by C Jane Reid
“Now we need to consider anyone with a ridiculous motive?” Brandon sighed and ran finger over his mustache. “I say, this is turning into more of an enterprise than I thought.”
“Lost the fun of it, have you?” Vera asked him with a wry grin.
“No, no, not at all. Though, not fun, exactly,” Brandon confessed, “but I’m still all in. We are, aren’t we?” He turned hopeful eyes to Willa.
“Oh, naturally.” She leaned forward, the frill along her neckline ruffling with the movement as she tucked her hands under her chin with her elbows on her crossed knees. “What shall be our next step, Lola?”
Lola toyed with her beads. Amethyst ones this time, multifaceted and the perfect match to the olive green and purple drop-waist dresses she had changed into before joining the others at the Portage Club.
“Perhaps we should ask Mickey if he saw anything unusual with the German,” she suggested.
“You don’t believe Mickey killed him?” Vera looked shocked by the very idea.
“I’m not saying that, though—” Lola glanced toward the bar. Mickey was wiping down bottles behind the bar while speaking with one of the guests. Lola was getting better at spotting the guests from the locals. This one was dressed in a brown suit with his Homburg resting on the bar. “—did he ever mention serving in the war?”
“If we go by whether everyone fought in the war,” Gordie said, “the list is going to get very long.” Gordie glanced to the door and his expression grew frustrated.
Lola followed his gaze to see Marilyn crossing toward the bar but looking around the room as she went. When she found Gordie, she smiled, but when she noticed who he was with, the smile withered.
“Lola,” Gordie said in a strained voice, “might I request the honor of a dance.”
Lola hesitated. Not that she didn’t wish to dance with Gordie, but she wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being used as a shield against another woman’s affections. But it was Gordie, and he had the look of a hunted animal.
“Of course.” Lola rose and accepted Gordie’s arm.
Lola watched Gordie watching Marilyn as they danced. She ended up on the arm of another gentleman guest who stumbled a bit too much and spent more time staring at Marilyn’s bust line than at her face. The irony of the lyrics to the song playing made Lola grimace.
Our dreaming, our scheming, was all in vain.
One lover’s quarrel brought endless pain.
We had a wonderful start.
Who ever thought we would part?
Gordie made a noise of frustration as the gentleman pulled Marilyn a little too close. “She needs to stop.”
“She’s trying to win over your sympathies,” Lola told him. “Or make you jealous.” And she feared it was working. She tightened her grip on his arm and shoulder. “Gordie.” She waited until he focused on her. “Are you?”
“Am I?”
“Jealous.”
Gordie let out a long sigh. “No. But I am worried.”
“You must let her make her own mistakes.”
“What if they end up hurting her?”
“We’ll simply make certain she doesn’t leave with any of the men she dances with.” Lola held back a sigh. She wasn’t excited about taking responsibility for another woman’s foolish choices again, but she cared for Gordie and didn’t want to see him give in to his sense of honor to save Marilyn from herself.
They finished the dance and rejoined the others. Daphne and Brandon looked pleased with themselves. Vera was looking slightly bored. Willa was watching Lola and Gordie.
Lola shot her a questioning look, but her friend pursed her lips and lifted her drink rather than answer.
“We’ve created a list of suspects,” Brandon said proudly, smoothing his pencil-thin mustache.
“Daphne is ever so clever about it,” Vera added, cheering.
“I determined that we needed to list everyone, even those we know weren’t involve, since the detective inspector will be doing so as well. Then we simply determine their innocence until we reach one we cannot.” Daphne tapped her pen against the open page of her journal.
Lola sat and sipped at her Mary Pickford. “I suppose that is one method. We would need to consider things like access to methanol and to Herr Prinz along with the motives.” She sighed. “I’d rather go back to considering innocence first, though. This feels . . .” She let the thought trail off.
“Soiled,” Willa supplied.
“Exactly. How do they manage it?”
