The lasagna was a hit. Miriam might be skittish and talk like a whispering child, but she did make an amazing lasagna. I was at a point that if I didn't eat soon, I'd be no good to anyone.
Stacey and Juliette brought the drinks cart in from the lounge. It was a little early to start drinking, but then again, alcohol often went a long way to loosen up tongues and lower inhibitions. And since I'd be detecting on my own, lower inhibitions seemed like a plus.
Soo Jin and I stuck with water, and the girls had juice boxes that I checked for tampering—just to be safe. Almost everyone else had a cocktail or two. Even Stacey and Juliette had a glass of wine. Good. Stacey was looking a little pale. Every time the thunder clapped, she jumped. I couldn't blame her. She was genuinely worried about Enos's untimely demise and probably that these people were in danger. The fact that this was a Council fundraiser would come secondary to Stacey, and I loved her for that.
People ate like there was no tomorrow, which hopefully, for everyone here, there would be. Was Enos a one-off or just the start of a killing spree? I shuddered to think about that. I had my troop to worry about. My thoughts went back to the moment Enos entered the room. Had someone been waiting for him? Did the guests know in advance who would be here? That might be a good place to start. Murderers usually take out people they know.
I couldn't remember anyone looking at the app designer with recognition. Was Enos targeted specifically or just in the wrong place at the wrong time? And how was I going to find out?
We needed to find the killer fast.
"So," Soo Jin whispered in my ear. "I'm convinced it's cyanide poisoning."
A chill ran through me. Cyanide had a brutish reputation in the spy world that went back to the Cold War. As an agent, my one fear was of being poisoned. It was a legitimate concern, since poison is the weapon of choice for despots, maniacs, and this underwear model I'd worked with in Ulaanbaatar.
I was also afraid of being robbed by monkeys. I was only ever in India once, but that little beast was armed with a piece of broken glass and took my purse. Somewhere in the jungle, there's a monkey carrying a black leather bag filled with aspirin, tissues, some money, and a mint tin jerry-rigged with a sound-sensitive explosive that was set to blow when it heard me whistle "Mah Na Mah Na" from Sesame Street. Fortunately, there were no monkeys or underwear models here, which was a relief.
"So someone here is packing one of the deadliest poisons imaginable. Great," I said quietly.
The girls were in their corner, eating lasagna—which made me wonder, since they'd already eaten their weight in grilled cheese. The kids were not talking—their eyes were watching us at the adult table.
My Scouts weren't lightweights. They were brave and clever and could handle just about anything. I say "just about" because I did recently find the chink in their armor. Centipedes. Not one of my girls would go into a room with a centipede in it. Apparently, Betty told the others that if you get bitten by one, you swell up with helium and float away until you burst. I really should talk to her about that.
"How long do you think this storm will last?" I murmured.
Soo Jin shrugged. "Not a clue. We don't have access to the internet or phones, and meteorology is a bit out of my skill set."
The buzz of low murmurs came from the table. No one seemed really panicked. Since they didn't know Enos was murdered and thought he died of somewhat natural causes, there wasn't anything to fear. And with the body in the basement, it was out of sight, out of mind.
My gaze landed on each guest. Who was the killer? The sullen slacker, Dennis? The egotistical, ambitious Taylor? The gruff and socially awkward but brilliant bowel surgeon, Caroline Regent? Obnoxious Thad and timid Wren? Or the sweet elderly hog farmers, Arthur and Violet?
Then again, it could be Miriam or Ned. But they were permanent staff to the Deivers family. They weren't new to this or participating in the game. Still, I couldn't rule them out until I knew for sure.
From the flirtatious looks they gave, it was pretty obvious that Thad and Taylor knew each other. Everyone else appeared to be strangers. But was that actually true? Did one of them know Enos and want him dead? Believe me—I'd rather have that than a psychopath who killed randomly.
