Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  A direct question deserved a direct answer. “I do, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

  “Then why aren’t you showing more enthusiasm about planning this wedding?” Buffy sounded more hurt than angry.

  “You’re confusing the wedding planning with my excitement about marrying Doug.”

  “Why aren’t you interested in both, Kit?”

  “I wasn’t lying to Tammy. I’m overwhelmed.” I lowered my eyes. Surely I’d made my point of view clear.

  Buffy studied me carefully. “Well, my dear, you’d better get over it.”

  I leveled my gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re marrying a Hollingsworth. We’re in our fifth century of residence in North America. That lineage brings with it a certain station in life and participation in societal events.”

  I pursed my lips. “Doug usually runs away from those types of functions. He doesn’t even like going to his department’s holiday party.”

  “We all know Doug’s proclivities. But one day, he and his brothers will be expected to lead this family and uphold the Hollingsworth name.”

  “What does that have to do with my wedding?”

  Buffy sighed. She was the dame of the American gentry, and I was her lost cause. “It will introduce you and Doug as a couple to the people who matter, Kit.”

  Buffy’s choice of words stung. I doubted we agreed on who belonged in the group of “people who matter.” I’d said enough already. It was best to end the conversation. “Mrs. Hollingsworth, I need to use my phone, so please excuse me.”

  As I darted inside the adjacent room, I heard her voice behind me, “Call me Buffy, darling. We’ll chat more later!”

  I had to credit Buffy with persistence. The woman didn’t take no for an answer. Thank goodness cell use was restricted inside the club. It had been a convenient excuse for escape. I whipped out my phone to text Doug.

  Where are you?

  My parents’ room

  Which is?

  401

  On my way

  I ran up three flights of stairs, taking two at a time. Missing my morning jog wouldn’t matter if this mystery forced me to run between floors all day long.

  Located at the end of the hallway, Room 401 was right next to the stairwell. The door was wide open so I walked inside. Apparently, my timing could not have been better. Wearing gloves, a police officer held a package of Winston’s diabetic syringes. Detective Glass leaned in to inspect her colleague’s discovery.

  Indulging in an old habit he couldn’t quite break, Doug was chewing on one of his fingernails. Winston stood next to him, sporting a surprisingly placid expression for a man who had just moved to the top of the suspect list for murder.

  Glass pointed to the box. “Bag it. Continue to search the room for other pieces of evidence.”

  Over her shoulder, she spotted me. “Well, well. The whole family is here now.” In a voice dripping with sarcasm, she asked, “How was the wedding planning?”

  “We decided to table it, given the circumstances.”

  Doug perked up. “My mother agreed to a postponement?”

  “It was best for all involved,” I said wryly.

  Winston guffawed and slapped a hand on his leg. “I would have paid a thousand dollars to be a fly on the wall.”

  Doug glared at his father’s incongruous comment. Didn’t Winston care that the police had discovered what they believed was the murder weapon?

  “I hate to break up this party, but I’d like to question Mr. Hollingsworth again,” said Detective Glass. She pointed to the syringes. “In light of our discovery.”

  “Father, perhaps you should call an attorney?” Doug’s face had turned red faster than a traffic light on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  “Hogwash. I’ve done nothing wrong.” Winston directed his response to Detective Glass. “I’d be happy to answer your questions.”

  “This room is getting a little crowded. Do you mind coming downstairs with me?” she asked.

  “Certainly, Detective.” Winston grabbed a pen and the pad of paper provided by the Continental Club and inserted it inside his coat pocket. At least he was smart enough to know he should take notes about the questions she asked.

  “Perhaps I should join you,” said Doug.

  Detective Glass replied quickly. “No need. This won’t take long.”

  Winston motioned for Doug to stay put. Without protest, Doug sat in an overstuffed armchair. I went over to join him.

  In a low voice, I said, “Don’t worry. The evidence is circumstantial.”

