by Cathy Ace
Bud was pushing against each man’s chest as they pressed toward each other. Never a good sign.
Carl laughed in Art’s face. “Ha! The witch has found some new fool to bleed dry. Poor guy doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for by marrying her. At least she’s got her fangs out of me. I’m not the one who’ll have to fund her little shopping trips anymore. Besides, I wouldn’t know how to turn that egg into cash. It’s not as though I’ve got any links with the underworld, unlike some I could mention.” Carl thrust his chin toward Art, who drew back, ready to respond.
Bud used his most soothing tones as he said, “Gentlemen, gentlemen, let’s keep this classy. Take a breath. Just step back, come on, step back. That’s it. We’re all adults here, and we’re all under considerable pressure. Tonight is a very difficult time for everyone. This is a stressful situation, but we can all learn how to draw upon our inner reserves of patience. There you go, let’s just take a little break and get to the bottom of this, eh?”
Carl and Art had stopped puffing out their chests and were backing away from each other. However, they gave the impression of two boxers retiring to their corners for the respite of a damp sponge, rather than men who were prepared to stand down and admit defeat. I decided it was time for me to step up and add my voice to Bud’s.
“Bud’s right,” I began. “It’s a tough night all round. Maybe you could tell all of us what’s missing, Art? You say something’s been misplaced?”
I chose my word carefully, but Art’s facial expression spoke volumes.
“Not ‘misplaced’—taken. There, look.” He pointed toward the end partition, beyond Miss Shirley’s body. “There was a gold egg, right there in the middle, and it’s gone.”
We all looked. On top of the partition stood two impressive turquoise Sèvres urns, heavily decorated with handpainted panels. I recalled quite clearly that there’d been an elaborately embossed gold egg sitting between them earlier in the evening. I was pretty close to the partition so I only had to lean over to be able to see that there was an empty little platform poking up from the middle of the wooden structure. It was only about a quarter of an inch high, but it was clearly defined. I suspected it was one of the pressure-sensitive security devices that Julie had referred to earlier.
“See? It’s gone,” said Art. “And he was right next to it.” He jabbed his finger toward Carl. “Turn out your pockets, man. Whatever you might think, or say, it’s still Miss Shirley’s egg until her will, or the courts, officially say different.”
“I. Haven’t. Got. It.” Carl spoke as though Art were deaf.
“I think I should point out that it’s not just an egg that’s missing,” I said, drawing everyone’s attention.
“What is it, Cait?” asked Bud sharply.
I pointed toward one of the urns on top of the partition. “This urn should have two handles, like its partner at the other end. I know it must have had both when we got here, because I’d have noticed the lack of symmetry otherwise. Bud, you know I’m good at that sort of thing.”
Bud nodded. He’s one of the few people who knows about my eidetic memory, and he’s also well aware of how obsessive I am about things being either completely different from each other or totally the same. He laughs at me when I minutely readjust the matching vessels holding my parents’ ashes, which are placed very precisely at either end of the mantelpiece in my little house on Burnaby Mountain.
Julie approached. “You’re right. They’re definitely a pair. Or should be. What could have happened to the other handle?”
“Maybe Carl broke it off when he snatched the egg,” said Art, glaring at the younger man. Carl sneered back at Art. I half-expected him to poke his tongue out.
I looked down at the carpet on either side of the partition. “Well, however it came off, it must have somehow found its way under there”—I pointed to the tablecloth covering Miss Shirley’s body—“because it’s nowhere to be seen.”
“I don’t know about you noticing it, ma’am,” said Clemence slowly, “but I sure did, and it weren’t broken earlier. I was sitting at that table with Miss Shirley and I mentioned how her dress matched them pots. She said how she’d had the woman who makes her dresses match the color. She said it was special.”
