The Murder of Twelve

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about providing me some consolation in the wake of the debacle this whole wedding has become. I warned those kids not to tempt fate in February, but they wouldn’t listen because none of the more obvious locales were available when my son popped the question just last month. Even said a bit of snow would add to the occasion.”

  Her gaze drifted out the window again, the snow beginning to cake over the edges of the glass, melting from the heat inside to form what looked like a crystal spider’s web.

  “Though I sincerely doubt this was what they had in mind,” my newfound friend continued. “Would you believe they haven’t even arrived yet, the future bride and groom, for their own rehearsal dinner?”

  “Have you tried calling them?”

  “I’ve misplaced my cell phone. Of all the times . . . I tried the landline in my room, but it went straight to voice mail.” She gazed downward, suddenly looking shy and maybe a bit embarrassed. “I wasn’t waiting for you in the lobby, Mrs. Fletcher—”

  “Jessica.”

  “—I was waiting for them. Doing the nervous-mother thing, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded politely, even though I didn’t, save for my nephew Grady’s wedding. Raising him through much of his youth alongside my late husband, Frank, was as close as I came to motherhood and remained one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life.

  “They may end up getting married right here at Hill House with the twelve of us the sole attendees,” Constance Mulroy continued.

  “Twelve?”

  “The wedding party. You wouldn’t happen to know a priest, reverend, minister, or rabbi we could corral on short notice, would you?”

  “No, but you could ask the hotel manager, Seamus McGilray. Perhaps hotel managers have the same power as captains at sea, at least during a blizzard.”

  She grinned. “I just might do that, Jessica. Looks like it’s going to be just the immediate families and two of the couple’s mutual friends anyway. All fortunately present and accounted for in preparation for the rehearsal dinner tonight, which was just canceled because of the state of emergency that’s been declared.”

  “What about having it here at Hill House instead?” I suggested.

  Constance Mulroy’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking, but what a wonderful idea. Could you introduce me to this Mr. McGinty?”

  “It’s McGilray, and of course I can. He keeps an apartment in the basement, so he’s not going anywhere anyway. We can also see if he can brush up on his mastery of wedding ceremonies.”

  She switched the book from her right arm to her left and took my hand like an old friend. “On one condition, Jessica.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you join us for dinner.”

  “I’d be delighted, Connie. Thank you. Now,” I said, taking her by the arm, “what do you say we go find Mr. McGilray and see what can be done with the menu for tonight?”

  Her eyes moistened a bit and she dabbed them with a tissue plucked from her shoulder bag. “I don’t know how to thank you, Jessica—I just don’t. With all that’s happened . . .”

  I let that unfinished remark pass and took her arm in both my hands. “You’ll have a wonderful story to tell your grandchildren.”

  “Perhaps I could convince you to write it.”

  “Not unless there’s murder involved, and that’s one thing that won’t be on the menu tonight.”

  Constance Mulroy smiled, and I smiled back.

  If only we’d known . . .

  Chapter Six

  Constance Mulroy and I were still smiling, off toward the front desk in search of Hill House manager and part owner Seamus McGilray, when a tall, gray-haired man dressed in a sport jacket that showcased an ascot exposed under his collar brushed past us. I thought I heard my new friend Constance mutter, “Ugh . . .” before the tall man’s voice drowned everything else out.

  “I’m Doyle Castavette, and I’m most disappointed in the furnishings at your so-called hotel here,” he snapped at the young woman alone behind the reception desk.

  She forced a smile. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. How can I assist you?”

  Doyle Castavette produced a tiny hotelier-packaged soap from his pocket. When he laid it on the counter I could see the wrapping had been torn open and peeled back.

  “Old and stale. I would think a hotel that purports to be a luxury, five-star establishment could do better than this.” His hand, defined by long, slender fingers that reminded me of a pianist’s, dipped back into the same pocket, coming out this time with similarly tiny bottles of hotel-packaged shampoo and conditioner. “You notice these have been opened?”

  “I do, sir,” the young woman said, fighting to maintain hold of her smile.

  “But they weren’t opened by me. Tell me, young lady, is it the habit of this establishment to expect guests to use leftovers in the bathroom? Need I check the glasses to make sure they’ve been washed?”

  The young woman, whose name tag identified her as JANE and whom I knew as Janey Ryland, remained conciliatory. “I’ll let the manager know about both these issues and have replacements sent up to your room immediately, Mr. Cassavette.”

  “That’s Castavette, and given what you’re charging our wedding guests for rooms, I expect you should know the college from which I graduated and my entire bio from the latest Who’s Who.”

  “Again, sir, I do apologize. Is there anything else I can do for you at this time?” Jane asked, clearly hoping there wasn’t.

  “Not at present, but I’m quite certain something will come up. I haven’t checked the bed linens yet. I’m not expecting much.”

  “I’m at your service should anything with the linens or anything else arise.”

  Without uttering a speck of thanks, Doyle Castavette swung around in a huff, finding himself face-to-face with Constance Mulroy.

