Murder at the Masquerade, page 1
Murder at the Masquerade
THE REBECCA ORANGE CASTLE COZY MYSTERY SERIES
BOOK SIX
VALERIE BRANDY
Copyright © 2025 Valerie Brandy.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published by: Emerald Lion Press. 23901 Calabasas Rd., Ste 2088, Calabasas, CA 91302. emeraldlionpress@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-964161-78-5
Editing provided by Sharon Lennon-Mehlschau.
Printed in the United States of America. To request permission to use passages from this book in any context other than a review, please contact the publisher at emeraldlionpress@gmail.com.
Visit the author’s website at: www.valeriebrandy.com
Formatted with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
A Poisonous Play
More From Valerie Brandy
Letter From the Author
Chapter
One
“This wedding tradition might actually be worse than Monrovian bridesmaids’ hats,” I mutter to Maggie, adjusting the mask strapped across my face. Feathers stick out from the edges and tangle in my hair. I reach up to scratch my nose. A rogue panel of beading across the mask’s nosepiece makes me feel like I’m about to sneeze, but I resist.
Somewhere behind us, castle staff string the last of the olive-branch garlands shot through with warm twinkle lights onto the wall sconces. The garlands are a Monrovian Halloween— or “All Souls Day,” as they call it here— staple. Nearby, a row of charming carved pumpkins wait to be carried downstairs. Their candlelit grins flicker orange against the stone.
“Oh, hush,” Maggie laughs, tightening the band on the back of my mask until it perches just right. She’s wearing her own disguise— a pearl-encrusted mask that covers her face from forehead to chin. “The wedding masquerade is a Monrovian classic! Little girls dream of the day they get to throw their own masquerade to announce their engagement.”
“Can I donate mine to one of them?” I ask, giving an ironic twirl in my enormous midnight-blue ballgown. “I’m sure they’d appreciate it more.”
“I hope not!” Maggie says, laughing. “Masquerades are only for brides with an impending wedding. Don’t you see how fun it is? It’s a tradition that goes back centuries. The entire village would gather in masks and try to guess who the bride was...”
“I know, I know.” I wave a hand dismissively. “Jack explained it already. I still don’t get why I have to have a big party. Lady Harriet didn’t have a masquerade.”
“Lady Harriet cleverly disappeared from public life for years,” Maggie says. “She got away with skipping the fuss. You and the Duke, unfortunately, are still front and center. Until he abdicates and runs off to open an animal sanctuary with you, you’re stuck indulging our weirdest traditions.”
“Running off to operate an animal sanctuary? Honestly, not a bad idea.” I glance at my reflection in a full-length mirror propped against the wall. I’m swallowed in layers of fabric, the dress ballooning around my hips like an upside-down bell. The mask hides my forehead, nose, and upper eyes, and my hair is tucked under a massive powdered wig the color of stale meringue. The whole look is so far removed from my usual style, I hardly recognize myself. “I could wear sweatpants there.”
I don’t mention that Jack and I have been quietly wondering where we fit in Monrovian society after the wedding. Late at night in the castle library, we’ve spent hours trying to plan for the future. But the planning always circles back to the same questions: How should we get married? When? Jack feels obligated to hold a public wedding in the name of royal transparency and service. Me? I’d rather stand barefoot on a riverbank with Joe at my side and no dress code in sight. Our visions are so different, we haven’t planned much of anything yet—except for this engagement masquerade.
“It’s a good omen that your masquerade is the same month as ‘All Souls Day’!” Maggie says, smiling at me.
“You mean Halloween?” I laugh, teasing her. We’ve been fighting about the proper name for the day, which— in my home country— is all about candy and trick-or-treating.
“You Americans and your candy,” Maggie shakes her head. “This month is deeper than treats.” She leans in, making a ghostly twitching motion with her fingers. “October is when we thin the veil between this world and the beyond. It’s a special time to have a wedding masquerade. Very auspicious.” Maggie opens the door and gestures toward the hallway. Olive-leaf and tiny-lantern garlands loop between the sconces, each lantern painted with miniature gold suns for the living and silver moons for the departed— Monrovians use the month leading up to All Souls Day to light the way for ancestors.
“I’m still going to call it Halloween just to annoy you,” I say, sticking my tongue out at Maggie, who returns the gesture.
“Ready to make your debut?” Maggie asks. Beside her, Joe barks in agreement. He’s wearing a mask of his own— dark blue with yellow scrollwork around the edges, a feather drooping over one ear. Benjamin at L’Animalerie Indiana Bones hand-crafted it, of course.
“Alright,” I sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”
The three of us step into the castle’s stone hallway, my heart pounding. At this party, every guest descends the grand staircase and has their anonymous presence announced by the Royal Guard—another delightfully obnoxious Monrovian custom.
“How long until I can see Jack?” I whisper.
“He enters separately from you,” Maggie says softly, the flickering sconces catching the pearls in her hair. “Otherwise, they’d guess you’re the bride. You’ll find him in the ballroom. Don’t worry. Until then, you’ve got us.”
She points at Joe, giving him the signal to bark. He obliges.
