Murder at the Masquerade, page 3
"And I have a country to run," Prime Minister Floridán adds, his mustache practically vibrating with indignation. His wife, Gineviève, puts a hand on his knee.
“But of course,” she adds. “We were planning on staying the weekend anyway. We can do our best to be available for your investigation during our holiday.”
“Thank you,” Officer Basilier nods.
Maggie steps forward smoothly, her tablet already in hand. "Rest assured, we'll make your extended stay as comfortable as possible," she says in that soothing tone that somehow makes even the most unreasonable requests sound perfectly reasonable. "For those of you staying at the castle—" she glances at Ms. Labelle, the only one who lives in the village "—we'll ensure your rooms remain available, and any special requirements you have will be accommodated."
One by one, our suspects file out of the library. Ms. Labelle leaves first, promising to be available at her shop tomorrow for further questions. She seems genuinely shaken, clutching her yellow sequined purse like it might bite her. The Prime Minister and his wife follow, his face still flushed with anger while she maintains that calculating calm that makes me think she's already three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. Missy Adeline makes a dramatic exit, pausing at the door to inform us all that her lawyer will be contacting "someone important" about this treatment. Sacks trails behind her, still tapping away at his phone, perhaps already crafting the press release about how his client is bravely cooperating with authorities.
When the door finally closes behind them, leaving just Officer Basilier, Maggie, Joe and me, I exhale slowly. "Well, that was productive."
"About as productive as trying to milk a rooster," Officer Basilier mutters, dropping into a chair. "But it's a start." She looks between Maggie and me with calculating eyes. "Now, about your Royal Investigators business..."
"We prefer 'service,'" Maggie corrects gently. "Royal Investigators Service."
"Whatever you call it," Officer Basilier continues, "I need your help. You two have access to this castle and its occupants in ways my officers don't. People talk to you."
I raise an eyebrow. "You’re including us because you want us here?"
"Don't look so smug, Orange," she replies, a rare smile crossing her lips. "After the Fantasia Rivers case, we both know I’d be a fool not to use your...particular talents."
"By 'particular talents,' do you mean my natural charm and wit?" I ask innocently.
"I mean your annoying ability to get people to tell you things they shouldn't," she says dryly. "And your knack for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong but somehow finding important clues anyway."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I say, scratching Joe behind the ears. He looks up at me with those soulful eyes that always seem to say, “what’s next, Mom?”
"What should we focus on?” Maggie asks, already making notes on her tablet.
Officer Basilier leans forward. "Background on all five suspects. Their movements tonight, who they talked to, any connections to Ambassador Franklin or to the island dispute. I want to know if anyone had a reason to want him dead."
"And you think the killer is one of those five?" I ask.
"The fabric evidence suggests it," she says. "Unless someone else at the ball was wearing that exact yellow sequined material that we haven't identified yet."
"I can get the complete guest list and cross-reference it with the staff who observed costumes," Maggie offers.
"Good," Officer Basilier nods. "And look into the politics too. This couldn't have happened at a worse time with that island vote this week."
The weight of the situation suddenly feels heavier. This isn't just about finding a murderer—it's about preventing a diplomatic crisis between two nations. If Antanaro believes Monrovia was behind their Ambassador's death, years of careful negotiation could unravel overnight. And if the media gets hold of the story with all its political implications...
"We need to work fast," I say, voicing what we're all thinking. "Before this turns into an international incident.”
Officer Basilier stands, straightening her uniform. "I'll have forensics results by tomorrow afternoon. We'll reconvene here to compare notes." She hesitates, then adds, "And Orange? Try not to cause a scene.”
"When have I ever done that?" I ask innocently.
She gives me a look that could wither a cactus. "The giraffe nearly sitting on a murderer—”
“That worked!” I protest.
“The interruption of a celebration for the crown jewels. A high-profile chase by the fountain involving two dogs…”
"In my defense, these scenarios all led to catching the killer," I counter.
