Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  Kiki’s body was too far away from the entrance, so I couldn’t zero in on a puncture wound. I did notice she was dressed in workout gear. Had she been on her way to the gym when the killer attacked her? As I craned my neck in hope of spotting more precious details, I felt a firm tap on my shoulder.

  I had a pretty good guess who’d busted me. Uh-oh. I turned around slowly and sure enough, my fears were confirmed. Detective Maggie Glass stared up at me. She did not seem pleased.

  “Ms. Marshall, may I ask why you are here? If I didn’t know better, I might think you take some pleasure in hanging around dead bodies.”

  Her expression was stern, but I detected a hint of humor in her voice. “Not at all. My future mother-in-law found Kiki’s body. The way she described it, I wondered if the manner of death was the same as the first murder.”

  “And your conclusion?” asked the detective.

  “Looks like the same MO to me.”

  “That sounds reasonable.” She pointed toward the staircase at the end of the hallway. “Now I have to ask you to leave.”

  “Can I ask you one more question?”

  “If you must.” When I didn’t move, she put her hand on my arm and guided me in the right direction.

  “Did you find a puncture wound on Kiki’s neck?”

  “No.”

  “Then how was the poison administered?” I asked.

  We’d reached the staircase. “That’s another question, Ms. Marshall. You should have asked if we found a puncture wound anywhere on her body.”

  I needed a lesson in semantics like a hole in the head. “Sorry, Detective. You’re right. So you found it somewhere else?”

  Detective Glass pointed to her upper arm.

  “Ouch. So I suppose you’re looking for another syringe? Before you jump to any conclusions, Winston had just checked his blood sugar before Buffy found the body. He was about to give himself a shot of insulin when she screamed.”

  I could swear Detective Glass rolled her eyes. “Mr. Hollingsworth’s running around the scene of yet another murder with a syringe in his hand is grounds for suspicion,” she said. I started to interrupt her, but she held up her hand to cut me off. “Let me finish. I was going to say that we got a preliminary report from our medical examiner on our first victim. The working theory is some type of paralytic poison. But the method of delivery is giving us trouble.”

  Now she had my attention. “Really? What kind of trouble?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I hope Detective O’Halloran from the Capitol Hill Police hasn’t been feeding me a line of bull. He told me I could trust you.”

  Good old Detective O’Halloran. I’d have to buy him a jelly doughnut the next time we crossed paths inside the House of Representatives cafeteria.

  I crossed my heart. “Girl Scout’s honor.”

  “As long as you don’t try to sell me another box of cookies. I’ve already eaten my annual allotment of Do-si-dos.”

  “Tagalongs for me. They’re killing me.”

  The corners of Detective Glass’s mouth tilted upward. “Our medical examiner doesn’t think Grayson was injected with a syringe.”

  “Not a syringe? Then what?” I asked.

  “Exactly. The ME still thinks the red spot on his neck was the entry point for the poison. When she examined it closely, the puncture wound was too big for a needle.”

  I gave this new detail some serious thought. “Some other sharp object delivered the poison. But it wasn’t a knife wound.”

  “That wouldn’t fit. Now you can appreciate our dilemma.”

  “I’ll have to ponder this new piece of information, Detective Glass. Does this mean Winston Hollingsworth is off your list of suspects?” If I could deliver that news to Doug, it would take a load off his mind.

  “Not so fast. He may not have used his insulin needles to kill Grayson and Kiki. That doesn’t rule him out as our perp.”

  The detective’s logic made sense, but Winston was still off the hook as much as anyone of the other immediate friends of the deceased. “At least he’s not your prime suspect any longer.”

  Detective Glass kept a sphinx-like demeanor. “I can’t confirm or deny that statement, Ms. Marshall. I need to return to the crime scene.” She turned to leave and then spun around quickly. “One more thing. If you uncover something important, I want you to tell me immediately. Do you understand?”

  “Certainly, Detective.”

