Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  Just as I suspected, Mansfield was a bit reticent. But Trevor had done a good job of softening him up.

  “How well did you know Grayson and his wife?” I asked.

  If the professor was alarmed by my question, he didn’t let on. “Quite well. I knew Kiki better than Grayson.” He looked at me pointedly. “Anyone will tell you that.”

  “Was she at the Continental Club when Grayson died?” Trevor asked.

  Mansfield waved both hands in denial. “She had returned from a long trip a short while earlier and decided not to attend the Mayflower meeting this year. She’s been traveling the world lately,” he added.

  “By herself?” I asked.

  “Yes. Grayson had little time for her. He had two passions—namely, money and history. At this point in his life, he made more money so he could fund his passion for American history. He was a benefactor of many museums, such as this one.”

  “Bancroft was a patron of the National Archives?” asked Trevor.

  “More precisely, he planned to become one. Kiki told me he was in the process of negotiating a large donation to support a permanent exhibit on the Declaration and its political and historical legacy,” said Mansfield.

  “I wonder if the deal will fall apart,” I said.

  “Hard to say. Frederick Valdez might try to swoop in and make the Archives an offer instead. Of course, Lola is the history buff, but Frederick has his reasons for wanting it, too.”

  “To make up for losing out on the purchase of the Capital Observer, perhaps?” I said.

  Mansfield raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

  I knew when to back off. If Mansfield was involved with the murder, I was dangerously close to putting a target on my back. I shot a look at Trevor to indicate he should take over.

  He caught on quickly. “Professor, with your impressive intelligence, I’m sure you’re able to hypothesize about who might have wanted Grayson Bancroft dead.”

  Mansfield hesitated, clearly torn between responding to Trevor’s flattering challenge or letting it slide. He scanned the crowd. All of our Mayflower companions were viewing the historical treasures on display inside the rotunda. Then he leaned in.

  “You’re focused on the wrong relationship,” he said cryptically.

  I had no idea what he meant. “What relationship?”

  He motioned for us to move closer still. I hoped he’d tell us his monumental revelation soon or I was going to become more intimately familiar with Professor Mansfield than I desired.

  “You’re fishing around to find out about me and Kiki. We weren’t having an affair, if that’s what you think,” he said.

  I dropped my eyes and stared at my hands. Trevor shook his head. “We never said you were, Professor,” he stated.

  Mansfield waved us off. “As you said, I’m a smart person. I know what you were trying to insinuate. Not only is it untrue, it’s also leading you down the wrong track.”

  “How so, Professor?” I asked.

  “You’re focused on Kiki when you should focus on Grayson,” he said.

  He had my attention. “Grayson was cheating?”

  “Not really. But he never got over his love affair with Cecilia Rose.”

  “So Cecilia and Grayson weren’t an item, but he wanted her back?” asked Trevor.

  “That’s my understanding of the situation. Each book in her Savannah’s Sultry Nights series rekindled the romance, at least in theory. You know that Savannah’s main love interest is Grayson Bancroft, right?”

  “That’s not his character’s name in the books, is it?” I asked.

  Mansfield nearly rolled his eyes; at least I could tell that’s what he wanted to do. “Cecilia based Savannah’s love interest on Grayson. I don’t know the details. I don’t read erotic romance novels.”

  If Grayson still held a torch for Cecilia, then who might have wanted him dead? Thinking out loud, I muttered, “Drake.”

  “Correct, Ms. Marshall,” said the professor.

  “If Cecilia ever decided she wanted to get back together with Grayson, Drake would be out of luck,” I observed.

  “More like off the gravy train,” said Mansfield. “Everyone knows he married Cecilia for her money.”

  “Wouldn’t Drake get a nice settlement if Cecilia divorced him?” asked Trevor.

  “The answer is no,” Mansfield said. “Cecilia made Drake sign a pre-nuptial agreement. He lives the high life as long as they stay together, but he has no claim on her money otherwise.”

