Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  Winston sighed and took a sip of his wine before answering. “You’ve definitely hit a nerve. Lola Valdez hated the direction the Mayflower Society was going in under Bancroft. As you may have ascertained, I was no fan of Grayson, either. But for a different reason.”

  Buffy touched his sleeve and added, “Lola can’t keep her politics separate from her passion for history. Winston just wanted Grayson to step aside so he could serve as president of Mayflower.”

  “My wife is mostly correct. I didn’t care for Grayson’s ideological bent, either. But I really detested the man because he used his money to maintain a stranglehold on Mayflower.”

  Meg listened intently. “Can you tell us more about Lola’s problem with Grayson? I still don’t understand her intense dislike of the man.”

  “Lola got a doctorate in history decades ago at Berkeley. Doug, do you remember the subject of her thesis?”

  Doug replied, “Radical and Reconstructive Views of Early Puritan leaders. Her research was avant-garde, to say the least.”

  “That’s Lola,” Winston said. “Always pushing the boundaries. Her liberal politics never meshed with Grayson’s conservatism.”

  Meg put down her glass for a brief moment. “We understand political disagreements and how they can result in murder. But Lola and Grayson weren’t fighting over health care or immigration policy. Historical societies don’t exactly raise hackles, right?”

  Buffy snickered. “You haven’t seen the Mayflower Society in action.”

  I looked to my future father-in-law for an explanation.

  “Grayson believed strongly that conservatives were the true disciples of American history. He advocated for strict and traditional interpretations of the past. He abhorred revisionism of any kind.”

  The argument was becoming clearer. “Lola was the other extreme of the spectrum,” I said.

  Doug nodded. “She was part of the New Left movement in the seventies, and her beliefs stayed with her. She detested the Republicans claiming they are the true protectors of American history.”

  I glanced at Meg, who was clearly on the same wavelength. “Go ahead, Meg. Ask the question.”

  “Could Lola’s disagreement with Grayson be a motive for murder?”

  Winston hesitated, but Buffy did not. “Of course,” she said. “Lola’s passion for history played second fiddle to Frederick’s success as a cellphone magnate. She never pursued the academic career she wanted. The Mayflower Society is the outlet for her true passion.”

  Buffy was certainly familiar with the latest output of the rumor mill. Still, I wanted to hear Winston’s opinion.

  At my pointed look, he obliged. “A few years ago, Grayson started inviting right-wing speakers to the annual meetings. He also recruited more members who shared his view so that the old guard, which included Lola, would eventually be in the minority and silenced within the society.”

  “Sounds downright nasty,” murmured Meg.

  “The study of history can be deadly,” Doug said, taking my hand.

  Visions of academics slaughtering each other at the American Historical Association annual conference flashed before my eyes. Somehow the sight of intellectual post-modernists eviscerating the ancient-history specialists didn’t exactly ring true, but I didn’t want to burst Doug’s bubble.

  “Point taken. How does Grayson’s death change the direction of the Mayflower Society? What will be different without him around?” I asked.

  Our waiter’s arrival interrupted our conversation. He placed a generous portion of rotisserie chicken and fennel sausage cannelloni stuffed with baby spinach and ricotta before me. The fragrance of Italian spices made my mouth water. Murder was important, but so was savoring an excellent meal. Our table fell silent except for the clink of silverware.

  We all praised our meals, and I gently prodded Winston to answer my earlier question. After careful consideration, he finally spoke. “It’s hard to say. We should know more after Sunday’s business meeting. The society will have to elect a new president. Lola should have the votes to make sure Grayson’s successor doesn’t follow in his conservative footsteps. I’m quite certain she would support my candidacy.”

  Doug raised his eyebrows. “Father, given the circumstances and the suspicion directed at you, putting your hat in the ring is a risky move.”

  Buffy waved her hand. “Forget it, Doug. Your father has waited years for this moment. He’s not going to forego an opportunity to serve as president of Mayflower.”

  Meg paused from inhaling her mixed grille platter. “You’ll be playing right into the hands of the police, confirming the motive they want to pin on you.”

