by Cathy Ace
I nodded. “I know all that, but that’s not what I mean. Look at the room, Bud. Look at the two tables back in their original places . . . now look at the position of Miss Shirley’s body.”
Bud looked. He shook his head. “Okay, I’m not seeing what you’re seeing, which is annoying, so just tell me.”
“Miss Shirley’s body, and therefore her chair, are beyond the partitions by a good foot. She’s positioned much closer in to the center of the room than anyone else’s seat. Why was her chair so far from her table, or why was her table so far out of alignment with the others?”
Bud looked again. “Yes, I see what you mean. Jimmy’s sitting at the middle table, his chair is pushed back so he can stretch his legs, but he’s still not poking out beyond the edges of the partitions. Either Miss Shirley was sitting two feet away from her table, or the table was two feet farther toward the middle of the room than the other two tables. But why?”
“Exactly. Before it all happened, just before I left for the washroom, I saw Ian hold Miss Shirley’s chair for her to sit, after all the toasts and the singing of ‘Happy Birthday.’ Just give me a moment . . . let me do my thing—I’ll narrate.”
Bud glanced around. “Okay, no one’s looking. You go ahead.”
I closed my eyes to the point where everything goes fuzzy and hummed to myself, which is, for some reason, what I need to do to be able to recall past events. I conjured up the moment I wanted, and I was off . . .
“I am standing beside our table, between it and the bar, looking down toward you, Bud. I look up and can see across the room to where Miss Shirley is being helped with her chair by Ian. He moves back from her chair. Miss Shirley’s chair is drawn up to her table. The table is not out of line with the others; it’s in exactly the same relative position. She’s looking up at Ian, turning her body to face him, toward me. She’s smiling. She’s thanking him. She’s seated within the partitions, not poking out into the room like she is now. She has her large red purse on the table to her left. Ian leaves her and walks toward the dessert table, toward me. Miss Shirley is opening her purse and moving it to her lap. I am tucking my seat out of the way at our table, and now I am looking down, placing my napkin beside my cutlery. Tom and Tanya are still seated. Tanya is . . . nervous, squirmy. Tom is holding her hand, stroking it. She picks up her water and drinks. I am turning toward the ladies’ washroom. I have my purse in my hand. I step out ahead of Ian. He smells of . . . alcohol. I can see that the sleeve of his red satin Cossack shirt is stained with something dark. It’s wet. I think it’s champagne. He spilled some when he was opening the bottles. Now I walk silently across the thick carpet, I can feel its pile yield beneath my tread. I round the privacy screen, and I enter the washroom. The door swooshes as it closes.”
I opened my eyes. “It’s not much, but at least I can say with certainty that Miss Shirley’s table wasn’t out of line with the others. So, in order for her seat to be where it is now, she must have moved her chair away from the table by a couple of feet. Did you see anyone help her do that?”
Bud shook his head. “I didn’t see anything, Cait. I was in my own little world. Pretty useless observer, for a cop. But I wasn’t being a cop at that precise moment. I was enjoying a wonderful dinner with you, and looking forward to the moment you returned from the bathroom.”
I smiled. “Miss me that much?”
Bud patted my good hand. “Yes, but that’s not why I was looking forward to your return. I had a special reason. But that’s irrelevant now. Now we have to do this, and do it well. Are you up to it, Professor Morgan?” As he spoke, an expression clouded his face that I found impossible to read. It was complex. I decided to let it pass, because I knew I had some serious work to do.
“I certainly am, Officer. Everyone seems to be in place. I’ll try to find out what I can about Miss Shirley shuffling her chair around, and dig up some more clues about possible motives for murder and theft. They might be linked, they might not. Hopefully, we’ll find out.”
I turned my attention to our fellow guests. “Everyone in place?” There were nods all round. “Okay then, let’s begin . . .”