  “Murdering Grayson would eliminate the competition, especially if Drake thought Cecilia might have wanted to rekindle the flame,” Trevor said.

  I was skeptical. “You’re right,” I said, “but she didn’t seem to be enamored of him at dinner the night he died. They traded barbs about her writing.”

  Mansfield waved away my doubts. “They were always like that, even when they were a couple. Grayson and Cecilia may have moved on to other relationships, but their attraction never went away,” he assured me.

  I wondered privately if it might be better described as a fatal attraction. Casually, I scanned the crowd. The Declaration and the Constitution had apparently failed to interest Drake. He fiddled with his phone, tilting it from side to side while touching the screen with his thumbs. He was likely playing a video game in the middle of the National Archives rotunda. Cecilia was standing near the Bill of Rights display. As I stared at her, she glanced in our direction. Was she monitoring our private conversation with Professor Mansfield?

  “We’ve been chatting far too long,” I whispered. “Let’s move over to the exhibit.”

  “I’ve been here more times than I can remember. I don’t need to look again,” protested Trevor.

  I grabbed his arm and guided him toward the Declaration. Between clenched teeth, I said, “You’re here because you love American history, remember?”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll play along,” he said quietly.

  We moved over to the titanium encasement, which might have been an extremely thick picture frame. Beneath the heavy, bulletproof glass resided the nation’s first founding document. “I don’t care how many times you’ve seen it, Trevor. It’s amazing.” We both bent over the case to get a better look at the parchment.

  Our quiet moment of patriotic reverence was interrupted by a loud female voice. “I wish my husband could be here to see his closest friends enjoying our nation’s treasures.”

  Trevor and I turned around immediately. A petite, attractive woman in her early fifties with perfectly coiffed blonde hair stood in the center of the rotunda. She was dressed in a black fitted sheath dress and a stylishly embroidered jacket. In her right hand, she held a delicate white handkerchief with the initials “KB” stitched in dark blue. The widow, Kiki Bancroft, had arrived.

  “I didn’t think we’d see her until later tonight,” I whispered to Trevor.

  “Something tells me no one puts Kiki in a corner.”

  “Trevor, are you a Dirty Dancing fan?”

  He grinned. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m full of surprises, Kit.”

  Touché. “I wonder why she wanted to come to the Archives instead of waiting to see everyone at the Continental Club,” I said.

  We edged closer to the throng of people who had formed a tight circle around Kiki. The typical condolences were offered, although I noticed Professor Mansfield kept his distance. Either he wanted to express his sympathy privately or he wasn’t sorry Grayson was dead.

  After several minutes of chatting with acquaintances, Kiki cleared her throat to speak. Everyone fell silent. The widow Bancroft may not have enjoyed the closest relationship with her husband, but like him, Kiki certainly knew how to command a room.

  “Thank you for honoring Grayson’s memory by continuing with your Mayflower Society meeting this weekend. As you know, American history was his passion. Despite his untimely death, I am pleased to announce that his plan to establish a permanent exhibit at the Archives focus
ed on the legacy of the Declaration of Independence will go forward as planned.” Kiki gestured to the wing on her left. “We will break ground on construction of the Bancroft Gallery in less than six months. We hope many Mayflower Society members will join us for the opening of the exhibit.”

  Our tour guide burst into applause, and everyone else followed suit. A smile plastered across her face, Kiki nodded her head politely, almost like a robot. I shifted my position in the crowd so I could locate Frederick Valdez. Sure enough, he wasn’t clapping. Instead, he looked furious. From the grave, Grayson had managed to best him again. Had Frederick’s plans backfired? If he’d committed the murder to dethrone his rival once and for all, Grayson seemed to have had the last laugh.

  Buffy and Winston had edged next to Kiki. My future mother-in-law motioned furiously for me to join them. Trevor muttered, “Duty calls.”

  I pushed past several people so I could join the Hollingsworths, who were politely expressing their condolences to Kiki. Buffy introduced me as Doug’s fiancée before giving me the entrée I needed for tonight.

