Chapter Ten. The Body in The Wardrobe
CHAPTER TEN
THE BODY IN THE WARDROBE
“What is the meaning of this?”
Bitter Bernie, as I’ve taken to thinking of her, bursts into the costume closet the next afternoon, clutching a piece of paper.
In the other hand is her omnipresent tumbler.
For the first time, I’m close enough to make out the design, a bouquet of flowers under the words GOOD MORNING, BEAUTIFUL!
It’s a weirdly perky greeting for someone who always seems angry at the world.
Grandma Lainey looks up from the rack of evening gowns she’s sorting through. “Care to be more specific?”
“Come to the dining room at one P.M. or else!” she reads, shaking the page for emphasis.
“Don’t tell a soul.” Claude’s sister glares at all of us—my grandmother, Mrs. A, me, and Malia.
Mr. Namura seems to have disappeared behind a rack of coats.
“I found this on my doormat this morning. Is it some kind of blackmail? Are you threatening me? Because I’m telling you right now, it won’t work. ”
During her speech, I get a better look at the message. The letters appear to have been cut out of a magazine and glued to the page, puckering the paper.
“Don’t look at me,” Grandma Lainey says. “That’s not my style. I use an old typewriter for my ransom notes.”
“I write left-handed,” Malia volunteers, popping out from behind a changing screen with a pair of men’s shoes in her hands. “Harder to trace.” Her face falls. “I tried invisible ink, but you never know if the person receiving it will have a lemon handy.”
Bernie looks even more disgusted than when she arrived. “What is wrong with you people?”
“No one is blackmailing you or demanding a ransom.” Mrs. A raises both palms in a let’s all calm down pose. “It was an invitation. To today’s game.”
Bernie takes a half step back, like she might need to make a break for it. “You can’t force me.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. A agrees. “We thought you might enjoy being part of something your brother cared about. It can be a wonderful form of self-expression, to do something creative—”
“Decoupage is creative,” the other woman snaps. “This is sick and twisted, and I don’t want any part of it.”
Grandma Lainey assumes a patently false pout. “Darn.”
“Things are going to change around here,” Claude’s sister announces. “We’ll see who’s laughing then.”
“Says who?” my grandmother asks, looking her up and down. “You?”
“And my lawyer!”
I wonder if she means Mervyn or someone else. Can he represent the condo and Claude’s sister? Because I’m pretty sure they’re on opposite sides.
Grandma Lainey pretends to tremble in fear before fixing Bernie with a cool stare. “Don’t let us keep you.”
“If you change your mind,” Mrs. A cuts in, attempting to smooth things over, “the fun starts in the dining room at one.”
In response, Bernie drops the letter like it’s a dirty tissue. “As if. I’d rather—”
Don’t say it, I think. It’s not a sixth sense exactly, but my gut tells me it’s wiser to be careful what you wish for around here.
“Be boiled in oil,” she finishes.
“Maybe next time.” Mrs. A gives the remark a hopeful lift at the end. Hard to say whether she means the boiling or the game.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Bernie sneers. “I doubt there’ll be a next time.”
“Spare us the ominous exit line,” Grandma Lainey says, waving her off. “We invented that trick.”
Once the coast is clear, Mr. Namura emerges from his hiding place, picking up the letter with a sigh. “I thought it would help her get into the spirit of the game.”
“It’s not your fault,” Grandma Lainey assures him. “She was never going to be on our wavelength. At least this way we don’t have to worry about her slowing us down.”
Mrs. A pats him on the shoulder. “Probably we should have gone with a more traditional welcome, like cookies.”
“Or donuts,” Mr. Namura says. “Since she likes boiling things in oil.”
“You know, I still think she might have potential. As a player.” Mrs. A shakes her head like she knows we’re going to argue. “That’s one we’ve never used—boiling someone to death. Maybe she’ll bring new energy to the game.”
“She certainly makes me think about murder.” Grandma Lainey checks her watch. “Enough about her. It’s showtime.”
I hear the old-fashioned music even before I walk into the dining room. According to today’s script, I’m heading for a nightclub called The White Rose, where I will meet my contact. My character profile is slick:
Your role: Katya, ex-spy turned artisanal chocolate maker
Notable props: Trench coat; wig; beauty mark
Objective: Protect your secrets at any cost
The vibe suits my new jacket perfectly, or maybe it’s vice versa. Either way, I’m feeling chic and sophisticated like a Cold War spy, especially with the beauty mark and the smoky eye Mrs. A gave me.
