A Masked Murder, page 5
It was one of the waitresses, appointed for the evening, who’d been jostled and had five of the cocktail glasses slip off her tray. The poor young woman, in her black skirt and apron, was staring down at the wreckage with a look of consternation on her face.
“All under control. Don’t worry about it,” Autumn said. Quickly, she piled five more glasses onto the tray. “There you go. Take these out to the guests. I’ll handle this.”
There was a broom and a bucket and mop under the table, which had been the idea of Joan, the older of the two sisters on the committee.
“Always have cleaning materials close by,” she’d warned, advice Autumn was now grateful for. She used the broom to sweep the wreckage into a pile and then, with the dustpan and brush, transferred it to a bag. There was another pair of hands holding the bag. Glancing up, she saw that in the confusion, Ben had followed her. He was helping her rescue the situation, and holding the bag, and in that moment, Autumn felt the biggest surge of gratitude for him.
A few more sweeps over the floor, some work with the mop, and the sticky mess was a thing of the past. Autumn stashed the cleaning equipment back in place, and with a heartfelt thank you to Ben, she headed off with the bag of glass, going out of the hall, and breathing in a big gulp of the fresh night air as she headed to the trash skip around the corner.
She threw the bag away, and as she did so, she picked up a whiff of cigarette smoke from the back of the building.
“It’s a great event,” one of the smokers, a woman, said.
“Yes, it is,” another woman replied. “It’s making me want to build a house right here on this island and just live here.”
“Me, too. I never knew it was such a beautiful place and had so many fun activities,” the first woman replied, causing Autumn to feel a rush of pride.
“But that artist is something else, isn’t he?” Now, Autumn felt a stab of concern at the clear note of wrath in the woman’s voice.
“He’s as rude as anything, and I think he’s been getting quite drunk. At any rate, what he said to me was very inappropriate.”
Eyes wide, Autumn rushed back inside. She was the artist’s supervisor, but in the time she’d spent clearing up the breakage, he’d clearly been going rogue. She wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to drink so much, so fast. But, as she entered the crowded hall, where delicious smells of food were now starting to permeate, she realized that it wasn’t as early as she’d thought. Time was flying. Dinner was being served, and everyone was in the process of having a wonderful and festive evening. Those who weren’t committee members, of course.
She wove her way through the crowds, heading for the art display, where she could already hear Stafford’s raised voice.
"I personally do not permit any criticism of my work. If you have anything negative to say, madam, then I suggest you take a paintbrush and draw me a picture. Then I will have fun ripping it apart." He chuckled in what Autumn had to admit was an extremely menacing way as the woman recoiled.
In just a moment, this was going to escalate into full-scale conflict.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As Autumn pushed her way through the throngs, she saw the woman facing Stafford, wide eyed, was actually backtracking fast. She wasn’t ready to fight.
“I – I think you may have misinterpreted me. All I asked was how you handled criticism. It was an innocent question, nothing more!” she said.
“You were implying there was something to be criticized,” he thundered, as Autumn rushed up. Now or never was her chance to save the day.
“Mr. Stafford, I must ask you to come this way,” she said, gently grasping his arm and doing her best to divert his attention from the luckless woman, and from the crowd that had started to gather round, watching the outburst. “I believe dinner is served and I’d like to make sure you get first pick at it. Shall we organize you a plate?”
“Yes,” he said loudly, looking around at the throngs. “A plate of food is exactly what I need right now. I’m finding it very hungry work trying to educate such uneducated individuals as the island folk here. You know, I live here because it’s peaceful, but most times, I only agree to make public appearances in places where people have a basic knowledge of art. To ask questions when you lack knowledge is simply disrespectful.”
Fretting inwardly, Autumn was tempted to give him a lecture, straight from her heart, on what ‘disrespectful’ actually meant and how it could be applied to the current situation.
Somehow she managed to control herself as she ushered him away.
As they passed the bar counter, Stafford grabbed another cocktail, this one ruby red. By the time they’d gotten to the food table, not even a minute later, Autumn saw to her concern that he’d nearly finished this highly alcoholic drink. This was extremely troubling. She hadn’t known that drinking too much was another of his vises. How had there even been room for another?
The food table was loaded with tasty looking eats. Enough for an army, and just as well, because there was an army of guests waiting to descend on it at any moment.
“I don’t eat gluten,” Stafford said fussily.
Autumn considered trying to warn him that the cocktails contained gluten, just to try to slow him down a bit, but reluctantly decided he wouldn’t fall for it.
"Luckily, we have gluten-free options," she said, remembering the committee meeting discussion. "We have… over here. A gluten free table." It had been well labeled, with a big sign above it.
“I also don’t like spice. My senses are far too finely tuned for its assault,” he said, frowning at the satay chicken skewers and the curried chickpea and rice mini meals.
“How about this? Tricolore salad?” Autumn said, choosing a few of the tomato, mozzarella and basil rounds, with a drizzle of pesto.
“Dairy disagrees with me,” he grumbled. “Actually, don’t worry about food. I clearly didn’t manage to convey my very specific needs to you. I’ll just have another drink instead.”
