At least Cecilia hadn’t shied away from the food. She’d loaded up with generous portions of antipasti, carbonara, and shortribs. “Save room for dessert,” I reminded them.
Doug handed me a plate. Perhaps Kiki had a point. The past few days had been murder on my waistline. I opted for fish, salad, and a modest scoop of gnocchi. I plopped two ribs on my plate for Clarence. After spending his Friday night locked inside our bedroom, he deserved it.
Lola and Frederick were sitting with Kiki on our sofa. After maneuvering an armchair next to them, Lola said, “Please join us, Kit. We only started to eat this delicious food a moment ago.”
“Besides planning the new Bancroft wing at the Archives, will you assume any of Grayson’s other duties?” asked Frederick.
“If you mean business responsibilities, the answer is no. My husband knew I wasn’t interested in such matters. His will outlines a clear line of succession for his corporation. Grayson has ensured his fortune will continue to grow. Of course, the profits will fund the estate,” Kiki said.
“You’re lucky Grayson was so prepared,” said Lola.
Kiki picked at her food. “I had a long talk with my team of lawyers, financial advisers, and consultants before I flew up here. I’ll be very comfortable. I have a few loose ends to tie up, and it should be smooth sailing.”
“Best not to make too many changes at a time like this,” offered Frederick. “The Archives construction will keep you busy enough.”
Winston ambled over to our group. “Delightful dinner, Kit. Bravo! What are we discussing?”
“We’ve been discussing Kiki’s handling of Grayson’s estate and his various responsibilities,” explained Lola.
“Not the least of which was his leadership of the Mayflower Society,” said Winston.
“I’d not thought of that detail, Winston,” said Lola. “I suppose we’ll need to conduct an actual election before adjourning on Sunday afternoon.”
Winston bent down and whispered in my ear, “No one ever opposed Grayson’s election, so we’ve gotten used to selecting the president by acclamation. Not the most democratic practice in the world, for sure.”
“More like a banana republic,” I muttered, almost to myself.
Kiki cleared her throat. “Starting tomorrow, I will be consumed with final arrangements for Grayson. But I would like to be at the Mayflower Society business meeting on Sunday.”
“You’re welcome to attend,” said Winston. “Fair warning, Kiki. It may bore you to tears.”
“I’ll manage. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I need to be present if I want to run for the presidency and succeed my husband. Correct?” She stared at Lola, Frederick, and Winston for an answer.
It was like watching a merry band of children who had just learned Santa Claus didn’t exist. Winston’s mouth fell open. Lola flinched, almost in a mini-convulsion. Frederick crossed his arms and frowned. The shock of Kiki’s unexpected announcement reverberated around the room. No one uttered a sound.
Finally, I broke the uncomfortable silence. “I don’t know anything about the bylaws of the Mayflower Society, but congratulations, Kiki. What makes you want to run for the presidency?” Then I added, “It seems like a lot of work.”
“Since I’ll be working on the new exhibit wing at the National Archives, it makes sense for the presidency to stay with the Bancroft name,” said Kiki. “When I talked to the Archives development team this afternoon, they insisted I assume Grayson’s position.”
Winston, who had taken a sip of his Balvenie when Kiki was speaking, almost spit it out. “I mean no disrespect, but you cannot just assume Grayson’s position. Lola, explain it to her.”
Lola complied. “It’s been a while since I consulted the bylaws. I did write them decades ago. If memory serves me correctly, Winston is right. There’s no provision for assuming a position due to death or any other incapacity. We’ll need to hold an election.”
“Very well,” said Kiki. “I certainly wish to abide by the rules. However, I’m sure the membership will want to continue the generous endowment to the Mayflower Society provided by my husband. It makes perfect sense to maintain the status quo during this troubled time.”
Winston removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “Grayson Bancroft was generous with the club. I don’t dispute that.” He paused to catch his breath. “That’s not the only criteria for selecting the next president of Mayflower.” He looked at Frederick and Lola. “Don’t you both agree?”