"Just... be subtle," she sighs, heading for the door. "And keep that mountain of fur under control." She gestures to Joe, who responds by wagging his tail enthusiastically, apparently taking her insult as a compliment.
After she leaves, Maggie and I look at each other in silence for a moment.
"So," Maggie finally says, "the game is afoot?"
"Technically, it's 'apaw,'" I correct, nodding toward Joe, who's now stretched out on the library carpet looking more like a bear rug than a detective.
Maggie groans at my terrible pun, but she's smiling.
"Let's get some sleep," I suggest, patting Joe's massive head. "Tomorrow, we hunt for a killer.”
We walk with confidence, but as the three of us leave the castle library, I can't shake the feeling that this case is different. Somewhere in this castle, behind one of these many doors, a murderer is watching us, wondering if we'll discover their secret before it's too late.
Chapter
Four
The fireplace in my staff apartment crackles with a comforting snap that feels like a hug after the events of the day. I’m back in my sweatpants— my ballgown has been tossed into the bottom of my closet, where it belongs. Jack sits across from me in an old leather chair, a teacup looking too small in his hand. Joe and Luma are sprawled together near the hearth, their bodies intertwined in canine contentment. A tray of pumpkin cookies sits on the table between us, glittering white icing carving faces on their surfaces. The cookies are one of Chef Renauld’s seasonal treats.
"See, this is why I don’t like big events for weddings," I say, reaching for one of the cookies. They're still warm, the icing melting slightly against my fingers. "The masquerade was like a test run. Our first official engagement event, and someone gets murdered. If we keep going with this, who knows what could happen, or how many people could die!”
Jack laughs, taking a sip of his cinnamon-turmeric latte. The foam on top was originally drawn in the shape of a single candy corn, but now it’s a muddled mess. “Are you calling our wedding a serial killer?”
“I’m saying it has the potential to be one,” I confirm, nodding at the silver tray between us, still filled with cookies. “Thank God for Chef Renauld. Her snacks are the only thing easing my stress.”
"When I fell off my horse a few years ago, she made me seven different kinds of soup,” Jack says, reaching for another cookie. “We’re certainly lucky to have her.” He bites into it, nodding at the satisfying crunching sound. “But I, for one, am not stressed at all. Because I know the Royal Investigators are on the case.”
I watch as Joe shifts in his sleep, his massive paw coming to rest protectively over Luma's smaller form. The collie doesn't seem to mind, snuggling closer into Joe's thick fur. At least someone's finding peace tonight.
"Speaking of investigating… tell me about Ambassador Franklin," I say, drawing my legs up underneath me in the chair. Over my sweatpants, I’m wrapped in one of Jack's hoodie sweatshirts, which hangs off me like a tent but smells comfortingly of him. "Is there anything you left out? Something you didn’t want to say in front of Officer Basilier?”
Jack pretends to look shocked. “Are you, Miss Orange, asking me for secrets of state? That’s decidedly un-duchess-like of you.”
I lean across the table and kiss him gently. “I believe I’m entitled to every secret.”
“That you are,” he agrees. “Sadly, there are none. The truth is as I said. The Ambassador was a lovely man. Pleasant. Genuinely pleasant, which is rare in diplomatic circles. No hidden agenda, no power plays. Just a decent man trying to do right by his country without steamrolling ours." He sets his cup down with a quiet clink.
“Those kind of people do tend to turn up dead, don’t they?” I think out loud. “I hate to see good people harmed. It’s the root motivator for my vigilante justice.”
“That’s why you and I get along so well,” he smirks, taking another sip of his drink. “We’re both rebels.”
I raise an eyebrow at him to communicate that I hardly see him as a rebel. He reads my expression with the ease of someone who has— at this point— seen every look I have to offer.
“I am!” He exclaims. “You should have seen the lengths I went to pushing this compromise about the Island of Lilacs through! It’s quite a valuable property given its location—"
"So, it's basically a maritime rest stop?"