He put his empty cocktail glass down on the table and turned around, marching in an irate but purposeful way toward the bar.
Autumn felt herself hyperventilating. He was going to have yet another cocktail? On top of what he’d already had, on an empty stomach? She strongly felt that the evening was going to end in total disaster if this man, with more alcohol in his system, was let loose on the public for any longer.
What to do?
Manage the situation, Autumn, she entreated herself. The man needs privacy. And right now, you do need to try to get some food inside him, or heaven knows what he’s going to say in his speech. He’ll end up clearing the room!
She took a plate and headed around the table, looking closely and trying to pick out a few delicacies that she thought he would eat, especially if nobody was watching.
The gluten free Italian meatballs, the sweet and sour chicken drumsticks, the smoked salmon on rice cakes. Sifting through the table, with increasing desperation, she found a few others as well. Then, she headed to the bar, picked up a big bottle of water, and took the whole lot to the private office that Stafford had been assigned.
She set down the plate and the water, and then turned back, heading into the main hall again. She was only just in time. Stafford was standing face to face with none other than Mrs. Hayman herself. As she approached, Autumn had the weird certainty that Mrs. Hayman’s cat mask was about to hiss and spit with anger.
“I’m saying that the arrangements here are unacceptable for me,” Stafford was protesting angrily.
“But Mr. Stafford, we’ve done our absolute best to accommodate your needs. I asked you for a list of foods and you wouldn’t give it in time!” Mrs. Hayman shot back.
Hoping to save the situation, Autumn rushed up.
"I've managed to pick out a few delicacies that meet all your requirements," she soothed. "I've put them for you in the private office so that you can enjoy them without being interrupted by any of your fans. Would you like to come this way?" She managed to steer him away from the bar before he'd reached for yet another cocktail. A small but significant achievement, she praised herself.
She opened the office door, ushered him inside, and led him over to the chair. At least he was agreeable to being moved around if the correct level of breathless deference was shown.
“There you go. I’ll be back to check on you just now.”
Regally, he sat down, without thanking her but also without protesting. Autumn left, wishing she could lock the door behind him. But at least, for the moment, he was out of the public’s eye.
She headed for the food table. The gluten was calling her! Piling her plate with a couple of chicken and beef sliders, a mini pizza, and a fruit skewer, Autumn slunk to the back of the bar, in the most private place she could find, and began devouring the food, hoping to goodness that nobody would call her before she’d finished her plate. She was so hungry that she felt weak, and worse still, irritable. Food was needed now, and in fact, it might just save the day.
With dinner being consumed, guests were getting into the dancing. There were quite a few couples on the dance floor, showing off their moves. She wondered if Ben would like to dance. She didn’t even have a clue where he was, though. Somewhere in the crowds.
This was her only chance, though, while her fussy charge was locked away, and before the work of clearing up the event began.
Do it, Autumn told herself. Do it, do it, do it.
She headed out into the throng, looking for Ben, trying her best to pick up the shape of his head, the angle of his mask, or the rich timbre of his voice.
There he was – coming toward her, squeezing past a group of people with a smile and an apologetic word.
“Hey, Autumn,” he said.
“Hey, Ben,” she replied.
"I was looking for you everywhere. I wanted to ask – well, I'm a pretty hopeless dancer. I tread on my toes a lot. But I'd love to have a dance with you."
Autumn felt her face grow warm. “I’m a hopeless dancer, too,” she said. “I’m not very coordinated and I can never get the hip wiggles right. Even so, I’d love to dance with you, too.”
At that moment, the music changed, from a cheesy eighties pop song, the melody slowing into an even more cheesy eighties love song – one she had heard many times before and adored.
Ben held out a hand. Feeling as if she was in a dream, Autumn took it.
And then, with the suddenness of an alarm clock shrilly slicking into the moment, the music stopped, and the microphone crackled, and there was the ear-splitting sound of someone hitting a spoon against a glass.
Ting, ting, ting.
Everyone whirled around. On the podium stood Thom, smiling at the assembled guests as he played the deafening sound over the microphone. Once he saw everyone had been startled out of what they were doing, he raised the microphone.
“We’re going to keep this short but sweet,” he said. “I’d like to say a few words of welcome to all of you, our honored guests, as well as say a few words of thanks to our wonderful sponsors.”
Reluctantly, Autumn let go of Ben's hand, seeing that he looked as disappointed by this as she felt. They had been so close to having a dance. A slow dance, a romantic dance. She wondered if, at the end of it, they would have shared a kiss.
Then, fate had cruelly gotten in the way, and now, she realized her responsibilities as a committee member were descending again.
“After the thank-yous, we’re going to listen to our esteemed guest artist, Mr. Stafford, speak about the inspiration for his work, as well as the inspiration for tonight’s event – the power of illusion.”
Autumn’s heart, from pitter-pattering at the thought of a dance with Ben, abruptly leaped into her throat. She had about five minutes to go and get Stafford, to present him ready for his speech, and somehow to make sure that he spoke in a way that didn’t offend everyone.
