“No. I do have my phone, though.”
“That’ll work,” he said. “You can search on that, right? Do your research that way?”
Lacey narrowed her eyes at her husband. Her turbaned, bearded husband. “I thought we were here to have fun.”
He lay back on the bed, angling his body so he could stretch out fully. He put his hands behind his head, cushioned by the multiple pillows.
“We are,” he said simply. “But we need to do this, too.”
She fumed. “Why?” As soon as she said that, though, she knew the answer.
“Come on, Lace,” he chastised gently. “You know why. He’s stuck. He doesn’t belong here. We need to free him.”
She exhaled heavily and walked back to the bed, pulling her phone from her pack. “Yeah, I know. But this is a very inconvenient ghost,” she muttered.
She sat down on her side of the bed and pulled up her browser. In a search engine, she plugged in “Mulholland Drive” and “death.” She realized that was all she had to go on.
“Did you get any feelings from him?” she asked.
Sam was silent for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. With his turban on, he reminded her of Johnny Carson doing his Carnak the Magnificent, except without the big feather.
“Sorrow. Guilt. Regret. And yet very stoic. Uncomplaining.”
Lacey scanned the results that came up. Most of the suggested articles were too recent. She looked for dates in the 1930s or ‘40s, but there were very few.
“Do you think he’s a butler?” she asked.
“Yeah, probably. A servant for sure.”
She nodded, still scanning. “So do you have any ideas about the murder?”
“We don’t know that he was murdered,” Sam said.
Lacey huffed out a breath. “Not this guy. Mason. You got any hunches about who the murderer is?”
Another minute of silence. “Professor Plum in the kitchen with the candlestick.”
Lacey glared at him.
“Yeah, I’ve got some ideas,” he said.
“Wanna share?”
“No.”
Lacey fumed. “We’re supposed to connive and scheme. Make deals, trade secrets. You know what I noticed?”
“What?”
“When Mason came around to chat with all of us, he said something to each of us that hinted at a secret, that implied a sordid past. Did you notice that?”
Sam smiled grimly. “Yeah.”
“Like when he asked you if you were still cutting people up in pieces. What was that about?”
Sam angled his head at her, one eyebrow up near his turban. “He said something to you about getting your figure back. Did you used to be obese or something?”
She turned back to her phone in exasperation. Okay, maybe not such a good idea. “What about the judge? He said something about money, about having enough to live in style. You think he took bribes?”
“That’s possible,” Sam admitted. “And Nina,” he continued. “It sounded like he was taking a cut at her nobility.”
“Maybe she’s not really a lady?” Lacey asked.
“Also possible.”
“Well,” she said, “we can find out more tomorrow. Maybe Ed or Christine can tell us what Mason may have said to their group. We may have to pay for information.”
“Maybe,” Sam said. He pulled one knee up and toed Lacey’s hip.
“Hey,” she complained. “You’re getting sock lint on my sequins.”
“That’s terrible,” he said. “Maybe you ought to take that dress off before it gets ruined.”
She peered at him from under her brows. “You think?”
“Well, it is a rental,” he said. “You don’t want to have to pay extra for damages.” He dug a toe into her side.
“Hey, watch it, buster.” She scooched a few inches away. “I thought you wanted me to research this ghost.”
“I was thinking,” he said, “we could ask Irene about him in the morning. It sounded like she knew about him, or at least wasn’t surprised to know he was there.”
Lacey nodded. “Yeah, maybe. I’m coming up with nothing here. Not enough information to get anything specific.”
She tossed her phone aside and stood up, then went around to his side of the bed. “Would you unzip me?”
She presented her back to him and felt his fingers on the zipper pull, felt the dress loosen as he pulled it down. Just as he slipped his hand inside the open back of her dress, she danced away.
“Huh uh, Dr. Chowdhury. Rental, remember?” She went to the closet and shimmied out of the dress, hanging it carefully in its garment bag. When she turned back toward Sam, dressed only in bra and panties, he moved over and patted the bed beside him.
“Why, Dr. Chowdhury,” she murmured, lying down beside him. “I had no idea a man of your … spiritual nature would have such… appetites.” She slid a finger underneath his turban. “What about this?”
Sam yanked it off, releasing his loose, black hair.
Lacey leaned close, her lips only inches from his. She licked her lips, and watched him watching her.
“Your beard’s coming off,” she said. She hooked a finger inside the loose edge and pulled gently. “Does that hurt?”
“No. Pull it,” he said.
She did, carefully. With her gentle, constant pressure, the glue let loose and the fake beard pulled away. She ripped the last corner quickly, as if it were a bandage, then held up the limp, hairy thing with thumb and forefinger.
“Where do you want it?”
He took it gingerly and laid it on top of the clock radio beside the bed.
“We’ll have to remember it’s there,” Lacey said. “Otherwise we might think it’s a spider and try to kill it.”
She might not have spoken. Sam pulled her closer and nibbled at her mouth with his lips.
“That mustache feels weird,” she said. “It tickles.”
Sam pushed her down on the bed and raised himself over top of her.
“Deal with it,” he said.
She did.