Da Capo
JULIE WAS THE FIRST TO speak. “Jack and I were standing right here, from several minutes before the security system kicked in until the lights finally came up. I know we were this close to the glass wall, and standing right in this spot, because this is pretty much the only place where you can see all the way to the beam shining from the point of the Luxor pyramid. I recall that I was talking to Jack about how incredible it is that it can be seen from the space station. So I was here, facing this way, and Jack was just to the side of me, where he is now. After Miss Shirley signed what should have been the first document of several, she asked me to give her a few moments to attend to the others, and to leave the folder containing the other documents. I left her to it and moved away to join Jack, who was already standing here. Right, dear?”
Jack Bullock looked unsteady on his feet as he replied weakly, “Yes, yes, that’s right. I’d been sitting next to Miss Shirley, so I got up and walked over here, out of the way, when Julie brought the papers. Julie wanted to sit beside her. Clemence remained seated, opposite Miss Shirley, with his back to us as we are now. Right, Clemence?”
Clemence nodded. “Yessir. I only get up when I really needs to, these days. I weren’t in the way of nothin’ nor no one, so I stayed put.”
“Were you looking at Miss Shirley when she signed the papers, or were you looking around the room?” I asked.
Clemence considered his reply. “I weren’t looking about. Don’t believe she had my full attention, though. No one was payin’ me no mind. Dinner was rich. I was thinking ’bout what I’d eaten. Might have closed my eyes for a moment. I do sometimes. They needs a rest now and then.”
I wondered if Clemence might have nodded off for a moment or two.
“So, Julie and Jack were there at the glass wall, and Clemence was there at the table. Does anyone remember anything that might suggest that what I’ve just said is incorrect?” It seemed the most polite way to ask if anyone thought that Julie, Jack, or Clemence were lying.
Everyone shook their heads. That was that.
Before I had a chance to turn my attention to anyone else, Jack said, “If it’s okay with everyone, I wouldn’t mind taking a seat now.”
“What’s wrong, Jack?” Julie sounded anxious. She peered at her husband, her face showing her concern very clearly. “Tell me, what’s wrong? You don’t look good. You’re sweating even more now. Come on—sit down and have some water.”
There was no question that the room was much warmer now than it had been when we’d arrived at 9:00 pm. Many long hours had passed since then, most of them without the benefit of air-conditioning. But Jack Bullock was sweating more than anyone else. That was clear.
“Some water would be good,” he said. Jack stumbled as he tried to sit. Bud rushed to his aid.
Once he’d helped the swaying man to a chair, Bud held his hand in front of Jack’s face. “Follow my finger with your eyes.”
Jack did his best to do as Bud had asked.
“Are you feeling nauseous?” asked Bud. Jack half-nodded. “Tired? Listless?”
“I’m exhausted,” replied Jack, gladly accepting a tumbler of water from Julie. He smiled weakly at his wife. “I’ll be alright, dear, don’t worry.”
“You might have suffered a concussion when you hit your head,” said Bud, concern lacing his tone. “Look into my eyes a moment,” he added. “How does your vision seem to you? Can you focus as you can usually?”
“I guess my vision’s a bit fuzzy,” replied Jack.
“Headache?”
“Pounding.”
Bud looked even more concerned. “Look, given our circumstances, there’s not much we can do, except keep you quiet and hydrated. You should get yourself checked out as soon as we’re out of here. You can’t mess around with a concussion . . .”
“What if it’s mo
re serious? People die all the time after hitting their heads,” said Tanya as she and Tom left their places at the bar and joined us at the other side of the room.
“Tanya, don’t say that!” remonstrated Tom.
Jack returned the glass of water to his wife and said weakly, “Don’t panic, Julie. I love you very much, but you do fuss sometimes. I’m fine. Just need to sleep . . .” Jack would have fallen off his seat if Bud hadn’t caught him. He helped the incapacitated man reach the floor without hitting his head again.
Bud arranged him on his side, in the recovery position, and told everyone to stand back. “I need something to make him a little more comfortable. Bring me some wet cloths, and you might as well bring some sort of receptacle, in case he vomits.” I noticed that Carl and Art were the first to move—they threw dreadful glances at each other, obviously mindful that it was their fracas that had caused Jack to hit his head in the first place.
