Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  “Would you like to join us, Trevor? You could be my eyes and ears.”

  “It’s a tempting offer.” He tapped his iWatch and brought up his calendar.

  “You look like Dick Tracy.” I giggled.

  “Wearable devices are no joke, Kit. Soon we’ll be wearing smart clothes and jewelry.”

  “Will they give me tips on fashion? I could use some.”

  He looked me up and down and wrinkled his nose. “No argument there. I’m free this evening. However, I must return to the club and write for several hours before joining you this evening in Arlington.”

  With that pronouncement, Trevor pivoted and sped toward the Archives exit. He wouldn’t win any awards for congeniality, although I had to admit his social skills had improved since we’d worked together in the Senate.

  I only had a few minutes before I had to follow Trevor out the door so I could meet Meg at Oyamel. Before leaving, I needed to check in with Buffy and Winston to make sure everything was set for this evening. I found them inside the East Rotunda Gallery, looking at an exhibit featuring flight documents and records from the Tuskegee Airmen.

  “Damn impressive. Isn’t that right, Kit?” Winston asked as I approached them.

  “If you’re referring to the airmen, then the answer is absolutely,” I said.

  “They fought on two fronts: the Nazis in the air and discrimination at home. Not easy wars to wage,” Winston remarked.

  Buffy beamed at Winston. “My husband is happiest when surrounded by objects older than dirt.”

  “That’s right. Of course, that doesn’t include you,” said Winston.

  For a moment, Buffy’s face tensed at Winston’s joke about her age. Then she burst into laughter. “I’m not that old. At least yet.”

  The Hollingsworths were certainly in a jolly mood. Perhaps they were a little too merry for their own good, given that Winston was still the prime suspect in a murder investigation. I’d bring them back down to earth.

  “About tonight, are we set for dinner?”

  “I just got off the phone with Doug. We’re meeting shortly at a place called Liberty Tavern in Arlington. He gave me the address. They’ve agreed to supply the food and wine for this evening.” She wrinkled her nose. “Doug swears by it, although I’m a little uncertain about having a tavern cater a dinner party.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said with a wave of my hand. “It’s always ranked as one of the top restaurants in Arlington.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to make do on such short notice,” said Buffy.

  Bored with our conversation about tonight’s menu, Winston had apparently let his mind drift back to the Tuskegee Airmen. Buffy pulled me closer. “Have you made any progress on the case?” she whispered.

  “Nothing significant, but keep your eyes and ears open tonight. Maybe we’ll pick up some important information.”

  Buffy nodded. Then she said loudly, “Winston, I’m leaving. I’ll see you tonight at seven.”

  Winston flicked his hand in acknowledgment, never taking his eyes off the exhibit.

  “I’ll walk out with you. I’m meeting Meg for a drink before returning to Arlington,” I said.

  We walked outside into the refreshing spring air. On the other side of Constitution, the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden was bursting with tourists. The ice skating rink had been dismantled for the season. Soon, the popular Friday concerts would begin, filling the area with jazz lovers sipping wine and enjoying the long summer twilight. Did the Sculpture Garden allow weddings? I glanced at Buffy, who had pulled out her compact and was fixing her coiffure. Better not bring it up. I’d finally gotten Buffy to focus on the murder and Winston’s predicament. Mentioning the dreaded “W” word might take us back to square one.

  “Do you need a taxi?” I asked politely.

  “Of course not. The driver is picking me up.” She scanned the traffic flying by on Constitution and spotted a black town car. “There he is.” She squeezed my shoulder. “See you later, Kit!”

  Oyamel was only three blocks north on Seventh Street. I passed the Federal Trade Commission and entered Indiana Square, the location of the Grand Army of the Republic Memorial. It probably wasn’t on most touristy lists of “must see” monuments, yet its historical significance was considerable. Doug had told me the twenty-five-foot-high memorial commemorated GAR, which boasted a membership of over 400,000 Union veterans after the Civil War. The organization was responsible for securing pensions for Union soldiers—the first ever government-funded social welfare program in the history of the United States.

