by Cathy Ace
“Did Julie eat or drink anything between the time she found Tanya and when she went to the washroom?”
“Art gave her a glass of water,” tittle-tattled Carl.
“Jimmy brought over some banana that he’d sliced up for her,” added Art defensively.
That seemed like an odd thing to do. “Did she eat it?” I thought I’d better get the facts straight.
Jimmy looked around and pointed at a plate. “Looks like she might have eaten one or two slices,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Ian gave her a brandy,” he added in a hopeful tone. “He gave one to Tom as well.”
“I feel fine,” said Tom.
“Poison?” hissed Svetlana from across the room, catching the meaning of my questions and their responses. Her voice carried wonderfully well, as one would expect from a woman who’d more or less grown up on the stage. “I not eat. I not drink. I not move,” she added with determination.
Carl piped up, “Ian could be Miss Shirley’s grandson. He’s been very quick to point out that he’s got a reason for his prints being on the saber that killed her, as well as the corkscrew that killed Tanya. He could have poisoned Julie too, with that brandy, and he might even have pushed Jack on purpose, just so’s he’d hit his head. It could be Ian.”
At the mention of his name, Ian’s head popped up from behind the bar like a meerkat. Bud followed likewise.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” bleated Ian, “and I think I’ve mentioned that my mom and dad are alive and well and living in Seattle. I have a sister too. My grandparents live in Bellingham. All four of them. I am not Miss Shirley’s grandson.” He sounded frightened and looked it too. He seemed to be appealing to Bud more than to the rest of us. Then his expression brightened. “Look, I can prove it. I’ve got photos from my gran’s eightieth birthday on my phone.” He pulled a shiny, black rectangle from his pants pocket and began to slide his finger across its screen, showing it to Bud. “Look? See? That’s Gran—my dad’s mom. There’s my dad with me and my sister. Look—there’s my granddad with my father. My dad’s the image of his father. Right?”
Bud looked right at me. “There’s certainly a family resemblance,” he said, “though your grandfather might have been the man who impregnated Miss Shirley.”
“Oh, come on, that’s gross,” said Ian, wrinkling his nose. “Besides, he and my gran have been married forever. Since they were, like, twenty or something. Besides, my dad is sixty. He’s too old to be Miss Shirley’s son.” He looked relieved that he’d finally managed to think of something that might convince us that he wasn’t related to the poor woman who was sitting in our midst covered with a tablecloth. “I mean, I can’t prove that I’m not related to Miss Shirley, not here, now, but I could if I could speak to my dad.” He nodded and put away his phone. “I’ll be able to prove it to the cops.” He looked more certain of himself as he shoved out his chin toward Carl and repeated himself with confidence. “Yes, I’ll be able to prove it to the cops.”
“What about the banana Jimmy gave to Julie?” spat Carl. “Who gives a woman who’s just found a dead body a banana? Unless you want to poison them.”
Jimmy stood. “Carl, I know you’re frightened, we all are. But you can’t just point the finger of blame at everyone in turn. I gave her the banana because she was clearly in shock, and she’d just thrown up. One of the things you have to be able to do in the theater is look after folks in a high state of emotion. Often they’ve vomited because of nerves, or tension, and bananas are a good source of sugar, starch, and potassium. Given we don’t have access to much of anything else, I thought that would be good for her. Get some stuff into her system that she needed. I did not poison her. I am not Miss Shirley’s grandson. I know I had a less than traditional upbringing, but Joe, my father, would be in his late fifties by now if he’d lived. No, I didn’t know my grandparents, but we were in California, and they were all in Texas. For all my bohemian upbringing, my parents both came from cattle-ranching stock in Texas. My aunt, who lived here in Vegas, is dead now. But, like Ian, I am sure I can prove to the cops when they get here that there’s no way I could be related to Miss Shirley. I have no idea why anyone would want Tanya, or Julie, dead, so I don’t know how to defend myself against that.” He looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. “I wish I was in line to inherit all this,” he added, “then I’d be able to offer Svetlana a very comfortable life surrounded by pretty things forever. She might want me, and she wouldn’t need to do what she does in order to have pretty things.”
