Lawyers, Liars and Lemon Tarts

by A. R. Winters

  “Perhaps I can convince you otherwise.”

  Before I had time to react, Liam leaned forward and his lips pressed against mine.

  I jumped off my barstool immediately and pushed Liam away. “Oh no!” My eyes flashed angrily. “There’s no way we’re—”

  A movement a few paces behind us made me turn my head, and I saw Neve staring at me. Her jaw was slack, and her eyes wide with disbelief. She took a step backward, and I said, “Neve.”

  Immediately, Neve turned around and walked off rapidly.

  I grabbed my purse and ran after her, maneuvering my way past a large group of people who had just walked in. Neve continued to walk briskly, not stopping or turning around, and I emerged from the dark bar onto the well-lit pavement, blinking in the bright light.

  “Neve,” I said as I caught up to her. “Please. Stop.”

  Finally, Neve looked at me. “What?”

  “What you saw—it’s not what you think. I never wanted Liam to kiss me.”

  Neve’s eyes narrowed. “Of course. Like you kept repeating, you don’t like him. You’re glad things are over. You think I should break up with him. Everything makes sense now.”

  “No, you really don’t understand. Liam and I—”

  “Liam and you have no future together.” Neve was still walking briskly down the street, and I made sure to keep up with her. She reached into her purse, found her keys, and unlocked the car we were standing next to.

  “Liam must’ve misunderstood what was happening,” I said. “You know I’m not interested in getting back with him.”

  Neve turned the full extent of her angry blue eyes on me. “I misjudged you,” she said in a frosty voice dripping with forced calm. “You’re too ambitious for your own good. But don’t worry, I’m going to make sure your life is miserable.”

  Before I could say anything further, Neve stepped into her car and drove off.

  I walked slowly back to the restaurant, feeling dejected and angry.

  I knew there was no way I could convince Neve as to what had really happened, and Liam would certainly play into the lie that I had been the one who had kissed him.

  I felt sorry for Neve, that she believed Liam’s lies, but I also felt sad that any chance of a friendship with her had now been ruined. I didn’t want to know what kind of tricks Neve would come up with to try to make my life miserable.

  By the time I got back to the restaurant, Liam was nowhere to be seen. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, so I texted him, telling him that he needed to tell Neve the truth. I didn’t expect him to reply to my text, let alone follow the instructions.

  A few minutes later, Beth arrived, and our table was ready. As we perused the menu, I quickly filled Beth in on what had happened between Liam, Neve and me.

  Beth made the appropriate sympathetic noises, but we both knew that there was no way to undo what had happened.

  We ordered our dinner, and soon after the waitress left, my phone beeped with a text. I looked down excitedly, wondering if perhaps Liam had come to his senses and had agreed to tell Neve the truth. But it was from a number I didn’t know.

  I read the text, and then I gasped and smiled happily. “You won’t believe this!” I said. “You know that drawing to win a yoga and spa getaway? I won it! That means we can go to the Harriett Spa Retreat next week.”

  Beth squealed softly. “That’s so exciting! We’ll have so much fun!”

  I forgot about Liam and Neve for a few moments. “I can’t wait! A long weekend of pampering and fun—that’s just what we need.”

  At that moment, I had no idea that instead of being relaxing and indulgent, the free pampering getaway would turn out to be a desperate chase for a dangerous, cold-blooded killer.

  Join the A.R. Winters Newsletter

  Find out about the latest releases by AR Winters, and get access to exclusive discounts:

  CLICK HERE TO JOIN

  INNOCENT IN LAS VEGAS

  A Laugh-Out-Loud Cupcakes and Crime Caper

  “I tell myself every day that I don’t hate my job… But there‘s a reason I’m trying to leave the madness of the casino pit to become a Private Investigator.”

  Cupcake-loving croupier Tiffany Black is determined to leave her job at the casino for good. She’s one small step away from acquiring her Private Investigator license, and has her eye on the prize.

