by Cathy Ace
Ian nodded. “Why doesn’t everyone come and help themselves to some fruit and cheese?” he called. There were general nods, and people seemed to be less withdrawn.
“Yes, we’re all in this together,” replied Julie, “so let’s have a bit of a clear-up, and then revitalize with some snacks.” She stood and began to clear her table. Her husband pitched in, and soon everyone was clearing things up, clattering and busying themselves. All except for the Diva—who was obviously above getting her hands dirty—and Clemence—whom Julie had told, quite firmly, to remain seated.
I was glad of the chance to compare notes with Bud. As we moved about we kept our heads close together and our voices low.
“Jack, a possible son. Ian, Tanya, Jimmy, Tom—all possible grandchildren,” I whispered.
Bud shook his head. “Not Tom.”
“Yes, Tom stays on the list for now, even though you know his uncle.”
“Really, Cait, I don’t think . . .”
I sighed. “Okay, we’ll talk about Tom later. For now I want to add Julie to the list of suspects too. If Jack is Miss Shirley’s son, he might not know—but there’s a chance that Julie could have found out, and what’s his is hers. The only people I can’t see having a motive because of this revelation are Svetlana and Clemence.”
“Clemence might be in for a big windfall in either of Miss Shirley’s wills,” suggested Bud.
I shrugged my agreement. “I suppose so. Inheritance doesn’t seem like a possible motive for the opera singer, though. And let’s be fair, do you think Clemence would have been capable of driving that saber through both the chair and Miss Shirley’s body? He doesn’t look strong enough.”
“I had a pretty good look at the chairs while I was moving them about,” whispered Bud. “They look substantial, but the backs are mainly foam. That sword has one heck of a point on it and looks to be very sharp.”
“It’s a shashka. A Russian weapon somewhere between a sword and a saber. It’s straighter than a saber, with just one very sharp cutting edge, and it’s supposed to have a piercingly sharp point. Designed for thrusting and slashing. Lethal. As we have seen. There’s another one on the wall above the bar. Looking at how it’s hung, I’d say it’s a partner for the one used by the killer.” We both looked up at the glittering saber. Its slicing edge gleamed in the starry lights. “Even with a well-honed blade, and an insubstantial chair, it would have taken more strength, and deftness, than I judge Clemence to have. Everyone else probably could have managed it—and I say that because I reckon I could have done it myself—though I’m not sure about Tanya. She’s very slight, and she strikes me as willowy, rather than wiry, under that baggy blouse. Besides, she’d need to possess a good deal more passion than I’ve seen her display to be able to perform such a vicious act.”
“She’s got a snappy temper on her, though,” observed Bud. I was enjoying the scent of his aftershave and having him so close to me. I’d hoped for a romantic, happy evening, but now I felt as though we were being kept apart by circumstance. “Careful what you say, she’s back,” whispered Bud.
I didn’t need to look around because Tanya was at my elbow almost immediately.
“It still could be anyone, except Clemence, I guess,” she hissed quietly. Her eyes were ablaze with intrigue. Might Tanya be one of those people who revel in gossip? Clearly she’d used her time in the ladies’ room to think through the implications of the revelation that Miss Shirley had given birth to twin boys, and had reached the same conclusions as Bud and myself. “I bet Jack Bullock is Miss Shirley’s son,” she added flatly. “It sounds as though she actively hunted him out. He did grow up in LA, where she abandoned her babies, after all.”
“We don’t know that’s where she left them,” replied Bud. I flared my nostrils in an attempt to shut him up. I didn’t want to involve anyone else in our exchange of ideas. But I was too late. Seeing us deep in conversation with Tanya, Tom ambled over to join us.
“Well, I’m off the hook, at least,” said Tom. He sounded quite jovial, considering the circumstances. “You know my dad, Bud, and he’s certainly not Miss Shirley’s son, eh?”
“He’s the right age,” said Tanya.
Tom looked surprised. “Well, yes. But he’s Canadian, not American.”
“Children can be moved, Tom. Citizenships changed or acquired,” said Tanya quietly.
“Bud knows my grandparents, right?” Tom sounded a little annoyed. “And he knows my dad’s brother, as well as my dad.”