  “As I recall the stories Detective O’Halloran shared with me, you have a way of figuring these things out, but the resolution includes collateral damage,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, Detective Glass. Those days are over for me. After all, I want to make sure I survive my wedding.” I raised my left hand to show her my engagement ring.

  Clearly still skeptical, she said nothing, and hurried down the hallway. Thank goodness she hadn’t seen my right hand, hidden behind my back with fingers crossed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I took the stairs two at a time so I could tell Doug the news about the murder weapon. Winston and Buffy would be relieved, too. Then I stopped abruptly as an alternative scenario hit me. My next move required skillful strategizing.

  Should I tell my future-in-laws about my conversation with Detective Glass? If I did, they’d jump to the misguided conclusion that they were completely off the hook. Buffy would certainly resume the discussions about our wedding, and I’d find myself in another uncomfortable meeting with wedding planner extraordinaire Tammy and her accomplice-in-arms Bonnie. No way did I want to relive that convo.

  The smarter option would be to tell Doug about the development and leave his parents out of it. That way, we’d guarantee the elder Hollingsworths’ fullest cooperation until we found the murderer. My instincts were almost always correct. Of course, the couple of times they hadn’t been spot on, I’d almost became the next victim of the murderer I’d been chasing.

  I grabbed my phone and texted Doug. All the social rules about restricting cellphone use to certain areas were out the window. With two dead guests, could the club afford to be concerned about etiquette? I didn’t want to seriously ask that question. After all, Miss Manners was a longtime member.

  Luckily, Doug had thrown caution to the wind as well. He responded within seconds and said he’d meet me at the portrait by the ballroom.

  I stared at the impressive replication. Gertrude knew who killed Grayson Bancroft. She’d witnessed everything. I wished she could whisper the answer to me.

  “Any luck with the police?”

  I jumped a foot in the air. I’d been so entranced by the portrait, I hadn’t noticed Doug sneaking up on me.

  “Are you crazy? There’s a murderer running loose and you’re slinking around?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “It was hardly unannounced. We agreed to meet here a few minutes ago.”

  “Fine. There’s no point in arguing. I need to tell you what I found out from Detective Glass.”

  I recounted the details of the confusion over the murder weapon. As Doug listened, he nervously bit his lip.

  “So my father isn’t the prime suspect any longer. The syringe tied him to the murder. Now he’s in the clear.”

  “Not exactly. He may not have used a diabetic needle, but Detective Glass still thinks he could have killed Grayson and Kiki. He had motive.”

  “I understand. But it’s a step in the right direction.” He let out a big breath.

  “I’d say so. But I don’t think we should tell your parents yet about this development.”

  “Why not? It would lower their blood pressures, for sure.”

  “I don’t disagree, but we might need them to still think they’re suspects, especially if we want to try to solve these crimes. We need them to remain,” I searched for the right word, “focused.”

  Doug cocked his head as he considered my reasoning. I could practically see the smoke emanating from his ears as the gears of his brain whirred. Finally, he said in a slow, deliberat
e voice, “You may have a point.”

  I took Doug’s hand and led him into the library, where the yellow police tape had been removed. We sat down at one of the beautiful oak tables. “It may seem harsh, but it’s impossible to know how this is going to be resolved.”

  “Kit, I get it. You don’t want my mother to return to her bridezilla persona. Well, I know she isn’t the bride, but she acts like she is. The nomenclature I’m looking for doesn’t exist, as far as I know, not for controlling future mothers-in-law or pushy mothers of the groom.”

  “Thanks, Doug,” I said. “I appreciate your understanding. Besides keeping her mind off the wedding, we need both of them to keep their ears to the ground.”

  Doug rubbed his chin. “They’ll lose interest if my father isn’t the prime suspect.”

  “Exactly. We always knew he didn’t do it. But two people are dead, and we’re starting to put the pieces together. I don’t want to stop sleuthing until we figure out whodunit.” I stated the last sentence forcefully. Doug was always hesitant about Meg and me participating unofficially in homicide investigations. I hoped he wouldn’t lose his nerve now.

  “Don’t worry, Kit. I’ll see this through with you. To be completely honest, it’s been pretty exciting.”

