by Cathy Ace
I’d been out of the room at the time of the murder, so I hadn’t seen anything. My eidetic memory, which I’ve been able to rely upon when other murders have needed solving, wasn’t going to be of any use at all.
Happy birthday, Bud!
Curtain Up
I WATCHED THE EXPRESSIONS ON the faces around the room change as the Diva’s dramatic words sank in. I didn’t need to look at Bud to know what he was thinking. His thoughts likely mirrored my own.
One of the people in the room had killed Miss Shirley, but who, and why? And how had they managed to do it within such a small time frame, and with so many possible witnesses?
It was as though we were all seeing one another for the first time. A frozen tableau, waiting for a call to action. It came from an unexpected source.
Clemence Foy wiped his face with his giant handkerchief, looked toward Svetlana Kharlamova, and boomed, “You right, ma’am. Gotta be one of us.” As he held onto the table in front of him, he looked across it at the corpse, then at the rest of us. He took a deep breath. “Miss Shirley’s been my closest friend for over fifty years. She saved my life, and then she helped me build a new one. During all them years she never once complained about hard work, or having to make tough decisions. Some said she was hard-edged and to them I says, ‘Yeah, you right,’ but she done a lot of what she done to make life better for others, and herself, along the way. There ain’t no way anyone like her is gonna come into my life again. She’s gone. We can all see that. And she deserves to rest in peace. But as the good Lord is my witness, I call upon her soul to not be quiet until whoever done this terrible thing to her is brought to justice. And if that means that I have to meet ’em in hell ’cause of what I’m praying for right now, then so be it. Whichever one of you done this, you oughta know that the Lord can be mighty vengeful, as well as merciful. And there ain’t nothing about what you done that deserves His mercy.” His deep, gravelly voice cracked with passion.
Having summoned all his strength to speak, Clemence Foy faltered and began to sob once more. My heart went out to the man, and I found myself moving to comfort him. With what little strength he had left, he signaled me to leave him alone. He sat heavily in the seat he’d occupied through dinner, now facing his dead friend’s body. He was still the only person in the room so openly lamenting her loss.
Julie Pool hesitantly approached the sobbing figure. She used a soothing tone when she said softly, “Clemence, come along, try to calm yourself. Ian? Bring some water for Clemence, please? Thanks.”
As Ian leapt into action, Clemence looked up at Julie and said, “Water ain’t gonna solve nothing. An eye for an eye, Miss Pool. That’s it.”
Passing the water from Ian to the elderly man, whose hands were trembling with shock and anger, Julie said, “Come on now, Clemence, you don’t want to talk like that . . .”
“Why not, ma’am? Why not?” He banged the glass on the table and stared as the spilled water created widening patterns on the tablecloth, not making eye contact with anyone. “What have you all lost? A boss? A woman who gave you your first chance, your second, or maybe your last? A woman who took you under her wing and made things better for you when she could? That’s what she done for so many people. No, none of you is grievin’ for her; you all are worrying about yourselves. Like the Russian lady said, Miss Shirley’s killer has to be here, in this room. There ain’t nowhere else for them to be. They couldn’t have killed her till the lights went out, else we’d have seen them do it. After that, there weren’t nowhere for them to go.”
Jimmy Green, still hovering over the Diva Kharlamova, piped up, “Someone . . . someone might have hidden under the dessert table when it came up from the kitchens below. They could be there now, or hiding in the men’s room.”
All heads turned toward the dessert table in question. Crisp white linens hung to the floor around the entire circumference of the large circular table. I wasn’t the only one assessing the possibility of Jimmy’s suggestion. It certainly looked as though there might be enough space beneath the table for someone to hide. Over dinner, Tom had told us that Miss Shirley had been fascinated by a serving system that Catherine the Great had used at her Petit Hermitage private getaway in Saint Petersburg. The widowed Russian queen had installed a platform that ascended bearing tables ready for guests to eat from, without the need for waiters. After the meal, the tables descended beneath a sliding floor, which closed over the space, allowing for totally private meals followed by dancing in the instantly cleared room. Miss Shirley had adopted the same system for one portion of her dining room. The table now bearing the dessert could be raised from, and lowered to, the kitchens below, with a sliding section of floor accommodating its passage.
