by Cathy Ace
I had options. I could tell everyone my suspicions, alerting the killer to the fact that I knew how they’d murdered Jack—because that’s what had happened, I was sure of it. Alternatively, I could say that Clemence had misplaced his insulin, and ask everyone to look for his pens. This would also tip off the killer to the fact that I’d worked out what they’d done, but at least it would mean that the guilty party would have to look as though they were making an effort to hunt down Clemence’s insulin. Maybe then I could spot something out of the ordinary?
I did my best to hide my concern as I spoke to the worried-looking man. “Clemence, keep drinking water, try to keep as calm, and as still, as possible. I need to talk to Bud, but I promise I’ll do my best to find any insulin that’s in this room.”
“I’ll just be making a visit to the washroom, ma’am,” he replied, looking more tired and deflated than I’d seen him look since I’d met him, which wasn’t surprising.
“You need help?” He didn’t appear totally steady on his feet.
Clemence gave me a huge grin. “You offering?” He winked wickedly.
It was good to see him retain a sense of playfulness. “You be good, young man,” I quipped.
“Always was, so the ladies said,” he jested as he moved slowly toward the men’s room.
I wondered how long it would be before he began to experience the effects of being without his insulin. If he was very lucky, I’d be able to help. If not . . . I couldn’t think of that. I had to talk to Bud.
Another Duet
BUD WAS STARING OUT THROUGH the glass wall at The Strip below. I wondered what he was thinking. His expression suggested he was still dwelling on his inability to save Jack Bullock’s life.
“Bud, I need to talk to you in private,” I whispered.
He turned and looked around the room. “Over at the far end of the bar?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, and we weaved our way between chairs, people, bodies, and tables.
“I still can’t believe what happened to Jack,” said Bud softly as we managed to get away from everyone else. “I’ve never seen that happen so fast. A concussion doesn’t usually—”
“I don’t think it was a concussion,” I hissed.
Bud’s puzzled expression spoke volumes. “What do you mean?”
I knew that what I was about to tell him had serious implications, in more ways than one, so I reached out with my bound and bloodied hand and held his arm affectionately as I began to speak. “The symptoms of concussion are very similar to those of hypoglycemia. Confusion, clumsiness, headache, nausea, fainting, possible coma, and then, as we saw, death. It’s very much the same for both conditions.”
“Hypoglycemia?” Bud sounded, and looked, stunned at the thought. “I dealt with a couple of cases like that back in my uniformed days. Diabetics get it, don’t they? Not enough sugar. Was Jack diabetic? Are you saying that was all he needed? A cookie, or some fruit juice? I could have saved him? Why didn’t his wife say something . . . ?” Bud was confused, angry. His whispered voice was about an octave higher than usual.
“Bud, stop, my love, stop. Wait, and I’ll tell you what I think—”
“Cait! You’re saying it was just hypoglycemia?” Bud grabbed onto both of my forearms, his face contorted with anguish.
“You couldn’t have helped him, Bud. Listen! Jack wasn’t a diabetic, but Clemence is, and two fully charged insulin pens he was carrying with him have gone missing. I think that someone deliberately injected Jack with a massive overdose of insulin. So massive that a bit of sugar or carbs wouldn’t have been enough to save him. You couldn’t have saved him. No one could have. He was as good as dead as soon as he was injected.”
Bud let go of my arms and rubbed his face with both hands. He raked his fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp. Bud only does that when he’s under great stress.
“You’re telling me you believe someone stole Clemence’s insulin pens and injected the insulin into Jack?” I caught the anger in his voice even though he was whispering.
I nodded.
“There must be some sort of limiting device on those pens, or people would be overdosing all the time?”
Again, I nodded. “You’d need to inject the target several times to get a fatal dose of the hormone into them.”
This time Bud ran just one hand through his hair. “Surely Jack would have felt that? Wouldn’t he have cried out? I mean, you’d feel being injected several times, right?”