What was the right approach here? Ask point blank if any of them were acquainted? That would seem suspicious since they all thought Enos had a heart attack. I had to be subtle. Use my espionage skills. Ask questions designed to flatter that would give me the most information. I was a bit rusty.
I looked at Soo Jin. She was part of law enforcement, and as a medical examiner, she had to know police procedure. It was a good thing I was stuck here with her. Maybe she'd know what to do next.
"Are you uncomfortable?" Soo Jin asked. "You keep tugging on your skirt and frowning."
"Yes. I would like to get out of this ridiculous costume." The poodle skirt was heavy and itchy. And I did not like wearing dress shoes.
Soo Jin tapped on her water glass with a spoon. "Hey, everyone!"
All heads turned toward the stunningly beautiful doctor.
"Since it might be a while until we can leave, when you're done eating, why don't you get out of these costumes?"
Heads nodded as everyone agreed. Everyone but Dennis.
He frowned and said, "What do you mean?"
"Costumes. We're wearing costumes." Taylor sneered. "Well, we are."
Chairs scraped against the polished hardwood floor as the guests started to leave the dining room and head for the stairs. I took the opportunity to eat another piece of lasagna before making my way to our room. Granted, I knew that Miriam was working on dinner, but what if the killer targeted her?
"We're fine in these clothes, but we should all go up to the room together," Betty announced.
"Good idea," I said.
Once inside, Soo Jin carefully hung up everything she took off as soon as she removed it. My skirt was on the floor in seconds. The moment I was in a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, and a black T-shirt, I felt better able to cope with what was happening. Ava rolled her eyes and began hanging up my clothes. I'd have to thank her for that later.
"That app guy was murdered, right?" Lauren asked. "Betty told us about the squirrel."
I thought about lying to them but didn't. It was important for them to be safe and on the lookout.
"Yes. Enos McQuaid was murdered."
Betty sighed. "Just when I was going to pitch my idea for a set of earbuds that double as a flamethrower."
The other girls patted her back sympathetically. Flamethrowers in earbuds? Did she have diagrams? I'd kind of like to see that.
I motioned for everyone to join me. "You guys are going to have to stick together, if you can't be with me or Dr. Body. There's a killer in the house. I don't think we're targets, but who knows?"
"Merry!" Soo Jin looked shocked. "Don't frighten them!"
"They have to be on their guard." I turned back to the girls. "But no one knows this besides us. Okay? The murderer might know that Dr. Body and I know Enos was killed. But you need to act like you don't know."
Ava spoke up. "Right. We know, but we don't know. Got it."
"Yes," I agreed. "That's it exactly."
Inez scratched her chin thoughtfully. "Which means we'll make good detectives."
Lauren nodded eagerly. "No one notices little girls! We can do all kinds of snooping!"
Betty and Ava cheered, but I shut it down.
"No snooping! At least, not without me."
Soo Jin shook her head. "No snooping at all."
"She's right." I sighed. "But keep your eyes open. If you see something unusual, you need to tell one of us, okay?"
Inez scratched her chin. "I think we need to pinky swear not to tell anyone what we know."
A cheer went up as all of us got into a circle and pinky swore. This was good. The promise of a pinky swear was unbreakable. I had yet to meet a kid who didn't follow that rule to a T. If only it worked with grown-ups. I could've used that in my job on numerous occasions. Pinky swear that you won't tell your boss that I took the nuclear plans! Pinky swear that you won't reveal that the sim card is hidden in that package of Oreos! Pinky swear that you won't tell your cousin, the drug lord, that I accidentally killed his favorite chicken!
Once the ritual was complete, we went back downstairs as a group. I spotted the flicker of candles in the lounge. The rest of the guests were standing around the tray with the seven upright animals and the broken squirrel. Oops. I should've gotten rid of that.
"Is that supposed to be us?" Thad pointed at the lumps of clay.
"It's like the book!" Wren whined. She wrapped her hands around her husband's left arm, but he didn't seem to notice because with his right hand, he was lightly touching Taylor's backside. Didn't anyone else see this?
