Murder at the Masquerade, page 2
"All guests are in the east and west reception halls," Maggie reports, her tablet in hand despite her elaborate costume. Her efficiency never ceases to amaze me. "I've got staff taking contact information, and the kitchen is serving tea and refreshments to keep everyone calm."
"Good work," Officer Basilier nods, then catches me staring at her again. "For God's sake, Orange, take a picture. It'll last longer."
I feel my cheeks flush. "Sorry, it's just—"
"Just what? Never seen a woman in a dress before?" She raises an eyebrow, the gesture somehow more intimidating with her full makeup and styled hair.
"Never seen you in one," I admit. "It's like seeing a tiger in a tutu."
Jack coughs to cover what I suspect is a laugh. Officer Basilier narrows her eyes at me, but there's a glimmer of amusement there.
"Well, I'm glad I can finally stop trying to be you," she says, gesturing to her costume. “I won’t lie Miss Orange. I was offended by the number of guests who tried to identify me as the bride. Apparently you and I share a similar walk.”
“We’re both very purposeful with our steps,” I agree. “Although I’d like to think my walk is a little… jauntier?”
Officer Basilier lets out a hrumph sound that tells me she very much doubts it.
"Regardless, I was very much looking forward to a simple night out. But so much for that. Should have known better than to attend the same event as you, Orange. Corpses follow you like lost puppies."
Joe lets out a small whine, as if offended on behalf of puppies everywhere.
"So," I say, eager to change the subject, "what do we know so far?"
Officer Basilier's face instantly transforms from teasing to professional. " The Victim is Ambassador Franklin of Antanaro. Time of death approximately 9:30 PM, during the second orchestral set. Cause appears to be stabbing…”
No kidding, I think, staring at the knife in his chest.
“But despite the obvious weapon,” Officer Basilier continues, “We’re having toxicology test him anyway. Just in case."
I glance down at the man's face again. Ambassador Franklin.
"I knew him well," Jack says softly. "He's been Antanaro's Ambassador to Monrovia for over a decade. Wouldn't hurt a fly. It was my fault he was here," Jack adds shakily. “I was telling Rebecca I should never have invited him.”
Officer Basilier clicks her pen loudly and takes notes in her journal. I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at her. “Jack is not a suspect,” I say hastily, thinking of a past murder in which Officer Basilier was convinced Jack was the culprit.
Officer Basilier scoffs. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” She rolls her eyes. “Arrest a man one time and I’m forever blacklisted… Honestly, Orange, I thought we were friends now.”
Friends. The word is a shocking one, coming from Officer Basilier. I resist the urge to hug her and instead play it cool, turning back to Jack.
"Did the Ambassador have any enemies that you know of?" I ask.
Jack shakes his head. "None. He was well-liked, even during tense diplomatic moments. A quiet, kind man. Easy to get along with."
"It's all over the news that Monrovia and Antanaro are in dispute over Île des Lilas," Officer Basilier interjects smoothly. “Is that why he was here?”
“Île des Lilas?” I ask, struggling to translate. “The Island of … ?”
“The Island of Lilacs,” Maggie says, helping me make the leap. “It’s been all over Jack’s calendar this month,” she adds, ignoring the warning look from Jack.
“Yes,” Jack admits. “The Ambassador was here to discuss resolution of the island ownership problem. It’s a small but strategically located isle between Monrovia and Antanaro. There’s been debate over ownership for years, but despite what the press reports, we've reached an agreement in principle. The Royal Council votes this week on a proposal for shared ownership—split 50/50 with Antanaro."
The Island of Lilacs. Suddenly, I remember I’ve heard the name on the news as well. “Nobody lives there though, right?” I say stupidly.
“It’s mostly uninhabited,” Jack agrees. “But for a research station and a place for ships to get supplies. That’s the real sticking point, though. It’s a useful little place, given its location is right where ships need it most.”
