by Cathy Ace
Svetlana smiled, but I knew, at least, that Bud was on track.
“Good job, Bud.” I purposely praised him as I might have done a pet. It’s a thing we do. It’s funny, to us.
“Don’t open your eyes. Now try this.” I placed Miss Shirley’s large glittering purse, wide open, under his nose. His nose wrinkled.
“I know that smell . . .”
“Don’t tell us what it is, tell us where it takes you,” I repeated.
“I’m with my father. We’re at the river, fishing. No, no, we’re at the lake. That’s right. This smell, it’s to do with the lake . . .” He sniffed some more.
“There is lake in purse?” asked Svetlana.
“Shush, Svetlana, let Bud concentrate,” said Art.
“It’s not the lake. I mean, it’s at the lake, but it’s not of the lake. We’re behind the cabin, near the lake, and my father has lined up some old tin cans so I can shoot them down with his BB gun—that’s it! This is gun oil. But it’s not real gun oil, it’s BB gun oil, which is a bit different. The cabin was where I first learned about guns, and my dad and I shot our BB guns together for years after that, even when I was in the service. Great way to keep your eye in without having to go to the range or shoot deadly bullets. Can I open my eyes now?” he asked politely.
“Yes, by all means.”
Blinking a little, Bud said, “What was I smelling?” I showed him, and he looked puzzled. “Really? The inside of Miss Shirley’s purse?”
I nodded. “The ball bearing? It’s from this.” I pulled the gun from Tanya’s purse. It was still wrapped in its napkin. I carried it to Bud and let the folds fall open.
Bud sounded totally professional as he spoke. “Smith and Wesson M&P—that’s Military and Police—R8 revolver. Uses a CO2 cartridge and .177 caliber BBs—so .177 caliber ball bearings.”
“Do you think this would have sounded like a gun if it discharged, or like something else?”
“The pop!” exclaimed Bud.
“Pop, pop? What pop?” asked Svetlana.
“Everyone close your eyes a moment, please,” I said quietly.
“No, no, I not do this,” replied Svetlana. “Is not safe.”
It seemed pointless to push the woman, so I relented.
“Okay, just all think back to the seconds before the security system kicked in. Do any of you remember hearing anything?”
Art and Carl shook their heads. “Nothing until the loud noise of the metal collar thing coming down from the ceiling,” replied Art.
“I agree,” said Carl.
“You weren’t in the room that whole time, were you, Carl?” I asked as gently as I could.
Carl spluttered, “I was. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Carl, I realize it might be a little embarrassing, but admitting that you had to rush to the men’s room is rather less serious than being accused of murder, surely?”
“What?” He looked frightened.
“Oh, come on now, Carl,” I said quietly. “You were near the men’s room when the lights came up, but when we restaged those moments you plopped yourself in your seat. It can’t be that awful to admit you had to go, surely?” Men’s waterworks can make them feel very unmanly at times, especially when they reach a certain age, so I wanted to tread softly.
“I’d drunk quite a bit of water,” said Carl, red-faced. “It was an urgent call of nature.”
“There you go,” I replied, smiling. “Perfectly natural. And it explains why you assumed a different position in our little reconstruction. No problem.” I stopped then, because I realized I was probably overcompensating for his awkwardness on the topic.
“I might have heard something . . .” said Ian.
“Any idea what?” I wasn’t hopeful.
“I’m not sure,” he replied with obvious uncertainty. What a surprise.
“I didn’t hear a thing,” muttered Tom.
“You’re sure, Tom? Nothing at all?”
Tom looked annoyed. “Why pick on me? I didn’t hear anything. To be honest, and I know this sounds awful now, I was thinking about those dolls they sell in the Tsar! store downstairs—the ones that nest inside each other, you know? Babushkas, I think they’re called. I wondered if I could get a set made up that looked like Tanya. For our one-year anniversary. There’s a guy who makes them to order.”
“Is called matryoshka. Is correct name. Babushka is grandmother, not correct,” said Svetlana to Tom impatiently. “Not pretty things. And at time you talk of, I hear . . . I hear nothing,” said Svetlana to me, sounding disappointed. “I think I listen to song on music system.” That figures.
Jimmy nodded. “I remember it was one of Svetlana’s arias that was playing, so I think I was attending to that as well,” he said. That also figures.
“Bud?” I knew he’d be useful.
“There was a pop, and a dull crack, then the collar started to descend, then the lights went out.”
“Thanks, Bud. That’s interesting. You see, this tells me why the gun was in the room, and it tells me who fired it. And there’s one more thing you should know—”
I admit it, I paused for effect.
“What?” asked Svetlana, agog.
“Having ruled out every other possibility, I have concluded that the only person who could have brought that gun into this room was Miss Shirley herself, which explains why she carried such a large purse that didn’t match, or even complement, her dress.”
“Miss Shirley?” It was Art who expressed everyone’s astonishment.
“Yes, Miss Shirley.”
Grand Cadenza
CARL’S TONE WAS DISMISSIVE WHEN he said, “Rubbish. Why would Miss Shirley bring a gun here?”