  “Kit and Doug would like to invite you to dinner at their condo this evening. Isn’t that right?” she said.

  “Yes, my deepest sympathies, Mrs. Bancroft. We thought you might want to spend the evening quietly with friends in a private location. Doug and I are hosting a small dinner party in Arlington. Nothing too fancy.” Recalling that I was speaking to one of the wealthiest women in the country, I added hastily, “But it will be elegant.”

  Kiki gave me a well-mannered hug, barely touching my left shoulder. “How kind of you, especially since we’ve only just met.” Her smile exposed her bottom teeth, as though she’d forced her facial muscles to register pleasure. She turned toward Buffy and Winston. “I gather the usual suspects will be in attendance?”

  Winston hesitated. “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Forgive me. It was a poor choice of words, given the circumstances. I’d be happy to join you this evening. It will be comforting to be near old friends during this time of tragedy.” She raised her handkerchief to her eye to blot an undetectable tear.

  “Is seven o’clock a good time for you?” I asked.

  “Certainly. Please let James Mansfield know the address. I’ll arrange transportation with him. Right now, I must briefly consult with the head of development at the Archives. They’re eager for a firm commitment to fund the exhibit.” With that, Kiki turned on her heel and walked swiftly toward several official-looking people in dark business suits waiting for her at the edge of the rotunda.

  During the conversation, Trevor had been standing silently behind me. “Did Mrs. Bancroft share her husband’s passion for American history?” he asked.

  Winston rubbed his chin. “That’s the odd development. Not really. She attended Mayflower Society meetings years ago. Most recently, she did not. She did not appear to share Grayson’s interest in the Society or related philanthropic pursuits.”

  “I agree,” said Buffy. “And yet, she was quick to fulfill his commitment to donate considerable funds for a new exhibit at the Archives.”

  “Perhaps she wants to honor her husband’s last wishes,” I said.

  “Or maybe there’s more to Kiki Bancroft than meets the eye,” offered Trevor.

  Trevor had a point, but Kiki had been almost a thousand miles away in Florida when her husband died. Unless she’d flown on a private jet, she could not possibly have killed Grayson and made it back to Florida in time to receive the news about his murder. Given the Bancroft’s wealth, such an extravagant mode of transportation was certainly possible, but even private jets had to file flight path plans that were publicly accessible. Such a plan would be fraught with risk. Of course, Kiki might have joined forces with someone onsite. Professor Mansfield had been quick to implicate Drake. Had he genuinely wished to assist with our investigation, or just sought to redirect focus away from himself?

  I stared at the mural featuring a supremely confident George Washington. At the time of the ratification of the Constitution, Washington must have had more questions than answers about the future of American democracy. Why had he appeared so sure of himself? Or had Faulkner merely depicted him that way to inspire patriotic devotion?

  The rotunda’s legendary mural had an underlying lesson to impart. Someone well acquainted with Grayson Bancroft, perhaps a friend, had killed him. Appearances were misleading, much like the impressive painting before me. The difference between masterful deception and reality could be hard to discern. The guilty party was putting on a good show, doing what was expected of him or her in the situation. George Washington’s true feelings about the future of our republic might well remain a historical mystery, but I needed to figure out which member of the Mayflower Society was lying and why.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My phone buzzed, and I tilted the screen inside my purse so I could see who had contacted me. Meg was checking in. I walked inside the Archives gift shop so I could focus on her text. Did women actually wear knee-high socks boasting the likeness of Abraham Lincoln? Perhaps I was missing out on the latest Washington D.C. fashion trend. I pulled out my phone and read her message.

  Any progress?

  I typed a response. I’m @ Archives now.

  I waited for Meg’s response. Almost done?

  I answered. Y.

  She wrote back immediately. Oyamel in 30?

  Not a hard choice. C U there.

