I shook my head. “I would have remembered something so distinctive.”
Celeste turned around and motioned for us to follow. “I’d like to show you a couple possibilities.”
We trotted behind her until we reached a large, brightly colored photograph of a small, yellow frog. This guy only vaguely resembled his more famous cousin Kermit, who resided at the neighboring American History Museum. His bulging black eyes stared ominously at us.
Celeste pointed to the pesky amphibian. “Meet Phyllobates terribilis. He’s more commonly known as the golden poison arrow frog.”
“You think he could be our culprit?” I asked.
She nodded. “Perhaps. Of course, he didn’t do it on his own. He had some help.”
Clearly intrigued, Doug approached the photograph for a closer look. “Tell us more.”
“They’re the most poisonous animals alive, much more so than snakes or spiders, even though they get all the attention. This frog contains enough poison to kill ten human beings.”
“It’s not easy being green. Or yellow,” I said.
Celeste chuckled. “I’ve heard that one before. The poison inside these frogs causes paralysis and cardiac arrest. It’s much more powerful than strychnine.” She added, “Death would be swift.”
“So you don’t think our victim might have been poisoned by strychnine?” Doug asked.
“I don’t mean to be impolite, but you’ve been reading too many Agatha Christie novels. It’s not readily available these days, and even if your killer got his or her hands on it, the victim would have experienced violent convulsions and seizures. It doesn’t fit your description of the crime scene.” Celeste indicated that we should follow her down the hallway to another part of the exhibit.
“She’s in the wrong profession,” I whispered to Doug. “The D.C. police should be calling her for a job interview.”
“No kidding,” he replied. “I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side.” He made a slicing motion across his neck.
“One wrong move and you’d find a lethal frog in your bed,” I said in a low voice.
Celeste waited for us next to an exhibit case with a clay pot inside it. “That doesn’t look too dangerous,” remarked Doug.
She wagged her finger. “You wouldn’t want to touch the contents. May I present the Amazonian poison known as curare?” We both looked at her with blank stares. She continued, “It’s an alkaline, like the poison from the dart frog. Not quite as powerful, but certainly lethal. It immobilizes its victims.” She said the last sentence with more enthusiasm than I was comfortable with.
“So victims die from asphyxiation?” I asked.
“Technically, paralysis. When the muscles used for breathing are immobilized, the victim suffocates,” said Celeste, matter-of-factly.
“Is it from an animal?” Doug inquired.
“No, it’s from two different woody plants. The vines are crushed and condensed into a resin. Curare loses its potency if it’s exposed to air, thus the need for pots to contain the poison.”
“It doesn’t sound like something that could be injected,” I said.
Celeste nodded. “Good point. It’s too thick for a syringe. Instead, South American hunters and warriors coated arrows with it to kill their prey.” She added ominously, “Whether human or some other unfortunate animal.”
“Why do you think curare might have been used in the murder we’re trying to solve?” I said.
“Two reasons. If administered directly into the bloodstream, curare works quickly. Death can occur in a matter of minutes,” explained Celeste. “Also, the description of the body sounded like paralysis to me. The first muscles immobilized are facial. Didn’t you say he almost appeared frozen?”
“Yes, like he was surprised,” I said.
“That’s because he was,” Celeste replied. “By the time he realized he’d been fatally poisoned, it was too late. His skeletal muscles were unresponsive.”
Doug studied a picture adjacent to the curare pot inside the display. It was an old photograph of an Ecuadorian native preparing curare-tipped darts next to a rustic fire. He turned to Celeste. “This is fascinating, but it seems like making curare might be a lost art. Are people still producing it today?”
“Absolutely,” answered Celeste, again with a degree of enthusiasm that made me queasy. “It was first discovered by the conquistadors in the 1500s. Curare was eventually adapted into an early form of anesthetic for medicinal purposes. But South American indigenous populations still use it for hunting wild game.”
