Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  “If I close my eyes, I could pretend I’m in Paris,” I muttered.

  “Don’t close your eyes. The décor is the best part!”

  I turned around to see Winston Hollingsworth’s beaming face.

  After we exchanged greetings, Winston pointed upward. “My client made sure the ceilings had been sandblasted to give the appearance of a tobacco-stained ceiling. His attention to detail is impressive.”

  “I’ll say so.” My gaze drifted to the Tour de France bicycle decorating the bar and the antique opacity of the dining room’s silver mirrors. To my surprise, I spied Professor Mansfield with my little eye.

  “I didn’t know you were joining us,” I remarked.

  “I invited James,” Winston said. “It’s been a difficult day for him, and he hadn’t eaten anything. He could use some entertaining company.”

  The other times I had seen Professor Mansfield, he had been the picture of neatness and order. Today, he was disheveled and his eyes drooped with weariness. He looked like a man who had suffered a major loss. Alternatively, he might want to appear as such.

  The five of us were seated outside in a prime patio spot. Heat lamps provided the warmth we needed for springtime early evening dining. Fourteenth Street had nothing on Saint-Germain-des-Prés. If we could conjure up a modern-day Sartre and de Beauvoir, Washington D.C. had gotten pretty darn close to perfecting the French café experience.

  “Does it remind you of Paris?” I politely asked Buffy.

  “I know the shops better than the cafés.” Buffy tugged at her brightly colored scarf. “My latest Hermès purchase does look appropriate.”

  Forget the apparel. My mouth watered as I saw the waiter deliver roasted leg of lamb, beef bourguignon, and steak frites to the table next to us. The waiter took our order for appetizers. The crudités would have been the wise choice. Instead I opted for the onion soup gratinée, which I’d heard was simply divine. Buffy raised an eyebrow when I ordered, but remained silent. You only live once, and this week had been unexpectedly stressful. Rather than watching every bite, Kiki would have indulged more and worried less about her waistline, had she known the end was nigh.

  “You survived the police questioning, I gather?” asked Doug.

  “It’s clear they have no clue about who killed poor Grayson or Kiki,” said Buffy.

  “I hate to admit it, but your mother is right,” said Winston. “Now they’re telling us we may not be able to go home on Sunday.”

  That made me sit up and take notice. “You won’t return to Boston tomorrow?”

  Buffy sipped her Sancerre. “Not if the police feel as though we need to stay for additional questioning. They’ll let us know tomorrow, but it doesn’t look good.”

  I gulped my ice water. “Where will you stay?” Visions of the Hollingsworths taking up residence in our condo for an indefinite period flashed before my eyes.

  Buffy waved her hand dismissively. “We could remain at the club if they’re not booked. Or move to the Hay-Adams. The Four Seasons or Willard, in a pinch.”

  I couldn’t restrain the whoosh of air I exhaled in relief. Doug’s face tightened in minor irritation. To cover my obvious faux pas, I said quickly, “Thank goodness you’ll be comfortable if you’re stuck here.”

  Professor Mansfield broke his silence. “It’s a damn inconvenience. I’ll end up missing my lectures next week.” His face softened. “I’d really like to return to work to get my mind off what has happened.”

  Patience was wearing thin. No one said anything in response to the professor’s pronouncement. A few minutes later, our first course arrived, and I dug into my soup. It was worth every blasted calorie.

  Satisfaction with our food seemed to improve the sour mood. After the waiter removed our empty dishes, I turned to Professor Mansfield, who was seated next to me. “I don’t think I properly expressed condolences about Kiki,” I said quietly.

  Moisture glistened in the corners of his eyes. Was it real waterworks or crocodile tears? I continued to size up Mansfield. If Larry David could stare down Richard Lewis, couldn’t I break a Yale history professor?

  Mansfield was silent for a long moment. Then he said softly, “Thank you. Most people knew I enjoyed her company.” He paused again, perhaps to choose his words carefully. “Our relationship was complicated at times, but it wasn’t the sordid affair perpetuated by the rumor mill.”