"And you're voting in favor of shared ownership?" Officer Basilier asks.
"I am," Jack confirms. "It's the right solution. The island has historical significance to both nations, and shared stewardship makes the most sense economically and culturally."
I look down at the dead Ambassador, a cold feeling settling in my stomach. "How will his death affect the vote?"
Maggie speaks up, her political instincts sharp as ever. "It could complicate things. Some might see it as a reason to postpone. Others might use it as leverage to push for full Monrovian control, claiming Antanaro can't be trusted."
"Or," I add, "some might think Monrovia had him killed to create exactly that scenario."
Jack shudders at the idea, running a hand through his hair, a gesture I've come to recognize as a sign of his concern. "This couldn't have happened at a worse time.”
Officer Basilier clears her throat. "While the political fallout is interesting, I'm more concerned with finding a killer." She moves to the body and points to the Ambassador's right hand, which is partially closed around something. "We found this clutched in his fist. Appears he grabbed it during a struggle with his attacker."
I lean closer to see a small swatch of bright yellow fabric, dotted with gold sequins that catch the light from the chandeliers above.
"Fabric from a costume," I murmur.
"Exactly," Officer Basilier nods. "Based on our preliminary review of the guest list and staff observations, we've identified five individuals wearing costumes with this specific yellow sequined material." She straightens up, the movement somehow dignified despite her elaborate gown. "We need to question them immediately."
"Any of them have motive?" Jack asks.
"That's what we need to find out," Officer Basilier replies. She turns to Maggie and me. "Since you two insist on playing detective with your 'Royal Investigators' side hustle, I suppose you might as well make yourselves useful. Care to assist with the interrogations?"
Maggie's eyes light up with excitement. "Absolutely!"
"Interrogations are a bit much for a castle ballroom, don't you think?" I say, glancing around at the gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers. "Maybe we could call them 'interviews with persons of interest'?"
"Call them tea parties if you want, Orange," Officer Basilier retorts, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "As long as we find out who killed the Ambassador."
Joe nudges my hand with his cold nose, reminding me of his presence. I scratch behind his ears, grateful for his presence. Luma—Jack’s dog, and Joe’s de facto best friend— had planned on joining us tonight but tired herself chasing geese by the pond. Right now, she’s probably happily asleep on Jack’s bed.
"Alright," I say, straightening my shoulders and trying to look as professional as one can in a Renaissance gown. "Let's find our five suspects and see what they have to say for themselves."
Maggie is already tapping on her tablet. "I'll have them brought to a room for questioning."
As our small group prepares to split up for the interviews, I take one last look at Ambassador Franklin lying on the ballroom floor. Someone in this castle ended his life tonight. And whether the motive was personal or political, I intend to find out who— and why.
Chapter
Three
The castle library feels too small for this many egos I think, taking in our esteemed guests. I stand near the doorway, watching as Officer Basilier arranges our five suspects on separate sofas and chairs among the towering bookshelves. The library has been decorated for the season, and miniature pumpkins rest on the mantle of the fireplace. In another corner, books on “All Souls Day” and its history are featured in a prominent position.
Joe presses against my leg, his massive bulk a comforting presence as I take in the scene before me— five suspects sit on the couches, connected by sequined fabric and a dead Ambassador. Maggie catches my eye from across the room, her expression a mixture of excitement and determination. Neither of us say it aloud, but I know we're thinking the same thing: the Royal Investigators are officially on the case.
"Please, be seated," Officer Basilier instructs me and Maggie, gesturing to two vacant wingback chairs. She's changed out of her ball gown into her police uniform, which makes this night feel less surreal. I like seeing Officer Basilier dressed like her normal self.
I take a moment to study our suspects as Joe and I move toward our designated seats. Before we entered the room, Maggie pulled up pictures on her tablet and gave me a rundown of who we’re dealing with. Now, I’m mentally matching the pictures to the real-life versions in front of me.
