by Lois Winston
“Okay, here we go,” Nick said, interrupting my thoughts. He used his cell phone as a flashlight and read from the clue sheet. “James Bond would tell the barkeep, ‘shaken not stirred.’” It was pretty dark in the cellar and the only light came from two brass lamps strategically placed on end tables. Shadows shrouded the room, and I felt a little frisson of anxiety pulse through me. I may not have claustrophobia but I’m not a fan of closed in, dark spaces.
“Shaken, not stirred,” I said. “That means we have to find a bottle of gin.” I eyed the array of whiskey bottles behind the bar. Some looked positively ancient and had a thin blanket of dust on them. “Gin for the perfect martini.” I leaned across the bar and squinted at a bottle with a hand-written label. Rhum. The nineteenth century spelling for rum. An interesting antique, but not what we were looking for.
I jumped as I heard the cellar steps creak behind me and put my finger to my lips. There was no sense in helping the competition and apparently someone else had found their way into the speakeasy. I waited a long moment and then I heard a delicate sneeze followed by the sound of receding footsteps. “I guess they changed their mind,” I muttered.
“Good, because I just found what we’re looking for!” Vera Mae said triumphantly. Vera Mae was standing on her tip toes, leaning across the bar. “Nick, can you reach that bottle on the top shelf, way in the back? The one with the dark label? If it’s Tanqueray Gin, that’s what we want, I’m sure!” Vera Mae was grinning like she’d won the lottery when Nick reached for the dusty bottle.
“Wait!” I cried. “Molly Sanders wants us to leave the object where it is. She asked us to just write down what it is and where we found it.”
“Okay, I’ll take a shot of it,” Nick suggested. He snapped the photo and suddenly a cool breeze wafted across my feet and I thought I heard a door close softly nearby. Were we alone in the cellar? Were there more rooms? Now that we’d found the answer to the clue, I had a sudden desire to make tracks out of there.
“Now, let’s get back upstairs,” Vera Mae said, rubbing her arms. “I feel a chill in here, don’t you? It’s funny, but this place doesn’t seem so charming after all. It’s starting to creep me out a little. There’s something funny about the air in here.”
Vera Mae was right. There was a hint of a foul odor in the basement speakeasy, something that recalled rotting leaves and sodden earth. Death and decay. A shiver went through me and my fingertips suddenly felt cold. Fight or flight syndrome, the blood was leaving my extremities and collecting in the center of my body.
“A little mustiness never hurt anyone,” Nick said, putting his cell phone back in his pocket. “I wouldn’t mind coming back here in the day time and checking out some of these old bottles,” he said, eying what had to be a vintage bottle of Courvoisier. “I bet there are some real treasures down here. I think I see a bottle of Cointreau over there, right next to the Glenfiddich.” His face lit up at the prospect of discovering some choice whiskeys and liqueurs.
“Nick, I want to go back upstairs. Now,” Vera Mae bristled.
“Don’t be a spoilsport,” he teased her. “I could spend hours down here.” He looked as happy as a kid in a candy shop, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of something wonderful popping up.
Of course, that was before we discovered the secret room behind the speakeasy.
THREE
Nick seemed fascinated by the elaborate millwork on the far side of the speakeasy. A bit ornate for my taste but Nick is into woodworking and I suppose he admired the old-timey craftsmanship.
“Let me just shine a light on this,” he said, pulling out his cell phone again, heading toward the wall. “Look at the grain in the wood and the hand-carved inserts. They don’t do work like that nowadays.”
“Funny to spend all that time and effort on the back wall of a speakeasy,” Vera Mae grumbled. “Who would even be sober enough to appreciate it?”
I’m not into woodworking but decided to humor Nick and join him. I’d only taken a few steps when I noticed something odd. There were smudge marks on the floor at the bottom of the fancy paneling. As if someone had tracked dirt—in or out.
“Nick,” I said, feeling a little silly. “You don’t suppose there’s more than just paneling going on there, do you? Could there be something else?”