~~~
NINE
Faint morning light bloomed through the window. Lacey opened her eyes and stretched, then turned toward her husband.
Her sleeping husband. Her un-mustachioed husband.
She scrunched closer and lay beside him. With one hand and the slightest touch, she played her fingertips over his bare upper lip.
His eyes opened halfway, irises black with sleep, and tried to focus on her.
“Where’s your mustache?” she asked softly.
“With the other spider on the radio.”
She laughed soundlessly. “When did you do that?”
“I don’t know. Sometime between your bra and my pants, I think.”
“Mmm.” She ran one finger across his upper lip, down his cheek and around his bare chin. “You’re much more handsome than Dr. Chowdhury.”
He put an arm around her and pulled her close, her breasts flattening against his chest. “And you’re much more appealing than Mrs. Unrue.”
He kissed her, his lips soft and sensuous from sleep.
“We have a lot to do today,” she reminded him.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “You go ahead and take the bathroom first. I’ll wait.”
“You’ll go back to sleep,” she accused.
“And your point is…?” He burrowed into the pillows, closed his eyes, then just barely opened one so he could see her.
“You may think you’re being sneaky, Dr. Chowdhury, but I’m onto you.”
“Oh, darn,” he said, pulling the pillows up around his head. “Foiled again.”
She pushed herself up. “I’ll wake you when I’m done.”
“Mmph,” he said.
~~~
Casual, Irene had said. Although it was clear and sunny, the early December air was cool. Lacey pulled on tan slacks and a chunky oatmeal-colored sweater. It felt good to wear her own clothes. She did, however, wrap the green beads around her
neck. She’d save the pink headband for the gala dinner tonight.
“See you downstairs,” she called to Sam. He moved, slightly, but didn’t answer.
She closed the door with a loud thud.
Ed and the judge were already downstairs. She greeted them, then went to look in the dining room. Multiple steam tables were set up, and waiters were filling the bins with crisp bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, ham steaks, hash browns and pancakes. A sideboard held coffee carafes, water and juice, and dry cereal packs plus a mountain of assorted muffins.
“I don’t know,” she said to the guys. “Do you think there’s enough?”
Ed chuckled. “I have a feeling if we run out, they’ll make more.”
“I should hope so,” Zachary said. “For as much as we paid, it should be all you can eat.”
Lacey calculated quickly. The tab for the weekend was high, but for two nights plus five meals and a murder beside? It seemed fair to her.
“So, Ed… I mean, Frederick.” She caught herself. “I wanted to ask you, when Mason was talking to your group before dinner—”
“And we have early birds.” Detective Maybry’s voice boomed out as he entered from the door behind the registration counter. He glanced at the name tags as he greeted them. “Mr. Culp, Mrs. Unrue, Justice McDowell. Good morning.”
They all murmured their replies.
“Ready for a day of sleuthing and scheming?”
“Sure,” Lacey said. The men nodded in agreement. “And you’ve got additional information for us?”
“All in good time,” Maybry said. He hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and angled his head down at her. “Let’s wait until everyone is here so you all get the same information.”
Lacey smiled, but chafed at the idea of cooling her jets. She was a morning person. She was ready to go.
Christine joined them, as did Veronica and Roger. While Roger seemed eager to buddy up to Lacey, Veronica sniffed pointedly and towed him away. Zachary drifted toward the dining room, apparently used to Nina’s late entrances.
“You talk to the kids last night?” Lacey asked Christine.
“Yeah, just for a sec. Daniel and Mark were in the middle of a video game marathon, and Kenzie and Emily were watching Frozen for about the twentieth time.”
Lacey chuckled. “Sounds about right.”
Ed moved closer and lowered his voice. “So what were you going to ask me earlier? About Mason talking to us?”
Lacey glanced around and huddled with both of them. “Did you notice Mason making derogatory remarks—or implying them—to everyone? Maybe veiled threats?”
Ed nodded. “Yeah, sort of.” He looked to Christine. “Remember he said something to Roger about drunken horses?”
“Drunken horses?” Lacey whispered.
“Drunken, drugged; I can’t remember the exact words he used.”
“He said drug addict horses,” Christine said.
“Drug addicts. Hmm.” Lacey pondered that.
“What did he say to your group?” Ed asked.
“He zinged Zachary about making enough money to keep Nina in style, then he zinged her about not going home to her ‘castle.’” She used air quotes. “More secrets to unravel. What did he say about Veronica?”
“He congratulated her on her divorce, said it was good she’d kicked the slum lord to the curb.”
“Slum lord? With all the money she’s supposed to have? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time the filthy rich got that way by squeezing poor people every chance they got.”
Sam joined them just as Irene came from the room behind registration. He wore his own black jeans with a white shirt, a tunic style with a Nehru collar. He’d refastened his beard and mustache, and his turban was neat and tidy.
“Good morning,” Christine said with a smile at the costume.
“Namaste,” Sam said to both of them. “Breakfast not ready yet?”
“It is now,” Irene said, walking on past. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
They had different seats at the table, the place cards scrambled. Lacey found herself between Ed and Zachary while Sam was on the opposite side between Christine and Nina.
The food, of course, was excellent.
