“I noticed something odd the day Samantha died,” I said slowly. “Ian and I turned up at noon, which was an hour after she died. Detective Elwood and the CSI technicians were still there, and I noticed that although a few statues had fallen down and hit Samantha, there were other statues whose position hadn’t changed. I also thought it was quite strange that nobody else was home at the time.”
“This thing about the statues is new to me,” said Amanda, “but perhaps that’s just how things happen during an earthquake.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “It’s just that Ian and I felt like it was too much of a coincidence—that Samantha died an hour before she was supposed to talk to a private investigator.”
“So what you’re saying,” said Amanda, crossing one leg over another, “is that you think the cops are wrong. That Samantha’s death might not have been accidental.”
“There’s always a chance it might have been accidental,” I admitted. “But I really don’t think that’s the case. I think something must have happened that day.”
“You know,” said Amanda, “I’m tempted to agree with you. I can feel it in my bones—something else must have happened that day.”
“And cops are often wrong,” Ian chimed in. “They’re overworked, and sometimes they can’t look into things in as much detail as they should.”
“And what you’re saying is that you could?” Amanda glanced from me to Ian. “Is that why you’re here? Do you want to investigate Samantha’s death?”
“We went and talked to Samantha’s husband this morning,” I said. “And we suggested that maybe we could look into what happened. He was completely against the idea. But Samantha wanted to hire me to be her private investigator. I feel obligated to look into her death.”
Amanda nodded. “Patrick is an arrogant ass. I agree with you—if Samantha wanted to hire you, you should investigate what happened. If Patrick doesn’t want to hire you, I will.”
My shoulders sagged with relief. I wasn’t sure what I would have done if Amanda hadn’t been willing to hire us—I couldn’t think of anybody else who would’ve wanted to hire us for this case.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” I said. “If you’re sure about your decision, we need to fill out some paperwork first, and then Ian and I can get started right away.”
I showed her the forms, and she didn’t hesitate to sign them and pay me in advance for the work.
“I’ve never hired a private investigator before,” said Amanda. “So let’s get started. What do you guys need from me?”
“We’ve got some questions about Samantha and her life. But first, let’s start with your relationship. Were you and Samantha close? And why didn’t you like her husband?”
Chapter Eight
“Samantha and I were very close,” said Amanda. “We told each other all our secrets, and we called each other almost every day. She was five years younger than me, but she got married before me. I came down to Vegas one time to visit her, and that’s how I met my husband. Daniel and I travel a lot with our two kids, but I was still able to see Samantha quite frequently.”
“So if anything was going on in Samantha’s life, you would have known?”
Amanda nodded. “Yes, she told me everything.”
“And what about Patrick?” I said. “Why didn’t you like him?”
Amanda shrugged. “I never liked him. From the very first time I met him, I thought he was a conceited, self–important narcissist. I warned Samantha about him, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She thought he was handsome and rich, and he was nice to her at first. Of course, a year after they got married, he stopped being so nice to her. And then his business started to do badly. So things didn’t work out the way she’d planned.”
I nodded, and Ian said, “Most people are killed by their husbands or wives. Tiffany and I think it’s quite weird that Patrick didn’t want us to investigate his wife’s death. It makes him look suspicious.”
Amanda smiled thinly. “Patrick can’t see beyond himself. He’s only ever willing to think about himself, or spend money on himself. I’m sure that’s the main reason he didn’t want to hire you.”
“Was there any other reason why Samantha was unhappy in her marriage?” I asked. “Was Patrick cheating on her?”
Amanda twisted her lips and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “I always thought so. My husband said he’d seen Patrick with other girls at bars sometimes, but when I asked Samantha about it, she just stuck her head in the sand. Perhaps he wasn’t cheating on her, perhaps he was. I’m not sure either way.”
“If Samantha was so unhappy in her marriage,” said Ian, “why didn’t she just leave?”
“She did think about getting a divorce. But Patrick didn’t want her to leave, mainly because he’d been using her assets as security for his business. If they got divorced, Patrick might’ve had to declare bankruptcy. And Samantha stayed because Patrick knows a lot of influential people here. Samantha liked attending all those gala dinners and fundraisers, and if she got divorced from Patrick, tongues would wag and she might not have been welcomed into society. Besides, Samantha was a board member of the Montclair Art Museum here—and she would probably have had to give up that position if she got divorced.”
“So Samantha basically stayed with Patrick just so she could be active in society?”
Amanda smiled apologetically. “Samantha was smart, but she needed a hobby. She was obsessed with society, and she loved her role in the art museum. I don’t think she could imagine a life without those things. It might not make sense to you, but it did to Samantha. Besides, even though she suspected that Patrick might’ve been cheating on her, and he wasn’t as nice to her, she couldn’t prove it. They didn’t have any kids, so she could’ve just walked out, but she didn’t like the idea of being alone. She told me that most men change and become rude and self–centered after marriage.”
“Is that what you think, too?”
Amanda shook her head. “I’ve been lucky. Daniel’s always been good to me, and I don’t think all men are like that.”
“Tell me more about Samantha’s job at the museum,” I said. “What kind of work did she do?”