“See? Joe says you’re going to have fun and stop fretting about everything.”
“I hate that you’ve memorized all my training signals,” I grumble with a laugh. “You’re too good at using Joe’s cuteness against me.”
We turn a corner and arrive at the top of the grand staircase leading down into the castle’s royal ballroom. Halloween garlands twirl around each banister post, and small carved pumpkins— some bearing ornate family crests— glow on every step. A velvet runner lines the stairs, spilling into the scene below. Hundreds of masked guests swirl through the room, unrecognizable behind their disguises. A live band plays in the corner while caterers weave through the crowd with trays.
At the base of the stairs, a member of the Royal Guard bangs a metal gong. Conversations fall silent. All eyes turn to the staircase.
“Announcing, a new arrival!” the guard bellows, his voice echoing.
Maggie whistles for Joe. He trots forward, standing next to the guard just like we practiced.
“I’m so glad we let Joe enter first,” Maggie whispers. “Otherwise, he’d give you away immediately.”
Joe sits at attention, staring expectantly at the guard.
“Introducing… Monsieur Tout-le-Monde!” the guard proclaims.
Maggie explained earlier that “Monsieur Tout-le-Monde” means Mr. Everyone. Every guest is introduced as Mr. or Mrs. everyone. It’s a way to preserve the masquerade’s anonymity.
Applause ripples through the room. Joe takes this as his cue and trots down the stairs into the crowd, tail wagging, utterly unbothered by the hundreds of masked faces.
Next up is Maggie. She squeezes my hand. “You’re going to do great,” she whispers, then steps forward.
The guard bangs the gong again. “Madame Tout-le-Monde!” he announces.
The guests applaud as Maggie descends, twirling her dress. She moves like someone who enjoys the chance to vanish into a temporary identity—free to be the center of attention without any consequences.
My turn.
I step forward, hands clenched tightly in my skirts. The guard strikes the gong once more, and all eyes lift to me.
“Madame Tout-le-Monde!” he shouts.
Hundreds of masked faces stare. Somewhere in the crowd, they’re all wondering the same thing: Which one of these women is Rebecca Orange?
I take a breath and step onto the top stair. My mind races. How can I walk in a way that doesn’t give me away? People are looking for someone who walks like me. So… how would not me walk?
My palms are damp. My heart pounds. Every instinct screams at me to run back to my room and hide under the covers.
And then—
The lights go out.
The castle plunges into darkness. The only specks of light come from the Halloween garlands tracing the banister. Their battery-operated twinkle-lights hang suspended in the darkness like fireflies, but it’s not enough to see the room.
From below, I hear the clatter of a dropped tray, followed by a scream. Voices murmur nervously through the dark.
Just as suddenly, the lights flicker back on. Guests shuffle in confusion, glancing around.
My eyes take in the newly lit space, looking for what’s changed. I spot Joe in Maggie’s arms— he’s jumped up in fright. She’s trying to hold him, though his back legs are still on the floor because he weighs too much. She gives me a thumbs-up to tell me he’s okay— just scared. Joe’s always been afraid of the dark.
Then— another scream.
“He’s dead!” a voice shouts.
Gasps ripple through the ballroom. Guests stumble back, leaving a wide circle around a man sprawled on the floor.
He’s wearing a suit and a mask. A knife juts from his chest. Blood pools beneath him. I recognize the salt-and-pepper gray hair on his head.
Panic floods my limbs. I rush down the stairs, heart hammering, every step faster than the last.
Please, don’t let it be Jack.
Chapter
Two
"It's not him." The words tumble from my lips, a desperate prayer finally answered as I stare down at the body sprawled across the ballroom floor. My fingers tremble as they reach for the ornate Venetian mask still secured to the dead man's face. All around me, the sounds of the masquerade ball have dissolved into gasps and whispers, but I barely register them. All I can think is: Thank God it's not Jack.
I bend down, my heart racing so fast I can feel it in my throat. The man lies motionless on his back, arms splayed at unnatural angles. His costume— a classic black tuxedo with tails—is nearly identical to what Jack had chosen to wear tonight. The elaborate silver mask covers most of his face, leaving only his mouth visible, lips slightly parted as if in mid-sentence. His salt and pepper hair is so similar to Jack’s that it sends a chill up my spine. The resemblance between the two men is uncanny.
"Excuse me," I murmur to no one in particular as I reach for the edge of the mask. My fingers connect with cool porcelain, and I gently lift it away from the man's face. The resemblance to Jack is there—the same distinguished jawline, similar nose—but the differences are immediately apparent too. This man's features are softer, his face slightly rounder. His eyes, frozen open in what looks like surprise, are hazel, not the deep brown I've grown to love.
I let out a big sigh as I tell myself the truth, again: It’s not him.
"Ma'am, please step back." A member of the Royal Guard is trying to pull me away. His voice barely registers as I continue to stare at the dead man's face.
The ballroom around me feels impossibly large now, the ceiling too high, the chandeliers too bright. Just thirty minutes ago, this room was where Jack and I were going to celebrate our engagement. Now it will be remembered as a murder scene.
