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  Calamity at the Continental Club

  A Washington Whodunit

  Colleen J. Shogan

  Camel Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.camelpress.com

  www.colleenshogan.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Calamity at the Continental Club

  Copyright © 2017 by Colleen J. Shogan

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-335-8 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-336-5 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016958174

  Produced in the United States of America

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  I wrote this book as I made a major change in my career, moving within the Library of Congress from the Congressional Research Service to a newly created Library Division focused on public engagement and outreach. The plot of this book reflected my switch from managing policy analysis to raising the national profile of the Library of Congress. The new job has a lot of benefits, including the opportunity to spend more time at museums, archives, and historic places. It was a pleasure to feature several D.C. treasures in my story.

  The people who work in our nation’s cultural institutions are underappreciated. Modestly paid, they are nevertheless passionate about preserving American heritage and history. My colleagues at the Library of Congress are among the most dedicated public servants in the country. They are also enthusiastic supporters of intellectual creativity, including the “Washington Whodunit” series.

  As always, I thank my family, husband, agent, and publisher for continued encouragement and assistance. Special kudos to the 2016 Writers in Paradise conference at Eckerd College. The feedback from Laura Lippman and novelists in my seminar was invaluable.

  It takes a village to write a book. Much appreciation to everyone in my life who has made it possible once again.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  “Kit, for heaven’s sake, you’ll see him in two days.”

  Doug stood next to our condo door with bags in tow. After years of dating and cohabiting, I was adept at estimating his general level of annoyance. No reason to sound the alarm yet.

  I gave Clarence, our chubby beagle mutt, another hug. “Don’t worry, buddy. Meg will be here soon to take care of you.”

  Clarence shot me a dubious look. My best friend and Capitol Hill colleague had many virtues, but the Humane Society wouldn’t be nominating her anytime soon for canine humanitarian of the year.

  I lowered my voice and whispered, “She knows where we keep the treats.” His ears perked up immediately. Just as his canine ancestors had responded to the hunter’s whistle, our dog knew the magic word. Clarence couldn’t catch a rabbit if it was confined to our suburban Washington D.C. condo. Nonetheless, he’d learned food-related terminology at lightning speed after we brought him home from the shelter.

  I presented Clarence with a Milk-Bone biscuit I had been hiding behind my back. After sitting and giving me his paw, he eagerly grabbed the treat and retreated to his favorite armchair.

  “Ready now?”

  The annoyance in Doug’s voice had ratcheted up a notch. It was a slight uptick only discernible by someone who had witnessed the slow burn of the American history professor many times. We were slated to marry someday in the future. That was the nebulous timetable I’d privately adopted. Over the next several days, other interested parties would likely be weighing in.

  Doug sighed, a reminder I hadn’t responded to his question.

  “Yes, just let me grab my purse, and we can go.”

  When Doug opened the door, Clarence must have realized he wasn’t accompanying us. He put his head between his paws and gave us the saddest pout he could muster. Unfortunately, no amount of doggie protest could rescue me from my familial duties. We all had to do our time: Clarence needed to make nice with Meg, while I had to brace myself for the days ahead with my future in-laws.

  Once we arrived at our condo building’s carport, Doug left me with the valises to retrieve our car from the underground garage. I had a few moments to compose myself before my trials and tribulations began. Two precious vacation days were out the window, sacrificed so I could attend a glorified history conference with the Hollingsworth clan.

  To add insult to injury, we weren’t even escaping the city for greener pastures. The annual meeting of the Mayflower Society had brought Buffy and Winston Hollingsworth to Washington. Thanks to the Internet, I’d learned that the Mayflower Society had existed for over a hundred years and it consisted of stuffy, rich people who liked to talk about American antiquity. Not my cup of tea, and certainly not how I wanted to spend my precious spare time away from work. Expressing nothing but disdain for “small-minded” contemporary American politics, my future in-laws rarely visited our nation’s capital. Doug had implored me to join him so I could get to know his parents better. In a moment of weakness, I agreed.

  Absorbed in my thoughts, I jumped when Doug honked to let me know he’d arrived with the Prius. After shoving the suitcases in the trunk, we took off toward Washington Boulevard in Arlington. Next stop, the world-renowned Continental Club in the District of Columbia.

  A positive attitude never hurt. In my most sincere voice, I asked, “Can you tell me more about the Mayflower Society?”

  Doug managed a small smile. He was nervous, with good reason. His parents weren’t exactly easy-going. I’d interacted with them over holidays and during other family functions, but not since we got engaged a few months ago. After all, I wasn’t exactly a Boston Brahmin or New England aristocrat. The Hollingsworths probably imagined Doug would marry a Harvard graduate who worked at the Museum of Fine Arts or the Gardner Museum in Boston. In other words, not a woman who mucked about in politics for a congresswoman in the House of Representatives and somehow found herself involved repeatedly in high-profile murder investigations.

