by Tracy Kiely
Finally I said to her, “I really love your dress.”
Bingo! She lit up. “Why, thank you!” she said. “When I saw it, I just fell in love with it. And you know what they say. Pink is the new black.” There was a short pause during which she realized that I was wearing a black dress. “Well, I mean, black is very nice, too.” I decided that perhaps it wasn’t necessary for me to engage Lauren in conversation after all.
Soon everyone had finished dinner; coffee and dessert were served. In the interest of saving time, we had agreed that this course would not be served seated. Instead, we set up the coffee, cake, and plates on a side table for those who were interested.
Aunt Winnie increased the volume of the music, which she had lowered for dinner, and lost no time in grabbing Randy and heading for the dance floor. The two of them now dipped and twirled in perfect time with each other. Daniel and Polly were also dancing. Loudly announcing that he had no intention of dancing, Gerald watched them with a grim expression from our table. No doubt he considered the activity to be a damned tedious waste of an evening.
It wasn’t only the volume of the music that had increased; the tension among the actors was now palpable. Karen appeared quite drunk. Steven was so upset he had developed a stutter. Tom was pretending that everything was fine, but whenever anyone spoke to him, he had trouble making eye contact. Eric stood very quietly by the bar, watching Steven. Only Susie seemed untouched by the tension. She laughed freely and flirted with all the men. But one thing was clear—something was about to happen.
And then it did. Without warning the room was pitched into inky blackness. An excited gasp went up from the guests. The “murder” was about to happen. Around me, several voices began talking at once. “Oh, it’s starting!” “Ow, that’s my foot!” “I can’t see a thing.” “This is asinine.” (This last comment was uttered by Gerald, of course.) I listened for any subtle “clues,” but there was nothing subtle about what happened next. I saw a flash of green and heard a pop. It was followed by a piercing scream. Someone fell heavily, sending dishes and glasses smashing to the ground in the process. I was just thinking that Aunt Winnie was going to be upset if her good china was broken all for the sake of the show, when I was roughly pushed aside and I heard a voice yell out, “For God’s sake, get the lights.” An icy finger slid down my spine—the panic I sensed around me seemed too real to be part of the show. I blindly stumbled for the door when the lights came back on. Blinking at the abrupt brilliance, I tried to get my bearings. The first face I saw was Eric’s. That’s when I knew that something was terribly wrong. His complexion was ashen and his eyes were wide with fear. No matter how good an actor he was, I could tell the horror on his face was real. I turned my head and saw why.
As Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “It Had to Be You” blared around me, I stared down at the still body of Gerald Ramsey. He gazed uninterestedly back.
CHAPTER 6
The sooner every party breaks up, the better.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
I DON’T KNOW how long we all stared at Gerald before Lauren’s shrieks startled us out of our stupor. She ran to where Gerald lay on the floor and screamed his name and pushed at his shoulder, as if he had merely fallen asleep. Polly, on the other hand, stood motionless. Gazing at her father with an unblinking stare, she seemed rooted to the dance floor. Her face was so deathly pale, I thought she must be in shock. Daniel stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close.
Peter got to Gerald a split second after Lauren and began checking for the life signs we all feared weren’t there. He pulled back Gerald’s suit coat. Against the crisp white shirt, a crimson stain was spreading rapidly. He felt for a pulse and then slowly shook his head.
Without a word, Aunt Winnie ran from the room. I presumed that she was calling the police.
Tom, who only minutes before was playing the role of a philandering husband, spoke first. “We need to secure this room,” he said with brisk authority. “No one touch anything.” His cool and professional manner puzzled me until I belatedly remembered Eric mentioning that Tom was a retired police officer.
Daniel stepped forward. “What the hell are you people playing at?” He glared at the actors. “A man is dead because of you. How could you let this happen?”
Eric’s jaw dropped open in shock. “Us?” he squeaked, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a cork. “We had nothing to do with this! We’re actors doing a show. We don’t even use guns!”
“Well, one of you blundered, then, because in case you haven’t noticed, this man is dead!” Daniel retorted hotly.
