I pulled Soo Jin aside and showed her the note.
"These are in each room?" She scanned the poems quickly.
I called Lauren over and asked.
"Every room," the little girl said.
"The girls found them on the floor, just under each door," I mused. "I'm gonna go out on a limb and say no one else has seen these yet."
Which meant that these were shoved under the doors after people had packed to leave here. Why didn't the killer do it earlier—before lunch maybe? Perhaps he didn't have time to manage it unseen.
"This doesn't make sense." Soo Jin frowned. "Eight refers to the eight guests. But the last one might be about you. Which means one of the guests will survive."
I nodded. "Because one of the eight is Kevin the Killer. He won't kill himself."
Soo Jin's eyebrows went up. "Kevin the Killer?"
"The girls liked the alliteration." I shrugged. "It helps to have a name."
A thought popped into my head, and I asked Lauren, "You didn't go out and investigate the staff cottage, did you?"
She shook her head. "Want us to?"
Ned and Miriam weren't with us. If one of them, or both, was the killer, then whoever investigated their cottage would be in danger. Besides that, the storm had picked up some serious steam. I didn't want the girls to get hit by flying debris or lost in a blind driving rain.
"No. Stay here. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious," I said as Soo Jin, Stacey, and the other girls returned to the room.
As Lauren walked away, I studied the poem. "Look." I handed the poem to Soo Jin. "The next one is a stabbing."
"At least they're warning us." The medical examiner sighed.
I was sure she never thought she'd have to examine real dead bodies during the event.
The poem was a sign. The killer wanted us to squirm…and he was doing a good job of it. If the poem was a warning, we should see a stabbing next, followed by a drowning and a bad fall down the stairs. As long as I kept people away from sharp objects, bathtubs, and the staircase, we might stand a chance.
My head was spinning. Something had to be done right away, but what? I was torn between tipping off the killer by announcing the poem—but that would require telling the others that Enos was murdered.
On the other hand, acting like we didn't know what was going on might make the killer lower his guard. If we collected all copies of the poem and kept them away from the guests, Kevin might get angry enough to do something stupid. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
What was the right way to handle this? Announce Enos's murder and freak everyone out, or keep it all hidden, possibly provoking Kevin into action. And should I keep referring to the killer as Kevin—or should we come up with another name, like The Bastard Who Wants to Kill Us All?
"Do you think the last target is you?" Soo Jin asked quietly.
"It looks that way."
But I had no connection to any of these people. Why kill me? Okay, so I wasn't new to the concept. People had tried to kill me before. Fortunately, I'd survived those attempts. But what if my luck had run out? Frankly, it would be embarrassing if someone finally took me out at a Girl Scout meeting instead of in a dark alley in Mumbai or at an international sad clown festival in Paraguay (but that's a story for another time).
The idea that this was some deranged psycho killer killing for fun was not good. Trying to find a killer who didn't have a motive, other than kill everyone in the house, made things much harder. How could you find a killer who killed indiscriminately? He had the methods listed in the poem, but did he have a plan for who died how?
For now, I had to go on the suspicion that the targets were premeditated. That someone was getting revenge on eight people. If there was a connection, I could find it, couldn't I? I'd solved murders before. Okay…sometimes the solution just fell into my lap. And I often had help from Linda Willard or Kelly.
None of this made me feel any better. I had a room full of people who thought Enos died of natural causes. Was it fair of me not to warn them? I couldn't guard everyone at once. But they could be cautious when on their own. And if I didn't tell them and more people were murdered, it would kind of be my fault.
I made a decision.
"Folks," I announced loudly, "I have to tell you the truth."
It got very quiet.
"Enos didn't die of natural causes. He was murdered…"
There was an audible, collective gasp.
I looked each and every guest in the eye. "…by one of you."
It should come as no surprise that the room erupted in screaming chaos. As I studied each person, they all seemed to be genuinely terrified. The killer was a good actor. This made it much, much harder. But what did I expect? For Kevin to stand up and confess, maybe throwing in an apology for good measure? Hmmm…that idea had merit.
As the realization hit, it was as if someone let a drop of water hit the middle of a pond. Everyone stepped back to distance themselves from the people around them. The elderly couple stayed together, but the rest pulled apart. No one wanted to stand next to the possible killer.
