Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  As I pull into the hotel parking lot, I see an ambulance, a police car, and a lot of commotion in the lobby. I rush in and am met by a policewoman, who blocks my way.

  “What’s happened?” I ask, craning over her shoulder to see.

  “There’s been an incident in the swimming pool.” She stares at me as if I were the kind of woman who goes out in the middle of the night wearing all her clothes to buy even more, which, of course, I am.

  “An incident?” I hate that word. It can mean anything from people cursing at each other to murder. Murder?

  “Someone’s killed Brandi?” I ask. Surely I couldn’t be the only person who despises her.

  The policewoman straightens up, and I see at once I have made a big mistake.

  “What makes you say that?” she asks. Again, not a trace of the Maine accent I’d expected when I came here.

  “I saw her when I was leaving. In the swimming pool. Well, I wasn’t in the swimming pool. She was.” I’m a little nervous now; I’m not going to lie.

  “Was she alone?”

  “I’m not sure. She seemed to be with someone else, but I didn’t see who it was.” I hope I don’t look suspicious, though I’m sure I do.

  “She knows. Ask her,” a shrill voice calls.

  I turn to see Brandi, still in her white bikini, with a large dark green towel over her shoulders. She is wet from head to foot. I’m pleased she’s not dead. Truly, I am.

  “She saw us, and she can tell you who did this to me,” Brandi says to the uniformed cop who is talking to her. Her voice carries across the lobby, and it’s not whispery now. She points at me.

  How embarrassing. Now I’m a woman who goes out shopping in the middle of the night and stops along the way to spy on other people.

  “I didn’t see anyone else. I told you that,” I insist to the officer I am talking to.

  “It was James. I swear.” Brandi darts across the lobby with surprising speed. “I’d never met him before the workshop today, and I didn’t invite him to come here. But he did, and when I wouldn’t do what he wanted...” She pauses here, clearly for effect, her eyes cast down, her face tinged with pink. “He tried to drown me. He held me under the water, and I could have died.”

  “Well, why didn’t you?” I ask. It seems a perfectly reasonable question to me, and one the police have probably already asked, but they won’t tell me what she’d said.

  “I was saved. By Benjamin.” She says this like a Shakespearean actress, booming and with perfect timing.

  “Benjamin? What was he doing down here at this time of night?” I ask.

  The policewoman who’d been talking to me clears her throat. “That’s enough. I’ll ask the questions that need to be asked. You’ll have to wait and talk to Sergeant Warkovsky,” she tells me, tossing her head in the direction of a tall young man standing by the gas fireplace with uniformed officers. I hasten over to him because, well, I’m drawn to the artificial flames.

  The heat is getting to me, and I take off my coat, then my cardigan with the reindeer on it, a present from my aunt who clearly doesn’t like me very much. The sergeant’s eyes widen.

  “So, what did you see?” he asks, clearing his throat, his eyes following my every movement as if he’s never seen a woman take off her clothes before. Of course, he’s probably wondering why the uniformed cops get the pretty, barely clad beauty while he gets the chubby beast. I remove my plaid shirt. I’m down to the regulation one shirt, one pair of pants, and still he’s staring, but I don’t care.

  I tell him everything I can think of, keeping my voice low. He tells me nothing. By the time we are done and he hands me his card, Brandi is long gone, and I wonder where Benjamin is. And James. What’s happening with James?

  I try to walk by the pool to have a peek, but I’m directed the long way around to the elevators. I don’t get much sleep when I finally climb under the covers with all but my shoes on.

  * * * *

  I enter the workshop the next morning right before it’s scheduled to begin and look around. As I’d suspected, James isn’t there and neither is Brandi, nor Benjamin. The other ten members of the workshop are talking about what’s happened. They know very little, but eye me in a way that shows me they’ve heard about my part in the drama.

  “James tried to, you know, attack her. Benjamin stopped him, and they’re both in the hospital,” says the woman who’s invented a new way to bake squash.