“Who?” Brandon asked.
“The detective inspectors.” Lola had a fresh wave of respect for Arthur. And a measure of guilt for her behavior.
But only a small measure. He’d brought much of it on himself, after all.
“Who’s on the list?” she asked Daphne.
“At the moment, we have Gordie. Apologies, Gordie,” Daphne said with a glance to him. Gordie gave her a tight-lipped nod. “We have Jack Edgars,” she continued, “and Gaspard Brodieur, and Miss Edie, unfortunately. And we have Herr Prinz himself.”
“Herr Prinz murdered himself?” Lola asked with an arched eyebrow.
“Suicide,” Willa supplied.
“He poisoned himself on a staircase?”
“Perhaps he poisoned himself beforehand and expected it to act sooner. Or later,” Daphne said. She frowned. “We thought only to add him because there is a possibility, however slight. It has been known to happen.”
“What has?” Brandon asked.
“A suicidal person deciding to implicate an enemy for murder.”
“I say, that is rather clever.”
“And a brilliant idea.” Vera frowned. “I do wish I had my journal but it is far too large for my handbag.” She lifted up her small, emerald wrist purse. “I’ll simply have to remember the idea.”
“A future mystery?” Willa asked with a smile.
“Wouldn’t it be, though? Such a clever, if rather permanent way, to get even.”
“I’d say it’s ridiculous,” Gordie said, “but then, we agreed that one person’s reasonable can be another’s ridiculous.”
Lola tapped her finger to her lips. “We should speak to Mickey.”
“Do we put him on the suspect list?” Brandon asked.
“He did serve the drinks,” Daphne said.
“How fast would this sort of poison work?” Gordie asked. “Does anyone know? That might help determine who should be considered.”
“Fair point,” Daphne said. “I admit I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You can’t think of everything,” Brandon told her.
Daphne pursed her lips together, and Lola had the feeling that she felt otherwise.
Lola withheld a sigh. “I hate to admit it, but I fear we will need to speak with the detective inspector.”
“He’d tell us about the poison, do you think?” Willa asked.
“I’ve no idea. I was rather rude to him earlier.”
“Justifiably rude,” Gordie corrected.
“Still—”
“Won’t there be a doctor employed by the hotel?” Daphne asked suddenly.
“Doctor?”
“This hotel is the size of a village. It would only make sense to have someone in a doctoral capacity within reach considering how wealthy the clientele the Regal Rose caters to.”
“Doctoral capacity?” Vera quirked an eyebrow. “Is that truly what it’s called?”
“If it isn’t, then it should be.”
They laughed, though Daphne looked serious.
“We should ask,” Willa said.
“Surely he’d be asleep at this hour,” Gordie said.
“This is rather an emergency,” Willa told him. “Or, we could make it into one.”
“That seems immoral.”
“Not immoral, Gordie,” Vera corrected. “Simply quite rude. I’ll ask,” she said, standing. “I have no trouble with rudeness.”
Vera sauntered off, drawing a fair number of glances from the small c
rowd as she went, both in admiration and envy.
Lola stood as well. “I’m going to speak with Mickey.”
“I’ll go with you,” Brandon said. “Another drink?” he asked Willa.
Willa gave him a tentative smiled. “Yes, please.” Brandon didn’t seem to notice her hesitation. He beamed a grin instead.
“I’d take another, too,” Daphne said pointedly. Brandon merely nodded to his sister.
Lola cast Willa a look as Brandon led the way towards the bar. Willa gave her a weak smile.
As they crossed the nightclub, Lola glanced around for Marilyn. She was at the bar with the gentleman she’d danced with, but she looked like she wished she were anywhere else. He was speaking to her in an animated fashion and leaning far too close.
Lola felt a moment’s sympathy for Marilyn, and then the woman caught her watching and glared at her. Lola’s sympathy left the room.
