Murder à la Mode

by G. A. McKevett

  Ryan gave him the deadpan look. “Sure, right behind you. It’s not exactly hard to keep up.”

  John poured himself a cup of tea and chuckled. “As a matter of fact, old chap, we’re frequently several paces ahead of you.”

  “Laugh all you want, but there’s something up with that broad. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s never made a single move on me.”

  “Oh yeah, Dirk, that’s got to be it,” Tammy replied. “Dr. Liu’s a lesbian. After all, what’s not to like about you?”

  “My point exactly.” He grabbed a handful of cookies—five, to be exact—Savannah was counting.

  “So, what did she say?” Savannah asked Tammy. “Was she finished with the autopsy yet?”

  “She wasn’t done, but by the time I left, she was well on her way. Tess died as a result of a blow to the back of the head.”

  “We already knew that,” Dirk said, munching happily.

  Tammy bristled. One of her least favorite things in the world was having Dirk burst one of her bubbles. Unfortunately it was one of his favorite pastimes. “Well, Mr. Smarty Pants,” she said, “I’ll bet you didn’t know she was hit twice, not just the blow to the head but a second one across her back.”

  Dirk took a slurp of Savannah’s tea. “Yeah, we knew that, too.”

  Savannah slapped his hand away. “Could you show a little maturity? We’re all adults here. Give your fellow investigator the respect she’s due and keep your icky, stinky boy germs to yourself.” She turned back to Tammy. “What else?”

  Tammy gave her a big, knowing smile. “The weapon left a distinctive mark on the body, one that might help us identify it.”

  Everyone at the table perked up instantly, and Dirk nearly choked on his cookie.

  “That’s great!” Savannah said. “What sort of mark?”

  Tammy reached under the table and hauled out her briefcase. “Well, it just so happens….” She pulled out her notebook computer and set it on the tabletop. “I took a couple of pictures of the wound with that new digital camera you guys gave me for Christmas and downloaded them onto here.”

  They waited in suspense as she loaded the program and the photos. “Of course,” she said, “these are unofficial photos, and Dr. Liu will disavow having given me permission to take them if—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dirk interjected, “and the file will self-destruct in five seconds.” He hummed a couple of bars of the Mission Impossible theme.

  “What?” Tammy said.

  “Nothing,” Savannah replied, leaning over, trying to see the computer screen. “He’s just showing his age. Ignore him and keep…doing whatever you’re doing there. I’ve got to see this.”

  Ryan and John peered over Tammy’s other shoulder, as curious as Savannah and Dirk. “I have a feeling,” Ryan said, “that our killer regrets having struck that second blow.”

  John nodded. “It does cast doubt on the accidental death scene they attempted to stage with the fallen ice cream.”

  “And,” Tammy added, “if they hadn’t lost their temper, or whatever, and hit her the second time, we wouldn’t have this detail of the weapon. The blow to the head caused the skin to split apart, and Dr. Liu probably wouldn’t have noticed the subtle pattern on that wound.”

  She made a couple of adjustments, then scooted back from the computer, allowing them all a closer view. “There you go. Take a look at that.”

  Savannah leaned forward and squinted at the screen, cursing her own vanity that she wouldn’t admit she needed reading glasses.

  The photo was of Tess’s bare back and a dark bruise that ran from one side to the other at a slight angle.

  Tammy reached for the computer, gave the keyboard a few clicks, and a second, closer shot appeared.

  “What would you guess,” Savannah said, “about an inch wide?”

  “About that,” Dirk replied. “And all the way across her back. A long weapon.”

  “Like a pipe or rod,” Ryan said.

  Tammy brought up the next shot which was closer still. For the first time they could see the fine detail that made the bruise so distinctive.

  “There,” she said, pointing to the screen, “look at that.”

  At even spaces along the long, dark bruise were thin, diagonal lines that were even blacker, crossing over the original wound.

  “What would cause something like that?” Savannah asked, thinking out loud. “It looks like the weapon had some sort of decoration or…”

  “Something wrapped around it,” Ryan suggested, “candy cane-style.”

