A Perfect Murder in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 8)

by A. R. Winters

  Patrick eyed us warily, but he didn’t seem particularly hostile. “Now that you’re here, what can I do for you?”

  “We wanted to know more about Samantha,” I said. “We all know that Samantha claimed to have gotten death threats before she died, but was there anything else different about her? Had she been acting odd in any way?”

  Patrick smiled wryly. “Samantha was always acting odd. She was all about drama and hatred. According to her, everyone was out to get her. Even me, though I tried my best. It was all about what woman insulted her, what board member thought she had poor taste in art and was trying to undermine her.”

  “And how was your relationship with Samantha?”

  Patrick shrugged. “You must’ve heard already. Our relationship wasn’t the best. Sometimes we talked about getting divorced. But at the end of the day, we both knew it was better to stay married.”

  I watched Patrick closely. “Better how?”

  “There were social advantages. Samantha could keep her cushy position on the board of the art museum, and she could go to all her galas and fundraisers and hang out with the people she wanted to, even though she always complained that they were mean and insulting. And I could meet future business partners. Being married gives you a kind of credibility.”

  “Plus you leveraged Samantha’s assets to get loans for your own business,” said Ian.

  Patrick turned to Ian with slitted eyes. “Where did you hear that?”

  Ian shrugged. “Everyone knows that.”

  Patrick leaned back in his chair and pretended to relax again. “It wasn’t so simple. When we first got married, we combined our finances, and then I had to get bank loans and things like that. So everything was kind of a mess. But I wasn’t just with Samantha for the money.”

  “I don’t really believe that,” said Ian before I could stop him. “Why else were you with her?”

  Patrick smiled thinly. “Have you come here just to insult me today?”

  “Ian doesn’t mean that,” I said quickly. Every now and then, Ian says something rude and brash, and I have to try to compensate for that. “Everyone’s marriage is different, and I’m sure you and Samantha had your own reasons for staying together.”

  Patrick nodded. “Besides, we both knew that divorce is messy. At the end of the day, we wanted to work things out.”

  “But you don’t seem to be too sad now that she’s dead,” said Ian, clearly unable to stop himself.

  “Everyone deals with grief in their own way,” said Patrick shortly. “Just because my wife’s dead doesn’t mean I need to be bawling my eyes out.”

  Some of Ian’s outspokenness must’ve rubbed off on me, because the next thing I knew, I was saying, “Were you faithful to Samantha?”

  Patrick turned to me, his eyes burning up with rage. “That’s none of your business.”

  I shrugged. “It might help our investigation.”

  “I’m not answering such an inane question.”

  “And what about her? Was Samantha faithful to you?”

  The rage in Patrick’s eyes was replaced with a sudden contemplation. “I’m sure she was. Samantha disliked most people, and I can’t see her liking someone enough to go out and have an affair with him. There weren’t any signs that she was unfaithful.”

  Ian said, “Now that you’re a widower, are you seeing anyone?”

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “If all you want to talk about is whether I’m seeing anyone else, I’d rather end this interview.”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “Let’s talk about something else. Did Samantha have any enemies in particular?”

  “I guess the people she hated most were other members of the board at the art museum. Peter, Julie, and Darren. She kept saying they were always trying to undermine her and make her work difficult. And there was an artist as well, Andrew something. She had some ongoing drama with him—she said she’d never display his work in the museum, and he used to call her sometimes, begging her to forgive him and change her mind.”

  “And what about anyone else? Perhaps some of the ladies she went out to lunch with, or people she’d meet regularly at the galas?”

  Patrick shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone else in particular.”

  “And what about your housekeeper, Carmela? Did Samantha get along with her?”

  Patrick shrugged. “I suppose. Samantha always made vague complaints that the staff were incompetent, but she didn’t have any particular complaints about Carmela.”

  Ian and I exchanged a glance. There didn’t seem to be anything else much to ask Patrick, so I said, “We know you were out when Samantha died. But where were you, exactly?”

  Patrick smiled. “I was at the Northridge Golf Club, getting in some practice.”

  “Great.” I fished around in my handbag and found a card, which I handed over to Patrick. “Give me a call, if you think of anything else.”

  Patrick glanced at the card but didn’t make a move to put it away. “I will.”

  I forced myself to smile politely, even though I knew that as soon as we were out of the room, Patrick would toss my card into the trash. At least he’d agreed to talk to us, even though we’d learned nothing else that was new.

  Perhaps we’d learn something new from the next person we were meeting.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ian and I drove straight over to West Lorille Lane, where Andrew lived.

  The two of us were familiar with the neighborhood, because we’d had to come here a few weeks ago to talk to a former classmate of mine who’d gotten himself accused of murder. So we already knew that it was a nice area with well–maintained roads and nature strips, and large family houses with beautiful front lawns.

  I had been expecting Andrew to turn out to be a starving artist who shared his three– or four–bedroom family house with at least two other people, so I wasn’t too surprised when the address he’d given us ended up being a spiffy–looking place with rose bushes planted along the front fence.