  After crossing D Street, I spotted Rasika, one of the most popular restaurants in the District. Its modern Indian cuisine consistently received rave reviews. The president and first lady had dined there recently, increasing its popularity and the difficulty associated with securing a Friday or Saturday night reservation.

  Oyamel was located next to Rasika. I opened the door and immediately spied Meg at the bar, drink in hand.

  “Didn’t care to wait for me?” I asked.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. I was thirsty.”

  “No hay problema, señorita,” I teased.

  “Aren’t you sophisticated? Here’s the happy hour menu. It’s in English.”

  “Are you having a margarita?”

  “Of course. When in Rome, Kit.”

  The bartender strolled over. “Make it another for me.”

  He nodded.

  “Before we talk about the murder,” Meg said, “I have to tell you about work today.”

  Meg launched into an animated story about one of our policy staffers who had gotten into a dispute with a representative from the North American Meat Institute about whether bacon consumption causes cancer. Congress was truly a battle over a million special interests, perhaps exactly how James Madison had envisioned American democracy. The public undoubtedly thought those of us who worked in Congress sat around thinking important thoughts and writing legislation. I doubted they knew the intrigue behind the supposed lethality of processed meats.

  I listened to Meg’s story without commenting. At the end, she asked, “Do you think I handled it right?”

  I couldn’t resist. “You did well today, Meg. You really brought home the bacon!” I burst into laughter and took a sip of my drink, which the bartender had delivered in the middle of her story.

  Meg crossed her arms. “I’m glad you find it so amusing. It was quite stressful.”

  I put my hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. Thank you again for watching the shop while I’m on leave.”

  She sipped her margarita. “Apology accepted. Would you like to order tacos? They’re on special for happy hour.”

  Breakfast seemed like a long time ago. There had been no opportunity for lunch after the Archives. On the other hand, I was sure Doug and Buffy were ordering a ton of food from Liberty Tavern for this evening.

  “Before we order anything, would you like to come to dinner tonight at our condo? We’re hosting a gaggle of Mayflower Society attendees, including the widow of Grayson Bancroft.”

  Meg fiddled with her phone. “I can come.”

  “You don’t seem too excited about the invitation.”

  “I was supposed to have a date tonight, but he canceled on me.” Meg stared at her drink.

  “Someone from Capitol Hill?”

  In a low voice, Meg said, “No.”

  “A happy hour?”

  She shook her head.

  “A stranger from your neighborhood?”

  “I haven’t actually met him in person,” she paused before adding, “yet.”

  “You met him online?” I tried to hide the surprise in my voice. Meg had never pursued men online. Her attractiveness made her a magnet for male attention. As long as we’d been friends, she’d spent more time deflecting unwanted suitors than pursuing those she liked.

  “I signed up for a dating site a month ago.”

  “There’s no harm in that. Everyone dates online thes
e days.”

  “I know, but it’s new for me. Half the time, guys don’t even keep the dates we plan.”

  “At least there’s always another guy to choose from.”

  “Yeah, an endless supply of losers. It’s been hard to rebound after Kyle.”

  Meg was referring to her most recent beau. They’d broken up a couple of months earlier when political differences had forced a wedge between them.

  “Come on, Meg. You can’t seriously miss Kyle. He didn’t want you to do your job because it clashed with his partisanship.”

  Meg signaled for another margarita. I’d barely touched mine. “You don’t know how tough dating is these days, Kit. What do you care? You’re engaged to Saint Doug and your biggest problem is convincing your in-laws not to spend a fortune on your wedding.”

  Meg’s words stung, but she wasn’t entirely off base. “Point taken. I don’t always count my blessings.”

  My best friend looked at me for several seconds. “Well, at least you admit it.”

  “I’ll confess something else.”

  “What? You secretly won Powerball last night?”

  “Sometimes I envy you.”

  Meg twittered. “Me? Why would you envy me? You have the better job, a successful fiancé, and no financial problems.”