  Winston refused to back down. “We’ll see what develops. Perhaps the murderer will be apprehended, by the police or someone else.” He winked at me.

  “What about Frederick?” I said. “Doug chatted with him earlier today, and there’s no love lost between the two of them.”

  “That’s easy,” Buffy said. “I need only one word to describe the relationship between Frederick and Grayson.”

  We all waited with bated breath as Buffy tilted back her glass to savor the last drops of her wine. “Jealousy.”

  “From what Kit told me, Frederick was wildly successful in business. Why was he jealous of Grayson?” Meg inquired.

  “It’s all a matter of degree,” Winston said. “Bancroft was untouchable, particularly in Washington circles. Frederick could never unseat him.” He ticked off the reasons on the fingers on his right hand. “In philanthropy, business, Republican intellectual circles, Bancroft had the edge, and Frederick couldn’t keep up. The Capital Observer was the last straw.”

  “The conservative Washington newspaper?” Doug asked.

  “You got it. Despite the economic futility of traditional journalism these days, Frederick tried to buy it last year. He wanted to use his knowledge of the mobile phone industry to revolutionize the paper’s online presence. Just between us, he also wanted to buy the paper before the upcoming elections.”

  Meg finished the last remaining morsels on her plate. “Something tells me Frederick didn’t get to buy his right-wing mouthpiece.”

  The waiter cleared our empty plates and placed after-dinner menus before us. A firm believer in never foregoing dessert, Meg avidly scanned the options.

  “He never had the chance,” Buffy explained. “The scuttlebutt inside Mayflower Society is Grayson heard about the offer Frederick was putting together and doubled it.”

  “Did Grayson really want to own the Observer that badly? It doesn’t exactly enjoy the distribution of the New York Times,” I said.

  Buffy leaned in and lowered her voice. “There’s the rub. He only bought it to prevent Frederick from owning it.”

  Meg muttered, “No shortage of motives.”

  Doug must have heard Meg’s muted comment. “We shouldn’t have a problem casting suspicion in another direction.”

  “The question is whether the police will take these motives seriously. How can we get Detective Glass to investigate suspects other than your father?” I wondered aloud.

  Meg dove into a plate of crispy Greek doughnuts. A small drop of syrup on her chin emphasized her otherwise flawless appearance. Between bites, she pointed to her dessert. “That’s easy. Sweeten the pot.”

  I gazed skeptically at my best friend. “How do you propose we do that, Meg?”

  “With poison, of course.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Whether we were exhausted from heady conversation about murder or sinking into a food stupor, our return to the Continental Club transpired in silence. Meg’s parting words of wisdom weighed heavily. A titan of business, politics, and philanthropy, Grayson Bancroft had earned his fair share of enemies. Any number of power players would benefit from his death. But only one person administered the lethal dose. If we wanted to clear Doug’s father, we’d needed to figure out how Grayson died and who could have poisoned him.

  At the club, the four of us stood at the
foot of the grand staircase that led to the ill-fated library and the guest rooms above it. Long days were my strong suit. Capitol Hill staffers often began their morning with no idea of how many hours of work remained ahead of them. Even with that vigorous training, I could admit that today had been quite a marathon.

  As I moved toward the stairs, Buffy placed her hand on my arm. “Kit, would you care to join me for a nightcap?”

  I looked warily at Doug.

  “Mother, can she take a rain check?” he asked.

  “Of course, if she’s too tired.” She sighed. “But I did want to speak to her about something important.”

  The expression on Buffy’s face was inscrutable. It wasn’t a glare of condescension or a scowl of superiority. What was it? After a moment, I figured it out. Buffy Hollingsworth looked desperate.

  “It’s all right, Doug. I’ll meet you in the room shortly,” I said.

  Doug followed his father upstairs, and I trailed behind Buffy to the bar, which was rapidly becoming familiar turf. I scanned the room, and my worst fears were confirmed. Charles the bartender had abandoned me. Not that it mattered, because Buffy ordered for both of us. “Two glasses of sherry. Amontillado Napoleon, please.”