  “Ingratiating as always, I see, Doyle,” she said, the bite of her words tempered somewhat by her warm smile.

  “Is it too much to ask for an establishment to handle the mere basics of its job?”

  “Any word from your daughter?” Connie asked him.

  “I was just going to ask you the same about your son.”

  “I’ll take that as a no. I’m starting to find myself concerned that we haven’t heard from them since just after their plane landed, the last one before the airport was closed.”

  “Could be Allison has tried to call, but I’ve been having trouble connecting to the hotel Wi-Fi,” Castavette said, making sure his voice was loud enough for Janey behind the reception desk to hear, before his eyes fell on me. “Is this another member of the hotel staff you’ve acquainted yourself with?”

  Constance Mulroy angled her frame to better introduce me. “Not at all. This is Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer.”

  “Mystery writer?” Castavette said disparagingly.

  “Famous mystery writer,” Connie repeated for good measure, holding up her signed copy of my latest hardcover.

  Castavette didn’t give it a first look, never mind a second. “Well, someone has to write them, I suppose.”

  I extended my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Castavette. And congratulations on your daughter’s marriage.”

  “Save your congratulations,” he said to me, before returning all of his attention to my newfound friend. “I’m starting to believe Allison finally wised up and realized she could do far better than that ne’er-do-well son of yours. How many scrapes with the law has he had, again?”

  “Traffic tickets hardly qualify as scrapes with the law, Doyle.”

  “But one of them was a DUI, as I recall. Good thing your family owns an insurance company among its ambitious holdings. I’m sure that’s the only reason he can still drive after the accident killed one person and cr
ippled another.”

  I felt Connie stiffen next to me. “Daniel was exonerated of those charges.”

  “Then I guess it’s also a good thing that the Mulroy family maintains an army of lawyers on call, though I suspect they’re all busy tending to the mess left by your husband. I only wish I’d thrown him off the Brooklyn Bridge myself, given the fortune he stole from me.”

  I could feel Constance Mulroy tightening up at that, embarrassed. She had the look of a woman who badly wanted to be somewhere else in that moment—anywhere else.

  “I was glad to see the authorities no longer consider you a person of interest,” Castavette resumed.

  “Thank you for that much, Doyle.”

  “You know how you can make good on this, Constance? By making me reasonably whole, like you promised.”

  Connie grew red faced at Doyle Castavette’s raising that issue in front of an outsider like me, airing such dirty laundry in plain view.

  “I told you I was doing everything I could, and I am,” she said. “I’ve even—”

  She stopped abruptly there, clearly about to share something better left between the two of them.

  “And let’s face it, Doyle,” she resumed instead. “The only difference between my husband’s investment scam and your shenanigans in real estate is that Heath Mulroy got caught.”

  Castavette stiffened, looking like he badly wanted to respond, until his eyes fell on me again. And with that, he brushed past us, just missing my sweater.

  “Pleasant man,” I commented to Constance, after he’d disappeared into the elevator.

  “You can’t choose your relatives, Jessica, and you can’t choose your in-laws either. I have to grin and bear it for my son. You’ve heard of the scandal,” she said, her voice lowered to a tone that suggested regret and dismay. “That my husband swindled investors out of millions of dollars.”

  “You didn’t say ‘allegedly,’” I noted, indeed familiar with the case, though not making the connection with the name Mulroy until that moment.

  “Because it’s true. He was guilty and didn’t have the courage to face his accusers. Jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge instead and left the rest of us—the twins and me—to clean up his mess.”

  I’d heard about that sad end to the story as well. “Your son Daniel has a twin?”

  “Fraternal. They look about as much alike as you and I.”

  I smiled at her. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Your millions of readers must be more than happy with your appearance,” Constance said, smiling as she spun the book around to flash the back-cover author photo my way.

  “J. B. Fletcher,” I said, referring to the name I wrote under, “doesn’t age, so the fact that photo is over ten years old suits her just fine. Jessica Fletcher, on the other hand . . .”

  I completed my remark with a shrug.

  “I really am growing nervous about the whereabouts of Daniel and Allison, especially with the storm intensifying.”

  My new friend was right. Gazing out the spacious windows that adorned the lobby revealed a scene stitched solely in white. From this distance nothing else was visible—not a tree, neighboring building, or, of course, passing car, given the conditions. The storm had swept into our little hamlet with all the ferocity that had been predicted, no doubt feeding off the ocean to refuel itself to reach that dreaded forecast of upwards of three feet. Looking at the storm now, with the last of the meager light rapidly fading from the sky, I began to wonder whether that amount might yet prove an underestimation, given that at least ten inches had piled up already.

  “Why don’t I call our sheriff to see about reports of any accidents in the time since their plane landed that may have closed the main roads? How long ago was that now?”

  Constance Mulroy’s expression brightened. “Between four and five hours.”

  I started to reach for my cell phone, then remembered I’d left it inside the parka I’d draped across a nearby chair back. I was moving to retrieve it when a pair of sprightly older women pranced across the lobby in matching tracksuits.