  “You’re gorgeous and have guys fawning over you. You have a self-confidence I can only dream about.”

  “Confidence about what? My good looks? Give me a break, Kit.” She circled her face with her index finger. “This won’t be around forever.”

  I scoffed. “I think it will. You’ll be stunning when we’re eighty.”

  In a voice only slightly above a whisper, Meg said, “It’s already happening.”

  I narrowed my eyes and leaned in closer. “What’s happening, Meg?”

  “Guys aren’t that interested anymore.” Her voice rose. “Look what happened tonight! Some moron I met online stood me up.”

  “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s one date. Happens all the time.”

  Meg sat back in her bar stool and took a long sip of her drink. “Not to me.”

  “Maybe in the past, but it’s not about you. Trust me.”

  Meg pursed her lips. “And how would you know? When were you last on a date? Not including Doug.”

  “Actually, it was two months ago.” I was referring to a staffer from the House of Representatives Sergeant at Arms office. I’d accompanied him to happy hour to interrogate him about a murder we were trying to solve.

  With a dismissive gesture, she said, “He doesn’t count. I don’t even want to talk about how that turned out.”

  I frowned. “I don’t have a lot of recent dating experience. But talk to the younger female staffers in our office. They’ll tell you how online dating works. You might need to lower your expectations.”

  “All right,” Meg said, her skepticism evident. “I’ll ask around. In the meantime, I’m happy to help tonight with the investigation.”

  I squeezed her arm. “Terrific.”

  “One more question.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Do you mind if I order a taco?”

  I smiled. Some things never changed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Meg and I parted ways outside Oyamel. She headed home to her D.C. apartment to change clothes and squeeze in a power nap. I headed northwest past the Shakespeare Theatre, the Smithsonian Portrait Gallery, the International Spy Museum, and the Martin Luther King Jr. Central Library to the busy Metro Center subway station. Ten minutes later, I descended inside the crossroads of the District’s transit system. Four separate lines were serviced at Metro Center, making it the central hub for commuters and tourists. Rush hour had begun, which was both a boon and a curse. It meant trains arrived more frequently, but also that the ride home would likely find me packed in like a sardine.

  The annual Cherry Blossom Festival, which brought close to one million visitors to Washington to gawp at the three thousand blooming Tidal Basin trees gifted to the United States by the Japanese government in 1912, had recently concluded. I said a silent prayer of thanks the festival was over. During the celebration, the swell in tourists made the daily commute a nightmare. When the doors to my Orange Line train opened, I was relieved to see a seat was available. Like a good citizen, I plopped myself down only after making sure that an elderly, disabled, or pregnant passenger wasn’t standing in the vicinity. It always irritated me when relatively young, able-bodied individuals took the seats when others who needed one were left standing. This time I was in the clear, which was lucky because during the ride I wanted to think clearly about Grayson Bancroft’s murder. Rummaging through my purse, I found my trusty notebook and a pen.

  First, I needed a list of suspects. That was easy: Frederick and Lola Valdez, Cecilia Rose and Drake, and Professor James Mansfield. Reluctantly, I added Winston Hollingsworth. After all, he was a suspect, despite being my future father-in-law. I also wrote down Buffy Hollingsworth. I doubt she’d murdered Grayson on her own, but in the unlikely scenario Winston had been involved, then Buffy might have been an accomplice. Was there anyone else? I included Kiki Bancroft. She hadn’t been at the Continental Club the night Grayson was killed, but wasn’t the spouse always a suspect?

  More people got on the train at McPherson Square and Farragut West, two popular commuter stops, and the aisles quickly filled around me. Most passengers were federal workers, sporting lanyards with their identification badges around their necks. Though clearly exhausted, they all appeared able-bodied, so I continued writing.

  There was no shortage of motives. Frederick Valdez viewed Grayson as a rival who had bested him for years. Purchasing the conservative newspaper from under his nose might have been the last straw. Lola detested the direction Grayson had taken with the Mayflower Society. With his considerable money and influence, he might have held the presidency for another decade. By then, Mayflower would have been transformed into something Lola abhorred. Perhaps the two of them had decided to work together to kill Grayson.

