“Asthma?” His red eyes were definitely worried. “But he had medication. And a thing to suck on if he had an attack.”
“Yes. But I don’t think that the perfume on his coat and the empty rescue inhaler helped in the slightest.”
Tom’s face was chapped and red from being out in the cold, but I swear he went white under all that winter weathering. He muttered something about ‘not meaning it’ and stumbled away.
“Damn it,” I said, suspecting I was looking at worry and fear for himself and his wife, and not compassion for a man Tom didn’t particularly like, suffering in his final minutes.
That didn’t necessarily mean guilt though. At some time or other I think all of us have wished someone dead. Few of us ever progress beyond hoping for a stray bolt of lightning to find our tormentors. Tom was a gentle man, at least by reputation. He might have had strong words with his brother-in-law and now be regretting them. I hoped that this was what it all meant.
Mom called me just as I was leaving the farm and told me that she and Aunt Dot were done ladling on the tea and sympathy since Linda was there being a prop and mainstay, and that the memorial service would be held the next morning at ten. The coroner would not release the body, but Laurie wanted to go ahead and get the ceremony over with. Mom didn’t ask why the body was being held. She tries not to acknowledge ugly realities, but she knew that the body being held for more tests wasn’t a good thing. Mom complained about the dry cleaner being closed and then wanted to know if I was coming to the funeral and I said that I would have to ask the chief for time off.
Did I want to go to another funeral? Of course not. But there was always a chance of learning something. And it was also just part of small town life. You have to take the rough with the smooth. This could be tough though, if I discovered anything during the service. Mom would not be happy if I pointed an official finger at Laurie Dillon. Of course, she wouldn’t be happy if the finger moved Linda Borders’ way either. The only one I could blame with impunity was Chelsea Towers. Maybe I should be looking more closely at her.
I had traded in my electric cart for my own car since it was still too icy for my bike. My car started, but it was making unhappy wheezing noises. Perhaps it had caught pneumonia of the sparkplugs or something. Since machines tend to die around me, I decided to heed the warning and called my father.
He and Alex were together doing something to spruce up Dad’s Facebook page— Dad had gone high tech after the Youtube thing crushed his political rival and Alex was helping him. I suggested that he stay to dinner and look at my poor car. Dad said it sounded like a good deal.
A look at the sky told me that the clouds were closing in again, so low that they were snagging on the trees that ran along the western crest. Temperatures were dropping and it felt like we would either have snow or an ice fog. It might be time to break down and watch a weather report. Alex and I don’t watch a lot of the television shows that are part of the mainstream entertainment diet, especially the news. We prefer to read in the evening. But the weather could kill you and it happened locally, not just in big cities. We would watch it— at nine though. Not during dinner.
And speaking of dinner, what was I to fix? Dad and Alex had probably finished the leftovers at lunch. Was it too soon to fix spaghetti again?
Chapter 11
The next few days passed quickly. I went to the funeral but learned nothing except that too many women were wearing gardenia perfume. It did come in two distinct varieties which could be identified easily enough when someone with a dead nose went overboard with the spray. I eventually labeled the two smells ‘jungle’ and ‘domestic’. I had been certain that the perfume I smelled on Herb Dillon was the jungle variety but had to admit that between all the candy-canes and spilled hot chocolate that perhaps my nose was compromised.
Chelsea was at the funeral but kept well to the back and away from Laurie. Her dress was black but a feat of architectural engineering that hadn’t happened locally. She was not as modestly endowed as I am, but the dress made her look more than appropriately abundant. Fertility goddesses didn’t have such large breasts. I told myself not to be catty and that as Herb’s secretary she had every right to be there, but in my heart of hearts I wrote her off as something other than a class act.
I didn’t write a lot of parking tickets that Christmas week. The tourists had mostly cleared out when the roads opened and the locals were doing the majority of their shopping on foot. The after Christmas madness had passed and people were beginning to confront the reality of their credit card bills and dining more on leftovers than in restaurants.