“How can they eat the animals after the poison kills them?” I asked.
Celeste’s face became even more animated, if possible. “You’re really paying attention! That’s the cool thing about curare. It’s only dangerous in the bloodstream. There’s no problem if it’s swallowed.”
“If someone was injected with curare, it would be impossible for them to call for help,” I said, thinking aloud.
Celeste grew somber. “Death from curare is not pleasant. The victim would be awake, but unable to move or speak. He or she would be cognizant of the increasing paralysis. Eventually, they would suffocate.”
“These are pretty exotic poisons,” said Doug. “I understand the crime scene doesn’t support the use of strychnine. What about arsenic? Cyanide?”
“The victim’s time of death and his reaction to the poison don’t match. The lack of a bitter almond smell makes cyanide unlikely. Furthermore, cyanide is typically swallowed or inhaled, not injected,” she said.
“Doug, I think Celeste is the expert. She would have considered the more likely explanations first,” I said.
“Was I mansplaining again?” Doug asked sheepishly.
“Not exactly. But you came close,” I said.
“It won’t happen again.” Doug turned toward Celeste. “Thanks so much for your time.”
Celeste’s shoulders slumped. “Don’t you want to see the rest of the exhibit?”
Doug and I exchanged a brief glance. “Of course!” I said, drumming up my enthusiasm. “Would you mind showing it to us?”
“Absolutely! Follow me down the corridor.” She took off for the next display case. “Here are some of the most famous poison victims in history.” She regaled us with stories about Cleopatra, Napoleon, Socrates, Hitler, Alan Turing, and Viktor Yushchenko. Then we turned to poisons found in snails, spiders, scorpions, insects, and snakes. We finally found ourselves at the starting point of the exhibit.
I offered my hand. “Celeste, thank you again for your time. I’m not sure how we can repay you. Maybe you’d like a tour of Congress?”
To my surprise, a wide grin spread across her face. “I’d love it. It’s not that far away from this place, but I’ve never been inside the Capitol.”
“You got it.” We exchanged cards, and I promised to provide her with a first-rate tour during the next congressional recess.
We had begun to walk away when Doug turned around suddenly. “Celeste, I have one more question.”
“Sure,” she said, “fire away.” Although I noticed she sneaked a peek at her watch. We’d already monopolized the better part of an hour. Surely a Smithsonian curator had better things to do than play twenty questions with a modern-day Tommy and Tuppence.
“Where would one obtain these poisons?” he asked.
Celeste gave the matter some thought. “It’s hard to say,” she said, finally. “It’s not like you can go buy them at your local drugstore … or make them yourself. The various recipes for curare are passed down from generation to generation. And with the poison dart frog, let’s just say you don’t want to be an amateur handling one of those pesky little guys.”
“What region of the world are we talking about? You mentioned the Amazon,” I said.
“The golden poison dart frog lives on the coast in Colombia. Its habitat is shrinking, so they’re becoming increasingly rare. Less lethal species occupy a larger region.” She paused. “Curare can be made from a number of
plants that grow in Central and South America. The indigenous people who know how to make the poison from the native vines are found throughout the continent, particularly the Amazon basin.” She counted several countries off on her fingers. “I imagine you could find tribes making curare in Brazil, Peru, Ecuador, Bolivia, Venezuela, or Colombia.”
Doug nodded. “It would be hard to find, right?”
“Yes and no. I’ve never gone looking, actually.” Celeste laughed—a curious, whinnying sound. “It’s my experience that if you have a good guide and a lot of money, it’s not terribly difficult to get your hands on anything, even exotic substances.”
“Could it be transported easily?” I asked.
“It would require care and attention. Like I said before, the poison can’t be exposed to the air or it loses potency. By the way, some tribesmen mix the poison from the plants with venom from the dart frogs.”
“They don’t need doctorates in chemistry?” I asked, a little flippantly.
“They’re pretty advanced. Many of them have experimented with various ingredients over time. It depends on what they are planning to hunt.”