“I love to sing here,” said Svetlana defensively.
Jimmy sighed. “You know what I mean. It can’t go on forever. You’ll have to stop one day.”
“Yes, the orchestra can only play so loud, you know,” said Carl spitefully. “You have noticed that they play louder and louder these days when you try to hit those notes, right?”
“I am star,” shouted Svetlana. “I am Diva Kharlamova. Is enough for audience. I sing with passion.” She stood and pulled her wrinkled wrap about herself, setting her chin high, her eyes glittering. I thought she was about to launch into an aria on the spot. Instead, she looked around, retreated into herself, and sat down with a thump. Clearly terror had beaten out pride.
“Maybe you killed them all,” said Carl, pointing at Svetlana. “You Russians will do anything. Russians! Who knows, maybe one of those bendy acrobats from the show in the theater is hiding up in the ceiling, dropping down to kill us all off one by one. And if not one of the ones from the Tsar! there’s enough of them around Vegas, what with all the Cirque shows that are running. I bet they could wriggle out of a vent somewhere. Maybe that’s where the ball bearing that I found came from. Has anyone checked the vents?”
Bud sighed. “It’s impossible, Carl,” he replied heavily. “Look up, man—the vents are about six inches wide and run in a ring around the entire ceiling. A person wouldn’t have to be just bendy, they’d have to be snake shaped as well. Even the vents in the bathrooms are tiny, the same size. You’re being completely unreasonable, Carl.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past Russians!” Carl was getting red around his now-open collar. “God knows why Dad went along with Miss Shirley when she said she wanted a Russian-themed casino. He hated the Russians, and with good cause. They all but obliterated the Armenian population. In fact, that’s why his family came to the States—to escape certain death. But there she was, swooning over tsarist antiques and Romanoff décor. She didn’t even get the irony that the hotel block is modeled on a style of architecture that was built in Moscow by prisoners. The Seven Sisters? Stalinist trash.”
“You not speak like this,” shouted Svetlana, holding the sides of her chair as she spoke as though her life depended upon it. “You know nothing! I live there. I am child there. I am woman there. You? You are in America. I am in Moscow. Is easy for you. You know nothing. You do not know what I do to get good parts. You not know how girls in opera are treated by men with high rank in Communist Party. Opera house is built with places just for men to be with girls. Is same in London and Paris, yes, but in Moscow is no choice for girls. Now I sing in casino, and some people say is bad, but then? Then is worse. Much worse. I sing. I work. I have no food, I have no money, no pretty things. Men give me these things. Men. I hate men. Big hands, horrible medals on chests, smell of vodka, tobacco. Since I leave Russia I sing private concerts for good people, famous people. Then? I sing in places I am told, at times I am told. I do what I am told, or I not get parts. You do not know. You live here. People say Russia bad now—ha! You see then! You rich boy, you not know what is like to have nothing! Maybe you kill everyone, because you want everything.”
Carl was shuffling in his seat, looking very uncomfortable. Clearly he hadn’t expected such an onslaught. Such is the psychology of suspicion . . . defend and accuse.
Svetlana would have been on her feet were she not in fear for her life. As it was, she remained seated, but waved her arms for effect. “Here? Tsar! Casino is good, is be
autiful. Russian people not all bad, not always. Now are good people there, but bad people too. In old times is same. But they had pretty things then, for some. When I am young, no pretty things. Is gray, ugly, full of men with power. Woman not have power, woman only have sex. Is terrible place to grow up. But do not tell me all Russia is bad. Tsar! is best of Russian history. Miss Shirley do good. We talk about Saint Basil’s, House of Fabergé, the Great Catherine, beautiful Metro stations for shops downstairs is clever, pretty dolls in shops, shops with furs, good music, ballet, in theater. She is clever—she knows people want these things. Me. She brings me. Miss Shirley is clever woman.”