  “I’m not worried about what Father will say. He’s smart. But Detective Glass has been talking to the other Mayflower Society members.”

  “And …?” I pressed.

  “No one despised Grayson Bancroft more than my father. He made no bones about it, Kit.”

  I sat on the side of the chair and put my arm around Doug’s shoulder. “You’re wrong, Doug. Someone hated him more than your father. When we figure out who that person is, we’ll know who killed Grayson Bancroft.”

  Chapter Eight

  We still had an hour to kill before the Mayflower Society tour of Mount Vernon departed. Doug reported that his headache had been reduced to a dull throb. Nonetheless, he opted to rest in our room and regain his strength before our afternoon sojourn. I, on the other hand, was antsy and missing my exercise regimen. If I stayed in the room with Doug, he would find solace in a book, and I’d have nothing to do but play Candy Crush on my iPhone.

  Why not explore? After all, we were staying in a building on the National Register of Historic Places. I loved our Arlington condo for its amenities and convenience but there was zero chance that modern monstrosity would ever qualify as a historic dwelling of note.

  I didn’t have to go far. Catty-corner from our guest chamber was a small enclave labeled the “Poets’ Room,” filled with shelves of books and cozy nooks with windows. Apparently the room wasn’t limited to bards. A variety of framed literary mementos decorated the walls. I was examining a mounted book cover of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique when a whiny voice broke the blessed silence.

  “What do we have here? The problem that has no name.”

  One person, and one person only, would find it amusing to quote Friedan in a blatant attempt to insult me. I turned to face the interloper. “You damn well know my name, Trevor.”

  The youthful face of my former congressional colleague peered around his MacBook. Trevor was in his thirties like Doug and me, yet his impish demeanor belonged to someone a decade younger. We had worked together in the Senate for several years until our boss was murdered. Circumstances led us to join forces and find his killer. A few months ago, Trevor had interjected himself into yet another homicide investigation, this time in the House of Representatives. No longer a staffer, Trevor had shown acute interest. Cunning, smart, and quick-witted, Trevor was a Washington D.C. personality for the ages.

  My colleague-turned-conspirator peered at me from beneath his rimmed glasses. “Kit Marshall, you have a habit of turning up in the most unusual places.”

  “I could say the same about you. Why are you hiding on the fourth floor of the Continental Club?”

  Trevor shut his laptop. “As a matter of fact, I’m a member.” He reached into his pocket, opened his wallet, and showed me his ID card.

  “Since when?”

  “A few months ago. After my blogging days came to an end.”

  I scratched my temple. “I don’t understand the connection, Trevor.”

  “It hasn’t been publicized, but I signed a lucrative publishing deal after Hill Rat.”

  “You’re writing a book?”

  “Your deductive skills are as sharp as ever. We are sitting in the Poets’ Room, the haven for writers at the club.”

  He had me there. “What are you writing? A novel?”

  “No, more of a Washington D.C. tell-all.”

  “That will certainly boost your popularity.”

  “It is
risky,” Trevor admitted. “But the publisher’s advance made the risk worthwhile.”

  “Just keep me out of it. I still work on Capitol Hill, and the last thing I need is more controversy.”

  Trevor chuckled. “Don’t worry. You’re not in my book. I’m going after bigger fish.”

  Ignoring his not-so-subtle jab, I said, “I’m glad to hear it. We’re keeping our heads down in our congressional office until after the election this fall.”

  Trevor raised his eyebrows. “You’re not doing a good enough job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I arrived a few hours earlier, I noticed a police presence inside the building. The second floor library is completely sealed off. An officer told me a man died under suspicious circumstances last night.”

  “I’m here with Doug and my future in-laws for the Mayflower Society gathering. The victim was the president of the organization, Grayson Bancroft.”

  Trevor did a double take. He didn’t surprise easily, and my revelation had apparently thrown him for a loop. “Grayson Bancroft, the conservative multimedia tycoon?”

  “The one and only.”