“Like a human,” Doug muttered.
She held up her hand. “That’s why I mentioned the mixture. For your victim to die so quickly, the poison would have to pack a powerful punch, no matter what it was. Your murderer wasn’t messing around.”
Doug and I stared at each other. The evidence was stacking up against the killer. But there was a big wrinkle. Our number one suspect had an airtight alibi for Grayson Bancroft’s murder.
Chapter Twenty
After thanking Celeste profusely for her assistance, Doug and I made our way through the crowd. The popular Hope Diamond, almost four hundred years old, was responsible for the tourist swarm on the second floor. The Washington Post reported that over seven million people viewed the blue gem each year at the Harry Winston Gallery, making it the most popular Smithsonian attraction in Washington.
We edged our way downstairs to the rotunda and found a seat on a bench at the periphery of the African elephant.
“Quite a morning,” I said.
Doug turned to face me. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I’m no mind-reader, but I’d guess we’re on the same page.”
“Let’s find out. On the count of three, we’ll both say the name of the person we think killed Grayson,” said Doug.
This whimsical suggestion was out of character for Doug, but I wasn’t going to complain. His voice sounded less worried, and his eyes were bright with hope. We’d finally had a break in the case. It wouldn’t be enough for a conviction, but it might cause Detective Glass to reconsider slapping the cuffs on Winston Hollingsworth.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll count. One, two, THREE!”
With the precise unison of a master a cappella duo, we both bellowed “Kiki Bancroft!” in loud voices. Several Smithsonian visitors glanced quizzically in our direction.
“Shhhh,” I cautioned, putting a finger to my mouth. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
“Most of these people have never heard of Kiki or Grayson Bancroft,” said Doug.
“I know, but this is still Washington D.C. You don’t know who could be standing right around the corner.”
“With these many tourists, I’m not sure you could overhear anything, even if you tried,” said Doug.
I took his hand and gave it a little shake. “We shouldn’t celebrate just yet. If Celeste is right and the killer used an exotic paralytic poison from South America, then Kiki looks good for it. She was on a long trip there, and with her considerable resources, she could easily have found someone to make a lethal concoction. But there’s a big problem with that theory. Kiki was at their house in Florida when Grayson died. Your mother told me.”
“Maybe she flew to Washington, killed Grayson, and then flew back. I’m sure she has access to a private jet. It’s not like she has to wait for the next American Airlines flight out of National Airport.”
“I agree, but there’s still an issue. Remember what Detective Glass told me yesterday about the murder weapon.”
Doug’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m not following your line of reasoning.”
“We were talking about the syringe, and she said the police had examined the security footage monitoring the doors and exits. No one entered or left the building at the time of Grayson’s murder.”
The corners of Doug’s mouth turned downward. “So Kiki couldn’t have arrived after everyone had gone to bed.”
“Unless the Continental Club has a secret entrance. It’s a little far-fetched, but everything about this murder has been off the wall, in my opinion.”
Doug rubbed his chin. “It’s possible. For all the famous and high-profile members, a secret entrance would be a valuable perk.”
“Let’s face it. If Kiki could get her hands on a poison made by South American natives, she could also figure out a way to get inside the Continental Club without being noticed.”
Doug laughed. “Good point. What should we do next?”
“I don’t have anything else to suggest. Do you?”
“Nope. The Smithsonian was all I had.”
I rubbed my hands together. “Well, it was a big deal. It might just be the break we needed to solve this case. I think we should head over to the Continental Club. Is the Mayflower Society going on any more field trips?”
“I don’t think so. But let me check.” Doug pulled up the schedule on his iPhone and scrolled with his finger until he found today’s events. “A series of historical lectures. Everyone should be there.”
“Let’s poke around for a way Kiki might have gotten inside the building unnoticed. If we find something, we can tell Detective Glass. Even if Kiki used a private plane, there should be a record of the flight. After all, she had to land somewhere near Washington.”