I jumped right in. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. “The color is bleu céleste. Sèvres developed several unique background colors for King Louis XV, who owned the porcelain factory and moved it to the location near Versailles in 1756. They developed colors that were to his taste. There was this color, a royal blue, a pea green, and a pink called Pompadour, after his mistress. They used the bleu céleste for both the soft-paste and hard-paste porcelains. Of course, they did not produce hard-paste porcelain until the kaolin deposits were found near Limoges in 1768, which is when Sèvres was finally able to catch up with Meissen.” I find that, sometimes, facts just pour out of me. On this occasion quite a few eyebrows were raised, Bud’s among them.
“Are you an antique dealer on the side?” asked Jack Bullock, a little edge in his voice.
I laughed, maybe a little too loudly. “Oh no, I just read a lot, watch a lot of episodes of Antiques Roadshow, the British one, and I . . . tend to retain information, but look,” I added, niftily deflecting any further conversation on the topic of my memory, “the urn with the missing handle is also sitting at a different angle.”
I stood back a little, allowing everyone to get as near as they could without getting too close to Miss Shirley. “See how the one with two handles is sitting exactly parallel to the top of the partition? But this one’s just off. It’s turned a little. It’s as though something hit the handle that’s missing, turned the urn, and took the handle off too. Which means it should be over there somewhere, away from the partition, toward the entrance to the men’s room. Can anyone see anything on the floor over there? It would match these other handles, white with gold decoration.”
While everyone was hunting about, I leaned in to take a closer look at the partition. “Bud, come and take a look at this,” I whispered.
Bud peered at the wooden structure upon which the broken urn sat. “About an eighth of an inch of a little platform,” he observed. “Pressure pad, I’m guessing, but it’s not fully released like the one underneath where the egg should be. Does anyone know if this would set off the alarm system?” asked Bud, addressing the group.
Julie returned to look at the urn. “Yes, that’s enough to put us into lockdown.”
“That, or someone taking the egg,” added Tanya.
“No, you’re wrong, Tanya. No one took the egg before the lockdown,” said Carl, ignoring Art’s tutting. “Obviously someone has taken it now, because it’s not here, but surely we’d have seen someone walk over and take it before the lights went out? They only went out because the anti-theft system was activated, so it can’t have been the removal of the egg that made the security system kick in. Something else must have tripped it.”
“You’re talking rubbish! Trying to distract us,” shouted Art, immediately inflamed once more. “Come on, turn out your pockets!” He grabbed at Carl. Bud wasn’t able to get to the suddenly brawling men, so Jack tried his best to pry them apart, but failed. At least he managed to steer them clear of Miss Shirley’s linen-covered corpse. Quite a melee ensued. Arms were flailing, I heard the rip of cloth. Everyone except Svetlana was involved. Shouts and cries filled the room.
The only reason the whole thing didn’t get entirely out of hand was because Jack let out a particularly loud shout, then took a nasty tumble against the partition, sending the already damaged urn to the floor. For a moment I thought it would bounce, but it didn’t. Even with the cushioning of the carpet, it broke with a sickening crack.
Julie was much less concerned about the urn than with the state of her husband’s head, which had hit the partition. She stooped over him, fussing as he assured her that he was fine and didn’t have a concussion. The ruckus had brought Svetlana to her feet, as though she were cheering the
combatants. Art’s pride looked pretty well dented, and one sleeve of Carl’s jacket was completely torn off. Bud looked less than his cool self, while Ian brushed himself down and said, “Man, that was something.”
Tom hugged Tanya to his side, asking her what she’d thought she was doing, getting into the middle of a group of brawling men.
As Carl tried to tidy himself up, he muttered under his breath, “Damned egg. I haven’t got it.” He took off what remained of his jacket and threw it at Art. “Here—check the pockets, if you must. There’s no egg. Nor here,” he said, pulling out his pants’ pockets, both of which were empty. “See? No egg. I didn’t take it. Not before the lights went out, not since.”
