“Kellan, you look dashing,” Lara Bouvier noted as I stopped behind her in the short line. Lara was a local news reporter whom Maggie had invited to cover the event. I expected to see her boyfriend when the gentleman next to her turned around, but to my surprise, it was Finnigan Masters. I'd been close friends with his brother, a famous hockey player, and had run into Finnigan a few months earlier when he'd probated Gwendolyn Paddington's last will and testament.
Lara wore an ultra-classic, elegant brown skirt with a small slit up the side of one leg, a pink beret, and a cinnamon-colored top molded to her shapely figure. Finnigan's dark gray pinstripe suit, cotton-candy tie, and slicked back hair with accompanying chocolate-brown bolero hat reminded me of the famed 1930s killers, Bonnie and Clyde. “We're from different countries and time periods, but perhaps I ought to run you two criminals in,” I teased, wagging my finger in their direction.
Finnigan shook my hand and offered me a bubbly drink served in a rippled copper flute from the bar. “Champagne Moscow Mule. My second of the night, and we've only just begun.” After I sipped it, he said, “Maggie's done a wonderful job here. I'm sure the Board of Trustees will be impressed.”
“Absolutely, she worked day and night the last few weeks to accomplish this. By the looks of the official sign showing how much money she's raised, the cup will overfloweth quite soon!” I clinked his flute and turned toward the right. Upon seeing Maggie in the opposite corner, I excused myself and meandered in her direction. I had an energetic crowd to circumvent before I could reach her.
Bartleby Grosvalet, our current seventy-something recluse mayor whom everyone couldn't wait to see retire, spoke with Fern Terry. He wore a rotund black and white tuxedo which reminded me of Danny DeVito's Penguin character from the second Batman movie starring Michael Keaton. For me, Keaton would always be the original even though several actors had played the famed superhero many times before my life had begun.
As Fern turned, I saw a true heroine's costume—Marie Curie, the first woman to win a Nobel Prize and conduct pioneering research on radioactivity. I waved to her, noticing the uncomfortable smile as she tried to escape from the mayor's clutches. I shrugged my shoulders and whispered that I'd be there soon, so she knew I'd try to save her. Unfortunately, someone else tapped me on the shoulder. Fern would have to wait.
When I circled around, three faces came into view—Frankenstein's Monster, the Bride of Frankenstein, and what I assumed was Professor McGonagall from the amazing Harry Potter children's books. Hiding under a magical witch's hat and black turtleneck dress, complete with billowing robes and an emerald green cape, was the belle of the ball. Maggie's porcelain skin shined through the makeup she'd slathered on to age herself appropriately for the role. Quite the heroine! Just what would Connor be wearing? “Kellan Ayrwick, let me introduce you to Doug and Karen Stoddard, the owners of a new restaurant downtown by the Finnulia River waterfront and the Simply Stoddard event management company helping make tonight's gala such a splash.”
After we exchanged quick greetings, I learned they'd moved to Braxton several months earlier to launch their own business and an upscale American fine dining establishment. Doug had worked as a chef at several mid-level restaurants in the Midwest but had dreamed of owning his own place. Karen had a couple of jobs in her early career and had begun running events for corporations throughout the last decade. “Cheney is your son, if I understand correctly,” I noted, remembering what Helena had said about him the day before. I still hadn't found her at the event. Perhaps Maggie had mandated strict instructions for her sister to stay out of the limelight.
“Yes, have you met him?” Karen asked with an inquisitive expression. In her Bride of Frankenstein getup, it was difficult to picture what she normally looked like. An oval-shaped head, large forehead, and snub nose were evident but had been covered in excessive character makeup. She was a few inches shorter than me, had a slender body, and boasted extremely attractive legs. A tasteful, knee-length ivory dress and bouffant dark hair with a streak of white completed her outfit.
“I believe my sister is to blame for that. She talked Cheney up yesterday to Kellan,” Maggie explained, re-sorting the hat as it tipped forward too far. “Helena seems smitten with your son.”
