Wedding Bells And Magic Spells Box Set

by A. R. Winters

  “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 short 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 ripping me off. I hope you’re here to improve my bloody 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 my table, Mr. Here For The 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 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 chicke
n, 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.”

  I recalled what I’d learned in my pre-meeting online research. Ethan Becker had been driving home on a Saturday night at around one a.m. and had pulled over to the side of the road. At that hour, on a deserted suburban street, nobody was around. Someone had shot him and the crime was only discovered by an early-morning jogger at five a.m.

  “Whaffuzzushayet?” I asked.

  Sophia gave me a funny look and I swallowed quickly. “What makes you say that?”

  “Night of the murder, Ethan and Neil went to dinner at a restaurant near the Strip. Neil lives nearby and he would’ve taken the same route home. But even though he and Ethan left at the same time, Neil got home two hours later and has no alibi for those two hours. He says he took a winding road home—yeah, right!”

  I stopped my feral gobbling for a moment. “So what you’re saying is, Neil should’ve discovered the car and called the police?”

  “Doesn’t that make sense? He claims he took a roundabout byroad, but why would you do that when you’re going home, tired after a dinner?”

  “That’s a little suspicious, but it’s not really proof.”

  “His wife, Thelma—Ethan’s sister—claims Neil got home at three and they spent the rest of the night together.”

  “But why would he kill Ethan? Did they have a problem or something?”

  Sophia looked at the floor. For the first time, I noticed the sadness in her eyes. “I’m not sure, but I know they argued a lot. A few days before the murder, they had a big fight about something. Ethan wasn’t happy with some of Neil’s ideas for the casino. I mean, it’s not like Neil had any casino background or anything—he used to be an underwear model.”

  “You didn’t do any work for the casino?”

  “I didn’t bother. Ethan, his sister Thelma, and Neil were all board members, but not me. People already thought I was a gold digger.”

  “But weren’t you?”

  Sophia laughed, refusing to take offense. I’d only asked her what most people thought but never said aloud. “I was a stripper,” she said, “and Ethan Becker asked me to marry him. How could I not say yes?”

  I loved the way her mouth formed words but didn’t really answer the question. “Did Ethan leave you much in the will?”

  “It’s split between me and his son, Leo. Of course, Thelma is going after me with a civil case. And if I lose that, Leo and Thelma divvy up my share.”

  “Who owns the casino?”

  “After their dad passed away, Thelma got forty percent of the casino shares and Ethan got fifty-five percent. The other five percent are owned by family friends and early investors. At this stage, Leo gets half of his dad’s casino shares and some cash. I get the other half of Ethan’s shares, and some other assets. If Thelma wins her case, Leo probably gets the casino shares I have, and Thelma gets the other assets Ethan left me.”

  “Thelma and Ethan—were they close?”

  “I guess, in a way.” Sophia shrugged. “She wasn’t too fond of me, which I understand, but it still hurt and I was hoping we’d become friends. But now, none of the family will talk to me.”

  “And Leo? He’s got motive, with all that inheritance money.”

  “Maybe my judgment’s been compromised, but I don’t think Leo could do that to his dad. I just can’t see him…” She shook her head. “Anyway, he has an excellent alibi. Night of the murder, he was partying till dawn with fifty of his friends.”

  “How old is Leo?”

  “Twenty-one. He’s a student at UNLV. Here.” She handed me a piece of paper. “It’s a list of names, relationships and contact details for everyone you should talk to.”

  I ran my eyes down the list. Thelma Durant, sister. Neil Durant, brother-in-law. Leo Becker, son. I paused. “Vanessa Conigliani, ex-wife?”

  “Ethan’s first wife. They split ten years ago. Leo’s mom.”

  I nodded. “Is there anyone else I should talk to, other than family? Who else is on the casino board? This might be related to Ethan’s work.”

  Sophia looked up a contact on her phone and wrote down a name. Steven Macarthur, manager. “He’s on the board,” she said, “but he was on the casino floor the entire night, watching a group of blackjack players. He’s recorded on camera for literally every second of that night. And besides, he and Ethan got along really well. Ethan adored him, thought he could do no wrong.”

  “Four people on the board?”

  “The fifth was Laura Schumaker, but she’s the corporate lawyer and isn’t involved in the business.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  Sophia shook her head. “Not that I can think of. But I should tell you, Neil never liked me and we never got along. He was always saying unkind things about me behind my back, and I’ve always thought he’s one of those good-looking bullshitters that’s faking their way into places.”

  It takes one to know one. I finished my cupcake slowly, savoring the rich chocolaty goodness, and wondered if Sophia was judging Neil too harshly through the lens of her own prejudice. I was sure his arriving home late on the night of the murder was just a coincidence, and I wondered where else I could begin my investigation.

  Chapter Four

  By the time I left Sophia’s house, I’d decided to talk to Neil another day. I was going to talk to Leo Becker first. Motivewise, he had the most to gain, and people had committed crimes for far less than the millions of dollars Ethan had left his son. Leo did have a great alibi, but still…

  I glanced at the address Sophia had given me and headed west.

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