“Like a secret door hidden in the wall? I really doubt it, Nancy Drew.” Nick gave the paneling a push to prove his point, and to our astonishment, the door opened inwards with a sharp, grinding noise. A foul odor wafted out into the speakeasy and I involuntarily took a step back, nearly tripping over Vera Mae who was right behind me, her hand to her mouth.
Vera Mae grabbed my arm to steady me. “Lordy, don’t go in there, Nick. There could be bats or spiders or who knows what-all.”
I watched as a circle of light appeared from the glow of Nick’s phone. As it turned out, bats and spiders were the least of our worries. Because spread out on the floor was none other than the very dead architect, Greg Towner.
Everything happened quickly then. Vera Mae screamed, Nick jumped back from the paneling like it was radioactive and headed for the stairs.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warned, making tracks upstairs for the kitchen.
“Of course not,” I said, hurrying after him, with Vera Mae bringing up the rear.
“He’s really dead, right?” Vera Mae asked in a shaky voice. I knew she had only taken a quick look before turning away, shocked.
“Afraid so,” I told her. The tell-tale pallor of Greg’s skin said it all, along with that gaping wound in his chest that had left a pool of dark blood on the floor. A stabbing? I thought I’d glimpsed a small wooden handle protruding from his chest before we barreled upstairs into the kitchen. My mind was buzzing with questions. What was Greg doing in that dark little room in the basement? Who else knew about the secret room off the speakeasy and had Greg just discovered it? How did the murderer know he was down there and why did someone want to kill him? It had to be a guest at the party. But who? And why?
I suddenly remembered the tentative footsteps coming down the stairs and the gentle sneeze. And the rumbling noise coming from the darkness of the speakeasy. Was the killer making his getaway? But wouldn’t he have had to run right back up the steps to get to the safety of the kitchen? How could we have missed him? Or her?
And then a frigid hand gripped my stomach. Maybe the killer hadn’t escaped after all. Maybe he was still in the secret room, hoping to make his getaway. Now the cold fingers clutching my stomach tightened their grip and I could hardly breathe.
“Nick,” I said, as we burst into the kitchen, surprising the servers. “What if the killer is still down there?
“He could be,” Nick said, his voice tight. “I’m calling Rafe.”
“Thank the lord for that,” Vera Mae said, dropping into a stool at a long granite breakfast bar. She was white as a ghost under the bright kitchen lights and grabbed a glass of orange juice off the granite counter. I was afraid she might pass out, but I didn’t have time to think about Vera Mae right now. I needed to find Molly Sanders and make sure no one left the mansion. The Mayfair House fundraising party was now officially a crime scene.
~*~
Detective Rafe Martino, one of Cypress Grove’s finest, and my on-again, off-again boyfriend, echoed my words less than five minutes later. He arrived with two uniforms and two detectives in a pair of squad cars, lights on, sirens blaring. If the party-goers were shocked at their arrival, no one protested. Molly Sanders, looking like she was about to faint on the spot, announced with a quaver in her voice that there was a “problem” and that no one was allowed to leave the house. Word spread quickly and most of the guests and servers had gathered in the living room of the mansion. I looked out the window and saw one of the uniforms walking down the path to the back garden, presumably to secure the scene.
Mom was at my side and clapped her hand to her mouth when I whispered the news about Greg Towner.
“How?” she mouthed sil
ently. I shook my head and suddenly thought of Shari the Homewrecker. She had no idea her paramour was lying on the basement floor and I spotted her sitting in the living room, sipping her wine with a slightly bored look on her face.
She’d find out the truth soon enough and I knew that Rafe would ask the party-goers not to talk among themselves. If Rafe followed standard procedure—and I had seen from first-hand experience that he was a stickler for protocol—he’d interview the principals and arrange to have all the guests questioned individually. No one would be allowed to leave until the police had gathered the information they needed.
“Maggie,” he said formally, when our eyes met. I nodded but didn’t reply.
Rafe and I have a history, a rather complicated one. I first met Rafe when my roommate, Lark, was a suspect in the death of Guru Sanjay, a guest on my WYME-Radio show. The police had dragged poor Lark down to police headquarters for interrogation and I’d immediately launched my own investigation to clear her name. Against Rafe’s orders, of course.