Why on earth hadn't I taken the tray and tossed it? The broken sculpture kind of gave the murder away.
"I broke it." Betty stepped forward, and the three small heads behind her nodded. "I was playing with it, and I guess I wasn't very careful."
Arthur smiled. "Ah. That settles it." He patted the girl on the head and offered her a butterscotch. "Good for you for admitting it. You don't know your own strength, do you?"
"He has no idea," I murmured to Soo Jin.
"You broke the armadillo?" Caroline asked.
Stacey piped up, "No. It's a squirrel." She gave the girls a knowing wink.
"Looks more like a bat with four legs to me," Dennis grumped.
Betty narrowed her eyes. I knew that look and got between them. "Maybe you should all just sit down."
The guests relaxed and took their original seats to wait out the storm. Betty had bought us some time, by confessing. This was a gift, and we couldn't waste it. But where to start?
Stacey motioned to Juliette, who didn't move, and then walked over to me and Soo Jin. "I think I'll help in the kitchen."
Juliette stayed where she was. Even though we'd all changed into casual clothes, she was wearing a green polyester slacks suit. She was always wearing green. And while it was charming that she loved her job that much, I couldn't help but wonder if she slept in pajamas decorated with Girl Scout logos, or serial killers. The woman noticed me staring and gave me a dangerous look.
Usually Juliette jumped at any opportunity to humiliate me in public. Over the past couple of years, she'd screamed at me in front of my troop and others. Why was she different here? Was she overwhelmed by Enos's death? I was pretty sure she'd have a party if it had been me lying in the basement.
"I'll go with," Soo Jin told Stacey. "Inez, Ava, why don't you girls join us?"
The two girls nodded and followed the women out of the room. They were on the case.
Betty and Lauren asked if they could use the bathroom. Even though I wasn't sure that was their destination, I had no choice but to allow it. What were they up to? I stood in the hall, watching as they made it to the bathroom near the stairs. Once I was certain they were where they said they'd be, I turned back to the room.
Now…where to begin?
Thad and Taylor were having a serious conversation about something that seemed to require them licking their lips a lot. Gross. There was no point talking to them because I knew that they knew each other. Caroline Regent was studying a painting over the mantel, and Wren was chattering to the Kasinskis.
"And there's a poem…'Ten Little Indians,'" Wren said as I approached. "And each line in the poem predicts how someone will be murdered."
Violet nodded. "I remember that rhyme! Ten Little Indians went out to dine. One choked himself, and then there were nine!" She clapped her hands with glee.
Wren's eyes grew wide. "That's it! You have an amazing memory! And when someone dies, the figurine is stolen or smashed or something. I can't really remember that part."
Arthur frowned. "But Enos died of a heart attack. And Dennis was the intended victim. Why break the figurine?"
"Because Betty confessed to breaking it," I cut in quickly.
Violet laughed. "Someone's memory isn't as good as mine!"
Her husband laughed. They were a jolly couple. And yes, that's a strange way to describe someone who isn't Santa.
Wren continued, "The poem was in each guest's room. That was the connection." She sat back as if she'd just solved the whole game, even if we weren't playing.
"Did any of you know Enos?" I tried to sound casual.
The elderly couple thought about this for a moment, but Wren piped up.
"I didn't, but I think Thad knew him." She nodded at her husband, who was glaring at her from across the room. Had he heard her?
"I don't think we've ever met him before today," Violet said at last. "I've never seen him at any of the fundraisers we've been to."
"And he certainly isn't a Pork Producer!" Arthur added, referring to an organization for pig farmers. They called their wives Porkettes. And every summer they elected a Pork Princess. I am not kidding.
Enos might not be a Pork Producer, but his bacon was definitely cooked.
I shrugged. "I just wondered. I hadn't seen him before either. I thought it was nice of him to come and donate to the cause though."