“Winston has a point,” Lola said. She turned toward Kiki. “Your late husband’s political beliefs were doctrinaire and oppressive. Do you plan to uphold his preferences? In my opinion, his ideology was ruining the society.”
Kiki laughed. “Well said. I cannot dispute your description of Grayson. However, I didn’t share his view of the world. No one has ever labeled me as overly rigid.”
“Then what are you?” asked Frederick. “A Republican? A Democrat? An Independent?”
“A pragmatist. That’s how I label myself. I’m someone who always looks for a way to solve a problem. When I’m elected, I’ll make sure the Mayflower Society maintains its current esteemed stature in the historical and philanthropic community. Who can argue with that?”
Winston’s features were twitching. He looked as though he would burst at the seams. Instead of torturing himself any longer, he left the group and headed toward the kitchen. I heard him rifling through our cabinets, no doubt searching for the Scotch.
It was time to extricate myself from the stressful conversation. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to check on the dessert.”
Trevor stood right outside the kitchen with an empty plate in hand. I motioned for him to follow me inside. “How are you making out?” I asked.
He made an ambiguous gesture. “So-so. I haven’t had the opportunity to spend much time with Kiki.”
“That’s okay. I’ve heard plenty from her. What about Professor Mansfield?”
“He’s a hard nut to crack. I can’t exactly ask him if he’s been having an affair with the widow of a recently murdered billionaire.” Trevor drained his drink and reached for a clean glass, which he filled with water from our fridge. He added, “By the way, every time I get involved in one of these murders, I end up drinking way too much.”
“Water is a perfectly acceptable option. We don’t force people to drink alcohol around here, Trevor.”
“Just like Julia Child didn’t force anyone to eat beef bourguignon,” Trevor grumbled.
“Don’t be a smart ass. Do you think Mansfield was having an affair with Kiki?” I pressed.
“Impatient, aren’t we? I was getting to it.” He took a long sip of his water. “They’re definitely close. Mansfield let it slip that Kiki sometimes takes a detour on her famous trips, which involves a few days in his neck of the woods.”
“I doubt New Haven is a convenient layover for any trip.”
“Nope,” said Trevor. “She definitely used the excuse of being away on a holiday to squirrel away private time with the esteemed historian.”
“If that’s true, it certainly gives Mansfield a motive.”
Trevor nodded. “Yes, he has a motive, in my informed opinion.”
“Thank you, Trevor. It’s time for the dessert. Can you pass me an oven mitt?”
From our oven I removed the two wrapped pans, which had been set on a low heat to keep the treats warm and toasty. With Trevor’s help, we cleared the dinner entrees from the table and replaced them with the dessert. Doug must have heard the commotion in the kitchen and appeared by my side.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“Let’s make sure everyone has a drink of champagne so we can make a final toast and call it a night,” I said in a low voice.
Doug let out a long breath. “Music to my ears.”
I found Buffy and Winston chatting inside the living room and outlined my plan for wrapping up the evening. “Will one of you give the final toast?”
Buffy and Winston
exchanged glances. Neither spoke immediately.
“If you don’t want to do it, who do you suggest?” I asked.
Winston leaned in. “Not sure, darling. No one really liked Grayson very much. In the course of your sleuthing, you’ve figured that much out, right?”
The elder Hollingsworth seemed to be having considerable difficulty focusing on me. Just what I needed—an intoxicated future father-in-law on my hands. Where was Doug when I needed him? I scanned the room, but I didn’t see him.
Cecilia was standing by herself, fiddling with her iPhone, while Meg appeared engaged in an animated conversation with Drake. Cecilia and Grayson had a history together. Maybe she’d help out.
“Cecilia, would you like to give a final toast in Grayson’s memory before we serve dessert?” I paused, and then added emphatically, “It would be most appreciated.”
Surely, Cecilia caught my drift. After all, the woman was a bestselling romance novelist. She had to understand body language, tone, and innuendos.
She averted her eyes and stared into space for several seconds. Then she spoke slowly. “Absolutely. I’d be delighted.”
“Thank you.” I gave her a polite hug and raised my voice. “Can I have everyone’s attention? Cecilia Rose, a longtime friend of Grayson Bancroft, would like to provide a final toast in his honor. After the speech, dessert will be served.” I stepped aside and motioned for Cecilia to take the floor.
