by Cathy Ace
“There’s a special glass bin under the counter, at the back,” said Ian in a bored tone. “Since it’s glass, that would be a great place for it, right?”
Jimmy looked annoyed. “Yes, that seems sensible.”
As Jimmy’s broken glass tinkled into the glass bin, the broken shards of the urn in the cloth that Bud had retrieved and laid gently on the carpet made quite a different, hollow sound.
Jimmy returned to his seat with a fresh glass full of water. “Svetlana, would you like one too?” he asked. Somewhat belatedly, I thought. “I’m sure you would,” he added firmly.
Svetlana looked uncertain for a moment, then nodded with more than appropriate excitement. “Yes. Is good idea,” she replied.
While Jimmy repeated the process of getting a glass of water, I said to Bud, “Could you, please, and without disturbing anything too much, check the men’s washroom for a couple of small, white plastic bottles?”
“Small?” Bud’s eyebrows raised in query.
I indicated something around an inch and a half with my fingers. “About this big. There might be only one, or there might be two. They might not be together.”
“Sure,” replied Bud. “Is this my last foray into there?”
“I hope so,” I replied.
As Bud departed for the washroom, I turned to Art and Carl. “Would you two agree that there was no way for a gun to get past the metal detectors in Tanya’s purse? I mean, is it a reliable metal detector?”
“I’ve already said that my hip always sets it off,” said Art.
“I mean for smaller objects,” I replied. “Your cigar holder, for example, Carl. That’s metal. Does that set off the alarms?”
“Yes,” replied Carl. “Every time. It’s annoying.”
“But necessary,” added Art.
“Why so?” I asked. “Why is there a metal detector in use at that point?” I’d been wondering about that, and just couldn’t come up with a reasonable answer.
“I can answer that one,” said Ian sounding confident, for once. I noticed that Art had also been about to speak but seemed happy to defer to the youthful barman.
“Go on, then,” said Carl. “I think it’s dumb, so why is it there?”
Ian preened. “You know you get off the escalator from the casino floor in the Babushka Bar, then get into the elevator to go to the Romanoff Room or come here?” We all nodded. “And you know it’s a pretty small elevator?” Again, we agreed.
“Is very small, like tiny room,” said Svetlana. She was right—I wasn’t quite her size, but I’d found myself to be in pretty close quarters with Bud as we’d ridden up in it. It could only hold three people, or maybe four very slim ones, at a time.
Ian continued in a conspiratorial tone. “Earlier this year, just after the Super Bowl, some guy didn’t like being so close to another one and a fight broke out. Right inside it, if you can believe that.” I found it difficult to picture, but I allowed him to continue. “When they fell out of the elevator, onto the floor of the Romanoff Room, one of the guys pulled a knife and stabbed the other one. It was a terrible night. Paramedics, cops. Took forever, and shut the restaurant down. So then they brought in the metal detector disguised in the archway.”
Art nodded. “Ian’s right. You can put signs about weapons not being allowed in casinos above every entrance, but if someone’s carrying something they shouldn’t be, you can’t stop them. You can’t have metal detectors at every entrance, not to the casino, nor to the hotel. Not even to every bar or public space. But you can install them in certain spots. Miss Shirley and I decided it’d be a good idea to ensure everyone’s safety in at least the Romanoff Room, and here. It means there doesn’t need to be such a heavy security presence in the restaurant itself, and none at all in here.”
“The guy at the elevator entrance, in the Cossack outfit?” Art nodded in response to my question. “He’s a very large man. I noticed that when we came up. I’m guessing there are many other security guards, also dressed as Cossacks, for him to call upon if anyone’s found carrying, and not prepared to give up, their weapon?” Again, Art nodded. One problem solved.
“Thanks for that, Ian, Art. That’s useful to know. By the way, how many of the men who accompany the Cossack Parade at midnight each night are real security guards? I know they’re supposed to look as though they are guarding that fake block of Russian amber, but are any of them real?”
“That’s not fake amber,” said Art. “And all the guards are real. They’re doing a real security job.”