Everyone had crowded toward Jack, despite Bud’s instructions to do the exact opposite. Julie Pool was dissolving with panic. The restrained professional woman had completely disappeared, to be replaced by a sobbing wife, terrified that her husband was in a critical condition.
“Help him! Please help him! Can’t you do anything? Look, he’s unconscious—completely out of it. That can’t be good. To bang your head and lose consciousness—it must be bad. Oh, please, do something!”
She was closest to Bud, but her pleas were directed at everyone in the room.
Bud’s voice was low and commanding as he said, “Cait, can you take care of Julie, please? Maybe a brandy? I need some space here. Come on, folks, give me some space!” Bud finally used his most forceful tone, and the huddled group slowly shuffled back.
I pushed through the throng to grab Julie and pull her away from her husband. I sat her down and shouted at Ian, “Could you bring some brandy for Julie, please? And maybe some water.” He didn’t hang about and dashed to the bar.
I tried to calm the poor woman, but she was thoroughly distraught. The brandy was waved away, but she sipped the water between sobs. “Oh, Jack, my darling Jack. Please be alright . . .”
“Cait—right, leave Julie, help me here, now!” I’d never heard Bud use that tone before. He was full of anger, but it wasn’t directed toward me. “I need to get him on his back, start CPR. He’s not breathing . . .”
The next quarter of an hour or so was a blur, as Bud tried to breathe life into Jack, and pumped his chest. Julie wailed as Tanya tried to calm her; Art and Carl stood to one side of the main group, swearing and cursing at each other. Everyone else looked horrified, nervous, or full of dread.
When it was clear that Bud was completely exhausted I offered to take over, but he shook his head.
“He’s gone. I’m so sorry, Julie, I did my best . . .”
The howling, screaming noise that left Julie Pool’s body was barely human. It sent chills through us all. When she finally drew breath, there was complete silence.
Jack Bullock lay dead on the floor, just feet from Miss Shirley’s corpse.
“What happened, Uncle Bud?” asked Tom plaintively. He looked like a very large little boy.
Bud stood up, shaking his head. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen anything like that happen so quickly. He went so fast. I thought I’d done all the right things. Maybe a blood clot? I just don’t know. His brain couldn’t have swelled that fast. I’ve seen dozens of concussions. Nothing like this. I’m so terribly sorry I couldn’t save him, Julie. So very sorry.”
Bud moved toward Julie to comfort her, but she leaped out of her chair, pushing Tanya out of the way, and threw herself at Carl Petrosian. “This is your fault! You did this!” She hit him on the chest with both of her fists, pummeling him as he tried to back across the room. “You and Art. If you hadn’t fought, Jack wouldn’t have tried to break it up. He wouldn’t have fallen and hit his head. He wouldn’t be . . . oh my God—Jack!” She turned from Carl and hurled herself onto her husband’s body, sobbing and stroking his face.
I moved to pull her away, but Bud held me close. “Let her hold him, Cait.”
I stepped back.
As Julie held her husband’s corpse to her shuddering bosom, his body rolled over and the back of his jacket pulled up. There was a pattern of red dots on his shirt, just above his belt. I nudged Bud and whispered, “What’s that on his back? Is it blood?”
Bud squinted at Jack’s body, keeping his distance. “It looks like it. Can’t be anything I did. And I don’t think he could have cut himself when he fell. Couldn’t have fallen onto the broken urn—it didn’t fall until after he was down.”
“So why’s there blood on his back?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Cait. I just don’t know.”
“It reminds me of something . . .” I gave myself a moment, trying to shut out the sounds of the room and recall what the spots on Jack’s back reminded me of . . . then I got it.
“Bud, I need to have a quiet word with someone for a moment.”
Bud’s smile was tired, as was his nod. “I didn’t think he’d hit his head that hard,” he said, his voice conveying confusion and defeat. My heart felt his pain, but I didn’t believe that it was a crack to the head that had killed Jack Bullock. Before I said anything to Bud, I wanted to confirm my suspicions. Only then might I be able to convince Bud that he couldn’t have helped Jack more than he had. I decided to use a direct approach and speak to the person I believed had originally been in possession of the weapon that had likely drawn Jack’s blood and led to his untimely death.
