Murder at the Masquerade, page 11
"The vote will be rescheduled," Maggie assures him. "And next time, we'll have the council chamber swept for tampering beforehand."
I shake my head, still struggling to process everything that's happened. "I can't believe someone would go this far. A public assassination attempt, in front of dozens of witnesses?"
"It suggests desperation," Jack says thoughtfully. "Or extreme confidence in their ability to escape undetected."
"Or both," Maggie adds, her fingers tapping against her tablet as if itching to take notes.
Joe makes a soft huffing sound from the floor, lifting his head to gaze at Jack with what I swear is concern in his doggy eyes. Jack notices and smiles, reaching down with his good arm to scratch behind Joe's ears.
"I'm okay, big guy," he tells my dog. "It'll take more than a falling light fixture to get rid of me."
"This is getting to be a habit, though," I say, thinking of all the times one or both of us has ended up in a hospital or emergency situation over the past year. "We really need to find less dramatic hobbies."
"Like what?" Jack asks, amusement dancing in his eyes despite the circumstances. "Knitting? Birdwatching?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of competitive napping," I suggest. "Or professional staying-away-from-murderers."
"You'd be terrible at both," Maggie points out with fond exasperation. "Especially the second one."
"She's right," Jack says, squeezing my hand. "You have a particular talent for finding trouble."
"Me?" I protest. "I'm not the one who just had a chandelier dropped on them!"
"Technically, it missed me," Jack corrects, then winces as he accidentally moves his injured arm. "Mostly."
We all fall silent again, the reality of how close we came to tragedy settling over us once more. I watch Jack's face, memorizing every line, every angle, overwhelmed by the knowledge that I could have lost him today.
"At least it's just the hospital this time," Maggie says after a moment, her voice deliberately light. "And not, you know, prison."
"Personally," Jack says, adjusting his hospital gown with an air of dignity, "I think I prefer prison to hospitals. The food is better."
I offer a meek laugh but wish we could change the subject. The weight of what my investigations has brought down upon the group of people I love suddenly feels very heavy.
As if reading my thoughts, Jack turns to Maggie. "Would you mind giving Rebecca and me a moment? And perhaps taking the dogs for a quick walk? I imagine they could use a break."
"Of course," Maggie says, immediately understanding. She stands, gathering both leashes. "Come on, you two. Let's go find some grass to sniff."
Joe looks at me, clearly reluctant to leave my side after the day's events. "It's okay, buddy," I assure him. "We'll be right here."
With a resigned huff, he follows Maggie and Luma from the room, casting one last concerned glance at Jack before the door closes behind them.
Alone at last, the hospital room feels suddenly smaller, more intimate. Jack shifts on the bed, wincing slightly as he adjusts his position to face me more directly.
"Rebecca," he begins, his voice softer now that it's just the two of us. "I need to tell you something."
"I know,” I say, sure that Jack is going to say what I’m thinking. “The Royal Investigators have to stop. It’s brought nothing but trouble to you, me, and Maggie. One of us is always getting arrested or hospitalized and it’s all my fault and—”
“What?” Jack says, blinking away the surprise in his eyes. “My goodness, of course you can’t stop the Royal Investigators. Look at how much good you’ve done.”
“Oh,” I answer, reeling. “Then, you were talking about…”
"Not about the investigation," he says gently. "It’s about us. About our wedding."
My heart does a little stutter-step in my chest. With everything that's happened, our ongoing wedding debate had temporarily faded into the background of my concerns. "What about it?"
Jack takes a deep breath, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "When that chandelier was falling— in that split second when I realized what was happening— do you know what I thought about?"
I shake my head silently.
"You," he says simply. "Not the vote, not the kingdom, not my duty to Monrovia. Just you, and the life we're building together, and how desperately I wanted more time with you." His uninjured hand finds mine again, holding tight. "And I realized something important."