  Our bartender arrived with our order. I tentatively took a tiny sip. Not as bad as I expected. Rather than a sickly sweet taste, it was creamy and nutty.

  It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out sherry wasn’t my thing. I’d never been talented in concealing my true feelings. My hesitation caught Buffy’s attention. She tapped her glass. “You don’t like sherry.”

  My smile was apologetic. “Given my unpredictable work schedule, I’m often too tired to enjoy after-dinner drinks. But when I do burn the midnight oil, I prefer port.”

  “Ruby or tawny?”

  “Ruby.”

  “Good to know. I shouldn’t have ordered for you. I’m sorry about that.”

  This time, I made a mighty effort to suppress the telltale signs of shock that would otherwise appear. What Lady Gaga song did my congressional boss chant when faced with a comparable political situation? Oh yes, “Poker face.”

  I decided to get to the point. “Mrs. Hollingsworth, did you want to talk to me about something in particular?”

  “I believe I mentioned this before, but please call me by my first name. I think of my mother-in-law when I hear Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

  “Thank you, Buffy.”

  “The reason I asked you to have a drink with me alone is that I’d like to talk to you about something quite important.”

  After Buffy’s early suggestion that the Iron Gate would be the ideal location for the wedding, the remainder of the evening’s discussion had focused on other topics. I should have known the respite couldn’t last much longer. I braced myself for the inevitable wedding diatribe.

  “Sure, go on.”

  “I’m worried about Winston getting railroaded for Grayson’s murder.”

  Not what I expected, especially since she’d been so blasé earlier in the day.

  In an upbeat voice, I said, “We established tonight there are other people who might have wanted Grayson dead.”

  “There’s no guarantee the police will follow those leads. Even if they do, if Winston remains a suspect for long, his reputation will be shattered. A dark cloud will continue to hang over the Hollingsworth family.”

  “You have a point. But why talk with me? What would you like me to do?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You need to figure out who really did kill Grayson Bancroft. Not simply talk about it, but actually investigate.”

  This wasn’t the time to gloat, but my future in-laws were doing an about-face, and that change of heart needed to be spelled out. “When I’ve engaged in such investigations before, Doug made it clear that you and Winston didn’t approve of my sleuthing.”

  Buffy clutched her glass of sherry and forced a smile. “Let bygones be bygones, Kit. The situation is dire.”

  I finished my sherry and waved off the waiter, who seemed eager to refill my glass. “I’ve already been discussing the murder with Doug. We’ll plow ahead and try to figure it out. I want to be honest with you, Buffy. This case is complicated. We may not be successful.”

  Even though I’d tried my best to convey the gravity of the situation, Buffy ignored my warning. She jumped to her feet and gave me a squeeze that likely passed for a warm embrace among her set. “I’m so relieved!”

  Feigning regret, I said, “I’m afraid the shopping spree tomorrow won’t be possible. There’s another lead I need to pursue, and that means attending the Mayflower Society trip to the National Archives.”

  A small pout disappeared as swiftly as it appeared. “I understand. Can I ask you what the lead is?”

  “When I chatted with Cecilia Rose this morning, she mentioned that Kiki Bancroft and Professor Mansfield had a complicated relationship.”

  “It’s the worst-kept Mayflower secret. No one is sure of the status, but it’s worth scrutinizing. By the way, Kiki is arriving tomorrow.”

  “Why wasn’t she at the conference?”

  “She’d been away for several weeks on an exotic globe-trotting trip and decided to skip this year’s activities. She was resting at their vacation home in Florida when she was notified earlier today about Grayson’s death.”

  “I doubt she’ll attend the scheduled activities, but it will be crucial to speak with her about who wanted her husband dead,” I said.

  Buffy tapped her temple. “I have an idea.”

  I eased back in my chair and glanced at my phone. Almost eleven. Would this day never end?

  “Let’s hear it,” I said.

  “I could ask Kiki if she’d like me to host a private dinner for her and our closest Mayflower Society friends tomorrow night. She’d appreciate the gesture.”

