As a keen observer of people, I’m pretty good at determining the meaning, hidden or otherwise, behind a person’s body language. The way Mrs. Wallace’s nose crinkled ever so slightly, combined with the downturn, then quick phony smile upturn of her lips was bad enough, without her adding a barely noticeable stagger backwards for good measure.
Now you’re just showing off, I thought defensively.
“The wine is very generous, but please let’s share it.”
After pouring a glass for Dawn in the kitchen, our wholly unimpressed lady of the house left her glass empty, making the excuse someone in the other room had called her name. Once out of earshot, Dawn raised her wine to my now Jack Daniels-filled tumbler and noted, “She has very good hearing or–“
“Is a first class snob,” I offered, finishing her thought.
“Exactly.”
We toasted each other and after downing a large amount of whiskey, I thought the evening could turn out to be an entertaining one after all.
Our first decision was which one of the stereotypical party cliques to initially crash. Maybe the rich, established crowd that included our hosts? Or what about the sad sack, newly unemployed barely graduates, discussing strategies for dealing with their current midlife crisis? As these whiners were all male, it allowed, or forced their female partners and one metrosexual male to form their own separate splinter group. We were still debating our next move when Doug sauntered away from a throng of three couples, none of which, surprisingly, looked particularly well off, distressed or neurotic.
Just what kind of party is this exactly?
Doug had been at The Sunsetter for a few years, working his way from dishwasher to cook in a relatively short time. He was in his late twenties, average looking and with a sense of humour that is an acquired taste. Always in a happy mood, Dawn enjoyed working with him and that was good enough for me.
“Hey guys,” Doug said, before bending forward for an obligatory hug from Dawn. I raised my drink to my lips and held out my other hand, which he fist pumped for some reason. “You two look lost.”
“That’s because we don’t know anyone here,” Dawn replied, “aside from you and Mr. Wallace. I feel like we’re crashing a wedding reception.”
“I’m in the same boat. Daniel . . . ah, Mr. Wallace . . . just said ‘the more the merrier’ and gave me his address, although I don’t think his wife is too pleased.”
“Shocker,” I interjected, sharing a knowing smile with Dawn. “We think she’s against local businesses, which regrettably includes the good old Sunsetter. From an earlier experience, I don’t think she’s accustomed to socializing with the help.”
“The help, huh?” Dawn said. “Look at us with a title all our own, Doug. I kinda like it, even if others here don’t.” She raised her glass. “To the help!”
“The help!” Doug and I joined in, much to the consternation of the nearby whiners.
“Are you excited about your murder mystery tour this weekend?” Doug asked. “I’d think as a P.I. you would be, Steve.”
“I’m sure visiting a bunch of locations where murders took place will be interesting in a touristy type of way, but when I was a cop I used to arrive at murder scenes, sometimes only minutes after someone was killed. Now that was exciting.” I got the feeling more than just Dawn and Doug heard this statement, as a few guests turned their heads in our direction. Maybe I was speaking louder than I realized. I lowered my voice a notch and added, “I don’t really care what we do. It’ll be a nice relaxing getaway, no matter what.”
“Will you actually be entering the murder scenes to examine them?” Doug asked Dawn.
“A few maybe,” she answered, looking to me for confirmation. “For the most part, I think it’s like a typical bus tour with some walking involved. Instead of seeing enormous churches, skyscrapers or historic landmarks, we’ll visit houses, apartments and other places where a big time murder happened.”
“Like those Homes of the Stars tours in California that point out Jennifer Love Hewitt’s mansion or George Clooney’s house,” Doug said.
“Exactly,” I chimed in. “Except instead of learning the length of Jennifer’s pool or how many rooms she has, we’ll get details about where a puddle of blood was discovered on the property and how it got there.” Once again my words held some kind of fascination with these partying strangers. I caught the attention of one of the job-losers glaring at me. “What are you staring at?”
A look of Who me? registered on his face.
“Yeah, you,” I said. “Do you need medical help? We can call 911 if you want.”
This raised not only the intended’s ire, but also Dawn’s.
“Steve, what are you doing?”
“Don’t worry, Dawn, I won’t cause any trouble,” I assured her. “I just overheard this unemployed bonehead talking about how unfair the world is, after the same world provided him a $2000 a week job for the past three years playing the market with other people’s money. He rubbed me the wrong way. Unlike us, he obviously doesn’t appreciate the value of a buck.”
“Are you going to fight him?” Doug asked expectantly, a glimmer of bloodsport twinkling in his eyes.
“And hurt my knuckles? I don’t think so.”
As my opponent half-stumbled across the room, the groups seemed to break apart to form one bigger, yet still dispersed crowd. Had I picked on their de facto leader? It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d messed with the wrong person and certainly wouldn’t be my last. I pegged this tough guy to be about 28, not bad looking, an inch shorter than me, clean cut, wearing his casual Friday’s khaki pants, Blue River designer shirt and surrounded by an aura of entitlement. You know the type, full of themselves until someone knocks them down a peg or two.
Let me demonstrate.
“Do I know you?”
“In what sense?” I answered indifferently.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Didn’t they teach you any sense at that preppy business school you’re bragging about? What’s its name again? Cylinder, Solenoid?”
“The Solinder Institute of Finance is not preppy!” my adversary declared loudly, which brought a stop to any other conversations in the room. We were now the main event.
“Ah, yes, Solinder. The home of flipped up collars and wing-tips worn by trust fund daddy’s boys, inexplicably named Kal or Regent, who go by equally inane nicknames like The Calculator or Righteous D. Bill.” I paused to allow this information to soak in. “Nah, that doesn’t sound preppy-like at all, Corwin.”
A look of bewilderment dawned across my interrogator’s features, as his red spidery veined eyes widened substantially. You’d have thought I’d produced an elephant out of thin air and laid it at his feet. Some audience members appeared impressed, or more likely, baffled by my seemingly inside information of Corwin Stewart Donovan Mulvoy. In truth