“Is real?” called Svetlana, astonished. “Real amber? I think is plastic!”
“Real amber,” asserted Art. “The Russians pulled it out of the ocean about fifty years ago. Miss Shirley said it would be a good draw. I think most people come along for the dancing. As you mentioned earlier, Cait, it’s a fun event, and it’s designed to get people into the casino for midnight. As you know by now, here in Vegas midnight means there’s still a whole lot of the night to go, and drinking might be involved. That’s why the parade ends at the escalators up to Babushka Bar. Our Miss Shirley was pretty sharp.”
I agreed that she had been, but I was surprised that all the fake guards were, in fact, real ones. It made my theory even more likely to be true.
Bud reappeared from behind the men’s room privacy screen. He looked down at Clemence with grave concern. He bent low, I guessed to check if the poor man was still breathing. His expression when he stood told me that Clemence still had a chance.
“I found this,” said Bud, holding up what was obviously Clemence’s medication pouch. It did, indeed, look like a fancy, child’s red leather pencil case. “Found it on the floor of one of the stalls,” he said. “And there was this too. Found it floating in the bowl. I can’t be sure, but someone might have tried to flush it. Whatever, it was still there.” He held a small, opaque white plastic bottle between two pads of toilet paper. “Pilocarpine,” he said, reading from the label.
“That’s right,” I said. “That would be a bottle of Clemence’s eyedrops. He mentioned they were in that bag where his insulin was kept, along with his pills. I believe he has glaucoma. It’s not unusual for those who suffer from diabetes. When Clemence told me he’d been diagnosed as a diabetic not so very long ago, I could see, from his collar, that he’d lost a dramatic amount of weight. Given his age, previous size, and race, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s suffered from high blood glucose levels for years, but never had it investigated. That’s why the disease is so dangerous—there aren’t really uncomfortable symptoms, maybe for decades. Glaucoma is one associated problem. When Clemence came out of the men’s room earlier on, his pupils were contracted to pinpricks. It’s how my grandmother used to look when she’d used her glaucoma drops. I suspect that the drops, the use of his large handkerchief, the diabetes—they’re all linked. And that stuff? Lethal.”
“Oh, come on, it won’t do worse than give you the trots,” laughed Ian.
I sighed. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those barmen who thinks that a tiny amount from a bottle of eyedrops is a good way to get revenge on an annoying customer?”
Ian blushed. “Not me. And I don’t know anyone who’s done it. But it is spoken of. You know, if someone’s real annoying, or real fussy . . . it’s the sort of thing we whisper to each other and laugh about. But, no, I’ve never seen anyone do it.”
“Good,” I replied in my professorial voice, “because it’s very dangerous. There’s absolutely no evidence that dosing someone with eyedrops will give them diarrhea, but there are many cases on the books proving that it’s killed. It can cause bronchial spasm, which suffocates a person, or it can cause tachycardia, leading to the heart stopping completely. So don’t think about doing it. In fact, if you could spread the fact, rather than the fiction, you might end up saving someone’s life one day.” Ian looked suitably chastised.
I nodded. “Clemence’s eyedrops look to be the culprit in Julie’s death. Agree, Bud?”
&n
bsp; “No petechial hemorrhages in her eyes that I could see, so suffocation is unlikely. Though I’m no medic. But heart failure? Maybe.”
I continued, “We can’t ask Clemence how many bottles he carried with him. He had two insulin pens, because he thought he might mess up with one due to his less-than-steady hands. I believe it’s likely he also had two bottles of eyedrops with him—unsteady hands can also make it difficult to drop liquid where it’s needed, right into the eye, so he might have wasted quite a bit and carried a backup in case he ran out. Is that one empty, Bud?”
“It’s funny you should mention needing a backup, Cait, because I think this is empty, but it’s tough to tell, unless you can hear the liquid through this thick plastic. I’m not convinced that Clemence’s hearing would be up to that, so if I were him, I’d carry a backup, I can tell you that much. I’m going to put this on the bar, near the purses.”
“Good place for it—you can add the ball bearing you’ve got in your pocket,” I said.
