Royally Dead

by Greta McKennan

  I washed my hands over and over in the sink, letting the warm gushing water soothe my frenzied heart rate. Finally, I thought I was calmed down enough to avoid suspicion. I flushed the toilet for good measure and emerged from the bathroom. I had been in Patrick’s room for less than ten minutes. Maybe Corgi would just think I’d been taking my time in the bathroom.

  I walked down the hall past Patrick’s room and right down the stairs as if I belonged there. I waved to McCarthy and Patrick, who were engrossed in a photo shoot, and walked straight out the front door.

  I found Corgi straddling a stool on the porch, strumming on an acoustic guitar. He looked up when I walked out. “Your plan is kind of backward at this point. Patrick came home while you were in the bathroom. McCarthy drew him out of his room just when I was ready to start vacuuming so he would have to talk to you in his room. What do you want to do now?”

  I had cringed when he said “bathroom,” until I realized he meant the one in the hall, not the one in Patrick’s room. “I’m kind of losing my nerve. I think I’ll just head out to lunch with McCarthy when he’s done. I’ll figure out some other way to find out Patrick’s deal.”

  “Suit yourself.” He played a few chords on the guitar. “You’ll find time to fit in my kilt, though, right?”

  I gave him a big smile filled with genuine relief. “Absolutely! I’m not going to promise it’ll be done by Saturday, but I’ll do my best.”

  I sat down on the porch steps to wait for McCarthy.

  He eventually emerged. He thanked Corgi for the chance to photograph this “renowned athlete” and beckoned me to follow him. We hopped into his car and drove off.

  McCarthy turned to me with a grin. “So?”

  “Thanks for the backup. You really came through.”

  He shook his head, as if he didn’t know what to do with me. “So, I’m wondering how you got stuck in Patrick Ames’s bathroom in need of backup. Just curious.”

  “Okay, I was being nosy. He wasn’t home, and Corgi had made it very clear he wouldn’t open up Patrick’s room for me, so I sort of broke in. I didn’t find anything there, so I can’t think why Patrick needs to keep his door locked all the time. I didn’t even find any valuables.” Although, now that I thought about it, I realized I hadn’t checked to see if there was a safe in the room. If there was, that would be a logical place to hide an incriminating silver whiskey flask. I’d have to ask Corgi.

  “So you were in the middle of an illegal search when the suspect came home and discovered you?” McCarthy’s eyes twinkled at me.

  “Yeah, except that he didn’t find me because I locked myself in the bathroom and hid behind the shower curtain. Then you created a diversion, which allowed me to escape.” I leaned back against the car seat and closed my eyes. “I hope Patrick can figure out how to get into his bathroom before it’s too late.” The thought of him doing the potty dance while trying to open the locked door to his bathroom struck me as so funny, I burst out laughing until the tears ran down my face.

  McCarthy just drove without a word, casting sidelong glances at me as if to make sure I wasn’t cracking up right there in his passenger seat. He pulled into a parking spot near the Commons and cut the engine. “Ready for some lunch?”

  I wiped my eyes and took McCarthy’s hand. “Seriously, you probably saved me from getting arrested for breaking and entering. Thank you for being my backup.”

  He squeezed my hand tight. “Happy to be of service. I’m just sorry I didn’t get a photo of you crouching behind the shower curtain. That would have been a priceless blackmail shot.”

  I snatched my hand away. “Yeah, you wish.”

  * * * *

  We walked along the Commons, looking for a good place to eat. The lunch crowds had dissipated because it was already close to one o’clock. McCarthy gave me a glance full of mischief and led the way to Over the Wall.

  I rolled my eyes at him. Good thing I liked Mexican food.

  We placed our orders at the counter and then McCarthy found us a quiet table in the corner. It happened to be the same table I’d sat at with Morris Hart, but I didn’t feel the need to mention that fact. I positioned myself with a good view of the entrance and wondered what the waitstaff must think of me, coming in to eat at the same table on two successive days with two different men. I really wasn’t that kind of a girl.