The coroner would not— or could not— say if Herb Dillon’s death was murder or an accident. My gut said homicide so the chief asked the coroner to hold off making an official announcement until after the new year. If something didn’t turn up by then it was likely that person or persons unknown were going to get away with their crime. The chief didn’t blame me for this, but the shadow hung over me.
Alex was having fun helping Dad design his soon-to-be mayoral website, which was already popular because Dad encouraged people to write in with concerns and everyone loves to complain. Alex was also helping my father learn the ins and outs of things like Twitter. We didn’t talk about the murder but Alex knew it was on my mind. Dad was wholly taken up with his potential new job, forgetting that the election had not in actual fact happened yet and that he was not really the new king.
Finally it was New Year’s Eve. Dancing with excitement I packed an overnight bag and put my mask into one of my grandmother’s hat boxes. With less enthusiasm, I took Blue to my father’s for an overnight because the inn wasn’t taking reservations for dogs at the ball.
I love the Morningside Inn but it is a bit shocking on first view. It was built in the day when skilled labor was cheap and no one had thought up income or property tax, so why not build larger and grander than rival lumber barons? And architects? Well, that was just a silly expense indulged in by men who were filled with self-doubt. And not using one made for much more creative designs which, to this day, encouraged the weaker minded to see ghosts.
The current owners were only slightly mad—and in a good way. But looking at the imbalance of furniture in the lobby—big chairs, little table and giant paintings hung over mini-rugs—I always had to wonder about their design inspiration. It made me think of certain Tim Burton films and I wondered if they were also seeing spirits who were handing out strange decorating advice.
“It looks like an opium den,” Alex breathed in happy awe.
Though I didn’t disagree aloud, based on the photos I have seen of the old opium dens, I think it looked a lot more like some Belle Epoch bordello in New York. Opium dens in the old west were the crack houses of their days—frequented by poor workers rather than pashas and Victorian gentlemen being serviced by beautiful dragon ladies.
“But that staircase.” Alex pointed. “It’s wrong. Why does it look like that?”
“It’s built widdershins to confuse the ghosts. The builder was a southpaw and I suspect also dyslexic. Rumor has it that he was also….” I lowered my voice when I realized other guests were listening. “He was haunted by two ghosts that followed him everywhere like extra shadows. They were supposedly business partners that died under suspicious circumstances and haunted their betrayer.”
A large woman in a down coat moved away from the registration desk and we took her place. Formalities taken care of, I hitched up my garment bag and hat box and nodded toward the stairs. Alex followed closely, drinking in the details.
The front of the Inn had been modernized and this is where the guests stayed, but for the first time the new owners were opening the old wing where the ballroom was located. The expense of electrifying the room had been high especially since they wanted to preserve the intricately carved woodwork that had escaped dry rot and wood-worm—thanks to a shaman’s blessing which he threw in for free when it turned out he couldn’t get rid of the ghosts for the trouble
d builder. Rumor had it that the space with its refinished floors and massive fireplace was worth every penny the new owners spent and I was excited to be there for the inaugural dance. A crew from the History channel was going to be filming the ball as part of a documentary about historic and haunted hotels. I was so happy that I had a great costume for the event. Alex was going as a black knight. We would look stunning and do our hometown proud.
We were staying the night and I was pleased with our room which opened with an old fashioned brass key. It was all dark wood and velvet with a four poster bed with curtains that probably didn’t close but which looked wonderful to a girl who had wanted a canopy bed and never got one. The rug was reproduction, but a good one, and the rest of the furniture was a mix of authentic and faux antiques that were charming. There was also a large oval mirror for primping.
I couldn’t resist stepping out on the small balcony to look around the snowy gardens. The smell of ice was in the air and I felt a slight pang of concern. Blue was with Dad so I knew she was warm and safe. The cats had declined to pack up their toys and catnip and join Blue for her overnight, but they had lots of kibble and the heater was on. I assured myself that they were fine too.