Bud pulled it out, eventually getting it to stop rolling about on the granite bar top. “I’d almost forgotten about that,” he said.
“I hadn’t,” I replied.
Cabaletta
I WALKED TO THE BROKEN urn and picked up a couple of the larger shards that now lay scattered upon the tablecloth in which Bud had wrapped them earlier on. As I’d thought, they were quite thick. I moved to the unbroken urn, which still sat on top of the end partition. It was as light as a feather. One heavy, one light. Yes.
As I walked to the bar, Bud said, “Done with it already? How about I clear that away again? We don’t want any sharp objects littering up the place, eh?”
I could tell he meant he didn’t want any potential weapons ready to hand, but I wasn’t sure why moving the pot away would help when we were surrounded by an array of knives on the dessert table, a gun in the purse on my shoulder, and any number of blunt objects in the shape of bottles of booze. Maybe he wants to help—I should let him.
“Thanks, Bud. That would be great.”
As he gathered up the cloth and headed behind the bar, I gave my attention to Svetlana. “Is there any chance I could have a look in your purse, please, Svetlana?” I made my inquiry sound as friendly as possible.
“You like purses, yes?” she asked curiously.
“I do happen to like purses, but that’s not why I’m asking to look inside yours. Would you mind?”
Svetlana looked toward Jimmy, who said, “It’s still here, under this table where Svetlana left it. If it’s alright with her, and I’m sure it will be, I can pass it to you.”
Svetlana nodded. There’d been a significant shift in power in the relationship between Svetlana and Jimmy, and I was pretty sure I knew why. I wanted to confirm what I thought and the purse might start me off on that road.
I took the purse from Jimmy. A large gold-leather pouch, it matched the Russian diva’s dress very well. It was made of the softest leather, and I could feel its lumpy contents. I opened the clasp at the top, peered inside, and said, “Would you mind if I emptied the contents onto the table here?”
“Is good,” replied Svetlana imperiously.
A lipstick—the shade she was wearing; a key card—slimy and sticky; a couple of tissues—Yuk! One is used; a miniature can of hairspray. That was it.
“Thanks, Svetlana,” I said politely as I put everything back into the purse. “Nice purse. Lots of room in it.”
Svetlana took her refilled purse from me and set it on her lap, placing the narrow chain around her wrist.
“Is for evening. Not big, not small.” She beamed.
“I know what you mean,” I said. “We women don’t really need a huge purse just to go to dinner, right?” Svetlana shrugged. “I mean, what do we really need at dinnertime? Though it was very handy that you had some chocolates in there, Svetlana—thanks for sharing them.”
“I always have chocolate,” she smiled. “I like sweet things.”
“And pretty things. Let’s not forget pretty things, Svetlana.”
“Is not bad,” she pouted.
“That depends,” I replied, heading for the bar once more.
I raised my voice and looked around at everyone in the room. “I know that some of you think I’ve become fixated on evening purses,” I began, “and maybe you have a point. But, you see, I had to work out exactly how the gun I found got into the dining room, and hidden in a purse seems the most likely explanation. You gentlemen are all wearing well-tailored suits that wouldn’t be likely to accommodate a gun. I’ve worked through the possibility that Ian might have brought up a gun before any of us arrived, or that he might even have been working with someone in the kitchens who placed a gun on the dessert table, which, of course, came up through the floor, rather than going via any metal detectors. In fact, it’s laden with metal objects of all sorts, so it would be an ideal way to smuggle a gun into the room.”
All eyes turned to Ian, who fidgeted. Tom, suddenly alert, glared at him, and I could see that Bud was ready to act, but he stayed where he was, on guard, within just inches of the grief-stricken young man who’d been mentally absent for most of the time since Tanya’s body had been discovered. I needed to address what he was feeling, in the open.
