Murder at the Masquerade, page 4
"Like what?" Jack asks, his tone genuinely curious.
I close my eyes, allowing myself to imagine it. "Maybe right here at Atwood, but just in the gardens. A simple ceremony with close friends and family. Joe as the ring bearer. Luma as the flower girl." I open my eyes to find Jack watching me intently. "No press, no thousand-person guest list of people I've never met. Just... us, being real."
"That does sound lovely," he admits. "I don’t know how it’s possible, given what I am,” he motions at himself up and down as if he’s Frankenstein’s’s monster.
We sit in silence for a moment, the crackle of the fire and the soft snoring of our dogs the only sounds in the room. I can see Jack is torn— between tradition and my comfort, between royal duty and personal happiness.
"We'll figure it out," he finally says, but I can tell from his expression that he's as uncertain as I am about how to reconcile our different visions. "There has to be a compromise somewhere."
"There has to be," I say, not entirely convinced. "There always is.”
Or at least, there always has been, I think. In the past, we’ve always worked out our differences. What if now, it’s too late?
He closes the scrapbook gently. "Let's sleep on it.”
As we rise to wake our sleeping dogs, I can't help but wonder if this is what our married life will always be like— a constant negotiation between the life I expected and the royal reality. And in this moment, with a murder to solve and a wedding to plan— the wedding seems more daunting.
Chapter
Five
It’s morning, and our cozy Royal Investigators office is a safe haven against the overcast October day outside. Joe pads over to his oversized dog bed in the corner— a necessity I insisted on when Maggie and I leased this space— while I dump my bag on the desk and take in the sight of my business partner already hard at work. Maggie has been here for hours, judging by the empty coffee cups and the meticulous crime board she's assembling on the far wall. She’s already decorated our office for Halloween, meticulously placing olive-branch-and-twinkle garlands across the desks. Two pumpkins sit in the corner, and a cackling witch stands by the door to welcome visitors.
I glance at our corkboard, noticing that Maggie has already set up information for our next case. Five faces stare back at me from a collection of hastily printed photographs, all connected by yellow threads to a central image— Ambassador Franklin, looking far more alive than when I last saw him sprawled across the castle ballroom floor.
"You started without me," I say, reaching for the extra coffee Maggie always brings. It's lukewarm now, but caffeine is caffeine, and after last night's late conversation with Jack, I need all the help I can get.
"Couldn't sleep," Maggie replies without turning around. She's wearing her practical clothes today— tailored slacks and a crisp blouse— a far cry from her ornate costume last night. "I keep seeing his face. The Ambassador's, I mean."
"I know what you mean," I murmur, taking a sip of coffee and grimacing at both the temperature and the memory. "Every time I closed my eyes last night, I saw him lying there."
Joe settles into his bed with a dramatic sigh, clearly disappointed that we're discussing murder instead of providing him with treats. His massive head rests on his paws, but his eyes remain alert, watching us with that peculiar intelligence that sometimes makes me wonder if he understands more than he lets on.
"So," I say, approaching the board and standing beside Maggie, "what have we got?"
Maggie steps back, gesturing to her handiwork with a flourish. Our crime board has transformed overnight from a simple corkboard where we post community notices to a proper detective's wall of suspicion. In the center is a photo of Ambassador Franklin—not the death scene, thankfully, but an official portrait showing him in diplomatic regalia, smiling benignly at the camera.
"Ambassador Franklin," Maggie says, tapping his photo. "Fifty-three years old, career diplomat, served as Antanaro's Ambassador to Monrovia for twelve years. Well-respected, no known enemies, generally considered a moderate voice in Antanaran politics."
"And now dead on our watch," I add grimly.
"Which brings us to our suspects," Maggie says, pointing to the five photographs arranged in a semi-circle around Franklin's image. Yellow threads connect each to the central photo, a visual representation of the literal thread of evidence found in the Ambassador's hand.