“She helped arrange the temporary exhibitions,” said Amanda. “Every season, the museum shows exhibits from famous artists. Amanda gets in touch with other museums and tries to arrange those. She also decides on which artists to display in their permanent collection, and who to display in the temporary collection. And then she helps schedule guest lecturers, whenever they have visiting exhibitions, and she arranges all kinds of events and fundraisers for the museum as well.”
“That actually sounds like a full–time job,” I said. “She must’ve spent a lot of time at that job.”
Amanda nodded. “Yes, but she loved the work.”
“Patrick said that Samantha was rude and bitter. Did she get along well with other people at the museum?”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “That’s one thing Patrick was right about. I loved my sister dearly, but she always held grudges. There were quite a few people she absolutely hated, and I’m sure she was perfectly rude to them and turned them into bitter enemies.”
“Like who?”
“Well, at the museum, there were six other board members. Samantha hated three of them—there was Julie Edwards, who she said was jealous of her and always made snide comments. And she hated Peter Ross; she said he was always misogynistic and rude. And then there was Darren Beyers. I’m not sure what his deal was, but Samantha was always complaining about him and she didn’t like him either.”
I raised one eyebrow. “So she hated three out of the other six board members?”
Amanda smiled. “Yes, it does sound ridiculous when you say it like that, but she didn’t like very many other people. She wasn’t particularly well loved, but she worked hard and everyone was scared of her and listened to her. Nobody had the guts to disagree with her openly.”
“Were there any other enemies who might have want
ed to send her death threats? Perhaps any ex–boyfriends, or an ex–girlfriend of Patrick’s?”
Samantha shook her head. “No ex–boyfriends or ex–girlfriends that I know of. But she did mention one particular artist who constantly got on her nerves. Andrew Aarons—apparently, this guy kept trying to get his work exhibited in the museum, and she wouldn’t have it. They had some kind of long–running vendetta. I think Andrew insulted Samantha’s taste in art a few years ago, and then she decided that he would pay by never having his work hang in the museum. It was kind of petty of her, but that’s just how she operated. Andrew kept going to the other board members and trying to get everyone to change their minds, but Samantha wouldn’t allow it. A few of the other board members actually talked to her about it, but once Samantha made up her mind, there was no way she would change it.”
“Why did the artist care so much?” I said. “There are other places where he could exhibit.”
“Apparently, he thought that having his work hang in the Montclair would give him an extra layer of credibility, which would help him get more wealthy clients. I don’t think he was doing too well.”
I nodded. “Anyone else you can think of who might have hated Samantha?”
Amanda shook her head. “Not really.”
“What about her household staff? She must’ve had to interact with the staff regularly, and if she was as rude as Patrick said, perhaps the staff would hate her.”
“I don’t think Samantha went out of her way to be rude to people for no reason. She was perfectly polite and nice most of the time—unless someone went against her wishes, or slighted her in some way. But if she hadn’t liked any of her staff, or she thought they’d insulted her, she would have just fired them.”
“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “But still, we’ll need to go and talk to the housekeeper and the other staff.”
Amanda nodded. “The housekeeper was there more often than the maid and the chef, who only stayed at the house for a few hours each day.”
“We can go talk to the housekeeper tomorrow. But we’ll need someone to put us on the list so we can get past the guard at the entrance.”
“I’ll take care of that; I’ll call Patrick—I’m sure I’ve got a number somewhere—and I’ll tell him that you’re looking into Samantha’s death, and that he should tell the guard to let you through.”
“Wow,” Ian said, “I don’t think Patrick’s going to be happy to hear that we’re investigating Samantha’s death after all.”
“That’s too bad,” said Amanda, echoing my own thoughts. “Making him happy isn’t a priority here—we need to find out if Samantha’s death really was an accident, or if something else had happened that day.”
Chapter Nine
By the time Ian and I got home, it was early evening. My place looked messier than usual, and I decided that it was time for my weekly apartment cleaning.
I turned to Ian and said, “When was the last time you vacuumed your place?”
Ian looked at me kind of sheepishly. “I’ve been meaning to borrow your vacuum cleaner.”
“What happened to yours?”
“I’m not sure,” said Ian. “I was playing Candy Crush on my phone and walking toward the bathroom, and then I tripped over it. And the vacuum head came off and something happened with the pipe, and I tried to put it back together, but now it doesn’t work.”
I stared at Ian for a few seconds before pulling my vacuum cleaner out for him. “Why don’t you buy a new one?”
“You know how my lawyer controls my trust fund. I get just enough for expenses and some fun. Vacuum cleaners are expensive.”
“Well, surely your lawyer would understand that things break down sometimes.”
“He would, but then my parents would lecture me again on how I need to be more responsible and how I should go back to college and get a PhD like them.”
I grimaced in sympathy. Ian’s made a huge success of himself by investing in the right start–up at the right time, and sometimes I feel annoyed that his parents can’t just be proud of him. “Okay, you can use my vacuum. I’m going to do some dusting now, and then clean my kitchen.”