Doug laughed. His face was painted a bright green, and the two fake bolts on the sides of his neck jiggled. “Cheney's mentioned Helena a few times. She was over for dinner last week. A lovely girl,” he added with a glance toward his wife.
Karen pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side. “Certainly, she's very pretty and… what's the word I'm looking for, dear… popular, yes? Cheney's diligently focused on his career right now. He's not looking to get involved with anyone seriously. I'm sure he's told her already.” There was an obnoxious pattern to her speech as if she thought she was better than everyone else.
Maggie nodded and scratched at the costume jewelry dangling off her forearm. She always fiddled with something when she was nervous or uncomfortable. Karen quelled any burgeoning love affair between her son and Helena. I wondered whether there was a larger story brewing. “Young kids, what can you do? As for this event, you've all done a spectacular job,” I chimed in, hoping to change the topic. Luckily, it worked.
“You should see our restaurant. We've only been open a few weeks, but it's getting super busy,” Doug said with an excess of pride in his voice as he reached for Karen's hand.
“That sounds like a good plan. I'll bring my daughter and grandmother with me. They're quite the food enthusiasts,” I replied, knowing Emma was getting more finicky by the day, and Nana D, well, she wasn't a fan of eating out all that much. She preferred more homey and comforting meals without too much grandeur.
Maggie raised her eyebrows before excusing herself to introduce the Stoddards to several other guests. I refilled my drink at the bar, devoured two of the fig and prosciutto appetizers, and glanced around the room. Marcus Stanton, Nana D's opponent in the mayoral race, spoke with a woman I recognized but couldn't remember why. I wiped my greasy fingers on a thin paper napkin, tossed it on a tray as a waiter scooted by me, then popped over to greet them.
“It's a pleasure to see you here, Councilman,” I said while extending my hand in his direction. By the looks of his near-orange skin pallor and the wispy blond hair half glued to and half flying about his scalp, I could only hazard one guess at his costume. “Using my powers of keen deduction, you're aspiring to be a certain outspoken leader of our fine country?”
He laughed loudly and patted his growing stomach. “Oh, Kellan, you are the clever one. I'm only staying within the guidelines for costumes. Heroes and Villains, right?” Which was he? I'm sure we'd know in time, at least once the country found its footing again. I had tried to avoid politics most of my life, but Nana D's mayoral hopes dictated otherwise.
The woman standing next to Marcus, a late-forties brunette with a heart-shaped face and a trim body, dressed as Clara Barton, the founder of the American Red Cross. She wore a checkered blue polyester dress with a white apron hung around her neck and cinched at her waist. Bright red crosses were patched on her arms and chest, and a standard white nurse's cap adorned her head. The woman looked entirely too familiar, but I was afraid of introducing myself if we'd already met and I'd forgotten her name.
Marcus, leaning in too close for the woman's comfort judging by the frown on her lips, solved that issue for me. “You must know Lissette Nutberry, I presume. Her family runs a few funeral homes and the local pharmacy down on Main Street,” he noted with a boisterous laugh.
Ah, yes! I'd not spoken to her in a long time, but she looked like her mother who'd played bridge with Nana D. I couldn't remember hearing much about Lissette recently other than she'd been covering at the family businesses for her sister, Judy, who'd left town a year or two earlier. “Yes, I know the Nutberry family quite well. I saw Tiffany last month. She helped track down my friend, Brad, who was interviewing at the hospital.”
Brad Shope had been the la
te Gwendolyn Paddington's nurse for a few months before she died of a cocaine-induced heart attack at a performance of King Lear earlier that year. We'd met for dinner and drinks a few times in the last month and were quickly building a friendship. I needed some guys to lean on since I'd returned to town and had few friends left in the area.
“Oh, yes, Tiffany is my niece. She's doing well at Braxton General, just got a promotion, I hear,” Lissette said as she stepped away from Marcus with a shiver.
“Where in Europe is Judy these days?” I asked.
