Mystery Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  “Oh, merde,” she swore. She dabbed at her dress with her napkin. “Irene, where can I…?”

  “Through that door,” Irene said, pointing at the same door Mason had used. “First door on the right.”

  “Thank you.” Nina stood and headed for the door, still rubbing at the wine stain with her napkin.

  So, Lacey thought, the game is afoot.

  One by one, each guest had an excuse to leave the table as the one before returned. Roger left out the front door to smoke a cigarette, as did Zachary later on. Sam needed to go upstairs to their room for a minute. Veronica needed to freshen her lipstick. Lacey waited until most had made their brief disappearing acts, then excused herself to visit the bathroom. Going through the door where Mason—and several others—had gone, she noted the dimly lit sitting room or library. Books lined several built-in bookcases, and a huge fireplace dominated one wall. Out sliding glass doors to the back yard, Lacey could see a staircase from the upper floor.

  Whether people had gone through here, out the front, or upstairs, they all had access to this part of the house.

  Back at the table, Lacey smiled to the waiter who took her plate, thanked the one following who set her cut glass bowl of chocolate mousse down in front of her. She tried a spoonful of mousse—delicate and light. The perfect compliment.

  Irene, down at the end of the table, fidgeted. “Where has Mason gone? That man.” She smiled to her neighbors to lighten the complaint. She ate a few spoonfuls of her mousse, then pushed it away in disgust. “I’ll be right back. I can’t imagine what’s so important…”

  She, too, headed through the door into the back room. Metal spoons clinked against glass. Voices murmured in subdued conversation. Lacey reached for her water glass.

  A scream ripped the air. Lacey almost dropped her glass.

  Two of the waiters ran from the kitchen to the back door. They threw the door open, leaving the way clear. Ed got up first and followed, then Roger, then Lacey and everyone else.

  The tableau that greeted them was chilling.

  Irene knelt on the floor in a corner behind a large leather recliner. Mason’s arms and legs sprawled into view. Lacey edged sideways to see his body; his jacket was open, and a spreading pool of blood stained his white shirt.

  “Call an ambulance!” Irene wailed. One of the waiters immediately grabbed a vintage cradle telephone and dialed a number. He spoke curtly into the mouthpiece.

  “Let me through,” Sam said. He pushed his way forward through the group—politely, of course—and went to Irene’s side where he knelt beside her.

  “Dr. Chowdhury,” she breathed gratefully. She scooted out of the way so Sam could examine Mason.

  I gotta see this, Lacey thought. She went sideways behind a few of the guests, out where she could see clearly into the corner. She saw Sam bend over Mason, put two fingers to his throat, then take his wrist to check for a pulse. After a moment of strained silence, he laid the limp hand down and turned to Irene.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  ~~~

  SEVEN

  Irene collapsed into tears. Sam took her into his arms and held her, but her sobs shook them both.

  “Is he dead?” Nina hissed. The uneasy murmuring told Lacey not everyone was sure this was part of the fun. She watched Mason’s nostrils, his chest. Yes, she saw movement there. Okay, this was just an act.

  “The ambulance is on its way,” the waiter said.

  Lacey stepped forward to where Sam still consoled Irene. “What should we do?” she asked.

  Sam looked up, his face grim. “Go on back to the dining room,” he said. “We’ll wait there for the police.” He glanced around at the faces. “Obviously no one should leave the premises.”

  Lacey herded the guests back through the door. Some took their seats at the table while others paced the room or leaned against walls.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Veronica said to Christine. “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t he scream?” Nina asked.

  “He couldn’t have been shot,” Ed said. “We’d have heard it.”

  “Stabbed,” Roger offered sagely.

  Several people nodded.

  Suddenly the front door burst open. Two men in white coats—who looked strangely like some of the waiters Lacey had seen earlier—barged in with a medical bag and a six-foot canvas litter.

  “Where?” one asked brusquely.

  Half a dozen hands pointed toward the library. The men hurried in.

  Almost immediately a knock sounded from the open front door and a man in a striped suit stepped in. He held out a small leather case with a badge clearly visible.

  “Detective Maybry, LAPD,” he said gruffly. He had a thin mustache and chewed on an unlit cigar.

  Lacey could tell at a glance that his badge was not authentic.

  “You folks having a party?” he asked. He put his badge away and tossed his hat on the front registration counter.

  “We were,” Lacey affirmed. “Until the host turned up dead.”

  Maybry took a small notebook and a pen from his pocket. “Where’s the body?”

  Again several people pointed to the door to the library. Maybry tossed a cautionary look at the guests and went through to the library.

  “That was quick,” Ed said under his breath. He glanced at Lacey and smiled.

  She gave him a quick nod, but kept her own smile from forming. It wouldn’t do to break character.

  Several tense moments slid by, accented by the tick of a wall clock in the otherwise silent room. Then small sounds signaled movement in the library—the scrape of chair legs across the floor, murmured conversation. Finally the two emergency personnel emerged, the canvas litter held between them, Mason’s inert body lying lifelessly as they carried him out. The red bloom on his shirt covered the left side of his chest.

  Sam and Irene followed, she leaning on his arm. Silent tears streaked her face. Sam walked her to her chair and helped her slide down into it.

