“Aren’t you going to say anything? What do you think?” Usually Doug wasn’t shy about offering his opinion, especially when I got involved in a murder investigation. I braced myself for the lecture about the dangers of amateur sleuthing.
“What do you think the police will do next?” he asked.
“They’ll probably establish a rough time of death. Then the detective will want to talk to other guests at the club to establish alibis or motives.”
“That’s what I thought. Come on, there’s no time to lose. We need to get cleaned up and head downstairs so we can find out what’s going on.”
“Wait a second. I did promise Detective Glass I’d return for more questioning. But what’s the rush?” I was confused by Doug’s reaction. When it came to murder, he usually steered me in the opposite direction. My snooping gave him more heartburn than a spicy burrito.
“I have my reasons.” Doug immediately headed for the bathroom and turned on the shower. Less than five minutes later, he emerged and dressed swiftly. As he left, he called over his shoulder, “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
The door closed behind him. I’d known Doug for many years before we’d decided to find jobs in the same city, move in together, and get engaged. His behavior was always measured, fiercely loyal, and unfailingly cautious. This strange and decisive reaction caught me off guard. Something was up, and it had to be connected to Grayson Bancroft’s untimely death.
After getting ready, I decided to call Meg. I’d planned to touch base with her later today to make sure Clarence hadn’t engaged in any more canine vandalism. Taking Meg shoe shopping to replace the ruined shoes wouldn’t be a cheap enterprise. Hopefully, Clarence had kept his paws and jaws to himself for the remainder of the evening. The hint of a murder, however, meant that I couldn’t wait to speak with my best friend and fellow gumshoe until the afternoon.
I punched the button on my iPhone to dial Meg and a photo of her with a glass of bubbly appeared. She would have appreciated last night’s refreshments, for sure.
She answered after one ring. “Hey, what’s up? I’m just leaving for work.”
“I’m glad I caught you before you got on the Metro. We need to chat.”
Meg’s voice turned anxious. “Did you hear from the boss? Is something wrong in China?”
“Nothing like that. But I discovered a dead body this morning, and all signs point to foul play.”
Meg’s angst transformed to excitement as she squealed, “Who was it? Tell me everything!”
Once again, I recounted the details of this morning’s escapade. After I was done, Meg exclaimed, “It’s not fair!”
That was the second odd reaction to my story. “What isn’t fair, Meg?”
“You’re going to investigate another murder, and I’m stuck babysitting the office during a boring congressional recess.” I could practically hear the pout in her voice.
Meg could be a little high maintenance at times, particularly when she thought she was missing out on an adventure. “Who said anything about investigating? I had good reasons to get involved in the two murders we encountered on Capitol Hill. The detective on this one seems well equipped to figure out who did this.”
“Give me a break, Kit. You’re not the least bit interested in solving another homicide? It’s practically your second job.”
Sometimes Meg knew me better than I knew myself. “I’ll admit that I’m curious. But Glass might have this wrapped up by the end of the day.”
“We’ll see. Do you think it was poison?”
“Could be. Or something that paralyzed him? His body reminded me of Han Solo frozen in carbonite.”
Meg giggled. “Then it’s easy to solve it, silly.”
“Go ahead.”
“Just find Jabba the Hutt.” Then Meg provided her best imitation of the infamous chortle.
“In the entire galaxy, you are the least likely person to impersonate Jabba the Hutt.” I was referring to Meg’s slim shape, which she managed to retain even as she ate and drank whatever she pleased.
“I’d better leave for work so I’m not late. You know, I’m the boss today.”
“You’ll do great. Do you have plans tonight?”
“Nope. Capitol Hill is deader than a doornail, uh, maybe ‘dead’ is not an apt description, under the circumstances.” During the two-week spring recess, Congress came to a standstill as lawmakers left town and lobbyists, journalists, and many staffers took a break from the daily grind.