I nodded. “I believe it was done to him when he was trying to stop the fight between Carl and Art. There was mayhem at the time. Jack might well have felt pressure, several times, he might even have felt a sharpness and cried out, but I doubt we’d have heard him above the cacophony at the time. That pattern of tiny blood spots we saw on his shirt?” Bud nodded. “I think that the killer took the pens, set them to their highest dose, and used them on Jack. He wore a double-vented jacket, with a flap, not like yours, which has a single split. It wouldn’t have been too difficult for someone to reach his lower back. His jacket flap would have hidden the blood from view. If he felt any soreness he might have thought it was from the fight, or his fall.”
Bud looked thoughtful. His expression gradually changed from disbelief to acceptance. “Whoever is doing this, we’ve got to stop them, Cait. Someone in this room is a desperate killer,” he said, voicing my own thoughts.
“I know. Two people have been killed in ways that demand an ability to think fast, seizing upon situations that present themselves unexpectedly, and to take action under the possible scrutiny of a room full of people, without being seen. It’s . . . very unusual, and more than a little frightening. Especially for Clemence.”
“Clemence?”
“He has no insulin left. He’ll need it very soon. Otherwise, he could develop ketoacidosis, which can be deadly. And he knows it.”
We both automatically glanced toward Clemence’s seat, but he wasn’t there. Bud looked alarmed again.
“Don’t panic, Bud, he’s gone to the loo. He’ll probably have to go quite often. Thirst and the inevitable aftereffects of quenching it are a couple of the symptoms of ketoacidosis. They go hand in hand with increasing confusion, tiredness, weakness, a fruity scent on the breath, and, eventually, coma and possible death. But, unlike with hypoglycemia, we can’t even try to help him—the only thing that can possibly help him is insulin. So, Bud Anderson, you and I have to make a big decision . . .”
“Which is?”
“If someone stole Clemence’s insulin pens, there might be a chance that they didn’t use both of them, or not all of both of them. So there might be some insulin here, in this room somewhere. Clemence isn’t aware of anyone else being diabetic, so finding his own supply, if any remains, is our best bet. I could announce that Clemence has misplaced his pens, but that might tip our hand. The killer might realize we’ve worked out how they killed Jack Bullock. My question to you is—do you think that matters?”
Bud pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed both eyes as he gave the matter some thought. “You and I think alike, Cait. It’s our strength in terms of our relationship, but it can be a weakness when it comes to an investigation. Because we both come at a problem the same way, we run the risk of missing things. We’ve always had to be careful not to do that, and we need to work through this carefully. My best assessment is that the most likely upshot of us spinning a yarn about Clemence losing his insulin is that we let the murderer know that we’ve worked out how they killed Jack, as you said, and put ourselves in possible danger. Maybe the killer did what they did because they thought that Jack was onto them for the killing of Miss Shirley, and we don’t want to put ourselves in the firing line. Whoever this person is, they are not averse to taking huge risks, so I don’t think they’d balk at killing either of us if they felt they had to and could come up with a way of doing it. But if we are completely open and announce the way we believe that Jack was killed, and that we all need to try to find an
y insulin that might be left in the room, we stand the best chance of finding a possible lifesaving dose of medication for Clemence, while simultaneously removing the murderer’s need to kill us . . . because everyone would know. Do you agree with that summary?”
“Yes, I agree with you. But . . .”
“I might have guessed there was a ‘but’ coming,” responded Bud, almost smiling.
I pressed on. “But if we tell everyone right off the bat that we believe Jack was murdered, how do you think that might impact Julie? She’s distraught enough thinking it was an accident. I’m leaning toward just asking folks to look for Clemence’s misplaced insulin, then I can observe how people look for it. It could be a telling process. Other than that, I don’t have any other points to make, except that I’d feel a lot better if we had some idea why Miss Shirley and Jack Bullock were killed. I certainly think their deaths are connected, but possibly not in the way you just mentioned. I have my own theory.”
“Inheritance?”