“To shoot the urn,” I replied.
“I not understand,” said Svetlana plaintively.
“That’s because she’s talking a load of rubbish,” said Carl.
Bud stepped in. He’s seen me unravel complex puzzles before. “You know what, everyone? We’re going to be out of here before too long, so why don’t we give Cait a chance to tell us what she thinks has happened here tonight, last night, whatever you want to call this time we’ve all been together, before everything else kicks off, eh?”
“We’re not going anywhere anyway,” said Art.
“I want to know who killed Tanya,” said Tom.
“Go ahead,” said Jimmy.
“I can’t wait to get out of here, but I guess you might as well talk till they all arrive,” said Ian, his voice cracking with exhaustion.
“You said something about the urn?” Bud gave me a chance to speak, so I took it.
“Yes, thanks, Bud. The urn. I’ll get to that in a moment, because it’s almost where the whole thing started. One of the most puzzling aspects about Miss Shirley’s death was how the murderer planned to get away with it. I’m sure you’ll all agree that, even if we’d been able to release the lockdown immediately, we’d all have been subjected to interrogation by the police about her killing. It would have been clear from the outset that the murderer was among us.”
There was general agreement in the room.
“Well, I believe that the real killer planned to get away with Miss Shirley’s murder by pinning it on another member of our group. And I’m afraid to say that was you, Ian.”
Ian was suddenly wide awake and fully alert. “Me? What do you mean, me? I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill anyone. How could anyone think it was me?”
“Your fingerprints are on the saber,” said Art.
“I know, but you all saw me use it to open the bottles of champagne,” bleated Ian. “And why would I kill her? I liked her.”
“How often do you think you’ve been at Miss Shirley’s house in the past year?” I asked quietly.
Ian sighed. “I don’t know—a lot? Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”
Art spoke. “Were you really just there to be her private barman, or was there more to it?”
“What?” Ian exploded.
Ian’s face conveyed as much terror as if he’d been in front of a jury. “But we weren’t lovers! She’s . . . well, you know, she was a lovely woman, but she’s . . . old. I know I don’t have a girlfriend, but that’s because—well, just because I don’t happen to have one right now. You have to believe me. Anyway, Miss Shirley wasn’t over her husband’s death. She was always talking about him.”
“Did you kill Tanya?” said Tom, leaping to his feet, ready to grab Ian, who cowered in his chair.
“Tom! Sit!” Bud’s voice was powerful enough to make Tom draw back from the edge of his anger. Bud moved even closer to Tom, putting his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Tom, this is going to be tough for you. You’ve got to let her finish. She’s already said she believes that Ian was set up by the real killer. So let’s just allow her to talk us through the whole thing, right?”
Tom’s chin puckered as he nodded silently.
“Go on, Cait,” said Bud. “I’ll stay here with Tom.”
Ian looked relieved, as did a few others in the room. “So who set me up?” asked Ian bluntly. “And how did they think they’d get away with it?”
“All they needed were a few things to work together in their favor. Your fingerprints, the fact that Miss Shirley had a long-standing reputation as a man eater—”
“Don’t say that!” said Art. “She was a good wife to Carl’s father.”
Carl agreed. “To be fair, she was.”
I continued. “Carl, your father’s will stated that she had to outlive him by one year and remain single for that year to inherit his shares. Why do you think your father made her not remarrying a condition of her inheritance?”
Carl shrugged. “I don’t know. I always thought that was strange, but Dad did love her a lot—maybe he just wanted her to be his for a bit longer. You know, after he’d gone.”
I shook my head. “I think it’s a reflection of how well your father knew Miss Shirley. Remember what Clemence told us about her? She wasn’t that good at picking men, was she? Pregnant by a married man at seventeen. Married a much older man, then a handsome singer who, by the sounds of it, was glad to take her money. She knocked around with men who helped her through tough times, finally marrying a guy who ran a successful business into the ground. It seems to me that the only stable relationship, a relationship between equals, that Miss Shirley ever had was with your dad. When she was young and poor, she turned to older men with money. As soon as she had a successful business, the chain of diners, she sold up and gave everything to a dashing young man. Your dad knew her, loved her, but could see that she might, once again, be drawn to someone who didn’t have her best interests at heart, but simply saw her as a source of income. What was to stop her, desperately unhappy in her grief at the loss of your father, from hooking up with a totally unsuitable man who’d run through her money and maybe even undermine the entire Tsar! Organization?”
Art shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I really don’t think you should be speaking about Miss Shirley this way. It’s not fair, and it’s not right.”
“I’m sorry, Art. I don’t mean to hurt you. I’ve seen a vision of Miss Shirley take shape that shows me she was a woman of great compassion. Accepting and nurturing Clemence when going about as a mixed-race pair wasn’t exactly popular illustrates that. I’m not implying that Miss Shirley was going to fritter away what was legally her husband’s estate, but the prosecution could say what I’ve just said about Ian in court, and it could carry enough weight to allow the fingers to point at him as her lover. For the record—not that we’re on it, but you know what I mean—I don’t believe that Miss Shirley would have acted that way at all. I think that, like many young people, she made some bad decisions, but that her marriage to Carl’s father would have allowed her to see, from the inside, how a good relationship can be. Let’s be fair, she didn’t have a useful model from her own family life to refer to when she was growing up, did she? No father in the picture, except a stepfather who built a new family with her mother, a family that squeezed her out. At least, leaving home so young, that must have been how she felt.”