“I might not have grown up there,” said Carl defensively, “but my dad told me what his parents told him. I guess you’d know more about it than me because you were there through some pretty tough times. But growing up in Vegas, in the sixties, was a weird thing to do too. The city was changing all the time, we moved around a lot, because Dad was always trying to make things better for us. I missed him. He put me in a good school back east, but I just wanted to do my thing with cars. I didn’t want to disappoint him. Mom said we had to honor his wishes, because he made the money.” Carl looked up and seemed to realize for the first time that he was sharing some very private thoughts with a room full of comparative strangers.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that all I ever really wanted was a proper home with a couple of cars to fix up in the garage. That’s it. I—I don’t really want all this, Art. You’re right, it’s not me. I wouldn’t have killed anyone to get it.”
“What about the money, Carl? You’d like that,” said Art quietly.
Carl nodded. “Yeah, sure I’d like the money. But killing for it? That’s not me, Art. You’ve known me all my life. You must know that about me. Like I know you couldn’t have done any of this. It’s not in your heart to kill.”
“Oh, I’ve killed alright,” replied Art. Svetlana gripped her chair. “I’ve killed many people. Maybe hundreds. In war. It’s not an easy thing to live with, but you tell yourself it’s you or them. And unlike Miss Shirley’s stepbrothers who didn’t make it back from ’Nam, I did manage to make it through the Six-Day War. It happened when I was living out there. I volunteered. Caught up in events bigger than I could really comprehend. It’s where I met Stephen Feldblum, the guy who became my CFO—we were assigned to man the same tank. He saved my life. Twice.” He looked grim. “It changes you, killing. As the person here who’s done all this must know by now.”
“Could Clemence have killed Miss Shirley?” asked Carl sharply, looking toward Bud, who was still kneeling over the ailing man, mopping his face. “Maybe he did, and he’s hidden his own insulin because he feels guilty.”
I made a decision and spoke up. “Clemence didn’t hide his own insulin. Someone stole it from him and pumped it into Jack Bullock. That’s why Jack died. He was poisoned with a massive overdose of insulin.” My words hung in the air.
“Oh thank God,” said Carl. “Oh! I didn’t mean . . . oh, you all know what I meant. I thought he was dead because he’d hit his head after Art and I had been fighting. I thought we were responsible. So, although someone killed him, well . . .”
“It’s alright, Carl, we know what you mean,” said Art quietly, “and I feel the same way. How dreadful is that? Though, if what you say is true, Cait, it means that someone here, one of us, has killed four people tonight. Today. I don’t know what to call this time now. It’s all so—weird. Unreal.”
“Are you saying that because someone gave Jack all of Clemence’s insulin, that’s why he hasn’t got any now?” Ian sounded horrified.
I nodded.
“And Clemence might die because of that?” he continued. “That’s harsh. Cold. He’s a lovely old guy. I didn’t really have much to do with him before all of this, but I saw him here often with Miss Shirley. They were like an old couple, you know? They could sit quietly with each other and not talk, but not be uncomfortable.”
“Tanya and I were like that,” said Tom sadly. “We were very comfortable with each other.”
“Maybe you just wanted Tanya dead, Tom, and you did all the rest to cover it up, confuse everything,” said Carl.
“Carl, stop it!” Art’s tone was flat. He sounded exhausted. “Just stop. We’re all in the same boat. We’re all sitting here looking right at a killer, and we don’t know which one of us it is. I—I can’t believe it’s not showing on the person’s face. It must.”
Those were my thoughts exactly, but I couldn’t easily cast anyone in the room in the role of a cold-blooded killer. I had to try harder.
“I’m just moving over here for a few moments,” I said, standing and picking up my chair. Svetlana looked alarmed as I approached her.
“Go away,” she barked. “I not know you. You might be killer. You and him. Together.” She nodded toward Bud. “Maybe people pay you to kill us all.”
I smiled as brightly as I could. “Yes, that’s right, Svetlana, I’m a Welsh Canadian assassin, sent to kill a whole group of people I’ve cunningly trapped in a private dining room in Las Vegas, using as wide a variety of methods as possible.”
“We wouldn’t be trapped at all if Miss Shirley hadn’t changed those damned codes,” said Carl. He was right, of course, and he made a very good point.
“We all die here,” wailed Svetlana. “I know this. We all die in this room. Is hot. Is full of dead bodies. Smell very bad. Why someone kill us all?”
“No one can kill any one of us if we just sit here, watching each other, and wait for the cops to arrive,” said Carl. Desperation haunted his eyes, and the veins in his neck were twitching.
