“Hush now, she’ll no be marrying a laddie. She’ll be marrying a prince or a lord,” a voice replied in shocked tones.
“As long as they let her choose for herself.”
I said nothing but allowed myself a secret smile. I did have someone in mind.
* * * *
Queenie had been waiting and watching some distance away. She joined me as I walked back to the house.
“I’ve decided I don’t like this sort of sport after all,” she said. “Too bloody dangerous, if you ask me. Hurling ruddy great rocks around? I always said the Scots were mad.”
“It’s all right when they are hurled in the correct direction,” I said.
“And what are these great tree trunks doing all over the place?” she demanded. “Look at this one, lying across the path. Anyone could trip over that in the dark.”
She bent down, lifted up one end, and tossed it clear. I stared at her in amazement. “Queenie, you just tossed the caber.”
“Is that good or bad?” she asked. “Because I don’t want to find myself in trouble again.”
“Actually if you were a male, you could enter tomorrow’s competition,” I said, laughing.
“After seeing what can happen to people who compete in the Highland Games? Not bloody likely.” And she stalked ahead of me back to the safety of Castle Rannoch.
A GATHERING OF GREAT DETECTIVES, by Shawn Reilly Simmons
“He sure did take a header, didn’t he?” Detective Murphy crouched next to the man lying at the bottom of the stairs. The man’s arms and legs were twisted at odd angles beneath him, and his head was jerked violently to the side, his fleshy right cheek lying heavily on the floor. Murphy’s eye traced the steep wooden staircase and the worn brocade runner striping its middle.
“Yep, it had to hurt on the way down,” Detective Sullivan agreed. She stood behind him and gazed at the man on the floor.
“I don’t know, Sully,” he said. “If he was dead before he came down, he wouldn’t have felt a thing. I’m thinking this didn’t happen on the stairs.” He pointed to a perfectly round goose egg on the man’s forehead that rose red and shiny between his eyes. “Or these,” he said, indicating the angry red fingerprints encircling the man’s throat.
“Detective Murphy.” A uniformed officer approached from the back of the Nob Hill Inn through the main hall, leading a handsome older couple into the foyer. “This is Richard and Doreen Adams. They own the place.” The stained glass panes surrounding the front door tinted his face in shades of blue and green.
Detective Murphy eased up from his crouching position, his knees popping quietly under his brown dress pants. He rested his hands on his belt and nodded at the couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Adams, what happened here?”
They gazed down at the man lying in the hall, his face frozen in a surprised grimace.
Mrs. Adams stepped forward, her hands twisting nervously at her waist. “I’m sorry, we’re not really sure. We were all outside touring the Poison Garden when we heard shouting coming from upstairs. Rick came in and found him here, just like this, right dear?”
Her husband cleared his throat before saying, “Yes, Dora’s right. I checked for a pulse and when I didn’t find one, and when I saw the state of him, I called the police.”
The uniformed officer stepped forward and said, “It looked suspicious, sir, so I radioed in for a detective.”
Detective Murphy nodded and walked around the man on the floor to observe him from a different angle.
“Did you move the body at all, sir?” Detective Sullivan asked. She pulled a small notebook and a pen from her blazer pocket.
Mr. Adams drew in a sharp breath. “No, of course I didn’t. I know better than that.”
“And you didn’t see anyone else come down the stairs after you found him here like this?” Detective Sullivan asked.
“No, no one. We were out back with our guests, and Bill told us he’d forgotten his notepad upstairs so we assumed he went to his room to get it. Then I heard a commotion inside, and found him like this.”
“Bill?” Detective Sullivan asked.
“Oh yes, that’s Bill Hartman from Cleveland,” Mr. Adams said, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing to stare at the man on the floor.
“Is there any other way off of the second floor? A back stairway?”
“No,” Mrs. Adams said. “There’s just the main staircase.”
“Has anyone else been through the foyer, gone in or out?” Detective Murphy asked the uniformed officer.