"Even though I didn't know him," Wren chirped, "I'd heard of him. He's into experiences. It's a millennial thing."
Arthur looked surprised. "What's a millennial thing?"
Violet looked confused. I guessed that she didn't know either.
"It's this generation of young adults," I said. "They're supposedly more into experiences than stuff. They'd rather go sky diving than buy a nice car."
"Oh that. I guess I've heard that generation called millennial." He scratched his head. "But if they spend all their money on skydiving instead of buying a car"—Arthur still didn't get it—"how do they drive to work?"
All three looked at me expectantly. Somehow I'd become the expert on this.
I shrugged. "I guess they think life is too short to work all the time. They'd rather get out there and do stuff."
The old farmer shook his head. "But that's what you do! You build your future with hard work. When you retire, you can travel and so forth."
Violet patted his hand. "Each generation is different, dear. Our generation had different priorities."
Her husband slapped his knee. "That's right! We had the war! We saved money and spent wisely! And we didn't need an app—whatever that is—to tell us how to brush our teeth!"
The man was getting agitated. I wondered if he wasn't the killer. Farmers used cyanide forty years ago to kill vermin. Grandma Adelaide Wrath once got a visit from the sheriff when it had been discovered she'd had enough cyanide to take out the whole county. Turned out, the poison had been very old and she'd never known how to dispose of it. Fortunately, she'd kept it safely stored in strong metal barrels—that were taken away by the authorities. But for a long time, the sheriff made sure he stayed on her good side.
It was very possible that Arthur had access to the poison in one form or another. I just couldn't think of a way to ask if he had brought a deadly toxic substance with him to this event.
"I know," Violet said calmly. "But the times have changed. Young people can live how they want to in peacetime. I'm glad there isn't a war to fight. Maybe skydiving is their way of living on the edge."
"Were you in World War II?" I asked Arthur. It seemed rude not to acknowledge his participation in a major world event.
"Oh no!" He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. "I was born just before World War II. Still…" He looked off into the distance. "I would've played my part if I'd had the chance."
His wife beamed at him and squeezed his hand. They really were adorable. Still, I couldn't take them off my list of suspects just yet. Violet turned to ask Wren more about the book, and the two women went on as if this odd break in the conversation had never happened.
"Excuse me," I apologized. "Must mingle!"
Caroline was still staring at a painting on the mantel. Or she'd fallen into a standing coma for no reason. Either way, she was alone, and I approached her because a doctor could certainly have access to cyanide.
The painting was abstract—a riot of purple and yellow squares with red and green triangles on a blue background. A small plaque on the frame read, Sleepy Kittens.
"Nice!" I pretended I understood what the hell I was talking about. "Do you like art?"
She didn't look at me but said, "It looks familiar. I can't place the artist. What do you think it's saying?"
I had absolutely no idea, but one thing I've learned about discussing art—anything goes. There are no wrong answers. Once, in Greenland, I convinced a roomful of people that the watercolor painting of apples was a comment on the rise and decline of anarcho-syndicalism. I got a standing ovation. I still think it was just a painting of apples, and I still don't know what anarcho-syndicalism is.
"It's obviously about anger," I said calmly.
The doctor nodded. "I agree. I think I see shades of jealousy too. Possible notes of death."
"You're an art aficionado," I offered. "Do you go to a lot of openings?"
She turned to me as if she finally noticed I was there. "No. But my undergrad degree is in art history."
"Have you been to the Des Moines Museum of Art?" I persisted. "They had an opening last fall on Incan gold."
"I never go anywhere," she said as she turned back to the painting. "I don't much like people."
Then why was she here? Was she the killer? Saw an opportunity to kill Enos and signed up?
"Were you a Girl Scout?" I pressed.
"Yes," she said. "A long time ago. I barely remember it."
I tried another line of inquiry. "Too bad about Enos. I'm sorry it ruined the event."