"How do we know it's not Miriam or Ned?" Taylor called out. "Or one of you!"
Caroline scowled. "Who pays $10,000 to kill people?"
"We're being hunted!" Wren wailed.
Betty appeared with a stack of papers. Without permission, she'd run off and collected every copy of the poem.
"What are you doing?" I hissed. "It's dangerous!"
She shook her head. "No it's not. Everyone is in here. The killer isn't out there."
She had a point, but she was wrong. Ned and Miriam weren't here. I really needed to check those two out.
"I don't care. You girls will stick to me and Soo Jin. Got it?" I took the papers from her.
The poem. The guests should know about it. Keeping information from them would be a bad idea. I clapped to calm everyone down.
"We found one of these in each guest room." I handed them to Ava, who nodded and started handing them out. "I think it's from the killer."
They read in silence, the blood draining from their faces. Not one of them smirked, looked guilty, or gave themselves away in any other manner.
"Kevin?" Dennis asked, but no one responded. Apparently only Dennis and I thought the mention of Kevin was odd.
Thad looked at me. "Does this mean the next murder will be a stabbing? How are you going to protect us?"
That was a very good question.
"I'm going to have to frisk you," I said at last. "And while I'm doing that, the girls will search the room for hidden knives."
Without another word, the kids each took a corner and started working their way around the room. They looked a little too excited for my comfort. Weren't they afraid? Oh wait…they weren't in the poem, other than the little Girl Scouts part. And the killer had no idea we were incorporating real Scouts into the show. That decision was made late in the game.
"How do we know you aren't the one who murdered Enos?" Dennis asked. "According to my friend who's writing the book, people drop dead around you all the time!"
"Fair enough," I said, thinking that Dennis and I were going to have to have a chat about his "friend." "Dr. Body can search me before I search you."
"She could be in on it!" Taylor screeched.
"She's a medical examiner! Which means she's practically a cop," I protested. "Believe me—she doesn't want to have any more murders here."
Caroline stepped forward. "I agree. I think we should all agree that Dr. Body is innocent."
"You're just saying that because she's a doctor!" Wren whined.
The surgeon stuck her chin out. "That's right. She's a colleague. But she's also an investigator." She turned to me. "And you can frisk me next."
Soo Jin stepped up and began to pat me down. "I hope you know what you're doing," she mumbled.
"Of course I don't," I replied.
"Then," Dennis said, "I think she should be the one to search us all."
There was a general agreement in the group. It was a good idea. People would certainly trust her more than they'd trust an ex-spy. Soo Jin agreed.
After all of my limbs, torso, and shoes had been felt up, the medical examiner walked over to Caroline and started her search. To my surprise, the other guests formed a line, each waiting for their turn. I watched them to make sure someone didn't try to hide a knife.
The problem with searching everyone was that this house had knives in the kitchen. This killer would have no problem taking one at almost any time. I'd have to clear that room of all pointy weaponry. Hopefully, Miriam wouldn't need knives for whatever she had in store for dinner.
The girls took their job seriously, turning over every pillow and cushion, opening every book, and Betty even felt the inside of the fireplace. It was when she pulled the lid off a marble urn and stuck her hand in, pulling out a handful of ash, that I realized she'd gone too far.
"Betty! Stop!" I called out.
She frowned at her hand. "Why do they put fireplace ashes in this thing?"
I motioned for her to join me, keeping my eyes on the guests. "That's not fireplace ashes. See?" I pointed to a small brass plate on the lid.
"Grandpa?" Betty asked.
I nodded. "I think that's someone's cremains."
"Cremains?"
Lauren started giggling. "It's when they burn a dead body until it's ashes! You stuck your hand in someone's grandpa!"
Ava looked shocked, but Inez joined in on the laughter.
Betty stomped across the room, "THEY HAVE A DEAD BODY IN THIS HOUSE? ON PURPOSE?"
"Well," I said. "One of two. Go wash your hands." I pointed to the other three girls. "Go with her."
My eyes didn't leave the guests. Now, with the girls gone, it would be easier to hide a knife. Soo Jin finished Caroline and started on Dennis, who smiled a bit too much for my liking. The others stayed in their line, keeping a close eye on the search and each other.