I rise to my feet, and the corset in my gown pinches me. See, Maggie? I think. This is why I prefer sweatpants. I've never been good with formal events, but I'd been making an effort tonight, trying to fit into Jack's world. And now this.
"Rebecca!" Jack’s voice makes me melt. The world seems to sit right on its axis. He appears at my side, still wearing his own mask pushed up on top of his head. His hand finds mine and squeezes, the pressure grounding me back to reality. “Leave us, please. That’s an order,” the Duke says to the member of the Royal Guard, who backs off immediately.
Jack’s hands circle my waist as he scans me top to bottom. “Are you alright?” He whispers, the words meant only for me. “The lights went out and— well, of course I knew it was you on the stairs… you have such a distinct walk!”
A distinct walk?
“We’re going to circle back to the ‘distinct walk’ thing,” I tell him, although I know exactly what he means. I’ve been told my walk is more of a skip. “I’m so relieved,” I say, leaning into him. “The man who was stabbed— I thought he was you.”
“Me?” Jack says, surprised. “No, I was over by the dessert table, I’m afraid. Right where you’d expect to find— Did you say… stabbed?” It seems as if Jack is only just noticing the man on the floor beside us. He steps back, looking at the body. His face flushes. “My God.”
“I know,” I say, shaking my head sadly. “He looks just like you!”
“Well, yes, but that’s not why I’m—” Jack stammers. “That’s Ambassador Franklin. The representative from Antanaro. He’d been here for work and I invited him to our engagement party and now…”
“He’s dead,” I say, lacking tact.
“If I’d known his life was in danger I never would have invited him,” Jack says, clearly reeling from the gruesome news.
We stand there for a moment, an island of stillness in the sea of chaos the ballroom has become. The Royal Guard tries to clear a space around the body. At the edge of the room, I see Maggie still holding on to Joe, Benjamin from the pet store by her side. Guests in their elaborate costumes mill about, some crying, others frantically making phone calls. The orchestra members stand awkwardly by their abandoned instruments, as if unsure whether they should pack up or play a requiem.
"Everyone FREEZE!"
The commanding voice cuts through the noise like a knife. A woman in a flowing emerald ball gown strides forward, her matching mask now clutched in one hand while the other holds up a badge. At first, I don’t recognize her, but then, I realize I’m looking at the sturdy frame of Officer Basilier. Even without her uniform, there's no mistaking that authoritative air she has. It’s one that screams “I have a stun gun I can’t wait to use.”
She reaches us and gives me a curt nod of recognition before addressing the room at large. "I am Officer Basilier with the Monrovian Police." She projects her voice without shouting, a skill I've always envied. "This is now an active crime scene. All guests are ordered to proceed to the adjacent reception halls immediately. Castle staff will direct you. No one leaves the premises without being interviewed."
As she speaks, I notice Joe has escaped Maggie’s clutches and appeared at my side. My faithful Tibetan Mastiff dog can always sense when I need him. He presses his warm, solid weight against my leg, a living anchor in this surreal moment. I rest my hand on his massive head.
"Duke Atwood," Officer Basilier says, turning to Jack, "I'll need your assistance with coordinating the Royal Guard, if they’re willing?"
“Of course,” Jack nods. “Anything you need I’ll order them to provide.
Her eyes shift to me. "And Rebecca, I imagine you'll want to be involved in this."
“I’m so glad you want my help!” I exclaim. Officer Basilier and I have reached an uneasy friendship lately. It’s a nice change from our initial mutual loathing.
“I didn’t say I want your help,” she corrects me, rolling her eyes. “I said obviously you and Maggie will want to be involved and I’ll allow it.”
Jack squeezes my hand one more time before releasing it. "I'll help get the guests settled," he says, his voice shifting into what I privately call his "Duke mode"— calm, authoritative, reassuring. “It seems the Royal Investigators have work to do.” He winks at me before walking toward the Captain of the Royal Guard. I know he’ll order them to help Officer Basilier. Jack is always looking for ways to help.
Officer Basilier nods, then turns back to address the stunned crowd. "Move in an orderly fashion. Leave your contact details with the staff. Anyone with information about what happened here tonight, please identify yourself to an officer."
As the guests begin to file out, I take one last look at the dead man on the floor. Ambassador Franklin. Who would want to kill an Ambassador? And why tonight, at my wedding masquerade?
Joe nudges my hand with his nose, bringing me back to the present. Together, we follow Officer Basilier and Jack, leaving behind the glittering ballroom that, in the span of a few minutes, has transformed from a scene of celebration to one of death.
The ballroom looks different now, emptied of its glittering crowd. What remains is a hollow shell of the celebration— abandoned champagne flutes, a scatter of dropped masks, and that incongruous body still lying where it fell. Joe stays close to my side as Officer Basilier leads our small group— me, Maggie, Jack, and herself— in a slow circle around the corpse. The hem of her emerald ball gown sweeps the marble floor as she walks, and I can't stop staring at her. I've seen Officer Basilier take charge of crime scenes before, but never while dressed like she's auditioning for a royal court.