  I grabbed Doug’s arm. “Did I hear you correctly? Have you been bitten by the detective bug?”

  Doug chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I see why you’ve wanted to get to the bottom of these mysteries.”

  “I’ll take it. So we’ll keep quiet for the time being?”

  Doug mimed a zipping motion across his mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

  We returned to the Continental Club lounge, which was buzzing with conversation. Poor Charles was racing from one end of the bar to the other in a frantic attempt to keep up with the drink orders.

  Thankfully, Buffy and Winston were still sipping the drinks Doug had brought. Cecilia and Drake had joined them, so Doug and I found empty chairs and squeezed into a free spot at the table.

  “I’m telling you, I’m not spending one more night in the place,” Drake insisted. He took a slug of his tall beer. At least he wasn’t hitting the hard stuff.

  Cecilia put her hand on Drake’s upper thigh and squeezed it. “Darling, there’s nothing to be worried about. Clearly the murderer had something against the Bancrofts. Now that they’re both dead, why would anyone else be in danger?”

  I broke in, “Do you think it was a vendetta against Grayson and Kiki?”

  “It can’t be a coincidence. A husband and wife murdered within days of each other? Someone wanted to wipe them out in one fell swoop.” Cecilia made a dramatic gesture with her arm that encompassed the whole room.

  “Unless the killer only intended to kill Grayson, but then decided Kiki knew too much,” I said. “It might not have been in the original plan to murder two people.”

  “Who knows? I can’t be concerned with such details. Either way, we’ll sleep soundly tonight like always, won’t we?” Cecilia purred.

  Drake clenched his jaw. “Speak for yourself. I’m going to keep one eye open.”

  “Don’t be silly. Finish your drink, dear. I need to call my publisher and have a chat with the club’s membership office.”

  “I forgot you’re a member here,” said Doug.

  “Yes, and I need to make sure they issue me a receipt for my recent donation. It seems to have gotten lost in the mail.” Cecilia tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “Let’s go before the police corner us.”

  Drake guzzled the rest of his beer and stood up. “Duty calls.” He gave us a salute and followed Cecilia.

  Buffy raised her eyebrows. “That woman is a born storyteller.”

  “That’s an understatement, given the success of her books,” I said.

  “She doesn’t stop at romance novels,” Buffy said. “Cecilia likes to portray her life as rosier than it really is.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Doug.

  “Cecilia acts like she has the perfect marriage.” Buffy changed her voice to mimic Cecilia’s: “ ‘We’ll sleep soundly like we always do.’ ” In her normal tone, she added, “That’s hogwash. She sleeps soundly because she takes sleeping pills.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Winston.

  With a wide grin, Buffy said, “Clarence told me.”

  “I didn’t know our dog could speak English,” said Doug.

  “Very funny. After Clarence’s meltdown last night in the bedroom, I popped open a designer pill case lying on the bed. There was Ambien inside. Believe me, I know those magic pills when I see them.” Buffy clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Cecilia claimed them as hers. So typical. Sometimes I think she’s blurring reality with her fiction writing.”

  I turned to Doug. “Speaking of Clarence, we’d better head back to our condo to check on him.”

  “Let’s go before we get caught up in the police interrogations that are sure to come this afternoon,” he said.

  Buffy looked panicked. “You’re not staying? What are we going to tell that detective when she tries to pin Kiki’s murder on your father? Or both of us?”

  Doug patted his mother’s hand. “First, tell the truth. Second, I’d stop drinking those,” he pointed to her empty cocktail glass, “and order some lunch and a tall glass of water.”

  As we left, Doug’s parents sat stiffly in their chairs, staring at each other wordlessly, expressions pained. Their despair was palpable, but for the first time in days, I felt a glimmer of hope.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After a leisurely walk around our Arlington neighborhood with Clarence, I decided to take advantage of the downtime and watch a mystery movie. Whenever a good one was scheduled to air, I recorded it on my DVR and watched it at those times I needed to unwind. This one was about a female sleuth who owned a pie shop. In between creating sweet, mouth-watering concoctions, she managed to solve murders in her small New England town. She was a younger Jessica Fletcher who could bake, which made for quite a talented combo.

