by Cathy Ace
Carl Petrosian’s dismissive “Huh!” was heard by everyone.
I knew that at some point I’d have to try to find out exactly what Miss Shirley’s now-defunct plans had been for the distribution of her wealth after her death, as well as what other papers she’d planned to sign, but hadn’t. Both could be important in working out who had a motive to kill her.
Since he was already on his feet, having risen to support his wife, Jack Bullock took the floor as she sat down. “I am guessing you’ve all had more to do with Julie than with me. I know I haven’t represented any of you in court, and that’s usually how folks meet me. I’ve met some of you at corporate events before, but I don’t think I’ve ever had the chance, beyond the confines of our small circle of friends, to tell our story. You see, Julie was being very humble when she told you how she came to be here. She actually comes from ‘old money.’ Her mom and dad threatened to cut her off without a penny if she gave up her promising future with one of New York’s finest and oldest law firms to come to Nevada and live with greasy old me.”
Jack had a very light voice, bordering on nasal, but he spoke rather well. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d taken acting lessons at some point in his life. Given his chosen profession as a lawyer specializing in getting people out of DUI charges, I suspected that the ability to portray a range of emotions at will in the courthouse would be useful to him. His mannerisms were slightly too well matched to his words, his body language just a little too convincing. As I tried to put aside my snap judgment of him, I couldn’t help feeling that we were all being sold a story.
Jack chuckled as he said, “Hey, you all know what I am—and that’s what I’ll always be. I’m good at it. I don’t annoy the authorities too much. I’ve struck a vein of gold, and I mine it for all it’s worth.”
He gazed down at his wife as he added, “As Julie said, we met in LA because she was there visiting to help a friend of a friend. At that time I was already living here in Vegas, but I was back in California for a little while, visiting my mom. You see, I’m from LA originally. When Julie and I met it was an immediate attraction, even though we’re oil and water. I’m the oily one, of course, and she’s the deep water. To be fair, I understood her parents’ concerns. Julie could have had her pick of moneyed trust-fund heirs or loaded corporate lawyers, but she chose me, and here we are, fifteen years later, proving them all wrong. We’re happier now than we’ve ever been.”
Julie took his hand as he stretched it out to her, and she almost whispered, “That we are. And we can face anything together.”
I wonder what she means.
“How d’you know Miss Shirley in the first place?” asked Tanya.
Jack smiled. “Funny story. She was the reason I came here from LA in the first place. She was visiting friends in California and happened to walk into the Burbank legal office where I was working at the time. Needed some papers notarized. We ended up having coffee, and she sized me up right away—saw what I could become. She said she knew a guy who ran a practice specializing in DUIs in Vegas and needed an energetic young gun to help out. I liked her from the outset, and I thought it would be worth following up. So I came to stay at the Sunrise, met the guy, we clicked, he offered me a job, and I moved here right away. Stayed at the Sunrise, gratis, until I found a place of my own. Five years later the guy running the practice retired and Jack’s your uncle!”
Tom laughed out loud. It was the first time we’d heard such a sound since the discovery of Miss Shirley’s body. It drew a few shocked glances.
“Sorry,” said Tom, blushing. “It’s just that, well, I have an uncle Jack. Sorry. It was inappropriate of me . . .” He wriggled uncomfortably.
“It’s my fault,” said Jack. “I shouldn’t have tried to be flippant. Now’s not the time for entertainment. But it’s my shtick. Can’t help it. Sorry. So, yes, I knew Miss Shirley for years, and as well as anyone can when a woman’s the talk of the town you live in and your main reason for communicating directly with her on an ongoing basis is to thank her for all the business she’s sending your way. That said, when I met Julie in LA I knew that the Sunrise needed some help in the legal department. For all that Vegas seems like a huge place, especially to visitors, it’s really just a small town. People in the same line of work know each other, know what’s going on. I knew the guy heading up the legal department at the Sunrise, so I took my chance and dragged Julie to Vegas to meet Miss Shirley, and the rest, as they say, is history. Miss Shirley welcomed her with open arms and offered her the job at the Sunrise on the spot. I think she also convinced Julie’s predecessor to retire a bit earlier than he’d planned.”