  “James isn’t that kind of man,” the woman with the shoe warmers and sad personal story says. She isn’t crying now.

  “I can’t imagine Benjamin attacking anyone. He’s a Buddhist, after all,” the man with the electronic pickle dispenser says.

  “He is? How do you know?” I ask, walking toward them, which is no hardship as they are standing around the fire, and that’s where I always want to be.

  “He told me,” he says.

  We have a substitute leader for the workshop, and we all sit down, feeling as much appreciation toward him as anyone ever does for a sub.

  At the lunch break I go back to the hotel. There’s no point being at the convention unless James is there. Besides, I want to find out what Brandi is up to. I’m sure she’s up to something.

  I meet Benjamin in the hotel lobby, and he beams at me. “I suppose you heard what happened?”

  “A little bit,” I say, allowing him to draw me over to the fire. One thing about the Maine cold, there is always a fire to huddle around.

  “So, you didn’t see who was in the pool with Brandi?” he asks.

  “No. I didn’t know she’d seen me, and I didn’t want to pry,” I say. A total lie.

  “It was lucky I was downstairs. I was so extraordinarily uncomfortable in my room that I had to leave. The noise from the heater was so loud I couldn’t sleep,” Benjamin says.

  “Me, too.” I shiver at the memory.

  “I left my room in just my shirt and pants and a pair of slip-ons, so I was able to dive right in and save her,” Benjamin says, his chest puffing out.

  “Wow. That was lucky.” I try to hide my confusion by asking, “Where’s James?”

  “He’s at the police station. You never know with people, do you? Who’d have thought he was crazy?” Benjamin is clearly thrilled.

  “Has he confessed?” I ask.

  “No. By the time they caught up with him in his room, he was dry and pretending to be asleep.”

  “Where’s his room?”

  “He and all the other leaders are staying in a guest house, the Swallow, not far from Bayview House. They didn’t think it was a good idea to have them stay over here with us. Now I know why,” Benjamin says with a dramatic flair reminiscent of Brandi’s performance the night before. Was it catching? Would I be declaiming by the end of the weekend?

  “Well, they could hardly have known James would do something like this.” I wonder why Brandi had said she’d never met James before the workshop. Where else could she have been coming from but the Swallow Motel early yesterday morning? James’s confusion at her introducing herself was because he already knew her.

  “Anyone seeing those products he designs could have guessed it. All but the first one of his inventions is useless crap,” Benjamin says. “Sorry, but I have to go.”

  He’s gone before I can even say good-bye.

  I make my own haste to the front desk. The clerk is the same young woman I’d met when I’d first arrived.

  “Is the boiler fixed?” I ask without preamble.

  “Yes, it is. All the rooms should be warm enough now. We’re so sorry.”

  “None of the rooms had heat?” I ask.

  “No, the boiler was turned off. But it’s all fixed,” she assures me.

  I think about asking for a refund—freezing rooms, a discredited workshop leader, and not one sign of the Maine I’d wanted to see. Instea
d, I go to my room, take out Sergeant Warkovsky’s card, and call him. Investigating is even easier than on television. Perhaps if James and the Lint-Locker don’t work out, I have a real shot at being a sleuth.

  * * * *

  Warkovsky allows me, after much persuasion on my part, to go with him to Brandi’s room.

  “Don’t say anything,” he says before he knocks on the door.

  “I won’t,” I lie.

  “Oh, hello,” Brandi says, opening the door slightly. Then she sees me. Her eyes flash with the fear of a trapped animal.

  “May I come in?” Warkovsky asks.

  I accidentally push the door all the way open. “I told you,” I say, pointing to the bed.

  “What? What did you tell him?” Brandi demands.

  “What the—what the hell is going on?” Benjamin blusters as we stand in the tiny hall and stare. He’s jumping up, grabbing his boxers, but we all saw him lying on the bed in what might be called a compromising position. His fake mustache is lying on the side table like a wounded centipede. He’s not as fat as he appeared with his clothes on.