"Essentially, yes. There's a small harbor, a supply store that's been there for over a century, and more recently, an avian research station studying migratory patterns of several endangered bird species." He leans back in his chair. "Scientifically valuable, economically useful. It was worth fighting over. And you’d be surprised how many diplomats weren’t pleased with the compromise. Some of them wanted an all-out war.”
“Some of them like…” I push, sensing there’s something there.
“Well, come to think of it,” Jack admits. “Prime Minister Floridán was rather pushy. He was hoping Monrovia could get sole ownership of the island. He’s quite the nationalist. He was mad but—”
“Mad enough to kill!” I exclaim, jumping up with mock theatrics.
Jack laughs and passes me another cookie. “I fear that Officer Basilier will jump to that conclusion when she searches his public statements on the pending compromise. She has quite the history of arresting innocent public figures.”
“She’s my friend now,” I say smugly.
“I noticed that,” Jack laughs. “Just don’t forget where your true loyalties lie if she gets handsy and throws me in jail again.”
“That was one time,” I tease. “And look at you! You’re stronger for it!”
“The fact that she put me in jail, I can forgive,” he says seriously. “But when she locked you up? That’s something I will never let go.” There’s a dark look on his face that tells me he’s not kidding anymore. “Be her friend, certainly— but know that I have not forgotten.”
I wave a hand in the air. “That’s water under the bridge! We’re working together now. Officer Basilier sees me as a real detective. I wonder if I should give her a nickname. What do you think about Officer B?”
“Love it,” Jack agrees, before adding ironically, “She’ll be thrilled, I’m sure.”
Joe snuffles in his sleep, making that half-growl sound he makes when chasing dream rabbits. Under different circumstances, it would make me smile.
"What happens to the vote now?" I ask.
"It will likely be postponed. Antanaro will need to appoint a new Ambassador, review the agreement again..." He spreads his hands in a gesture of futility. "Months of work, potentially undone in a single night. I’ll do all I can to fast track it, though"
I glance around the vast library, its towering shelves suddenly seeming less like guardians of knowledge and more like perfect hiding places for secrets—or people with secrets. "It's strange having the castle so full of strangers," I admit. "I've gotten used to knowing everyone here."
"And now one of them might be a murderer," Jack finishes my thought.
"Exactly." I hug my knees closer to my chest.
"If it helps, this isn't typical for royal weddings," Jack says with a hint of gallows humor. "Usually it's just family drama and wardrobe malfunctions."
"Is it weird that I'd prefer those?" I reach for another cookie, the buttery sweetness a small comfort against the bitterness of our conversation.
Jack reaches across the space between our chairs and takes my hand. His palm is warm from the teacup, his touch gentle but grounding.
"Enough murder talk for one night," Jack says suddenly, rising from his chair with newfound energy. "We have a wedding to plan, and I refuse to let a diplomatic crisis derail our special day." He moves toward one of the library's far shelves, the one tucked behind the encyclopedias that nobody ever reads. I watch as he reaches up and pulls down a large, leather-bound book that I immediately recognize— our wedding scrapbook, the one Maggie insisted we create to keep all our ideas organized. The sight of it sends a flutter of both excitement and anxiety through my chest.
We haven’t been able to agree on anything so far, and if I’m being honest—it makes me feel insecure. “Not this,” I say, shaking my head. “The book of disagreement.”
“The book of possibility!” Jack says. He returns to his seat, placing the scrapbook on the table between us. " We need something normal to focus on that isn’t murder or a diplomatic crisis." He slides the book closer to me. "Besides, if we don't make some decisions soon, Maggie will make them for us. And we both know that will end with you in the world’s largest Barbie doll dress."
I grimace at the thought. For all her efficiency and good intentions, Maggie's taste runs decidedly more... royal than mine. Last week, she showed me sketches for bridesmaid dresses that looked like whipped cream in a spiral.