  “The Sprague sisters,” Constance said softly, a bit put off by their approach under the circumstances. “First cousins I practically grew up with. As you can see, Jessica, twins run in the family.”

  “Identical, in this case.”

  Constance smiled. “You noticed.”

  She cleared her throat at the sisters’ arrival. “Jessica, I’d like you to meet Olivia and Beatrice Sprague. Olivia and Beatrice, this is the famous mystery writer Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Liv and Bea to our friends, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m Liv.”

  “And I’m Bea.”

  They were indeed identical, right down to every woven curl and fabric seam. They’d even approached in lockstep, their hair dyed a uniform auburn shade that might well have come from the same bottle. In sneakers, they barely stretched to five feet tall, with bright smiles they seemed to flash in perfect unison as well.

  “In that case, I’m Jessica,” I said, shaking both their hands tenderly.

  “And you write mysteries?” from Bea.

  “What did Connie just say?” from Liv.

  “That she’s a mystery writer.”

  “Then why bother asking a question—”

  “I already knew the answer. It was to make—”

  “Conversation,” Liv completed for Bea this time. “You’re always making conversation. Perhaps you should try making—”

  “Sense instead.” Bea’s turn. “You say that to me at least—”

  “Once every day. And I’ll keep doing so until you stop. Or—”

  “Until we die. You say that every day, too. I hope I—”

  “Go first. Sometimes I hope you do, too.”

  “Humph . . .”

  “Humph . . .”

  They both turned toward me, as if responding to some unspoken cue. Listening to them speak was like watching a Ping-Pong match, my head snapping from side to side to follow each.

  “Nice to meet you, Jessica,” they said in unison before turning their attention back to Constance Mulroy.

  “We’ve been to the gym, dear,” Bea told her.

  “We moved our daily constitutional inside,” Liv added.

  “On account of the weather.”

  “It’s frightful out there.”

  “Any word—“

  “From the kids?” Liv completed this time.

  “Not a peep. But I’m sure they’ll be arriving soon,” Connie said, sounding as brave as she could manage. “After all, who misses their own wedding?”

  “Rehearsal dinner, in this case,” Bea corrected. “And we’re—”

  “Famished already. But where will we be—”

  “Eating, with the original venue closed for the evening?”

  The Sprague sisters looked at each other before both turned back toward their first cousin.

  “Mrs. Fletcher and I are working on that now.”

  “We’re hoping to arrange the dinner here in Hill House’s Sea Captains Room,” I picked up when Constance finished; I realized we were copying Liv and Bea’s speech cadence.

  “We’ll let you get to it, then,” Liv offered.

  “Yes, we will.” Bea nodded.

  “Quite the show, aren’t they?” Constance said after the Sprague sisters had taken their leave, still chatting away and completing each other’s thoughts. “Neither ever married, and they’ve lived together their whole lives.”

  “They seem happy,” I said, watching them enter the elevator.

  “Why shouldn’t they be, without a care in the world and with more money than they’ll ever be able to spend?”

  Constance gave me a look.

  “My call to the sheriff—of course!” I said, and finally fished my cell phone fr
om an inside pocket of my parka.

  Before I could dial, though, Seamus McGilray emerged from the back office behind the reception desk with a snow shovel in hand.

  “Seamus,” I called to him.

  He stopped halfway across the lobby and turned. “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, nasty spot of weather we’re having.”

  I approached him with Constance Mulroy riding my wake. “I wonder if I might add something of a complication to it.”

  He lowered the shovel to the lobby floor and leaned against it. “Anything that delays me shoveling the walk for the first of many times this evening is welcome, complication or not.”

  “You’ve met Constance Mulroy, of course,” I said, stepping aside so she could draw even with me.

  “Not personally, but Hill House is very happy to be hosting your family, miss, though I apologize on behalf of the state of Maine for the turn in the weather.”

  “That’s what we’d like to speak to you about, Seamus,” I picked up, “specifically about the possibility of moving the rehearsal dinner here to Hill House, with Cabot Cove Country Club closed.”

  I’d expected any number of responses from Seamus, all of them with some level of resistance to the added work my request would cause his staff. Much to my surprise, though, he grinned broadly and nodded.

  “It would be our esteemed pleasure to stand in as your host, Mrs. Mulroy. Perhaps Mrs. Fletcher has told you about our splendid Sea Captains Room, and while we may have to be creative with the menu, I’m sure we can accommodate your family in a way that makes you proud.”

  Constance looked instantly lighter, so relieved she practically melted into the floor with a sigh. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. McGilray, besides thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Don’t thank me until the meal is set, miss, because with no food order coming in today, it might be a tuna casserole for the lot of you.”

  “I’m sure whatever you serve will be wonderful, sir.”

  “How many in the party?”

  “Fourteen,” Constance answered. “Well, twelve now, but fourteen by the time dinner is served, once the bride and groom arrive.”