  He whistled softly. “Now that’s something. Doug’s parents knew him?”

  “You could say that.” I filled him in on the details of the case, including the evidence mounting against Winston Hollingsworth.

  “I was joking earlier, but you really have found yourself in another predicament,” Trevor said.

  “I don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “No, but trouble finds you, Kit.” Trevor leaned back in his chair. “What’s your next move?”

  “We’re headed to Mount Vernon this afternoon as part of the Mayflower Society program. I’ll talk to the people who knew Grayson to see if anyone else had a motive or the opportunity to kill him.”

  Trevor rubbed his chin. “Unlike the other cases you’ve investigated, the details of this homicide indicate the killer planned the crime methodically, perhaps for months. Poison requires careful research.”

  “There’s no doubt the murderer carefully selected the time, manner, and place,” I said. “Unfortunately, the Mayflower Society attendees are uniformly well-heeled and intelligent. Each of them has the resources and brain power to pull this off.” I paused, and then added. “With the exception of one.”

  “Who is?”

  “Cecilia Rose’s husband, Drake. She’s a popular author of erotic romances. Her spouse is a lot younger and short on smarts.” I tapped my forehead.

  After a pause, Trevor said, “I’d have to speak with Drake myself, but I wouldn’t dismiss him too quickly. Perhaps he had an accomplice.”

  He had a point. It was way too early to eliminate anyone, particularly when identifying credible suspects could take the heat off Doug’s father.

  “I’ll get the lay of the land. A man like Grayson Bancroft must have several enemies,” I said.

  “I hope so, for your future father-in-law’s sake. Let me know if I can help. These walls have ears, you know,” Trevor added with a sweeping gesture.

  “I’ve heard. Thanks for the offer. I may take you up on it. In the meantime, let me know if you stumble across anything that might be important.”

  “Like a syringe with poison in it?” he asked.

  I ignored Trevor’s sarcasm, which I could barely stomach. Thank goodness Meg wasn’t here. She had a zero tolerance policy when it came to Trevor. “See you later. Good luck with your book.”

  I wandered farther down the corridor. The rest of the floor was unremarkable. A cramped fitness center was the only other discovery of note. There wasn’t enough time to squeeze in a workout before Mount Vernon. At least George Washington’s grounds would provide ample opportunity for walking and burning calories.

  Just as I suspected, Doug was ensconced in a book about the history of Washington D.C. when I returned to the room. “Did you know that when the Harper family rebuilt this house in the late 1800s, it was on the outer edges of the city?”

  “Doug, why do you even ask me? You know damn well I have no idea.” I sat on the corner of the bed and smiled.

  “Look at this 1894 map showing water mains and pipes.” He pointed to the edge of the drawing. “That’s where we are now.”

  I leaned over his shoulder and noted that the streets continued to the north and east, but at that time, no residences or water service existed beyond the current site of the Continental Club.

  “This was the boondocks,” I concluded. It was hard to believe, given the volume of traffic on nearby Massachusetts Avenue today.

  “Pretty much. Isn’t history fascinating?”

  Doug returned to his book, and I let his comment slide. History in small doses was charming. I had a feeling the next couple of days might exceed my limits.

  After I freshened my makeup and checked office emails, it was time to head downstairs. According to the schedule, a bus would pick us up behind the building in the valet parking lot.

  “I hope this trip hasn’t been canceled,” Doug said.

  “Me, too.”

  Then we added, in unison, “We need to interview suspects.”

  I laughed. “You’re coming along nicely as a detective.”

  His face remained somber. “Not really. But I am concerned about my father.”

  I squeezed his hand. “We always figure it out, don’t we?”

  He squeezed back. “You’re right. I should have more faith.”

  Outside, a smaller coach bus awaited us. “Doesn’t the Mayflower Society need a bigger vehicle?”

  Professor Mansfield overheard my question. “We do, but most attendees decided to cut their trip short after what happened to Grayson.”