  I leaned closer. “What was it, then?”

  “We were kindred spirits. Most people didn’t know that Kiki also loved the study of history and culture. Her husband chose to give money, often in very public ways, to promulgate his causes. Kiki preferred staying out of the limelight. Most people viewed her as uninterested, but that wasn’t the case.”

  “She enjoyed talking about history with you,” I said.

  Mansfield nodded. “Very much. Recently, we liked to travel together. I provided the knowledge, and she provided the resources. It was mutually beneficial.”

  The professor had given me the perfect opening. “But you didn’t go with her to South America for her most recent trip?”

  “I wish I had,” he said. “It was during spring break. She only told me about her plans a day before her departure. There was no way I could join her.” He frowned. “Quite frankly, I’m not sure she even asked me.”

  “She didn’t tell you why she wanted to go?”

  “I’m not sure what the purpose of the trip was, except she hadn’t been there before. Usually she shared the details of her trips with me. This one, not so much.”

  That helped to confirm Kiki was on an expedition to bring back a fast-acting, difficult-to-trace poison to murder her husband. The accomplice and the weapon were still elusive. For all I knew, Mansfield had concocted the whole elaborate back story about Kiki to cover his tracks.

  Our entrees arrived, and I inhaled deeply, savoring the delicious aroma emanating from my moules-frites. A Belgian specialty also enjoyed by the French, the pot of mussels and accompanying french fries were steaming hot. Doug had gone for the burger Americain, which had been called the best cheeseburger in Washington D.C. Nothing like letting the French beat us at our own game.

  Buffy had gone for the healthy trout amandine. She was picking at the food, but her focus was on me. “Kit, this trip has been a disaster for our wedding planning.”

  After slurping a mussel, I mustered a half-hearted smile and tried to keep the sarcasm in my voice to a bare minimum. “We didn’t get very far with it. Solving two murders tends to take the focus off wedding planning.”

  Buffy sipped her wine. “Circumstances were clearly beyond our control. But don’t fret.” Buffy opened her purse and withdrew her iPhone. “I’ve consulted my calendar, and I can return to Washington soon. This weekend will seem like a distant nightmare by then.”

  Buffy put on her reading glasses, pecked at her phone, and smiled broadly. “I have an entire week in May that’s free. We can get a lot done with five straight days of planning.”

  What could I do? Sure, I’d dodged a bullet this weekend, but Buffy wasn’t giving up. I could see myself in an elaborate sequined wedding gown, walking down the staircase at the Continental Club with two hundred pairs of eyes on me. Our wedding was a snowball careening down Mount Everest. There was no way to stop it once Buffy put it in motion.

  I looked helplessly at Doug, who I expected to respond with a resigned shrug of the shoulders. Instead, his nostrils flared and his facial muscles tightened. He wiped burger juice from the corners of his mouth with his napkin and said, “Mother, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  Le Diplomate is a noisy restaurant. As I recall, the Washington Post, which assiduously monitors the decibels at local eateries, listed it as a “must speak with raised voice” establishment. Despite the endless chatter of other patio diners enjoying their meals, I could have heard a pin drop at our table. Winston chewed his hanger steak with trepidation in his eyes. Professor Mansfield’s expression blended surprise with a hint of admiration.
No one told Buffy Hollingsworth “no.” It didn’t happen. Except it had just happened.

  Buffy looked as though someone had told her Chanel had gone bankrupt. Her hand trembled as she placed her fork next to her plate. “Douglas, tell me why this would not be a good idea.”

  Doug’s cheeks flushed. He glanced toward Mansfield. “Perhaps it’s not the time or place to have this conversation.”

  Buffy wasn’t going to let him off so easily. “Don’t be ridiculous. James is an old friend. You don’t mind if we talk about the wedding, do you?”

  The professor blinked several times. With a bit of an amused smirk, he replied, “Not at all, Buffy.” He added, “I love weddings.”

  Yeah, right. Professor Mansfield loved weddings like I loved fresh fruit for dessert. The repartee between Doug and his mother had provided him with an entertaining distraction from his grief.

