Mystery Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  Veronica put a hand to the pearls at her throat, but the shock on her face quickly turned to anger. “And have you considered the fact that your Dr. Chowdhury also has medical training and access to such instruments?”

  Lacey dipped her head in agreement. “Touché,” she said softly. “So we are both suspect by association.” She sidled up closer to the woman. “We should join forces. What about Lady Nina? I suspect she is no lady at all.”

  Veronica glanced around, the promise of scandal too tempting to ignore. “I believe you are right. What do you know?”

  “Only that Mason chided her last night about not spending any time at the family castle. Is there a family castle?”

  Veronica chuckled. “I heard she immigrated to the US on a fraudulent visa and worked as a nanny. That is, until she realized that being a high-priced escort was more profitable.”

  “Escort, huh?” Lacey asked. She laughed softly. “Hardly the sort of activity a lady would engage in.”

  “Exactly.” Veronica nodded once, for emphasis. “A revelation like that would ruin her in this town for sure.”

  Lacey agreed. But would the petite Nina choose such a physical way to commit murder?

  “I think I’ll go examine the evidence again,” Lacey said. She touched Veronica’s hand lightly. “I’ll let you know if I make any more connections.”

  Walking back to the house, Lacey had to smile. One enemy turned into an ally, she thought. Who else could she get on her side?

  She went in through the library, set her coffee cup on the sideboard in the dining room and continued on into the front room. Zachary was standing at the registration counter, examining the evidence.

  “So who do you think did it?” she asked lightly.

  He looked up quickly, his face a study in surprise.

  “I have no idea,” he said coldly.

  “No?” Lacey stepped up next to him and picked up the weapon cards. “No hunches? No gut feelings? I wonder if the autopsy could verify if the killer were left- or right-handed.”

  Zachary frowned at her. “How could it?”

  “Easy,” Lacey said. “If I stabbed you, and I’m right-handed, the weapon would most likely have a leftward slant to it, like this.” She pantomimed stabbing him, her fist angled to the right, the direction of the assault veering left. “If I were left-handed, the attack would slant the opposite way, left to right.”

  Zachary narrowed his dark, coffee-colored eyes at her. “Are you a cop?”

  “Oh, heavens, no,” she said with a tinkly laugh. “But, just for the record, are you right-handed or left-handed?”

  He stood over her, chewing on his lip and apparently holding in a hot retort. Finally, he exhaled heavily and moved away. “I think I hear someone calling,” he said lamely.

  Lacey snickered to herself. This actually was pretty fun. She was free to be as catty or hardassed as she wanted, and even the worst manners were all part of the program. It was fun just stirring the pot.

  She laid the murder weapons out on the counter and studied them. The ice pick was fairly small; she would suspect it would take more than one stab to have a fatal effect, yet Maybry said there was only one wound. The stiletto was more robust, but could it stop a heart cold? That seemed improbable unless the killer just made a lucky hit. She picked up the syringe. Even more delicate…

  Then she noticed something. This was no ordinary syringe. The needle itself was heavy-duty, more like the one that a dentist used to deliver Novocain than the narrow vein-pricker used to draw blood. And the tip of the needle… Clearly it was slanted, with a relatively large opening.

  This could deliver a wallop to a human or any large animal… like a horse.

  She tapped the card. So is that a bona fide clue, or a red herring?

  Just then the door behind the counter opened and Sam stuck his head out. He glanced around, saw her, and called out in a low voice.

  “Lace. Come in here for a minute, would you?”

  Surprised, Lacey left her study of the murder weapons and followed him through the door. Once inside, she closed it behind her.

  Irene sat at a desk in a cluttered office. She had a large computer monitor before her, a printer and a scanner to one side. A folding chair sat near her padded leather work chair, and Sam grabbed a second folding chair from a corner. He set it beside the first and motioned to Lacey to sit.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, taking the seat.

  “We’re talking about the ghost,” Sam said.