Art tossed Carl’s jacket back at him and said grumpily, “So who took it? Where is it? I suppose I have to agree that it couldn’t have been what made the security system kick in because we’d have seen someone reach to take it. But it’s gone somewhere.”
“But would you have seen someone reach to take it?” I asked. “I wasn’t in the room when whatever happened, happened. Maybe you were all chatting and didn’t notice someone taking it. I know that when I went to the ladies’ room several people were standing about. Miss Shirley had already taken her seat after the toasts and the singing, and there was a natural break in the evening. Maybe you just missed it.”
I could see that Carl and Art weren’t alone in thinking back to those few moments. I glanced at Bud, who was looking uncertain. Our eyes locked, and I knew he knew what I was thinking. He shrugged. He hadn’t wanted to go to the place I was about to lead everyone, but I could tell he was now resigned to the fact. He tilted his head and gave me a reassuring wink.
I nodded back and spoke. “Look, this is something I know Bud wanted to avoid, because he doesn’t want to impair the police inquiry, but it’s the question that, let’s face it, has been inevitable. Where was everybody when the lights went out and Miss Shirley was murdered?”
No one answered. What a surprise.
Cadenza
“YOU WANT TO WORK OUT who killed Miss Shirley before the cops get here, don’t you?” asked Tanya flatly. “I don’t think you can do it. Everyone will just lie. After all, what’s to stop us?”
“Nothing,” I replied honestly. “You could all choose to lie your faces off. But everybody in this room is a witness to where everyone else was when the lights went out, and that means we might, between us all, catch out a liar. Alternatively, some people might be able to give others a watertight alibi. Two people who were touching each other, holding hands or something like that, for the whole time, and so forth. So it could work either way.”
“This is me and Jimmy,” said Svetlana. “When lights go out I grab his arm. I let go when Julie screams.”
Jimmy glanced down at his now-seated idol. “Madame is correct, as usual,” he said. “She had hold of my arm the whole time.”
“Then why did you tell her to stop moving around?” I asked.
Jimmy looked puzzled. “I did no such thing.” He sounded annoyed.
“Yes, you did. I recall that when I came into the dining room from the washroom, Svetlana was complaining that the furniture was moving. You replied that the furniture wasn’t moving, she was.”
“I didn’t,” snapped Jimmy. “Besides, how, or why, would you remember such a thing? It was hours ago.”
I sighed. “I remember everything.”
“Right,” said Jimmy with disbelief.
“It’s true,” said Bud, taking my lead. “Cait has a very special memory. Some call it photographic, but that doesn’t describe it well enough. I’ve seen her use it time and time again to help with cases. She’s good at it, so if she was around to see, or hear, something, she’ll remember it.”
Jimmy shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, then sat down next to Svetlana. “I don’t believe either of you,” he said sullenly. “What are you? Like the guy in Rain Man?”
I decided to explain a little, but I didn’t want to turn into a performing seal. “I’m not quite like that character, though I can see and encode objects quickly. So the thing he does with the matches on the floor? I can do that. But unless I give it my full attention, and some real thought, I can’t tell you what day of the week it was on July 1, 1867, or anything like that. Though that’s a poor example because it was the day Canada was first recognized as a country, and it happened to be a Monday. The point is that we can all recall much more than we think, when we set our minds to it. And that’s what I’m asking you to do.”
“You haven’t been downstairs in the casino counting cards, have you?” asked Art with an enigmatic smile.
I arched my most disdainful eyebrow—which is pretty impactful, even if I do say so myself. “No, I haven’t, Art. I don’t gamble at all. Though I certainly have no skill when it comes to predicting the roulette wheel or video poker, I promise I haven’t been secretly winning at blackjack, rest assured.”
“Just like Rain Man if you ask me,” muttered Jimmy.
I wanted to direct the attention away from me and back to the matter at hand, so I tried to think of an approach that might work for this man who was clearly an opera aficionado.
“Tell me, Jimmy, how many operas would you say you know well?”