We left the building and walked into the bright sunshine. From the top of the museum’s outdoor steps, we could see clearly across Independence to the Sculpture Garden. That reminded me of something. When we were enjoying brunch at the pavilion, I’d wanted to raise the topic of our wedding. With the craziness of the past two days, the controversy over when, where, and how we’d get married had fallen by the wayside. Before we found ourselves consumed with sleuthing once again, I wanted to share an idea with Doug.
Doug stepped down toward the street, and I put my arm out to stop him. “Wait a second.”
“Shouldn’t we head to the club to find out if Kiki could have possibly killed her husband?” he asked.
“Before we go, what do you think of the Sculpture Garden? Do you like it?” Squinting in the sunlight, I shifted left and pointed across Ninth Street.
“Sure. I took you there for brunch this morning. Remember?”
I ignored his smart-alecky question. “I wonder if they allow weddings.”
Doug jerked his head back. In a playful voice, he asked, “Did you voluntarily mention our wedding?”
I punched him lightly on the arm. “It was never about avoidance. But I want our wedding to be on our terms, not someone else’s.”
Doug grabbed my hand and lightly touched my engagement ring. “Seems fair. And to answer your question, I do like the Sculpture Garden.” He kissed my cheek. “Very much, especially if you want to get married there.”
“Okay,” I said breathlessly. “I’ll check it out when I have some extra time.”
Doug laughed. “That’s like a chocoholic promising to forgo sampling Kisses during a tour of Hershey.”
I clenched my jaw. “That’s not fair. I can’t help it if I’m a busy person.”
Doug released my hand and put his arm around me. “I’m teasing you, Kit. We’ll figure it out. I’m not in a big rush. But we should find a place for our wedding that makes both of us happy.” He paused. “Our opinion is what matters.”
A huge wave of relief washed over me. We were finally on the same page. “Thank you for making that cle
ar,” I said.
“I should have done it earlier. But sometimes it can be difficult with my parents. They’re …” he searched for the right words, “forceful people.”
“That’s one way of putting it. I think your mother and I have reached a détente.”
“Equivalent to easing of Cold War tensions?” he teased.
I smirked. “Not in magnitude but maybe in complexity.”
“Buffy Hollingsworth isn’t easy to deal with. Believe me, I know from years of experience,” said Doug.
“She may not approve of the Sculpture Garden as our venue of choice.”
Doug’s arm tightened around me. He whispered, “She doesn’t have a presidential veto.”
I couldn’t help myself. “As a congressional staffer, I simply could not hear more magical words.”
We walked arm in arm to the car, then headed to the Continental Club.
During the fifteen-minute drive across town, we didn’t speak much. Alone with my thoughts, I considered the conversation with Doug. Perhaps the cloud of suspicion surrounding his father had given Doug new perspective. Or maybe Buffy’s aggressive overtures had pushed him over the edge. Quite frankly, the explanation didn’t matter that much. Doug and I would figure out wedding arrangements on our own terms. That realization was enough to make me giddy.
Unfortunately, there was no time to celebrate. We pulled into the Continental Club valet parking, tossed our key to the attendant, and strolled inside. Just as we cleared the covered entrance, we were bombarded by the annoying blare of sirens. The din grew louder, destroying the typical air of quiet splendor. The Continental Club neighborhood didn’t witness much police action. Something was amiss.
Heading toward the lobby, we rounded the corner and almost ran into Maggie Glass.
“Sorry, Detective,” I sputtered. “How’s the case coming along? Any leads?”
Her eyes appeared glazed over as she said, “Which one?”
“Grayson Bancroft, of course,” answered Doug.
She shook her head slowly. “He’s got company. We just found another victim.”
Doug and I both sucked in our breath. Had we heard from Winston and Buffy this morning? If Doug had communicated with them, he hadn’t mentioned it.
Calamity at the Continental Club Page 18