“Not quite the Taj Mahal,” I said, trying not to gape at the modernistic decor as we handed over our invitations at the hired venue.
“I swear, I can’t take you anywhere,” Nick muttered.
He was obviously trying not to glare at the black feathers adorning my hair and dangling down my nape. Fascinators were quite fascinating, I’d decided. “Then toddle off, keeping your eyes open for any of that list of suspects I gave you. I promise, I will not feel abandoned.”
He eyed the formal buffet table draped in purple and white linen. The china and silver were illuminated by glass globes above, and crystalline torches in the all-white centerpieces below. They probably had chocolate fountains and shrimp mountains behind the purple drapery along the edges of the open room. The lounge area was occupied by a small orchestra playing soporific Bach. Always happy to oblige, Nick deserted me for the food.
I’d swear there was a cat in the room just from the way my eyes watered, but I suspected I was overloading on bouquets of lilies and French perfume. Nick was right—he really shouldn’t take me anywhere like this.
I focused on the tuxedo crowd. Reality was hugely different from studying a fixed image on a computer screen. I needed a facial recognition program to run behind my glasses. I’d ask Tudor about that later.
I found Edward Parker III first because he was standing next to Melissa. He was tall, slim, had a receding hairline, and dyed his probably graying hair blond. Definite sag along the jawline that he’d probably have tightened soon, if his artificial tan was any indication of his vanity. He wore a diamond and gold ring on the hand he draped over Melissa’s shoulders.
Looked like I’d be Linda Lane, schoolteacher and student, this evening. I texted Nick to let him know. He was already chatting with an elegantly-attired older gentleman. He looked down at his phone but didn’t even glance in my direction as he tucked it back in his pocket.
I scanned the room again, hunting for anyone who might resemble the company photo of Tony Jeffery, the man I’d come to see, but I came up blank. Tony might be the reason I was here, but Parker made a good substitute. I grabbed a passing champagne glass—I hate champagne but loved the look of the crystal in my hand—and worked my way through the mob.
I doubted that the bug in my fascinator could pick up more than soft violin music, loud crowd noise, and blurry images, but I figured if I screamed, Graham would notice. It was probably his security on duty, or at least one of his men would be embedded in whatever company was here. That would explain the easy invites. He was sneaky that way.
“Melissa,” I cried as I approached. “It’s good to see you here!”
She looked momentarily blank. I understood. My long braid and army coat had registered one impression. Super nerd elegance was quite another. “Linda Lane,” I reminded her. “We spoke this morning about the school.”
She brightened. “It’s nice to know someone at these parties. Ed, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Linda, this is Ed Parker. I may have mentioned him.”
As her supporter, yeah, right. “Good meeting a supporter of the arts, Mr. Parker. Melissa was trying to help me decide what to do if Reverend Arden’s school closes. I’d really hoped to be a part of the program. It’s a good cause.”
Ed looked bored. He frowned at my eccentric hairpiece, dismissed the rest of my bland attire, and returned to studying the crowd over my shoulder. “There’s always another good cause on the horizon, although I haven’t heard that JACAD will close. I thought it was simply out for the holidays.”
“Well, no one knows if Reverend Arden will recover, and this business with Mr. Paycock has everyone suspecting the funds are gone. In this tough economy, we’re all up a creek if JACAD can’t provide jobs.”
He snorted derisively. “As if building shacks in the jungle is a job. You’d be better off working at Walmart.”
That was a fine attitude for someone on CAD’s board of directors. And he wasn’t confirming anything about the funds. Since I wasn’t accomplishing much with this topic, I switched it up. “My brother told me I should apply at General Defense since they’re a big supporter of the program. I was supposed to talk to Mr. Jeffrey this evening.”
“Oh, Mr. Jeffrey is a real sweetie,” Melissa exclaimed. “His wife is ill and can never attend these functions, but he’s always so polite to all of us! I thought I saw him at the buffet a few minutes ago.”