  “Mother, Kit and I need to decide what type of wedding we’re going to plan. After we figure those details out, we’ll let you know.” Doug wasn’t asking for permission. He was telling.

  Winston watched the verbal back-and-forth as if it were the final round of Wimbledon. After Doug’s pronouncement, he put his hand on Buffy’s. “Dear, let’s let Kit and Doug have time to themselves. I seem to recall a bride forty years ago who didn’t want her mother-in-law planning her wedding, either.”

  Buffy pulled her reading glasses off her nose and adjusted her scarf. “Fine. I’ll await your decisions.” She took a long plug of her wine and returned her attention to the trout remaining on her plate.

  Point, set, and match. Doug sighed in relief. I reached under the table and squeezed his hand, and he grinned in response.

  The conversation drifted to topics of politics, history, and the future of the Mayflower Society. With the latter in such disarray, no one knew what would transpire at the business meeting tomorrow. It was scheduled to take place after the morning brunch at the Continental Club. With the topic of our wedding disposed of, at least for now, Doug chatted amiably with his parents. As I nibbled on my mussels and fries, my mind drifted back to the murders. If Kiki traveled to South America to obtain the poison, who did she recruit to administer it? And how?

  When I turned my attention back to the table conversation, Doug was recounting our trip to the Smithsonian earlier today, carefully avoiding any details that could make Professor Mansfield uncomfortable, such as our conclusion that Kiki likely obtained the deadly poison during her recent trip.

  As I half-listened to Doug describe the exhibit, my brain strained to recall the details I’d written down earlier while I watched the mystery movie on television. Suddenly, I put two and two together. Was I remembering everything correctly? With my fellow diners ensconced in conversation, no one noticed as I fished through my purse to find my trusty notebook. I flipped to the appropriate page and checked my facts. Sure enough, I’d remembered the details correctly.

  My conclusion was based on circumstantial evidence, but I was almost completely certain who killed Grayson and Kiki Bancroft. Now we just needed to prove my hunch was right.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  After excusing myself, ostensibly to use the restroom, I bolted for the chaotic bar area of the restaurant, nestled myself in a corner, and pulled out my phone. Meg hadn’t replied to my earlier texts but hopefully she’d respond now.

  Break in case. Need to chat.

  I waited. After a long minute, three dots appeared. She was replying. Where?

  I’d imagined Meg was out for the night. Are you near Continental Club?

  She wrote back immediately. At home. I can meet u there.

  Sheesh. I couldn’t remember a Saturday night when Meg didn’t have plans. Maybe she wasn’t exaggerating the dry spell in her dating life. This was definitely not the time to poke the bear.

  30 minutes or so. Meet in the bar.

  The prospect of a free drink must have buoyed my best friend’s spirits. She sent back a smiley face.

  If we were going to execute the plan I was formulating, we’d need all hands on deck. I whipped out my phone again and texted Trevor.

  Where are you?

  Writing. Not in my usual spot.

  That’s right. Trevor’s favorite location was now the scene of a homicide.

  Want to help solve these murders? Meet at the bar.

  Trevor answered a few seconds later. Anything to get back into my room.

  Forget bringing criminals to justice or getting my future father-in-law off the suspect list. Trevor was interested in one thing only, namely himself. At least he was predictable. In this case, his narcissism worked in my favor.

  Now I needed to rally the troops. Before returning to the table, I took a moment to strategize but was easily distracted by the surrounding din. Two men were drinking a bottle of Cabernet Franc as they loudly debated the merits of vaping in bars. It wasn’t Paris, but at least people were drinking good wine and contemplating the finer points of public policy.