I thought through what Tom had said, and applied what I knew from my own, somewhat limited, experience of commercial kitchens. Then I asked him, “After the servers removed our dishes following the main course, and set them on that table for it to descend, they left in the elevator. I suspect that means they then somehow made their way to the table in the kitchen, cleared it, and set it with these desserts. Would that have allowed for the table itself to be unattended for very long? What’s the security like in the kitchens, Tom? I’m guessing it’s not as tight as it is here.”
Tom shook his head. “You’d be surprised. Access to the kitchen is very strictly controlled, not least because of all the expensive ingredients we use. Truffles, caviar, and the edible gold leaf they use to decorate some of the cakes and special treats are all small, costly items that would be easy to steal,” he replied. “Besides, everyone’s in pretty close quarters down there—they prepare and serve the food for the Romanoff Room, which is one floor below the kitchen, as well as this dining room, when it’s in use. Here, we use that serving table to bring food up from the kitchen below us. In the Romanoff Room the servers use a pair of short escalators to move between the two floors. It’s a great system—no jiggling the food around on the plate, which is perfect for fine dining. As a chef, I’ve been grateful for that investment on many occasions. We’d notice if a stranger came up into the kitchen that way, or if they used the service elevator we have there that allows for deliveries to be made and garbage to be cleared. We have a much lower turnover of personnel than many places, so everyone in the kitchen, and on the waitstaff, knows each other. I really don’t think that it would have been easy for an outsider to sneak unnoticed into the busy kitchen.”
Tom paused, and for a moment I thought he’d finished, but he added, almost as an afterthought, “By the way, the platform moves pretty slowly, so the servers would have arrived in the Romanoff Room via this elevator and had ample time to use the staff escalator to get back into the kitchen before the table came to rest there. So even if someone did get into the kitchen unobserved, they would have found it very difficult to get under the table, because it is always attended to.”
“Someone could have hidden in the kitchen for hours, then snuck under the table before it was even set for the first time,” pressed Jimmy. He seemed very keen on the idea of a hidden killer, which wasn’t surprising, given the only alternative theory.
Bud strode toward the dessert table. “I’ll check under the table, then in the men’s washroom.” He spoke calmly and moved with purpose.
It seemed as though everyone in the room breathed in simultaneously when Bud bent to pull up one edge of the tablecloth. Nothing but six wooden legs and two crosspieces met our anxious gazes. I heard a sigh as everyone exhaled. We all continued to watch as Bud walked toward the end of the bar near where the men’s room led off the dining room, its entrance discreetly hidden behind sleek, flame-patterned walnut panels.
“Bud—be careful!” I called. Everyone looked nervous, but no one stirred to join him. Moments dragged by, then he re-emerged shaking his head. “There’s backup lighting in there too, but the men’s room is empty. And, by the way, I checked the emergency exit in there. It’s definitely not opening.”
“I was using the hand
dryer, which is right inside the door of the ladies’ room, when the lights went out,” I added. “It was empty when I got there, and no one passed me.” As soon as Bud was within hand-holding distance I grabbed him and squeezed all the blood out of his fingers.
“Is no one else here. Is just us,” announced Svetlana Kharlamova, dropping her voice for effect.
So there we were. One dead body, twelve live ones. No one else to blame. Nowhere to go.
I knew that neither Bud nor I had killed Miss Shirley, but I had to consider everyone else a possible suspect, even Tom, so ten potential killers shared our space. I supposed that every innocent person in the room was making their own similar assessment.
I wondered what the killer was thinking. Unless Julie Pool was the murderer and had purposely messed up at the coded keypad for some reason, then whoever killed Miss Shirley must be surprised to now be trapped in the dining room with their dinner mates. Immediately my mind leapt to the question of what might have been their original plan. They must have known that the police would be called, none of us able to leave before being questioned and examined for forensic evidence. So how had they imagined they’d get away with it?
