Cait Morgan 04-The Corpse with the Platinum Hair

by Cathy Ace

  “Does anyone know if Miss Shirley owned a pink silk handkerchief?”

  I looked up at the faces surrounding me. Every one displayed bafflement. As I lay there, I smelled something unusual. I sniffed. Chemicals. Maybe carpet-cleaning solution? It smelled oilier than I’d have expected. I wriggled forward, toward Miss Shirley’s chair. I didn’t want to get too close, but I could tell that the smell got stronger as I got closer. I knew that at this distance my reading glasses wouldn’t help me focus on the handkerchief any better anyway, so I settled on squinting. I could just make out that the stains on it seemed to make the cloth almost transparent. Maybe they were the source of the oily smell? It was puzzling. I desperately wanted to reach out and grab the cloth, but I didn’t want to disturb what might turn out to be a valuable clue to the killer’s identity, which the cops, when they finally arrived, would need to see in situ.

  “What on earth are you doing down there?” asked Bud as he approached. He held out his hand for me to pull myself up. Luckily he’s quite strong.

  I brushed myself off and said, “Thanks for your help, gentlemen.” Carl, Jimmy, Ian, and Tom gently released the edges of the cloth. As they wandered off, I addressed Bud. “I was seeing if Clemence’s little bag had somehow found its way under the cloth. It hasn’t. Oh, and the handle from the urn isn’t there either.”

  I could tell from Bud’s expression that he’d completely forgotten about the urn that was now in pieces, wrapped in a cloth, and tucked into a bin behind the bar.

  “This night is nuts,” said Ian, drawing everyone’s attention. He’d settled himself on a bar stool and was leaning heavily on the bar itself. “It’s like one of your operas.” He nodded in Svetlana’s direction.

  “Is right,” whispered Svetlana, peering over her shoulders, a look of terror on her face. “But I hope is not opera. In opera sometimes everybody die. Especially leading lady. Soprano dies often. I am soprano, I know. I die very often in operas. Of course, first I sing beautiful aria, then I die.”

  “So don’t sing. Anything. At all,” said Carl. “Maybe we’ll all be safe then. From the killer, and from your singing. Though, frankly, it doesn’t feel like any of us are safe. I wonder who’s next.”

  The Diva shot Carl a disdainful look, and Jimmy’s expression toward the man left me in no doubt that given half a chance he’d have swatted Carl for making such a derogatory comment about his idol.

  Art snapped, “If you don’t shut up, Carl, I’ll make you. Do you even know what the word ‘inappropriate’ means?”

  “But he’s right,” said Tanya. “We still don’t know who killed Miss Shirley, or who took the egg. Now Jack’s dead, though I’d say that’s your fault, Carl, and yours, Art, for fighting in the first place.” Both men looked shocked and reddened. “Maybe there’s someone here who wants us all dead, for some reason. We just don’t know.” Her tone seemed to convey resignation tinged with annoyance.

  Tom gathered Tanya in his arms. “Come on, Tanya, don’t say that. Of course there’s something . . . amiss. But I cannot believe that I’m looking at someone, here in this room, right now, who wants to kill me.”

  Tanya looked up at her boyfriend. “Not you, silly. No one could want you dead. But the rest of us? Who knows?”

  “Who knows, indeed,” said Art quietly.

  “On that cheery note I’m going for a ‘nature break’—so long as no one thinks that’s inappropriate!” snapped Carl.

  “Glorified used car salesman,” hissed Art to no one in particular, as Carl headed toward the men’s room. If Carl heard him, he chose not to rise to the bait.

  “Is good time for breakfast,” said Svetlana loudly. “We have food now, yes?”

  The rest of us were taken by surprise. “I don’t think there is any food, Svetlana,” I replied.

  “Is always food when needed,” she replied and hoisted herself from her seat. “Jimmy, come, we make good meal for everyone, yes?”

  “Sure,” replied Jimmy, as confused as the rest of us.

  I indicated to Bud that I, too, was going to use the washroom, and I headed off to find some peace and quiet where I could recollect earlier events. I caught Svetlana humming as she directed Jimmy. I couldn’t imagine what sort of “meal” she was going to produce, but I knew I was hungry, so I didn’t really care.