  Irene sat back in her chair with a rueful smile. “I thought your names sounded familiar when I saw your registration, but I didn’t make the connection. I see a lot of names.”

  “Understandable,” Sam said. “But we would like to work this releasement into the weekend if we can. I think this guy’s been here a long time.”

  “Oh, for sure,” Irene said. “Since the ‘30s, I understand.”

  Lacey felt lost without her notebook. “Can I borrow some paper and a pen?”

  Irene passed over the items.

  “Thanks,” Lacey said. “Do you know his name?” She sat with pen poised.

  Irene shook her head. “Not his, no. But from what I’ve been told, he worked here for a mid-list gangster named Michael Philo. Philo ran a series of nightclubs that all fronted illegal betting parlors. Apparently he made enough money to satisfy himself, but never got big-time enough to draw undue attention from the police or rival gangs.”

  “Yeah, I’ve never heard of him,” Lacey confirmed.

  Irene chuckled. “Maybe he retired to Miami. Got out before the cops got onto him. How many gangsters could say that?”

  “Not many, for sure,” Lacey said. She thought about Charles “The Hammer” Harcourt, a New York gangster whose ghost they’d recently dealt with. No retirement for him.

  “What else can you tell us?” Sam asked.

  Irene shrugged. “Not much. Apparently there were doors where he appears and disappears, but over the years, the different owners have remodeled and changed the layout of the house. He doesn’t appear very often, so I was surprised you all saw him last night. He’s very quiet, never bothers anyone, and he’s never seen upstairs. We hardly notice him at all anymore.”

  Suddenly the office’s back door opened and Mason stepped through. He stopped dead, surprised to see guests there with Irene.

  “Speaking of ghosts,” Lacey joked.

  “Uh…” Mason’s face flamed, and he looked half ready to bolt out the door.

  “Relax, Mason,” Irene said. “This is Sam Firecloud and Lacey Fitzpatrick. They want to help our ghost.”

  “Help…?” He walked to the desk and leaned there near Irene. “Help how?”

  “Remember awhile back—I don’t know, months ago—we read about that horrible man that was cutting up women and leaving them in dumpsters? Sam and Lacey helped track him down. Sam’s a medium, and at the time you and I talked about calling him about our ghost, but then never got around to it. Remember that?”

  “Vaguely,” Mason said.

  “Anyway,” Irene continued, “they think they can convince him to move on. I’d like that. Poor man. He’s not happy, that much I know.”

  “No, he’s not,” Sam said. “He’s mired in sadness and regret. That’s what’s keeping him here.”

  “Well, I’m for it.” Irene looked up at her husband. “What about you?”

  “Uh, sure, I guess. I just never gave it any thought. Yeah, why not?”

  “Great,” Lacey said. “I’ll do some research, see what we can find out about him.”

  “What’s your usual fee for this?” Irene asked.

  Sam waved that aside. “Don’t worry about that. We want to do it.”

  “That’s very nice,” Irene said. She glanced up at Mason. “Maybe we could give them a discount on the weekend.”

  “Sure,” Mason agreed.

  “Or,” Lacy said, leaning in, “you could just tell us who the murderer is.”

  ~~~


  ELEVEN

  Sam let Lacey into their room with his key card. He couldn’t help shaking his head at his wife.

  “Dog with a bone,” he muttered.

  “It was worth a shot,” she said.

  Sam closed the door behind them while Lacey plopped on the bed with her phone. She was already searching.

  “And what would you do for the rest of the weekend if they’d told you?” he asked. “You wouldn’t have anything else to do. You’d go crazy.”

  “Croquet,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I’d play croquet. I’d whip your ass and everyone else’s besides.”

  Sam chuckled. “We’ll see about that.”

  She glanced up. “You want to play?”

  “You’re on,” he said. He pulled a wad of play money from his pocket. “Want to lay a little money on it?”

  Lacey’s surprised smile morphed into a grin. “How much do you think you can afford to lose?”

  He peeled off several bills. “How about a thousand?”

  “Done,” she said. “Okay, let me see what I can find out about our ghost.”

