Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  “How could his room have been ransacked?” Reggie huffed. “I don’t understand how—”

  “That’s not what I said,” the manager insisted. His shiny name tag, matched in brightness by his polished black shoes and glistening helmet of blond hair, identified him as Bertrand Burglund.

  Reggie jabbed a thin finger at the bedraggled clerk standing next to the manager. “Your associate says otherwise.”

  If it had been possible for the manager to supply a more withering look than he was already giving Reggie, I’m sure he would have done so. “That particular maid who reported it has an overly active imagination. The room was messy.”

  The woman in purple from the mystery convention wrung her hands. The two women I’d met earlier tried to calm her. Stephano and Reggie stared at each other.

  “There must be some mistake about the room you’re looking up,” Ursula snapped.

  “Muttal,” Stephano muttered under his breath. I hoped Ursula didn’t speak Tamil and wouldn’t realize he’d called her an idiot. “You’re the one insisting there is something untoward to investigate.”

  “I simply meant,” Ursula said, “that the man that these scholars were speaking of doesn’t seem like a messy sort of fellow. I’ve done extensive research into the criminal mind. If I could gain access to the room and its safe, I could determine—”

  “That’s entirely impossible,” the manager said.

  “So he didn’t check out,” I said, “and his room was potentially ransacked, yet you’re not concerned?”

  “There was no ransacking!” A lock of the manager’s hair escaped and fell onto his forehead.

  “Could we talk to the maid?” I asked.

  The manager tried to refuse, but between me and Ursula, he was defeated. Ten minutes later, the young maid joined us in a windowless meeting room that smelled of stale coffee. She’d changed into casual street clothes and had a backpack slung over her shoulder.

  “No matter what Mr. Burglund says,” she told us, “the room was ransacked.”

  “How could you tell?” Ursula asked. She scrutinized the maid with a troubled frown that caused deep lines across her forehead. Though it seemed like she’d begun this investigation as a game, she was now taking it seriously.

  The maid met Ursula’s intense gaze with confidence. “I’m working this job to put myself through night school, majoring in criminal justice.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I need this job. I didn’t see blood or anything that suggested he was hurt. Just that someone had tossed his room. Instead of cleaning the room, I reported what I found to hotel security. They saw it, too. If we called the police every time I see something weird in a hotel room, they would be here constantly. I’m sorry your friend is missing, but I’ve gotta get to class. Is there anything else?”

  “One last thing,” I said. “What time did you go inside the room and see that it had been ransacked?”

  “This morning,” she said, “shortly before ten o’clock.”

  Stephano shook his head. “You must be mistaken. A group of us went back to our rooms together during a mid-morning break. One of our colleagues on a delayed flight had contacted us to say she’d arrived at the airport and would be here shortly, and we wanted her to be present for the next item on the agenda. Milton York went into his room at ten thirty, and aside from his minor worries about presenting his findings, he acted perfectly normally when we resumed our meeting at eleven. He didn’t disappear until sometime after we broke up for lunch at one and when the two o’clock session began.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said. “Why wouldn’t he say anything about a robbery in his room?”

  “It simply means the maid got the time wrong,” Reggie said. “I’m sure the tedious days blur together for someone in that line of work.”

  “I’m right here,” the night-school student maid said, crossing her arms. “My name is Martha. And furthermore, I didn’t get the time wrong.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked, surprised that Ursula wasn’t taking the lead after her earlier declaration.

  “I remember,” Martha said, “because the guy in the room next to your friend’s yelled obscenities at me when I knocked on his door, then gave me a lecture about how he was on vacation and it wasn’t even ten o’clock. He swore he’d left the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on his doorknob. Those signs are a big headache. They’re badly designed and often fall to the floor, so we can’t tell if guests are requesting maid service or if they want to be left alone. So yeah, I remember the time. Look, I’m sorry, but I need to go. Best of luck finding your friend.” She tightened the straps of her backpack, gave Reggie one last glare, and left.

  * * * *

  “Blackmail,” Stephano said. Thanks to Ursula’s fame, our group had commandeered one of the high tables at the lobby bar. “Maybe the person who searched his room didn’t find the Dutch East India Company diary, so they left him a note telling him not to say anything, and to bring the diary to them. They could have threatened him with bodily harm.”

  I dismissed the idea with a wave of my hand. “Even supposing he’s a good enough actor to hide something like that, which I doubt, there’s one big hole in that theory: Martha the maid would have seen the note first.”

  “But that diary has to be what the ransacker was after,” Stephano said. “Milton was so worried about the repercussions. Do you think he’s been kidnapped?”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Ursula said. “I think we all need a break to think. I’m going to my room.” She stood and swooped up an oversized purse.

  The tables were packed closely together. A man and a woman at the table closest to me were watching our group with interest. “Aaron,” the white-haired woman whispered to her friend, “something isn’t right about Ursula.” She spoke so quietly that I was surely the only person besides her friend who heard her.

  “You’ve never met the woman, Barbara,” her friend replied. “How many G&Ts have you had?”

  She barked out a laugh, and they resumed their own conversation.

  “Please sit down, Ursula,” Reggie said. “I believe I know what happened.”