“Maybe you can join us for dinner. Let me check the schedule.” I grabbed the printed program we’d received last night outlining the Mayflower Society activities.
“I’ll have to tend to Clarence before I can meet you.”
“I almost forgot. How is my devil dog?”
“He behaved the rest of the night after we had a heart to heart discussion about the destruction of Nordstrom footwear.”
“Don’t worry. There’s a new pair in Pentagon City Mall with your name on them.”
“I’m not concerned. After our unfortunate incident, Clarence and I made up.”
“Really?” Today was full of surprises. First, Doug sprinted to the scene of a murder. Now Meg had found a new four-legged friend.
“We shared a bag of popcorn while watching a Netflix rom-com. He even snuggled with me.”
Meg was currently between paramours, so perhaps Clarence could provide her with precisely the TLC she needed. “Not to change the subject, but we are scheduled to have dinner on our own tonight. So feel free to join us.”
With a discernible degree of suspicion, Meg asked, “With Doug’s parents? Won’t your future mother-in-law want to talk about the wedding?”
Meg was finding it difficult to adjust to my betrothed status. She’d come around in the past few months, but she was in no hurry for me to walk down the aisle.
“Yes, and you can provide the perfect antidote. Who knows? Maybe Bancroft’s death will trump her fascination with making my wedding the premiere social event of the season.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Meg replied sarcastically. “Now I seriously need to motor or all hell will break loose in the office. Junior congressional staff cannot be left unsupervised, even during recess.”
Meg spoke the truth. “I’ll text to let you know our plans.”
“Okey-dokey. Don’t worry about the office. Just focus on the wedding machinations and the murder.”
“Thanks, Meg. See you later.”
I clicked off my phone. I’d better return to the crime scene to determine why Doug was so motivated to find out what happened to poor Grayson Bancroft.
For the second time today, I raced down the stairs to the library. The crowd surrounding the deceased had grown considerably. Breakfast was scheduled for nine. Pretty soon, the august members of the Mayflower Society would discover their fearless leader was dead.
Doug was on the fringes of the police throng inside the library. He signaled me and walked toward the statue of Franklin. If someone strolling outside took a photo of the famous sculpture today, he’d likely catch the outline of a police officer next to it.
Doug sounded panicked. “What took you so long? This is a disaster. The evidence is mounting in the direction of murder.”
“Did Detective Glass find something else?” I asked.
“When the medical examiner arrived, they went through his pockets for identification. They found a typewritten note asking Grayson to meet at midnight by the statue.”
This was getting more interesting by the minute. “The killer passed him the note, luring Bancroft to his death. Is that what the police think?”
Doug nodded. “The detective talked for a while with the medical examiner. I overheard their whole conversation.”
“Overheard?” I raised my eyebrows. Who was this man and what had he done with fiancé? Doug had many talents. Spying wasn’t one of them.
“I eavesdropped. Nobody paid any attention to me, so I got all the important information. It’s imp
ossible to determine an exact time of death, but the medical examiner said midnight fits into his timetable. The body temperature and stage of rigor mortis supports the theory that whomever sent Grayson the note killed him.”
“They agreed this was a murder?”
Doug wrung his hands. “That’s their working hypothesis. I think it might be officially ruled a suspicious death for now. But the medical examiner believes the odd position of the body suggests something other than a natural death.”
“Did they mention the small wound on his neck?”
“It’s definitely the site of a puncture, but the medical examiner couldn’t say for certain what caused it.”
“The most obvious explanation is the killer stuck Grayson with a syringe filled with a poison,” I said.
Doug pursed his lips and grabbed my arm, dragging me farther away from the library. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
I’d had enough. It was time to find out why Doug felt the need to snoop. “Why are you so hell-bent on learning everything about this murder? You’re the one who’s always telling me I should mind my own business and not get involved in catching killers. Did you take a potion last night and wake up as Encyclopedia Brown?” My question wasn’t far-fetched. Appearance-wise, Doug resembled an older, refined version of the famous boy detective.
