Deadly Disco in Las Vegas: A Humorous Tiffany Black Mystery (Tiffany Black Mysteries Book 6)
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Deadly Disco in Las Vegas: A Tiffany Black Mystery
By
A. R. Winters
Deadly Disco in Las Vegas
Copyright 2016 by A. R. Winters
www.arwinters.com
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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Deadly Disco in Las Vegas (A Tiffany Black Mystery)
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When cupcake-loving croupier Tiffany Black and her friend Ian are asked to investigate a businessman’s “accidental” death, they quickly find themselves embroiled in Vegas’s night life.
After Tiffany and Ian stumble onto what could be a cover-up, they must hurry to find the real killer before it’s too late.
Deadly Disco in Las Vegas is a stand-alone story that will keep you on the edge of your seat.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
Ian and I stared at the bowl in dismay.
“These eggs have gone bad,” Ian said. “I knew I shouldn’t have kept them on top of the microwave.”
We were standing in the kitchenette of my tiny one-bedroom apartment, and the bowl in Ian’s hands held the smelly contents of some very suspicious eggs.
Ian lives down the hall; I first met him when I was fleeing from a bearded psychopath, and over time, the two of us have become friends of sorts. Mostly, Ian invites me over to watch Star Trek reruns, and I try to suggest a nice modern sitcom instead.
Ian is the opposite of me. While I have to work as a dealer at the Treasury Casino to make ends meet, Ian is a trust fund kid, albeit one who earned his own fund, and whose trust fund purse strings are controlled super-tightly by his parents and legal advisor.
I have unruly brown hair that I tend to pull back in a ponytail, and Ian has crazy red curls that bounce around his head whenever he’s excited. Which is quite often: while I try to be logical and level-headed, Ian is enthusiastic and overly optimistic. He’s always running into a string of bad luck with the gold-digging women he’s attracted to, which is one of the reasons his parents control his trust fund so tightly.
Ian also has high hopes of becoming a partner in my private investigations business, a role I adopted in an attempt to leave the life of a casino dealer. So far, my PI business has had some success, and Ian’s been a nice person to have around. There’s not much of a filter between Ian’s mouth and the world, which means that he often provokes suspects into revealing more than they should.
Ian’s kitten, Snowflake, was hanging around the kitchenette, watching us. She was a tiny ball of fur when Ian rescued her; she’s still a ball of fur, but a little bit bigger now. Ian spoils her by letting her eat whatever she wants, and she rewards him by deigning to be tickled between the ears every now and then.
“Look, Snowie,” said Ian, lifting the bowl and holding it under Snowflake’s nose. “Eggs. Yum yum.”
Snowflake stared at the eggs, wrinkled her nose, and walked off, her tail high in the air.
I laughed. Snowflake usually loves eating raw eggs, but she has the sense not to go for any food that’s gone bad. Ian was stuck buying her expensive gourmet cat food, and every now and then he’d buy her fish heads that stunk up his whole apartment.
“Try the milk,” Ian said. “It’s only been outside for a few days.”
I gave him a skeptical look. Ian and I are new to this baking thing. We’ve recently decided to create our own cupcakes, since I’m a little bit addicted to them (they make me think better, and I refuse to believe otherwise), and it’s hard depending on other people to supply me with enough. My friend Glenn lives downstairs and is a retired baker, but I feel bad mooching off him.
“The milk’s gone bad, too,” I announced, looking at the curdled mess of white stuff. “Why don’t you keep your things in the fridge, like normal people?”
“I watched a show about how the fridge has bad electrons in it.”
I shook my head. “That must’ve been a parody. You need to store things properly, if we’re going to make our own cupcakes.”
Ian sighed. We normally did our baking in his kitchen, but his oven had recently gone on the fritz. He said, “Don’t you have any other milk or eggs?”
I was about to reply, when there was a knock on the door.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Ian asked.
I shook my head and went to see who it was.
“Karma!” I smiled when I saw the visitor and leaned over to give her a hug and a peck on the cheek. “And Sam and Simone! How lovely to see you, too. Come in, come in.”
Karma was Glenn’s aging hippie girlfriend, and also a resident of our building. Her undyed gray hair fell to mid-back, and she was dressed, as usual, in a long flowing skirt and white t-shirt. Sam was her three-year-old grandson, and Simone was her six-year-old granddaughter. The kids peered up at me shyly as they went to sit on the couch with their grandmother, who was saying hello to Ian.
There was another visitor with them—a short, slender woman with blond hair which had been cropped into a stylish reverse bob. The woman wore a sharp pant suit and tiny diamond studs in her ears. I’d never seen her before, and I looked at Karma questioningly.
“Tiffany,” said Karma, peering up at me from the couch, “this is my friend Mary.”
We all exchanged greetings, and Mary took a seat on one of the chairs next to the couch. I hardly ever had people over to my tiny apartment other than Ian, Glenn or Karma, and the place was starting to feel crowded.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Mary, looking at Ian and me. Snowflake went over to rub against her leg, and she stroked the kitten gently.
