Mystery Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  She did a quick double-take. Did he think it was her? The idea that anyone would suspect her never crossed her mind. She’d been so focused on figuring out the mystery, she’d never entertained the idea of playing to others’ suspicions.

  That could be fun.

  She saw movement on the stairs. Sam was coming down. Just before excusing herself, she tossed Zachary a half smile and said, “All I can say is, Mason got what he deserved.”

  She left the three of them staring after her.

  Sam looked resplendent in black slacks and a black brocade Nehru jacket, the white turban making a blazing contrast. She met him at the bottom of the stairs and linked her arm in his.

  “You’re quite dashing,” she remarked.

  “And you are absolutely radiant,” he replied. “But why do you look like the cat that ate the canary?”

  She sipped her champagne and waggled her eyebrows at him. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  They strolled to the bar where Sam ordered champagne. As they waited, Veronica sidled up to Lacey and pulled her aside. “I heard you had some ideas about the murder weapon. What do you know?”

  Lacey dipped a finger in her pink champagne and licked the drop from it. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently.

  Veronica fumed. She glanced around furtively, then slipped a thousand dollar bill into Lacey’s hand.

  Lacey looked down quickly, then closed her fingers around the bill. “Oh, that,” she said. “Yes, I do have some thoughts on that. I mean, if it were me, I’d use the least messy weapon—the syringe. The ice pick and the stiletto are both so… imprecise.”

  Lacey watched as Veronica’s eyebrows inched up toward her hairline.

  “But that’s just me,” Lacey added. Chuckling, she turned and walked back to Sam.

  He had his drink in his right hand, so she wound herself around his left arm and smiled up at him.

  “What are you up to?” he asked softly.

  “Silly,” she said, “I’m having fun. You remember fun, don’t you?”

  Nina, of course, was the last one down the stairs, and she looked striking in a deep red gown. It was cut low in the front and plunged even lower in the back, revealing satiny smooth, dark skin. Instead of a headband, she wore a crystalline tiara, the clear stones glittering as she moved.

  “She certainly does nobility well,” Lacey whispered to Sam. “And Mason’s plan to reveal her common beginnings would ruin all that.”

  Sam did not reply, but regarded his wife intently.

  Irene slipped in from the office behind the registration desk, and stopped by the quartet before she joined the guests. Energetic strains of Sweet Georgia Brown followed her.

  “How is everyone this evening?” she asked. She circulated, getting nods and murmurs before moving on. “We’re going to have more revelations tonight. It’s going to be a very exciting evening.”

  She made her way to the bar and got her signature martini. “We’ve got this marvelous music,” she said as she drifted. “You should be dancing!”

  Lacey looked down at the curve-hugging evening gown and shook her head. “If she thinks I’m going to attempt the Charleston in this dress and these heels, she’s crazy.”

  Nina, apparently, was much more comfortable in heels than Lacey was, and pulled Zachary out into the middle of the floor. They didn’t do the Charleston, but more of a modest, modified tango. No deep back bends, no dragging his partner around, but Zachary was clearly getting into it. The rest of the guests stood around in a circle and applauded.

  Ed was inspired enough to pull Christine out and they did their own version of an energetic slow dance. Lacey watched in awe. She had no idea what kind of dance steps they were doing, but they were having fun, so who cared?

  When the twirling pair swung too close, Lacey stepped back and almost tripped over Maybry.

  “Oh!” She grabbed Sam’s arm and found her balance, not even spilling a drop of her champagne. “Sorry,” she said once she was stable. “I didn’t know you were there.”

  “No harm done,” he said. “I was simply observing.”

  Lacey leaned close. “Looking for the guilty party?”

  Maybry smiled, but it was more feral than friendly. “Always,” he said.

  She nodded understanding. “And we have major revelations tonight?”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. He hooked one thumb under his suspenders. “Major motives, as well.”

  “I’m looking forward to that,” she said. When he arched an eyebrow at her, she explained. “My secret’s already out, so who cares? Anyway, mine is a piker compared to some of these, right?”