Parker frowned haughtily. “One does not talk business at affairs like this. If you wish to see him at his office, I’ll mention your name. Call his secretary in the morning.”
That was a load of crap if I ever heard it. I gave him my best fawning smile. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Parker! I see why Melissa is so fond of you.” I pulled a card out of my purse and handed it over. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s nothing. Perhaps you’ll be able to help us out sometime,” he said in a decidedly bored and distant voice as he tucked the card in his pocket.
I had no idea who “us” would be and doubted I wanted to help a wealthy trust fund baby who dangled Sunday school teachers on his string, but I tried to sound enthusiastic as I turned to Melissa.
She surprised me by taking my arm and breaking away from Ed’s. “Let’s check out the buffet,” she suggested, “I heard the chef outdid himself tonight.”
I hoped she actually had something to say and wasn’t just looking for escape. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Parker.” And I started across the room, dragging an anxious Melissa with me.
“Rebecca is dead!” she whispered. “I just heard she was found in the river! Why did no one tell me?”
“Dead?” I looked at her in blank surprise, more interested in how she’d found out than in old news.
“I can’t believe it.” She was almost crying and her hand dug into my arm. “She loved boating. She could swim. How could she die? Do you think Esther may have been with her, and they just haven’t found her body yet?”
Huh, sounds like she didn’t have all the information yet, if she didn’t know Rebecca had been strangled before she’d been left to sink. “I have no idea,” I said in what I hoped sounded like horror. “I heard about the body. How do you know it was Rebecca?”
“Ed told me,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. “He thought I knew.”
Ed wasn’t telling her that Rebecca had been murdered. I debated and came down on the side of knowledge being better than ignorance and hoping Melissa would pack her bags and go home if she learned the truth.
I pretended to admire the artistic stack of unidentifiable appetizers and whispered, “If we’re talking about the same story, I heard the woman in the Potomac was strangled. And that a woman’s body was found in a grave with Mr. Paycock’s. I’m thinking we all need to go home.”
She was so silent, that I had to glance over. Her chin was quivering, and she was fighting back tears. “That can’t be right,” she murmured. “After Owen died, Esther said. . .” She glanced back across the room. I tried to follow her gaze, but the room was too crowded. She seemed to set her mouth in decision and removed her phone from her designer bag. “I need to talk with someone. This just isn’t right.”
She left me to admire the sushi. I’m not a real detective and can’t go bugging private phones, no matter how much I longed to find out who Melissa was calling. I just hoped whoever it was would tell her to go home. When she mentioned Esther and Owen, had she been referring to the construction guy who’d died last spring?
Melissa seemed headed for an anteroom off the foyer. Instead of following her, I returned to my real purpose here and searched for GenDef’s elusive CEO.
A murmur and undulation of the predominantly male crowd caused me to study the entrance. Patra had arrived. She handed a fur wrap to a tuxedoed greeter, revealing her form-fitting, Christmas-red evening gown. She wore her thick chestnut hair in a fancy ’do pinned with zirconia that flashed just like diamonds. Tongues were probably hanging out, but I’d seen this reaction to my sister often enough not to bother watching her work the room.
Melissa had disappeared from view. I picked up a plate from the buffet and glanced back over my shoulder. Ed Parker was talking to a vaguely familiar face—perhaps one of CAD’s other board members. I tried to place the stranger’s round, cherubic visage on the roster and thought he might be one of the oil company sponsors, possibly the one involved in the AGA, the gun lobby that Ed belonged to.
I had a brief mental image of all the execs producing their concealed carries and having an old-fashioned gunfight, but I suppressed my eccentric humor and continued to search for Jeffrey. I found Nick first.
My genial, extroverted half-brother was holding court and expounding on the lack of good tailors in this country for an audience of half a dozen sartorially-impressive gentlemen in tuxes. My guess was that they all had tailors in Thailand, and Nick was trying to find out their names. The embassy didn’t pay enough to keep him in bespoke suits.