  “Why did you set James up?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” she asks, trying her helpless routine on Warkovsky.

  Warkovsky glares at me and scowls a shut-up look, which I plan to ignore. I’m the one who figured it out, after all.

  “So, you did see everything last night,” Brandi pouts.

  “You were alone when I passed.”

  “I wasn’t,” Brandi says, but her heart’s not in it anymore.

  “You repeated the same movements and noises over and over hoping someone would walk by who you could use to back up your story—an old acting trick,” I say.

  “How did you—what do you mean?” Brandi asks. Her pretty face is all contorted and not so pretty anymore.

  “What’s more, you were looking up. James isn’t taller than you, but Benjamin is. I’ll bet Benjamin was hiding in the shadows waiting for someone to see you before ‘saving’ you.” I glance at Benjamin, who doesn’t look happy with me. “You knew that unless someone came right up to the door, they wouldn’t be able to see who you were supposedly talking to. You’ve been setting James up from the very beginning—going to his room before the workshop, pretending not to know him, so it would look like he was the one chasing you.”

  “It’s not true. I don’t understand why you are saying all this.” Brandi darts a glance at Benjamin, who does understand. And can you believe this? He doesn’t actually have a twitch.

  “So it’s all about you?” I yell. “I came here to meet James, and you ruined it for me with your stunt.” I’m really irritated, but maybe, if James finds out I helped save him, he’ll help me develop my product? Hey, it’s a possibility.

  “You’re just making things up,” Benjamin says.

  “Benjamin said his heater was noisy when the boiler was off. Then he implied that his room was too hot, and that’s why he didn’t have to remove a lot of clothes to get into the pool. Of course, if he was downstairs with you, where the heat was on, he wouldn’t need extra clothes. And when I remembered what Benjamin’s pitch reminded me of—the pitch you, Brandi, read, or mangled—then I knew. You both used the word extraordinary much too often.” I was on a roll and loving it. Even better, James would have to be grateful after this. He’d have to recommend my Lint-Locker now.

  “You don’t believe her, do you?” Brandi demands of Warkovsky.

  “Yes, I do. You are both coming down to the station to answer some more questions.”

  “James Maguire O’Reilly deserves it. He stole Benjamin’s idea—a cordless rocking chair seat warmer. He took it, and it made him famous. We’ve been waiting for years for a way to get back at him,” Brandi howls.

  The nerve of this woman is not to be believed.

  “Don’t say any more,” Benjamin orders Brandi, though his voice is gentle. He really cares for this stupid creature. Men are so predictable.

  I’m feeling extremely proud of myself.

  “Turns out, Mr. Maguire O’Reilly couldn’t have done what you say because he never left his room. Mrs. Sharp was watching the whole time,” Warkovsky says.

  “Mrs. Sharp?” Brandi and I say in unison.

  “Yes, she’s a member of your workshop, or whatever you call it. She stood outside his window watching him all night,” Warkovsky says. “Lucky for him, he was on the ground floor where she could see him. She said he was so kind about her pitch that she wants to spend more time with him.”

  Lucky and creepy. And here I thought it was a good idea to close the curtains in my room at night.

  “She was the one with the shoe warmers, I suppose. I’m amazed they work,” I say, rather pleased I hadn’t gone that far in my obsession.

  “She’s lying,” Benjamin says.

  “Nope, a member of staff saw her there a few times during the night.” Warkovsky seems to be enjoying himself.

  “So, you didn’t need my information after all.” I see my one last chance with James slip away.

  “We did. All we knew is that Mr. Maguire O’Reilly couldn’t have done it. You showed us why they set him up.” Warkovsky smiles at me. Could he be persuaded to leave Mrs. Sharp’s surveillance out so I am still James’s savior? I’ll try talking him into it later.

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Brandi asks in that whispery voice she saves for special occasions.

  “You’ll both have to come down to the station, and my boss will decide.”