  He studied her for a moment, then finally inclined his head. “Actually, you are correct.”

  Lacey grinned. “Let the mayhem begin.”

  ~~~

  FOURTEEN

  Dinner was beef Wellington, cooked to perfection, of course. Lacey sipped her red wine and smiled at the incongruous image of Dr. Chowdhury partaking of beef. She was almost surprised they didn’t serve him a vegetarian dish.

  Detective Maybry sat at the head of the table and attacked his meal with gusto.

  “Not the usual fare you get on a stakeout, eh?” Lacey asked.

  Maybry blinked at her. “Mm, no.”

  He glanced around the table. “So, did you all have a productive day? An informative day?”

  There were a few answering nods.

  “Did you?” Lacey asked, knowing the answer.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I was able to unearth quite a few interesting tidbits. About several people.” He looked meaningfully from one guest to the next, then pulled a small notepad from an inner pocket.

  “Please, Detective,” Irene cut in. “Can’t we enjoy our dinner first? Upsetting news is never good for the digestion.”

  Maybry left his pad on the table with the cover closed, but just its presence seemed to energize the table. People ate more quickly, and their eyes often gravitated to the notepad. After dinner, the dessert—a single scoop of raspberry sorbet—disappeared at a record rate. As soon as the dishes were collected and the coffee poured, all eyes turned to Maybry.

  “That’s my cue,” he chuckled, and pushed his chair back so he could stand.

  He flipped open the notepad and leafed through a few pages. “I spent the day investigating every one of you,” he began. “It’s no secret you all have history with Mason Dunhill. Some of it darker, and buried deeper, than others.” He cleared his throat, settled on one page in his booklet, and leveled an accusing finger at Ed.

  “Frederick Culp,” Maybry called out in a booming voice. “You were correct yesterday when you said that plagiarism lawsuit was dismissed. However, you never recovered from it. It was shortly thereafter that Mason pulled his financial support for your film project, and neither you nor Linzey Hamilton were part of any profitable productions after that. And you, Linzey”—he swung his pointing finger Christine’s way—“had that sex-change operation to pay for.”

  There was a collective gasp around the table.

  “So Mason destroyed two careers with one blow,” Maybry continued. Then he turned to Zachary. “You, Justice McDowell, sat on that plagiarism case. And Mason paid you well to hand down the dismissal.”

  Another gasp. Zachary stared resolutely down at his coffee cup.

  “But you, Lady Nina,” the detective went on, “were okay with McDowell taking bribes because that infusion of money supported your ‘royal’ lifestyle.” The word “royal” had a decided sneer to it. “The lush façade kept people from looking into your past and discovering that you were actually the daughter of a poor Jewish tailor and his washerwoman wife. And that you worked as a high-priced escort for years.”

  All eyes swung to Nina, and her dark skin flushed red.

  “Now, Roger Ludlow,” Maybry said, focusing attention on the heavyset man, “we already know about your trainer being convicted of doping horses. What we didn’t know is that you disavo
wed all knowledge of that, even though your trainer swore he did it on your orders. You threw that man under the bus to save yourself, and you paid off the judge—through Mason—to rig the trial. The trial presided over by Judge McDowell.”

  Zachary scowled at Roger, and Roger returned the angry stare. The other guests swiveled their eyes back and forth like enthusiasts at a tennis match, waiting for the kill shot.

  “Veronica Grayson, likewise, is adept at sidestepping the law. When your first husband—your slumlord husband—ignored repeated code violations, the tenement building degraded into a fire trap. Literally. The fire that eventually roared through that building killed six people, including four children. Like so many before you, you and your husband bribed judges, through Mason, to rule in your favor.”

  Maybry glanced around the table. All eyes turned to Lacey and Sam.

  “Maggie Phelps Unrue,” he said, indicating Lacey. “You may not be as black-hearted as some, but you were naïve and opportunistic. You attached yourself to Mason, even though he was married, and ended up pregnant. After Mason forced you to give up the child, he passed you off to his friend, Leighton Unrue. When Leighton died, you found solace with Dr. Chowdhury, but you never forgave Mason for your fall into serial prostitution. Yes, you’ve always had a man to take care of you, but at what cost?”

  Finally Maybry fixed his gaze on Sam. “And you, Dr. Chowdhury. The brilliant brain surgeon. The spiritual life-saver. What no one else knew was that Mason found you in the slums of India, recognized your genius and brought you here. He plucked you out of the nefarious scheme you had with an undertaker… to illegally harvest human organs and sell them on the black market.”

  Lacey gasped along with everyone else. Sam, to his credit, faced Maybry with a passive if stony face, looking neither left nor right.

  “So,” Maybry said, placing both hands flat on the table and leaning forward, “all of you have motives. All of you had grudges against Mason, reasons to wish him dead. I’m going to give you the opportunity now to end this once and for all. Give yourself up. If you are the killer, come forward now. End this charade.”

  No one at the table made a move to rise. Eyes shifted uneasily, feet shuffled, but no one lifted from his or her chair.

  Lacey scanned the faces. She saw fear, anger, embarrassment, stony denial. But no one gave in; no one caved.

  Maybry waited a long, sullen moment. He looked from face to face, scowling. It did no good.

  “So? No confessions? No coming clean? Well, we’ll see about that.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket and separated it into two stacks. He gave one to Lacey and one to Sam, motioning for them to take one and pass the rest down.

  “You’ve heard the evidence,” he said. “Now we need a solution. Based on everything you’ve seen and heard, make your choice.” And he sat down.

  Irene took over. “I need your solutions by breakfast tomorrow, so if you’ve already made up your minds, you can give them to me tonight. If not, if you still need time to think, to ferret out information, you can bring them down to me in the morning.” She smiled broadly. “The night is still young, and you’ll have a last chance to mingle and scheme. The music will continue and the bar will be open until midnight. Breakfast will be tomorrow morning at eight.”

  She surveyed the group. “At that time,” she said, “Detective Maybry will announce the name of the killer. Please be on time.”

