Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  There was talk of after-dinner drinks at the bar. Cecilia and Drake led the charge, and others followed. Doug might have been enticed to have a port with his father, but I tugged at his sleeve, and he got the message. We excused ourselves after exchanging good night pleasantries.

  “Where’s our room?” I wondered.

  Doug pulled out a key card. “Fourth floor.”

  An employee clearing the table must have overhead our conversation. “You are quite lucky.”

  Doug asked, “Why do you say that?”

  She smiled kindly. “The mansion rooms on that floor are the most beautiful in the entire club.”

  “Let’s go check it out,” I said with enthusiasm.

  We climbed the two floors and found our room, which was as impressive as promised. It included an antique king sized bed and a sitting room with sofa and high-backed chairs. The décor was old-fashioned, yet no amenity had been overlooked, including a self-service coffee machine, writing desk, and refinished modern bathroom.

  “Your parents don’t mess around,” I said with a low whistle.

  “They do not. Although I can’t help but wonder if there’s an ulterior motive at play.”

  I wrapped my arms around Doug. “Do you mean making me fall in love with the Continental Club so we’ll have our wedding here?”

  “I think so,” Doug murmured before giving me a kiss.

  “Let’s play along for a few days.”

  Doug responded by turning off the lights.

  Chapter Four

  Sunlight peeked through the decorative curtains inside our bedroom. It was that glorious time of the year when the days began earlier and stretched well into the evening. I pushed the button on my digital fitness band, which monitored steps walked, calories burned, stairs climbed, and hours slept. On my couch potato days, it scolded me. “GET MOVING KIT!” When virtue triumphed, it offered congratulations. “GOAL ACHIEVED KIT!” Quite frankly, its tone was a little bossy. But I couldn’t toss it because it was also my wristwatch. I hit the main button and a bright “6:40” blinked back.

  Drat. I’d slept longer than anticipated. Before drifting off, I’d had visions of squeezing in a jog before the day’s scheduled events. Despite the exquisite accommodations and delicious food, spending the morning with a Continental Club wedding planner wasn’t my idea of a jolly good time. A sweaty run would clear my mind and hopefully release much needed mood-enhancing endorphins. If I hurried, I could jog for thirty minutes and still have time to shower and dress for breakfast.

  Doug was conked out. I dressed quickly in my exercise clothes and grabbed the room key card before quietly closing the door. I skipped down two flights of stairs and arrived at the floor where we’d had dinner the night before. As I turned the corner past an antique grandfather clock, I spotted the portrait on the wall of Gertrude Harper, the granddaughter of the original mansion proprietors. I was no art historian, but I’d read that the Vermeer-influenced Frank Weston Benson had painted the comely twenty-four-year-old at the turn of the century. The National Gallery of Art owned the original oil painting, which had been on display in prominent places such as the vice-president’s residence and the National Portrait Gallery. With no chance of acquiring the masterpiece, the Continental Club had commissioned an impressive reproduction.

  I’d planned to examine the portrait last night. Impressionism, even the American version, was my favorite period of art. We hadn’t lingered in the anteroom before or after dinner, so I’d given the painting no more than a passing glance.

  Now I walked toward the mantelpiece to take a closer look. Gertrude really had been a beautiful young woman. The websites detailing the history of the building and the club hadn’t exaggerated her enchanting smile and the long strokes used to depict her flowing white dress. She was the Continental Club’s Mona Lisa.

  My Fitbit buzzed, its annoying way of reminding me it was time to get moving. Somehow Gertrude Harper had managed to remain slim without jogging around Dupont Circle. I wasn’t so fortunate.

  I turned away from her portrait to head back toward the main staircase. In the far corner of the room near the entrance to the club’s library, I spotted a man’s dress shoe. How odd. The Continental Club wasn’t the type of place where patrons had one too many glasses of wine and lost their footwear en route to bed. That went double for the Mayflower Society crowd who occupied the vast majority of suites inside the building.

  Curiosity got the better of me. The library entrance was adjacent to another Continental Club treasure I’d wanted to check out, the bronze bust of Benjamin Franklin. During the Second World War, when the club met inside Dolley Madison’s former house, the Franklin statue adorned the room where key discussions about nuclear fission and the atomic bomb took place. Now it resided on a perfectly engineered pedestal in front of a prominent arched window, inviting photographers strolling along the nearby street to take advantage of the striking profile it provided when the light was just right.

  I didn’t get much of a chance to admire Franklin or read the detailed inscription at the base of the statue. A guest who’d unwisely overindulged hadn’t abandoned his shoe the night before. Instead, the shoe belonged to a man whose body lay flat on the floor of the library.

  Chapter Five

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I sprung to the man’s side. The face was contorted, but I still recognized him. It was Grayson Bancroft, dressed in the same suit he’d worn to dinner. Obviously, Grayson never made it to bed last night. His skin was extremely pale. Not a good sign. Tentatively, I reached to feel for a pulse. After grasping his stone-cold hand for only a second, I recoiled. The president of the Mayflower Society was dead.