  Accepting her first real case – investigating the murder of casino-mogul Ethan Becker – should be exciting. Instead, things spiral out of control and Tiffany finds herself in over her head, as she confronts secretive suspects, corrupt casino henchmen and a bodyguard with a mysterious past.

  Tiffany’s poker-hustling Nanna and pushy parents want her to find a nice man and settle down, but Tiffany just wants to track down the real murderer before he finds her first…

  Click Here To Read Now

  INNOCENT IN LAS VEGAS

  A Cupcakes-and-Crime Caper

  Chapter One

  Despite the bags under her eyes and the ankle monitor, Sophia Becker looked gorgeous.

  “Tiffany!” She flashed a phony smile and embraced me in a warm hug. Her voice contained trace amounts of anxiety and relief, and her blue eyes couldn’t disguise her stress. “I’m so glad you came!”

  I shrugged nonchalantly. I didn’t want her to get her hopes up, or to think our relationship had changed. “I was told it wouldn’t hurt to listen.”

  “Well, thank you for coming.”

  I walked into the mansion behind her, my low-heeled sandals making a clicking noise against the white marble floor. Her place smelled expensive, like a Vanilla-Bergamot scented candle, and was so clean and tidy that I wondered just how many staff she employed.

  When we reached the far side of the living room, Sophia slid gracefully into a wooden chair, and crossed her long, tan legs. She was wearing a short black miniskirt and a designer tank top, and her ankle monitor flashed silently. “Did Richard fill you in?”

  I shook my head no. “He told me you were looking for a PI, but I didn’t get any details.” I perched gingerly on an antique armchair worth more than my entire month’s salary. In my casual Bermuda shorts and t-shirt, I felt a little out of place in this glamorous room. “But I don’t really see what a PI can do for you at this stage.”

  Sophia flipped her long blond hair from one side of her face to the other, and her elegant diamond drop earrings shimmered in the light. She gave me a pained look. “I’m innocent. Don’t you believe that?”

  “That’s what they all say. And even if you are, it’s hard to argue against the evidence.”

  “It was planted.”

  I sighed. “Sophia, they found the gun in your nightstand. Literally. A. Smoking. Gun.”

  She stared at me for a second through narrowed eyes, and then she leaned back in her chair and relaxed. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t even have to think about that one. Sophia was anything but stupid.

  She was beautiful, friendly and witty—and she’d put those qualities to good use by becoming a stripper. She was also ruthless and ambitious, and that was probably how she managed to make Ethan Becker, owner of the Riverbelle Casino, fall in love with her.

  Thanks to Ethan’s wealth, Sophia’s stripping days had been put behind her as soon as they got engaged, and the wedding was exclusive and ostentatious. Judging from the massive rocks she wore, and the Lake Las Vegas mansion I was sitting in right now, Sophia’s marital life had been one great big fairy tale.

  Until three months ago, when her husband was murdered.

  “Then why,” she said, “does everyone think I’m dumb enough to wipe down a murder weapon and put it back in my nightstand?”

  “Maybe you didn’t think anyone would look?” Sophia looked at me cynically and I went on, “Someone would have to break in to plant the gun in your bedroom. You never reported a break-in.”

  “I couldn’t tell from the lock. There are good lockpicks, you know.”
/>
  I looked at her doubtfully. “And what do you want me to do?”

  “Find out what the police overlooked.”

  “What makes you think they overlooked anything?”

  “Oh, please. The instant they found that gun, they stopped their entire investigation and acted like I’d admitted to killing Ethan. Meanwhile, the guy who murdered my husband is walking free.”

  I took a moment to reflect. Did I really think Sophia had killed Ethan? It was hard to tell—all through our high school years she’d been a good actress, manipulating people to get her way. She’d been the pretty, popular cheerleader who’d spread mean rumors behind your back and teased you about your weight, your hair and your unfashionable old clothes. I hadn’t been too fond of her back then, and I wasn’t sure what she was capable of now.