The woman with the perfect posture and even more perfect cheekbones is instantly recognizable. She’s Missy Adeline, the Antanaran movie star whose face graces billboards across Europe. She’s prettier in person, I think, making a mental note not to say as much.
Beside her sits a slender man in a paisley shirt who keeps checking his phone— I recognize him as her publicist, a man Maggie told me goes by only one name: Sacks. One name? I asked Maggie as she showed me his photo. Who does he think he is? Oprah?
My eyes move on from Sacks to the opposite sofa, where a plump man with an impressive mustache shifts impatiently. His knee bounces with nervous energy. This is the Prime Minister Floridán, who serves as the head of the Monrovian parliament. He’s a powerful man who looks thoroughly annoyed to be here. Next to him sits a plain-faced woman in sensible shoes who I assume is his wife, Gineviève.
Please don’t let one of them be the murderer I think, imagining the amount of political turmoil such a thing would cause for Jack.
I move on to a nearby ottoman, where a well-dressed woman with clever eyes is perched, studying everyone in the room— this is the dressmaker, Ms. Labelle. She looks older than the picture Maggie showed me, but I recognize her at once by her modest, long face.
"What is THAT doing here?" the movie star, Missy Adeline, suddenly exclaims, pointing a manicured finger at Joe, who has settled at my feet with a soft huff.
"That," I reply, resting my hand on Joe's massive head, "is Joe. He’s a part of the Royal Investigators team.”
"A dog can’t be a part of anything except a mess," Missy Adeline says. Her perfect eyebrows arch so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. I’m liking her less and less.
I won’t be going to see a single one of your movies after this, I think as loudly as possible.
"Joe is a highly trained Tibetan Mastiff with more investigative experience than most humans," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "He's been instrumental in solving several cases.”
Sacks— Missy’s publicist– leans forward, his paisley shirt catching the light in a way that makes my eyes hurt. "You expect us to believe this... animal ...is a detective?"
Joe chooses this moment to sit up straighter, somehow looking more dignified than half the humans in the room. Joe’s been trained to perform a variety of behaviors, and in our previous cases, I've discovered he has an uncanny ability to sense when something's off.
"Joe has exceptional observational skills," I explain, which isn't technically a lie. "His presence here is non-negotiable."
"How fascinating," Ms. Labelle comments, her voice warm with genuine interest. "I've read about service animals, but never a detective dog."
Officer Basilier clears her throat. "If we're quite finished discussing the dog's credentials," she says with barely concealed impatience, "I'd like to move on to the murder investigation."
The word "murder" silences the room immediately.
"I've gathered you all here because you share something in common," Officer Basilier continues, reaching into her pocket and removing a small evidence bag. Inside is the scrap of yellow sequined fabric we found clutched in Ambassador Franklin's hand. She holds it up, the gold sequins catching the light. "This was found in the victim's hand. We believe it tore from the killer's costume during a struggle."
Ms. Labelle gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. "That's—" She stops herself, then takes a deep breath. "That's my fabric."
All eyes turn to her.
"Go on,” Officer Basilier prompts, even though I suspect she already knows where this is heading.
"Yes," Ms. Labelle nods, her composure returning. "I ordered that specific sequined material from Paris. It's quite distinctive— a particular shade of yellow with these unique gold sequins that catch the light differently depending on the angle." She reaches for her purse, a small clutch sitting beside her, and holds it up. It's made from the same vibrant yellow material. "I made something for each person in this room using that exact fabric."
The room falls silent again, this time with a heavier weight.
"Can everyone confirm?” Maggie speaks up for the first time, her voice calm and measured, "Raise your hand if you’re wearing an item that’s made from this fabric.”
Every hand in the room raises, except Prime Minister Floridán. His wife elbows him in the ribs and finally, he raises his hand.
"Yes," Ms. Labelle confirms. "The fabric was a special order, very expensive. I only had enough for a few pieces."