Before I had a chance to pursue that line of thought, Bud whispered, “I think I’d better step up to the plate. We’ve got a long night ahead of us, and someone has to take charge. I’m going to give the whole thing some structure. Command and control. Follow my lead?”
I nodded in agreement, and my wonderful Bud became more like his old self than I’d seen him since his wife’s tragic death almost seventeen months ago. It warmed my heart. This was the Bud I’d first known—professional, organized, respectful of the living and the dead, and, yes, in command. For most of the past year or so, he’d often been less than sure of himself, indecisive, almost vulnerable, and in need of support. I’d done all I could, and, of course, we’d had many happy times, but it’s tough to move on when everything around you reminds you of your dead soul mate. Here, in an isolated private dining room overlooking the Las Vegas Strip, Bud had nothing to remind him of Jan—just a desire to find justice, which I knew had always been his priority in life. I decided I’d do my best to take a backseat and let him “run the case” as he saw fit, as I’d always tried to do when he hired me as a consultant on police cases for which he was responsible. I wondered if I’d be able to manage it. I like to be in charge.
Baritone and Chorus
BUD CLEARED HIS THROAT AND in his most precise, professional tone said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we find ourselves in a sad and unenviable position. Miss Shirley has been murdered, and it is highly likely that the person responsible for her demise is here, in our midst.”
He paused for just a second at this point, and I did my best to observe and judge the expressions on the faces of those with whom I was about to share the next twelve hours. The eyes of every other person also swept the rest of the group.
Bud pressed on, his voice rich and authoritative. “I know that Ms. Julie Pool here is legal counsel for the Tsar! Organization, and that Mr. Art Sauber, one of the owners, is with us. Of course, I will defer to their presence, but you should all know that I have been in law enforcement for decades. Before I joined the Vancouver Police Department twenty years ago, I put in my time with the RCMP in possibly too many places with Prince or Creek in their name. So I have a broad and deep experience with all sorts of crime. Most recently I headed up the integrated homicide investigation force in British Columbia, before I retired last year. I don’t pretend that I can solve this particular crime before we are questioned by your local law enforcement professionals, but I can certainly do my best to ensure that no more laws are broken, and that no other lives are put at risk.”
Bud paused and looked across the room toward Julie Pool. “I’m corporate, not criminal,” she said gravely, “and I certainly don’t want anything else . . . like this . . .”—she nodded in the direction of the corpse—“to happen before we’re all able to get out of here. But you’re right, Mr. Anderson, I, too, will defer to Art’s decision as to how we proceed.”
All eyes turned toward Art Sauber. He seemed uncomfortable with being the center of attention. Everything about him exuded one thing—wealth. A good head of white hair for a man I judged to be in his seventies, a slight paunch disguised by an immaculately cut dark suit, a yellow-and-white-striped shirt with a white collar, and a matching yellow silk tie. He sipped the last dregs of brandy from the bowl he held with an ease bred of familiarity.
Carefully placing the empty crystal vessel on the bar, he cleared his throat and spoke, his midrange voice low, but engaging. “I am more than happy to allow someone of your experience in such matters guide us, Mr. Anderson. Though I’m not sure what that might mean under such circumstances. What do you suggest we do for the next twelve hours? How should we . . . er . . . handle ourselves and the . . . um . . . situation?” He looked suave, but concerned and confused.
Bud continued, “First of all, it’s Bud, please. Secondly, as I am sure you’ve all worked out, we are, every one of us, both witnesses and suspects in this case. It would be standard operating procedure for the police to question each of us alone, without our having had a chance to confer about what we saw, heard, or did. That means that we shouldn’t really talk about any facts pertaining to the specifics of the murder until they arrive.”