  “Something that protruded a bit,” John added, “and cut deeper into the flesh than the rod itself.”

  Dirk shook his head. “So, that’s what we’re looking for? A bloody candy cane?”

  “Hey, don’t knock it,” Savannah said. “It’s more plausible than Killer Fudge ice cream run amuck.”

  She laid a hand on Tammy’s shoulder. “Good work, darlin’. You’re already earning your keep. Now, where are those maple bars?”

  “As you ladies know, one of you will be going home tomorrow morning.” Mary stood at the head of the table in the dining hall, dressed in a serving wench’s costume. And on her thin body the outfit looked like an empty laundry bag on a coat hanger.

  Some women were meant to wear medieval garb, Savannah decided as she sat in her assigned seat at the table and watched the proceedings. And some weren’t. Poor Mary would have looked better in a suit of armor.

  And Mary seemed terribly ill at ease before the camera. In Tess’s absence, she had been pressed into service as the hostess who explained the game rules to the contestants. But in spite of Kit’s makeup skills, the heavy wig of dirty blond curls, and the low-cut bodice, Mary Branigan looked more like a teenage boy in drag than a medieval beauty.

  Savannah had to admit that she might have considered Mary a bit more attractive if she were only delivering better news. The idea of somebody getting eliminated from the game that night was a depressing prospect. Not that Savannah wouldn’t be tickled pink to be rid of Roxy or Carisa, but the idea of going home with her tail tucked between her legs was enough to take the buzz off her maple-bar sugar high.

  Looking around the table at the other contestants, she could see they were as thrilled about the prospect as she was.

  “Tonight, after the banquet, Lance will make his decision, and tomorrow morning, you’ll be informed of his decision,” Mary was saying, as Alex prompted her, from his position behind the cameraman. “But before that fateful moment tomorrow morning, you will dine on yet another traditional medieval feast, entertained by jesters and court musicians as lords and ladies were in days of yore.”

  Fateful moment? Days of yore? Savannah stifled a giggle. Whoever wrote this fateful script ought to be drawn and quartered.

  From the self-satisfied smile on Alex’s face, she had the feeling that he was responsible.

  Personally, she didn’t see any Broadway lights or Tony Awards in his future.

  “In a moment, we’ll bring out the ‘Man of Your Dreams,’” Mary was saying. “Keeping in mind that this may be your last evening with him, I suggest that you make the most of every moment you have. And may the best ladies still be with us when the light dawns tomorrow morn.”

  Gag or giggle, Savannah thought, tough choice. And she was pretty sure that doing either would break Alex’s rules. He had laid down the law before the camera started to roll that they should stay “in character.” They had been told to refrain from talking about their cell phones, their favorite episode of The Sopranos, or their latest bikini waxing because, as Alex had so delicately put it, “Yapping about all that modern shit ruins the classy, dignified mood we’re trying to create here.”

  “And now ladies,” Mary continued, “I present to you, his lordship, the Man of Your Dreams, Lance Roman.”

  Savannah felt her pulse rate quicken and her cheeks flush when the door to the outside gardens opened and Lance walked into the room.

  Tarnation, but tha
t man is hot, she thought as he came toward them, walking with the grace of a danseur or matador. Tonight his costume was black with silver studding, his doublet leather and his boots up to his well-defined thighs.

  She felt herself sigh all the way to her toes.

  As the girls around her chattered to each other and words like “hunk” and “gorgeous tonight” floated in the air around her, she ignored them and watched him closely. As he approached the table his eyes quickly scanned the group, then came to rest on her. He smiled at her. It was the briefest of smiles, so small that she didn’t think anyone else even noticed. But she had noticed…and she knew.

  He likes me. He does! He really does like me! The voice in her head sounded a lot like a thirteen-year-old who was amazed that the most popular boy in school had asked her to be his girl.

  Her heart pounded as the reality of the situation hit her. This gorgeous, sexual mountain of manhood was genuinely interested in her as a woman! Whether the contest was cheesy, the script abominable, the production values in the toilet, it didn’t really matter. She had a chance for a real romance here if she wanted it.

