Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  As I cruised downhill via Connecticut, I thought more about Grayson’s unfortunate death. Assuming poison had killed him, the concoction had been fast-acting. Grayson hadn’t had time to scream or crawl for help. The stiff, unnatural position of his body made him appear to be frozen. The poison had paralytic qualities.

  The instrument of delivery was also puzzling. They’d searched the Continental Club high and low and found only Winston Hollingsworth’s syringes. Perhaps the murderer knew about Winston’s diabetes and stole one of his syringes. Or the killer brought his or her own needle, knowing full well that Winston would be the prime suspect. If that was the case, how did the murderer get rid of the deadly instrument? The security cameras showed no one entering or leaving the building overnight.

  As I rounded the corner and stepped inside the club, I was no closer to solving the mystery. But at least I felt better. If nothing else, the run had cleared my head … and hopefully burned off some of the calories from the previous night’s indulgences.

  Doug was still asleep when I reached our room. After showering, I pulled off the covers and gave him a nudge. “Time to rise and shine.”

  Doug waved me off as he rubbed his eyes. A minute later, he sat up in bed, his glasses in position. “Why are you up so early?”

  “ ‘Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.’ ”

  Doug loved my movie quotes. “Bueller? Bueller?”

  “You got it. Get dressed. I have a lot to tell you.”

  Once he was settled, I told him about his mother’s idea to host a dinner party at our condo tonight. He warmed to the ploy. “Gathering the suspects under our roof may give us a certain advantage.”

  “How so?”

  “We can direct the conversation and probe them for information. After all, we’re the hosts.”

  “Are we really talking about the same Mayflower Society people? This is not a crew that takes kindly to direction of any sort,” I said.

  Doug laughed. “Good point. I still think it’s better to have them on our turf. After breakfast this morning, I’ll go home with my mother and make sure the arrangements are settled for this evening.”

  “I’d better head to the National Archives outing. I don’t want to miss an opportunity for careful observation.” In imitation of DeNiro in Meet the Parents, I pointed at my eyes with two fingers. “I’ll be watching Professor Mansfield. You’d better believe it!”

  Doug laughed. “Good luck with that one. He’s not exactly the friendly type.”

  “He’s an academic. I think I understand academics.” I gave Doug a playful punch in the arm.

  “No, Kit. Even for an academic, James Mansfield has a reputation as a cold fish.”

  At Georgetown faculty events, I kept close to Doug’s side. Despite all the smarty-pants people who lived in D.C., there was a considerable divide between the Capitol Hill and university crowds. Not all PhDs were born equal in Washington. The policy wonks didn’t speak the same language as the ivory tower intellectuals, resulting in a classic rivalry something like that of the Redskins and Cowboys.

  “It’s going to be hard for me to break through,” I muttered, almost to myself.

  “Is Trevor working at the Continental Club today?” Doug asked.

  “Don’t know. What are you thinking?”

  “Trevor is the most pretentious person we know. Perhaps he and Mansfield would hit it off.”

  I considered his suggestion. “It might work. I could also see Trevor annoying Mansfield beyond belief.”

  “It’s worth a shot, don’t you think? I can’t be at the Archives with you to run interference if I need to be at home preparing for tonight.”

  The dinner party aside, Doug couldn’t help with Mansfield. Clearly the esteemed professor felt that Doug was treading on his turf. Whether his bristling in my fiancé’s presence was intellectual, professional, or personal, it didn’t matter. Doug’s presence would hamper any shot I had with Mansfield.

  “If Trevor is here, he’ll be nearby in the Poets’ Room,” I said.

  “Let’s take a look.” Doug opened the door, and I followed.

  Sure enough, Trevor sat in exactly the same place as yesterday. “The dynamic duo who have yet to walk down the aisle. To what do I owe this honor?”

  I ignored Trevor’s impolite comment. He constantly nettled me about Doug. As far as I knew, Trevor had no significant other and didn’t care one iota about our relationship status. Why did he continue to poke? Maybe, like many competitive Washingtonians, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to expose and exploit the shortcomings of others.

  “We have a job uniquely suited for you,” said Doug.

  Trevor closed his laptop. “I didn’t know the President of the United States was resigning.”

  Only Trevor would self-appropriate himself as ruler of the free world. “Not quite as grandiose, I’m afraid. Can you join me at the National Archives later today for a tour?” I asked.

  “This is starting to sound like the plot of a bad sequel to National Treasure,” Trevor remarked.

  “That ship has already sailed,” I said. “The Mayflower Society will be visiting the Archives as part of their conference activities. It’s a good opportunity to interrogate suspects. There’s one in particular I want to focus on.”

  “Do you know Professor James Mansfield from Yale?” asked Doug.

  “Not personally, but of course I’m a fan of his scholarly work.”

  I clapped my hands together. “Excellent. We need to talk to him at the Archives and figure out if he killed Grayson Bancroft.”

  Trevor raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You think Mansfield killed Bancroft?”

  “We don’t know. But he was close to Bancroft’s wife, Kiki,” I said.

  Trevor fiddled with his tie. “He was having an affair with her?”