“Precisely,” I replied. “Miss Shirley seems to have lived a colorful life, and what we’ve been told about her by everyone here paints her as a caring, hardworking woman. I’m sure she had many opportunities to make enemies over the years, but the facts seem to suggest she was a woman who helped, rather than hindered, people’s careers. My thinking is that Jack Bullock was a prime candidate for being her estranged son. I heard him protesting to his wife that it was impossible. But what if the killer also thought he might be her son, and that it was just too big a risk to take?”
“Could be,” said Bud thoughtfully.
“Which means one thing.”
Bud nodded.
I drew even closer to him as I whispered, “No other man here is the right age to be one of Miss Shirley’s sons, so that leaves us with grandchildren. The killer might be someone who knows they are, or at least believes themselves to be, Miss Shirley’s grandchild. That points to Tanya, Jimmy, or Ian.”
Bud nodded. “I agree. Tanya, Ian, and Jimmy. We know a little about each of them. But not enough.”
“Right. However, that assumes that the motive for the murder is the inheritance of the shares in the casino. If it’s a general inheritance issue instead, then everyone, Tom included, is still in the frame. Which isn’t really helpful. So we need to find out what was in the existing will versus what would have been in the new one. That would be something concrete that could help us eliminate several suspects. I know she wasn’t prepared to break her client’s confidence earlier on, but do you think you might be able to get Julie to tell us the full facts now? It does seem as though Jack spilled the main points, so maybe after all that’s happened she’ll be more likely to talk.”
Bud nodded. “I’ve dealt with some difficult situations over the years when I’ve had to question people who’ve just lost a loved one. I don’t want Julie Pool to think that someone deliberately killed her husband—I agree with you, I don’t believe we need to subject her to that thought right now—but I do think I could take her aside and try to get what I can out of her about the two different wills. If I do that, could you come up with something about Clemence losing his insulin, and get folks to hunt about for it? It’s not as good as everyone being searched, but it might turn up something useful.”
I reached up and kissed Bud on the cheek, lingering for two seconds longer than a peck. He smelled so good. I could feel the skin on my drying lips pull taut as I smiled at him and spoke. “I’ll keep it as low-key as I can, but we have to do it. It could save Clemence’s life. I’ll also take myself off to do a proper recollection of where people were standing when I came out of the ladies’ room the first time, when everything was dark, compared with when I came out the second time, when everyone said they were in their original places. There’s still something nagging at me about those two setups that isn’t right. And I don’t just mean Miss Shirley’s odd position. You take Julie to one side and find out what you can about Miss Shirley’s intentions, past and present, for the disposal of her estate. Good luck, my love.”
“You too,” replied Bud, returning my kiss. “None of this is good, so let’s get going.”
I popped a fresh piece of nicotine gum into my mouth and chewed hard. I wondered if two at a time might work better, but I knew I had to ration it. We still had hours ahead of us.
Chorus
I HADN’T NOTICED THAT THE sun was rising. When I looked out, trying to decide exactly how to frame the topic of Clemence’s insulin, it was already illuminating the peaks in the west with a bright, buttery light. Miles beyond The Strip, I could see the mountains rise up from the plain in a stark, unyielding statement that whatever man might do to a landscape, it’s ultimately nature that dominates. Closer to the casino, the neon lights of The Strip were now overwhelmed by the daylight, and, as I looked down, I could see tiny humans jogging along the streets, making the most of the shade cast by the towering hotels. A skateboarder shot along the sidewalk, a dog on a leash running beside him, something that would be impossible to do in just a few hours’ time, because by then the throngs would be out in force. Las Vegas was a city waking up, rubbing its eyes, and deciding which glittering, rhinestone-encrusted outfit it would wear for the day. It made me think of the mask of normality that the killer in our midst must be wearing.
I turned to face my current reality. I knew that as the sun moved overhead, the glass-clad egg we were in would heat up even more. It wasn’t going to be pleasant. With the temperature outside likely to soar to maybe ninety or a hundred degrees, our claustrophobic quarters were likely to become quite unpleasant.