“No one, sir. I waited with him until you got here.”
“What’s going on here today?” Detective Murphy asked, making eye contact with his partner briefly before turning his gaze back to the couple. “Are you having some kind of event or something?” He glanced at their vintage clothes and Mrs. Adams’s hair, which was curled and sprayed into place. They looked like they’d stepped out of one of those old black-and-white movies his mother was always watching. Mr. Adams wore a tux with a white bow tie and Mrs. Adams was in a shimmery black evening gown with a string of pearls around her neck. They were pretty decked out, especially for noon on a Saturday.
Mrs. Adams placed a hand lightly on her chest and said, “It’s our annual convention, A Gathering of Great Detectives.” She waved at a wooden table along the far wall of the foyer near the reception desk. A few leather badge holders with names written on yellowing paper tucked inside were lined up on the table. “We gather every year, about sixty of us, and solve a mystery.”
“Murder,” Mr. Adams boomed from behind her, causing his wife to jump slightly.
“Yes, murder, that’s right, dear,” she said. “We’re different from the average murder mystery weekend though. Attendees must appear as their favorite detective and stay in character all weekend, or until the mystery is solved.”
“I see,” Detective Sullivan said. “So, where is everyone?” She walked over to the table and glanced at the scattering of unclaimed name badges.
“They’re outside with the poison expert, taking a tour of the garden,” Mr. Adams said. He waved down the hallway behind them toward the back of the house.
“The poisoned garden, right?” Detective Murphy asked. “What is that exactly?”
“It’s the Poison Garden, Detective,” Mrs. Adams corrected. “It’s a collection of poisonous plants. You know, nightshade, foxglove, larkspur, oleander...” She ticked off on her fingers as she spoke.
“Okay, I get it,” Detective Murphy said, “and you have this garden because...”
“We visited one on our last trip to the U.K.,” Mr. Adams said, “and decided it would be an interesting attraction for our guests.”
Detective Murphy sighed and looked back down at the man on the floor. “So, you said his name was Bill? I’m assuming he’s one of your convention attendees?”
“Yes, Bill Hartman. He’s a regular GGD attendee. Actually he’s been coming since we began the convention, eleven years ago now.”
The late Bill Hartman was dressed in a gray wool three-piece suit, the coat tails long enough to brush the backs of his knees. A black stovepipe hat had rolled toward the wall near him.
Detective Sullivan walked back over to the body and felt his jacket pockets with a latex-gloved hand. She stood and shook her head. “No wallet. He’s only got one of those name badge things on him.” She pointed to his lapel, and the badge pinned over his chest.
“Oh, that’s Bill, all right,” Mrs. Adams said. “We’ve known him for years.”
Voices filled the hall behind them and Detective Murphy said to the uniformed officer, “Keep them out of here, will ya?”
The officer nodded sharply and headed toward the crowd, directing the attendees through the doorway on the left in the main hall.
“They’re supposed to go in the library now anyway,” Mrs. Adams said, her e
yes flicking to a large chalkboard behind the main reception desk. It had the convention itinerary listed, each day a different color. “After the garden tour, they have their tea, and that’s when the murder will be presented.”
Detective Murphy watched the attendees file into the library. He picked out a few dressed like Sherlock Holmes, a group of older ladies in housecoats chatting with each other, a few men in trench coats, and a couple of portly gentlemen in three-piece suits, poking the red carpet with walking sticks.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Detective Murphy asked.
“We’re Nick and Nora Charles. We always are this weekend,” Mrs. Adams said.
Detective Murphy took another look at their outfits, then went back to watching the last of the attendees file into the room.
“Mr. Adams, did Mr. Hartman have problems with anyone? Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill him?” Detective Sullivan jotted down a few notes.
Mr. and Mrs. Adams shared a glance, and after a moment he said, “Bill started a blog about the GGD. It’s called Yet Another Stupid Theory. He’s been posting about the different members of the convention and their ideas that haven’t, well, that haven’t been the best.”