I move closer, studying each face in turn. "Suspect number one: Missy Adeline, Antanaran movie star and national treasure." The photo shows her at some red-carpet event, looking flawless in a form-fitting gown, her smile dazzling for the cameras.
"Thirty-six years old, known for her dramatic roles and equally dramatic off-screen activism," Maggie reads from her notes. "Deeply nationalistic about Antanaro. Her publicist, Sacks, arranged for her to wear a gown made from that yellow fabric by Ms. Labelle for last night's ball."
"Motive?" I ask, taking another sip of my disappointing coffee.
"That's where it gets interesting," Maggie says, her eyes lighting up with that particular gleam she gets when she's puzzling through a mystery. "According to my sources, Missy is very much a patriot. She’s involved in multiple pro-nationalist causes for her country.”
"So she might have wanted Franklin dead to derail the vote," I muse, studying Missy's perfect features. "But would a movie star really commit murder over an island dispute?"
"People have killed for less," Maggie points out. "And she wouldn't be the first celebrity with extreme political views."
I move to the next photo— it’s of Sacks. He looks just as slick in the picture as he did in real life. His paisley shirt in the photo makes me wince, remembering the eyesore he wore to the ball. Paisley shirts seem to be a favorite of his.
"Suspect number two: Sacks, Missy's publicist and fashion victim. He's been with Missy for six years," Maggie continues. "Managed her transition from rom-com darling to serious dramatic actress. Known for being ruthlessly protective of her image and career."
"Would he kill to protect her reputation?" I wonder aloud.
"Probably,” Maggie shrugs. “His wagon is hitched to hers. She’s his biggest client. But I can’t see how her reputation would be connected to the Ambassador. They’re from two totally different worlds.”
Joe makes a snuffling sound from his bed, almost as if offering his own opinion on the matter. I glance over at him. "What do you think, Joe? Is Sacks our killer?"
Joe's tail thumps once against his bed—not exactly a ringing endorsement of our theory.
Moving on, I study the third photo— it’s of Ms. Labelle, the dressmaker. The picture is accompanied by a newspaper article about her opening Maison Labelle. It outlines her rise from poverty to successful dressmaker. "Suspect number three: Ms. Labelle, the dressmaker."
"Thirty-four years old, self-made businesswoman who opened her boutique in the village three years ago," Maggie recites. "Born poor in rural Monrovia, worked her way up through the fashion industry. Her shop, Maison Labelle, can make more than just dresses now. Suits. Custom shirts.”
"And she's the source of our murder fabric," I note, tapping the yellow material connecting her to Franklin. "She made something for each suspect using that specific material."
"Including herself," Maggie points out. "That clutch she was carrying last night? Same yellow sequined fabric."
I frown, trying to remember my brief interaction with Ms. Labelle during last night's questioning. "She seemed genuinely shocked when she saw the fabric sample. Almost afraid."
"Maybe because she realized it implicated her as much as anyone else," Maggie suggests.
"Or maybe because she knows exactly which one of her clients could be behind this, and that knowledge scares her," I counter. "She might have overheard something at a fitting. We should start with her. She's the common thread— literally— between all our suspects."
Maggie nods in agreement before moving on to the fourth photo of Prime Minister Floridán leading a session of parliament. “That brings us to our most dangerous suspect number four: Prime Minister Floridán."
"Now there's a man who looks like he enjoys firing people," I observe.
"Forty-nine years old, elected Prime Minister of Monrovia three years ago on a nationalist platform," Maggie explains. "He represents the new government, as opposed to the traditional liberal world order. He likes to have complete authority and is... less than supportive of the royal family."
"Jack mentioned him," I recall. "Said he’s a real treat.”
"That's putting it mildly," Maggie says with a grimace. "He's publicly stated that the monarchy is an outdated institution that drains resources from 'real Monrovians.'”
"And the island vote?"
"He's against the compromise. No surprise there. But I can’t imagine he’d kill for it. If the Prime Minister wanted someone dead, he’d never do it himself. Why dirty his own hands, right?”