“Well, while you lot all stare each other out, I’m going to sit here and try to work out who’s doing all this,” I said angrily.
Looking concerned, Bud asked, “Should you explain what that means, exactly?”
“You’re right,” I admitted. “I’m going to undertake something called ‘wakeful dreaming,’ folks. It means I’m going to sit here quietly and have a very deep, free-flowing think through what’s been going on here. Outwardly, I’ll just look as though I’m napping. It really would be most useful if I could have quiet, because noises around me can creep into my subconscious and influence what I’m seeing, in my mind’s eye. I hope that’ll be okay?”
“I sit here. I not speak,” said Svetlana grumpily.
The men all nodded. I didn’t think it would be too tough for them to force themselves to not talk to someone who might be a multiple murderer.
I pulled Tanya’s purse under my arm, checked inside it for the gun, which was still there—thank goodness!—and plopped myself onto my chair, far enough away from Svetlana that she didn’t have a heart attack. I couldn’t hope to achieve anything unless I was calm. I shut my eyes and breathed deeply and slowly, forcing my pulse to stop racing. Wakeful dreaming only works if you can let your mind float free. I knew I was safe because Bud was in the room, and I was certain he’d keep an eye on me. I hugged Tanya’s nasty pleather purse to my side, tried to ignore the stench in the room, the heat of the air, and the sobbing I knew was coming from Tom, and set my mind to work . . .
Die Tote Stadt
I PICTURED THE SCENE AS it was when I emerged from the ladies’ washroom for the first time . . . and let my mind wander. Unlike recollection, wakeful dreaming cannot be controlled. It’s rather like having a row of buckets full of paint available to you, but you’re blindfolded, so you pick up whatever you can reach and throw it about, allowing it to land where it will. When you open your eyes you hope you’ve created something that’s been worth the effort. For someone who prefers to be in control, like me, it’s a bit of a scary ride.
The first person I see in my foray into the unknown isn’t one of the victims, nor even someone from our group. It is my mother, as she had been when I was about ten, I suppose. She wafts across the sky, which I can see because the top of the egg has opened, and sings like a bell, wearing a stained dress made of pink silk
handkerchiefs. She trills laughter at me as she pirouettes, her dress altering from a pink ball gown to one of glittering red. A host of little shards of glass begin to fall on my head, so I duck and run for cover under a giant table covered with a massive white tablecloth. The air is thick and unbreathable, so I stick my head out from beneath the leaden covering to get some more oxygen. Carl is sitting on the floor, cross-legged, reciting his ten times table. He has only one arm, and he is looking at me wailing, “Mommy, Mommy . . . where’s Daddy gone?”
As I look at him, he jumps to his feet, screams, and runs off to the men’s room, which now has swinging saloon-type doors. Peering out from beneath the table, I try to see what has frightened Carl. Now Miss Shirley appears, toting two guns, and shoots Clemence through the heart. His chest explodes, but he smiles at his attacker and waves with his large white handkerchief, which is now covered with thousands of glittering red spots that once again begin to fall and hit me—veering into my den to spear me with their tiny points.
As the table above me dissolves, I can see that the egg has opened up to become long halls with amber-clad walls bedecked with golden-edged mirrors. I run as fast as I can, though I hardly move. The golden surrounds of the mirrors splinter, becoming tiny little gold sabers, which follow me, flying through the air like guided missiles. A door appears next to me, and I run through it, slamming it shut behind me. I smell soap. It is a fresh, clean smell, and my nose seeks out its source. I find myself peering into a bowl containing hundreds of dead fish, ripped open, smiling and staring back at me. Beside them sits one teaspoon of glistening caviar, red, not black. Each bead becomes a blade, and, once again, I run from the attack.
The door by which I entered the space has been replaced with an elevator, but although I press the button again and again, nothing happens. Without warning, a giant Chinese vase crashes at my feet. Tanya appears, sweeping up the shards and whistling. What is the tune? Ah yes, it’s “Kalinka.” As she gathers the pieces of porcelain in an apron that she is wearing, she wilts and cries, “So heavy, so sharp!”