“I’ll have your vacuum back by then,” said Ian. “I wish I lived in a serviced apartment, then I wouldn’t have to do all this stuff.”
“But then you wouldn’t get hang out with me,” I said. “Or Glenn or Karma, and maybe even Nanna and Wes.”
Ian shrugged. “Maybe we could all move into a large serviced apartment.”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure a serviced apartment is all it’s cracked up to be. What if they don’t clean your apartment often enough, or if they don’t clean it properly?”
Ian and I spent an hour or so cleaning our places, and then we headed over to my parents’ place. Nanna and her new husband Wes were in town, and it was time to catch up with them.
As soon as the door to my parents’ house opened, there was a flurry of hugs and kisses and greetings all around. Glenn and Karma had already arrived, and my mother had already set the table and was bringing out the piping–hot food.
We wasted no time in sitting down and helping ourselves to the lasagna, salad and garlic bread, and everybody started talking all at once. My mother was talking about how glad she was that Nanna and Wes were here, Karma was saying that Nanna and Wes had been telling them about their honeymoon and how she wanted to go on vacation, and then Nanna was telling us how happy she was to be back in Vegas and to see her favorite grandchild again. The men at the table were silent, supporting their partners, and I felt like I’d been caught in a whirlpool of high–pitched conversation.
At some point, everybody had said what they’d had to say, and there was enough of a brief pause to give Ian a chance to talk. He turned to Nanna and said, “So what’s the housing arrangement going to be now? Are you and Wes going to move in with Tiffany’s parents?”
Nanna nodded. “We’ll save a ton of money if we do that. Social Security doesn’t go that far these days, and who knew Vegas housing prices had gone up so much? We’re going to chip in to move to a larger house with a separate in–laws’ unit. It’s got its own entrance and kitchenette and everything, so if I get real sick of your mother, Wes and I can just hang out in our own space.”
“We’re happy to have you living with us,” said my mother, “and I’m sure that Wes is much more social than you, and more polite, and won’t let you just hang around in your room all day.”
“I wouldn’t think about hanging out by myself if you weren’t so old–fashioned,” Nanna said to my mother. “You’re like one of those old fuddy–duddies, trying to be conservative and boss me around.”
“Why?” said Ian. I nudged him quickly with my foot, but he didn’t seem to get the message. I didn’t particularly want to know what my mother had done to annoy Nanna this time. But Ian went on, “Why are you annoyed at Tiffany’s mother?”
Thankfully, Wes was much more diplomatic than Nanna and quickly said, “We’re all very excited about the new house. Your nanna and I brought over some things, and we’ll leave them here. Next time we come around to Vegas, we’ll be moving into the house.”
A wave of nostalgia hit me. My parents had been living in this house for almost a decade now, and I would be sorry to see it sold off or rented out to somebody else. “I’ll be sad to say goodbye to this house.”
“I won’t,” said my mother. “That’s what happens when somebody gets married, or moves on with their life. You have to change. Look at me, I have a mother who’s been married twice and a daughter who’s never been married.” Everyone at the table swiveled their heads to stare at me, and my mother said, “When are you ever going to get married?”
My mother does this sometimes. She springs the whole relationship talk on me, telling me how important it is for a woman my age to get married, and that if I wait any longer, I might never find a decent man. And how will I ever have kids if I wait too long? Don’t I want to have children? Don’t I want my m
other to be a grandmother?
But today, she’d foisted it on me all of a sudden, and all those pairs of eyes staring at me didn’t help. What was that canned response I used to give her? But my mind had gone blank, and all I could stammer out was, “Ahhh…”
“Maybe Tiffany won’t ever get married,” said Ian. “Not everyone has to get married. I can’t even find myself a girlfriend.”
My mother dismissed his concerns arbitrarily. “I won’t even think about Tiffany never getting married! It’s different for men. But Tiffany’s approaching thirty—”
“I’m not! I’m young and—”
“—and nice men are rare in Vegas. A woman needs to settle down and have a family, and she can’t do that if she waits too long.”
“Not everyone needs to get married,” said Nanna.
My mother turned angry eyes at her and said, “What did I do wrong that my daughter can’t get married? She hasn’t even been engaged once.” Mom looked at me accusatorily and said, “You’re not even seeing anyone right now, are you?”
I figured it was too soon to tell my parents about Ryan. “No.”
“Weren’t you and Stone an item at some point?” said Nanna. “I always liked that nice young man.”
“I don’t want to hear about Stone,” said my mother. “He’s wanted by the CIA. God knows what he’s done!”
I said, “I thought you liked him?”
“That was before I knew about the CIA business,” said my mother. “I didn’t know he was a wanted man.”
“You said you thought he was a nice young man,” Nanna reminded my mother.
“Well, I was wrong,” Mom snapped.
There were a few long seconds of stunned silence at the table. My mother hardly ever admitted to being wrong. The last time she had was when she’d discovered that Nanna had been using her new laptop and high–speed Internet to try to hack into the FBI database; that’s when my mother had declared that she’d been wrong to get high–speed Internet, and I’d been wrong to give Nanna a laptop for Christmas.
A Perfect Murder in Las Vegas Page 4