“Good point,” I agree moving to the final photo of the Prime Minister’s wife, Gineviève Floridán. Her intelligent eyes look at me from the still, which looks to have been taken from a magazine. "That leaves suspect number five: Gineviève Floridán, the Prime Minister's wife."
"Forty-three years old. She’s actually a brilliant legal mind," Maggie says with noticeable respect in her voice. "She was her husband's campaign strategist and is widely credited with his electoral success. Works behind the scenes, but those in political circles say she's the real brains of the operation."
"The power behind the throne," I muse.
"Exactly," Maggie agrees. "But again, I can’t see why she would want Ambassador Franklin dead.”
I step back, taking in the full board with all five suspects. "So we have a nationalistic movie star, her ambitious publicist, a dressmaker with connections to everyone, a Prime Minister who hates the monarchy, and his legally-savvy wife. All wearing something made from the same yellow fabric.”
"And all with access to him at the ball last night," Maggie adds.
Joe rises from his bed and stretches, his massive body extending to its full impressive length before he pads over to join us at the board. He sits between us, his intelligent eyes scanning the photos as if he, too, is evaluating the suspects.
"There's something else," Maggie says hesitantly, reaching out to touch Ambassador Franklin's photo. "Have you noticed... I mean, it's probably nothing, but..."
"What?" I prompt when she trails off.
"The Ambassador," she says, glancing at me. "He looks a bit like Jack, doesn't he?"
“He does,” I agree, leaning in to look at the picture. “When I first saw his body I thought it was Jack.” My hands tremble at the memory. “I thought the worst and then when it wasn’t him, I feel awful saying it, but… I was relieved.”
I lean closer, studying Franklin's features more carefully. The salt-and-pepper hair, the distinguished jawline, the similar build and height... There is a resemblance. Not identical, but enough that someone might mistake one for the other in dim lighting, especially with masks involved.
"Everyone was wearing masks," Maggie finishes my thought. “Rebecca, it’s just a theory, but what if…”
We look at each other, the same disturbing possibility forming in both our minds.
"You don't think..." I start.
“I hope not,” Maggie says, her voice barely above a whisper. “But just in case, tell Jack to be careful. The killer is still in the castle. And if they missed the first time…”
“They might try again,” I nod.
The implication settles over us like a heavy blanket.
Joe nudges my hand with his nose, pulling me back from the edge of panic. I scratch behind his ears automatically, the familiar gesture helping to ground me.
"We need to consider every possibility," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. "But let's focus on what we know for sure. The fabric evidence points to one of these five people. And Ms. Labelle is the one who made all the items."
"So we start with her," Maggie agrees, already reaching for her tablet to make notes. We should also ask everybody where they were when the lights went out just before the murder happened. If we can place them around the room, we can try to figure out who had time to get to the Ambassador.”
“Great idea!” I say, nodding. “Let’s head to Ms. Labelle’s shop. And maybe, let’s grab a proper coffee at Le Petit Scone on the way," I say, holding up my now-cold cup with a grimace. “Henri has seasonal pumpkin-cinnamon lattes on the menu.”
"And maybe something for Joe?" Maggie suggests with a smile, looking down at the massive dog who's now sitting at attention, clearly recognizing that his name, said with such affection, usually means treats are forthcoming.
"It’s only right," I agree. "He's part of the investigating team, after all."
As Maggie gathers her tablet and I collect my bag, I take one last look at the board. Five suspects, one victim, and yellow material connecting them all. Somewhere in this tangle is a killer— a killer who’s still living in Castle Atwood, my favorite place in the world. The place I call home.
Whoever did this better watch out, I think. Because I’m not going to rest until I find them.