  Just as I reached the washroom door, Bud caught me by the arm.

  “Cait, I guess you’re off to do your memory thing, but I need you to do your thinking thing too. Julie told me that the only major difference between Miss Shirley’s old, existing will and the new one she didn’t sign is the introduction of a clause that says, ‘To be read after opening the letter I have given to my lawyer for safekeeping.’”

  “Good job, Bud. I’m glad she chose to open up to you about it. So, has Julie got the letter with her, here? What does it say?”

  Bud shook his head. “That’s just it. Miss Shirley didn’t give Julie a letter. She didn’t give her anything. Julie said they worked through the clauses of the new will one at a time. Miss Shirley made a minor amendment to the amount of money she left to Art, and she listed a few extra items she wanted to leave to Svetlana, a silver Romanoff tea urn among them. Carl gets the bulk of her estate in both wills, but there’s that additional clause in the new will saying that the shares in the Tsar! Casino are to go to Miss Shirley’s ‘next of kin.’ She left money to Tanya, Ian, Jimmy, Clemence, Julie, and Jack in both wills, with no differences between the two. She also made bequests to a good number of charities, and to quite a few people who aren’t among our group. She didn’t leave anything to Tom in either document. What it all means is that pretty much everyone is in the same position whether the new will was signed or the old will stands. The only significant difference is the clause about the shares, and the reference to a letter, of which Julie has no knowledge.”

  “Do you believe that Julie is telling the truth?” It was a critical question.

  Bud nodded. “Yes, Cait, I do. Of course she’s overwhelmed right now, but she seemed to pull herself together enough to cogently answer my questions about the letter, and what was in those two wills. I know you’re a better natural reader of people than me, but I’ve got a good few years’ experience myself, and that’s my considered professional opinion.”

  I nodded. I trusted Bud’s instincts.

  He continued, “That letter could have major implications for someone in the room, if it contains information about who Miss Shirley’s ‘next of kin’ might be. I’m more certain than ever that the motive for the poor woman’s murder was tied to someone here being Miss Shirley’s child or grandchild. As for Jack’s murder? Well, that confirms to me that someone’s got their eyes on the ultimate prize of owning this casino, because Jack was the only real candidate in the room when it comes to being one of Miss Shirley’s sons.”

  I gave Bud’s information some thought. “I’m pretty certain, too, that we’re down to Tanya, Ian, and Jimmy as the possible killer—the only people in this room who could be Miss Shirley’s grandchild. I’ll give them special consideration when I’m recollecting this evening’s events,” I replied. “By the way, how’s Julie doing?”

  Bud shook his head. “As badly as you’d expect. She’s having a little chat with Clemence now. It seems their misery and loss is being shared. Go on—do it, Cait—see if you can recall anything that helps.”

  I nodded. It was a huge responsibility, but I pushed open the door to the ladies’ room, allowing it to swoosh closed behind me, then I locked myself in one of the two stalls, took the only seat available, screwed up my eyes, and started to hum . . .

  Reprise

  I AM EMERGING INTO A darkened dining room. Luckily, before it cut out, the lighting in the washroom was very dim, much dimmer than the blazing chandeliers in the dining room, so my eyes are better acclimatized to the darkness when I enter the main dining room than maybe those of the people who were sitting in there when the lights went out.

  Immediately I smell swee
tness, chocolate, and I also smell . . . alcohol and . . . Bud’s aftershave. Bud held my hand at dinner, and his scent has ingrained itself into my skin, even though I’ve just washed my hands. I take only a few steps into the room. I am in front of the privacy screen, near the end of the bar. I hear the rustle of fabric. It’s Ian.

  How do I know this?

  He smells of alcohol—the spilled champagne—and I know that what I am hearing is satin. He’s the only one in the room wearing satin that would move like that—his Cossack shirt. Svetlana’s dress is too tightly bound around her body. The cloth rubs against itself as he moves, making a very distinctive sound. I know he’s very close to me, though I am not looking at him.