  McCarthy pulled out his little spiral notebook and flipped a few pages. He looked up at me expectantly. “Ready to talk about Ryan King as a suspect, or did you have thoughts on Patrick Ames first?”

  I reached for the basket of chips on the table. “I don’t know what to think about Patrick. He was the last person to have access to Ladd’s flask before it disappeared, but I didn’t find any trace of it in his room. That’s not definitive, of course, because he could have ditched it anywhere. Why would he hold on to it, unless he’s got some crazy need to collect souvenirs of his crimes or something?” I loaded up a chip with some salsa. “He’s carried on a bitter ten-year rivalry with Ladd. I can’t rule him out just because I didn’t find the murder weapon in his luggage.” I popped the chip into my mouth and mumbled around the edges, “Let’s move on to Ryan.”

  “Right.” McCarthy consulted his notes for a few seconds, the smile fading from his face. “I checked with a couple of sources and called in a few favors and ended up with a pretty good picture of what happened to Melissa King in Cleveland two years ago. She was Ryan’s wife and Gillian’s mother, as you know. Their marriage wasn’t…uneventful, shall we say. There were no less than three domestics lodged against Ryan King, although in each case Melissa refused to press charges. All three calls had to do with yelling and shoving only, no weapons, so the Cleveland Police Department didn’t worry too much about it.”

  He paused while the waiter put down our steaming plates. I’d ordered a burrito with rice and beans today. It was bursting with meat and cheese and smelled delicious. I hoped McCarthy’s tale wouldn’t spoil my appetite.

  “Then, two years ago on August 22, when Gillian was at a friend’s house for a sleepover, Ryan called 911 to say his wife was choking. By the time the paramedics arrived, she was dead. They would have taken his word for it that she choked on some food, except for the history of domestic disturbance and the bruises on her face and neck. So they ordered an autopsy and questioned Ryan, who was out of control.” He consulted his notes again. “The police report said he was screaming at the paramedics and police officers who were working on his wife’s body. He had to be physically restrained.” He shook his head. “It sounds like it was an ugly scene.”

  I eased the notebook out of his hand. “You should eat your lunch first and then tell me the rest.”

  He picked up his fork. “There’s not much else. Gillian wasn’t home, so she was spared the sight of the cops putting her father in a chokehold over the dead body of her mother. But because she wasn’t there, there wasn’t any witness to back up Ryan’s story. The autopsy showed evidence of choking on food. There was no explanation for the bruises on her face and neck, except that they didn’t contribute to her death. So the police told Ryan he was no longer a suspect, and he took Gillian and left town and came here. And from what I understand, Gillian is a real handful, and Ryan keeps her in check by running off her boyfriends, with force if necessary.”

  “That’s what she told me. There’s another side to this story that your sources probably don’t know. Gillian was never told how her mother died. She told me that her father told her to never mention her mother again. She thinks he killed her.”

  McCarthy laid down his fork again. His food was going to get cold at this rate. “What a thing to carry around.”

  I nodded, poking at my own food. “Picture a thirteen-year-old girl, coming home from a sleepover to find her mother dead. Her dad didn’t even call to tell her what happened. It breaks my heart. It’s no wonder she acts out the way she does.”
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  We sat in silence for a moment, feeling for Gillian. Then McCarthy rallied. “So, the upshot is that he really didn’t kill his wife in Cleveland two years ago. She died from choking on her food. It’s altogether possible his reaction to her death was shock and grief that came out sideways. But for your sleuthing purposes, oh nosy seamstress, Ryan King does not have a history of murder.”

  “Well, that’s good to know. You know, he told me that God smote Ladd for messing with his daughter. He was glad he died.”

  “You told me. But that doesn’t mean Ryan killed him.”