  I didn’t want to tell Buffy and Winston about my hunch. If a plan came together to expose the killer, it would be better if they didn’t know. What about Doug? A few months ago, I might have left him out of the picture, as well. As the son of the prime suspect, he’d certainly been strongly motivated to unmask the true killer. Earlier today, when I told him a syringe couldn’t have been used to deliver the poison to kill Grayson and Kiki, he hadn’t backed away from pushing forward to solve the murders. Furthermore, he’d stood up to his mother at dinner when she tried to take control of our wedding. I’d seen a new side of Doug these past few days, and I hoped his prudent adventurousness and cautious defiance—not intentional oxymorons—wouldn’t disappear after we solved the Continental Club crimes.

  When I returned to the table, my dinner companions had finished their entrees. Winston motioned the waiter for a dessert and digestif menu. No way could we get roped into another course. Trevor and Meg would be waiting for us, and they detested each other. They’d only last five minutes unchaperoned before their irritation with each other erupted into a massive fight. I didn’t want either to become murder victim number three.

  Putting my hand on Doug’s arm, I told his parents, “You should enjoy an after-dinner drink with the milk chocolate pot de crème. I hear the desserts are fabulous. Doug and I need to get back to the Continental Club.” I tugged his sleeve.

  Doug jerked his head back. “We can’t stay for dessert? I wanted the crème brûlée.”

  “I’ll make it for you at home,” I said sweetly.

  Now Doug looked really befuddled. He knew I couldn’t make crème brûlée if Jacques Pepin whispered the instructions in my ear. “Why do we need to go back to the club?” he asked.

  “Trevor needs to speak with me,” I said.

  “Trevor? What does he want? Why can’t you talk to him on the phone?” Doug was making this more difficult than necessary.

  I’d have to get creative. I said the first thing that popped into my head, “Women troubles. He needs my advice about a love interest.”

  Doug wrinkled his nose. “I never knew Trevor had any romantic interests.”

  Doug was right, but that didn’t stop me. “That’s why it’s so important I speak with him about it. He’s a novice.”

  My fiancé gave me a skeptical sideways glance but stood up. “We’d better go. Sorry to eat and run,” he said emphatically.

  “Yes, it’s very rude of us. Of me, rather.” Buffy stared at me blankly. Maybe she wouldn’t be too upset about Doug’s rebuff on the wedding planning. Given my boorish behavior, she probably didn’t want me anywhere near a white dress if her son was involved.

  I pulled Doug toward the door as we exchanged perfunctory goodbyes with his parents. The springtime night air was brisk, giving me a welcome shot of energy.

  As soon as we hit the sidewalk, Doug halted. “Okay, Kit. ’Fess up. What was that all about?”

  “Sorry about the white lie. I had to get you moving. We need to meet Trevor and Meg at Conti
nental Club. Pronto.” I pulled his hand toward the direction of the car.

  “And why do we need to dash off to meet them?” Hands on hips, Doug planted himself firmly on the corner of Fourteenth and Q.

  Admittedly, I’d simply assumed Doug would follow. If I expected him to join my sleuthing efforts, I needed to play fair and deal him in.

  I inhaled deeply. “I think I know who killed Grayson and Kiki.”

  Doug covered his mouth in surprise. “How’d you do that?”

  I told Doug how I gathered all the details together this afternoon. At dinner, the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. After I told him the identity of the killer, a grin spread slowly across his face.

  “Kit, I think your instincts are right. But the evidence is mostly circumstantial. How are we going to prove it?”

  “I’m glad you asked that question. That’s why we need to meet with Meg and Trevor. To plot the next course of action.”

  Doug rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. I’m game, although I’m not sure how we’re going to trick the killer into confessing.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” I joked.

  “You don’t need to get biblical on me,” said Doug. “I know you can come up with a good plan. I’m less certain about the ability of a certain dynamic duo in orchestrating this masquerade.”

  “Us?” I asked innocently.

  “Hardly. I mean Trevor and Meg.”

  “Don’t worry. Meg has a flair for the dramatic.”

  Doug rolled his eyes. From observing our close friendship over the years, he knew too well about Meg’s quirky, yet lovable, histrionics.

  I continued, “And Trevor, well, he never fails at anything. He’s Type A all the way.”

  Doug laughed at my description of Trevor. “That’s an understatement.”