  “We aren’t sure, Trevor,” said Doug. “That’s where you come in. We need you to run interference with Kit and charm Mansfield so we can find out what he knows about the murder.”

  He cleared his throat. “I find myself in familiar territory. Kit’s merry band of sleuths have mucked around again with a murder investigation and now require my assistance to make sense of it.”

  “That’s not true!” I protested. “I caught the killer without your help both times.”

  “After I served you the suspects on a platter. No need to become angry, Kit. I am willing to forego writing today and join you.”

  I held my tongue. No matter what clever retort I could devise, it would be in vain. Trevor would always one-up me. I remembered Buffy’s plea from last night. Clearing Winston Hollingsworth was the priority, even if it meant putting up with Trevor’s wisecracks.

  Doug must have been on the same page. “Thank you for helping. It means a lot to my family.” He extended his hand.

  Trevor gave his hand a quick shake. “Why can’t you interrogate Mansfield? You’re both history professors. Doesn’t that make you comrades in arms?”

  “We’re hosting guests at our condo this evening, and I need to assist with preparations,” explained Doug.

  Trevor wrinkled his nose. “A convenient conflict, no doubt. Kit, what time should we meet?”

  I provided him with the necessary information, and we returned to our room. “If you pack now, I can take your suitcase with me,” said Doug.

  “Do you have to leave soon?”

  “After breakfast. I need to make a stop on the way back to Arlington.”

  “Where?”

  Doug hesitated. “I’d rather not say right now. But if memory serves, by tomorrow we might be able to learn more about Grayson’s manner of death.”

  “Good luck. I’m at my wits’ end concerning the poison. We need a break in this case.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”

  Breakfast was a somber affair. The reality of Grayson’s death had descended upon the Mayflower Society.

  The Archives tour would
depart in less than an hour. Doug conferred with his mother and made plans to meet her at our condo after the tour. I headed to an adjacent room to answer work emails before it was time to leave. On the way, I ran into Detective Glass.

  “Ms. Marshall, just the person I wanted to chat with.”

  Hearing that line from a police officer never boded well. “Yes, Detective?”

  “On Wednesday evening, did Grayson Bancroft spend a lot of time with a particular Mayflower attendee?”

  “Not that I recall. He talked to everyone, exchanging pleasantries and making small talk,” I said.

  She wrote something in her notebook. “Do you know if the Hollingsworths hosted anyone in their room, perhaps for a drink?”

  “I’m not sure, but I doubt it. We had drinks on the patio before dinner. The others were inside the bar.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t hear anything Wednesday night after going to bed?” she pressed.

  We’d been over this ground before, and I preferred not to remind Detective Glass how I’d been occupied. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  I ventured to ask a few questions of my own. “Have you determined what type of poison killed Grayson?”

  “That’s going to take a while. We’ll get samples sent to the lab after the autopsy. We may not see results for a month.”

  Just as I thought. “Do you know how the poison was administered?”

  Glass’s pencil tapped her notepad. “Not sure I can say much more, Ms. Marshall.”

  “The last time we met, you searched Winston Hollingsworth’s room and bagged his insulin syringes for evidence. Are you still pursuing that angle?” I asked.

  “Let’s put it this way. There’s no alternative theory right now.”

  “The killer might have brought a needle and disposed of it. Wouldn’t that make perfect sense? Winston’s close friends knew he was diabetic. It would be the perfect frame-up.”

  “Plausible, but if that’s the case, where’s the used syringe? We’ve torn this place up and searched everyone who was in the building at the time, and it’s nowhere to be found.”

  “The murderer might have killed Grayson, exited the building, disposed of the needle, and returned to his or her room. It wouldn’t have taken much time.”

  “It’s a good theory, but it didn’t happen that way. I think I mentioned this to you before: the Continental Club has a comprehensive security system monitoring its entrances. We looked at the footage, and no one entered or left the building from midnight until morning. As far as I’m concerned, the murder weapon is inside this building.” She paused, and then added. “Or was.”

  She didn’t need to finish her thought. That fact pointed further to Winston Hollingsworth as a suspect, especially since no other plausible explanations had surfaced.

  Were the cameras so strategically positioned so that no one could possibly get around them without being detected? I wasn’t convinced of that, but there was no point in continuing to argue. Better to end the conversation, or I might find myself digging out of a deeper hole. “Thanks for the chat, Detective. Doug and I will be returning to Arlington later today. You have our contact information.”

  “Will Winston and Buffy Hollingsworth join you?”

  “No, they’ll remain at the Continental Club for two more nights.”

  “Given the circumstances, a wise choice,” she stated.

  Should I have mentioned that my future in-laws would be coming over for dinner? I didn’t see the point of volunteering too much. The detective naturally wanted her main suspect where she could keep a close eye on him. Under normal circumstances, I’d appreciate the toughness required to compete as a female detective. Unfortunately, the formidable Detective Maggie Glass had set her sights on my future father-in-law.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The familiar coach bus idled in the Continental Club parking lot as Mayflower members boarded. Grayson’s death had left no one in charge of the society. Consequently, I had no idea who to ask about Trevor tagging along. Many of the attendees had already ditched the proceedings, and there was no reason to believe the trend would reverse. More seats were vacant on the bus today than when we traveled to Mount Vernon. History buffs apparently drew the line at murder.