“I’ll keep this short. Please raise your glasses in memory of Grayson. All of us who knew him were richer for the experience, literally and figuratively.” A ripple of restrained laughter could be heard among the gathered guests. “Here’s to closing old chapters and writing new ones.”
She raised her glass, and the crowd responded, “To Grayson.” Everyone took a generous sip of drink. Winston and Buffy looked unimpressed. Engaged in a private conversation, Frederick and Lola were touching heads, making them look like conjoined twins. Professor Mansfield stood behind Kiki, whose perfectly powdered face had turned the shade of a ruby red grapefruit. Her knuckles were white from the death grip she had on her champagne glass. Kiki hadn’t liked something about Cecilia’s parting speech. It was no Ich bin ein Berliner, but it hadn’t been terrible, either. I was about to head in her direction to find out what she objected to when Doug tugged at my sleeve.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I was about to say goodnight to Kiki Bancroft.”
“It’ll have to wait,” he said. “Follow me.” He marched across the length of our condo in the direction of our bedroom. I caught up to him as he opened the door.
The disturbing sight before me was nothing short of doggy Armageddon. Clarence sat on the bed, surrounded by a variety of objects that ostensibly came from the various purses, all lying open. Tissue paper was littered on top of it all, the coup de grâce of Clarence’s canine protest.
I couldn’t utter a word, let alone form a sentence. Doug had discovered the disaster before retrieving me from the dinner party, so he had no trouble speaking. “What are we going to do about this, Kit?”
Just as Doug spoke, Meg appeared inside the doorway. “About what?” she asked.
Then Meg noticed the mess. She covered her mouth with her free hand, the one not carrying champagne. “Holy moly guacamole!” she exclaimed.
At least Meg hadn’t forgotten one of her favorite foods. I spoke slowly. “I’m not sure what to do.”
Doug, Meg, and I walked over to the bed. Clarence’s eyes were as big as half-dollars, and his ears shot to the back of his head. When I approached, he offered me a paw.
I’m sorry, Mom. But you locked me inside a room during a party. And you served ribs.
I reached out to grab his paw. Doug said, “Don’t pet him. We shouldn't reward him for bad behavior.”
I pulled my hand back, but seriously doubted whether my withholding of affection had any punitive effect. What’s done is done. Clarence knew right from wrong. Oftentimes, he willfully listened to the devil puppy on his shoulder. In that sense, Clarence was no different from me or any other human. We were all repentant sinners, dogs and homo sapiens alike.
I picked up a Lancome compact and Aveda mascara. “There’s no way of knowing where the items came from,” I concluded.
“Even master sleuths couldn’t figure this one out,” Meg said. “I’m glad I brought my clutch this evening. It’s sitting on your couch.”
Clarence had apparently grown bored with our efforts to clean up the mess he’d created. He jumped off the bed and ambled toward the door.
“Should we stop him?” Meg asked.
I looked directly at Doug. “No point. He would have caused less damage if we’d let him join the party.” Although I didn’t add “I told you so,” the smugness in my voice telegraphed it.
Doug shrugged. “Blame Buffy.”
We examined several items, including a designer hairbrush, a pill case, a Montblanc fountain pen, a leather Coach wallet, and a pair of “Jackie O” Dior sunglasses.
“No tooth marks, thank goodness!” Meg said. “At least you know your guests have good taste.”
“Of course they do.” We all turned around as Buffy entered the room.
A second later, her jaw dropped open. “W-what happened?” she stammered.
Doug cleared his throat. “We had an incident with Clarence.”
I couldn’t resist. “We’ve never kept him confined to one room before. He didn’t like it.”
“That’s an understatement.” Buffy moved toward the bed and surveyed the damage, picking up several items for a closer inspection.
“Has the party moved to the bedroom?” Four heads swiveled as Drake entered the fray.
“We’ve had an accident with our dog,” I explained. “We’ll need everyone to identify their belongings, I’m afraid.”