I was about to skirt him and look for Tony Jeffrey at the dessert buffet when I noticed a gentleman leaning against a column almost hidden behind a half-wall, listening to Nick’s discussion group.
Gray-haired, medium height, with a slight stoop to his shoulders, he looked familiar. He wasn’t wearing a fitted tux, just a decent business suit and tie, as if he’d come over from the office. Then I spotted Patra zooming in on him, and comprehension sank in—this was Tony Jeffrey, looking far older than his stockholder image on the firm’s brochure.
Dang, why did so many of the people involved with CAD look like decent guys? Shouldn’t they look shifty and mean? The man standing there in the shadows owned a large part of a corporation that provided handguns to every gang in this country and around the world. He was responsible for the deaths of innocents by the thousands, maybe millions. And that was before we got into the big guns for the military and police forces.
He looked like somebody’s aging accountant father.
A bodyguard stopped Patra before she came too close. While I filled my plate with cheese and olives, I watched Senator Paul Rose and his entourage approach the gun manufacturer. No wonder Jeffrey hid in shadows. Everyone wanted a piece of his time.
I texted Patra and asked if she could hear anything. She looked up, found me, and shook her head.
I had too many deaths and not enough suspects. I stood in the shadows, nibbling my dinner, and watched the crowd. Lots of men glad-handing, exchanging cards—politicians and lobbyists would be my surmise. A few of CAD’s corporate sponsors schmoozed at the bar, but not many. This was evidently not their kind of affair. The people here were into serious political arm-twisting.
I assumed the older women in this crowd were mostly wives, although several of the whitened-teeth flashing group were probably lobbyists. A few nubile young things like Melissa were attached to older men. A few others worked the crowd.
I thought I caught a glimpse of the back of Magda’s head as she steered a gray-haired tall dude into an alcove. I would avoid going in that direction.
In the shadows along the walls lurked security with Bluetooth earphones and weapons beneath their coats. Senator Paul Rose, as a leading presidential candidate, would be heavily guarded. Men with billions, like Jeffrey, might have their own parade, except some of his uglies were in lock-up tonight, I hoped.
The lack of women was so evident that I decided to follow their movements while Nick and Patra tried to close in on Jeffrey. A polished, business-suited female about Magda’s age whispered to Jeffrey, then swung her slender hips in the direction of the back of the bar.
Guessing that was where the restrooms were hidden, I moseyed along after her. I didn’t think I could take a photo in this crowd, but maybe I could fake it in closer quarters. Anyone who got close to Jeffrey was worth investigating.
I checked the angle of my fascinator in the mirror and refreshed my lipstick while the unknown female used the facilities. When she emerged to wash her hands, I was shoving pins into my hair. “I hate my hair,” I said, because most women hated their hair and it made a great conversation starter. “If Frankie would just let me cut it all off, I would.”
“It’s lovely hair,” she said graciously but stiffly, reaching for a towel. “But if you want it cut, then you should. Men shouldn’t dictate how we use our bodies.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise at her reflection. “You’re not part of this crowd, are you?”
She smiled faintly. “I accompany my father because my mother can’t. That doesn’t mean I have to agree with his politics or old-fashioned attitude.”
Ah, that meant she was probably Jeffrey’s daughter, not his plaything. Dang, I wanted a good reason to hate him.
“Smart lady,” I said approvingly. “And when my career takes off, and I’m rolling in my own money, I’ll whack my hair.” Liar, liar, pants on fire, but I was just making conversation. “I’m Linda Lane, friend of Melissa Winters.” I stuck out my hand.
She shook with her fingertips, as if I might have a communicable disease. Her nails were manicured with nearly indiscernible polish, her hair was a brownish-blond, and her gown was beige—as if she worked at invisibility. “Melissa. . . Ed Parker’s date?”
Date, yup. “Yes, an interesting couple, aren’t they?”
She shrugged and picked up her beige clutch. “I figure she’s his beard, but maybe she really does have talent. Good meeting you, Miss Lane.”