“Not at all,” I said. “Ian and I wanted to bake some vanilla and blueberry cupcakes, but all our milk and eggs have gone bad.”
“Yeah,” said Ian. “And I just realized that the stand mixer’s stopped working, too.”
Ian and I looked at each other glumly. We’d borrowed the stand mixer from Glenn, who’d told us it was an extra one that he didn’t need. Although Ian and I had only started baking a few days ago, we’d come to see the stand mixer as a necessity.
“Oh, well,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “At least we weren’t in the middle of making something. What’re you guys up to, Karma?”
“Hanging out with these lovelies,” said Karma, looking at Sam and Simone.
Simone looked up at Ian and said, “You’re a funny face. Why are you friends with Tiffany? She’s so pretty.”
Ian looked at me helplessly. I liked Simone’s flattery, and for a six-year-old she seemed pretty perceptive. However, she wouldn’t stop calling Ian a “funny face.”
“Ian’s a good friend,” I told Simone. “And he helps me make cupcakes.”
“That’s nice,” Simone said. “But he’s still a funny face.”
I looked at Ian and shrugged. I’d tried.r />
“Actually,” said Karma, “we came over because I thought you might be able to help Mary out with something.”
“Oh?” I looked at Mary curiously. “Is this something we can discuss in front of the kids?”
“Not really,” she said slowly. “It’s about my husband.” She smiled brightly at Sam and Simone. “You two would be bored, listening to us.”
“I’ll take them back to my apartment,” said Karma. “I just came over to introduce you two. C’mon, Sam, Simone. We’ve got some Lego houses to build.”
The trio left, and then Ian and I settled down on the couch opposite Mary. “What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s all this about your husband?”
I assumed it was a domestic dispute case. Maybe Mary suspected her husband of cheating on her. I get a fair number of surveillance requests from jealous spouses, and I supposed she might have a similar problem.
“He’s actually my ex-husband,” Mary said. “And he died five days ago.”
I frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, well. The police say it was an accident. But I’m sure that it’s not. I’m sure he was murdered.”
Chapter Two
I looked at Ian and frowned. Often, grief makes people believe things that aren’t true. Sometimes, people seek complicated explanations where a simple one would suffice.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “But if the police think it’s an accident, why would they be wrong?”
“Of course, cops are wrong all the time,” Ian interjected. “Sometimes they arrest the wrong person, like Tiffany’s first client, Sophia.”
“Yes, I heard about that,” said Mary. “And the time they thought the starlet had been killed during a mugging, and you found out the truth.”
She looked at me hopefully, and I made an effort not to make a face. Truth is, I don’t like working murder cases. Most of the time, there’s not much to find out. It’s hard for people to get closure when there’s been a death, and clients, understandably, don’t like to pay for a lack of results. I explained to Mary that there was a very high chance that I’d tell her exactly what the cops had already said.
“It’s nice of you to warn me,” she said, giving me a small, patient smile. “But I’m sure this wasn’t an accident.”
“Let’s hear her out,” Ian said. “You’re always grumpy these days because of the ruckus at the Treasury Casino.”
“They’re introducing weight controls for the dealers,” I reminded Ian. “I can’t eat all the cupcakes I want and become an anorexic waif at the same time.”
“You’re making my point for me,” Ian said, and then he turned to Mary. “Why do you think it wasn’t an accident?”
Mary took a deep breath, readying herself to tell us her story. “Josh,” she started, “my ex-husband, was found lying in the floor of his office. He owns a nightclub, and they got a call from his assistant just after midday. She’d found him lying on the floor, and he’d hit his head on the corner of a mirrored hall table that he had in there.”
“Wow,” said Ian. “Mirrored hall tables are expensive.”
Mary shrugged. “I guess. Someone probably bought it for him. Anyway—so, that’s what happened.”
I looked at her sympathetically. “I’m sorry, but it does sound like an accident to me.”
Mary shook her head. “No, the thing is, they found his phone afterwards, and there were absolutely no fingerprints on it. Isn’t that strange? Like someone had wiped it clean of prints.”
“Maybe he had OCD,” Ian suggested. “Or maybe he was a clean freak who went around wiping things clean all the time.”
Mary laughed shortly. “No, he was a slob. I might’ve still been married to him if he’d been a clean freak!”
“Why did you get divorced?” I asked, curious. “It’s rare to see a couple who stays close after divorce, and you obviously care for him. Which is a great thing,” I added. I meant it—working as a PI, I’d seen my share of unhappy marriages and acrimonious divorces.
“He was a cheating bastard,” said Mary flatly. “He slept with anything that walked, pretty much.”
“Wow,” said Ian. “He sounds like a terrible husband.”
“He was,” Mary agreed. “But we’ve all got our weaknesses.”
I raised one eyebrow. “You sound pretty forgiving of it.”
Mary shrugged. “It wasn’t fun when we were married. But he was a good father to my son—Taylor. Taylor was five when I married Josh, and we divorced when Taylor was ten. Josh continued to be his dad. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”
I nodded. “Did you remarry?”