Officer Basilier turns to Missy Adeline. "Let's start with you, Ms. Adeline. What item did Ms. Labelle make for you?"
The movie star tosses her hair back dramatically. "My gown, of course. The yellow sequined masterpiece I wore tonight." She sighs as if greatly put upon. "My publicist, Sacks, suggested I have something made locally, even though Antanaro's dressmakers are far superior to anyone in Monrovia."
I catch the slight flinch from Ms. Labelle at these words.
"I put my standards aside for one night," Missy continues. She looks around expectantly, apparently waiting for someone to acknowledge her charitable work.
"And why did you suggest local work, Mr. Sacks?" Officer Basilier asks, moving on without giving Missy the validation she clearly wants.
Sacks crosses his legs, revealing socks that match his paisley shirt. "It's just Sacks, no 'Mister,'" he corrects with a hint of condescension. "And it was purely a public relations decision. Local press loves when international celebrities support local businesses." He gestures toward Ms. Labelle. "I heard about her shop from other clients who raved about her work.”
“And you picked up a little something for yourself, I see?” Officer Basilier nods at Sacks’ shirt.
Sacks shrugs. “Why not? There was left over fabric so I got myself something pretty.” He winks at Officer Basilier, and I see her right hand twitch. I’m pretty sure she’s fighting the urge to reach for her stun gun.
I study Sacks’ shirt. It’s primarily made of a cheaper paisley fabric, but yellow sequined accents run along the collar and cuffs, matching his socks. The overall effect is gaudy, but I suppose it makes a statement.
"This is ridiculous!" Prime Minister Floridán suddenly erupts, his mustache quivering with indignation. "Why are my wife and I being subjected to this... this inquisition? We have nothing to do with this tragic event!"
"Prime Minister," I say before Officer Basilier can respond, my voice deliberately calm, "if you truly have nothing to hide, then wouldn't it be wise to let the police do their job? Cooperating fully would be the fastest way to clear your name... don't you think?"
His face reddens, but before he can retort, his wife places a gentle hand on his arm.
"The future duchess is absolutely right, dear," Gineviève says softly. The way she emphasized the words “future duchess” makes me think she’s trying to make a point to her husband. Her voice is surprisingly authoritative despite its quiet tone. "As representatives of Monrovia, we should set an example of full transparency."
The Prime Minister deflates slightly, his bluster fading under his wife's measured reason.
"We're happy to explain our attire," Gineviève continues, addressing Officer Basilier directly. "I chose that particular yellow fabric for my dress because it's one of Monrovia's national colors. It seemed appropriate to incorporate patriotic elements into our formal wear tonight." She gestures to her husband. "I also had a matching tie made for my husband."
Missy Adeline lets out an audible huff. "So not only do I have to share fabric with some... politician's wife, but you intentionally copied Antanaro’s color scheme?"
"Yellow is Monrovia's color as well," Gineviève responds evenly. "It represents the golden beaches along our coastline."
"It represents the sunrise over Antanaro's mountains first!" Missy snaps back.
As they bicker over national color ownership, I exchange glances with Maggie. Five suspects, five items made from the same fabric, and one dead Ambassador. Somewhere in this tangle of yellow sequins and oversized egos lies the truth about what happened to Ambassador Franklin tonight. But it’s clear— our guests aren’t in the mood to cooperate. This is going to take some digging.
Officer Basilier seems to feel the same, because she rises from her seat, her posture straight as a ruler. "Thank you all for your cooperation," she says, though her tone suggests she found their answers anything but cooperative. "You're free to return to your rooms, but I must insist that no one leaves Monrovia until this investigation is complete." Five pairs of eyes widen at this news, and I can practically hear the mental calculations of canceled appointments and rescheduled flights. The politics of murder, it turns out, are nothing compared to the politics of inconvenienced schedules.
"This is outrageous!" Missy Adeline exclaims, her perfect features contorting in horror. "I have a film premiere in Paris next week!"