“Want to try out the bed?” Alex asked and smiled warmly. “It looks fit for a king.”
“Okay. Let’s see if the bed curtains work.”
* * *
The ballroom was as beautiful as advertised. The lighting was recessed or else done with wall sconces whose crystal facets sparkled like stars. There was also an enormous chandelier which had been wired for electricity. About one third of the space was given to dining. The rest was for the small orchestra and dancing. The owners had resisted the temptation to pack the place, though they probably could have. I had known that this would be a luxury affair but I was beginning to suspect that this evening’s entertainment had cost Alex more than I imagined.
It’s bragging, but I must say that we got a lot of attention. My mask especially drew a number of admiring stares. It might have been more impressive if I was six feet tall, but I had to settle for cute rather than menacing. Alex was wearing a swooping mustache and a half helmet that disguised his face and I made it a point not to speak and ruin the mystery of who we were for the locals who were speculating about us. I was especially pleased by not being recognized by Tara Lee. I did not want to spend the night in her orbit which she might well expect since most of the Lit Wits lionized her.
The menu for the buffet was impressive and I considered keeping one of the parchment cards laid on the china place settings as a souvenir. There was oyster soup, goose with trimmings, suckling pig, and rum trifle and almond gateau for dessert. It would mean removing my mask while I ate but I couldn’t resist such a bill of fare. And since it was a buffet there was no one to frown at what I avoided and what I decided to try— perhaps to excess in the case of the trifle.
There were no place cards assigning us seats which suited me since I liked to stay away from shrieking people. Meaning tourists and drunks mostly. Alex and I chose a quiet, secluded spot near a wall. It took a moment to stow my cape which had tangled with Alex’s sword and only then did I look around at our companions. Frankly, I was stunned to see Laurie Dillon at our table. Laurie looked newly varnished, hair bobbed and colored, brighter make-up and a new black evening gown that from the chemical smell hadn’t been worn yet. I told myself it was possible that she had made her reservations long ago just as Alex had, and was determined not to lose her deposit (though I found it hard to believe that the Inn wouldn’t have refunded the widow had she requested it). It seemed more likely to me that she was someone’s guest.
This suspicion was confirmed when I looked a second time at the exquisite Harlequin sitting beside Laurie which proved to be Herb’s sister. That costume hadn’t been made in a day and sure wasn’t a rental. Attending this party seemed more likely that this had been something Linda and Tom had planned. And at the last minute Linda had invited her sister in law instead. It was a gesture of kindness. Probably. And awfully gallant of Tom to give up his place at this very expensive affair when they were probably hard pressed to afford it. Or had been.
The kind gesture seemed wasted though. The widow was mostly calm under her simple black Zorro mask but her composure seemed only as deep as a coat of varnish and cracked from time to time. This was to be expected and excused in the bereaved, except hysteria and grief usually came with tears and not small bursts of smothered laughter that were inadequately buried in a napkin.
I decided that I would have to find out from Bess Trader if Laurie was taking happy pills. Or maybe her sister-in-law had supplied her with some of the whacky tobbacky Linda and Tom were rumored to grow in the summer as a way to supplement their income.
“Alex,” I whispered.
“I see.” He didn’t sound thrilled. I wasn’t either but we could hardly get up and leave without being insulting.
“Let’s eat.”
It was to be expected that many of the women would be wearing gardenia perfume. The scent, in moderation, was inoffensive though it had become associated with death in my mind and I would never like smelling it, especially with roast goose. But on my way to the much desired trifle, I caught a whiff of the feral version and, like a child called by the Pied Piper, I followed the trail to wearer, a tall woman with dark hair cut in a bob that looked like Laurie’s. Her mask was plain black velvet similar to the widow’s, but it was more than enough drama when paired with the sheer beaded flapper dress she wore with a body stocking. I recognized her, Chelsea Tower. And if the rumors of her relationship with Herb Dillon were true then it had not been an affair of the heart, at least not on her side. She didn’t look grief stricken as she flirted with a tall, medieval prince that I finally recognized as David Cooper. If anything, I would have called her giddy and David also looked tastelessly happy as well.