"What?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I've been trying too hard to give Monrovia everything," he admits, a shadow passing across his face. "To be the perfect Duke, to make up for years when I wasn't. Opening the castle, the animal sanctuary, the community initiatives— they're all important, and I don't regret any of them. But our wedding?" He shakes his head. "I've been pushing for something grand and public because I thought that's what was expected, what the people deserved. And today, that same attitude nearly cost me my life."
"Jack—"
"Let me finish," he says gently. "When I was lying there, with glass all around me and my arm bleeding, all I could think was how ridiculous it was to argue about wedding details when what matters— the only thing that truly matters— is that we're together." His voice catches slightly. "I don't want a royal spectacle, Rebecca. I never have. I've just been trying to do what I thought was right for everyone else."
I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, overwhelmed by his words and the emotion behind them. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I want a small wedding," Jack declares, his voice stronger now, more certain. "Just us and the people we truly care about. Somewhere peaceful and beautiful." A smile touches his lips. "Somewhere with giraffes, perhaps."
A laugh bubbles up through my tears. "Giraffe? Specifically?"
"Well, Alfredo would be terribly offended if he wasn't invited, don't you think?" Jack's eyes are twinkling now. "And I happen to know the caretaker of a certain animal sanctuary who might be willing to host a very private ceremony."
"You want to get married at the sanctuary?" I clarify, my heart swelling at the thought.
"I want to marry you," Jack emphasizes, bringing my hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. "In a place that represents who we are together, not just our titles or positions. A place where we both feel at home."
I think about the sanctuary— our peaceful refuge away from royal duties and public scrutiny, where Jack reads poetry to the alpacas and I've taught Alfredo to take treats from visitors' hands. Where Joe can run free without a leash and Luma can herd imaginary flocks to her heart's content.
"It sounds perfect," I whisper, leaning forward to kiss him softly, mindful of his injury. "Absolutely perfect."
When we break apart, Jack's smile is brighter than I've seen it in weeks, the weight of expectation visibly lifting from his shoulders despite the bandages and hospital gown. "The Queen will be disappointed," he acknowledges with a small shrug that suggests he's made peace with this fact.
"We'll invite her," I offer generously. "She can watch Alfredo eat pasta while we say our vows."
"An experience no royal wedding has ever offered before," Jack laughs, then grimaces as the movement jostles his arm. "Pioneering new traditions, that's us."
I lean forward, resting my forehead gently against his. "I love you, Jack. I'd marry you anywhere— castle, sanctuary, hospital room— as long as we're together."
"I’ll marry you anywhere,” Jack answers, “… as long as it’s a place without chandeliers."
"I'll hold you to that," I say, kissing him again just as the door opens to readmit Maggie and the dogs.
Joe immediately bounds over to check on us, his massive tail wagging with relief when he sees we're both intact and smiling. Luma follows more sedately, but her eyes are bright with the same canine concern.
"Everything okay?" Maggie asks, taking in our clasped hands and suspiciously damp eyes.
"Better than okay," I tell her, unable to keep the smile from my face. "We've finally decided on our wedding plans."
"Thank goodness," Maggie exhales dramatically. "I was beginning to think I'd have to plan the whole thing myself just to get it done before we're all too old to walk down the aisle."
"Well, you'll still have plenty to do," Jack informs her. "But perhaps a bit less than you anticipated."
"We're keeping it small," I explain. "At the sanctuary. Just family and close friends."
"And giraffes," Jack adds solemnly. "Can't forget the giraffes."
Maggie blinks twice, processing this information, then breaks into a wide smile. "It's perfect," she declares, already reaching for her tablet. "I'll start a new planning document immediately. 'Royal Wedding: Safari Edition.'"
As she begins tapping away, already lost in logistics, Jack catches my eye and winks. In the midst of danger and uncertainty, with a killer still at large and questions still unanswered, we've found our way to one important truth: when everything else falls apart—sometimes literally— what matters most is being true to ourselves and to each other.
And if that means saying "I do" while Alfredo the giraffe watches with mild interest, well, that's exactly the kind of wedding I've always wanted.