“Oh, I wish I knew. I've been having some trouble tracking down the old girl lately. Judy wasn't feeling very well and had been confined to bed rest after an intensive attack of angina. She has a bad heart, you see, and often pushes herself to do too much at once,” Lissette melancholically whined as the words rolled off her tongue. Someone had a flair for the dramatic.
“Don't fret now, my little Lissy, I'm sure she'll return your call soon,” Marcus comforted and patted her back. Were those two dating or simply having a friendly conversation?
“If I don't hear from her by Tuesday, I'll take a trip to hunt her down. Deirdre offered to do some searching for me, so I didn't have to rush across the pond too hastily,” Lissette said, her mood suddenly brightening.
“You know my aunt, Deirdre Danby?” I asked, curious if they'd gone to school together. Aunt Deirdre was my mother's youngest sister and a well-known author who'd penned several historical fiction books and a couple of romance novels. Aunt Deirdre had lived in London for the last two decades and rarely returned home for anything other than funerals and weddings, of which we'd had none in the immediate family for several years.
“We were sorority sisters back in college. We chatted on the Facebook, and your aunt thinks my life story might be a plot for one of her new books,” Lissette laughed haughtily while a slightly amusing smile commandeered her face. Although she was thin and gaunt, her lips contained enough collagen for an entire tribe of real housewives. “Judy was in Deirdre's graduating class, so she offered to have her London detective inspector friend investigate my sister's recent silence. At least that's the story she's selling beneath those expensive bedsheets of hers, if you catch my drift.” She eyed me up and down, then moistened her lips. “We should have lunch, darling boy.”
Councilman Stanton said to Lisette, “Maybe Kellan could help you find Judy. From what I hear, he'd be the perfect man for this job!”
Time to pull the ripcord, baby. I needed to hatch an immediate escape plan. What was it about me attracting middle-aged women who thought I wanted to know everyone's personal details or become their boy wonder? Sure, I might've developed a minuscule reputation for investigating mysteries, but I didn't need to know what my aunt was doing in the bedroom nor entertain the notion of flirting with the crazy, rich women from her inner social circle. “I'm sure Aunt Deirdre will help you find Judy. If you run into any trouble, we can revisit the topic. Unfortunately, I need to find Dean Mulligan to discuss something about my classes. I saw him earlier talking with Dr. Singh from the science department, but they've disappeared. Have you seen either?”
Both shook their heads enabling me to wish them an enjoyable evening and make a speedy exit. I waited in line for several minutes before grabbing another drink at the bar, then listened to Maggie's speech about donations for Memorial Library's renovations. When it ended, I scanned the room to determine whom I hadn't yet spoken to. Dean Mulligan, wearing a Zeus costume consisting of a white tunic and multiple layers of ill-fitting robes and lighting bolt-shaped trails of garland, suddenly appeared in the far corner.
I stepped to the outer perimeter of the room hoping I could reach them quickly but was distracted when Anita Singh rushed by me in a tizzy. “Wait, I need to speak with you.”
Without stopping, she yelled back, “I'm sorry. I'll talk to you another time, I need to locate Maggie Roarke. I left my cell phone in my lab coat pocket, but someone seems to have picked up the wrong one. It's gone, and I have an urgent call soon.” She clutched a bunch of folders against her chest as she dashed through the crowd and away from me. For what was supposed to be a fun and exciting evening, she certainly seemed distracted and busier than necessary. Her costume choice was also poorly planned and executed. Although she'd attempted an Albert Einstein persona, all she'd done was add a bushy mustache and teased her naturally white hair, so it looked like she'd been shocked by electricity.
I made a one-eighty-degree turn to determine where she'd been running off to and stopped dead in my tracks when someone more familiar walked toward the east set of double doors to access the private employee spaces. Just beyond them was a narrow hallway leading to a few offices, a pair of restrooms, and a courtyard between the two wings of the library. It was usually off-limits to patrons and only left unlocked for employees during business hours. Was that Francesca or a lookalike? I thought I'd seen her holding a feathered mask in front of her eyes, but I hadn't gotten an unobstructed view. Since I suddenly had an urge to use the restroom from drinking all the Champagne Moscow Mules, I decided to investigate what was happening on the other side of the wall.
