Meg rubbed her forehead. “I need a translator when I’m speaking with you, even though you seem to be speaking English.”
I giggled. Trevor had a knack for making things sound more complicated than they actually were. “I think what Trevor is trying to say is that Kiki likes James much more than he likes her.”
“Thank you, Kit, for that fifth-grade version of events. I’ll reiterate the point I was trying to make,” Trevor said. “She’s pursued him more than the converse.”
“I’m not surprised. Kiki is a woman who gets what she wants,” said Doug.
“Her comments tonight certainly angered your father,” I said. “She wants to succeed Grayson as the president of the Mayflower Society. That really upset Winston.”
“She also upset Frederick Valdez,” said Doug. “Kiki has indicated she wants to continue Grayson’s legacy of philanthropy for historical causes. Even with less money, Frederick could have replaced Grayson as the new donor about town. But that won’t happen if Kiki continues to make big bequests using the Bancroft name.”
“Which brings us back to my original point,” said Trevor. “Kiki knows she can sustain Mansfield’s interest if she keeps shelling out big bucks for the causes he cares about.”
“Like the National Archives exhibit,” I said.
Trevor snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”
Meg raised her hand. “If I had to guess, I’d finger Kiki Bancroft for her husband’s murder,” she said. She finished her glass of champagne and tipped her glass. “Is there any more of this? It’s fabulous.”
I pointed toward the kitchen. “Yes, please finish it.” Meg ambled inside. Once Clarence noticed she was headed to the kitchen, he followed.
“There are two things in nature that cannot co-exist,” said Doug
“I’ll bite. What’s that?” I asked.
“Meg and an open bottle of sparkling wine,” he answered.
Trevor actually smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Meg returned with a full flute and Clarence on her heels. She’d grabbed a leftover sparerib. “Has Clarence had a treat lately?”
“No, but I’m not sure he deserves one,” I said.
“Come on, Kit. Have a heart.” Meg pouted.
“Go ahead. Just don’t give him the bone.”
Clarence licked his lips as he saw Meg carefully remove the meat.
“You know, I found out something important tonight, too,” she said.
“That’s right. When I talked to you in the bedroom earlier this evening, you said Cecilia was considering wrapping up the Savannah series. Did you learn anything more?” I asked.
“Sure did.” Meg petted a satisfied Clarence, who licked her fingers for any last trace. “Just as I thought, Cecilia was ready to dish after a drink or two.”
“More like three,” I said.
“Probably,” Meg agreed, “but who’s counting? She told me she’s ending the series with the next book.”
The news surprised me. “Why? Most authors would give their right arms to have such success.”
“She’s tired of the characters. She mentioned some nonsense about maximizing her creativity and writing a science fiction series,” said Meg.
Trevor perked up. “Cecilia Rose said she wants to write science fiction?”
Meg downed her last sip of champagne. “I didn’t pay much attention, but she went on and on about it. When she didn’t mention any steamy scenes, I lost interest.”
“I imagine you won’t be her only reader to tune out,” said Doug.
“How can you say that? Maybe she will be great at science fiction,” I said defensively.
“She might be a terrific writer,” Doug said. “But whatever she writes in that genre is unlikely to sell as well as her romance novels.”
“So that’s why Drake doesn’t want her to end the Savannah series,” I said.
Meg nodded. “You got it. Drake has romanced older women before. But he got Cecilia to marry him. He doesn’t want his lifestyle to change one bit, and those romance novels provide him with a generous allowance.”
“But how does Grayson’s murder fit in?” asked Trevor.
“Good question,” said Meg. “Here’s the last detail. Grayson owned Cecilia’s publisher, and he wanted her to keep writing the Savannah books. He wasn’t going to support her lofty literary aspirations unless she kept writing the books that made him a lot of money.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “He wanted to talk to her about it before he was murdered, but Cecilia put him off.”