“Tom, please keep calm. I know that you’re experiencing enormous anger about Tanya’s death. I daresay you want nothing less than revenge on the person who killed her. When Clemence mentioned ‘an eye for an eye’ regarding Miss Shirley’s death, he referred to a quote that harks back to one of man’s most natural instincts—to avenge the death of a loved one. That’s what you’re feeling, Tom—a natural feeling, so allow yourself to experience it, but stop yourself from acting upon it. A vicious circle of revenge and retribution is just that, a circle. It goes around and around, hurting the people it’s supposed to help. I see it so often with victims’ families. They stand in front of the cameras on the steps of a courthouse somewhere and say that the sentence given to the killer of a loved one is, or isn’t, ‘fair.’ Whatever their words might be, what it shows is that they have made up their mind about what would be ‘fair.’ When it comes to murder, there’s no such thing. Fairness doesn’t exist, so raw, unfettered anger sets in.”
Bud was nodding and keeping a close eye on Tom. Ian looked uncomfortable when he spoke. “I can’t prove it, but I really, honestly, have no idea where the gun came from. If it came up on that table, which it could have done, I didn’t know it was there, and it wasn’t being sent for me. I don’t have anything to do with the food. It’s the servers who do that. If they’d been able to get back in here, they would have attended to the dessert. If they were coming, that is. Unless we were going to serve ourselves? See! I don’t even know that.” It seemed that Ian was claiming ignorance and therefore innocence.
“Does anyone know if servers were expected here again?” I asked. I thought that Julie would have known, but I couldn’t imagine anyone else would be sure.
Though it shouldn’t have, it surprised me when Tom spoke. “I’ve been in the kitchen many times when Miss Shirley, or Art, was hosting dinners here. It’s normal practice for the guests to serve themselves to dessert, but for at least one server to arrive to offer assistance with fetching and carrying and, of course, clearing the tables. This room has two dedicated servers when it operates. One does the last part, clearing up; the other goes back into the pool servicing the Romanoff Room.”
“So it would have been likely that one server was about to make their way up here from the kitchen, to attend to the dessert table,” I said. “I don’t believe the gun came into the room on the table. You see, it’s clear from my own recollections, and from what you’ve all told me, that Miss Shirley didn’t go near the dessert table before the security system kicked in.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Carl. “Even if there’s someone in the kitchens below who’s in on all this, there must be someone in this room, now, who’s been doing all the killing.”
“Not
with a gun,” I observed.
Art, who’d been attending to the back and forth between Carl and me, finally sat back in his chair. “You’re right, not with a gun.”
“They’d give themselves away with a gun,” said Carl perceptively.
Art looked surprised.
“You’re right,” I said. “You couldn’t shoot a gun in this room and expect no one to hear it, right?” Everyone shook their head. I continued. “So nobody thinks they heard a gun tonight, at any time?”
Again, all heads shook, but now faces were puzzled.
“A gun’s real loud,” said Art. “I’m sure Bud would agree?”
Bud nodded.
“So why is the gun here, then?” I asked.
Svetlana snorted. “I not know. You do. You play game. Tell us.”
“I need to ask Bud to do something for me first, okay, Bud?”
Bud looked at me indulgently. “Sure,” he replied. “What can I do now?”
“Come and stand beside me and close your eyes for a moment. Don’t worry, Svetlana, Jimmy and I will keep watch over you, and everyone else, right, Jimmy?” The man smiled at me and nodded. Bud stood beside me and squeezed his eyes shut tight.
“Now, Bud, thinking about what I was saying earlier, about how our memory works, I want you to sniff what I’m putting in front of your nose. Tell me what it makes you think of. Not what you can smell, but where that smell takes you, what it conjures in your mind. Okay?”
“I’ll do my best.” Bud sounded unsure, but I knew my plan would work. I rolled up my sleeve and put the crook of my elbow in front of Bud, close to his nose. I always spray perfume on that spot, so despite the rigors of the night, I knew it would still be there.
Immediately Bud caught the scent, and he smiled broadly. “I’ll have to be careful about what I say, so let’s go with . . . this smell makes me think of rich dinners, the acrid smoke of extinguished candles, a wet dog running happily along the beach, and feeling warm, safe, and loved.” He grinned again. “It’s your perfume, Cait. Coco Chanel. It’s Cait Juice. That’s who you are, and what you are, to me. Safety, and love.”