  “I don’t suppose you could tell James, I mean Mr. Maguire O’Reilly, that I solved this all on my own, could you?” I whisper to Warkovsky on our way out to the police station.

  “Nope. And don’t you to tell him that, either,” Warkovsky says.

  “I won’t,” I lie.

  TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE, by Rhys Bowen

  Castle Rannoch, Perthshire, Scotland

  September 1934

  I have a confession to make. I’m actually not too fond of bagpipes, especially when played outside my window at dawn. Oh, I know that I’m the sister of the Duke of Rannoch and that those pipes were playing outside our ancestral home. I realize that my Scottish blood should stir with pride at the skirl of the pipes, but I am only one quarter Scottish and the other three quarters would rather not be awoken rudely at six fifteen.

  * * * *

  The ritual of the piper doing the rounds of the castle at dawn only happens these days on special occasions, such as visits from royalty, births, deaths, and marriages. Today was none of the above but was special enough to make our retired gamekeeper, old MacTavish, put on his kilt and full Highland dress to parade around Castle Rannoch playing “Scotland the Brave.” I don’t know whether the hundred or so people camped on our grounds greeted it more favorably than I did. My Cockney maid, Queenie, certainly wasn’t thrilled.

  “What the bleedin’ heck was that God-forsaken row?” she demanded when she finally appeared with my morning cup of tea. “It sounded like someone slaughtering a pig.”

  I tried to greet this with a frosty stare. “A good lady’s maid would greet her mistress with ‘Good morning, Lady Georgiana, I trust you slept well?’”

  Sarcasm doesn’t seem to have much effect on Queenie.

  “I don’t know how anyone can sleep well in this godforsaken place,” she said. “It gives me the willies. And now that awful noise . . .”

  “It was the bagpiper,” I said. “In Scotland it is traditional to greet the dawn with the pipes.”

  “Thank God we only come here once a year,” she said, plonking down my cup on the bedside table. “Give me good old London any day. You’re all stark, staring mad.”

  “The pipes are playing to celebrate the Gathering of the Clans,” I said. “Binky felt we should do the right thing with visitors from all over Scotland coming together here. It’s a gre
at honor, you know, to be chosen to host the annual Gathering of the Clans. It only comes to us about every twenty years. I was a toddler last time it happened in 1913, but I vaguely remember all the fuss and that I was terrified of those huge men in kilts and ran back to Nanny.”

  “Huge men in kilts?” Queenie perked up at this.

  “They’ll all be wearing traditional Highland dress for the games.”

  “What sort of games?” She was looking quite interested now.

  “The Highland Games are the main part of the gathering,” I explained. “You know, they toss the caber and throw the hammer. All sorts of feats of strength.”

  “They have strong feet?” she asked, puzzled.

  I tried not to laugh. “No, I meant contests to demonstrate how strong they are. You can go down and watch them practicing later, if you like. My brother has set aside the meadow beyond the stables as a practice field. Oh, and speaking of my brother, I have to go and inspect the facilities after breakfast to make sure all is in order. You know how—” I broke off. I had been going to say “You know how hopeless he is about organizing things,” but one does not criticize the Duke of Rannoch to a family servant. It simply isn’t done.

  “How he worries about everything being just right,” I finished. “So you’d better lay out my tartan skirt for me. I should be properly attired to appear in front of the clans. And I hope my best brogues are well-polished?”

  I could tell by her face that they weren’t. “You’ll only go and get them muddy again,” she said defiantly. Truly if the word hopeless applied to anyone, it was Queenie. I only kept her on because I knew nobody else would take her. Also because I couldn’t afford a more efficient maid.

  I dressed in my best Highland garb, breakfasted well on kedgeree and poached eggs, and met my brother, Binky, the current Duke of Rannoch, in the front hall.

  “Oh, there you are, old bean.” His face lit up when he saw me. “Good of you to come to do this, since Fig’s still feeling under the weather and you know how hopeless I am.”