  As though she’d read my mind, Sophia said, “Why would I kill my husband? I had a great life, and I’d be stupid to risk all that.”

  “I don’t know. What if I find things that make you look even more guilty? You know I’ll have to tell the cops.”

  Sophia nodded. “Of course.”

  I thought about all the reasons I didn’t want to take on this case. “Why me? Why not someone else?”

  “It’s a great first case.”

  I loved the way she didn’t answer me directly. I wasn’t even fully accredited, and she wanted me to look into something so serious. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

  “Ed Hastings recommended you.”

  Ed was my supervising detective. He’d certified to the Nevada Board of Private Investigators that I wasn’t mentally unstable or criminally inclined, and once a month I did ten hours of supervised work for him—mostly boring surveillance jobs. My one year of supervised work was almost up, and I was grateful to Ed for the recommendation, even if I wasn’t too keen on working for Sophia.

  “Richard Small did a background check,” Sophia continued, “and then he contacted you.”

  I tried my best not to smirk. Richard might be a successful defense attorney, but I wondered how he’d gotten through high school with such an unfortunate name. He’d probably survived his name the same way I’d survived mine.

  My mother, in an uncharacteristic fit of inspiration, had named me Tiffany. Tiffany Black.

  My name might’ve seemed normal in a regular small town, but here in Vegas, Tiffany was a popular stage name for strippers. Which meant that almost every day of my short twenty-eight-year-old life I’d heard someone, usually a rat-eyed creep with bad breath, coo out a variation of the romantic phrase, “You’ve got a stripper name, do you really like poles?”

  Having a stripper name meant that I went out of my way not to look like a stripper. That involved having unruly, untamable brown hair; carrying a layer of cushioning fat around my waistline; and wearing more clothes than all the girls in Vegas combined.

  I said, “No one else will take the job, will they?”

  Sophia glanced away and I leaned back triumphantly. Of course she wouldn’t voluntarily want to employ a no-name, not-quite-accredited PI like myself if she had better options. She’d hired one of the best defense attorneys in the state, and she could afford any PI—if they’d just agree to work for her.

  “It’s really simple work—” she began, but I interrupted her.

  “No, it’s not, and you know it. No one messes with the casino owners.”

  “I am a casino owner,” she said. “At least I will be, if you can help me get off on these charges. Then you’ll have an easy time getting jobs.”

  “If. And that’s a big if.”

  We looked at each other silently. Jobs here were dependent on the casinos, and nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of the powerful few who controlled an entire state’s economy.

  “Please, Tiff.” Sophia looked at me with sad eyes. “I need you to help me out. I’m in a terrible place, and if you won’t help, I don’t know what to do.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears and I looked away. Crap. I felt like I was kicking a puppy. Despite whatever she’d done when we were younger, the woman was living a nightmare now, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  I glanced at my watch and stood up quickly. “I should go. I’m late.”

  Sophia sniffed. “Please, tell me you’ll consider this?”

  I looked at her carefully. She’d always been an expert manipulator and I hated the thought of being pushed into doing something I didn’t want to do. But her face was pinched, and I could almost smell the doom surrounding her.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “It could be a great opportunity for someone.” To shoot themselves in the foot.

  Sophia nodded, and showed me out silently.

  Chapter Two

  Vegas drivers are the worst in the world. Not me, of course. But everyone else.

  As I drove east along the Las Vegas Beltway, I had to stifle my urge to make rude hand gestures and lean on the horn. I hadn’t been lying about being late, and I was grateful Sophia hadn’t asked what I was late for. She probably already knew.

  I stopped at my apartment, a tiny one-bedroom place I’d managed to buy right after the market crashed, and changed. I could drive to work, but the best thing about my place is that it’s only a three-block walk to work.

  The Strip is a nightmare to drive down at night—all it takes is one mesmerized tourist staring at the lights to cause a pileup. The late-evening breeze made it cool enough to walk, even in the middle of the scorching summer, and I told myself I was getting some much-needed exercise.