  She could see it all, her future spread before her. Herself an old woman—old, but still stunning, of course—rocking in her chair before a fireplace. Beside her, Lance in his matching rocker—old, but still stunning, of course—their grandchildren playing at their feet. The little boys with dark hair and square chins like Gramp’s. The little girls with blue eyes and dimples like Granny’s and—

  “Boy, we had a hot afternoon, didn’t we, Lance?”

  Carisa’s voice cut through her cozy little fantasy like one of the swords on the wall, and Savannah felt an overpowering urge to grab an enormous candy cane, if she could find one, and beat the dickens out of her with it.

  What did she mean “hot” afternoon?

  Hot, my hind end. She’d damned well better be talking about the weather, Savannah thought as she watched Carisa jump up from her chair and scurry over to Lance. She grabbed his arm and led him to his chair at the head of the table, where she settled next to him, holding tightly to his hand.

  One look around the table told Savannah that she wasn’t the only one who was harboring homicidal thoughts toward Carisa. Roxy looked like she could start spitting nails at any moment, Leila’s nostrils were flaring as though she had just smelled a decomposing skunk, and even the gentle, ladylike Brandy was wearing an expression usually reserved for gunfighters who were about to blow a hole in an opponent’s forehead in the middle of Main Street at high noon.

  Lance was the only one who was hard to read. After that first, quick, friendly glance her way and their brief connection, he had donned a pleasant, but neutral, expression that said nothing about what was going on behind it.

  “It was hot, wasn’t it!” Carisa repeated, squeezing his hand. “We had such a go-o-od time all alone in that boat.” She glanced around the table at the other girls to make sure they were listening.

  They were.

  So were Alex, Mary, Kit, the cameraman and the sound guy.

  Yes, this conversation was far more interesting than any horror story about a bikini waxing gone bad.

  And in the far corner of the dining hall, Savannah saw two other people standing in the shadows who hadn’t been there a few moments before. The light was dim in that end of the room, but Savannah knew their silhouettes all too well. Dirk and Tammy had come to watch the taping.

  Having Tammy watch was fine with Savannah. But she wished Dirk would take a hike. Didn’t he have something better to do…like investigate a murder?

  Carisa grabbed Lance’s hand and squeezed it, prompting a response. “Wasn’t it? Didn’t we have a great time?”

  “Yes, our afternoon was lovely,” he said without enthusiasm. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, the pleasure was mine,” Carisa cooed. “At least, half of it,” she added with as much suggestibility as she could pack into five words.

  Lance made a small movement with his arm as though trying to extract himself from Carisa’s death grip. But she held fast.

  Savannah noticed, but when she glanced around the table to see if the others had, she decided they were too busy casting death looks at Carisa to even see Lance.

  Alex waved an arm, catching Mary’s attention. She nodded and announced in a loud but shaky voice, “Ladies and gentleman, let the banqueting begin.”

  An hour later, the so-called banquet had begun. A couple of jugglers were performing, tossing lit torches back and forth to each other, playing more for the camera than for those at the table. A pair of minstrel types played a lute and a flute, performing graceful tunes that sounded more authentically medieval than anything else at Blackmoor Castle.

  But just as at the “meal” the night before, precious little eating had been done.

  The plastic pig with the apple in its mouth had been recycled. Savannah could swear that he actually looked dusty and bored tonight. How very appealing, she thought. Good thing I loaded up on maple bars and chocolate cookies this afternoon while I had the chance.

  And with Carisa continuing to brag about her romantic afternoon on the moat with Lance, Savannah didn’t have much of an appetite anyway. She had already decided that if Carisa used the word “hot” once more to describe their time together, the woman would be taking the pig’s place, stretched out on the table with the apple shoved in her mouth. If she was lucky, it would be in her mouth.

  Brandy leaned closer to Savannah and said, “Do you really think they got it on the way she’s saying?”