  He put his notebook away and proceeded to tell me a fantastical story about a reporter colleague who was trying to get an interview with a daredevil pilot who insisted it take place in his vintage biplane. By the time he got to the part where the pilot was flying upside down and the reporter dropped his notes at ten thousand feet, I was laughing so hard, I was at risk of choking on my own food. Leave it to McCarthy to lighten the mood!

  We didn’t linger too long after finishing because McCarthy needed to get back to work and I needed to make some serious progress on Corgi’s kilt. Whatever possessed me to say I’d even try to have it done by the weekend?

  McCarthy dropped me off at home and sped off with a cheery wave. I watched him go with a smile on my face and then headed inside to get to work on the kilt. The house was quiet, a sure sign Aileen was out and about. I knew Pete was at work, like always.

  I knuckled down all afternoon, working on basting the pleats so I could pull out all the pins I had so laboriously inserted. Progress. I found it ironic that I needed Corgi to come in and try on the kilt once the pleats were all basted and pressed down, after I’d denied him the chance to model it this morning. Maybe he could come back tomorrow.

  Basting is a fairly mindless activity in which you stitch down your seam using a long stitch that’s easy to pull out later once the final seam is sewed. I tried to skip this step whenever possible, but I knew this wasn’t one of those times. So I stitched and thought about my collection of murder suspects.

  I felt like I’d been snooping and asking questions and coming up with nothing. I had learned today that Patrick Ames wasn’t harboring Ladd’s flask in his room, unless it had eluded me, which was entirely possible. I’d also learned that Ryan hadn’t killed his wife. That didn’t mean he hadn’t killed Ladd. I couldn’t eliminate either of them as suspects.

  I pricked my finger on one of the hundreds of pins holding the pleats together and had to pause to put on a Band-Aid. I couldn’t really stop for a break. I wanted to get all the basting done by suppertime so I could call Corgi and arrange for a fitting tomorrow. I turned back to my basting.

  So, what about motive? Each one of my four suspects had a distinct motive for murder. Patrick harbored resentment from a ten-year rivalry that was on display at the time of Ladd’s death. Ryan had witnessed Ladd cavorting with his underage daughter and had gone so far as to punch Ladd in the face. Aileen had a history with Ladd and obviously hated him with all the passion of her fiery nature. Morris Hart…what motive could Hart have to kill Ladd? He was a successful author and described Ladd as a fan. Could they have had some other kind of connection that would lead to murder? Was there some dispute over something Hart had written? That seemed pretty far-fetched. I couldn’t think of a single reason why Hart would want to kill Ladd.

  I was more than halfway done with my basting when I heard the door downstairs and the sound of someone puttering around in the kitchen. A few minutes later, Pete knocked on the frame of my open door. He held up a small silver object that I recognized immediately. “I found this in the bin when I went to take out the recycling. Did you really mean to recycle it?” He handed me Ladd Foster’s whiskey flask.

  Chapter 17

  I dropped the flask on my desk as if it burned my fingers. “Do you know what this is?”

  “It doesn’t look like recycling, that’s all I know.”

  “It’s Ladd Foster’s missing flask.” I couldn’t believe it had been in our house all along. I grabbed a couple of tissues to pick it up and unscrew the lid to take a whiff. It smelled exactly like it had when I’d first handled it in the VIP tent at the Games. I screwed the lid back on with fingers that shook. “It smells awful. I’d say it hasn’t been washed. That’s good news for the police anyway.” I couldn’t believe I was saying that either.

  Pete stared, the color slowly fading from his face. “What, this is the murder weapon?” He fumbled for the back of my wooden chair, as if he needed it to hold himself upright. “How did this poisoned flask get from the VIP tent at the Highland Games to our recycling bin?”

  He knew. Why did I have to spell it out for him? “I didn’t put it there. You didn’t put it there. Who else lives in this house?”

  He sat down slowly, shaking his head. Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head in his hands. “No.”

  “Who else could have put it there?” I felt like I was accusing him, which was completely unreasonable. But I couldn’t help it.