I called for people’s attention and began my little performance. “When Clemence took his jacket off some hours ago, he misplaced the bag he always has with him that holds his insulin pens. It’s very important for him that we find those pens. Clemence, could you describe the bag, please, so everyone can have a hunt about for it?”
“Sure,” said Clemence. “It’s red. Red leather with a gold zipper. Long. Like a fancy pencil case some rich kid might have, I guess. Miss Shirley gave it to me ’cause I could never find my pens. Now I can’t find the bag.”
I was glad that Clemence stopped when he did.
“When did you last have it, Clemence?” asked Art.
“After dinner. Used it then. Ain’t seen it since,” replied Clemence.
I managed a relatively bright smile as I spoke. “Maybe folks could check the floor, the men’s and ladies’ rooms, behind the bar, under chairs, and so forth? Thanks.” I really wanted to be an observer, but I knew I’d have to participate in some way.
“Why ladies’ room?” asked Svetlana, puzzled.
“We should just check everywhere,” I replied, panicking a little. Silly of me, how could Clemence have left it there?
Carl called out, “Looking for a red leather case on a red carpet? That’s a nightmare.”
“Let’s divide up the room, and each search one particular area,” suggested Tom.
“Good idea,” said Ian. “Let’s pretend the room is a clock and divide it up by segments. Then we can all start at the center and work out, or the other way around.”
“We’ll have to steer clear of the area around Miss Shirley’s body,” I said, probably unnecessarily.
“Should we move Jack’s body?” asked Jimmy in respectful tones.
“What’s the point?” asked Carl. “We’ll just work around it. Him. It’s the same general area as Miss Shirley’s body, so let’s just avoid that part of the room altogether.” Carl seemed to be appropriately uncomfortable when referring to the corpses in our midst.
We spent a few moments dividing up the room, and then we began to tackle our allotted portions.
As people searched, I watched closely. That’s annoying—everyone seems to be completely focused on their tasks.
“You want me search behind bar?” said Svetlana imperiously. “Clemence not go behind bar. Bag not there. My throat. I not search behind bar.”
It was interesting
to note how Svetlana managed to use her throat, and its undoubted sensitivity, as a convenient way to avoid doing anything she didn’t want to do. I suspected she’d always used it that way, throughout her stellar career. It’s amazing what stars can get away with, which we mere mortals have to endure.
There was always the chance that whoever had taken the bag had tossed it behind the bar, so I said, “Maybe I could give you a hand back there, when I’ve finished here,” knowing that Svetlana wouldn’t be the most reliable searcher in any case.
“I could help as well,” suggested Jimmy, flying to his idol’s aid. “My section’s a pretty easy one to check—in fact, I’m almost done. Nothing here. Let me check behind that section of the bar, Madame.”
It only took a matter of fifteen minutes or so before everyone agreed that we’d searched the whole place and there was no sign of Clemence’s little bag. The only areas we hadn’t searched were those around Miss Shirley’s corpse, under Jack’s body, and right where Bud and Julie were sitting, deep in conversation. I could see that Bud was fully engaged with the still-sobbing woman, so I knew I had to step up. Clemence’s health was at stake—extraordinary measures were in order.
“Jimmy, Ian, Tom, I need you three to help me. You too, Carl, if you please.” Four male faces turned toward me and showed a similar expression—apprehension.
“If each of you could stand at a corner of the cloth covering Miss Shirley’s body, keeping your feet well back, and reach forward and lift the cloth so I can see underneath, that would be most helpful.” Grunts and shufflings aside, the men undertook their task silently. I lay down on the floor to peer underneath the raised cloth as quickly as possible, and without their having to lift it too high. I was hoping to see a small red leather bag on the floor, but I didn’t. What I did catch sight of was a large, soiled handkerchief, made of pink silk, piled on the floor beneath Miss Shirley’s chair. I hadn’t noticed it when we’d first seen her body, but I reasoned that I’d probably been at the wrong angle—upright, rather than prone.