  ~~~

  Her search brought quick results, just not the kind of results they were hoping for.

  “Michael Philo,” she read to Sam. “Greek nightclub owner during the ‘30s and early ‘40s. Busted for serving alcohol without a license; fined, but did no time. Uh, oh…” Her voice faded.

  “What?” Sam asked. He sat beside her on the bed and tried to read the article on her phone’s small screen.

  “I don’t think he retired to Miami. Says he was murdered by his valet, a man named Ellis Garroway, who then shot himself. The two were found together in Philo’s home on Mulholland Drive in 1942.”

  She lifted surprised eyes to Sam. “Lovers?”

  “Possibly,” he said. “Does it say anything else about Ellis?”

  She went back to the screen and read quickly, scrolling the article. “No. There’s a picture of Philo, but not of Ellis. Philo with two women, one on each arm. Either he liked to mingle with the clientele or he ran prostitutes.”

  “Or both,” Sam added.

  “Yeah.” Lacey nodded. “Says he was suspected of running illegal betting parlors and supplying high-priced call girls to his wealthier customers, but was never convicted of either. Also suspected of paying off LAPD to keep his operation going.”

  “So he could have been a lot dirtier than whatever was made public,” Sam surmised.

  “Exactly,” Lacey agreed. “Serving liquor without a license is small potatoes—pay a fine and buy a license. But if that was the extent of his transgressions, why the need to pay off the cops?”

  Sam pointed back at the screen. “Does it say anything else about Ellis?”

  She scrolled back to the top and scanned the article again. “Blah, blah, blah, shot by his valet, single shot to the head with a .38. Then the man turned the same gun on himself. No motive ever discovered.”

  “Too bad,” Sam said. “Not much to go on.”

  “Let me search on Ellis,” she said. “At least now we have his name.”

  She tapped in a new search string. A handful of results came up, only two of which matched all criteria.

  “Okay, here we go. He was forty-nine years old when he died, had worked for Philo for nine years. Four of those were as a bouncer at a club, then became his personal servant and bodyguard. Most people described him as quiet, efficient and loyal. Here’s a picture.”

  She turned the phone so Sam could see the grainy photo. The man looked tall as well as big with a receding hairline and a stone face.

  “That’s him,” Sam said, nodding.

  “Let me check that other article,” she said. She backed out to the search results and tapped another sample to bring up the full article.

  “Pretty much same stuff,” she said, reading quickly. “Here’s a quote from his sister when asked about the incident. She said she had no idea why he would murder Philo. Said he seemed satisfied with his life, although he never talked much about it. She said he often sent money back to their aging mother in Ireland. His mother was very proud that he was doing so well in America.”

  “So it sounds like he was well paid by Philo,” Sam said.

  Lacey nodded. “I’m guessing this was not a request for a raise.”

  “Well,” Sam said, “I think I’ll just have to walk it. See what else I can get from him, now that we have some background.”

  “When do you want to do that?” Lacey asked.

  “I don’t know. It’d probably be best if we can do it with the least amount of people around. We don’t want this to bleed into the other guests’ weekend.”