  “My parents have been members of the Mayflower Society for as long as I can remember,” Doug explained. “The same group of friends has attended the annual meetings for decades. My father is the history buff, of course.”

  My fiancé spoke the truth, which was more complex than it seemed. Winston Hollingsworth ran a profitable family law firm in the Back Bay. While his older siblings joined their father at Hollingsworth and Associates, Doug had opted for the academic route. He’d been tenured at Georgetown after writing several page-turners in American history, miraculously not an oxymoron. Doug’s family celebrated his accomplishments with a restraint mastered by wealthy direct descendants of the New England Puritans. Outwardly giving a nod to his successes, they privately whispered it was a shame he hadn’t become a lawyer.

  Doug’s father loved his life as a prosperous Boston counselor and was proud of the renown he’d achieved, but he privately wished he’d chosen the same path as Doug and devoted his life to studying and writing about history. Not many knew Winston’s secret.

  “How could I forget your dad’s passion for history? He’s lectured me about the Battle of Bunker Hill more times than I care to remember,” I said.

  Doug grimaced. “Try to cut him some slack, Kit. He relishes these four days immersed in history more than anyone can imagine.”

  “I don’t
understand why your father doesn’t call it quits at the law firm and follow his passion. He’s made more money than anyone could possibly spend.”

  Doug’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. “Do us all a favor and don’t mention that idea around my mother.”

  There were so many topics supposedly off limits with the Hollingsworths, it would be safer not to speak at all. No mention of murder. No political chatter. No money talk. Perhaps it was time for a vow of silence. I immediately dismissed the idea. After all, I was a Capitol Hill staffer. If I wasn’t talking, I didn’t exist.

  Under regular circumstances, I could have excused myself repeatedly to attend to office business as the chief of staff for Representative Maeve Dixon from North Carolina. That would have definitely bought me serious time away from the Hollingsworths. But that excuse wasn’t going to hold water this time. Maeve was thousands of miles away, happily visiting China on a congressional delegation trip. Twelve hours ahead of D.C. time, she was too busy meeting with foreign ministers, cultural attachés, and other important people to send important assignments my way. Nope, I was flying solo.

  Rush hour traffic was headed in the opposite direction, with evening commuters escaping the city for their suburban neighborhoods in Virginia and Maryland. We’d just crossed the Potomac River into the District, which meant we’d arrive at the Continental Club in less than ten minutes. It was time to broach the prickliest topic of all: our impending nuptials.

  In my most upbeat voice, I said, “Your parents are paying for us to stay two nights at a private, posh club that’s seven miles from our condo. Do you want to tell me anything else about their motivations?”

  Doug kept his eyes on the road ahead. This was a sticking point, and he knew it. He pretended to focus on the traffic and ignored my question.

  I waited thirty seconds before changing my tone to “slightly annoyed” and trying again. “Doug, we’re almost at the club. Don’t you think we should talk about the wedding? Are your parents going to try to pressure us into getting married soon?”

  Doug must have decided he couldn’t handle midtown rush hour traffic and argue with me at the same time. At six thirty, the restricted parking spots became available. He parked the Prius in an open space and turned to face me.

  Doug took my left hand and touched my engagement ring. “Would it be so terrible if we set a date?”

  I resisted pulling my hand back. For as long as I could remember, I’d wanted to marry Doug. We’d only been engaged for two months and my new position as the top aide for Representative Dixon had consumed all my energy. There hadn’t been any extra time to plan our wedding.

  More importantly, I doubted my minimalist tendencies synced with the high-society expectations of Buffy Hollingsworth. Falling back on logistics was easy enough. “We could set a date, but we have no idea where we’ll get married. First we need to decide on the venue.”

  Doug cleared his throat. “I’m glad you brought up the location.”

  My intuition was rarely wrong. There had to be an ulterior motive for our two-night stay at extravagant digs in the city. Doug’s parents had money to burn, but something was rotten in the state of Denmark. And it smelled like the Continental Club.

  Again, in my sweetest, yet now strained, voice, I inquired, “You have a place in mind?”

  Doug ran his hand through his bushy hair and adjusted his glasses. “Not really. Well, um, maybe.”

  My inkling about a grander plan went from a clever guess to full-blown DEFCON. Maybe it didn’t reach DEFCON 1, but definitely DEFCON 2. Time to mobilize for nuclear war.

  “And the place is …?” My voice rose in pitch at the end, despite my determination to mask my annoyance.

  Perspiration was beading on Doug’s forehead. Early spring in Washington meant that the heat wasn’t the culprit. “It would be great if you’d consider the Continental Club. My parents—I mean, my mother specifically—would like to put it on the table.”

  I’d worked on Capitol Hill for years, now for a member of Congress whose reelection was anything but certain. She often voted with the opposing party to maintain peace in her congressional district and represent the desires of her moderately conservative constituents. Consequently, I was accustomed to controlling my temper. Considering our work environment, it was a challenge to stay on an even keel. After rising to the top position a few months ago, I often stressed the importance of “playing it cool during tough times” to our staff. That said, I could take a page from my own playbook.