Bud held up a hand. “Hang on there, Tom. First of all, no, I don’t know your grandparents. When I got to know your uncle Jack they were already living in Hundred Mile House, and we were stationed in Vancouver itself.”
Tom looked taken aback.
Bud smiled reassuringly. “Don’t panic, Tom,” he added. “Jack and your dad are so similar to each other in terms of looks, mannerisms, and the tone and timbre of their voices, that they must be brothers, and there’s at least ten years between them, so I’m certain that not only are they brothers, but they aren’t twins. You’re in the clear. Your father couldn’t possibly be Miss Shirley’s son, so you’re not her grandson. I think that, maybe, your girlfriend was having a little joke at your expense?”
Tanya half-smiled. It was hard for even me to read her.
Tom looked at his girlfriend with more than a hint of uncertainty, then brightened. “But, hey, you could be her granddaughter.” Tom gently nudged Tanya. “Your dad would have been about the right age, eh? And Miss Shirley was always very good to him.”
“Don’t talk about my father!” snapped Tanya.
Tom blushed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He looked at Bud, then me, and clearly felt he should explain his girlfriend’s comment. “Tanya’s dad died, suddenly, a couple of months ago. She still can’t talk about him.”
Sighing heavily, Tanya said, “Tom’s trying to be polite. My father killed himself. Put a gun in his mouth. I dropped in on him, and he was sitting in front of the TV with the top of his head blown off.” Her tone was surprisingly devoid of any emotion.
Bud reached out and touched her gently on the shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that, Tanya. That’s got to be tough.”
“His life was as tough as his death,” she replied enigmatically. “It’s not so bad when I don’t talk about it.” As she looked up at Bud I thought I could see a spark of anger in her eyes.
“Your dad might have been Miss Shirley’s son. She really liked him, and you, Tanya,” said Tom.
As Bud’s expression attempted to convey to Tom that he shouldn’t pursue the topic, Tanya said thoughtfully, “You’re right. She did. But she also helped you, Jimmy, Ian, Carl, and Art. She’s even given that awful woman Svetlana a chance to have some more glory days. She took to Julie like she took to you, and it sounds to me as though she gave Jack a career on a plate. She gave to everyone.” Somehow she managed to make it sound like an accusation.
Despite her tone, I had to agree with Tanya. I kept my voice low as I spoke. “If everyone who’s talked about her is to be believed, it sounds as though Miss Shirley made it her job to advance people’s careers. Tell me, did she act that way toward only the people in this room, or did she get herself just as involved in other people’s lives?”
“There was the acrobat who broke her leg when she was skiing on vacation,” offered Tom, glad to move on to another, more neutral topic. “Miss Shirley gave her a job in her gym, where all the performers in the show here work out and train.”
“Miss Shirley owns a gym?” I was surprised.
“Yes, and a gun range,” replied Tom.
“A gun range?” Now it was Bud’s turn to sound puzzled.
Tom smiled. “Yeah, maybe you’ve seen the ads on those trucks that drive up and down The Strip? You can go there and shoot all sorts of cool stuff. It’s a real tourist trap. Popular with stag parties, even couples. Though we haven’t been.” He looked a little disappointed.
I’d seen the advertisements he’d mentioned, but I found
it hard to see a connection between Uzis, Kalashnikovs, and Miss Shirley.
“Were guns something she was into, then?” I asked, puzzled.
Tom drew closer. “I’ve heard it said she could shoot a nickel at a hundred paces, just like my uncle Jack, right, Bud?”
Bud smiled. “Yes, he’s a really good shot. Used to beat me every year in the divisional shooting competitions. Cups up to here, he has.” Bud lifted his arm above his head.
“Oh, come on now, you’re pretty good too,” I said, trying to cheer him up. “You’ve got two cups yourself.”
Bud smiled. “Yeah, from the two years when I was still in, but Jack had retired,” he said with a chuckle. He added, “How did Miss Shirley come to be such a good shot, do you know?”
Tom shook his head. “No idea. It’s just one of those topics that comes up when you’re doing prep in the kitchen. Sort of thing employees gossip about, right, Tanya?” Tanya nodded. “But maybe it’s all just part of the Legend of Miss Shirley. Mind you, the range is real enough. Making a mint, they say. I wonder who gets that?”