Mrs. Adams squeezed her gloved hands together tightly and narrowed her eyes. “Also, Bill has won the weekend for the past four years in a row. He’s solved the crime, received the cash prize, and the Falcon, too.”
“The what?” Detective Murphy asked.
“The Falcon. The Maltese Falcon,” Mr. Adams said a bit impatiently. “The Falcon is awarded to the attendee who gets the fewest demerits during the convention.”
“Demerits?” Detective Murphy asked.
“Yes, they’re given when the attendees break character, or do or say anything the detective he or she is portraying wouldn’t say or do.”
“And how do you determine that?”
“We have bells all around the inn. When you see or hear someone acting out of character, you ring the bell and assign them a demerit. It has to be witnessed by two or more other attendees to count against you, or we’d have nonstop bell ringing for everyone. All of our attendees are after that Falcon.”
“Is it worth anything?” Detective Murphy asked.
“It’s worth everything to those of us in the GGD,” Mrs. Adams said. “It’s prestige, bragging rights. It’s very valuable.”
“And how much is the cash prize you mentioned?” Detective Murphy asked.
“Five thousand dollars,” Mr. Adams said quickly. He nodded at Bill Hartman, lying twisted on the floor. “Bill wins every year. If he’d taken the weekend again, he’d be up to twenty-five thousand dollars by Sunday.”
“They’re all settled in there,” the uniformed officer said when he returned to the foyer. “They’re having tea and sandwiches.”
“You stay with the body,” Detective Murphy said to him. “Mrs. Adams, please keep your guests in the library.” She nodded and headed down the hall, followed by Detective Sullivan. “Mr. Adams, would you please show me Mr. Hartman’s room?”
The two men headed upstairs after Mr. Adams plucked an antique key from a drawer in the front desk. They eased up the stairs slowly, stepping purposefully so as to not disturb any evidence that might have been left during Mr. Hartman’s fall. When they reached the landing at the top, Mr. Adams said, “He’s staying in the Poe Suite at the end of the hall.”
The door to the Poe Suite was slightly ajar, and Mr. Adams pushed it open gently, the key still held in his fist. “Hello?” he called into the room.
“Step aside, please,” Detective Murphy said. Mr. Adams let him pass and then followed him into the room.
“Wow, nice digs,” Detective Murphy said. The suite was large with a king-size four-poster bed made from heavy dark wood, an olive-green canopy draped over the top of it and twisted down the posts. A rolltop desk sat in one corner with an ink pot and fountain pen on top. A large portrait of Edgar Allan Poe hung on the wall next to the door to the adjoining bathroom.
“It does appear that something happened in here,” Detective Murphy said, noticing that the bedside table was overturned and the papers on the desk looked rifled through.
Mr. Adams crossed his arms and put a finger to his lips, considering the scene. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to something shiny poking out from under one corner of the desk.
Detective Murphy slipped on a latex glove from his coat pocket and walked over to pick it up. “That’s an iPhone,” he said, holding it up for Mr. Adams to see.
“Oh dear,” Mr. Adams said. “How did it get under there?”
Detective Murphy shrugged. “Must have been dropped during the struggle. Maybe whoever killed Mr. Hartman left it behind. It doesn’t look familiar to you?”
“Oh no,” Mr. Adams said, shaking his head quickly. “There are to be no cell phones, laptops, or any other electronic devices in use during the weekend. We strongly encourage our guests to leave those items at home. It makes the weekend that much more authentic, and fairer to all the players, too, if the attendees aren’t sneaking upstairs to look up theories of our crimes on Google.”
“I see,” Detective Murphy said. “Looks like someone might have been cheating, huh?” He pushed the home button on the phone with a latex-covered finger and the screen lit up—Bill Hartman in a top hat grinned past the cracked glass. Detective Murphy swiped the glass and saw that the phone was passcode protected. Pulling a plastic evidence bag from his coat pocket, he slipped the phone inside, sealed it up, and put it back in his pocket.