Beard? Ed Parker was gay? And in the closet in this day and age? Weird. Wouldn’t the macho guys in the AGA love to hear that?
Travel had taught me to always be prepared. Now that the place was empty, I figured I’d avail myself of the opportunity while I had the chance.
Just as I closed the stall door, I heard the main door open. Ever cautious, I checked under the door and saw a rather boring pair of stacked brown heels. It was Melissa’s voice that I recognized, however. I jerked upright, but then realized she wasn’t addressing me.
“Mr. Arden? It’s me, Melissa Winters, from art class, remember?” It was obvious from the way she talked that she had reached voice mail. “I am. . . I was a friend of Rebecca Beatty’s and Esther Hanks. I really need to talk to you. It’s awful important. I know you’re in the hospital and all, but when you can, please. . .” She gave her phone number.
She sounded as if she might be crying. I hastily righted my clothing and was just about to leave the stall when I heard the main door slam open. Restroom doors are usually on hinges that close quietly. Most people would have to be furious or very strong to pack enough power to slam one—which screamed danger to me.
I hastily climbed onto the toilet so my feet weren’t visible. I expected angry shouts and weeping arguments and maybe an insight into Melissa’s life with Ed.
I got two pops and a gasp.
It took me five seconds to get past the shock of my shattered expectations, wrap my head around what actually happened, and leap into action—five seconds too long.
The heavy restroom door closed. I didn’t hear anyone leave, but I hadn’t heard them enter either. I pulled myself up on the top of the stall and saw no one. I jumped down and pushed open the stall door.
Melissa lay sprawled, face down, on the tile floor, two holes oozing red from her back.
In emergencies, all my instincts shut down, and I go into robot mode. My head ticked off everything that I needed to do, but first, I crouched beside her to take her pulse. Her eyelids fluttered. “Tell the reverend,” she whispered. “Tell him. . . George did it.”
Since George Paycock’s skeleton was currently in the police morgue, I had to assume she wasn’t telling me he shot her. I was holding her hand and texting Nick and Patra with the other. They were closest and could come fastest.
“George did what?” I looked around for something to pack into her wounds. They weren’t pumping much blood. I had a nasty feeling that wasn’t good.
“George killed Esther.” Tears were running down her cheek, and she shuddered and clutched my hand. “And probably Owen.”
“Who shot you?” I asked, because I couldn’t be in two places at once, and I was too human to leave her here alone while I chased a killer.
“GenDef—”
Patra and Magda burst into the room just as the light faded from Melissa’s eyes and her last words died on her tongue.
Magda swore a blue streak, grabbed the fancy towels from a basket beneath the vanity that I hadn’t even noticed, and flipped Melissa over. I was punching out 911 when she began applying pressure to Melissa’s blood-covered chest.
No wonder there hadn’t been blood on her back. The exit wounds from some really nasty bullets were in her front.
Patra was nattering into one phone and texting on another. I could hear Nick ordering people away outside.
“We have to get you out of here before anyone realizes you were in here,” Magda said, grabbing my phone before I could talk to the dispatcher. “Call Graham.”
My phone started ringing the instant she disconnected my call. My formidable brain was shutting down. I knew I needed to go after the killer. I needed to report to the police. I needed to tell Graham what I’d learned. But a nice Sunday school teacher had been murdered. And all I wanted to do was listen to my mother and run and hide.
It was too much. I was freezing up inside.
I’d seen dead bodies before, but no amount of experience can protect against the shock of watching someone die, especially if it’s someone you know.
Dazed, I answered my phone.
“Get out,” Graham ordered in my ear. “I’ll give the video to the cops. Get out now before the killer realizes his mistake. My guys are already after him. Sam is at the door and will drive you home.”
The line went dead.
I’d forgotten the damned camera and recorder on my head. I snatched it off and flung the fascinator in a corner like a snake.
To my eternal shame, I let my mother throw me to Graham’s goons.