Drake burst out laughing. “This is the funniest thing I’ve seen all day.”
The NSA must have heard Drake’s loud guffaws, whether they were intentionally listening or not. Within sixty seconds, our remaining guests were crammed inside the room to find out what was so amusing. Clarence trailed behind, sitting politely in the far corner of the room.
“We’re terribly sorry about this, but if you left a purse in this room during dinner, can you come forward to claim its contents?” Doug sounded apologetic yet completely in control of the situation, thank goodness. The last time Clarence had caused a mess in public, I’d had a giggle fit. That incident had involved a pepperoni pizza, a murder suspect, and a dog popularity contest. This screw-up may have surpassed the earlier debacle.
Lola, Kiki, and Cecilia joined Buffy next to the bed. Kiki clenched her jaw, but remained silent. She picked up a Tory Burch black shoulder bag and placed several stray items inside.
Cecilia’s eyes darted back and forth. She gathered up several possessions and zipped up her bag. “I certainly hope nothing was broken,” she huffed.
“I don’t think so,” said Doug evenly. “Everything is childproof these days. Luckily, that means it’s dog proof, too.” The corners of his mouth edged upward in a strained smile.
Cecilia grunted in reply and examined the designer pen carefully. “I keep this pen in my purse for when fans approach me for autographs. No apparent damage, except your dog’s slobber.” She extracted a wet wipe from her purse’s zippered compartment and carefully cleaned the pen.
Lola clasped her hands together in relief when she saw her sunglasses. “Thank goodness! I just love this pair.” She took the opportunity to remove them from the case and put them on. “Do I remind you of a certain first lady?”
Certainly, except for the flowing gray hair, the flower child outfit, and the extra fifty pounds. Otherwise, Lola was the spitting image of Jacqueline Kennedy.
I pushed those snarky thoughts aside. “Absolutely. You just need some white riding pants and a headscarf.”
Lola laughed. “Kit, you’re so quick-witted. No wonder you’ve been successful as a congressional staffer. I bet nothing gets by you
!” She shook her finger at me.
Doug put his arm around me. “Not much.” Then he turned to the rest of the crowd. “Once again, we apologize for Clarence’s bad behavior. Has everyone claimed their possessions?”
Hearing no objections, Doug announced that dessert would be served with after-dinner drinks. The sweet smell of corn panna cotta and angel food cake, plus the promise of port or some other equally yummy digestif, was enough to lure our guests back to the dining room. The last person to leave the bedroom, I found myself alone with my naughty dog.
“Clarence, what am I going to do with you?”
He presented me with his paw, and this time, I took it. I scratched him on the head, and he gave me an apologetic lick. It reminded me of a saying my dog-loving boss in the Senate liked to quote when someone in the office screwed up.
“To err is human. To forgive, canine.”
Chapter Eighteen
Thirty minutes later, our guests had departed. Doug opened the sliding glass door to our outdoor balcony, and we joined Meg, Trevor, and Clarence outside for some fresh air. I pulled on a light cardigan over my jumpsuit. Soon enough, the cool evenings would be replaced with muggy summer nights. Springtime didn’t last very long in Washington.
“I’m glad that’s over,” I exclaimed after flinging myself onto our comfy chaise.
Meg swung back and forth slowly in our single-seat hammock fastened to the deck above us. “I thought it was quite successful,” she said. “Except for Clarence’s faux pas, of course.” Our dog’s ears perked up at the mention of his name.
“That’s an understatement,” said Doug. He’d poured himself a half-glass of port, a clear indicator the stress of the evening had worn on him, too.
“Dogs will be dogs, I suppose.” Trevor wrinkled his nose. Although we’d managed to convert Meg to a Clarence fan, Trevor had a long way to go. “Nonetheless, I have reached a conclusion about the alleged relationship between Professor Mansfield and Kiki Bancroft.”
Meg leaned in, always eager to hear gossip about sex. “Go ahead, Trevor. Spit it out.”
“After observing the two people in question, I have inferred that Kiki’s romantic attachment to the professor is asymmetrical,” he said.
Calamity at the Continental Club Page 16