She chose a place at the other end of the bar away from Marilyn and her glare. She hitched her foot onto the polished bar at the bottom, cocking out her hip in her customary stance.
“Lola,” Brandon whispered to her, leaning close. “Your Texan is showing again.”
Lola eyed him, puzzled, then realized how she was standing. She began to straighten before thinking better of it. “Nothing wrong with showing a bit of Texan,” she told him with a wave of her hand. “Mickey!” she called after he’d set a cocktail and a G&T in front of a couple.
Mickey grinned as he neared.
“‘Tis the loveliest rose of the Regal Rose,” he said with a wink.
“Flirt.”
“Ah, but you’re liking the flirt in me, I’m thinking.”
Lola didn’t answer except to smile.
“I say, did you hear about the German?” Brandon asked him.
“Who hasn’t? Can’t say I’m surprised, man like him, bold as you please, swaggering about.” Mickey had a look of distaste that bordered on outrage.
“Word is that he was poisoned,” Lola told him, crossing her arms on the bar.
“I’m hoping you aren’t thinking I’m the culprit,” Mickey said. “Poisoning is bad fer business and all that.”
Lola chuckled. “I suppose it is at that.”
“What did the old Boche in?” Mickey asked.
“Methanol. The chief inspector also called it wood alcohol. Ever heard of it?”
Mickey nodded, sobering. “I have at that. Me cousin’s husband near did hisself in with it.”
“That’s awful.”
Mickey shook his head. “Nah, ‘twas awful he lived, God help me fer saying.”
“Did someone try to kill him?”
“Nothing of the sort. He was brewing a batch of his own spirits and fouled it up. ‘Twas a lucky thing no one else drank it, but he was trying to sell it and the local pub didn’t much care fer that and made a stink of it. No one’ll be buying anything made by him anytime soon, I’m thinking.”
“I had no idea.” Lola let out a breath. “They found the methanol in Miss Edie’s rooms.”
“They never did!”
“I’m afraid it’s so,” Brandon put in.
“Those—” Mickey bit off a word that no doubt would cost him tips. “She’d never do such. I’d swear it on the bible, I would.”
“So would we all,” Lola told him, “but unless we find a way to clear her name . . .”
The three exchanged glances.
“I’ll keep me ears open,” Mickey told her. “If I hear even a peep, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you, Mickey.”
“I say, you didn’t have any part in it, did you?” Brandon asked him.
Mickey screwed up his face with offense. “Said I didn’t, didn’t I?”
“Actually, you said poisoning was bad for business.”
“Ah, I’m seeing yer point. No, I had no interested in killing the man. Killed enough Germans in my day.”
Brandon nodded in understanding. He held out his hand and Mickey gave it a hearty shake.
After getting Willa’s cocktail, the two returned to the table. Vera was hard on their heels.
“Willa,” she said excitedly, “look ill.”
“What?”
Before Vera could explain, a tired, older man joined them. He was a round-faced man with round spectacles and a slightly rounded middle and a round nose. He was well-dressed, though his tie was slightly askew, and Lola suspected that, had the man any hair, it would be bed-tousled, but as it was, he was bald enough for the dim light to reflect off his head. She recognized him as one of the two men with Arthur and the German’s body that night.
“Where is the young woman?” he asked as he set his medical satchel on the table.
“Here, Dr. Tate.” Vera gestured to Willa, who slumped quickly in her seat and put on a sickly expression.
The doctor pulled the nearby chair to her and sat, taking hold of Willa’s wrist. He pulled out a pocket watch. Willa began breathing more rapidly and shallow.
“Has she shown signs of confusion?” the doctor asked.
The others looked around at one another.
“She thought we were in her parlor,” Brandon said quickly.
“And she thought I was her maid,” Daphne added.
The doctor glanced at them. His face was impeccably placid. He laid the back of his hand on Willa’s forehead. “Any nausea?”
Another exchange of looks.
“Ooh,” Willa groaned, putting one hand over her stomach.