  Andrew opened the door after a few knocks, and I discovered that he was one of those attractive, artistic types. He was tall, with an average build and tanned skin that set off his intense blue eyes. His hair was light brown and fell slightly over his forehead, and he had the air of someone who was always thinking deep thoughts.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, ushering me and Ian inside. We stepped into a large living room, furnished with a navy blue rug and midcentury–modern furniture. Abstract paintings hung on the walls, covering almost every free surface. The effect was jarring, and Ian spent a good ten minutes rotating his head around like one of those spinning toys.

  “I can see you’re interested in my art,” said Andrew. “What do you think?”

  I peered closely at the paintings. “You did all these?”

  “Yep, my life’s work. I’ve got some more in my studio, if you’d like to have a look.”

  “Of course we’d like to have a look,” I said.

  I glanced at Ian, who was still looking quite lost, and said, “Your roommates must enjoy having all this lovely art in the house.”

  “I don’t have a roommate,” said Andrew as he led us down a hallway and opened the door to his studio. “It’s just me. I like having the space to myself.”

  As we entered his studio, Ian said, “But how do you afford this place? It must be expensive.”

  Andrew laughed shortly. “You mean, because I’m a struggling artist?”

  “Yeah,” said Ian. “Because of that.”

  “I work part–time as a valet at the Riverbelle Casino,” said Andrew. “I make good money in tips. That’s why I keep living here, even though I’d really like to move to New York and enjoy the scene there.”

  “Casino valets make good money,” said Ian. “And the hours are flexible. You’re a lucky guy.”

  Andrew shrugged. “Being a valet pays the bills. It’s not my dream to be a valet for the rest of my life.”

  The three of us stoo
d in Andrew’s studio, looking around at his paintings. Half were finished, and the other half were in various stages of completion.

  They were all abstract paintings, featuring faces and colors and shapes.

  “So, what do you think?” said Andrew. “Do you like my art?”

  “Of course!” I fibbed. “It’s just so… wow.”

  Ian looked at me in surprise, and Andrew said, “What do you like about it?”

  I had no idea what any of these pieces meant, so I bluffed, “It’s so raw. So emotional. You can really feel the… it’s amazing.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense!” Ian waved his arms around, pointing at the abstract paintings. “Even a four–year–old could do these. Give me a paintbrush and some paint, and I could do better than this. None of this means anything.”

  Andrew’s face darkened, and I quickly said, “Ian doesn’t understand art. You’ll have to forgive him.”

  Andrew smiled politely. “Of course, there are always people like him. They see an abstract painting, and they think that just because it’s not literal, it’s not good.”

  “No, no,” I said. “Your work is amazing. I’m blown away by it all.”

  “Then what does it all mean?” said Ian, looking at me. “What’s so great about it?”

  I looked at Ian in despair, trying to convey with my eyes that he should stop talking about Andrew’s art. But he wouldn’t, and he said, “I think you’re just making it up. You don’t like it either.”

  Andrew was looking at me suspiciously, so I quickly said, “Of course I’m not making it up. I love your art, Andrew. It’s so expressive and emotional.”

  Andrew seemed convinced by my fibs, and he nodded sagely. “Yes, I get that a lot.”

  “But not from Samantha Wells?” said Ian. “I heard she wouldn’t let you display in the museum.”

  Andrew’s brows knit together. “No, she was a total philistine about it.”

  “Apparently you two had some long–standing rivalry going on,” I said.

  “The first time I met her, I was making a presentation to the board about my art, and she kept being critical and dissing it. She said that as a local Vegas artist, I should be focusing more on things like abstract casinos and gambling stuff. As though I was a sell–out for touristy knickknacks. I’m not in Vegas to be a commercial sell–out, I’m an artist who follows his dreams. So I told her she didn’t understand what good modern art was like these days. I didn’t know her back then, and I had no idea she’d hold on to that comment forever. What kind of person does that after high school?”

  “Apparently Samantha did that with everyone,” I said.

  Andrew shrugged. “Anyway, that’s how she was with me. She refused to let me exhibit in the museum after that, and no amount of begging or pleading changed her mind. I even went around to the other board members, trying to get them to convince her. And I think they might have talked to her, but then afterward everyone backed out.”

  “Why was it so important for you to exhibit in the Montclair Museum? Couldn’t you have just tried to sign with some New York galleries?”

  “I kept trying to do that, but I think Samantha had some influence in New York as well. Some of the smaller galleries carried my art, but I wasn’t about to convince agents to represent me until I had a big showing here. If I could just get my work into the museum permanently, it would be much easier for me to gain a following in New York.”

  Ian and I nodded, trying to understand his world of art.

  “Now that Samantha’s dead,” said Ian, “you’ve got a better shot at getting the board to select your art.”

  Andrew shrugged. “I hope so, but there’s no guarantees. They might have somebody else in mind.”

  “What’s that?” said Ian, suddenly distracted by a half–finished painting lying in one corner of the room. “That looks like an abstract of a casino!”

  Andrew laughed bitterly. “I was in a bad mood one day, so I thought that I should give up trying to paint masterpieces and just paint the kind of thing that sells easily here.”