  “Do tell,” Ursula said dryly. She left her purse on her shoulder but took her seat.

  Reggie cleared his throat. “The old boy snapped. Milton realized his findings were bunk, so he ransacked his own room in a fit of insanity, then ran away without checking out. He couldn’t face anyone. We should spare him a modicum of dignity and let this go. Thank you for your offer of assistance, Ursula, but there’s no mystery to solve.”

  “Reggie,” I said, “that’s brilliant.”

  He beamed at me in spite of the fact that I hadn’t called him Dr. Warwick.

  “You’re completely wrong,” I continued, “but you and the woman at the next table have given me the answer.”

  Reggie frowned. So did Ursula. “I don’t know about the rest of you,” she said, “but I really do need a break for my mind to function properly. I’m sure better ideas will come to me in the tranquility of my room. Once we have better theories, that imbecile manager will have to let us examine the missing man’s room for clues.”

  “I think you’ll find everything you’re after right here,” I said. “The diary isn’t in the safe in his room, Ursula.”

  Aside from a single flash of surprise that caused her nostrils to flare, Ursula’s face retained its mask of mild curiosity. “Why would I care about this historical diary? I’m simply attempting to figure out what happened to your missing friend.”

  “You’re good,” I said, “but your motivations aren’t exactly what you led us to believe.”

  Stephano gasped. Reggie choked. Ursula smiled enigmatically.

  “The facts, as presented to us, were impossible,” I said.

  “Indeed?” Ursula said. �
��I’m intrigued.”

  “Let’s go over what we know,” I said. “Milton York discovered a diary on his last research trip to India. He planned on presenting his findings at this conference, and told his colleagues that he was worried his findings might meet with a hostile reception. Several people’s flights were delayed due to this storm, but not Milton’s. He arrived at the hotel last night, for a day of preconference meetings today. Milton noticed that his briefcase had been searched last night, but he didn’t say the diary had been stolen. This morning, Milton attended the meeting— At what time did it start, Stephano?”

  “Nine o’clock on the dot.”

  “At nine o’clock,” I resumed, “Milton York, Reggie Warwick, Stephano Gopal, and several other scholars specializing in South Asian history began their meeting. Sometime before ten o’clock this morning, Milton’s room was ransacked—presumably by someone searching for the Dutch East India Company diary. At ten thirty, Stephano, Milton, Reggie, and several others returned to their rooms while waiting for another historian to arrive. Once she did, the group reconvened their meeting at eleven o’clock. And now we come to the key piece of information: Milton acted the same as he had before seeing his ransacked room.”

  “I told you,” Reggie said, “that damn maid must have gotten the time wrong.”

  “She reported it,” I said. “I’m sure we can confirm the time. But I don’t think that will be necessary. If we only accept the facts that multiple people can confirm, and dismiss everything only one person claims to have seen, an answer presents itself.”

  The din of the bar around us had quieted. All eyes were on me.

  “She’s an even better storyteller than Ursula,” someone at a nearby table whispered. “Who is she?”

  “Reggie was right about something important,” I said. “Milton ransacked his own room. But not for the reason Reggie asserted. Milton didn’t snap. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

  I paused and looked around at my wide-eyed audience, hoping I was right about what I was about to say. “Everyone thought it was odd that Milton was being secretive about the diary, but it’s not unreasonable that he’d want to keep his findings close to his chest. But what if he found out his discovery didn’t prove what he thought it did? Or even that it was a fake? Rather than admit his mistake, he would want to save face. What better way to do that than have the diary disappear before he could present his findings. Of course, it didn’t need to be a real theft. All he had to do was leave the diary elsewhere, ransack his own hotel room, then call security and claim to have been robbed.”

  Stephano exclaimed a mix of Italian and Tamil curses, then shook his head. “But he didn’t call security.”

  “Because,” I said, “he was waiting for the rest of the historians to arrive. Too many people were delayed by the storm. If he waited, there would be more suspects, and a believable way for the diary to slip through the authorities’ fingers and disappear forever.”

  Reggie groaned and rubbed his eyes.

  “What Milton didn’t count on,” I said, “was that the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door would fall to the floor. He didn’t plan on the maid entering the room and seeing what he’d done before he was ready for it to be seen.”

  “Then where is he now?” the librarian asked, gripping her writer friend’s arm. “Surely his own disappearance wasn’t part of his plan.”

  “That’s where things got muddled,” I said. “Milton didn’t realize that someone really was trying to steal the diary.” I turned to face that person. “Reggie was the one who had everything to lose if the diary proved to be real. And Reggie was the only person who swore he saw Milton leaving the hotel of his own free will.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Reggie glowered at me. “I’m not a common criminal. I’d never break into someone’s room or kidnap them.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “But you’d hire someone to act on your behalf. You’d pay someone to steal a document, although from what I’ve seen of your actions tonight, it looks like kidnapping is a bit much for you. That’s why you’ve been trying so hard to mislead us into thinking Milton left on his own, and attempting to convince us we should be done with the matter. You never meant for there to be a kidnapping. You’ve been trying to let the thief know that you want no part of finding the diary if it includes kidnapping. But it’s not working. I’m guessing the thief has a reputation to protect.”