  Now it was time to panic. The eerie silence consuming the entire building prevented me from letting out a scream. Instead, I scrambled around the corner and flew down the last flight of stairs to reach the main entrance. The concierge’s desk sat empty. Didn’t anyone start the day early in Washington, even at the Continental Club?

  The delicious aroma of freshly baked rolls wafted in my direction. Of course, the Continental Club was a prime location for a Beltway power breakfast. I followed my nose, which led me to the entrance of the Garden Dining Room. Two well-dressed businessmen were waiting to be seated.

  “Can someone help me?” I asked.

  My black capri running pants, hoodie, and yellow tennis shoes didn’t inspire confidence. The club’s host took one look at me and wrinkled his nose.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, ma’am. As soon as I seat these two gentlemen.”

  Given the circumstances, waiting was out of the question. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I need your assistance. NOW!” My voice was only a few decibels shy of a scream.

  I’d gotten his attention. “Please, I have to ask you to wait your turn.” The two men in suits shook their heads in disgust.

  He’d left me no choice. I hadn’t wanted to spoil breakfast for the eager diners. “There’s a dead man upstairs. He’s inside the library.”

  That did it. All three men stared at me, mouths agape. Given their reactions, I might as well have announced the arrival of Queen Elizabeth’s corpse.

  The host stammered, “What did you say?”

  I cleared my throat and spoke in my clearest, most sophisticated voice. “His name is Grayson Bancroft. I don’t know what happened to him, but someone might want to attend to the matter.”

  I turned on my heels and retreated. The club staffer followed behind, apparently deciding that the two guests were no longer a priority. When he caught up with me, he put his hand on my shoulder. “Can you show me …” his voice trailed off.

  I turned to face him. “The body?”

  He gulped. “Yes.”

  “Follow me.” I motioned toward the stairs.

  Once we reached the first floor landing, we continued past the portrait and reached Franklin’s statue. I pointed in the direction of the library entrance. Fortunately, although not for Grayson, the body remained in exactly
the same spot.

  “He’s the leader of the historical society group we’re hosting for the next three days,” the host stammered.

  Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t hide my exasperation. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  He knelt down beside Bancroft. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “I’m no medical examiner, but his hand is cold, and I can’t detect a pulse. And he’s not breathing.”

  “If you could, stay here. I’m going to call an ambulance and the police.”

  I nodded. If I’d had my phone, I could have texted Doug until the alerts on his device woke him. My best-laid plans for a jog had gone awry. I squatted next to the body for a closer look. The twisted features definitely belonged to the man I’d met the night before, enough to make a positive identification. Unfortunately, Bancroft didn’t seem to be at peace.

  Grayson had been in relatively good shape. His weight appeared average, and he was likely a few years shy of Medicare eligibility. If he’d suffered from an illness like cancer, the effects of such a serious disease certainly weren’t apparent. Was it a heart attack? Perhaps he smoked. I got closer to his face and sniffed. I was particularly sensitive to the smell of cigarettes. Though I detected the lingering fragrance of men’s cologne, perhaps Chanel, there was no hint of tobacco.

  Something seemed odd about the placement of his body. If he’d been the victim of cardiac arrest, wouldn’t he have fallen to the ground in a crumpled heap? Instead, Bancroft was lying perfectly flat on his back, arms and legs spread wide. It was as though he’d been in the middle of making a snow angel when he died.

  I was tempted to close his wide-open eyes, which freaked me out. Common sense prevailed, and I kept my hands to myself. I got up and looked down the hallway past the portrait. No one was coming. Given the ashen hue of the dining room host after he saw Grayson’s lifeless body, I assumed he’d opted to remain downstairs until the authorities arrived.

  I returned to the library and bent down again. The expression on Bancroft’s face seemed frozen, like something out of the ordinary had happened and he’d been unable to react. There was no way else to describe it. Grayson Bancroft had been surprised to die.

  While staring at the expression of shock on Bancroft’s face, I noticed a small red mark on the dead man’s neck. It was on the left side, inches above the fitted collar of his button-down dress shirt. It was quite noticeable, and I was almost certain it hadn’t been there the night before. Leaning over the body, I moved closer to his face for a better look. It wasn’t a birthmark or mosquito bite. To my untrained eye, it appeared to be a puncture wound.

  “Who are you and what are you doing?”

  I drew back immediately at the sound of an authoritative female voice.

  A petite woman whipped out a badge and flashed it. “Detective Maggie Glass. D.C. Metro Police.”

  I stood up and offered her my hand. “Kit Marshall. I discovered the body.”

  The detective was joined by several EMTs. Their visit would be brief because I was certain Grayson Bancroft was deceased. I moved away while the emergency medical personnel surrounded the body and confirmed the death. Glass motioned for me to exit the library.

  The middle-aged detective was short in stature, but I could tell she meant business. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore a fitted black suit that was professional yet also sporty in case a hot pursuit was called for. Silver button earrings provided a feminine touch. She pulled out a notebook and grabbed a pen from her jacket pocket.

  “Ms. Marshall, you’re a guest here at the Continental Club?”

  I briefly described the reason for our visit and explained that I lived in the Washington D.C. metropolitan area.

  “Where do you work?” Apparently even the District police asked this question as an opener. Maybe they also attended too many K Street cocktail parties.