"I didn't find anything," Soo Jin joined me. "They're all clean."
When she was done, I had Soo Jin recheck the sofas and chairs before allowing everyone to sit down. The room was knife-free. And so were the guests. But what was I going to do? Keep them in here until the storm ended?
And what about Miriam and Ned? They'd have to be searched too. Right now, they were probably in the kitchen, which was knife central. Miriam shouldn't be a problem, but I was betting that Ned wouldn't like being searched. I'd have to do that later, when I'd come up with a decent reason he couldn't argue with.
The girls returned. Betty's hands were bright red from scrubbing, and the other three had stopped laughing. They took up their positions and continued to search the room.
"I need a drink!" Thad got to his feet and headed toward the dining room.
I blocked him. "Stay here."
I sent Stacey and Juliette to get the drinks cart. Stacey had regained some of her composure, but Juliette was glaring at me. I was sure she thought this was my fault and was plotting how to bust me for it. At least she was keeping these thoughts to herself.
"Is this how it's going to be now?" The man sneered. "Who put you in charge, anyway?"
"I did," I snapped back, matching his glare. "Sit down. You can get a drink in a moment."
The cart arrived, and the two women went from person to person, pouring cocktails.
"What if the drinks are poisoned?" Dennis looked at his glass of scotch warily.
"Don't drink it then," I insisted. "It's not like we have a lab where we can test every bottle. You'll have to decide if you want to take that chance."
"The poem doesn't say any more about poison," Wren said hopefully.
She swallowed her glass of wine in one gulp. We all watched her for a moment. If she dropped dead, we'd have to live on water from the tap. When she didn't turn purple and fall to the floor, I figured we were all safe.
The others must've felt the same way, because they took their drinks and downed them, asking for refills. I said nothing. If it mellowed people out and made them relax, that would be a bonus.
"The killer," I mused, "went to all this trouble. He's going to stick to the poem. Which means no matter what, he's going to get his hands on a knife. Do we keep everyone here? I don't think we have the resources to search the entire house."
"How long do you think they'll want to stay here under room arrest?" she asked. "At some point, we have to let people use the bathrooms and eat. We can't keep them here forever."
I nodded. Once again I thought that it would be so much easier if the killer jumped up on the couch and proclaimed himself. But that wasn't going to happen. This murderer wanted to take down seven more victims. And until he did, I was pretty sure he wasn't going to reveal himself.
The afternoon wore on, and the storm continued to batter the house. At one point, the power came back on, which was nice. Things were getting a bit too primitive for me with a houseful of lit candles. And the last thing I wanted was to burn the Deivers' house down. It was bad enough someone was killed here. Leaving them homeless would be terrible.
Stacey asked if she and Juliette could run to the library. I didn't see any harm in it, and possibly a benefit if the killer took out my nemesis. After a few minutes, the women returned with a huge stack of books for people to read. That was an excellent idea, and it gave people a way to pass the time.
Well, not Dennis. He didn't seem to be much of a reader, unless you counted comic books. He just glared at his phone in silence. This seemed like a perfect opportunity to press him to talk about this friend who was writing a book on me. I joined him.
"What do you want?" The words were threatening, but the voice was timid. He was right to be afraid.
"I want to know more about this friend of yours who's writing a book about me."
He narrowed his eyes. "Why is it any of your business?"
My eyes narrowed. "You're joking, right? It's an unauthorized biography about me."
I waited for the words to sink in. It appeared that the guy wasn't just a slacker—but a bit of a nitwit as well. Maybe that was why he was such a flop at life. A sloth had more ambition.
After a few seconds of studying me and perhaps wondering if I was dangerous, he spoke. "She didn't say."
My jaw dropped. "You weren't kidding? Your friend's a she? You're friends with a woman?" Okay, so it probably wasn't smart to say that, but I was caught off guard.
"Yes!" Dennis snapped. "I know women. I have friends who are women!"
I attempted to defuse the situation. "Of course you do. Who is this would-be author?"
He shrugged and went back to looking at his phone.
"I'm not leaving," I levelled at him, "until you tell me. I'll sit here until you give me a name."