  “But you never finished it,” I said gently.

  “No. Everyone has bad days, and I talked myself out of it pretty quickly. I’m doing okay moneywise because of my valet job, and I’m going to keep trying to sell my real art. There’s no point living unless you’re following your true passion.”

  “That’s so true,” said Ian miserably. “I’m still trying to find my true passion.”

  “I think it’s okay to follow your passion if you’re an artist,” I said, trying to cheer Ian up. “But if you’re just a regular person, who isn’t obsessed with art or literature or anything in particular, I think it’s okay to just try to live a decent life and be good and kind to other people.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Ian. “That’s why it’s nice to be a PI. We can help people find out the truth.”

  “Speaking of the truth,” I said, looking at Andrew, “what did you think of the other members of the board at the art museum?”

  “They were okay,” said Andrew. “Much more reasonable than Samantha.”

  “Did you know anyone named Julie?”

  Recognition flickered in Andrew’s eyes. “Of course, I’ve met her a few times. Pretty nice lady. I think she might have talked to Samantha on my behalf, in which case I’d say she’s got great taste.”

  “And what about Peter Ross?”

  Andrew shrugged. “I think I’ve talked to him a couple of times, but I can’t remember exactly. He might’ve said that I should keep trying with my art.”

  “Did you ever meet Samantha’s husband?”

  Andrew shook his head. “I’ve heard of him, of course. Patrick Wells, the businessman. But he wasn’t very active with the museum.”

  “And where were you,” I said, “on the morning that Samantha died?”

  Andrew rolled his eyes. “You’re asking me if I’ve got an alibi?”

  I looked at him apologetically. “I have to ask everyone.”

  “I was here at home, working on my art,” said Andrew. “I’m sorry I don’t have a spectacular alibi for you.”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” I said. “It’s just one of those things we have to ask everyone.”

  “Have you talked to a lot of other people about her death?” said Andrew.

  “Just a couple,” I said. “We’ve just started working on the case. Speaking of, do you know if Samantha had any enemies?”

  Andrew shook his head. “I didn’t know much about her personal life, other than the fact that she didn’t like me. To be honest, it sounds like her death was an accident. Tragic, but just one of those things.”

  I frowned. “I really don’t think so. I just have this feeling… something happened that morning, and I need to find out what it was.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Our next appointment was with Peter Ross, and Ian and I drove away from Andrew’s house feeling vaguely uneasy.

  “I think we’ve learned something new,” said Ian, “but I just can’t put my finger on what it is.”

  I had to agree with him. “Andrew seems like your typical narcissistic artist, but he certainly knew Samantha well.”

  “And he seemed happy when we mentioned Julie,” said Ian.

  I nodded, remembering the way recognition had flickered in Andrew’s eyes at the mention of her name. “Maybe it’s a case of ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ since Julie was Samantha’s enemy.”

  “But he didn’t seem to remember Peter very well. So perhaps Peter wasn’t as hostile toward Samantha as Julie was.”

  “Perhaps that’s it,” I said. “Or perhaps I’ll think of something when I’m working at the casino tonight. I often get good ideas there.”

  “Did you really like his art?” said Ian.

  “Of course not! I had no idea what it was about. But it’s important to be polite to people you’re interviewing. And artists and creative types are sensitive about their work. You don’t
want to go around insulting people like that.”

  “I wasn’t being insulting,” said Ian. “I was just being honest.”

  Peter’s office was just off–Strip, on the fifteenth floor of a modern high–rise building.

  Everything about the place was slick and gleaming. Instead of carpets, Peter’s office had light bleached–hardwood floors, and instead of cubicles, there was a large open–space work area with a loft aesthetic. We passed a ping–pong table and some sleep–pod chairs on our way to Peter’s office, which was located on one corner of the floor.

  When we entered Peter’s office, we were impressed by the lovely views of the Strip that he enjoyed. His workspace was large and comfortably furnished—a sofa set on one side, a large–screen TV hanging from a wall, a small conference table, plus the obligatory desk and workstation. Exotic oriental art hung from the walls, and there was a large, flowering orchid on his desk.

  Peter Ross was a muscular bald man in his midforties. He had tanned skin and sharp brown eyes, and he wore khakis and a white button–down shirt. He smiled warmly when he met us, and introductions were exchanged all around before he led us over to the small conference table.

  “So, you’re private investigators, huh?” said Peter.

  “Tiffany’s the private investigator,” said Ian. “I’m her assistant. But Tiffany’s really great! She’s solved all these murders, and she does smaller jobs sometimes too, like for insurance companies and such.”

  “I’ve been considering hiring a private investigator,” said Peter. “As you probably know, I like to invest in start–ups. Most start–up owners have incredibly transparent lives these days, thanks to social media. But it might be good to know for sure what they’re up to.”

  I smiled and handed Peter a business card. For a moment, a brief flicker of worry washed through me. Was he trying to influence the outcome of the investigation by offering me future work? But I pushed that thought away and said, “I’d be happy to help if you need my services.”

  Peter nodded and read over my card. “So, you’re here about Samantha’s death?”