Chapter
Fourteen
“Okay,” I say, looking into the entrance of Café de Flore. “Jocelyn has officially gone too far.”
I motion toward the café, which is filled to the brim with decor that reflects the spirit of Halloween. Every time we’ve stopped by, Jocelyn has added something new, but now— the café looks more like a Halloween store than a place to grab a lavender latte. Orange flowers are arranged on the walls in a giant mural, and black bats dangle from the ceiling. Pumpkins leer in an explosion of orange, and an actual cauldron bubbles in the corner, emitting some kind of purple smoke. It’s too much. Joe freezes at the entrance, looking at me like I've led him into a festive nightmare realm.
"There’s still pancakes inside, buddy," I assure him. “And I’m sure Jocelyn has some for you.” The word “pancakes” is all it takes to get Joe moving. He gives me a deeply skeptical look but then pads across the threshold, his nails clicking against the wooden floor as he maneuvers around a life-sized witch figure that cackles when we pass.
The ceiling has disappeared beneath a canopy of fake cobwebs interwoven with tiny orange lights. The usual scent of coffee and pastries now competes with cinnamon, clove, and something mysteriously herbal that wafts from the smoking cauldron.
"Rebecca! Over here!" Maggie waves from our usual corner table, which now sits beneath what appears to be a full-sized papier-mâché cemetery arch. Officer Basilier sits across from her, looking distinctly uncomfortable as a motion-activated ghost periodically moans above her head.
I navigate through the Halloween labyrinth, dodging animated ravens and steering Joe away from a display of realistic-looking eyeballs floating in glass jars. "This is... something," I manage as I reach their table, unwinding my scarf and draping it over a chair that's been painted to look like it's made of bones.
"Jocelyn says it's her 'modest tribute' to All Souls Day," Maggie informs me, her face perfectly serious though her eyes sparkle with amusement. "Apparently last year was just a 'soft launch' of her vision. She’s really gone all out this time.” Maggie leans in, whispering, “I heard a rumor she was dating someone and just broke up with him. Seems like she’s pouring her all into decorating. Do you think she’s okay?”
“Uhm,” I say, looking around the packed café. “I’m going to go with… no.”
"I'm worried about fire hazards," Officer Basilier mutters, eyeing a cluster of (thankfully battery-operated) candles nestled among artificial autumn leaves. "And sanitation. Are those real pumpkins hanging from the ceiling?"
I glance up. Indeed, dozens of miniature pumpkins dangle above us, each carved with intricate designs that cast spooky patterns across the tables when the lights inside them flicker.
"I think they've been preserved somehow," Maggie says. "Jocelyn mentioned something about a special solution that keeps them from rotting. She was talking so fast when she told me about the decorations I barely caught what she said!"
Joe settles himself under the table with a heavy sigh, his massive head resting on my feet. I notice he's carefully positioned himself as far as possible from a grinning skeleton dog that sits near the counter, wearing a spiked collar and holding a sign that says "Bone Appetit" in dripping red letters.
"Good call, Joe," I murmur, patting his side with my foot. "That thing is definitely cursed."
Jocelyn appears at our table as if summoned by our discussion of her decorations, gliding through her spooky café . She’s wearing a flowing black dress, in contrast to her usually quiet demeanor, and her brown hair is threaded with tiny orange and black ribbons.
"Welcome back!" she says warmly, her voice barely rising above the ambient sounds of moaning ghosts and cackling witches. "I've prepared special treats for today. Perhaps you'd like to try our Witch's Brew lattes? They're made with activated charcoal and cinnamon, topped with orange-tinted whipped cream."
"That sounds..." I search for a diplomatic word, "memorable."
"I'll have one," Maggie says brightly. "And maybe those bat-shaped cookies you have in the display case?"
"Regular coffee, black," Officer Basilier says firmly. "No charcoal, no whipped cream, no... activation."