  Buffy might be on to something. Without my future mother-in-law’s help, how would I approach the widow Bancroft to find out what she knew?

  Excuse me, Kiki. Your husband was murdered a day ago and we’ve never met, but can you tell me who poisoned him?

  “That’s not a bad idea. Do you think Kiki will want to go out to dinner and face the public? Grayson was well known in Washington, and the local papers are going to cover this crime to death … uh, excuse me.” I cleared my throat. Murder and death idioms seemed to be on the tip of my tongue these days.

  “Normally I’d call the Blue Duck Tavern or Michel Richard at Central and we’d have a table like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I doubt Kiki will want to risk an evening out on the town. Appearances are important, after all.”

  We sat without speaking for several moments. Buffy smacked her hands on the table. “I’ve got it! What if we hosted an informal get-together at your condo?”

  I thought of my underwear drying on the laundry rack and the numerous outfits I’d thrown on the bed while trying to pack something appropriate for our Continental Club sojourn. “I’m not sure our condo is ready for dinner guests.”

  “Nonsense. We’ll have a cleaning service take care of that tomorrow. Let me think. There will be ten of us. I’ll deal with the catering in the morning, too.”

  Although hosting a dinner party for the Hollingsworths and their closest friends wasn’t exactly on my bucket list, Buffy’s idea had several advantages. If Kiki agreed, it might be a perfect opportunity to speak with her about Grayson. It also had the added benefit of allowing Doug and me to check out of the Continental Club tomorrow, as originally scheduled. At least Clarence would be pleased, although his exuberant canine presence at the evening soiree might present its own challenge.

  “Let’s do it. I’ll tell Doug about our plan,” I said.

  Buffy clenched her fists in victory and then grabbed my hands. “Once this murder business is resolved, we can resume our discussions about the wedding. If we can find Grayson’s killer, we can certainly find the perfect venue for your big day!”

  I failed to see the connection between solving the murder of one
of the wealthiest titans of business and planning the perfect wedding. There was no point in arguing with Buffy. After all, she had come up with a decent idea to keep the investigation moving forward.

  “Sounds great, Buffy. I’d better head upstairs. Lots to accomplish tomorrow.”

  Buffy drained her glass and ended our conversation on a somber note. “Such as keeping my husband out of prison.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning, I awoke with the energy that presents itself after an exhausting day followed by a deep, restful sleep. It was six thirty, which gave me enough time for a jog around the neighborhood.

  A few minutes later, I bounded down the stairs. The library and the area near the Franklin statue were still surrounded by yellow police tape. At least today no corpse lay on the ground.

  Spring mornings in D.C. were beautiful and brisk. In a few weeks, I’d trade the long-sleeved hoodie for a tank top. The cool air was a relief after summer, which conquered the city with a humid vengeance.

  I jogged along the landscaped side streets and headed north on Massachusetts Avenue. Eventually, I hung a right onto Belmont. This was an entire neighborhood of foreign embassies. The ornate buildings and tree-lined sidewalks provided gorgeous scenery. As I huffed and puffed along, my thoughts drifted to the murder and the day ahead. Doug had been asleep when I returned to the room last night. Before breakfast, I’d fill him in on the plans for a dinner party at our condo. This morning, there was a planned Mayflower Society excursion to the National Archives. Prior to Kiki Bancroft’s arrival, I wanted to speak with Professor Mansfield. Did he have a motive to kill Grayson Bancroft? Something told me that the reserved Mansfield might prove harder to chat up than the others. I needed a plan or I could blow it.

  I wove through the serpentine streets, passing by the consular headquarters of Turkey, Yemen, Thailand, Poland, Afghanistan, Syria, Macedonia, and Nepal. Each of these embassies hosted cultural events on a regular basis. When lucky enough to receive an invitation to an embassy fete, we made an effort to attend. Even Doug, who was more comfortable hiding inside Georgetown library stacks than frequenting a cocktail party, could be persuaded to take advantage of the splendid food, drink, and entertainment routinely found at embassy soirees.