Caroline turned to me and looked as if she wanted to say something. The wheels were turning behind her eyes as she sized me up. Underestimating her would be a mistake, I realized.
"That idiot should've taken better care of himself. He was prone to health issues."
"Oh?" I tried to dampen my rising enthusiasm. "So, you knew him?"
It was as if I'd just reached over and slapped her on the face. Her mouth dropped open. "No. Why would you think that?"
"You said he was prone to health issues…I thought…" I started, but she cut me off.
"No. I didn't know him." The woman stormed away in a huff.
I'd hit a nerve. But then again, she might always be this way. I didn't have any reference point to start from. The doctor had been gruff since she walked in the door. Did she really dislike Enos, or did she feel that way about everyone? And how was I going to find out?
For a moment I toyed with having my girls commit art fraud by whipping up a bunch of abstract paintings and drilling Caroline on what they meant. But that seemed to be a lot of work, when I could just throw her to the floor and stand on her neck until she started confessing. Torture was something I could handle.
Dennis was slumped in a chair, staring at a cell phone that wasn't working. I decided to take a chance and talk to him. Since she stormed away in a huff, I knew Caroline wasn't going to be approachable again for a while.
I put on my most sympathetic face and sat down beside the man. "I'm so sorry, Dennis, that it didn't work out. I'm sure you were excited to play the victim."
Sure, this was incredibly insensitive since a man had died. But I was pretty sure Dennis would think this was just about him. Which made me realize, this might rule him out as the killer. Why give someone else the attention if you wanted it for yourself? Was I already ruling him out?
"Yeah, well, whatever." He didn't look up.
"I'm hoping we can do it right next time." Faking sympathy for an idiot like Dennis was not my favorite thing to do.
He scowled. "I won't be here. I'm only here because my parents couldn't come. I'm glad we're leaving early."
"I am sorry. Did you know Enos well?" I soothed.
"Kind of," Dennis mumbled.
He knew him? Now we were getting somewhere! I wasn't sure where that was, but it was something more than nothing. Right?
"I'm sorry for your loss," I apologized again. "Was he a friend?"
"No. I was supposed to invest in that toothbrushing app. I guess I dragged my feet too long because he shut me out and went with another investor."
Aaaaand…there it was. Dennis thought his loss was that he missed out of a chance to make money—not that an acquaintance had been killed. I wondered how upset he'd be if Enos had been a friend.
"That's rough." I nodded.
"It was for me." Dennis narrowed his eyes at me. "How long are we going to be here? I could be home playing Fortnite."
Was that a motive? Could he have killed Enos to avenge his missed opportunity? Was the confusion over Enos dying when Dennis was supposed to "die" just an act? I kind of hoped it was because it would make my day sending this slacker to prison. I was pretty sure they didn't have Fortnite there. Still, Dennis was lazy. Planning and executing a murder took effort—something I wasn't sure he was capable of unless it involved a couch and a pizza.
I shook my head. "I have no idea. We don't have TV, internet, a working radio, or cell service. Hopefully it'll be over soon."
He went back to staring at his phone. This conversation was over. For a moment I thought about asking him point blank if he killed Enos—but no one knew he was murdered, except for the killer. The truth was my ace card, and I wasn't ready to throw that away yet.
Which left Thad and Taylor, who were now arguing about something. I couldn't decide if it was better to cut in when they were emotional or wait until things calmed down. And seriously, did they not realize how obvious their affair was? Those two had been side-by-side since Taylor showed up. Either they didn't care or were foolish enough to think they were being discreet.
A quick glance at Wren, who was deep in conversation with Violet, told me the woman was completely oblivious. In fact, most of the guests seemed to be a bullet short of a full magazine.
And where were Betty and Lauren? Just as the thought popped into my brain, the girls walked through the door, wearing huge grins. I knew that grin. Those two were definitely up to something. I motioned for them to follow me into the hall.
"What did you do?" I turned on my Inquisitor's voice.