“Lower your voice,” he insisted.
“Why are you being secretive? Did you kill Grayson Bancroft?”
To my surprise, Doug remained silent for a long moment before answering. “No, I didn’t. It’s my father I’m trying to protect.”
“Your father? Winston Hollingsworth?”
“The one and only.”
“Your father resented Grayson because he wanted to become the president of the Mayflower Society. Surely that’s not a reason to charge him with the murder.”
“It’s not. That’s not the only problem, though.”
This conversation had begun to remind me of a long, painful tooth extraction. “Doug, tell me why you think your father is going to be accused of the crime.”
“The weapon. My father has access to syringes.”
Now I was confused. The Hollingsworths were Boston lawyers, not medical doctors. “How? He doesn’t have an illicit habit, does he?” Somehow I couldn’t imagine Winston Hollingsworth removing his smoking jacket and Brooks Brothers button-down dress shirt to engage in intravenous drug use.
“Certainly not! He’s a diabetic.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You never told me.”
“He doesn’t like to tell people if he can avoid it. He tries to keep it under control through diet. His routine is one shot in the evening. He always travels with at least a dozen syringes,” Doug explained.
I sighed deeply. My sleuthing had definitely rubbed off on Doug. “So you think your father is a likely suspect because he had a solid motive and a means to kill Grayson Bancroft.”
Doug massaged his temples. “Don’t you agree?”
I considered the facts. It wasn’t an open-and-shut case, but we both knew from firsthand experience the police often focused on the most obvious suspect. It could prove difficult, if not impossible, to get law enforcement to reconsider new leads once they’d fixed on a likely collar.
Opening my purse, I found a small, round bottle. I plunked two blue pills into Doug’s hand. “Take these. It will help with your headache.”
Doug clasped them and scurried off, likely in search of a cup of water so he could ingest the medicine and prevent the onslaught of a full migraine. We’d need both brains operating at full capacity if Winston Hollingsworth became a credible suspect.
Detective Glass was deep in conversation with a uniformed police officer. When she finished with him, I approached. “Detective, thank you for allowing me a few minutes to freshen up. Do you need to ask me additional questions?”
Glass turned to face me. “Ms. Marshall, was that your fiancé I saw a few minutes ago? A man approximately your age with thick brown hair and glasses?”
Doug had been mistaken. He hadn’t eluded detection. “Yes, it was. When I told him what happened, he came downstairs to monitor the situation.”
A weak excuse, but better than telling Glass he was concerned his father would be fingered for the murder. Her chin jutted out, and she remained silent. In a noncommittal tone, she said, “Interesting. Most people run away from murders.”
Perhaps Maggie Glass needed to know my background. “Most people, yes. I’ve been involved with two high-profile murders in the past year on Capitol Hill. I guess my inner gumshoe has rubbed off on Doug.” I pasted a forced smile on my face.
“That sounds familiar. I try to keep up with all the big crimes in the city, even the ones outside D.C. Metro’s jurisdiction. Do you have a contact with the Capitol Hill police?”
“Detective O’Halloran.”
“Good to know. I do have a few more questions for you.”
“Certainly, Detective.”
“Can you account for your whereabouts last night after the dinner concluded?”
“Doug and I went to our room and didn’t leave until I decided to head out for an early morning jog.”
“You didn’t leave the room? Not once? For a drink downstairs or to speak with another Mayflower Society attendee?”
“Nope. We really don’t know many people here except Doug’s parents. They invited us as their guests.”
Glass wrote down my answers in her notebook. “Did you hear anything outside your room last night?”
“It was quiet. I didn’t hear a peep.”
“Are you sure, Ms. Marshall? Given your track record with the Capitol Hill murders, you must possess an impressive degree of observational skills. You can remember nothing out of the ordinary?”
“Well, we were um, busy, in the room, and then we both fell asleep.” I felt my face flush.