“No she didn’t, Jack,” snapped Julie. “The Tsar! Organization was much bigger than anything he’d dealt with and the whole thing became even more complex as the years passed. It was more my sort of thing.”
Jack smiled indulgently at his wife. “Whatever the reason, Julie became top dog about ten years ago, and we socialized a fair bit with Miss Shirley and her husband, Carl Petrosian Sr. Great company, the pair of them. Miss Shirley didn’t do well when he died, but I guess most of you know that. We certainly noticed it. But she didn’t take her foot off the gas when it came to the business. As Julie said, she was getting more and more involved, preparing for the formal takeover. I’m guessing that was all for you, Carl, because while her old will named you as inheriting her entire estate, in her new will she added that her next of kin was to inherit the shares in the Tsar!”
“Jack, don’t! That’s highly confidential information. I shouldn’t have told you.” Julie Pool shot her husband a dagger-laden glance. It was hard for me to tell if she was more angry at her husband for speaking out of turn, or at herself for having told him something she shouldn’t have.
“Oh, come on, Julie. What does it matter now? You must have guessed that you’d be her main beneficiary, Carl, surely?” Jack sounded defensive as he spoke.
All eyes turned toward Carl Petrosian.
“You kill Miss Shirley to get casino?” declaimed Svetlana, horrified.
My money was on everyone thinking much the same thing at that moment: her stepson was the one man in the room with a very real reason to want Miss Shirley dead.
Male Trio
CARL PETROSIAN LEAPT FROM HIS seat. “No one’s going to pin this on me. I didn’t do it. I could no more have shoved a sword into Miss Shirley’s back than I could have into my own father’s.”
He glanced toward Bud, who shrugged. I’d often observed Bud interviewing suspects, hardly saying a word, just letting them babble on and tie themselves up in knots. I wondered if that was what he was hoping for. Expecting, even.
Carl sounded desperate. “I’m not going to let anyone tell the cops that I had a motive to kill her, because I didn’t. I didn’t know about her wills. New or old. She never talked to me about the specifics of either one. Just made general hints.” He was almost squealing.
“Okay, calm down, Carl,” said Art quietly.
“Oh dear,” said Julie, sounding distressed. “I shouldn’t have discussed any of this with Jack, I know, and he certainly shouldn’t have blurted out anything about Miss Shirley’s wills. I apologize profusely. It was totally unprofessional of us both.” She looked at her husband with shock and disappointment, and Jack looked suitably chastised. Her words interested me, because she seemed to be directing them toward both Art and Carl.
Art Sauber shook his head as he spoke. “Julie, Jack, I really don’t think it can make any difference now. Miss Shirley’s gone, and I, at least, feel free to speak. As you all know, Carl and Miss Shirley were not blood relatives, and although she married his father, she never formally adopted Carl. He was a little too old for all that.” He smiled at Carl, who shrugged and nodded. “Miss Shirley’s father died in the 1940s, as we have heard from Clemence, and I know that her mother passed in the late 1970s. Her mother had two boys with her second husband, and they both died in Vietnam. Neither had any children, nor did they marry.
Miss Shirley’s stepfather passed in 1984. To be fair to Carl, I can confirm what he said: Miss Shirley told me, on many occasions, that she’d decided not to discuss her plans for her estate with Carl, so I think we can all be pretty sure that he didn’t know for certain whether or not he was due to inherit—in either of Miss Shirley’s wills.”
Carl threw Art an almost-grateful glance.
“You see, Carl,” Art continued, “during the past year, since your father’s death, Miss Shirley and I talked on several occasions about what her inheritance of the majority shareholding in the Tsar! Organization meant. She wondered whether you were the right person to have control over the Tsar! after she’d gone. Of course, neither she nor I imagined that anything . . . like this . . . would happen.”
“Very pally of you two,” spat Carl as he again leapt from his seat. “How nice that you and she would sit around and discuss the future in such an intimate way. What does your fragrant wife, Joan, think of that? You know, Joan who never, ever comes with you to Vegas. Who stays at your home in Florida, or at the house in Maine, and gives us all a very broad berth. And what did you have to say about me during those secret chats, I wonder?” He sounded childishly spiteful.