Detective Maybry had taken over Mason’s seat at the head of the table. In truer circumstances, Lacey thought that would be a terribly insensitive breach of etiquette, but in the pretend setting, it seemed acceptable and even normal.
“Did everyone sleep well?” Irene asked. Whether by chance or design, her question came when everyone’s mouths were full, so the only answers were nodding heads and mumbled agreements. Satisfied, she attended to her own breakfast and the table settled into the quiet clink of silverware against china and murmured requests for salt or butter.
Lacey quelled her own impulse to eat fast in order to move the morning along. With her head down, she glanced around beneath her lashes, amazed that no one else seemed in any hurry. Was she the only one anxious to get this show on the road? Looking sideways, she caught Sam’s eyes on her. One corner of his mouth quirked up and his eyes sparkled.
Quit reading my mind, she sulked silently. She concentrated on her meal and didn’t look up again.
Once everyone was sated and the waiters began to collect the empty plates and top off coffee cups, Maybry cleared his throat.
“As I promised last night,” he began, “I have more evidence gleaned from the autopsy of Mason Dunhill.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket and opened it to read. “Mr. Dunhill died from a sudden stoppage of his heart. It was complete and instantaneous.”
Lacey frowned. “But the small wound produced by any of the murder weapons would not have had that effect. It would have taken several minutes for the heart to stop functioning.”
Maybry leveled his direct stare at her. “You are correct, madam.”
Murmurs erupted around the table.
“Is there another murder weapon?” the judge asked. “Something we haven’t found?”
“Were there any other wounds?” Christine chimed in.
“No, on both accounts,” Maybry said. “But obviously there is more here than meets the eye.” He folded the paper and put it away, then tapped a manila folder beside his plate.
“In addition to that, there were several papers found in Mr. Dunhill’s possession.” He opened the folder and took out the first sheet. “I have here a copy of adoption papers dated 1902. The child being adopted was named Mary Margaret Phelps.”
Lacey felt her face flame. Phelps was her character’s maiden name. Would anyone else remember that obscure detail?
She kept her eyes on Maybry, although she could tell there were a lot of puzzled looks around the table.
“Next,” he said, “I have a notice of conviction of horse trainer Jeffrey Ames for the unlawful drug enhancement of race horses while employed at Ludlow Farms in Tennessee.”
Lacey immediately swiveled her head toward Roger Ludlow. The man glowered at Maybry, silently defying any implications.
“And finally,” Maybry said, “I have a copy of a lawsuit from five years ago. It was filed as Petterson v. Culp, and alleged plagiarism of a very popular—and profitable—musical opus.”
“That case was dismissed!” Ed barked out.
Maybry eyed the paper. “Yes, it was. The court concluded there was not enough evidence to support the claim.” He laid the paper in the file. “Yet, as you see, there are still many mysteries here. We still don’t know what Mr. Dunhill planned to reveal after dinner last night. And we still don’t know who killed him.”
He looked from one guest to the next, pinning each with an intent, warning stare.
“So we have our work cut out for us,” he continued. “I will leave all the evidence at the front desk for you to review. I encourage you to use today to ferret out as many details as you can, as I will, also.”
Irene took over. “Feel free to use all our facilities here,” she said. “Outside in the back there are shuffleboa
rd courts, horseshoes, a badminton net, and a lawn for croquet. Lunch will be served on the patio at one. Tonight will be our gala night, with cocktails at six and dinner at eight.” She smiled broadly. “Any questions?”
There were none.
“Enjoy your day.”
~~~
TEN
Once Maybry excused himself to set up the display of evidence, people began to scatter. Lacey took her last fresh cup of coffee and wandered out through the library to the back yard. The patio provided numerous tables with umbrellas, and a view of the expansive lawn that fell away gently toward the valley. She strolled past the shuffleboard courts, remembering her parents playing when she was a child, and noted Roger and Ed already scoping out the horseshoe pits. She wondered if those two, their past secrets hinted at, might collaborate in an effort to exonerate themselves.
The badminton game—another one she remembered from childhood—held no interest for her, but the croquet… That sounded like fun. She’d have to see if anyone else wanted to play.
She was surprised when Veronica approached her. The portly older woman was dressed in a blue sheath dress with matching jacket, which did nothing to hide her wide girth.
“So, Maggie,” she began without preamble, “you had a child with Mason.”
Ah, thought Lacey. Someone did their homework.
“Yes,” she answered simply. There was no point in denying it.
“Was he going to reveal that to us all?” Veronica asked.
Lacey shrugged. “I have no idea. He didn’t mention it to me. It wouldn’t matter if he did. As you heard, the child was adopted.”
Veronica frowned. Lacey’s answer left her no leverage.
“Well,” she said with a sniff, “I do hope you learned from your transgressions.”
Lacey smiled, but not kindly. “Like you did, divorcing your slum lord husband to take up with Roger and his horse-doping schemes?”
Veronica stiffened. “I knew nothing about that,” she said disdainfully.
“One of the possible murder weapons is a syringe,” Lacey said. “Have you considered that Roger might have used his underhanded medical practices on Mason?”
Mystery Walk Page 5