“Don’t forget they were romantically involved years ago. It sounds like a complicated relationship,” said Doug.
“Or maybe a love triangle with Drake,” said Meg.
“Now you sound like a romance novelist,” I said, laughing.
Meg stood up. “You never know! I’m full of surprises.”
She and Trevor made their way to the front of our condo. After exchanging goodnight pleasantries, Doug and I turned to assess the condition of our condo.
“Not too much of a mess,” I remarked.
“It was a tame crowd.” Doug glanced at Clarence. “For the most part.”
“Don’t blame me. I told you not to lock him inside the bedroom.”
“I didn’t say a word. Let’s clean up before bed. We need to get up early tomorrow for our appointment at the Smithsonian.”
“I almost forgot. Do you really think it’s worth it?” I asked.
“Have you got any other leads? We’ve established motives, but right now, we don’t know how Grayson died. Short of Detective Glass and the CSI wizards providing us with evidence, my father still looks good for this.” Doug loaded up the dishwasher and turned it on.
“Based on tonight’s revelations, don’t you think Kiki Bancroft might have done it?”
“I see what you mean, Kit, but she wasn’t anywhere near the Continental Club on Wednesday night.” He tied up the trash and moved it near the door.
“She was supposedly in Florida,” I said. “But do we know that for sure?”
“Surely the police have checked her alibi.”
I sighed. “You’re right. I’m grasping at straws because I want to clear your father of suspicion.”
He stopped cleaning and came over to give me a hug. “I appreciate it.”
“I go back to work in two days. My boss returns from China on Sunday night, and that means I’ll need to focus on her.”
Doug’s forehead creased. “That’s not the deadline I’m worried about. We need to find the murderer before Detective Glass decides she has enough to charge my father.”
We finished tidying up and then went directly to bed. Exhausted from the long day, I fell into a deep sleep. In my dream, I was inside the lavish ballroom of the Continental Club, dressed in an old-fashioned flowing gown reminiscent of the one worn by Gertrude Harper in the striking portrait. Doug was decked out in a classic tuxedo. When we turned to admire ourselves in the full-length mirrors that adorn the ornate walls of the ballroom, instead of our reflections, we saw a huge hourglass. The sand was plummeting precipitously, and there was no way to stop it. Winston Hollingsworth was running out of time.
Chapter Nineteen
The combination of exhausting days and a fitful night’s sleep took its toll. Doug and I slept in later than usual. Clarence was dog-tired, too. When I finally opened my eyes, he was snoring on his side, nestled between us.
I slipped out of bed without disturbing the two sleeping beauties. It was actually a perfect photo. I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture for social media posterity, although I didn’t think Doug would let me post it unless I’d edited him out.
It was almost nine, so the comatose duo would need to be woken soon. In the meantime, I busied myself with coffee and the online Washington Post morning headlines.
Ten minutes later, Doug ambled into the living room to join me. We did a round of rock-paper-scissors to see who would take Clarence out for his morning walk and bath
room break. I lost, which was only fair because Doug usually attended to him during the week as I scurried to get ready for work on Capitol Hill.
When I returned, Doug was already showered and dressed. “How quickly can you be ready to leave for the Smithsonian?”
“Why? Our appointment isn’t until eleven, right?”
“Yes, but we could squeeze in a fun springtime activity beforehand, if you’re game.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Doug smiled. “You’re wasting time. Just get ready so we can take off.”
Years of hitting the snooze button had prepared me for this challenge. In less than fifteen minutes, I returned to the living room, raring to go. “Fast enough?”
He glanced at his phone. “Not bad. We’ll have plenty of time before our appointment at the museum.”
We said goodbye to Clarence and headed to retrieve our Prius from the garage. Five minutes later, we were barreling eastward on Route 50 toward downtown. We were on the road early enough to beat the tourist crush, which swelled in the afternoon hours.