The doctor straightened. He watched Willa for long seconds.
He wasn’t buying it. Lola could tell.
“It’s just that there’s been all this talk of murder,” she said before he could call them out.
“And I heard it might have been poisoning,” Vera added.
“So when she was acting, ah, peculiar, we naturally thought it might be, well—” Lola bit the inside of her cheek as the doctor studied her. She despised lying. “Honestly, she’s fine, Dr. Tate. We needed to ask you a question.” She felt very foolish.
“I thought this the best way to get your attention,” Vera told him. “Sorry to have woken you, but you did come ever so fast. What a good doctor you must be.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
Dr. Tate was unmoved. He cast a stern eye on all of them. “I don’t take false emergency calls lightly.”
“No, of course not.” Lola wrapped her fingers into her beads. “And I do sincerely apologize.”
“Can we offer you a drink?” Gordie asked him.
Dr. Tate sighed, but he relented. “As I’m already awake . . .”
“I’ll bring it,” Vera told him with a little bounce. “G&T?”
“Brandy, if you will.”
“For you, anything.” She darted off toward the bar. Lola noticed how Dr. Tate watched her. He wasn’t as immune to Vera as he’d have her think.
Lola hid her smile.
“You mentioned something about a question?” he asked her.
“Yes. I’m a friend, well, I’m Miss Edie’s, Madame’s, personal assistant.”
“I wasn’t aware she had taken on anyone besides Eugenie.”
“It’s a recent arrangement.”
The doctor nodded for her to continue.
“She’s been implicated in the death of the German.”
“I am aware.”
“She didn’t. Murder him, that is.”
Dr. Tate didn’t reply. Lola pursed her lips but didn’t try to convince him otherwise. Not at the moment, at least.
“I understand that methanol poisoning is the cause and wanted very much to know how that might occur.”
“For what reason?”
Lola hesitated. She hadn’t expected that question.
“To clear Miss Edie’s name,” Gordie answered. “We can’t believe she would be involved with it. I’m a more likely suspect. Though it wasn’t me, either,” he hastily added.
“Yes, I heard you had been cleared.” Dr. Tate glanced up as Vera stopped next
to him and held out the drink with a saucy grin. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” She winked then perched on the arm of his chair.
He glanced at her, and it didn’t escape Lola that the doctor didn’t so much as look at Vera’s shapely, exposed leg, instead studying her expression before sipping his drink.
“Methanol poisoning,” Dr. Tate finally said, focusing on them all, “is not a new method of death.”
“Or of poisoning?” Daphne asked.
Dr. Tate inclined his head. “It can be hidden any number of ways, though most deaths result in drinking home-brewed spirits. A habit I strictly caution against,” he added, eying them each in turn.
“Why go to all the bother when there are so many fine spirits to be had in far more interesting places?” Vera asked.
Dr. Tate glanced at her with a slight smile. “I trust you do not over-indulge.”
“Only when I’m bored,” Vera answered.
“We try to keep her entertained,” Willa said. “A bored Vera is a danger to the population.”
“Especially the male portion,” Daphne added dryly.
Vera shot her an annoyed look.
“I say, Daph, that isn’t very kind,” Brandon told his sister.
“I apologize, Vera.”
Vera inclined her head, but the glance she gave the doctor was uncertain. He seemed not to notice. Was Vera worried what he might think of her?
“Alcohol poisoning is much more common,” Dr. Tate said in the ensuing silence. “And no less dangerous,” he cautioned. “But methanol poisoning is far more lethal.”
“How much would it take to kill a man, say, the size of Herr Prinz?” Lola asked.
“About .1 liters or so.”
Lola frowned.
Gordie leaned closer. “About four ounces.” To Dr. Tate he said, “Lola was raised in the colonies.”
“I take exception to that,” Lola pouted. “We chased you Brits off, as I recall.”
“And invade us instead,” Willa said, all feigning of illness gone.