  “The police allowed people to leave?” I asked.

  “Apparently so. As long as they completed an interview with the detective and her team and provided them with local contact information. Not many wanted to stay in the mansion another night.”

  Had Detective Glass permitted others to leave the scene because she felt she already had the likely murderer in her sights? I climbed on board the bus. No sign of Doug’s parents.

  I whispered to Doug, “I hope your father didn’t get escorted downtown to police headquarters.”

  Doug pulled out his phone and unlocked it. “He didn’t call me.”

  We sat on the bus in silence for several minutes. Not everyone had decided to abandon ship. Beside Professor Mansfield, Frederick and Lola Valdez appeared, along with Cecilia Rose and Drake. The latter didn’t look too much the worse for the wear. Maybe early morning drinking was par for the course for them.

  I could tell Doug was growing more nervous as the departure time drew nigh and his parents hadn’t appeared. We both breathed a huge sigh of relief when we heard a booming voice say, “Don’t leave without us. We can’t miss Mount Vernon.” Doug’s father appeared, with Buffy in tow. They took the empty seats directly in front of us.

  Doug whispered, “I need to find out how the rest of the interrogation went.”

  Even though I’d surely regret it, I said, “Don’t let everyone else hear. Switch seats with your mother so you can talk quietly to him.”

  A moment later, Buffy Hollingsworth settled in next to me. Our meeting earlier this morning hadn’t ended on a friendly note. Since then, the police had focused even more attention on Winston. Certainly that would change Buffy’s perspective, right? Au contraire.

  The conversation during the entire fifteen-mile trip along the picturesque George Washington Memorial Parkway was peppered with wedding talk. Buffy had willfully chosen to forget my paucity of interest in the morning’s planning session. At least her main focus wasn’t on the Continental Club as the venue. Instead, she talked nonstop about color schemes, wedding favors, photographers, videographers, cake designers, rehearsals, custom cocktails, and the latest trends in bridal couture. I’d never been so happy to see the traffic circle outside the Mount Vernon entrance. Buffy didn’t seem to notice I’d said next to nothing
on the bus ride. During the tour, I would have to shake her. My sanity was at stake.

  On the long path leading toward Washington’s beloved mansion, I fell in step with Doug. “What did your father say about the police?”

  “Standard questions. They asked him over and over about his whereabouts last night. There’s not much to say. After dinner, he and my mother joined everyone in the bar for a cocktail. Then they headed upstairs to their room and remained there until morning.”

  “We can corroborate their story. We didn’t hear them leave their room last night,” I said.

  Doug pursed his lips. “I agree, but I don’t think it will matter. My parents’ room is in the corner of the hallway, immediately next to the stairwell. If my father had headed downstairs, he wouldn’t have passed in front of our room first.”

  I thought about Doug’s comment. “Unfortunately, their room would have been perfectly situated for the murderer.”

  “Even worse, my father requested that room. It’s his favorite at the Continental Club.”

  “Terrific. Detective Glass will claim that’s evidence of premeditation.” I sighed.

  We’d emerged from the sheltered walkway to the main lawn in front of the house. Doug’s work as a professor of American history meant we visited important historical sites on a regular basis. We’d been to Mount Vernon several times, both for fun and work-related events. The annual fall Virginia wine celebration was legendary, as well as the festive Fourth of July daytime fireworks display. The Mount Vernon grounds were vast and included farm demonstrations, gardens, slave quarters, and a museum. According to the Mayflower Society schedule, we’d focus on the mansion itself during our tour.

  Dressed in eighteenth-century garb, an older woman presented herself to our group. “My name is Sandra, and I’ll be your Mount Vernon guide. I understand this group knows a lot about American history already.” Sandra was beaming with enthusiasm.

  Lola Valdez spoke up. “We don’t need the basics. Give us the advanced version.”

  Her husband Frederick rolled his eyes and said, “Give the woman a chance, Lola. She’s trying to do her job.”