Duet
THE MOOD IN THE ROOM was somber, to say the least. Julie’s sobbing was heartrending. Tanya did her best to console the poor woman. Tom lingered beside the pair of them. Ian, Carl, and Art were standing several feet away, looking uncomfortable and confused. Svetlana was seeking comfort from Jimmy. Bud was clearly beating himself up over his inability to save Jack Bullock. At least there was something I could do about that.
I moved across the room as unobtrusively as possible and sat beside Clemence, who was sipping water and wiping his face with his giant handkerchief.
“Clemence, when you came out of the men’s room earlier on, I noticed a spot of blood on your shirtsleeve. There.”
The elderly man pulled at his shirt to see the mark.
“Clemence, are you a diabetic?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Found out about six months ago.”
“So I’m guessing you’ve been put on a special diet, which would explain your recent weight loss.”
Clemence looked puzzled. “Yes, but how d’you know I lost weight? We only met tonight.”
“Your collar. It’s very loose on you, which means your neck is smaller than it once was. Do you inject insulin?”
“Sure do. Don’t like it. Not very steady handed.”
“Syringe or pen?”
“Pen. Easier than keepin’ everything in a fridge all the time. Costs more, ’course, but Miss Shirley made sure I could afford it. Here—” He turned to his jacket, which hung on the back of his chair. He felt around all the pockets, then searched his pants’ pockets. He looked concerned. “Don’t know where it’s gone to. Little bag I carry. Got my pens, my drops, and my pills in it. Always have two insulin pens, in case I mess up with one. Had them earlier. Used one right after dinner. New pens. Full. First dose.”
“How much insulin is in each one, Clemence?”
“A lot.” I waited while Clemence gave the matter due consideration. “Yep, a lot.”
I tried a slightly different approach. “How long would a pen last?”
“Month.”
That was a lot of insulin, and he’d had two pens. “Is it possible to inject the entire contents of a pen in one go?” I suspected I knew the answer.
“Can’t do it. Dose is controlled. You don’t want to overdose. Dangerous,” said Clemence. As he spoke, I could sense he was beginning to follow my train of thought. He sucked his teeth. “My insulin kill him
?” asked Clemence quietly. He was sharp.
“I don’t know. It might have done. Can we keep this between ourselves for now?”
The man nodded slowly. “Sure thing.”
“Thanks.” I got up and began to move toward Bud. I stopped and turned back. “Clemence, when will you be due to use more insulin?”
The man looked at his watch and did some mental calculations. “I guess pretty soon. I test when I get up in the morning, and we’re getting to ’bout that time.”
The dread I felt made me swallow hard. If Clemence didn’t have access to his insulin, because it had all been pumped into Jack’s body, he ran the risk of suffering from ketoacidosis. The expression on Clemence’s face showed me he understood this too.
“I ain’t got no insulin till we get outta here? That’s bad, ma’am. Bad. Ain’t like when you got too much insulin in you, when you can eat or drink to try to balance your blood. No insulin is no insulin. Ain’t nothing but insulin any good for you then.”
I looked at my watch. It was nearly 6:00 am. A long time to go before outside help arrived. “Do you use small doses, so that you’ll be okay for quite some time?”
Clemence made a chewing motion as he thought. “I balanced myself right after dinner. It was a real rich, heavy dinner, as you know. You ate it too. Lotta bad stuff in it for me. For everyone, I guess. Usually after a meal like that my morning readings are off, so I do what I needs to do. Ain’t nothing I can do about it without the insulin.” He looked up at me with rheumy eyes, his entire expression conveying deep concern. “Maybe you could find it? I could really do with it.”
“Do you happen to know if anyone else here is diabetic?”
Again, Clemence chewed air as he thought. “Nope. Not unless they’s keeping it a secret. I know I sure don’t. Why would I care who knows about that? But maybe some folks don’t like others to know ’bout their health. Dumb, though. If they have a problem at least folks’ll know what might be wrong with them if they know’s they’re diabetic.”