I haven’t seen Felix yet, but I’m willing to bet his ensemble will be less cool than mine.
The thought of his reaction to my makeover adds an extra sizzle of anticipation.
Last time I was playing a fresh-faced girl-next-door type, which honestly wasn’t that big of a departure from my normal self (apart from the poison ring).
This time I have major femme fatale energy.
He’ll probably be intimidated—and impressed. Maybe he’ll even turn out to be my contact? A shady figure from the criminal underworld, perhaps.
That theory lasts until I step through the beaded curtain (a new addition) and into the dimly lit dining room.
Someone is singing at a microphone in the corner.
The musical roles usually go to Malia, but this is a man’s voice, smooth and rich like the second coming of Frank Sinatra.
He turns at my entrance, sending a saucy smile my way before he launches into the next verse.
Freaking Felix. He said he could sing, but I assumed he was bragging.
I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now.
Shock, yes. And jealousy, along with a burning need to best him at something ASAP so he can be equally blown away.
But there’s also a melting sensation in my bones, deep down where I can almost pretend it isn’t happening, until he starts crooning right at me, with his hair slicked back and a white dinner jacket and … is that a mustache?
I focus on the fuzzy caterpillar above his lip. Mrs. A’s crush on Magnum P.I. strikes again.
The hint of ridiculousness is enough to restore my confidence as I head for the empty table with the flickering votive and a single white rose in an empty wine bottle. I’m only partly surprised when Felix steps down from the stage to join me.
He snaps his fingers. A waiter (better known as Mr. Namura) appears with a bottle and two glasses.
“Wine?” Felix asks, pulling out the chair opposite mine.
“If you like.”
“What shall we drink to?” he asks after Mr. Namura hands us both goblets of what smells like grape juice.
“Your health?” I suggest, raising the glass to my lips and pretending to take a sip. I wouldn’t put it past Felix to poison me in retaliation.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” Felix asks.
“Looking for a friend.” That’s the other half of the coded phrase my contact and I are supposed to exchange.
I wait for Felix to slip me an envelope or a key or something related to the game, but he’s too busy staring at me over the rim of his glass.
The warmth in my cheeks is absolutely frustration, not a blush.
He’s much better at this than Bradley. I crush that thought before it can take root.
While I’m debating whether to flirt back or threaten him with violence if he doesn’t cough up the goods, a scream splits the air. Felix and I lock eyes for an instant before jumping out of our chairs and breaking into a run.
We’re neck and neck as we skid around the corner to the library.
My brain immediately catalogues the details: Two glasses on the coffee table, both empty.
Overturned lamp. The rhythmic hum of a record left spinning after the music has stopped.
And, of course, the (mostly) limp form of Mrs. A, stretched out in front of the striped velvet armchair.
“I’ll check the body,” Felix volunteers, like he’s doing me a favor. Ha! As if I would fall for such a cheap trick.
A glance behind me confirms we’re still alone (apart from Mrs. A), because there are advantages to being fifty years younger than everyone else in the building.
“I’m on it,” I say, cutting him off as I cross the room to kneel in front of Mrs. A.
“Looks like she was strangled,” Felix observes, trying to see past me.
I reply with a noncommittal hmmm. A silent game of chicken plays out, each of us shifting to block the other’s view while also avoiding physical contact—with the deceased or each other.
He’s too far into my space (or possibly the other way around) but my character wouldn’t back down, so I don’t either.
“You can see the bruising.” He points over my shoulder to where Mrs. A has obligingly tilted her head back. We both pretend not to notice her throat move as she swallows. “Unless you think someone throttled her after she was dead?”
I meet his sarcasm with a tiny upward slant of the brows. “I guess you didn’t notice the powdery residue in her glass.” A beat, to let him verify the evidence. “Or the discoloration on her lips?”
Even in death, Mrs. A can’t resist helping me out by letting her mouth fall open to reveal that her tongue is also stained the deep purple of an eggplant.
Felix flinches, then tries to pass it off like he’s fighting a sneeze. “And I assume you saw the fabric in her hand?” he says, rallying. “Clearly ripped from the killer’s clothing during the struggle.”
“Obviously.” Had I observed that ragged strip of cloth before he mentioned it? Nope, but confessing is for suckers.
With a flourish, he pulls a tiny pad of paper from inside his jacket, like a magician conjuring a rabbit. “I’m going to take notes.”
“Go ahead.” After a pause, I add a pointed “Watson,” leaning on the word like it’s a stiletto I’m sliding into his chest.