  ~~~

  Most of the guests pushed back their chairs and rose to their feet, already heading back to the ballroom.

  Lacey did not. She scanned the solutions sheet. It asked for her guess of who the murderer was and which weapon was used. Before dinner, she would have been pretty confident in her deduction. Now, she wasn’t sure.

  She looked down the list for the other questions. She’d be asked to enter how much money she ended up with—probably not enough to win that prize, she thought. She’d also choose who, in her opinion, was the best actor, and who wore the best costume. The prize of best sleuth would go to whoever got the correct solution.

  “Lace?” Sam’s quiet voice pulled her out of her thoughts. “You coming?”

  “Yeah.” She folded the paper and slid it into her small beaded bag. She’d fill it in later when they got back to their room.

  The ballroom was rocking. People were dancing, chatting, drinking. It seemed to Lacey that eyes were overbright, that people were looking at the other guests with new interest.

  She was doing it, too.

  “Wanna dance?” Sam said. He slid his arm around her. “I think I can manage a slow dance if you can.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She smiled and laid her arm on his shoulder. They rocked gently, barely moving their feet. Lacey looked up at him with what she hoped was a normal expression.

  He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “What’s going on in that head of yours? I can see the wheels turning.”

  She opened her mouth but no words came out. She cleared her throat and tried again.

  “Harvesting body parts?” she asked. She tried to make it sound like a joke, but it fell flat.

  Sam shrugged. “That’s the part I was assigned.”

  She nodded. “Pretty radical,” she said. “Did all the revelations change your idea about who did it?”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Not really. You?”

  She, too, took her time answering. “I don’t think so. I’ll let it percolate a little more, but I don’t think so.”

  He nodded and pulled her closer.