Just as we came full circle and returned to the topic of inheritance, I caught a snippet of conversation between Julie and her husband as they passed with plates full of fruit.
“. . . it could be you, Jack. You’re the right age. We should find out when we get out of here.”
“There’s nothing to find out, Julie. Mom and Dad would have had plenty of opportunities to tell me I was adopted. They didn’t, because I’m not. When we get out of here we’ll call Mom and she can tell you for herself. I am my mother’s son, Julie. The date, the place—they’re just coincidences.”
“It’d be quite something if all this was yours—ours,” Julie added, then they moved out of earshot.
My eyes followed them as they passed our little group, then I caught sight of Carl and Art, who were prowling around each other like kids.
I nudged Bud. “Looks like something might be just about to kick off over there,” I warned.
Bud, Tanya, and Tom all turned to look at the men. As soon as Carl put his hands on Art’s lapels, Bud said, “Excuse me” and darted toward the men.
Tom made to join them, but I held him back.
“Let Bud sort it out,” I said quietly. “He’s trained to defuse situations like this. Why don’t you gather up some water and fruit for our table? I’d like a quick word with Clemence.”
“Sure thing,” replied Tom. “How about some cheese to go with the fruit?”
I licked my lips. “Oh yes, please.” I glanced at the cheeses on the dessert table. “I can see from here that there’s some Époisses—it’s one of my favorite cheeses. I can also see some Limburger, Le Nuits d’Or . . . and I think that’s Stinking Bishop, the one with the orange rind?”
Tom nodded, smiling. “You like your cheeses really smelly, eh?” I nodded energetically. “Just like Miss Shirley. Bless her.” He looked sad. “Okay, I’ll make you a plate, and I’ll be sure to put some Roquefort on there too,” he said. “How about I bring something to the table that’ll work well with them? Miss Shirley usually has a bottle of excellent vintage port decanted for these evenings. I’ll check with Ian.”
I could feel my mouth watering. “Thanks, Tom. That sounds just about perfect. If we don’t eat the cheeses they’ll stink out the place, and what’s a plate of fruit and cheese without some good port to wash it all down?”
“Healthier?” said Tanya.
I decided to let it pass.
Adagio
AS I WALKED TOWARD CLEMENCE, who’d remained seated during our little break, I overheard Jimmy say to the Diva, “No more of La Gazza Ladra, Madame, not tonight. Please?” Thanks to the fact that my sister, Siân, loves opera, I knew that the reference was to a work by Rossini. I wondered if “Madame” had been humming while Bud and I tried to have a little tête-à-tête.
I asked Clemence if I could join him, and he agreed. I knew what I wanted to find out, and thought it best to be direct.
“Clemence, I’m guessing you’ve been Miss Shirley’s guest here many times before?”
He nodded.
“So I’m correct in thinking that you’re the right person to ask whether anything unusual happened this evening, before Miss Shirley was killed?”
Clemence nibbled a cracker and washed it down with a glug of water. “Besides you and Mr. Bud being here?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.
I smiled. “Is it that unusual for ‘outside’ guests to be invited?”
Again he gave his answer some consideration. I was beginning to get the feeling that nothing would happen quickly if it involved Clemence setting the pace.
“Pretty much. Though Miss Shirley was always tickled to have someone around who shared her birthday. Barbara Walters. Will Smith. Heather Locklear. Michael Douglas. Catherine Zeta-Jones. She’s one of you, right?”
“If you mean that Catherine Zeta-Jones is Welsh, then, yes, she is. We’re both from Swansea and grew up just a few miles apart, though she began her stage career very early in life. We were in a few Gang Shows together, when we were young.”
“Gang shows? Gang gang shows?” Clemence looked puzzled.
“No, no actual gangs are involved. It’s when Girl Guides and Boy Scouts put on a stage show, to raise funds. I’m getting sidetracked. Do you mean that all those people share Miss Shirley’s birth date?”
Clemence nodded. “Be amazed who’ll come visit on their birthday when the person askin’ ’em is as famous as Miss Shirley. With her own jet to fetch and carry you too.”
“All those people have been here? To this restaurant? On Miss Shirley’s birthday?”