The window on the far wall offered a view of the garden and the roof of the inn’s garage down below. Detective Murphy pushed the window open and leaned out, judging how far one would have to climb, or possibly fall, to get there.
He turned back and noticed a suitcase sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Flipping open the lid, Detective Murphy glanced inside. “More costumes like the one he has on,” he murmured. He shifted toward Mr. Adams and said, “Who’s he supposed to be anyway, Sherlock Holmes?”
Mr. Adams laughed quickly and then said, “No, Bill always comes as Inspector Bucket.”
Detective Murphy stared at him blankly.
“You know, Inspector Bucket from Bleak House? Charles Dickens?” Mr. Adams said in a slightly condescending tone.
“Oh, Dickens, yeah, I think I read that in high school. Something of his anyway. I don’t remember Inspector Bucket, though.”
“Well,” Mr. Adams said, taking on a more instructional tone of voice, “Bleak House was published in 1853, and many people consider Inspector Bucket the first notable detective in English Literature. Of course, Bill Hartman couldn’t be just any run of the mill Sherlock Holmes. He had to be an originator, ‘the beginning of the genre,’ he always said.”
“Does anyone else come dressed up as this Bucket guy?” Detective Murphy asked distractedly as he leafed through a few papers on the desk.
“No,” Mr. Adams said. “And I wouldn’t say we’re dressing up as our favorite detectives. We’re emulating them, studying them, and using the lessons from their cases to solve new crimes.”
“Fake new crimes, though, right?” Detective Murphy asked, stopping on his way to the bathroom and eyeing Mr. Adams.
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Adams stammered.
“You didn’t decide to spice up your mystery weekend by providing your guests with an actual homicide, did you?”
Mr. Adams’s cheeks burned bright red. “I should say not, and I’m offended you would think that of me, if you want to know the truth.”
“The truth is what I’m after, Mr. Adams,” Detective Murphy said. He continued into the bathroom and fingered through the shaving kit on the counter. He then turned and swept aside the white shower curtain, glancing into the footed tub, the shower rings chiming against the circular rung suspended above it. He took a qu
ick look at the bags under his dark brown eyes in the mirror and made his way back out into the suite.
“So where’s this Falcon?” he asked.
“It must be up here somewhere. Bill brings it with him wherever he goes, especially during the convention,” Mr. Adams said, glancing quickly around the room.
“I don’t see it. Are you sure no one else was inside the inn when you came in and found Mr. Hartman at the bottom of the stairs?”
“No, I told you that earlier, it was just me. The staff was in the kitchen but that’s at the other end of the house.” Mr. Adams straightened his jacket and ran a hand over his slicked-back sandy hair. “Why do you ask?”
“Because someone was up here with him. It looks to me like he got into a fight in this room and someone clobbered him on the forehead. Then they choked him, and he either fell or was thrown down the stairs. Which one of you hated Bill Hartman enough to do all of that?”
* * * *
“CSU will be here in five, sir,” the uniformed officer said as they passed back through the foyer, pulling his phone away from his ear. Detective Murphy cut his eyes at him and nodded curtly. He and Mr. Adams stepped carefully through the foyer and joined the crowd in the library.
“Hey, how’d it go upstairs?” Detective Sullivan asked.
Detective Murphy leaned close to her and spoke quietly. “I think that’s where the altercation happened. Someone was looking for something in his room, too.”
“You think it’s that trophy they were talking about him always winning? What was it?” Detective Sullivan asked.
“The Maltese Falcon trophy,” Detective Murphy said, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, that’s it. Hey you know what’s funny?” she asked quietly.
“What’s that?” he asked, scanning the room for any suspiciously acting attendees.
“They think we’re part of the weekend, keep referring to me as a red herring. What’s that?”
Detective Murphy shrugged. “How should I know, Sully?”
“Maybe we better find out, if we want to solve this guy’s murder,” Detective Sullivan said grimly.
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