Art looked at Carl with what I judged to be an indulgent smile, though his tone was not. “You’ve never really had a head for business, Carl, so I guess I can’t expect you to understand that bequeathing a bunch of stuff, albeit very valuable stuff, differs significantly from bequeathing a controlling interest in a billion-dollar business. Miss Shirley’s new will had to allow for that difference.”
Carl rolled his eyes and clenched his fists as Art Sauber dismissed him in a sentence. His cheeks grew pink beneath his deep tan as he spoke. “I happen to run a very successful enterprise myself, you know, Art. You do me a great disservice when you say I don’t have a head for business.” He sounded wounded.
Art sighed and motioned for Carl to sit. “Calm yourself,” he said, as Carl grudgingly took his seat. “It’s something that your father and I discussed with Miss Shirley before his death. His views and mine weren’t that far apart. Miss Shirley took his lead. Look, you’re not cut out for running a huge business like this one, Carl. Your thing, the thing you’re really quite exceptional at, is fixing up cars. You have bought, restored, won awards with, and resold some of the world’s most iconic vehicles. Yes, you spend piles of money doing it—but your father, Miss Shirley, and I all agreed you always spend it wisely.”
Carl’s expression changed to that of a small child being congratulated for an achievement.
Art half-smiled as he continued, “But that’s because you understand cars. You know them through and through. You love them. More than people, some would say. I know your ex-wife said it often enough.”
Art sighed again and sipped his drink. I could tell he was building up to something. He leaned toward Carl. “Look, Carl, if ever there was a time to be honest, tonight is it. I won’t hide the fact that I am amazed to hear from Jack that Miss Shirley left the Tsar! shares to you. I honestly thought she’d leave them to me, allowing me to step up and take full control.” He paused for a moment and looked around the room at the rest of us. “Not that I would have killed her for that reason. To be honest, I’ve always been quite happy to be a minority investor, taking something of a backseat and letting the profits roll in.”
He returned his gaze to Carl as he continued, “Of course I expected her to leave you everything else. And that in itself is a lot. The house has to be worth at least five million, even in this market. Just the collection of gold and porcelain in this room is probably worth another couple of million. She was a wealthy woman, Carl, and you’re already a wealthy man. I knew she didn’t want me to have everything, but, honestly, I find it hard to believe that she left you in charge of the Tsar!”
Carl Petrosian glugged sulkily from his glass of cognac, and Art Sauber drained his calvados, then took his seat. I washed down my final morsel of caviar-covered blini from “Bud’s plate” with a swig of room-temperature vodka—something I immediately regretted.
I made a mental note that both Carl and Art had excellent reasons to want Miss Shirley dead, whatever the two of them might say.
“I met Miss Shirley just over a year ago,” piped up Ian from his table. We all turned as he broke the awkward silence.
“You’re the guy with the cocktail, right?” asked Art.
Ian nodded. “Ian Glass. And, yes, I’ve heard all the jokes about my name, given that I’m a barman,” he said as he smiled wanly. “I made a martini for Miss Shirley at a fundraiser for the Center for Performing Arts. She invited me to the Babushka Bar at 9:00 am the next morning, then said I had an hour to come up with a new signature cocktail for the Tsar! I remember I had to get someone to bring me golden raisins from the kitchen, and she said that was what won her over. Since then the Tsar!Tini has sold and sold. It’s the same red as the logo, and there are golden raisins on a little golden saber that lies across the glass, in case you haven’t seen it. Vodka-based, of course,” he added proudly. “She loved it. She launched it at her birthday party here last year.”
Carl stared into his glass as he said, “Of course. I remember that night very well. Dad enjoyed it. It was a great party. Up to a point, of course. She sure knew how to throw one.” He drained his glass and looked at it sadly, rolling his unused cigar tube with his free hand.
Ian looked embarrassed as he pressed on. I wonder why. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Um . . . anyway, before she hired me, I just knew of her. I’ve been in town just a couple of years. I’m from Seattle. Worked bars there, got some training, and did the cruise ship thing for about five years. Got fed up with the Alaska runs. I’d had enough rain at home. So I moved here. Got here in November 2010, just in time for those terrible floods in December. Ironic. I worked for a company that supplies people for banquets and functions. Did that until Miss Shirley hired me and I became a barman at the Babushka Bar, and now I also work evening shifts at the Romanoff Room. She requested me for this bar when the place is in use. And I was the one who’d go to her house to serve drinks when she was entertaining at home. Like Mr. Carl said, she really knew how to do a dinner, or a party, just right. She was always very good to me. She gave me great opportunities. And great tips. I’m, like, real sorry she’s gone.”