Eric shook his head. “You don’t understand, we don’t use guns at all, real or prop. In our show, the victim is stabbed.” Next to Eric, Susie adamantly nodded in agreement, her tawny hair falling over her shoulders. As if to corroborate Eric’s statement, she held up a realistic-looking plastic knife. “When the lights came back on,” she said, “I was supposed to be on the floor with this beside me.”
A tiny part of my brain detached itself from the fact that I was standing ten feet from a dead man and silently crowed that I had correctly guessed Susie as the intended victim. Because of this, it took me a minute for the full meaning of Eric’s words to sink in. Gerald Ramsey’s death was no accident. He’d been murdered.
“Oh, my God!” gasped Joan, as she stared at Gerald’s body. “But who would want to … ?” She sagged heavily into Henry, her question left unfinished, as she yanked her hand up to cover her mouth. Her eyes flew to Polly before she closed them as if in prayer. Jackie made a small noise. We all looked her way.
“Did you say something, Jackie?” asked Linnet. But Jackie slowly shook her head and turned away.
Linnet eyed Tom as if he were nothing more than an irksome insect. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I am not going to stay in the same room with a dead man. A man who was apparently murdered, no less! This is absurd! Who are you to tell us what we can and cannot do?”
Tom listened calmly to Linnet’s tirade but remained firm. He probably had had years of dealing with reluctant witnesses. “My name is Tom Cooper,” he said. “I’m a retired police officer. I understand that this is difficult, but trust me, it’s necessary.”
Tom’s reply had no effect on Linnet’s ire. “Well, Mr. Cooper, I know my rights and you simply cannot keep me here against my will!” She marched to her seat where her purse lay. Whipping out her cell phone, she yanked off her clip-on earring, saying, “I’m calling my lawyer. I know my rights. Do you have any idea who I am?”
“All I know is that you’re a potential suspect in a murder case,” Tom replied. Linnet bristled as he continued unfazed. “No one is to leave this room. We must secure the scene and wait for the police.”
Aunt Winnie returned. With a somber glance at Tom, she quietly said, “They’re on their way.”
Randy walked over to Linnet. “I realize that this is a horrible situation, Mrs. Westin,” he said soothingly. “And that what you are being asked to do is quite extraordinary, but I really think we should do as he says. It will most likely make matters easier when the police do arrive. I am sure that your gracious tolerance of the situation will be appropriately acknowledged.”
I wondered exactly how Randy thought the police were going to acknowledge Linnet’s “gracious tolerance of the situation.” I had an inkling that nothing short of a parade would assuage her monstrous ego. Linnet continued to glare at Tom, but Randy’s words seemed to mollify her. She still watched the proceedings with an icy frown, her rigid posture radiating displeasure. However, she did put her cell phone back and replaced her clip-on. Jackie glanced anxiously at her friend but said nothing.
Aunt Winnie walked over to Lauren, standing mutely beside Gerald, and gently took her by the shoulders, easing her away from the body. Pulling Lauren to her, she guided her toward one of the chairs. After Lauren was seated, Aunt Winnie walked over to Polly, whispered something to her, drew her close, and led her
to the chair next to Lauren. The rest of us stood awkwardly, eyeing one another suspiciously. The band of actors seemed especially ill at ease. No longer in character, they huddled together on one side of the room. As planned, there had been a murder tonight, but the premise had shifted. Now they were the spectators and we were the show.
I was struck by the resemblance of the scene to an Edward Gorey cartoon come to life—a room full of uneasy, elegantly dressed people, some standing, some sitting, and none of them making eye contact. And, of course, in the midst of this strange tableau, a dead body lay sprawled on the floor.
But this particular tableau is not a cartoon, I thought. It’s real. And one of these elegantly dressed people just killed a man. A wave of dizziness overtook me and I sat down heavily on one of the chairs and stared at the floor.
Peter appeared beside me. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.