  “So to speak,” Lacey said, smiling grimly. “Let’s go ask Irene.”

  ~~~

  Irene agreed with their reasoning. The best time, she thought, would be late afternoon when the staff was preparing dinner and all guests were closed out of the dining room. She would make sure they were undisturbed.

  “Now,” Lacey said, checking her watch, “I think we have time for a game or two of croquet before lunch.”

  Most of the other guests were outside, either lounging in patio chairs or playing shuffleboard or badminton. Lacey put two fingers in her mouth and sent out a piercing whistle.

  “Who’s up for a croquet tournament?” she called out.

  Ed and Christine were the first to come forward, followed by Zachary and Roger. The other ladies, it seemed, were content to sit in the shade of the umbrellas with their mimosas.

  Just as well, Lacey thought, as there were only six different colored balls and matching mallets. She claimed the red one and stepped back so the others could pick their colors.

  The game was cutthroat from the start. Everyone did their level best to get as far through the course as possible, hitting their balls through the wickets in order, but anytime any player touched another’s ball, that ball was fair game to be knocked far afield. Lacey crowed about shunting Ed’s ball clear back to the start from midfield, but then found paybacks were a bitch when Ed returned to knock her red ball to the far side. Zachary and Roger were equally merciless in their punishing offense, and all the “detours” delayed anyone’s completing the full course very quickly. Finally Sam, who had kept a low profile, made his way up and back and hit the first start pole with a loud thwack, thereby becoming poison. From that point on, all the others had to try to complete the course without being eliminated by Sam.

  Lacey, to her chagrin, was the first casualty. In her haste to get back to the start pole—and become poison herself—she lost track of Sam’s black ball and he knocked her out of the game with an easy swing of his mallet.

  “Sorry,” he said, grinning.

  Grumbling to herself, Lacey picked up her ball and set it and her mallet off the course. Still fuming, she crossed her arms and prepared to watch the rest of the game, but movement caught her eye.

  Nina motioned her over with a quick flick of her hand.

  Lacey glanced at the other players, but they were all focused on the game. She wandered casually over to the table where Nina sat by herself. As she neared, Nina pulled out the chair next to her for Lacey.

  “Yes?” Lacey asked archly as she sat.

  Nina checked around furtively, then leaned close. “Are you really a cop?”

  Lacey wasn’t sure if she meant her character or in real life, but regardless, the answer was the same. “No. Why?”

  “Wayne—I mean Zachary—said you were talking about the murder weapons and stabbing right-handed or left-handed and all. He said you sounded like you knew what you were talking about.”

  So Zachary’s real name was Wayne, Lacey thought. She shrugged. “I pay attention.”

  Nina scooted her chair over closer so she could speak very softly. “Do you think you know who did it?”

  Lacey studied Nina’s pretty dark face. The woman’s eyes danced in anticipation. Lacey guessed her curiosity was real and not a cover for te
sting to see if anyone knew she—or Zachary—was the murderer.

  “I have my suspicions,” Lacey said finally.

  Nina slid several hundred dollar bills out of her bag. Play money to be sure, but $500 was $500.

  Lacey covered the money with her hand and casually slid it her way. “When I was looking at the murder weapons,” she said, “I noticed the syringe is a heavy-duty one, like might be used on horses.”

  Nina glanced quickly toward the croquet game. “Roger?”

  Lacey nodded. “Although Veronica could have had access to his stuff, too. We have to consider that.”

  Nina slid her eyes to the older woman at the other table. “Possibly,” she agreed. Then she returned her direct gaze to Lacey. “Dr. Chowdhury would have access to such things, also.”

  “True,” Lacey said. “Although as a brain surgeon, I don’t know how often he’d be called on to inject a horse.” She leaned closer. “I have a feeling a toxicology report would find evidence of a euthanasia drug in Mason’s system. None of the weapons would stop the heart instantly, not like a drug would.”

  Nina considered that. “What would Mason’s announcement be that would drive Roger to murder?”

  “Well,” Lacey said, “that police report showed his trainer had been convicted, so it seems to me Roger had scapegoated the man. I’m guessing Mason could somehow prove the trainer was acting on Roger’s orders, implicating him as well.”

  Nina nodded, watching the croquet game silently.

  “So what do you know about Frederick and Linzey?” Lacey asked. “I haven’t really gotten any dirt on them, although Frederick sure got hot under the collar about the plagiarism suit.”

  Nina swung her gaze back and let it rest on the edges of the bills under Lacey’s hand.

  Lacey slid the $500 back to her.

  “Before dinner last night, Mason said something about Linzey making up her mind if she was really a she or a he.”

  Lacey’s eyebrows jumped up to her hairline. “She’s transsexual?”

  Nina shrugged. “Or something.”

  “Wow,” Lacey said. “That could really screw up an actress’ career.” She chuckled.