Mary shook her head. “No, I’ve had enough of men. Taylor’s dad was never really in my life, and when my marriage to Josh went bust, I decided I’d be happy to stay single forever.”
“Back to Josh’s death,” Ian said. “Didn’t the cops say anything about the fingerprintless phone?”
“They admitted it was suspicious,” Mary said. “But they said that maybe his assistant rubbed against it by mistake, or that he’d been cleaning it just before he died.”
“Those are plausible explanations,” I suggested, trying to sound gentle. “Is there any other reason you think Josh’s death was anything other than accidental?”
Mary steepled her fingertips under her chin. “It’s the whole thing,” she said slowly. “The whole thing just feels so off. First of all, the cops didn’t find any prints on the door to his office either, other than his assistant’s. Plus, the mirrored hall table is against one wall of his office, near the door to the office. I don’t see how he could just fall against it. I mean, sure, he could trip. But then there’s that thing about the text message.”
“What text message?” Ian said.
“The coroner said Josh died between twelve and one o’clock in the afternoon,” Mary said. “They were able to pinpoint time of death quite closely, because of the text. His assistant, Amelia, got a text at exactly twelve thirty-five, saying that it was an emergency and she should get to the office. Usually the office opens at five in the afternoon.”
“That is odd,” I admitted. “Perhaps he sent the text, wiped the phone, and then tripped and hit the table afterwards.”
Mary looked at me seriously. “Don’t you think that’s far too many coincidences? I’ve never been a believer in coincidences.”
I had to admit, the whole thing did sound fishy. I said, “Tell me more about your relationship with your ex-husband. It’s rare for someone to care enough about their ex to want to hire a private investigator.”
“Well, it’s not all altruistic,” Mary said. “I just can’t believe the cops are so incompetent as to overlook all these glaring facts.”
“They might not be glaring facts,” Ian said. “They’re coincidences, and coincidences do happen.”
Mary shook her head. “Not so many. But if the police do reopen the case, the first person they’ll suspect is his ex-wife. I met him for breakfast that morning, so technically”—she looked from Ian to me uncertainly—“I might’ve been the last person to see him alive.”
“That’s pretty serious,” Ian said. “You’re lucky they’re not treating this like a homicide.”
“And I do care for Josh,” Mary said. “He wasn’t a bad guy.”
“Right.” I nodded and found a notepad and a pen to take notes with. “Tell me more about him. So you two were friends?”
“I’m not sure ‘friends’ is the right word,” Mary said. “He’s a good dad to my son, Taylor. And he’s a good businessman. He was my mentor when I started my dog-grooming business, and he helped out with advice even after we split. We’d meet for breakfast every now and then to catch up.”
“What exactly does Josh do?” Ian asked. “Other than owning this nightclub?”
Mary sighed. “Cadogan Holdings, that’s his company. They own restaurants, nightclubs, all kinds of investments. He even gave me seed money to start my dog-grooming business. He gets a per
centage of my profits. And I inherited some of his estate.”
I was starting to see why Mary cared so much about investigating Josh’s death. “But what if we find nothing?” I said. “Ian and I will still need to get paid.”
Ian looked at me and beamed, because I’d finally mentioned the two of us as a team. He’s always wanted to be a partner in my PI business, and I’ve never said yes to that. I wasn’t sure that I needed him tagging along. But he’s helped me on enough cases that I thought he might be useful on this one. If nothing else, he could help me stay positive with his unique brand of enthusiasm.
“That’s right,” Ian said to Mary, “Tiffany and I will be doing all this work.”
“It’s not a problem,” Mary said. “Josh was quite wealthy, and he left me quite a lot. I can afford the fees.”
I looked at Ian again. “Are you sure you want to help me on this case?”
He nodded. “Yes. And you need some PI work to keep yourself busy and stop thinking about Stone.”
I felt a pang of nostalgia and thought back to my friend Jonathon Stone, or Stone as he preferred to be called. A few weeks ago, some men had come looking for him, claiming to be from the CIA. Stone had disappeared, but in between his disappearances, I’d managed to get in touch with him briefly. He’d given me a burner cell phone that he’d said was to be used only for emergencies, and I’d stashed the phone away carefully.
I knew that Stone was somewhere in Vegas, but I didn’t want to get him in trouble by contacting him unnecessarily and blowing his cover. I missed him, but I knew it was important to wait for the right time before helping him clear his name.
I found a copy of my PI contract that I always have handy, and discussed terms and rates with Mary, trying to ignore the funny sensation in my stomach. Josh had left a lot of his estate to his ex-wife? No wonder Mary was worried that any investigator would consider her to be a suspect.
Once we’d signed the papers, I asked Mary casually, “Why’d he leave so much of his estate to you?”
Mary shrugged. “Beats me. I got one-third, my son Taylor gets a trust that he can access when he’s thirty-two, and Josh’s business partner David got the rest. There are odds and ends that go to charities, a small gift to his assistant Amelia, and a couple of thousand cash to his nieces and nephews.”