“So I would have been done for her murder?” said Ian, still red in the face and looking horrified.
“Never know what a jury will do,” said Art.
“They love their forensics these days,” said Jimmy, “and they would have had your prints to help them with that. But what about the real killer’s prints?”
“Good question, Jimmy,” I replied. “I believe it would have been easy enough for the killer to simply pick up the saber with a napkin and use it. This shashka is designed to be held by the elaborately decorated pommel—it has no D-shaped guard through which you’d have to thread your hand. It’s made for both slashing and spearing. So you’d just have to hold a napkin, hold the sword, ram it in. Bud and I had a conversation earlier on about the practical ability of anyone in the room to deliver the fatal strike, and we both agreed it was within anyone’s capability, except, maybe, Clemence’s.”
“So, if it wasn’t Clemence, and it wasn’t Ian, who was it? There aren’t many of us left,” said Tom. “And I know it wasn’t me.”
“You would say that,” snapped Carl.
“Carl, please. Enough,” said Bud sternly. “Cait . . .”
“Right, let’s start at what I believe was the beginning. Julie told us that the process of getting the security system installed proved problematic for Miss Shirley, and that she’d said to Julie that she’d show the installation company that she was the boss. Julie thought that meant Miss Shirley wouldn’t pay their invoices on time. I think it gave Miss Shirley an idea. Clemence told me that Miss Shirley, and Carl’s father, used to enjoy practical jokes. I believe that this evening was supposed to be part of such a joke, but played at the expense of the security-system installation company. Tom, you told me about Miss Shirley owning a gun range, and also said it was common gossip that she was an excellent shot. I believe that Miss Shirley’s plan, all along, was to bring the BB gun into the dining room and shoot at the urn on the partition to set off the alarm, around midnight. The Cossack Parade with the precious block of amber takes place then in the casino below us, and calls for the attendance of most of the security guards.”
“You’ve got a point,” said Art. “This room going into lockdown right then would cause chaos at that hour, with few responders available. Miss Shirley liked to keep people on their toes, and she’d not been very pleased recently with our head of security who’d recommended the installation company that messed up. She was angry with them, with him, and with herself for trusting them all. The alarm going off right then would have tested him to his limits.”
“Exactly,” I continued. “Earlier on tonight, Julie mentioned that the keypad numbers were big enough to allow Miss Shirley to use them with her arthritic hands. I think that arthritis made her less of a crack shot than she used to be, so she missed the body of the urn and just managed to clip the handle. That was enough to make the system kick in in any case.”
“The urn,” said Carl, “was worth a fortune. It’s one of a pair.” He sounded horrified.
“Was pretty,” said Svetlana quietly, and sadly.
“Miss Shirley planned more carefully than that, Carl—don’t panic. You haven’t lost a valuable part of your inheritance. Clemence told me Mi
ss Shirley once had a vase made just so she could break it and give her husband a fright. I believe she did the same with the urn. I should have noticed that it was really too thick and heavy for Sèvres when Bud and I were clearing away the broken pieces, but I was distracted by our conversation at the time. Upon examining those pieces again, and checking the other urn, it’s quite clear that the one that’s broken is a fake. I have no idea where the original might be, but I’m guessing it’s somewhere safe.”
Art chuckled. “Sounds just like her,” he said.
“In order to accommodate the gun, she needed a large metal purse that would hide it in more ways than one when she walked through the metal detector at the entry to the elevator. After all, the security guards were unlikely to ask the owner herself to open her purse when it set off the metal detector. Also, Bud mentioned that Clemence said something interesting when he was delirious. Apparently Clemence shouted that Miss Shirley was trying to kill him. Although he was napping opposite his old friend when she took her shot, I wouldn’t be surprised if some aspect of her actions seeped through into his subconscious. He interpreted her pulling a gun out of her purse and shooting it as an attempt on his life.”
“But why did she change the codes?” asked Art.
“I have to admit this is supposition, but, of course, she didn’t know she was going to be killed. All she thought she was doing by changing the codes was inconveniencing the installation company. As Julie told us when the codes she used didn’t work, the control pad recorded the fact that the Tsar! security office had also made their three attempts to free the system. It would have been at that point, I suppose, that they’d have called the installation company to come to attend to it. I believe that Miss Shirley wanted there to be as big a stink as possible. By changing the codes without telling anyone, she’d have been the only one able to unlock the system. Maybe she had plans for us to all be enjoying white chocolate bread pudding, cheese, fruit, and champagne in here, while a lot of people were stressing out about the security system out there. The killer was as surprised as the rest of us that we couldn’t get out of here.”