  Usually, I enjoyed my made-for-television mystery flicks with the enthusiasm of a shopaholic let loose in Harrods of London. This afternoon, I couldn’t give myself over entirely to my brain candy. Thoughts of the Continental Club double murder cluttered my mind. I switched off the movie and texted Meg. Sometimes talking through the scenario helped. Bizarrely, my texts went unanswered. So I grabbed a notebook and a pen.

  How was it done? The poison was likely an exotic paralytic of some sort, potentially from South America. Still, we didn’t know the method of delivery in either killing. If not a syringe, then what? It had to be something sharp that could inject the deadly substance directly into the bloodstream.

  Who had motive? I went through the suspects. James Mansfield, certainly, but why kill Kiki? Frederick and Lola Valdez wanted to get Grayson out of the way, but did their motive extend to Kiki when she decided to keep up the Bancroft philanthropy? Cecilia had a tumultuous romantic and professional history with Grayson. She and Drake each had reason to kill Grayson. There was definitely no shortage of motives to murder Grayson, but none to explain Kiki’s death.

  Who had opportunity? This was a tough one. All the suspects had stayed at the Continental Club and had access to the library and Poets’ Room. Two of the couples provided alibis for each other. That left James Mansfield, who had no one to vouch for his whereabouts. It was worth noting that he could easily have committed the crimes without having to cover his tracks.

  What was Kiki’s role? After our meeting this morning at the Smithsonian, we’d thought Kiki might have killed her husband. If that were true, then why would Kiki have turned up dead, murdered with the very poison she used on her husband? That made no sense. It seemed more plausible that Kiki had an accomplice who killed Grayson. Then, for some reason, her partner in crime turned on her. But if so, who was the murderous conspirator?

  I looked at my questions and answers. There was more to the story, but I didn’t know how it all fit together.
I turned to a fresh page in my notebook and wrote down every detail I could remember from the past three days. I forced myself to record any conversational tidbit, observation, or fact, even if it seemed insignificant. Something told me I had almost all the pieces of the puzzle. After I was done, I reread my handwritten notes, which filled two pages. Nothing immediately grabbed me, except that my penmanship was seriously in need of improvement.

  Maybe this had been an exercise in futility. I sighed, grabbed the remote, and returned to my pie-baking sleuth.

  Doug emerged from his office as the movie wrapped up. “Enjoy your mystery?”

  “Not as much as usual,” I admitted. “I kept thinking about the Continental Club murders. We’re missing something important.”

  Doug sat next to me on the couch. “I agree. I had the same feeling while I was working on my book.”

  My thoughts shifted to more important matters, like dinner. All the delicious-looking desserts in my afternoon movie had caused my stomach to grumble. “Are you hungry?”

  Doug studied his phone. “My parents just texted me. They’d like us to join them for dinner in the city. Apparently the police interrogations about Kiki’s murder are finished and they want to leave the Continental Club. They’ve been sequestered there all day.”

  With a healthy dose of skepticism in my voice, I asked, “Where do they want to go?”

  Doug smiled. “I think you’ll be pleased. Le Diplomate.”

  I did a double-take. “How did they get reservations?” Le Diplomate was a popular French bistro on Fourteenth Street. Usually, reservations were required weeks ahead of time, particularly for a Saturday night.

  “My father knows the owner. Apparently he did legal work for him when he considered opening a restaurant in Boston.”

  “You don’t have to ask twice,” I said. “Give me a half hour, and I’ll be ready.”

  “Plenty of time. We’ll meet them there at seven.”

  Soon we were searching for a parking space in the trendy Logan Circle area. Luckily, we found a spot on nearby R Street, which was primarily residential. After walking a few blocks south, we approached the standalone corner restaurant and edged our way inside the busy entrance underneath its classy, bright sign. The bread table was right near the door. I inhaled the enticing smell of freshly baked baguettes.