  I am looking toward the glass wall of the egg. The diamond-shaped glass panels are edged in black against the glowing colors of the neon outside. I know that from the outside, the panels look like they’re outlined in tiny white lights, twinkling like diamonds against the reflective gold of the glass.

  It’s odd to be inside the egg.

  The topmost part of the window wall appears darker, because it’s against the sky, which, although not black, is more subdued than the pulsating Strip.

  I stay where I am. I do not feel as though I am in danger. There’s been some sort of power problem. I wonder what the loud clanging was. A figure darts across my line of vision.

  I must concentrate. What exactly do I see?

  I see a crouching figure. I cannot tell if it is a man or a woman, all I see is a silhouette. It moves toward me.

  I go back to the beginning of this scene in my mind.

  Am I certain that the figure is really between the tables and the outer glass wall?

  Yes. It is close to the glass wall, I am sure of this. I am also certain that the silhouette doesn’t have Svetlana’s distinctive hairdo of a rounded bun atop her head. It isn’t Svetlana.

  “Everybody stay where you are, please. The security system has been activated—we’re in a lockdown. The emergency lighting will come on in just a few seconds.” Julie Pool is speaking. I turn my head toward her voice. I see Julie’s silhouette plainly. I even catch the side of her face washed with red and gold light.

  So it wasn’t her who darted across my field of vision.

  Julie has her arms raised to get people’s attention, as though they can see her. I realize that everyone can see her—she’s clearly visible, backlit against the glass wall. Beside her is a male figure, her husband, Jack. To me they are visible only from the waist up, as there are partitions and people blocking my view.

  At this moment, unless someone was standing up, in the path of the light coming from The Strip, I would not have been able to see them.

  “I not afraid of dark, I afraid of furniture. Is moving.” Svetlana Kharlamova speaks. No, she whines. She sounds like a small, irritating child.

  She has annoyed me all evening. Although I know my sister would probably surrender a limb to meet the woman, Svetlana’s laugh has drilled away at me throughout dinner. Launching it for no apparent reason, her laugh is always “Ha Ha Ha,” or else a short descending scale, just like “Adele’s Laughing Song” in Die Fledermaus. My mum sang that at the Clydach Operatic Society in the late 1960s. I haven’t thought of it for years. I sat on a wide windowsill at the Mond Hall, watching my mother play her part of a maid in disguise at a masked ball, wearing an elaborate pink satin costume. She sang beautifully.

  I drag myself back from Wales, to focus on a Russian diva in a Las Vegas dining room. How odd it feels. Unreal, almost.

  “Please, Madame, stay still. The furniture isn’t moving, you are. Ms. Pool is correct. If we wait a moment, I’m sure everything will be just fine.” Jimmy Green has way too much patience with the woman. I must rerun that segment again.

  Did I see or hear anything that suggests “moving furniture”? No.

  The air in front of me moves. I definitely feel it.

  Is it Ian? No. He’s still to my right.

  I smell . . . soap. Yes, I smell soap in the whooshing air.

  Is it the smell of my own hands? No.

  The lights come on. Though they are really quite dim, they seem bright for a moment.

  Now I must concentrate very hard and compare what I see at this moment with the way people arranged themselves for the restaging of the time of the murder.

  On both occasions Julie and Jack are standing in exactly the same spots—beyond Miss Shirley’s table, between the table and the glass wall. Clemence is seated opposite Miss Shirley. The first time he is leaning forward on his cupped hands, which are supporting his head, his elbows on the table. The second time, because the table has been moved, he is sitting upright in his seat.

  At the moment the lights come on, Bud is still sitting at our table, exactly where he was, how he was, when I left. Tom and Tanya have left the table. They are standing at the bar, to my right. Tom is farthest from me, Tanya is nearer me. They are close to the middle of the bar. However, when they retook their places, they reversed their positions—with Tom closer to me.

  Maybe that was what had jarred me? No, there’s something else.

  When the lights come up, Tanya is standing with her back to me, and her huge purse is on her shoulder. When the scene is reset, not only is she on the other side of Tom, but she doesn’t have her purse.