  “Doug, we’ve only discussed our wedding in passing. I’m not thrilled about a costly and sophisticated shindig. If the Continental Club isn’t beau monde, then I don’t know what is.” I sighed. Not only was I not one for showy celebrations, but my laid-back, retired parents, who traveled the world in search of the perfect vineyard, were decidedly not Continental Club material.

  Doug squeezed my hand. “I’m not expressing myself very clearly. My parents have that effect on me.” He laughed uneasily before continuing, “What I meant to say is that it would be nice if you’d humor my mother for the next several days. You know, indulge in her fantasy.”

  Raising my eyebrows and my voice, I asked, “Indulge in her fantasy? Of what? The possibility of my being featured in Modern Bride? No, thank you.”

  Doug raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Kit, you’re misunderstanding me. All I’m asking is a little support.”

  His pleading eyes gave me pause. Typically my fiancé was a paragon of equanimity. He didn’t get too angry or too excited or too happy or too anxious. His parents clearly had him over a barrel. My sense of duty kicked into high gear.

  After a deep breath, I steadied my voice. “Okay. It’s a deal. I’ll indulge in the fantasy,” I paused, “to keep the peace.”

  Doug brightened immediately. But I wasn’t finished with my speech. “Don’t get too excited. Just because I’m willing to humor the Hollingsworths does not mean I will consent to have our wedding at the Continental Club. Understand?”

  Doug nodded vigorously. “No commitments. Just play along. Sort of like when you interrogate suspects while you’re investigating a mystery, right?”

  Doug had a point. From time to time, I’d bent the truth while sleuthing. Neither of us could have known how often we’d put those skills to the test during our forthcoming sojourn at the Continental Club.

  Chapter Two

  After our heart-to-heart chat, we proceeded along Massachusetts Avenue toward a neighborhood near Dupont Circle known as Embassy Row. It wasn’t a misnomer. The foreign diplomatic core resided inside regal estates, and the enclave was generally considered the most picturesque in the entire city. I knew the neighborhood because it was home to many of the city’s most prominent public policy think tanks, such as the Brookings Institution, the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, and the American Enterprise Institute. We passed the Indian Embassy’s famous statue of Gandhi on Massachusetts and made several turns through sleepy, shaded streets. Finally Doug announced that we’d arrived at our destination.

  With sunset imminent, darkness surrounded the stately mansion, more like an ambassadorial residence than a social club. Like many Washingtonians, I’d heard about the Continental Club but had never visited it. The outer façade resembled the style of Parisian grand buildings, full of classical features and symmetry. It reminded me of the New York Public Library and other imposing structures built at the turn of the twentieth century.

  “I wouldn’t necessarily describe it as homey,” I muttered.

  We pulled into the driveway leading to the front entrance. A valet quickly emerged to meet our car. Doug commented, “I suppose it will suffice for two nights.”

  Our suitcases were carried into the foyer, where we identified ourselves as Mayflower Society guests. Bonnie, the staff member assisting us, asked if we’d ever stayed at the Continental Club. Both Doug and I shook our heads. A smile spread across her face. “Splendid! While your bags are transferred to y
our room in the mansion, I can provide you with some historical background.”

  “Thank you, but my parents have already checked in, and we want to let them know we’ve arrived,” said Doug.

  Bonnie was undeterred. “Yes, the Hollingsworths are enjoying a beverage on our back patio. I’ll leave you there after our brief turn around the club.”

  Having no apparent choice in the matter, Doug and I trailed behind Bonnie. The wall behind the main lobby was filled with photographic portraits of the most learned illuminati in the United States. Henry Kissinger, Elie Wiesel, Daniel Patrick Moynihan, Alan Greenspan, Paul Krugman, and Robert Caro were amongst the most famous. The vast majority were men, but I noticed Sandra Day O’Connor, Jean Kirkpatrick, Camille Paglia, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and a few other women had each earned a spot in the display.

  Bonnie explained, “We’re a private club with members who have distinguished themselves in an intellectual pursuit or public service. This is a collection of Nobel recipients, Pulitzer Prize winners, and Continental Club awardees. We don’t often speak in superlatives these days, but dare I say these are the best of the best?”

  Without thinking, I commented, “Like best in show.”

  Bonnie blinked. “Y-yes,” she stammered, “in dog terms.”

  Doug shot me a disapproving glance.

  “Sorry,” I whispered. “Subliminal. I miss Clarence.”

  Bonnie didn’t believe in dawdling. She ushered us around the corner so we could follow her into a large, beautifully adorned dining room. Vaulted ceilings, ornate chandeliers, and formally set tables filled the space. Servers in crisp, pressed uniforms bustled across the aisles. I was reminded of a place I’d seen before, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall what it was. I’d never set foot in a fancy social club before, so its familiarity made no sense.