The Inquisitor voice is the best tool in a leader's box and works for things like, Who put a frog in my water bottle? Why are there two dozen Canadian geese in the pool (usually followed up with, And why is all the bread gone)? And Where are all the boxes of matches?—where the Inquisitor voice sounds more like the Terrified and Panicked Leader voice.
The girls looked at each other and then said at the same time, "Nothing."
I folded my arms over my chest in a weak attempt to look more menacing. "You know, that's kind of creepy."
"We know," they said, perfectly in sync.
"You're making it worse!" I threw my arms into the air. "Where were you, and don't say the bathroom."
Betty leaned forward. "We were doing a little snooping in the guest rooms. Did you know they've all packed their bags but left them in their rooms?"
Lauren added, "Like they expected someone else to carry the bags for them?"
"It makes sense. Their bags were taken up to their rooms. They just expect Ned to take them to the boat. But that's beside the point! You weren't supposed to snoop!" I glanced into the lounge to see if anyone heard us, but no one seemed to.
"Do you want to know what we found?" Lauren wiggled her eyebrows.
This was a quandary. Yes, of course I wanted to know what they found. No, I didn't want to encourage them.
I gave in. "What did you find?"
That was when I noticed that Lauren was holding something behind her back.
"Give it." I held out my hands.
Lauren handed me a piece of paper. It was similar to the poem in Agatha Christie's book—but changed to reflect the fundraiser.
Eight little Girl Scouts on a trip with Kevin,
One ate some bad fish —
And then there were Seven.
Seven little Girl Scouts whittling some sticks,
One was careless with a knife—
And then there were Six.
Six little Girl Scouts went to swim and dive,
One drowned in the lake—
And then there were Five.
Five little Girl Scouts headed for the shore,
One fell down a flight of stairs—
And then there were Four.
Four little Girl Scouts climbing on a tree,
One was crushed by a branch—
And then there were Three.
Three little Girl Scouts messing with some glue,
One sniffed the bottle—
And then there were Two.
Two little Girl Scouts sitting in the sun,
One got roasted—
And then there was One.
One little Girl Scout joined the CIA for fun,
She went undercover—
And then there were None.
The CIA? "Where did you find this?" I demanded. "And what does that thing with Kevin mean?"
Betty shrugged. "There's a copy in each room. On the floor, like someone shoved it under the door. I don't know who Kevin is, but maybe that's a clue?"
Lauren considered this. "Maybe he meant Heaven? Or eleven?"
"On a trip with Heaven?" Betty shook her head. "That doesn't work! Although on a trip with eleven might fit."
"Like eleven Girl Scouts," Lauren answered. "Or seven." She snapped her fingers. "Maybe it's 7-11! The girls are going to a convenience store!"
"I like Kevin better," Betty decided. "And it gives us a name for the killer."
The other girl nodded. "Nice alliteration too. Kevin the Killer."
"Or Killer Kevin," Betty added.
Lauren said, "I think we agree that this is more of a Kevin-based thing."
"Okay," Betty said. "We'll keep it Kevin."
I didn't argue with them because I kept reading the poem over and over, trying to find answers beyond the great Kevin-Heaven-Eleven debate.
The poem was spookily apocryphal. After all, Enos did eat some bad fish, after which, he died. And even worse—the rhyme indicated that all eight guests were targets. Were we dealing with a serial killer who liked poetry and whose name might or might not be Kevin?
The last line was about going undercover for the CIA. According to the poem, and if he succeeded, I was the last victim. It wasn't farfetched for the killer to know about me. Word had started leaking out months ago. And it wouldn't be difficult to find out I was going to be here. Still, it was very creepy to be singled out in the murder poem.
And that was where Kevin the Killer screwed up. Many bad guys had tried to kill me before, and they'd failed. And they were professional spies, assassins, and a chicken armed with an Uzi.
If Kevin thought killing me was going to be easy…he had another think coming.