  As soon as I entered the casino pit, the loudness hit me: all the colors, noises and lights that epitomized Sin City. Walking into the madness felt like meeting an old friend—a boisterous old friend who annoys you at first, but grows on you.

  I tapped out the day-shift dealer, clapped my hands to show that they were empty, and smiled around the table. “Are you guys having a good time?”

  I genuinely cared about how the men felt. My tips depended upon it. Two of them smiled in a vague, noncommittal way, but one took my question seriously.

  “Stupid blackjack,” he said. “The other dealer was screwing me over. I hope you’re here to improve my effing luck.”

  He looked at me suspiciously, as though I might have a secret nefarious motive for being there. I smiled and motioned to the waitress. “Looks like you need a refill on that drink.”

  He grunted distrustfully and I started dealing. I knew the man well. He was one of the regulars at any table, Mr. Here For The Effing Money. His real name varied but he was always the same person—rude, surly and generous with the F-bombs. Inevitably he always lost and it was always the ‘effing casino’s fault,’ which meant ‘no tip for the stupid dealer.’

  At least none of my other regulars were there: Mr. Body Odor, Mr. Perving On Every Woman Around, and Mr. Cigar Man.

  I focused on the cards and pretty soon Mr. Here For The Effing Money busted out, threw a hissy fit, and left the table to do God knows what. His place was quickly taken by three frat boys, who all thought they were giving Don Juan a run for his money: “Whatchya doing after work?”, “You wanna show us around Vegas?” (wink wink) and of course, “Met a stripper named Tiffany yesterday, that wasn’t you in a wig, was it?”

  I tell myself every day that I don’t hate my job. It doesn’t pay as much as stripping or being a cocktail waitress, but I get to wear more clothes, don’t get perved on as much, and never get groped. But there’s a reason I’m trying to leave the madness of the casino pit to become a private investigator, and it was a relief when I got a tap on my shoulder, indicating that it was time for my break.

  I headed into the break room and checked my voicemail. There was a strange message from my grandmother, and I told myself I’d call her back tomorrow. I was expecting Sophia to have left me a message reminding me to think about things, but she was clearly giving me some space.

  I felt like I was being chicken, that if I were braver I would just jump straight into the work. But that
would be foolhardy—no other PI would touch the case for a reason: clearly there was no chance of wrapping it up successfully. A failed high-profile case would be damaging for any established PI’s reputation and fatal for any newbie’s career.

  I didn’t like Sophia much but she was convincing in her declarations of innocence. Part of the reason I’d chosen to try to be a PI was so I could help people, and Sophia was desperately in need of help. Plus, I knew she’d be willing to pay me an exorbitant amount of money to do the investigating.

  All through the night I watched people wager on games biased in the house’s favor. And yet, players frequently walked away with much more than they lost. The Vegas adage, “You gotta play to win,” was true.

  By the time my shift ended, I’d managed to convince myself that I needed to take on Sophia’s case. It was a gamble that had the potential to pay off well, so I sent Sophia a quick text.

  If I had known at that time I would be risking my life for the case, I would have talked myself out of taking it. In retrospect, I wonder why I didn’t realize that a person who had already committed one murder would stop at nothing to prevent further evidence from being unearthed.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning I found myself back at Sophia’s mansion. She looked pleased to see me; there was a hopefulness in her eyes that was heartbreaking and made me want to drop the case just so I wouldn’t have to disappoint her.

  But I didn’t. Instead, I handed her a standard retainer agreement and watched her initial it and sign on the dotted line. As soon as she’d finished with the contract, Sophia brought out some tea for herself and some chocolate cupcakes for me. For a few long minutes, all I could think about was how chocolate cupcakes make life so much better.

  I paused my cupcake demolishing long enough to say, “What do I need to know? Who do I talk to?”

  Sophia sipped her tea gracefully. “Neil Durant. My brother-in-law. He was the chief suspect before they found that gun; he’s probably the one who killed Ethan.”