  The rest of the evening was surreal. Lacey’s mind bounced back and forth between reality and fantasy, between her cop mind and her off-duty mind. When other guests huddled close and tried to pick her brain, she was willing to offer multiple possibilities—for a price—but no absolutes. She was no longer sure what she believed, and wasn’t interested in sorting it out tonight.

  Up in their room shortly before midnight, Sam and Lacey undressed carefully, putting away the rented clothes and shedding the false identities. When they came together in bed, Lacey burrowed into Sam’s chest and laid her cheek against his heart.

  “You okay?” he asked softly.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I think I’ll just be glad to go back to being me.”

  He held her close and kissed her temple. “Me, too,” he said.

  ~~~

  FIFTEEN

  It was a pure luxury to get up in the morning and dress in their own clothes. The solutions paper had included a note to do so: abandon the character roles and come as themselves. They would have the opportunity to “meet” each other all over again.

  Lacey felt much better in her own slacks and sweater, and especially in flat shoes. Those heels had killed her feet.

  She was also glad to see Sam’s hairless face. The beard and mustache were fun, as was the turban, but she much preferred the unadorned, honest face she knew.

  She also noticed he put on his high suede moccasins.

  While she waited for him, she filled out her solution sheet: Roger Ludlow, with the syringe and a veterinary euthanasia drug. That was her best guess. She’d accumulated quite a bit—at least she’d made more than she’d paid out, even with losing the bet to Sam—but probably not enough to win the money category. She named Nina as best actor, Sam for best costume. She was still hoping to win the best sleuth award.

  They descended the stairs together, ballots in hand. Irene smiled up at them, then did a visible double-take at Sam’s changed appearance. She chuckled.

  “It’s like having brand new people here this morning,” she said. She took their solutions and directed them to the dining room.

  The steam tables had been set up again with their boundless offerings. Some of the guests were still filling plates while others were already at the table. No place cards were evident.

  Sam and Lacey took places at the buffet, plates in hand. Lady Nina, just ahead of them, glanced back and gaped at Sam.

  “Good morning,” Lacey said. She stuck
out her hand. “I’m Lacey Fitzpatrick and this is Sam Firecloud.”

  Nina shook her hand and recovered quickly. “I’m Sophie Forbes. This is my husband, Wayne.” She tapped on Zachary’s shoulder, and he turned to join the introductions.

  “Well, well,” said Wayne. “We finally see the face behind the beard.”

  Everyone, it seemed, was more relaxed, more talkative, more willing to engage. When Sam and Lacey took their full plates to the table, they were greeted by words of welcome and good-natured catcalls.

  Ed made the final introductions. “Sam, Lacey, this is Harvey and Gloria Menninger. Sam Firecloud and Lacey Fitzpatrick.”

  Lacey was patently amazed at the change in Roger and Veronica. Gone were the dour expressions, the critical sneers. Instead, Harvey and Gloria looked like cheerful grandparents.

  “Firecloud,” Gloria said once everyone was seated. “Why do I know that name?” She peered at Sam, and when he made no answer, she looked to Lacey for help.

  “I’m not sure,” Lacey said, “but Sam is a medium. You may have read about us…”

  “Oh!” Sophie pointed a fork at them. “Those dumpster murders? You’re those ghostbusters!”

  “Yes,” Gloria said. “That’s it. I remember that now.” She turned to Harvey. “You remember reading about them, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I think I do.” He leaned forward. “What are you doing here?”

  Sam shrugged. “Having fun. Like all of you.”

  Sam’s casual dismissal quelled any further discussion of celebrity. Instead, the guests fell into a more normal pattern of finding out about each other.

  Harvey and Gloria were retired, but he’d been in the plumbing business for years; Gloria had worked in a bank. Wayne was an insurance agent, and Sophie was an accountant.

  “Gee, everyone’s so normal,” Lacey noted with a laugh.

  “Well, everyone but you two,” Gloria said, smiling.

  Irene joined them then. She laid a folder next to her place, then got herself a plate of fresh fruit and some yogurt.