“Of course I’m not all right!” I shot back, my voice a strained whisper. “A man is dead! Murdered!” Nodding in Gerald’s direction, I caught sight of his dead staring eyes and grimaced. A wave of nausea overtook me and I buried my head in my hands.
Peter walked over to the bar. Tom barked out at him, “What are you doing?”
Peter turned. Giving Tom a level look, he said evenly, “Elizabeth feels sick. I’m getting her a glass of water.”
Tom nodded his approval.
“Does anybody else want anything?” Peter asked. Both Jackie and Linnet shook their heads, as did Joan and Henry. Lauren and Polly appeared not even to have heard the question.
Randy stepped forward. “I think Winifred could use something,” he said. Aunt Winnie nodded gratefully.
“I could do with a spot of something, but it isn’t a glass of bloody water,” muttered Daniel, as he turned and rapidly walked to the bar. He poured three generous glasses of whiskey. He handed one to Lauren and one to Polly. The last one he drank himself in short order.
Peter poured the glass of water and came to hand it to me. “Here,” he said. “Drink this.”
I took the glass, but I didn’t drink from it. I was quite sure that I was about to be spectacularly ill. Peter must have sensed this, too, for after a moment, he took the glass away. “Put your head between your knees,” he ordered. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
While I balked at his dictatorial tone, I was too dizzy to argue with him, and so I did as he said. Forcing the image of Gerald’s lifeless face out of my head, I concentrated on slowly filling my lungs with air and letting it out just as slowly. I don’t know how long I sat like that, but gradually my stomach felt less like it had been on a cheap roadside carnival ride. I sat back in my chair. Peter eyed me cautiously. “Better?”
“Yes,” I said. “Sorry I snapped at you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said simply. “Would you like the water now?”
I nodded, even though I really didn’t. But it gave me something to do with my hands. When I was little and was scared or upset, I would count to myself. I don’t know why, but I found the rote repetition of numbers soothing. I reverted to my old trick now as Peter and I sat with the body of Gerald Ramsey in Aunt Winnie’s dining room.
Nobody said another word until 526 seconds later when we finally heard the sirens.
Desperate to get out of the room, I volunteered to open the door for the police. At the front door, I stood for a moment breathing in deeply the icy cold air and trying to settle my queasy stomach. The storm was in full swing now, and the lights from the ambulance and police cars made an eerie kaleidoscope of color in the swirling snow. Two paramedics pulled a gurney down from the ambulance and two policemen jumped from their cars. I motioned them in and quickly led them to the dining room. I pointed in Gerald’s direction. “He’s over here,” I added unnecessarily.
The first police officer surveyed the room and announced, “I am Lieutenant Jansen.” He was a tall man with a lanky build and a fleshy face.
Tom stepped forward. He introduced himself and succinctly provided Lieutenant Jansen with a brief report. Moving away, they spoke in terse whispers, leaving the rest of us trying to discern their seemingly coded speech.
Once briefed, Lieutenant Jansen moved to where Gerald lay. Kneeling beside the body, he asked, “Who is he?”
Peter answered, “Gerald Ramsey. He lives in town.”
Lieutenant Jansen nodded. “I’m familiar with the name.” He stared at Gerald’s face a moment, then leaned back on his haunches. “Okay, what exactly happened?” he asked, as the first paramedic examined Gerald’s body. The paramedic’s name tag identified him as Todd. He had long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. A blurry tattoo of a peace sign peeked out occasionally from underneath his thin white shirt cuff as he performed his examination.
“I’m not really sure,” replied Aunt Winnie. “It all happened so fast. We were waiting for the murder …”
Lieutenant Jansen jerked his head, staring at Aunt Winnie, and she realized how she sounded. Flustered, she tried to explain. “What I mean is,” she said quickly, “that this was a dinner theater party of sorts. Some of the guests are hired actors. They pretend to kill someone—one of them.” She pointed at the actors. “And then the rest of us were supposed to try to solve the mystery of who committed the murder.”
I wondered if Lieutenant Jansen played much poker. If he did, I bet he won a lot. He gazed steadily at Aunt Winnie, giving no clue as to what he was thinking. He nodded for Aunt Winnie to continue.