Chapter
Six
Maison Labelle sits like a pristine jewel among the weathered stone buildings of Atwood Village, its freshly painted pastel blue exterior standing out against the faded charm of the neighborhood. I pause on the sidewalk, Joe's leash wrapped around my wrist, and take in the elegant cursive lettering above the door that announces we've arrived at our destination. I take a sip of the pumpkin-cinnamon latte I’ve just picked up from Le Petit Scone, sighing as the warm brew trickles through my system. Through Maison Labelle’s gleaming front window, a Halloween-themed display promises seasonal fashions: an orange trench-coat; a star-studded t-shirt; a pair of jeans with pumpkins embroidered up the thigh. It’s all one-of-a-kind couture. The entire setup screams "exclusive boutique where someone like me would normally never shop."
"Ready?" Maggie asks, her tablet already tucked under her arm for notetaking. In her other hand, she balances a caramel-apple tea, also compliments of Henri at Le Petit Scone.
"As I'll ever be," I reply, giving Joe's leash a gentle tug. "Remember, Joe, best behavior. No drooling on the expensive fabrics."
Joe looks up at me with an expression that somehow manages to be both offended and amused. Two hundred and fifty pounds of Tibetan Mastiff have never looked more dignified.
The bell above the door chimes delicately as we enter, announcing our arrival into a space that feels more like a museum than a shop. The scent of new fabric fills the air, and overhead chandeliers illuminate what can only be described as a temple to fashion. Every surface gleams— polished wooden floors, sparkling glass display cases, and chrome racks that hold garments arranged by color with military precision.
"Wow," I whisper to Maggie. "I feel like I should have showered twice this morning."
She smiles knowingly. "Ms. Labelle is famous for her attention to detail."
That's an understatement. The shop is immaculate in a way that makes me suddenly conscious of every dog hair clinging to my pants. Joe seems to sense this too, sitting down primly beside me as if trying to minimize his considerable footprint in this shrine to elegance.
"Good morning," a melodic voice calls from the back of the shop. Ms. Labelle emerges from behind a beaded curtain, looking far more composed than she did during last night's questioning. Her asymmetrical black dress is clearly her own design, tailored to perfection, and her clever eyes quickly assess us— an odd trio of investigators invading her pristine domain.
"Ms. Orange, Ms. Lefevere," she nods to each of us, then her gaze drops to Joe. "And... Joe, was it? Welcome to Maison Labelle."
"Thank you for seeing us," Maggie says, stepping forward with her usual diplomatic grace. "We know this must be a difficult day after all that’s happened."
Ms. Labelle's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes, well... one must carry on, mustn't one?" She gestures toward the back of the shop. "Please, follow me. Bring your drinks with you, of course.”
We follow her through the beaded curtain into a small but equally immaculate workspace. A cutting table dominates the center, surrounded by dress forms in various states of creation. Bolts of fabric line the walls, organized by type and color in a way that makes my apartment's "clean enough" standard seem positively slovenly. In one corner, a small seating area with a vintage settee and two chairs surrounds a tea service that looks ready for a royal visit.
"Please, sit," Ms. Labelle offers, and I guide Joe to a spot beside the settee where he can observe without knocking anything over with his tail. He settles with a soft huff, his eyes never leaving Ms. Labelle. “Help yourself if you’d like tea,” she adds, nodding at the tea station in the corner.
"This is quite the operation you have," I say earnestly. "How long have you been in business?"
"Three years in this location," she replies, passing a plate of scones. "Though I've been making clothes since I was a child."
"It shows," Maggie compliments, glancing around. "Your work is extraordinary."
Ms. Labelle's posture relaxes at the praise. "Thank you. I've worked hard to build this place." Her eyes drift around the workspace with unmistakable pride. "It's everything to me."
"We’d like to talk to you again about all of the suspects from last night," I say, deciding to skip the small talk. "Now that it’s just us, we can be more— honest with each other.”
Ms. Labelle offers a slight nod, which is enough to make me keep talking. “Let’s start with Prime Minister Floridán. You dressed him for the evening. What was his demeanor when he came in for the fitting?”
The shift in her presence is subtle but immediate— a slight stiffening of her shoulders, a momentary pause before she takes a deliberate sip of tea.