Doug found a parking spot on Madison Drive in front of the Smithsonian American Art Museum. As Doug carefully maneuvered the car, I commented, “An auspicious start to the day.” It was near impossible to find parking in this part of the city.
“Let’s hope it’s a sign of great things to come,” he said.
“I’ve been a good sport. Where are we going? It can’t be far away.” It was a quarter past ten and our appointment was scheduled for eleven.
Doug chuckled. “We’re already there.” He pointed ahead past the intersection of Seventh Street and Madison.
I followed his finger with my eyes. “The Sculpture Garden!”
“Not just the Sculpture Garden,” he said. “Breakfast at the pavilion inside the Sculpture Garden.”
I smiled from ear to ear. “Thank you. I love the evening jazz concerts here in the summer.”
He put his arm around my waist. “How could I forget? I know the past couple of days haven’t been a walk in the park. The least I could do was give you the real thing.”
We strolled past the open-air installations situated inside a small fenced-in area that served as an outdoor extension of the National Gallery of Art. My favorite was the huge bronze spider sculpture, but Doug preferred the pop art Lichtenstein house. The artists had painted the freestanding structure as an optical illusion. The side of the house appeared to project both toward you and away from you at the same time, changing perspective as you walked around it.
We arrived at the Sculpture Garden Pavilion Café and ordered a delightful brunch. A few minutes after finding a spot inside the glass restaurant, we had been served our order of steel cut oats, scrambled eggs, croissants, mimosas, and two coffees.
“This should fortify us for the day,” I said while digging into my oatmeal filled with cranberries, nuts, and brown sugar.
“No doubt.” Doug sipped his mimosa and clinked his plastic glass to mine.
I finished a bite of buttery croissant and wiped my mouth. “So what do we hope to accomplish at the Smithsonian this morning?”
Doug chugged his coffee and cleared his throat. “We haven’t focused on how Grayson died. I don’t think the police are going to have too many answers for us. We can’t wait around for forensics to tell us what happened.”
“Even if they had the answers,” I said, “it’s not like I can email Detective Glass and ask her for a copy of the toxicology report.”
“Precisely. But that doesn’t mean we can’t use our deductive powers to make an educated guess.”
I stifled a gasp. Was this really the man I was engaged to marry? The same historian who refused to write a sentence without checking multiple sources? Even Doug’s endnotes had footnotes.
In my most neutral voice, I said, “Doug, no offense, but educated guesses usually aren’t your style.”
He downed the rest of his mimosa. Morning drinking, even champagne drowned in orange juice, also wasn’t Doug’s style. This murder had him upside-down.
“What choice do we have? A colleague of mine at Georgetown put me in contact with the chief of the Science Reading Room at the Library of Congress. She was helpful and mentioned the Smithsonian was winding up an exhibit on poisons. She referred me to the curator at Natural History responsible for the displays.”
“Our cultural institutions at their finest moment,” I remarked.
“Don’t knock it. Their collaboration benefits us.”
“I’m not. We’re lucky the exhibit is at the Smithsonian.”
Doug nodded. “We caught a break there. Who knows? It might lead to nothing.” He studied his plate and pushed his eggs around.
I reached over and took his hand. “Hey, don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”
He glanced at my Fitbit. “What time is it? We don’t want to be late for our appointment.”
I hit the button. “Twenty to eleven. Time to go.”
It was only a short walk across Ninth Street to our destination. The cherry blossoms had already peaked so the crowds were smaller than they had been only a week ago. Even so, a line had formed outside the main entrance. Several recent updates to permanent exhibits had caused attendance to soar. With over seven million visitors last year, Natural History was easily the most popular Smithsonian museum and a “top five” D.C. attraction.
After clearing security, we found ourselves face to face with an enormous pachyderm inside the first floor rotunda. “That’s the biggest elephant I’ve ever seen,” I remarked.
Doug pointed to the information placard. “You’re absolutely correct! It’s the biggest mounted specimen of the largest land animal in the world. Behold the African bush elephant.”
