ian’s face skeptically. “I’ve learned a bit about makeup since high school, but I’m not sure I can do drastic makeovers like the ones you’ve seen.”

  “Come on,” said Ian. “It can’t hurt to try!”

  I found my makeup stash and got to work while Ian sat as still as a statue, flinching only once in a while when I poked his skin too hard.

  I applied a thick layer of foundation, smudging out his freckles, and then I filled in his eyebrows and outlined his eyes with dark eyeliner. I gunked up his lashes with mascara, and applied dark maroon lipstick.

  After half an hour of struggling, I stepped back and stared at him.

  “How do I look?” he asked hopefully.

  I made a face. “Not that great.” Truth be told, he still looked like Ian in a long wig—except this time, he was also wearing heavy makeup.

  Ian rushed over to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror critically. “Hmm. I guess I look different. But I look too masculine; my jaw’s too thick. Why don’t you do that contouring stuff they do on TV?”

  “I don’t usually do contouring on myself,” I said, “but I’ll try it on you. After all, this is your special day.”

  I got to work with highlighter, blush, and bronzer. I darkened out his square jaw, thinned out his nose, and hollowed out the top of his forehead and temples. I applied pink blush to the apples of his cheeks, and then I blended everything in with highlighter. At the end of it all, I had to admit that Ian looked a lot more feminine.

  Ian nodded approvingly when he saw himself in the mirror. “I look kind of ugly,” he said. “But at least I look like an ugly woman. And actually, I’m not even that ugly.” He twisted to one side and made a pouty duck face. “In the right light, I might pass for one of those cute sorority girls.”

  “I don’t think it’s the light that’ll make a difference—I think it’s how drunk the person staring at you is. Maybe try a different wig.” I sorted through the wigs and found a long, straight blond wig with blunt bangs. It suited Ian much better, and had the added advantage of hiding half his face under the bangs.

  Ian fixed the wig on properly and pirouetted in front of the mirror. “I look great! Now I know why women spend so much money on their hair and makeup.”

  I grinned. “You’re lucky you’re not actually a woman, or you’d go broke from beauty treatments.”

  “I probably would,” said Ian thoughtfully. “And it’s like what I’ve read in all those women’s magazines—I’m not dressing up for someone else. I’m going to all this effort because it makes me feel good.”

  “That’s technically not true,” I reminded him. “You are going to all this effort for someone special.”

  “But it makes me feel good about myself,” said Ian. “I mean, if I was a woman, wearing makeup would make me feel good about myself. I wouldn’t want any of the guys I went to college with to see me like this. Not that they’d recognize me.”

  I took a step back and looked at Ian again. “Your face looks fine,” I said. “But the rest of you doesn’t quite say ‘feminine.’”

  “Hey,” said Ian, “I’ve gotta work with what I was born with. I’m not about to have you body–shame me.”

  “I wasn’t body–shaming you,” I said. “I just—that outfit doesn’t really work. Here, try on these shoes. I got them as a gag gift in a Secret Santa exchange at work, because one of the dealers said I’ve got elephant feet. Maybe they’re your size.”

  The shoes were black, with thin straps and a low heel, and they just about fit Ian’s feet. He managed to take a few tottering steps in them without falling over and hitting his head, and I nodded approvingly.

  “Much better. You just need to practice your walk a bit. Your feet look ugly, but hopefully nobody’ll look at them too closely.”

  Ian walked in circles around the room, slowly getting used to the shoes. “I can’t wait to get a pedicure! Now that I’m going to be a woman, that’s the next thing I should try.”

  “Well, you’ll have to learn
to do one by yourself, or you can go down to the nail salon at the end of the street. Just don’t make me go with you.”

  Ian nodded and took a few more steps around the room. Now that he was wearing nicer shoes, his outfit didn’t look too incongruous for a woman.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said, “except you look kind of flat–chested.”

  “Stop insulting my body!”

  I shrugged. “You’re a woman now. People insult your body.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Ian looked down at his chest and shook his head disapprovingly. “I could wear a bra and stuff it with oranges, but that’d be a bit weird. And what if the oranges fall out of the bra when I’m in public? People might think I’m strange.”

  “It’s not like we’ve got spare oranges lying around, either.”

  We spent a few seconds staring at Ian’s chest in dismay, and then I came up with a solution. “Drape this scarf around your shoulders. It adds a feminine touch, plus it hides your chest a bit.”

  And it did. With the gunky makeup, blond wig, low–heeled sandals, and now the scarf, Ian could pretty much pass as an awkward, not–too–attractive woman.

  “I don’t look anything like myself,” Ian said. “Cecilia’ll never know it’s me.”

  “Just make sure you don’t talk. Or use a high–pitched voice.”

  Ian raised his voice till he sounded like a chipmunk. “Okey–dokey. No problemo.”

  “I guess it’s showtime.”

  I gathered up my things, Ian took a deep breath, and we sauntered out into the hallway.

  I passed Cecilia on my way to the elevator.

  “You haven’t seen Iannikins, have you?” she said. She looked slightly worried, as though she might have lost a winning lottery ticket in her handbag, and she didn’t give the glammed–up blonde next to me more than a passing glance.

  “He’s staying with a friend of his for a few days,” I said, lying blithely. I’m normally not a very good liar, but I told myself it was for a good cause. “Said he needed a change of pace.”