  Behind them came Maybry.

  He stood near the head of the table—near Mason’s chair—and glowered at the attentive group. Some, like Lacey, met his stare without flinching, while others, notably Nina and Roger, looked down or away. Sam stood behind Irene’s chair and kept one hand on her shoulder, which she clung to.

  “Mrs. Dunhill,” Maybry said, his voice loud in the stillness. Irene looked up. “Is everyone who was here this evening still present?”

  Irene glanced quickly around, taking stock. “Yes.”

  “And your wait staff—are they all your own employees?”

  “Yes,” Irene said simply.

  “No outside people brought in for the party?”

  “No.”

  Maybry nodded. “All right,” he said. “As you well know, we’ve had a murder committed here. The victim”—he checked his notepad—“Mason Dunhill, was, according to preliminary examinations, stabbed in the heart. Obviously the body will undergo an autopsy and toxicology screen, so we may be revising the cause of death. But the fact remains that there was an intrusion into the body by a sharp instrument. No such sharp instrument was found, however.”

  He looked around at his audience, staring at face after face for a few meaningful seconds as he chewed on his cigar. Finally, after making visual contact with all nine people and apparently deciding he’d gotten all the good he was going to get out of the cigar, he turned and strode to a waste basket and tossed the soggy stub away. He returned to his place at the head of the table.

  “Obviously you are all… persons of interest,” he continued. “If you are guilty of this heinous crime, I would implore you to come forward immediately.”

  He waited.

  No one moved.

  He cleared his throat. “If you are innocent, obviously it will be in your best interest to find the guilty party as soon as possible. Therefore, in that vein, I would like you all to help in the search for the murder weapon.”

  One o
r two heads nodded slightly. Lacey didn’t move her head, but she noticed with her peripheral vision that none of the “persons of interest” looked at each other.

  “What you are looking for,” he said, “is something like this.” He held up a laminated card, slightly larger than a playing card, with a picture of snub-nosed .38 on it. “Obviously this is not the murder weapon,” he said. Lacey noticed how much he enjoyed using the word “obviously.” “The murder weapon will be something sharp, something robust enough to puncture the skin and project fully into the heart. And it will be depicted on a card like this.”

  He strolled down one side of the table, holding the card up for all to see. He rounded the end of the table, walking behind Sam and Irene, then came back up the other side. He made sure everyone got a good look at the card.

  “You will have approximately twenty minutes to search the rooms here on the ground floor. If any doors are locked, move on. The murderer obviously will have taken great pains to hide the weapon, so search diligently.” He checked his pocket watch. “It is now 9:35. Return here no later than ten p.m. Bring me that weapon.”

  He closed his watch with a snap.

  As if a starter’s pistol had rung out, the sound sent everyone moving. Some headed into the front ballroom; others began to roam the dining room. Lacey made a beeline into the library.

  She glanced up in dismay at the ceiling-tall bookshelves. A card could fit between any two books out of thousands. She obviously—Maybry’s voice said the word in her head—couldn’t look between every book, so she scanned the shelves for anything that stood out. A white book here, a red book there. Nothing. She concentrated on the furniture, sliding her hands underneath cushions, tipping straight-backed chairs and checking underneath the seats for something jammed in corners. She checked drawers in tables, lifted lamps, and picked up corners of area rugs.

  Nothing.

  Christine came in, followed by Zachary. She browsed the room and circled near Lacey.

  “Anything?” she asked in a low voice.

  Lacey shook her head. “Not yet.”

  They separated and searched further. Lacey watched Zachary pulling cushions from chairs much as she had done. She turned her attention to places she may have missed.

  She peered into the fireplace. There was no fire laid, so she examined the walls and floor. Nothing. She checked the mantle, moving knickknacks—a statuette, a dome clock, a glass ashtray. Nothing.

  She turned and scanned the room. A huge flower arrangement sat on a small table against the far wall. She went to it and picked up the vase just enough that she could see nothing lay under it. The lilies in the arrangement bowed and nodded, the greenery and baby’s breath shifting.

  A card fell out.

  Lacey grabbed it. She held it close to her body and checked behind her. Neither Zachary nor Christine had noticed. She pulled the card up just enough so she could see the weapon—a stiletto knife—then palmed it and headed back to the dining room.

  Ed was already there, in his seat. As Lacey took hers, she flashed the card at him.

  He flashed one back.

  Oh ho, she thought. There’s more than one possible murder weapon. Interesting.

  Little by little, people began drifting back to the table, most empty-handed. Lacey noticed Nina had a card. Anyone else? Not that she could see.

  Just before ten, Maybry rejoined them. Everyone else was seated at the table in their assigned seats except Irene. Lacey wondered if she had some setup to see to. Maybry didn’t seem concerned.

  He got out his pocket watch and checked the time, snapped it shut and slipped it in his vest pocket. “All right,” he said. He scanned the guests at the table, apparently satisfied that they had abided by his time limit. “Any luck?”

  Lacey had both hands resting on her card. She took a breath and was about to reveal it, when Ed spoke up.

  “Yes,” he said proudly. He held up his card.