“It’s comforting to know he’s keeping an eye on everything,” I said.
“If there’s any truth to Night at the Museum, I don’t want to be around when he wakes up.”
We laughed and walked around the perimeter of the rotunda. When we reached the Hall of Mammals, I glanced at the time. “We have ten minutes before our meeting. Can we do a quick tour?”
“It will have to be fast.”
We pushed our way through the crowd to catch a glimpse at a tiger leaping out of the ceiling, a giraffe stretching to eat a leaf, a fully upright brown bear, and a hippo with its enormous mouth wide open. The heavy traffic of tourists and sightseers prevented us from taking a closer look, which didn’t matter since we had only minutes to spare.
As we emerged from the exhibit, Doug shook his head in wonder. “Even if you live in D.C. area, you need to take a day off work to visit the Smithsonian. These weekend crowds are a killer.”
“Speaking of killers, let’s find our contact. What’s the name?” I asked.
Doug consulted his phone. “Celeste Martin. Research biologist and assistant curator. Doctorate from UC Berkeley.”
“Sounds impressive. I’ll follow you.”
We headed up the stairs, and after consulting a visitors’ guide on the wall, we discovered the Power of Poison exhibit tucked away in a quieter corner of the second floor. The displays were divided into several categories: “Poison in Nature,” “Poison in Myth,” “Poison Plants,” and “Poisonous Villains and Victims.” We had started to examine a display featuring Cleopatra when a slight middle-aged woman wearing jeans, a Smithsonian polo shirt, and large wire-framed glasses approached us. “Are you Doug Hollingsworth?” she asked softly.
Doug turned around. “That’s me. Celeste?”
“Yes. My friend at the Library of Congress said you’d drop by this morning and that you had some questions about our poison exhibit,” she said politely. She avoided direct eye contact, although she didn’t appear rude. If I had to wager, I’d guess that Celeste suffered from an acute case of shyness, particularly around strangers.
I extended my hand. “I’m Kit, Doug’s fiancée. We haven’t had a chance to view the exhibit yet, but perhaps you can help us.”
She straightened up.
“You’d like a private tour, then?”
“Not exactly,” said Doug. He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “We’re investigating a murder.”
Celeste crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. “A murder? I thought you were a historian from Georgetown?”
“I am,” said Doug. “We attended a conference over the past several days at the Continental Club, and unfortunately, someone died under suspicious circumstances.”
Celeste leaned forward, all shyness gone. “How so?”
“We believe the victim had been poisoned,” I said. “There was a small puncture wound on his neck, perhaps from an injection. When I came across him—”
Celeste interrupted me. “You discovered the body?”
“Yes. That’s one of the reasons why we want to figure out what happened.” No need to tell Celeste that Doug’s father was the prime suspect. She seemed intrigued by our story, but we couldn’t afford to spook her.
“That must have been terrifying.” Celeste’s face softened. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure. Ask away,” I said.
“How long did it take for the victim to die?”
Doug and I looked at each other. “We can’t be sure, but it must have been pretty fast. He was killed inside the library of the Continental Club. If it was slow-acting, he could have screamed for help or stumbled downstairs.”
Celeste scratched her neck. “Interesting. Was his face contorted?”
With too much enthusiasm, I said loudly, “Yes! His legs and arms were spread out, almost like he was frozen in place.”
“Was it likely he had convulsions before he died?” she asked. “I know these are difficult questions, but the answers might be important.”
Doug frowned. “I don’t think so. Kit?”
“I doubt it.”
“Were you close enough to the body to detect a smell?” asked Celeste.
“I was,” I said. “I bent down for a closer look. I thought he might have had a heart attack. He wasn’t overweight, but he could have been a smoker. I didn’t smell cigarettes, though.”
“No almond smell? It would be a bitter almond, not sweet.”
Calamity at the Continental Club Page 17