"Whatever." He rolled his eyes.
Apparently I wasn't that much of a threat. But I knew who was.
"Girls!" I called out. "Over here!"
Dennis turned an unlikely shade of gray as the girls lined up in front of him.
"Mr. Blunt here"—I smiled—"wants you to sing him every Girl Scout song you know!" I turned to the man. "They know the words to one hundred and thirty-six songs. It'll take two hours to sing them all. I know because I've timed them."
The man began to make a strange, choking sound.
"I think you should start with 'Hermie the Worm,'" I suggested.
Immediately the four girls launched into the song of a worm who grows bigger as he eats larger and more impossible objects. Finally, in the end, the worm burps and goes back to his original size. I always thought it a good metaphor for camp and s'mores. My troop loved making s'mores and often ate the first two they made. However, they never stopped there, figuring that I would eat all they could make when they were full. I once ate fifteen s'mores in thirty minutes. I was Hermie the Worm.
Dennis squirmed uneasily but said nothing. He wasn't going to give up the information if he could help it. And while I was particularly creative when it came to torture, nothing seemed to strike terror in the hearts of men like an old-fashioned, super loud, and off-key Girl Scout singalong.
"After this one"—I leaned toward him—"they know a great song about dirty socks at camp."
The others reacted to the singing. Arthur and Violet smiled warmly, even tapping their toes. Caroline ignored the girls. She'd moved on from staring at every piece of art in the room to staring out the window. Maybe she thought the rain-bombarded window was another abstract painting. Taylor scowled, Thad fumed, and Wren just looked constipated.
"When I was a Girl Scout," Taylor said, "I knew every single camp song. I got a prize for that!"
The girls ignored her and kept singing.
Dennis looked miserable, but he wasn't giving in.
The song ended to wild applause from the Kasinskis and tepid applause by Wren.
Taylor piped up, "When I was a Girl Scout, I wrote five songs that are now used internationally."
Man, she was annoying. Maybe I could "accidentally" leave a knife somewhere with a note suggesting Taylor as the next victim. And yes, I knew that was immature and irresponsible…which was why I didn't say it out loud.
Dennis wasn't budging. It was time to bring out the big guns.
"How about an interactive song? I know!" I pulled Betty over, opposite Dennis. "How about 'Wisconsin Milk'?"
This was a song you needed a partner for. You clapped during the song, but at the chorus, you interlaced your fingers, thumbs pointing down, and your partner "milked" your thumbs while you mooed. I forced his hands into position, and the song began. The moment Betty "milked" his thumbs, he gave up faster than any terrorist I'd ever "worked with."
Did you know you can waterboard a lactose-intolerant man with Ben and Jerry's? I know, it doesn't sound like torture to me either, but that arms dealer in Tashkent sang like a bird when I plied him with Chunky Monkey.
"Alright! I'll tell you! Make it stop!" he shrieked as he wiggled his hands as if they were on fire.
My girls didn't even look offended. They seemed to know I was using their talents for evil, and they didn't mind one bit.
"Excellent!" Arthur applauded. "Come over here and show me and Violet how to do that!"
Ava, Inez, Lauren, and Betty raced over and began showing the couple how the song worked.
"Well?" I insisted. "Don't make me hurt you. You know I was in the CIA. I can do things with mayonnaise, an Advil, and a pipe cleaner that can cause physical pain."
Dennis did not look happy. "I wasn't supposed to tell you. She said it was a surprise and you'd be happy about it." He squirmed a bit more. "But maybe she was wrong."
I nodded. "She was wrong. Who is it?"
"She's really nice. I don't know her last name." He slumped, which was impressive considering he was almost horizontal. "Pretty too."
"You consider a pretty woman whose name you don't know to be a friend?"
"Well, yeah," he hedged. "She asked me out for coffee sometime. We didn't set a date or anything yet."
This was starting to sound like he'd been targeted. It was an old CIA tactic. Find some idiot, promise him some sort of public date, and make him feel better about himself to the point he'd do anything for you, including coughing up information. Nine times out of ten, you never had to follow through with the date.
"Who. Was. It," I said in clipped tones.
"She said…" He licked his lips. "That you knew her. She said her name was Lana."