The scent grew stronger as she turned her back, almost as though she had sprayed the back of her dress rather than the front, leaving a kind of scented bull’s-eye.
The hair on my arms stood up straight and I looked around for Laurie and Linda.
“Oh geez. I need to call the chief,” I whispered to Alex as he joined me at the buffet. “Dance me toward the door.”
“Why?” he asked, but immediately complied.
“See the bombshell in the flapper dress? That’s Herb Dillon’s lover. And she is with David— Herb and Laurie’s attorney. She’s wearing the same perfume I smelled on Herb but it’s all over the back of her dress. Someone put it on her, I think so I would notice it.”
Alex gave a silent whistle.
“You think there’ll be a fight if the widow sees her here?”
“I think there’ll be a murder,” I said without thinking, earning a worried look from Alex. “Hurry, but don’t look panicked. We’re being filmed.”
Chapter 12
We had had to wander a fair distance from the ballroom before I could get a signal on my cell. The chief answered after only a couple of rings and he took my call in good stead. In fact, he sounded pretty enthused for a man asked to turn out on a snowy New Year’s Eve night, though from the background noise I could tell that he wasn’t at home. I tried not to be annoyed. I feared that something fatal was about to happen, but he was thinking in terms of solving a murder before one had even been officially declared. I didn’t mention that there was a film crew around immortalizing the New Year’s Eve event, though it was on my mind. How the heck were we going to keep this from them?
“What do you want me to do?” Alex asked. He wasn’t bitter about having his very expensive and well-planned evening taken over by my work and this makes him a prince among men.
We started back for the ballroom. I put my mask back on because it was easier than carrying it. We didn’t run but we were moving fast.
“Keep an eye on Chelsea. I’ll head for Laurie. Try to avoid attracting the cameras.” I wished that there was someone to send to the lobby to wait for the chief, but
he was resourceful and would find us. “Damn it! I hope I’m wrong about this.”
“You think Chelsea is in danger?” he asked. “Even with David there?”
“Only if she does something stupid. And David won’t be able to stop it.”
We parted at the door and I headed for Laurie fearing I might already have left it too late. David was standing at the table. Laurie had a plate in front of her, it was filled with trifle and almond gateau. The trifle was snowy white, studded with the glowing rubies of cherries and currants. The almond gateau looked a little runny and I could smell the bitter almonds from six feet away.
“Stop.” I took the spoon away from Laurie. My hands were shaking.
“What…” Her eyes were unfocused and her face was ghastly pale. She didn’t recognize me in my mask.
“Did she eat any gateau?” I demanded of David.
“Chloe, is that you? I hardly think—” he began in his most pompous voice.
“Shut up. Laurie— did you eat any of this?” Her eyes were glazed and before I could ask anything else, she leaned over the side of the table and vomited. Fortunately, it was into her purse. The nasty odor that floated up was of wine but not bitter almonds. I hoped this meant she was safe.
“What’s wrong with her?” David asked in alarm.
“Help me get her out of here. We may need an ambulance. Did Chelsea send you over with that dessert?”
He looked baffled and then as he put the pieces together, horrified. He quickly hauled Laurie to her feet. We left her purse. I doubted anyone would steal it.
“No. It was Linda.”
There was a sudden commotion across the room as Linda saw us and panicked. She tried to shove her way out of the crowd at the buffet table. Fortunately she tried to run past Alex, and he had the good sense to stick his foot out. Linda landed in a heap at the door to the ballroom where the chief and Officer Bryce were waiting.
Murder on Parade Page 6