Clemence winked. “Can’t say. Lot of folks been here over the years. Miss Shirley was pleased when Mr. Bud showed up, I know that.”
“So, other than an unexpected guest who happened to share her birthday, was anything else unusual?”
I waited patiently for Clemence’s considered reply. “Food was the same. Same food every meal, not just birthdays. Caviar, duck, skate wing, the chocolate dessert, smelly cheese. Rich. She knew what she liked, and how she liked it. Never changed.” As he spoke, Clemence seemed to be recalling every mouthful, savoring it once again. I know I was.
“One thing,” he added.
I dragged myself from the happy recollection of balsamic-glazed cherries nuzzling up to tender, delectable duck confit. “Yes?”
“Always sat at the center table, she did. You know, center of the three?” Clemence nodded across the room. His voice was laced with sadness when he spoke again. “Always looking out. Loved The Strip. In her blood. Tonight she sat at the end table. Still looking out. That’s different.”
I didn’t have to look very far to see that Clemence was correct. Miss Shirley’s body was still just outside the edge of the area between the two partitions farthest from the dessert table.
“Did you ask why she’d done that?”
“None of my business. I sits where I’m told to sit,” he replied, eventually.
“Nothing else odd?”
I waited.
“That’s enough, ain’t it?”
“What about Miss Shirley tonight? Did she seem her normal self to you?”
I tried to not fidget while I waited for Clemence to answer.
“Playful,” he finally replied.
“Playful?” I was surprised.
“Yeah, like she was being a naughty girl. Like when she used to play her jokes.”
“Miss Shirley was a practical joker?”
“Not since her husband passed. They’d always be up to something, them two. Like kids, they was. Silly stuff. Made her laugh so loud. Red in the face she’d be with laughing. Took it in turns. One trying to outdo the other. As they got richer, them jokes got . . . you know, kinda complicated. Knocked over a vase, she did, one time. He near had a fit. Expensive, I guess. Ugly thing. Anyhow, she’d gone and had a fake one made by the guys building this place, just so’s she could break it. Another time he gets her to
come to the hospital sayin’ he’d been hit by a car. She shows up all upset, he’s sitting there with champagne and a bunch of friends. I was there. Hit him with her purse, she did. Said he was in the right place if she cut him. She nearly did. That day her purse was shaped like some kinda dog. Pointed nose. Sharp.”
“So they had fun together?”
“Sure did. Never took nothing or no one for granted. Worked together, played together. Both hard. She ain’t been the same this past year. Sad to see her like that.”
“How did he die?”
“You don’t know?” Clemence looked amazed.
I shook my head. “No one’s brought it up.”
“Guess not,” Clemence replied sadly. “We was here, for Miss Shirley’s birthday dinner last year. Then everybody goes back to their big house, to carry on the party there. This time last year it was humid. Unusual. Seems Mr. Carl went for a swim. Found him in the pool. All his clothes on. Miss Shirley thought it was one of his jokes. We all stood there, and she hollered at him. Then she reckoned he’d gone and put a dummy in the pool, made to look just like him. Then we all knew. It was really him, and he was dead. Took it bad, she did. Real bad. Cops said he was liquored up. Dare say he was. But he swam good, did Mr. Carl.”
I wondered if the murderer in the room was playing a long game, but I didn’t have a chance to think that angle through, because my attention was taken by another kerfuffle between Carl and Art. It seemed that Bud’s famous calming technique was being tested. I thanked Clemence for his time and left him sadly and slowly sipping his water.
Con Brio
“YOU! IT WAS YOU!” SHOUTED Art with true venom.
“Me? It wasn’t me,” squealed Carl. “I wouldn’t do that. Why would I do that? It’s all going to be mine anyway. Why would I steal from myself? Especially a damn little egg. What the hell do you think I would do with it?”
“That egg is worth well over a million bucks,” spat Art. “Bet you could buy a few new cars with that, couldn’t you? Market not what it used to be, Carl? Finding it tough to liquidate your assets? Classic cars are expensive toys. Toys people can’t afford anymore. I bet the amount you have to shell out in alimony isn’t getting any smaller. A handy dandy little piece like that egg could be just what you need right now, without having to wait for Miss Shirley’s will to be sorted out.”