She did. “Well, anyway, I turned the lights off as planned at about eleven o’clock. Once the lights were off, one of the actors was supposed to be murdered, but instead … we heard a gunshot and when the lights went back on … we saw Gerald.”
During Aunt Winnie’s narration, Lieutenant Jansen had pulled out a small notebook. He now rapidly scribbled into it. Todd, the paramedic, finished his brief exam of the body. “Gunshot wound to the chest,” he said, stating what I thought was a fairly obvious fact.
“Did anyone touch or move the body?” Lieutenant Jansen asked. Peter answered, “After the lights came on and I saw him on the floor, I ran over to see if … if he was alive.” He paused. “I pulled back his suit coat and tried to find a pulse, but that’s all.”
“Anyone else?”
No one said anything, although we all looked at Lauren.
She was still sitting next to Polly at one of the tables. Polly was smoking mechanically, and I wondered if she was even aware of her actions. Lauren was sitting bolt upright, staring blankly in front of her. They had neither spoken to nor looked at each other since the gruesome discovery of Gerald’s body. They were also completely dry-eyed. I found this a little sad but not very surprising given the kind of man Gerald Ramsey appeared to have been. Lauren’s earlier hysteria had given way to a zombielike numbness, and I hadn’t seen any reaction at all from Polly. In fact, they were so devoid of emotion that a stranger to the night’s events would be hard-pressed to detect anything amiss in their manner. The only indication that something was wrong was Polly’s hand. It shook slightly as she took a drag from her cigarette.
“Are you Mrs. Ramsey?” Lieutenant Jansen said, following our eyes.
At the sound of her name, Lauren swung vacant blue eyes in the lieutenant’s direction, but I doubted that she’d heard anything else. Her expression was dazed and her eyes unfocused.
“Lauren!” said Polly sharply.
Lauren snapped back. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Did you move or touch the body in any way, ma’am?”
“Move him? No. When the lights came back on I saw that Gerald was on the floor. I thought he might have had a heart attack. I ran over to him. And then Peter pulled back his coat and … and … I saw …” Her face crumpled and I thought she was going to cry. Instead, she gazed at Lieutenant Jansen with a lost expression.
“He was dead,” she continued softly. “This all seems like a dream.” She paused a moment and repeated, “Gerald. Dead,” and shook
her head as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “He was so strong. I thought he’d live forever.”
She lapsed back into silence. I thought her words odd. After all, it wasn’t as if Gerald had suffered a heart attack—someone had shot him in the chest.
I looked at Polly to see how she was faring. She was staring at Lauren with a tired expression, but she said nothing. She silently turned her head away and took another long drag from her cigarette.
Lieutenant Jansen noted everything down. “We’ll need to take statements from everyone individually. Is there somewhere private we can do that?” he asked Aunt Winnie. “We’ll need to clear the room and look for evidence.”
“Of course,” Aunt Winnie answered. “You can use my office. It’s off the foyer.”
I doubted how productive Lieutenant Jansen’s interviews would be if they were conducted in Aunt Winnie’s tiny, messy office. I had a sudden image of Lieutenant Jansen’s lanky frame squashed and half hidden behind a desk piled high with catalogs and papers, trying to carry out a serious interview with a suspect who, for lack of space, was forced to stand pressed up against a wall papered in faded roses.
I was about to suggest that the reading room might be more comfortable when a hissing sound from the corner distracted me.
It was Lady Catherine. She was standing next to her pillow bed with a particularly peevish expression on her feline face. In the center of her bed, and the apparent reason for her displeasure, lay a gun. It had a curved wooden handle and was so small that at first glance it looked like a toy, especially as it lay nestled among Lady Catherine’s embroidered pillows. But this was no toy. It was a Derringer, and unless I was very much mistaken, it was the gun that had killed Gerald Ramsey. Next to it lay a crumpled white glove.
“Well, well,” said Lieutenant Jansen with a grim smile. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Almost as if on cue, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed midnight.