  “Capitol Hill. I work as the chief of staff for a member of the House of Representatives.”

  “A political type, I see. No surprises there. How did you come to discover the deceased?”

  My workout attire corroborated my story, and Glass didn’t question why I stumbled across Grayson.

  She continued to write furiously in her notebook. Without looking up, she kept talking. “Only a few more questions, Ms. Marshall. This seems open and shut. The coroner will take it from here. It was most likely a heart attack or an aneurysm. We see these all the time in men of the deceased’s age group.”

  Should I point out what I’d discovered? Detective Glass seemed like a woman who took her job seriously. She’d do a thorough job, but if Grayson got transported for an autopsy, who knew how long it would take for the medical examiner to alert the police to the possibility of foul play? At least twenty-four hours. At that point, the person responsible could have already escaped or covered any potentially incriminating tracks. Solving two other murders had taught me that time was of the essence. If Bancroft’s death was a homicide, the investigation needed to start now.

  I cleared my throat. That got Glass’s attention. She glanced up from scribbling furiously into her notepad and asked, “Do you have something to add?”

  “Detective, I’m sure you noticed the odd position of the body on the floor.”

  “Not really. I wanted to let our medical experts confirm the death. Let’s take another look.” She motioned with her pen that I should follow her inside the library.

  Glass circled the body several times and paused to write in her notebook. She indicated that the medics should join us. “Fellas, does this look like a heart attack or an otherwise natural death to you?”

  The younger guy shook his head. “Seems weird. It’s like he hit the ground and froze.”

  The other EMT rubbed his chin. “Can’t say I’ve seen anything exactly like this in real life. It reminds me of something I saw on cable TV”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You know, one of those channels with the historical documentaries. It’s like that town in Italy where the volcano erupted thousands of years ago.”

  “Pompeii?” I offered.

  He raised a triumphant forefinger. “You got it. Everyone was killed and then preserved instantly by ash. This guy looks like one of those unlucky people. Stopped dead in his tracks.”

  Glass stared at the paramedic for a long moment before speaking. “Well, one thing’s for certain. There was no volcano in the middle of the Continental Club. So what killed him?”

  The detective bent down to take a closer look. She immediately noticed the red mark on the dead man’s neck and motioned for the History channel-watching medic to join her.

  “What do you see here? Is it a wound? A bug bite?”

  The paramedic hesitated, almost as if he wanted to tell Glass answering her question exceeded his pay grade. But he complied without protest, even whipping out a small penlight to shine on Bancroft’s neck.

  “I’m not a medical examiner, ma’am, but that’s not from a mosquito,” he concluded.

  Glass grabbed the penlight and peered at the small blotch. “That’s helpful. But what is it?”

  “Maybe an injection site? You can see a dot in the center. There’s a bit of blood around it.”

  Detective Glass must have agreed with the medic’s conclusion. After examining Grayson’s neck again, she leaned back and stood up. “Thank you for your help.”

  Everything had happened so fast, I hadn’t had much time to think about the consequences of finding the mysterious mark on Bancroft’s body. An odd and inauspicious start to my morning had suddenly turned into something more sinister.

  Detective Glass jotted down more notes and tapped her pen to her forehead. To no one in particular, she stated the obvious. “I don’t like how this is shaping up.”

  I drew nearer. “Detective, I’m clearly not going for a run this morning. Do you mind if I return to my room so I can speak with my fiancé and put on more appropriate clothes?”

  With a
n absentminded sideways glance, Glass answered, “Of course.” Then she quickly added, “Don’t go anywhere else, Ms. Marshall. You may have just become a key witness to a murder.”

  I was no stranger to those fateful words.

  Chapter Six

  I raced up the two flights of stairs to the fourth floor. After fishing the key card out of my sports bra where I’d safely stowed it for my jog, I burst into the dark room. As I suspected, Doug hadn’t budged an inch. The only sign of life was the sonorous wheezes emanating from the ornate four-poster. Considering the volume of Doug and Clarence’s snoring, bedtime at home was like trying to fall asleep in the middle of Grand Central Station.

  I hurried over to the bed. “Doug, wake up! I need to talk to you.”

  Doug rolled from his side onto his back, still in a deep fog. “Who are you?”

  “Who else would I be? You need to wake up right now.”

  Doug flailed his arms in the direction of the nightstand. I grabbed his glasses and shoved them into his empty hand. “Put these on!” I ordered.

  “Okay, I hear you. Just give me a second.”

  I turned on the bedside lamp. Doug raised his hands in protest as the room filled with bright light. He threw off the covers and got out of bed. “What’s wrong with you, Kit?”

  “Grayson Bancroft is dead.”

  Doug’s eyes bulged. “He’s what?”

  “Dead. And it might be murder.”

  This revelation must have been too much for Doug at such an early hour. He sat down on the side of the bed. “Tell me what happened.”

  I recounted how I’d discovered the body and explained the unusual circumstances the detective and I had observed. I finished up with the supposition that a needle or fatal injection might have been the cause of death. Doug listened without comment. After I was done talking, my fiancé remained silent, a grave expression on his face.