  Pete lifted his head to look me in the face. “You think Aileen brought this home and threw it out in the trash?”

  I nodded. “What else could I think?”

  “No. Aileen couldn’t have done it. Think about it. When I came to pick you up, the flask had already gone missing. Then the police carted off Aileen. They kept her in custody for a couple of days, right? Not to disillusion you, but cops don’t let people in their custody hide items on their person or in their belongings. She couldn’t have had it on her.”

  “She could have put it in her car before the police took her,” I argued. “Or she could have stashed it in her band gear. She carries around a bunch of bags filled with cords and mics and things. No one would think twice at seeing a whiskey flask in there.”

  Pete ran his hands through his hair. “Okay, she could have done that. But why bring it into the house and leave it in the recycling bin for us to find? She could have gotten rid of it in any garbage can in town. Why bring it home to incriminate herself?”

  I didn’t have a good answer for that. I stared at the flask, wishing it could give an explanation of its movements. The unicorn embossed on the front stared back at me, as if mocking me.

  My gaze sharpened. I’d seen that same unicorn before, on the front of Margaret Oliphant’s diary. Julie had said it was the Oliphant crest. Interesting that Ladd Foster carried around a silver flask with the Oliphant crest. I supposed he could have graduated from Oliphant University. I made a mental note to look into that possibility.

  Pete stared at the flask as well, as if it were possessed. “I got my fingerprints all over that darn thing,” he said in a glum voice.

  Poor Pete—the last thing he wanted was to be a suspect in a police investigation. “You didn’t know what it was. I guess my prints are on it too. I hope the cops will go easy on us.”

  His head shot up. “We can’t turn this in to the cops. They’ll come back and arrest Aileen for murder.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We can’t just put it out with the recycling. If we hold on to it, we’re covering up a crime. They could bust us for accessory after the fact or something.”

  He twisted his hands together. “We could just ditch it somewhere….”

  So much for my trying-to-be-law-abiding brother. I picked up my phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  “Wait! Let me talk to Aileen first.” He bowed his head. “Then we’ll call.”

  At that moment, I heard the front door slam and a clatter in the front hall.

  Pete flinched. “We don’t get any time to think about what to say, do we?” He stood up, squared his shoulders, and picked up Ladd’s flask. “No time like the present.” He headed downstairs with me right behind.

  We found Aileen rooting through the fridge. She had added a wispy purple cape to her earlier ensemble of magenta bustier and gold lamé leggings, so no
w she looked like a colorful superhero about to hit the catwalk. A motley assortment of lunchmeats, hot sauces, dried fruit, and a huge bag of fiery nacho chips were strewn about on the counter. Pete put down the flask next to the dried mangos.

  Aileen popped her head out of the fridge and looked from Pete to me to the flask on the counter. She straightened up slowly and closed the refrigerator door. She locked eyes with Pete, who returned her gaze without flinching. I faded back to the doorway, feeling the tension building in the room.

  “I found it in the recycling,” Pete said, cutting off Aileen before she could say anything. “It’s Ladd Foster’s flask with the poison still in it.”

  Nothing subtle about that. I might have waited to see if Aileen would recognize the flask on her own, but Pete just charged ahead.

  Aileen plucked a plate from the cupboard and opened a hamburger bun on it. She started loading it up with all the food items on the counter to make one huge sandwich. She piled on a large portion of nacho chips and smashed down the top of the bun. “What’s it doing in our house?” she said.

  “That’s what…” My words died on my lips at a warning glance from Pete. He was probably remembering my lamentable behavior at the jail, when I’d almost started a brawl with Aileen during visiting hours. Maybe it would be better for him to take the lead.

  “I don’t know,” he said to Aileen. He was standing so still that Mohair almost stepped on his foot when she padded into the kitchen.

  Aileen carried her laden plate to the table and sat down. She took a huge bite and mumbled around the food. “So you came down here to ask me if I put it in the recycling bin, right?”