  Why does she have her purse the first time, but not the second? Why is she in a different position?

  At the center table, Svetlana has her back to the bar, as does Jimmy. They are seated next to each other. The two seats opposite them are empty. Art is standing at the far end of the bar, near the men’s room, and Carl is standing beyond the partition farthest from me.

  Why is he there?

  He’s quite close to Miss Shirley’s body. During our reenactment Art is once again standing at the bar, though closer to the center now, and Carl is sitting at the center table.

  That’s not right—why has Carl changed spots?

  Ian is in front of the bar, between me and Tom and Tanya. When the lights come on, he continues to move to the rear of the bar. The second time he’s just hovering.

  Maybe understandable?

  Shall I take Ian’s word for it that he placed the shashka on the bar? If so, anyone who wanted to use the sword to kill Miss Shirley would have had to first retrieve it from there, unless it was Ian himself who used it. Ian was at the correct side of the room to have easy access to the blade, and Miss Shirley’s back. He might have been the person who caused the air to move.

  No—he definitely smelled of alcohol, not soap. The person who passed me smelled of soap.

  He was very quick to point out that his fingerprints would be on the murder weapon, and he’s just the right age to potentially be a grandson of Miss Shirley’s. He told us about his upbringing in Seattle, but there’s no reason why a boy adopted in LA in the 1960s couldn’t have grown up and moved to the Pacific Northwest to raise a family. Ian’s father might never have spoken to his son about his antecedents, if he’d even known about them himself. Sometimes people lie to their children. So, yes, Ian could be Miss Shirley’s grandson, and he had access to the weapon, and he’s lived in Vegas for long enough that he might have had a chance to somehow find out about his true identity.

  I need to find out exactly why Ian came to Vegas, other than that it’s maybe a good place to find work as a barman.

  I am keeping Ian on my list of possible killers.

  Next I turn my thoughts to Jimmy. He’s using Svetlana, and the way she was grabbing him, as his alibi.

  Would the Diva have noticed his not being there? Yes.

  Would she have commented upon it? Possibly not.

  Jimmy could have got up, run around the tables, picked up the sword at the bar, thrust it into Miss Shirley’s back, then pushed past Svetlana, causing her to cry out about moving furniture. But that would mean both he and Svetlana lied about him being at the table and her holding onto him when the lights went out. Could they be covering for each other?

/>   His might have been the figure I saw run in silhouette, but he’d have been between me and the tables, and I’m really pretty sure that the figure was between the tables and the wall. Also, he would have passed me only on his way to pick up the saber from the bar, because he would have just darted from Miss Shirley’s table back to his own seat at the next table. He wouldn’t have come back along the bar.

  Jimmy could be Miss Shirley’s grandson—he’s the right age and was raised in a traveling van by parents who hailed from San Francisco, just a stone’s throw from LA. Maybe the place he used to visit that smelled of toast and grease was his grandmother’s diner here in Vegas. Jimmy could have found out his true identity during his time in Vegas—he said he stayed because he found work here, but it seems that his artistic tastes are more refined than one might be able to indulge in Vegas. Why didn’t he gravitate toward New York?

  I’m definitely keeping him on my list of possibles.

  Now Tanya.

  I focus on her. I try to push aside my natural dislike of the girl. Bud’s always telling me I’m too judgmental, though I try to convince him that all I’m doing is reading a myriad of cues and clues to allow myself to decide how I feel about someone. Tanya’s not blessed with good social skills. I like Tom. I think Tom deserves better. I mustn’t let this color my assessment of the girl.

  Tanya could have grabbed the shashka, stuck it into Miss Shirley, and returned to her place at the bar unnoticed.

  Would she have had the strength to deliver the deadly thrust?

  I’m on the fence about that one because I’m not sure how strong she is, or how much force it would take to do that with what was, admittedly, a very sharp blade. Bud said it wouldn’t take much effort. I suppose if I could do it, Tanya could have. So, yes, she could have killed Miss Shirley.

  Could she be Miss Shirley’s granddaughter? Yes. She’s the right age. Her father was a local, bringing her up in Henderson.