An amused Glass gave me a knowing glance. “I suppose your fiancé will corroborate this story?”
“It takes two to tango.”
My last remark was too much information for the detective. “Thank you, Ms. Marshall. The other guests are arriving for breakfast, and I need to assemble my team for interviews and room searches.” Glass turned to walk away, and I suppressed a gasp.
“Detective, did you say room searches?”
“Yes, of course. There’s no sign of forced entry from last night. The Continental Club maintains an excellent surveillance system, and we’ll scour those cameras to make sure no one entered the building through an unlocked window or door. Assuming that didn’t occur, we’ll focus our efforts on the guests who were staying at the club last night.”
“What are you looking for?”
Glass crossed her arms and countered, “Why do you want to know?”
“No particular reason. Do you have a working hypothesis to explain how Bancroft died?”
Glass moved closer. “You saw the body. There’s a puncture wound on his neck but no other signs of physical violence. What would you conclude, Ms. Marshall?”
Our eyes locked before I answered, “Someone stuck him with a lethal dose of poison.”
“That would be a reasonable deduction. Please excuse me. I don’t want the other guests to learn too much before I have a chance to question them.” Glass hustled off at a pace rivaling that of Speedy Gonzales.
Doug reappeared, and I shared the bad news about the room searches.
His face fell. “Any appetite I had for breakfast is lost, but perhaps we’d better head there so we can warn my parents?”
“Absolutely.” My stomach rumbled at the mention of food. Sure, I was concerned about Doug’s father and clearing him as a suspect. But no one can think clearly when hungry.
As we wandered into the foyer near the full-length portrait of Gertrude Harper, Bonnie appeared. “Can you tell us where breakfast is this morning? Was it cancelled?” Doug asked.
Bonnie was a bit the worse for wear. Her hair was a mess and her untucked blouse hung out over her pencil skirt
. Slouching against the door leading to the ballroom, she seemed surprised by Doug’s question. “Of course it’s taking place as planned, Dr. Hollingsworth. The Continental Club apologizes for this inconvenience.”
I couldn’t bite my tongue. “Little more than an ‘inconvenience,’ isn’t it? Someone has been murdered.”
Bonnie shifted her feet and stumbled. “Don’t say that! It may be suspicious circumstances, but surely not murder.”
“Sorry, Bonnie. Kit is right. The police think someone killed Grayson Bancroft last night. Most likely a guest of the club,” said Doug.
At this pronouncement, Bonnie backed away into the ballroom. “That’s not possible. No one has ever been murdered at the Continental Club.”
“There’s a first time for everything. We’d better catch up with Doug’s parents at breakfast. Where is it?” I asked.
“We had to move it downstairs to the Green Dining Room. It’s between the larger dining room and the bar.”
We thanked Bonnie and headed downstairs. Following the sound of voices, we found the relocated Mayflower Society breakfast in a small enclave that had been walled off from the area where club members and their guests were assembling for Washington D.C. power breakfasts. How many Pulitzer Prize ideas had been exchanged over coffee and freshly baked rolls?
The sequestration of our morning meal was no accident. Had the police insisted on privacy while they interrogated the Mayflower Society attendees? Or had the Continental Club thought it best to separate murder suspects from the rest of the well-heeled crowd?
The delicious smell of eggs and bacon lured us in the direction of the dining room. Before we could open the door, I heard familiar voices. Cecilia Rose and her husband Drake were inside the bar, chatting with the chummy bartender from last night, Charles.
I whispered to Doug. “I’ll join you at breakfast in a few minutes.” He followed my gaze and nodded.
Cecilia and Drake were sitting on high-backed stools, their elbows resting on the bar while they sipped their drinks. Charles leaned over the countertop, deep in conversation with the couple. I walked over to the trio and announced my presence. “I’d say good morning to everyone, but that doesn’t quite seem appropriate, given the circumstances.”
Calamity at the Continental Club Page 5