And Rafe knows my mother, Lola, because she and I were caught up in a murder investigation on a movie set in south Florida. Mom had a small speaking role in a psychological thriller and I’d been hired as a technical advisor. Once again, we helped Rafe investigate the murder and bring the killer to justice.
I noticed a white crime van had pulled up out front and two CSI’s piled out, lugging their equipment in little metal cases.
“Can someone direct me to the cellar?” Rafe asked in a low voice.
“I’ll show you.” Nick nodded, pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen. The other two detectives, a young woman with a pony tail and a baby-faced deputy, were standing in the center of the living room rug, asking the party-goers to remain calm, explaining that they’d be interviewed one by one and that a serious incident had taken place.
A serious incident. The mood had quickly shifted in the room as people realized that something major had happened.
Shari Phillips suddenly came to life and sprang out of her chair. “Where’s Greg?” she asked in a hoarse voice. “Has something happened to Greg? Is that what’s going on? Where is he?” she repeated, her eyes wide with fear.
The female deputy approached her and Shari practically fell into her arms “I’m Greg Towner’s fiancée,” she said in a half-sob. “Is he all right?” The policewoman whispered in her ear, took her gently by the elbow and led her into the kitchen. After a moment, a long, piercing wail filled the living room.
Molly Sanders wiped a tear from her eye and looked flustered. “We have to help the police any way we can,” she said, waving her hands helplessly. “I don’t know how this happened. It must have been an accident of some sort. I suppose they’ll tell us.” She took a seat by the piano and I edged closer to Mom who was standing in the dining room.
“I knew there’d be trouble tonight,” Mom said quietly. She was speaking very low, her head ducked into her champagne glass. Mom once played a spy in a B movie and she learned little tricks like whispering to an accomplice over the rim of a glass while you’re pretending to be drinking “I overheard something when I was in the powder room.” She raised her eyebrows and gave me a meaningful look like someone in a soap opera.
“Well, what was it?” I said impatiently.
“Shhh,” she warned, going back into top-secret mode. “I heard Molly talking to someone in the hallway. She sounded surprised and she said ‘I didn’t think you’d be here tonight.’ I heard that part clearly.”
I didn’t think you’d be here tonight? Now Mom had my interest. “Who was she talking to? Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?”
“The voice was too muffled, I can’t be sure.”
I thought for a moment. “It could have been Shari,” I guessed. But Shari had been glued to Greg’s side, unless Molly had motioned her into the hall to confront her. Somehow I couldn’t imagine our mild-mannered organizer doing that.
“I don’t think it was Shari, because Molly sounded genuinely surprised,” Mom said. “And she obviously knew Shari was here.”
“And it couldn’t have been Greg, he was practically the guest of honor.”
We both thought for a moment. “Be sure to tell Rafe about the conversation when he interviews you,” I said and she nodded.
~*~
It was much later that Rafe finally announced to the guests that Greg Towner was dead and that it looked like a homicide. I glanced around at the sea of startled faces. Was there anyone who had a “guilty look,” who might have been responsible for his death? Everyone appeared to be shell-shocked.
A doctor had been called for Shari Phillips, who was hyperventilating in the kitchen and I heard one of the CSI’s tell Rafe that Shari may have had an asthma attack. I remembered the delicate, almost cat-like sneeze I’d heard in the basement. Could that have been Shari, creeping down the steps? Of course, that didn’t point to her guilt. She may have been interested in exploring the cellar, found the dust to be too much and hastily retreated. I wondered how she knew about the kitchen door to the speakeasy. Greg could have told her. He was an architect, after all, and probably knew every square inch of Mayfair House. Could that knowledge have killed him? I wondered again why he was downstairs and who had surprised him.
Rafe had called for reinforcements and guests were being interviewed in the downstairs rooms of the house. I could see that some guests had been cleared and were already making their way to their cars, parked in the circular drive outside Mayfair House. The rest of us were huddled in the living room, talking in subdued tones as servers passed trays of hot coffee. The bar and champagne service was closed and the mansion had taken on a gloomy air.