A throat being cleared dramatically attracted our attention. “I’m Carl Petrosian. My late father, also Miss Shirley’s late husband, originally owned the fifty-one percent of the casino she just inherited. Today marks the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. And now this . . .” He shook his head in what I read as disbelief, rather than sorrow. “I, for one, am quite happy to not talk about this . . . circumstance at all, until we’re let out of here. In fact, I’m not saying anything more without my lawyer present.” The man who had spoken was dressed in a light caramel suit, teamed with a cream-colored silk shirt and a gold tie that was secured with a huge, and I guessed, real, diamond tiepin. His tan was darker than his suit, and his hair was suspiciously brown, given that he looked to be around sixty years old. Unfortunately for him, his teeth matched his creamy shirt, which I noted was unusual for a wealthy American. His light tenor voice delivered his lines in a very matter-of-fact way. “I don’t think you should say anything either, Art. We’ve both probably got the most to gain from Miss Shirley’s death, so we’d best be on our guard.”
“Why?” asked Bud.
Carl Petrosian opened his mouth as if to answer, then half-smiled and said, “Oh, very clever, Mister Canadian Policeman, but you won’t catch me answering any questions like that.”
He settled into his chair, pulled a long, fat cigar from a gold tube that sat on the table beside him, then rooted around in his pockets, presumably looking for a cutter and a lighter.
As soon as she spied the cigar, Svetlana Kharlamova pushed herself to her feet, almost knocking her solicitous assistant from his own chair as she did so, and exclaimed, “You cannot do this! You cannot smoke here! My voice. What you are thinking? If there is fire, we cannot escape. Is very dangerous to me. To us all.” Her Russian accent somehow added gravitas to her words. I noticed that a look of alarm crept onto a few other faces.
Bud moved toward Carl Petrosian with deliberate steps. “Mr. Petrosian, I think that’s a valid point. Given that the emergency exit is locked, we really shouldn’t do anything that could either create a fire hazard or impact our air quality. Which raises a good question—does anyone know which systems will be working during our time here?”
“Now that’s a question I happen to be able to answer,” said Art Sauber. “You can set up an emergency generator to operate as much, or as little, as you want, so long as life and safety systems remain functional. I share Julie’s puzzlement and concern that, for some reason, it’s been impossible for both us and the central control room to release the emergency exit. That shouldn’t happen. However, unless something we also know nothing about has impacted the sy
stem’s management, we will have air moving, but not chilled; we’ll have these emergency lights, but none of the electrical outlets will work; and that’s about it. I’m afraid the air’s going to get very stale, very quickly.”
“Miss Shirley, soon she smell bad,” said Svetlana. Her nose wrinkled with disgust as she spoke.
“Don’t panic,” said Bud calmly. “Just so we all know, a body begins to decay as soon as death occurs, but the rate of decomposition will vary, depending upon many factors. Certainly the ambient temperature is one of those factors, and, yes, when the temperature increases after sunup in the morning, we will find ourselves not only getting warm in here but also, probably, noticing some unpleasant aromas. But on the brighter side, if there is one, when you’re in an enclosed space with an increasingly pungent atmosphere, you often don’t notice it as much as someone entering the room from the outside. We’ll ‘get used’ to it. That said, I do think it’s best if we have a no-smoking policy. For everyone’s sake.”
I didn’t know how many other people in the room were smokers, but I knew that I was desperate for a cigarette myself. Sadly, I had to agree with Bud. We couldn’t possibly start to smoke in the room. I silently congratulated myself for pushing a strip of nicotine gum into my evening purse before we’d left our room, and I began to watch for a suitable moment when I could pop one into my mouth. Having thought about it, the need for nicotine was foremost in my mind.
Carl Petrosian gave Bud a sneering grin. “I think you’ll find that this is now my private dining room, and I can do what I damn well please here.”
“What do you mean your private dining room?” asked Art Sauber. As he spoke, he raked his hand through his snowy hair. “What makes you think that Miss Shirley left you her interests in the Tsar!? She might have left it all to me, making me the outright owner.”
Carl shook his head and began, “Miss Shirley more or less told me it would be mine when she was gone . . .” He glanced at Bud and stopped speaking.