  I chuckled to myself. Meg was better than a computerized app: no matter her specific location inside the Beltway, she could provide an instant suggestion for the closest happy hour within walking distance. Oyamel, a terrific Mexican restaurant and bar, was only two blocks away. Leave it to Meg to know exactly where we should go.

  I looked briefly at a reproduction of the Magna Carta. In 1215, the rebels forced King John to agree that no ruler was above the law, and the resulting document was the Magna Carta. The 1297 version, which was impressive but not quite as valuable as the earlier copies, was on display at the National Archives. Perhaps a Magna Carta facsimile would make a suitable birthday present for Doug? Then again, given the heavy hand Doug used to run his history lectures at Georgetown, I wasn’t quite sure he believed no ruler was above the law.

  Trevor was waiting for me outside the gift shop. “What’s wrong?” I said. “You don’t want a Declaration of Independence t-shirt? Or a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Constitutional Convention?”

  The edges of Trevor’s mouth turned up slightly. Since he rarely smiled, my question must have amused him. “I’ll take a pass.”

  “Where is everyone else?”

  “They went for a brief tour of the Legislative Archives.”

  “I’m impressed.” The treasures inside the Legislative Archives vault were only shown to VIP groups. A few years ago, I’d gone on a special Senate tour of the vault and we’d seen documents such as the House of Representatives roll call vote declaring war in 1941 and George Washington’s first inaugural address.

  “I would have joined them, but it’s time for me to get back to my writing.”

  “Thanks for joining me today. Did you pick up any clues?”

  “I’m not a smarter version of the Hardy Boys, Kit. I don’t go around snooping with my magnifying glass to find a loose floorboard or a missing button.”

  “I think you mean a red wig.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In The Tower Treasure, the Hardy Boys search for a red wig. You know, to capture the suspect.”

  Trevor shook his head. “You read too many mysteries.”

  “You can never read too many mysteries. Did you gain any insights from your conversation with Professor Mansfield? Anyone else?” I pressed.

  “You’ve got a tough one on your hands. No one really liked Grayson Bancroft. He was tolerated due to his wealth and power. I’d keep an eye on Frederick and Lola Valdez. They both stand to benefit from his death, although for different reasons.”

  “Good poin
t. They might have worked together to eliminate Grayson.”

  “Are they each other’s alibis?”

  “Yes. Quite convenient, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, the same could be said for your future in-laws.”

  I chuckled. “Are you insinuating that Buffy helped Winston kill Grayson?”

  “The convenience of the alibis works for the Hollingsworths, too.”

  “Buffy would never stab someone with a poison injection. She might break a nail or stain her Hermes scarf.”

  “I don’t like ruling out plausible suspects, but I take your point.”

  “What about Professor Mansfield? Any thoughts on him?” I asked.

  “He’s highly intelligent so it will be hard to catch him in an inconsistency or lie. You should follow up on the lead he gave you about Drake. If there was any chance that Cecilia and Grayson were romantically involved again, then Drake would have a definite motive for murder.”

  “I’ll have to think about how to approach Drake. If he killed Grayson, he’s smarter than he appears.”

  “And he deserves an Academy Award for best actor. He seems like a dim bulb to me.”

  “What about Mansfield and Kiki Bancroft? He denied they were having an affair.”

  Trevor considered my question. “Impossible to know right now. We don’t have enough data.”

  As helpful as Trevor could be, he was often exasperating. “You sound like my undergraduate statistics professor.”

  “I’m merely stating the facts, Kit. Mansfield denies having an affair with Kiki. The only way to evaluate that claim is to observe the two of them together.”

  “Good point. We’re hosting a small dinner party tonight at our condo. They’re both coming so I’ll have to keep an eye on them.”

  “You’re going to have a busy night ahead,” Trevor observed.

  I sighed. Doug and his mother undoubtedly had a handle on the catering and cleanup, but hosting duties were always onerous. The point of the dinner party was to gather more intelligence about the crime to exonerate Winston. If this was going to be a successful evening, I needed help.