  During breakfast, we’d told Winston and Buffy about Trevor joining up for the Archives trip. The other Mayflower attendees did a double-take when they saw a man other than Doug at my side.

  To prevent rumors, I decided to explain Trevor’s presence. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce my former Senate colleague, Trevor. He belongs to the Continental Club and is interested in joining the Mayflower Society. Hopefully you can answer his questions.”

  Trevor shot me a piercing glance. I’d made up his supposed interest in Mayflower membership on the fly, but it was a credible ruse. Like many elite cultural organizations, Mayflower benefited from the largesse of its older, wealthy supporters. To ensure future viability, it had to recruit younger members. Trevor fit the profile, and if others viewed him as a potential recruit, they might open up to him.

  My clever ploy worked. Trevor engaged in several polite conversations as the bus wove its way through Dupont, Scott, and Thomas Circles to Ninth Street. A few minutes later, we arrived at the National Archives, wedged between Pennsylvania and Constitution Avenues.

  The Archives is a revered spot in Washington. Those of us who lived locally didn’t visit often, making opportunities like this one valuable. Unlike the Smithsonian museums or the National Zoo, it was nearly impossible to tour the Archives on a whim. To avoid waiting in line for hours, you needed reservations. Viewing the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and Bill of Rights required advanced planning.

  As I suspected, Grayson had taken care of the details. We breezed past the long queue of visitors waiting to catch a glimpse of our nation’s founding documents. As we entered the rotunda, I gazed at the two large murals flanking the huge glass cases housing the archive’s most precious treasures. Painted by Barry Faulkner, the paintings had been restored over a decade ago. The mural depicted a fictional presentation of the Declaration and Constitution. George Washington didn’t appear in the former—he was fighting the Revolutionary War in 1776—but he was the centerpiece of the second painting, regal in his magisterial cloak. At first glance, a casual viewer might believe that Faulkner chose to portray Washington in his mural as a king, perhaps a precursor to Napoleon. Such a facile interpretation couldn’t have been further from the truth. Instead, Faulkner had sought to convey Washington’s strong, unyielding belief in the newly created Constitution.

  Our tour guide welcomed us to the National Archives and invited us to view the Declaration. Trevor sidled up next to me. “Having any luck with our suspects?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” he whispered. “They’re too busy trying to find out if I’m made of money. Something tells me the Mayflower Society is in desperate need of funds.”

  “Grayson Bancroft propped them up. His death has thrown Mayflower for a loop. Bancroft’s big donations greased the wheels. That’s why we move to the front of the line at places like this.”

  “I figured. I can play along, for now. It’s not difficult for me to pretend I’m an aristocrat.”

  “I always assumed you were an aristocrat.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t mistake good taste for a privileged birth, Kit. It’s annoyingly bourgeois.”

  Trevor was best tolerated in small doses. I returned my attention to our tour guide, who was talking about the writing of the Declaration of Independence.

  “Jefferson was chosen by the Committee of Five to write the Declaration. After completing the first draft, he presented his work to Adams and Franklin, who made changes. The committee altered Jefferson’s text in forty-seven places before submitting it to Congress. After voting for independence, Congress made thirty-nine more revisions. Finally the document was accepted and sent off for printing and dissemination.”

  “Blimey,” I said, “I wonder how Jeffers
on felt about those edits.”

  Professor Mansfield overheard my comment. “Mutilations,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You asked what Jefferson thought of the alterations, correct?” he asked.

  “Yes, and your response sounded more like Dexter Morgan than Thomas Jefferson.”

  “I have no idea who Dexter Morgan is. But that’s how Jefferson characterized the revisions made to his final draft of the Declaration. He called them ‘mutilations.’ ”

  Now it was making sense. “He thought they’d ruined his best effort,” I said.

  Mansfield nodded. “He held a grudge until the day he died.”

  Trevor spotted me interacting with Mansfield and joined us. He introduced himself to the professor, who politely shook his hand.

  “I’ve read several of your journal articles on the revolutionary era,” said Trevor.

  His subtle attempt to ingratiate himself with Mansfield appeared to have the desired effect. The professor’s face brightened considerably. “When you write for academia, you don’t expect people to recognize your work outside scholarly circles.”

  “Your research transcends the constraints of academia, Professor Mansfield. I am truly honored to be in your presence.” The words oozed off Trevor’s tongue with enough sincerity to convince the object of his flattery.

  After several more apparently successful attempts to beguile, Trevor got down to business. “Professor, forgive me for asking this question, but what do you know about the murder of Grayson Bancroft? As a member, I spend a great deal of time at the Continental Club these days. The crime is disturbing.”

  The professor looked suitably disturbed himself. “I don’t know much about Grayson’s death. As I understand it, the police have classified it as suspicious and are investigating the matter. I hope it’s wrapped up quickly. I must return to New Haven on Sunday afternoon. I cannot miss my undergraduate lecture on Monday morning.”