Ian paused, but he clearly wasn’t finished. “Look, I just want to say something else. I know they’re going to find my fingerprints all over that sword. But you all saw me use it, right? My prints are bound to be there because I used the sword to uncork all the champagne bottles. I only did it because Miss Shirley herself asked me to. It’s a thing I learned working on the ships. She said it sounded like fun. You’ll all say you saw me use the sword to do that, right?”
He looked terrified. In terms of a pecking order in the room I guessed he saw himself at the bottom, and he had definitely handled the murder weapon. He had cause to be concerned. Of course, if he was the killer, he had the perfect cover for his prints being there.
But why would a young barman—I put him in his late twenties—want his boss dead? Miss Shirley wasn’t being spoken of in anything other than glowing terms. Was everyone lying, or was she really the wonderful, supportive person she was said to be?
“Well, that’s just about everyone done,” said Art Sauber. “I guess it’s my turn now. I met Miss Shirley through her husband, Carl Petrosian Sr., as did little Carl Jr. here.”
Carl tutted and splashed more cognac from his bottle.
Art smiled wickedly. “I know you hate the ‘junior’ thing, Carl,” he said, “but I just wanted to use it once, for clarity. You met Miss Shirley when she and your father had already been together for some time, right?”
Carl nodded. “Yes. He and Mom had been divorced for years by then, and he introduced me to Miss Shirley on one of my rare visits to his house. They were engaged by then. He was very happy with her, and, to be fair, she was a wonderful partner for him—in life and in business. Couldn’t have been m
ore different from my mother, who’s never happier than when she’s baking. The real mystery is why Mom and Dad got together, not why he and Miss Shirley did.”
It seemed to me that Carl was being honest in what he said, though his voice was tinged with a grudging tone as he spoke. Given his general personality, that was what made me think he was being truthful.
Art smiled. “I knew your mom and dad from the time I was a kid,” he said, “and I think I know why they got together—though I do understand why it didn’t work out in the long run. They were a couple from a very early age, but I guess they just grew apart as the years passed and their interests diverged. Let me give this some context for those of you who don’t know me at all. When I showed up in Vegas I was just a kid, fresh from Hoboken. It was 1950, and, although no one knew it at the time, Vegas was on the edge of a cliff, getting ready to jump off and become what it is today. Back then, it was still largely undeveloped. A year later they started all the atomic testing out in the desert, a little over fifty miles away. People came to watch the explosions. Strange. Brought a lot of military and tourists into the general area. I remember they used to have Miss Atomic Bomb contests, if you can believe it.” Art smiled to himself.
Svetlana looked very puzzled.
Art sighed and said, “Even with a bunch of outsiders coming into the area, a lot of the locals thought that me and my ma and pa were freaks. My classmates, and even a couple of my teachers, told me they couldn’t understand a word I said, which made me rebellious. Your mom and dad were five years older than me, Carl, which is a huge difference when you’re a kid. But they were both great to me. They took me under their wings and helped me along. Sinatra said that when he was growing up in Hoboken all he ever thought about was how to get out of the place. For me, coming to this place in the middle of nowhere, I felt I’d been taken away from everything I knew, and dumped on the moon. I hated it. To be honest, I’m not sure how I’d have turned out without your mom and dad taking an interest in me. Your dad was a great male role model for me. You see, it turned out that the reason my pa had moved us here from out east was because he’d been hired to do some strong-arm stuff for a bunch of guys whose names ended in vowels. About a year or so after we got here, he got himself locked up, and he disappeared completely when they let him out. Schmuck! Your mom and dad left school as soon as they could, and got married pretty soon after that. It didn’t take you long to show up. I got scared when they left the school. I thought they’d ignore me, but, even though your dad was holding down a couple of jobs, they didn’t. They even looked after my ma when I got my first job, as a salesman traveling in ladies’ shoes.”