  “I doubt it,” Savannah replied. “My Granny Reid always said, ‘Them that’s got the least, brags the most.’ She’s probably just blowing wind up our sails…or trying to.”

  “I can’t stand her,” Brandy confided in the same tone one would use to confess a deadly sin. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t like her one little bit. How about you?”

  “I took her out of my will a long time ago, and if she keeps it up, she’s getting scratched off my Christmas list, too.”

  From the other side of the table, it sounded like a battle was heating up between Leila and Carisa. “I think you should just shut up for a while, Carisa,” Leila was saying. “We’ve all heard just about enough out of you.” She turned to Lance and said in a whiny, tattletale voice, “Lance, can you make her be quiet for a while and let the rest of us have a chance to talk? She’s hogging the show.”

  Alex raised his hand as though to halt the proceedings, but seemed to think better of it and allowed it to continue. On either side of him, Kit and Mary looked totally disgusted with the whole affair. The far corner of the room was empty; Dirk and Tammy had left long ago. And Savannah couldn’t blame them. If she could have slunk away without being noticed she would have.

  But only if she could have snuck off with Lance.

  He seemed even more ill at ease than the girls as he held up one hand in referee fashion. “Ladies, ladies, please, I don’t think we should—”

  “But we’re just sick of her and her bragging,” Leila continued, her pretty face screwed into an ugly pout. “Ever since she won that stupid bird contest, we haven’t heard the end of it. And she’s got a lot of nerve boasting about anything when we all know she cheated to win!”

  Carisa jumped up from her seat. “Cheated? I did not cheat! That bird came straight to me! How could I possibly control that?”

  “Steak!” Leila shouted. “You sneaked a piece of raw steak into your glove. That’s why the falcon came to you!”

  Instead of denying it, Carisa smiled coyly. “So? That isn’t cheating. That’s just being smart. You would have done it, too…if you’d thought of it.”

  “She’s got you there,” Savannah added, chuckling.

  “Oh, shut up, Savannah.” Leila’s face flushed as her anger built. “And that’s not all. I overheard something the first hour we were here. Carisa, I heard you talking secretly to Tess. I heard you offer her money to fix the contest so that you could win.”

  “Cut
! Cut!” Alex started waving his arms wildly. “You can’t say that kind of thing on camera!”

  “But it’s true,” Leila insisted. “Carisa did that. I heard every word of it.”

  “Where were you?” Carisa asked, not bothering to deny it.

  “Under the main staircase, sitting in that little alcove. I heard it all.”

  Alex walked over to Carisa. “Is that true? Did you ask my wife to throw this contest in your favor?”

  Carisa flipped her long hair behind her. “Yeah, okay, I did. But she wouldn’t do it. In fact she was really nasty to me about it, said that if she fixed the contest at all, she’d fix it so that I wouldn’t win. And I—”

  She snapped her mouth closed, as though sensing she had said too much. A heavy silence fell on the room.

  “That’s true. I heard Tess say that,” Leila said smoothly. “I also heard Tess use a particularly nasty racial slur when she referred to you. And you told her that nobody called you that without paying for it.” Leila looked across the table at Savannah. “And a few hours later, Tess was dead. Kind of suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

  Savannah studied Leila for several long moments before answering. “Did you happen to mention this to Detective Coulter when he questioned you?”

  Leila shrugged and glanced away. “Well, I didn’t think it was all that suspicious until now.”

  “Now that she’s irritating you by bragging about her afternoon with Lance,” Savannah added.

  “All right, enough of this,” Alex said. “If you two want to fight about the contest, that’s one thing. But you’re not going to drag my dead wife into it.”

  Lance stood, placed one hand on each woman’s shoulder and gently pressed them back down into their seats. “Let’s get on with the taping,” he said. “Or we’ll be here all night.”

  Turning to Alex and the crew, he said, “I feel like dancing with a lovely lady. How about some music?”

  Reluctantly, Alex turned to the musicians and nodded. They began a particularly lovely version of “Greensleeves.” Leonard lifted his camera into position, and Pete swung the microphone boom over Lance’s head.