  “Ah,” said Maybry. “An ice pick.” He strode to Ed and picked up the card, then held it up for all to see. “Sharp, strong. Certainly feasible.” He turned and started back to the head of the table. “Anyone else?”

  As he started past Nina, she held her card out to him.

  “Ha!” he said. “A hypodermic needle.” He showed the card. “Another possibility.” He regained his place at the end of the table. “Any more?”

  Lacey held up her card. He simply leaned over and plucked it from her fingers. “A stiletto,” he said, showing the card, “and not the flat-bladed kind, but the round, narrow sort. Yes, certainly.” He surveyed the group. “Any more?”

  Heads turned, looking about, but no more offerings came. Maybry laid the cards out before him on the table, in the exact spot where Mason’s dinner plate had been.

  “So,” he began, “we have three possible murder weapons. From what we know now, all could easily be responsible for the type of wound inflicted. Obviously—”

  The word hung in the air. Lacey heard gasps from behind her at the table.

  A figure stood just inside one wall of the room. Shadowy, grayish-blue, the man wore a cutaway suit with a black bow tie and white gloves. Lacey stared. She could see the wall behind him… through him.

  He started across the room. His legs propelled him forward, yet his feet glided across the floor, not actually touching it. He walked past the table as if no one was there, and when he reached the opposite wall, he disappeared into it.

  ~~~

  EIGHT

  “What was that?”

  “Was that a ghost?”

  “Where?”

  “Did you see it?”

  The wordless gasps turned into a torrent of questions. Each guest turned to others, hoping for answers.

  Not Lacey. She stared at the wall where the “ghost” had appeared, then tracked his path to the wall behind her. She studied the ceiling above, the corners of the room, searching for small projectors, maybe just pinhole lenses that might have worked together to create the hologram. But she found nothing.

  “Was that Mason?” Veronica asked. She clutched at her neck and worried the pearls she wore there.

  “It didn’t look like him,” Lacey said. “Different clothes. He looked like a butler.”

  “The butler did it,” Roger chortled. A few people chuckled with him.

  “More mysteries in this house,” Maybry said, calling attention back to him. He seemed only mildly distracted by the ghost, and leaned on the table with both hands. “It would appear that we have more than one mysterious death here, but let us focus on the one tonight. That is our goal.”

  He scooped up the cards from the table. “Tomorrow morning I expect to have more information from the coroner’s office. And, hopefully, more evidence of the killer. I will share what I have with you then. In the meantime, obviously, none of you should leave these premises. Is that understood?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “we will do everything in our power to solve this tragic crime. Until then, I bid you all good night.”

  Irene stepped out from behind the registration counter when all the guests had filed into the front ballroom and stopped at the foot of the stairs.

  “Breakfast is at seven tomorrow morning,” she announced, “and Detective Maybry will give us an update. After that, you will be free to roam the grounds, to mingle, to play outside, or to follow clues. Dress will be casual.”

  “There was a ghost!” Veronica said excitedly. She pointed back toward the dining room.

  “Oh?” Irene smiled. “He appears infrequently. You were lucky to see him. Now, are there any questions?”

  Her offhand dismissal of the ghost quelled any further excitement. No one else spoke up.

  ~~~

  The guests drifted up the stairs in what might have been a mild state of shock. It had been an eventful evening to say the least: a “murder,” multiple suspects, multiple murder weapons, and a ghost. Lacey murmured goodnights to all, but was brimming with energy
for when she and Sam were alone.

  At the click of the locked door behind them, she ripped off her headband and kneaded her forehead where a headache was building.

  “So what’s the ghost got to do with it?” she asked. “I don’t get it. I looked all over for how they were projecting that hologram, but I couldn’t find—”

  “It’s not a hologram,” Sam said. He unbuttoned his Nehru jacket and pulled it off, hanging the rental carefully on a hanger.

  “It’s not?” Lacey blinked at him. “Then what is it?”

  He turned to her. “It’s a ghost.”

  “A ghost?”

  He sat on the bed and slipped off the dress shoes he wasn’t used to. “Yeah. You know, those things we deal with all the time?”

  “But…” She came and stood before him, hands on hips. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

  Sam shrugged while massaging his toes through his socks. “I don’t know. Nothing, maybe. But that’s a bona fide ghost.”

  She sat down next to him. “That’s crazy.”

  He switched feet. “It’s an old house. Probably built during Hollywood’s golden era. Plenty of time for people to die here.”

  “But, but…” She stared down at her beaded dress, at the limp headband she’d thrown on the bed. “We’re supposed to figure out the murder.” She felt like her brain was being pulled in two different directions, and it wasn’t responding well to the divergence. She pinched the top of her nose and knew that wasn’t going to cut it. Grabbing her pack off the bed, she dug in it for Tylenol.

  “Well, now we have a second job,” Sam said.

  Lacey took two of the pills to the kitchen counter and filled a glass with water. She tossed the pills in her mouth and chased them with several swallows of water, then set the glass down.

  “You want to do that now? Here? I mean, during the weekend?” She felt like the headache was making her dopey.

  “Sure. Why not? We’re here.” He glanced around. “Did you bring your laptop?”