  Drake acted like a pinhead, but appearances could be deceiving. If Cecilia took up with her former paramour, he’d be out on his can with nothing to show for it. Cecilia was even more of a mystery. She seemed to have a “love/hate” relationship with Grayson Bancroft. Did he want to rekindle the romance? Had Cecilia resisted his overtures? I put a question mark next to her name.

  If Professor Mansfield and Kiki were having an affair, Mansfield would have had a strong motive for killing Grayson. He might have taken advantage of Kiki’s deliberately orchestrated absence at the Mayflower Society. Perhaps he killed Grayson while she escaped scrutiny for the murder? After all, he’d tried to divert attention away from himself to Drake when Trevor and I had interrogated him at the National Archives. Had it been the clever ploy of a murderer trying to send us down the wrong path?

  Of course, Winston Hollingsworth’s motive was clear. He’d disliked Grayson and wanted to lead the Mayflower Society. Winston had publicly challenged Grayson only hours before his death and never hidden his disdain. The insulin syringes certainly pointed to him.

  By the time we hit the Foggy Bottom station, the subway car had filled up. Despite the large volume of people, the Metro was almost always quiet. People listened to music, read books on their Kindles, or stared into space. However, Friday evenings were different. The crowd buzzed with chatter about weekend plans and the spring weather. Only ten minutes from my stop, I was able to tune out the surrounding din and focus on the case.

  What did we need to learn at the dinner party? Since Trevor and Meg had agreed to join us, we should put them to good use. I studied the list of suspects and jotted down several notes. Before our guests arrived, I’d huddle with Doug, Trevor, and Meg.

  The next stop was Clarendon. I got up to weave my way to the subway door. When I first started commuting, I made the mistake of remaining in my seat too long before my stop. Once the doors closed, there was no way to notify th
e train operator to reopen them. The only recourse was to double back at the next station.

  Five minutes later, I was standing in front of the door of our condo, bracing myself. Clarence had a knack for knowing exactly when the door was going to open. He frequently waited on the other side, poised to escape. Never mind that his “escape” consisted of running down the long hallway of our building. He seemed to relish the thrill of it and take great delight in my feeble attempts to catch him.

  But I’d gotten wise to Clarence. I opened the door slowly. Sure enough, I could see his floppy brown ears and black nose through the crack. In one swift move, I pushed through the door and slammed it behind me. Clarence’s look of defeat was immediately replaced by excitement. He wiggled his butt with vigor and barked several times.

  I shuttled Clarence to our oversized sofa and patted the seat next to me. He immediately jumped up and gave me a big kiss. After enjoying a speedy ear scratch and a hug, he rolled over onto his back for a belly rub. I could only imagine his thoughts. Finally, someone who understands me is here. Thank goodness.

  Buffy appeared in the living room. She was dressed in a sleek black sheath dress with a fitted blazer and silver jewelry. I’d almost forgotten. This wasn’t our normal Friday night out with Doug’s Georgetown colleagues or my friends from Capitol Hill. I’d have to find something to wear in my closet pronto.

  “Kit, what are you doing?” she asked.

  “I just got home. Don’t worry. I’m going to change my clothes before the party.”

  “I’m not talking about the clothes, although now that you mention it, you’d better change. Why is he on the couch?” She pointed directly at Clarence.

  “Him? You mean Clarence?”

  “Yes. Do you know we had this condo scrubbed spotless earlier today?”

  I looked around. Now that Buffy mentioned it, the place did look cleaner than usual.

  “Thank you for doing that. But Clarence is allowed on the furniture. We don’t restrict him.” He must have known we were talking about him. He cuddled up next to me and stretched across my lap.

  Buffy drew herself up to her full height, as if poised for a fight. “What you do in your home is your own business. But not when I’m expecting friends here for a dinner party.” She walked over to the couch and pointed to the ground. “Off the couch, Clarence. Now.”