"I'll try the Witch's Brew," I decide, figuring I might as well embrace the madness. "And whatever pastry is least likely to give me nightmares."
"Our pumpkin soul cakes are quite peaceful," Jocelyn assures me with complete seriousness. "And for Joe, perhaps a ghost-shaped biscuit? They're flavored with peanut butter and a touch of carob."
Joe perks up at the mention of peanut butter, his earlier wariness forgotten.
“Sure,” I agree!
“Coming up!” Jocelyn smiles brightly, then sighs. “Don’t you just love this time of year? It’s a reminder that anything is possible!”
I smile and nod, and Jocelyn glides away, disappearing behind a curtain of hanging cobwebs. In no time at all, she returns with our drinks. My Witch's Brew is indeed an alarming shade of black with neon orange whipped cream swirled on top. Officer Basilier's plain black coffee somehow looks even more ominous by comparison— a void of normalcy in a sea of Halloween excess.
"Your soul cakes," Jocelyn says, placing a plate before me. The pastries are round and golden, stamped with intricate symbols. "Traditionally, they were given to revelers who would pray for the dead. Each symbol represents a different blessing for the departed."
"That's... informative," I say, wondering what exactly I'm about to eat. "Thank you."
"And for Joe." She bends down to place a large ghost-shaped biscuit on the floor beside him. Joe sniffs it cautiously before taking it gently between his massive jaws.
As Jocelyn moves away to help another customer— a young couple who look equal parts delighted and terrified by the decor— Officer Basilier leans forward, her expression shifting from mild discomfort to deadly seriousness.
"I have news," she says, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. "About the chandelier incident."
Maggie and I instantly forget about the Halloween madness surrounding us, our attention snapping to Basilier's face.
"The security logs?" Maggie prompts, already reaching for her tablet.
Basilier nods, taking a sip of her plain coffee as if drawing strength from its normalcy. "We've been reviewing all footage from the castle. Ten minutes before the chandelier fell, someone entered the restricted gallery mezzanine—the area directly above the council chamber with access to the chandelier's mounting hardware."
My heart beats faster. "You have them on camera? Who was it?"
"That's the thing," Basilier says, frustration evident in her voice. "They kept their face turned away from the cameras, wore a maintenance uniform with the collar up. But—" she pauses, placing her coffee down with deliberate care, "we can estimate their height from the video. The person is on the shorter side. Around 5’7” or 5’6”.”
“That could be either Sacks or Gineviève,” I think out loud. “They’re both on the shorter side. You really can’t see the person’s face in the video?”
Officer Basilier shakes her head. “No. They had a hat on their head… a mask covering their lower face. There’s no way to identify them.”
“We know that Missy Adeline and the Prime Minister were both present during the vote count,” Maggie says thoughtfully. “Which means only three of our suspects could have had time to rig the chandelier to fall. Sacks. The Prime Minister’s wife, Gineviève. Or Ms. Labelle.”
The overhead lights flicker suddenly, making all three of us tense. A moment later, Jocelyn's voice calls out apologetically from behind the counter: "Sorry! Just testing the new spooky light effect for tonight's ghost story reading!"
I exhale slowly, realizing how on edge we all are. Even Joe rose to alert status, his head up and ears forward until he determines there's no threat.
"What's our next move?" I ask Basilier, pushing my half-finished Witch's Brew aside. The novelty has worn off, leaving only a strange charcoal aftertaste.
“We’ve found Sacks and Gineviève,” Officer Basilier answers. “I’ve had my officers interview them both, and they each claimed they had nothing to do with the chandelier.”
“What were their reasons for not attending the vote?”
“Sacks claimed he had an important work phone call,” Officer Basilier rolls her eyes. “I can’t imagine anything that man does is actually important, but we were able to verify the call with his office. And Gineviève claimed she was home sick. She did appear to be sniffling, according to my officers, and they were able to verify a prescription for cough medicine filled at the local pharmacy.”
“What about Ms. Labelle?” I ask.