  Reggie’s face went pale.

  “You’re talking like the thief is here amongst us,” Stephano said.

  “She is,” I said, locking my eyes on the thief’s.

  The circle of readers, writers, and historians followed my gaze.

  “Ursula Light,” I said. “Who isn’t really Ursula Light. The real Ursula Light had her flight delayed due to the storm, as her assistant told the convention organizers, giving our fake Ursula this evening to pretend to be the mystery novelist. Nobody has seen what the reclusive author looks like in many years, so nobody really knows what she looks like up close.” I paused as Ursula raised a martini glass and winked at me from across the table.

  “When our Ursula was mistaken for the author,” I continued, “she seized the unexpected opportunity. A guest of honor at the conference would surely be above suspicion, and as a famous author helping the authorities, she’d be granted greater access to the hotel. Remember, as soon as she began her ‘investigation,’ she asked the manager if she could see the safe in Milton’s room. I suspect that when she searched his briefcase and room last night, she failed to find the diary she was hired to steal—because the diary was never here at the hotel in the first place. She confronted Milton when he was alone in between the meeting sessions today, in an attempt to get him to tell her where the diary was. Since he didn’t have it, he couldn’t give it to her. I’m betting she’s got him held captive somewhere nearby, thinking about how she can get him to talk. That’s why she looked so tense at the bar, right before she was mistakenly recognized as Ursula Light. She was trying to figure out how to gain access to the safe in his room, which was the only remaining place the diary could be, assuming it was here at the hotel. But...” I trailed off. “Hey, where did she go?”

  The woman we knew as Ursula Light, whoever she was, had vanished.

  * * * *

  “How does the story end?” Sanjay asked. He’d gotten so wrapped up in my story that he’d been unconsciously picking at his hat. Mangled rose petals surrounded us, filling my apartment with a calming aroma.

  “When hotel security searched the room of the woman who fit the thief’s description,” I told Sanjay, “they found Milton York bound with comfortable silk ropes. There was no sign of the thief, but faced with evidence of a wire transfer and incriminating e-mails, Reggie Warwick confessed that he’d hired her to steal the diary. He insisted he had nothing to do with the kidnapping, and pointed out that he’d tried to get her to stop. He cut a deal to avoid jail time by giving the authorities all the information he had on the fake Ursula Light, but his academic career was over. Milton York, on the other hand, is still teaching. He convinced enough people that my theory about him ransacking his own room wasn’t true, and to this day he swears Reggie managed to steal the diary. The real Ursula Light showed up the next day, after the storm ended.”

  “How long did it take to find fake Ursula?”

  I held up the postcard of Pulicat, one of the Dutch East India Company’s trading ports in India. “She sent me this postcard a few months after disappearing from the hotel. I have no idea if she’s really in India or if she had someone send it for her.”

  “They never caught her?”

  I shook my head. “But I found out some of the information the authorities have collected on her over the years. They’re on to her, but she’s never been caught. She really is in her seventies. That’s her cover that makes her a great thief. Along with her quick thinking. The information they’ve pieced
together on her suggests she only took up a life of crime in her sixties, and she turned out to be quite good. There are several thefts that have been attributed to her.”

  “I can see why this latest conference you’re off to won’t live up to that one.”

  “One never knows. The keynote speaker is Milton York.”

  THE CLUE IN THE BLUE BOOTH, by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  I could be sitting right next to you on the subway or standing behind you in the grocery store line or waiting for my latte while you get your tea. You’d never notice me, and that’s exactly how I like it.

  My skill—for blending in and being ordinary—is the hallmark of my trade. The reason I get the big bucks. I’m so careful about my identity, I don’t even meet my clients, but simply leave that to “Thomas,” my colleague. That’s not his real name, of course. I call my security company Griffin and Co., even though there’s no one else, except for “Thomas,” in the co. It would be nice to have someone else, but right now we’re the tiniest bit strapped for cash. The “big bucks” I referred to earlier was the tiniest bit sarcastic. But we’ll be fine, as long as nothing goes wrong.

  I made a final adjustment to my black felt cloche as I walked toward the massive convention center. My unremarkableness, I supposed, was the reason I was assigned to this ridiculous job.

  Well, maybe not “ridiculous” so much as “waste of time,” I thought as I pushed through the heavy revolving doors. Nothing would go wrong, and it was my job to make sure that was true. If by some chance something did go wrong, it would be my job to assess, respond, subdue, and resolve. And then instantly, as always, blend back into the woodwork.

  Pausing past the bank of revolving doors, I scanned the triple-tall skylighted entryway from left to right and then back again, calculating, knowing the first-response assessment often sets the stage for what’s to come. And then I almost burst out laughing.

  There were no men here. And every woman looked exactly like me.

  I touched the flowered silk scarf tied around my neck, and the strand of pearls underneath. It’s not usually necessary for me to go undercover to blend into a crowd, because my whole life is undercover. But coming here in costume had seemed prudent, and now, surveying the lobby, the line of registration desks, and the vast convention floor, it turned out my costume was not only prudent, but hilarious. It was like being in a massive hall of mirrors.