Rafe decided to interview me, along with Vera Mae and Mom, at a breakfast nook in the kitchen. Officer Duane Brown was with him. I recognized Officer Brown (who I secretly referred to as “Opie”); he’d been to my house when I first met Rafe during the investigation into Guru Sanjay’s murder.
“Did you have any interactions with the deceased?” Rafe was letting Opie spread his wings, and the poor kid looked nervous, his face flushed and his voice had a bit of a tremor. He said the line in a rush and then blew out a little whoosh of relief.
I glanced at Mom and Vera Mae, who seemed to be letting me take the lead. “I don’t think any of us ever saw him before tonight.”
“And we weren’t introduced to him,” Mom interjected. “Someone pointed him out to me, that’s all.”
Opie looked stumped for a moment. “Pointed him out? In what way?”
“Everyone knows he was in charge of transforming the mansion into an arts center,” I explained. “Mr. Morgan, the owner, hired him and left instructions in his will about the design.”
Opie’s eyes widened at the mention of a will and he shot Rafe a questioning look.
“Mr. Morgan’s will probably doesn’t have any relation to the case,” Rafe told him. He made a “keep going” gesture with his hand and Opie flushed and cleared his throat.
“So none of you had any personal relationship with the deceased?”
“They’ve already told you they haven’t,” Rafe reminded him. “Move on.”
“Yes, sir,” Opie mumbled. “Did he come alone tonight? Greg Towner?”
Well, this is awkward, I thought. Mom took the lead this time. “He came with his paramour,” she said archly. “I don’t know if they arrived together, but they were certainly sitting together.”
“Paramour?” Opie stumbled a little over the word.
“His lover, his girlfriend, his…main squeeze,” Mom said, waving her jeweled fingers in the air. “It’s common knowledge that he left his wife and children for Shari Phillips. The woman who’s hyperventilating in the kitchen,” she added helpfully.
“And you know this, how?” Opie persisted.
Mom raised her eyebrows. “I guess everyone knows it, sonny. It’s the first thing we heard when we walked in the door tonight.”
Opie gave us a questioning look and Vera Mae
and I nodded glumly. I hated to speak ill of the dead, but was it possible that his affair had led to his demise? How much strength would it take to surprise someone and stab them in the chest? I’d have to ask Rafe later, after the ME made her report. Shari Phillips, thin as a swizzle stick, looked like she could hardly hold a margarita glass, but you never know what adrenaline could do. Even more puzzling, what would her motive be? The two lovebirds had been canoodling happily when we first arrived.
“How did they seem when you saw them together?” Rafe broke in. I could sense he was getting impatient with Opie’s slow questioning. Rafe was drumming his fingers on the table, which is a sure sign he’s running out of patience.
Since he seemed to be directing the question at me, I ran with it.
“Cozy,” I said bluntly. “Practically sitting in each other’s laps, all gooey-eyed.”
“It reminded me of a love scene I did in Secret Passions,” Lola interjected. “I played Marisol, a poor servant girl, who caught the eye of Señor Mendez when she offered him a dish of paella.”
“Mom,” I cautioned. All we needed was for Mom to take one of her fabled trips down memory lane. “I think Rafe wants to stick to the facts.”
“But this could be significant,” Mom insisted, “because Marisol secretly wanted to avenge the death of her brother, Don Carlo, and had added some poisoned shrimp to the paella.”
“Lola, for heaven’s sake,” Vera Mae interjected, “Greg Towner wasn’t poisoned.” She gave a little shudder at the memory. “It looked like his chest had been skewered on a shish-kebab.”
“Appearances aren’t always what they seem,” Mom said huffily. “Señor Mendez didn’t die because of the shrimp, it turns out that Sofia Santiago, his former mistress, had added some ground glass to the rice. It was a lover’s triangle; she discovered he’d been cheating on her with the daughter of a fish monger. So you see, you just never know,” she said, nodding her head for emphasis.
Opie cleared his throat. “Uh, should I be writing all this down?” His eyes were nearly popping out of his head at Mom’s dramatic rendition.