I dashed through the center of the room unable to chat with my cousin, Dr. Alex Betscha, who looked dapper in his Superman costume. I wasn't sure if he'd brought a Lois Lane, but his dancing partner was quite attractive in a white nurse's outfit with a patch over one eye. I mumbled an apology and gave them two thumbs up to their costumes.
By the time I reached the double doors close to ten minutes later—the dance crowd wouldn't stop to let me through—I felt a hand grab my wrist and quickly yank me to the side behind one of the flowing silk drapes. I stared at Frida Kahlo, the famed Mexican artist my grandmother loved to celebrate. It took me a minute to separate what her costume was—a bright magenta floral skirt, a royal-blue traditional Tehuana-style embroidered blouse and silver shawl, and a headpiece with dozens of colorful flowers—and the woman I'd come to know the last few months.
“Kellan, I think the stalker is here. Look,” Ursula demanded while passing me a handwritten note on a cocktail napkin. “I put down my drink for five seconds to fix the strap on my shoe. When I went to get it, I saw this message.” Ursula's tribute to the Mexican culture offered the opposite of her normal Scandinavian genetics—long flowing blonde hair, almond-shaped green eyes, and shy composure. Today, her eclectic jewelry and colorful ensemble echoed a more cultural and rich divinity.
I glanced away from the doors feeling torn between tracking down Francesca and protecting Ursula. “But I need to…” I growled until a prevailing temptation to read the note won out.
You loved riddles as a child, Sofia. Here's one for you… What's tall and clever, wearing a white costume, and planning to capture you when the clock strikes nine? I'll make it easy for you. It's me, and if you have any sense left at all, you will keep this to yourself. I've got a deal to make with you. Look for me in the donations line. – A Blast from the Past
I pulled out my cell phone and glanced at the time. It was eight fifty. We had ten minutes before Ursula finally figured out who'd been harassing her for weeks. “Okay, whoever this is wouldn't show up in the corner by the donations table until exactly nine. They'll be watching you to verify it's not a trap. Let me wander around to inventory anyone in a white costume.”
“Thanks, Kellan. They used my real identity. No one knows my name is Sofia. I'm not normally frightened so easily, but this is getting out of control. I'll meet you back here in five minutes,” Ursula whispered. As she left, I saw a spot of red on her shawl. I'd have to remind her about it later, she hated any sense of imperfection. I assumed that was why Myriam loved the woman.
I watched her walk past the first bar and wondered how she'd kept the secret from her wife this whole time. From what Ursula had told me, Myriam would be dressed as Eleanor Roosevelt. While I was certain Frida Kahlo and Eleanor Roosevelt had never met, could my two bosses be hinting at a secret affair with their costumes? Doubtful, but intriguing. I f
ound it ironic that I adored the former U.S. president's wife, but I couldn't stand our college president's. Luckily, I hadn't yet seen Myriam, but I knew my other boss hid somewhere in the room planning her next sneak attack on me.
I strolled casually along the far wall looking for anyone in a white costume. I saw a couple of additional people who fit the bill, but they all seemed deep in conversation with someone else and unconcerned about Ursula's presence. Only a few minutes left to check if it'd been Francesca sneaking through the double doors moments ago. I gently turned the handle, pushed open the left door, and backed through the narrow space. The restroom would have to wait.
When I turned around and got my bearings straight, I activated the flashlight on my phone. On the left were the offices and restrooms. On the right, about twenty feet away, was a large glass door leading into the courtyard. It looked like someone was standing in the outdoor space, but I couldn't be sure if the shadow I'd seen from my angle was a person or a garden statue. I quietly snuck down the hallway past all the closed doors and reached for the courtyard's door handle assuming it wouldn't be open. The courtyard was for employees only, and Maggie didn't want patrons lurking in restricted areas.
Flower Power Trip Page 4