“See you later,” she said to Ben. “I have to go fetch him.”
What could she suggest to Stafford, she wondered frantically. Pushing her way through the throng, she stepped aside to avoid the waitress, carrying yet another tray of drinks. Was there some way she could guide him? Perhaps there was. Flattery might get her everywhere. She could say to him that there had been special requests to talk about the individual art pieces on display. That might keep things safe, and then at the end, she’d just need to make sure there was absolutely no time for questions. She’d rip the microphone right out of his hands, rather than let him answer a question.
With a triage system forming in her mind, Autumn rushed along the back corridor to the office, tapping on the door before opening it.
The first thing she saw was that the water bottle was on the desk, untouched. So was the food. It hadn’t even been tasted. And Stafford’s back was toward her, hidden by the chair. His legs were stretched out in a way that suggested he might be snoozing.
Or even passed out.
But when Autumn rounded the chair, already saying loudly, “Mr. Stafford, it’s time for the speech!” she realized to her horror that this was not the case.
Staring in shock, clapping her hands over her mouth, Autumn couldn’t stop a horrified cry. The knife hilt sticking out of his chest, and the blood oozing down from it, told her the real cause of his still, immobile stance.
While he'd been snoozing in the office, someone had crept in and done the worst imaginable.
This was no illusion. This was murder.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Help!” Autumn rushed to the office door, flinging it open. “Help!” she yelled.
Then and only then did common sense assert itself. Screaming for help was not the right thing to do now. Causing a full scale panic would result in a stampede, in injuries, and would have serious implications for the future of the masked ball.
This needed to be handled in a low-key way, even though angst was ripping through her.
Murdered. This was unthinkable. The image of the knife was vivid, and it wouldn’t leave her mind.
A knife! What knife was it, and from where had it come? Who had used it?
With shaking hands, she got out her phone and dialed 911.
“Please, can the police get here as soon as possible?” she asked the operator. “There’s been a murder at the town hall, in one of the side rooms. Tell them to hurry.”
With that having been done, it was time to update the others on this disaster.
The speech was still in progress. And in just a minute, Thom was going to announce that Stafford himself was due to take the stage. Autumn had to somehow contain this disaster.
She closed the door firmly so that nobody would accidentally walk into the back office and see the shocking sight. Then, on legs that felt unsteady with shock, she rushed back down the passage, and into the main hall.
“And finally,” Thom announced, “our thanks go out to the Magnolia Bay town managers, our public servants, and all those who work so hard to keep this beautiful hall, and town, in such fine condition.”
Applause rang throughout the room as Autumn rushed up to the podium, pasting on a fake smile as she tapped Thom on the arm.
He turned to her, looking surprised, and she made what she hoped was a discreet gesture for him to turn the microphone off. No way did she want to accidentally broadcast what she was here to say.
Thom turned it off. Only then did Autumn stage whisper to him.
“There’s been a disaster. Please tell everyone to carry on dancing. No speech.”
Thom blinked rapidly. Then, he turned the microphone on again, showing great presence of mind as he handled the unexpected curveball that Autumn had just thrown him.
"Please, enjoy the dancing and the evening," he said. "I'll be back with more announcements shortly."
He put the microphone on its stand, stepped off the podium, and turned to Autumn.
“What’s going on?” he asked again. She shook her head, stress twanging through her, conscious of the curious glances from the surrounding guests.
“Come this way,” she said, unwilling to say more until he saw the scale of the catastrophe for himself.
Thom followed behind her as she headed back down the passage, opened the office door, and stepped inside, breathing fast.
“What’s going on, Autumn?” Thom asked, real concern in his voice. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“Go look.” She gestured to the director’s chair. “Please, go look. It’s Mr. Stafford and I – I don’t know what we should do now. I’ve called 911 and the police will be here soon, but…”
Thom went and looked. Autumn couldn’t bear to watch him looking. She stared at the door instead, keeping a lookout in case anyone else came their way. But the corridor was quiet. She heard Thom’s indrawn gasp, and after a few more moments, he came back, looking as if he, too, had seen a ghost.
“This is unbelievable,” he said. “What a catastrophe. Murdered?” He shook his head, casting an uneasy glance at the door. “We’re going to have to wrap the event up immediately, with or without the police here. The killer must be out there!”
Autumn shook her head. “I’m sure he’s not. In all the chaos, he’s probably made his escape by now. The only people out there are still hundreds of innocent folk who will panic if we tell them there’s been a murder.”
Thom pressed his lips together. Then, as if by mutual consent, they both headed to the door, walked out, and Thom closed it firmly.
“I’m going to call the police right now,” he said. “I’ll wait here and show them the body, making sure nobody else walks in. While I do, you need to call the committee together. Announce that the event is over and that everyone must please leave calmly.”
“Calmly. Right.”
“I know you can do it.” But even Thom’s voice was shaking. Autumn felt sick as she headed back down the corridor. What a vicious and unexpected twist of events. And who – who – had done this?