“Why?”
“How many?”
“Depends what you mean by ‘well.’ I know the stories of most of them, and, of course, the composer, or composers if there have been multiple treatments of a story, like Orpheus. I know the main arias of most of them, and some choruses and recitatives as well. In fact, I can sing along with the right words and notes—in my head, of course—for quite a lot of operas. I listen to them often. They span the ages.” He smiled, reminiscing.
“You’re recalling some of your favorite moments right now, aren’t you?” I knew he was.
“Yes,” he smiled wistfully.
“And you, Svetlana. I’m guessing you know many operas?”
“But of course!” she replied indignantly. “I know all operas I sing. I know my part, my fellow artistes’ parts, I know orchestra parts. I know many operas, in many languages. If I am not on stage, I not know so well.”
I wasn’t surprised. I returned my attention to her assistant.
“What about staging, Jimmy? How many different productions have you seen of any given opera? How many do you remember?”
Jimmy gave my questions some thought. “Lots, and all of them.” He sounded resigned.
“Jimmy, you asked me why, or how, I could remember something that happened hours ago. You’ve just told us you remember things you saw many years ago. The expression on your face told me you remember them vividly, and that you’ll always be able to recall them. Svetlana has needed to learn those operas—the notes, the music, the words, the stage directions, what everyone else is doing on stage at the time. Learning is just encoding, storing, and rehearsing the recall of that information time and time again until you know you know it. It’s what we expect to happen when we make a conscious effort to learn something. But you know what you do about opera, Jimmy, because it’s your interest. Your passion. When you experience opera you give it all your attention. You notice an enormous number of details, simultaneously. Think about those details now. Pick an opera production. Conjure up the costumes, scenery, makeup, hair, lighting, artists’ actions, choreography; the orchestration, the voices, the words, the story. And now compare and contrast those recollections with another performance.” I gave him a moment. “You can do it. Am I right?”
Jimmy nodded. His expression showed me that he was beginning to accept my arguments about how amazing the human memory
can be.
Svetlana quite clearly wanted to be the center of attention, rather than her assistant getting all the limelight, so she piped up, “I am same with opera I see, but do not sing. I do not sing Wagner, but I watch. I know all details, as you say. Is very beautiful. Strong. But his Ring at Met this year, with big machine? A sin. Monsieur Lepage should be shot!�
�� I gathered she hadn’t been impressed by the controversial production, something about which she and my sister would have disagreed.
“I’ve always thought I was just enjoying opera,” said Jimmy, a plaintive tone coloring his voice. It was as though by understanding what he was doing, he was losing something. I didn’t want him to feel that. I wanted him—and everyone else in the room—to understand how the human mind works. How they might be able to recall details of the evening’s events that could help to unmask a killer.
I tried to sound sympathetic as I spoke. “I understand that you’re enjoying it, Jimmy, and long may you do so. I happen not to share your devotion to opera, but I have a sister who does. She’d be beside herself with glee to meet you, Svetlana. She moved from Wales to Perth, in Australia, many years ago, and I know she made the trip to see you perform at the Sydney Opera House not long after she emigrated. She thought you were wonderful. Madame Butterfly, I think it was. She spoke about it at length.”
The Diva nodded graciously. “Terrible acoustics,” was her only damning comment.
“As my sister would agree, watching an opera is a very active process. While you’re enjoying it, your memory is working hard. You are responding to many stimuli, immersing yourself in the experience. You are encoding everything you’re aware of, and many things you’re not really paying attention to, including things like the perfume or aftershave of the person you’re sitting next to, or how comfortable your body is in your seat. It all becomes a part of the total sensory memory, ready to be unlocked at some point in the future. For example, someone might pass you in the street wearing the same perfume you subliminally encoded as a part of the whole, and bang!—you’re right back there, in the theater. And you don’t know why you’ve suddenly started humming a certain aria to yourself.”