"Fair point," I concede, leaning forward to open the scrapbook. The first page is covered with images of white-sand beaches, crystal-clear waters, and palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze. TROPICAL DESTINATION WEDDING is written across the top in Maggie's perfect calligraphy.
Jack points to a particularly stunning photo of a beachfront ceremony at sunset. "What about this? We could fly everyone to a private island. Just imagine saying our vows with our toes in the sand, the sound of waves in the background..."
I wrinkle my nose. "And sand in places where sand should never be? Sand in my wedding dress, sand in the cake, sand in Joe's fur for months afterward?" I shake my head firmly. "Besides, Luma would hate it too. She'd spend the whole time trying to herd the waves."
As if hearing her name, Luma's ears twitch in her sleep, but she doesn't wake. Joe remains equally oblivious, his massive body rising and falling with each breath.
"I suppose you're right," Jack acknowledges with a slight frown. "Though I was rather looking forward to seeing you in a beach wedding dress."
“I don’t mind the beach,” I say, revealing my true worry. “But think about what kind of a message a bunch of private planes send? It makes it seem like we think our wedding is more important than the environment. The emissions alone could harm so many endangered species.”
“You’re right,” Jack agrees seriously. “That idea is out.”
He turns the page. The next spread showcases the main royal palace in Monrovia's capital—a structure so grand and imposing it makes Atwood Castle look like a cozy cottage in comparison. Golden spires reach toward the heavens, marble staircases wide enough for twenty people to walk abreast, and ballrooms that could host small countries. TRADITIONAL ROYAL WEDDING AT THE QUEEN'S CASTLE, the caption declares.
My throat tightens at the thought. "This is... a lot."
Jack studies my face carefully. "It would be the traditional expectation," he says gently. "Every royal wedding for the past three centuries has taken place there. I know my aunt would be thrilled. It’s what the King would have wanted, God rest his soul."
"This was the chosen spot for three centuries of royals who were raised knowing they'd one day be standing on those steps," I point out. "Not former zookeepers who still sometimes eat cereal for dinner."
"The Duke and Duchess of Westmoreland had their wedding there just last year," Jack continues. "Two thousand guests, broadcast live to the entire country. It was quite the spectacle." His tone remains neutral, but I can sense he's testing my reaction.
"Two thousand people watching me walk down the aisle?" My voice rises slightly. "Three thousand opportunities to trip, or say the wrong thing, or have my dress malfunction?" I shake my head vehemently. "Jack, I can't do that. All those eyes on me..."
"You handle the animals here with perfect confidence," he points out.
"Animals don't judge your choice of wedding colors or critique your vows on social media," I counter. "Besides, if Joe barks during the ceremony, they'd probably have him removed by the royal guard."
Jack chuckles at that. "You have a point there." He sighs, staring at the page. I can’t help but feel it represents something to him— maybe coming full circle from his bachelor days spent on a yacht to becoming a fully functioning member of the royal family. “Perhaps this isn’t the one, either,” he says gently.
I turn the page again, hoping for a more appealing option. The next spread shows Atwood Castle decorated for a grand celebration— the courtyard transformed with twinkling lights, the great hall filled with guests, and photographers positioned strategically throughout. BIG WEDDING AT ATWOOD, WITH PRESS COVERAGE, reads the heading.
"This seems... slightly less terrifying," I admit cautiously. "At least I know the layout of Atwood. But the press?" I tap one of the photos showing a line of photographers. "Really?"
Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I know it's not ideal, but I'm not sure how to avoid it entirely. As a royal, there's a certain expectation of transparency. The people feel invested in our lives, our milestones."
"Your life," I correct him. "I didn't sign up to be a public figure."
"You did when you agreed to marry me," he says softly, and I can tell he's trying to be gentle but firm. "Royal weddings aren't just personal celebrations, they're national events. They give people joy, hope, something positive to focus on in difficult times."
I understand his point, intellectually at least. But the thought of camera flashes and reporters shouting questions makes my palms sweat. "I just... I always pictured something small. Intimate. Just us and the people who really matter to us."
