The Murder of Twelve

by Jessica Fletcher

I watched Seamus’s gaze drift out the window over Constance Mulroy’s shoulder, his look of concern saying it all before he banished it from his expression and smiled reassuringly. “Then dinner for fourteen it is.”

  She squeezed my arm. “I actually meant fifteen, since Mrs. Fletcher will be joining us.”

  “Only if it doesn’t cause you any additional bother, Seamus.”

  “Fifteen it is, then!” he said happily, the smile slipping from his face as he readied his shovel for the rigors ahead. “Now, if you ladies would be kind enough to excuse me, duty calls. Got to make sure the walk is clear when the bride and groom arrive, don’t we? This might be as close as they come to walking up the aisle for some time, if the forecast holds true.”

  I had to admit that the opportunity to attend the dinner was far more appealing than the prospect of waiting out the worst of the storm alone in my room, and I found myself ever so grateful for my chance encounter with Constance Mulroy.

  “Let me make that call to Sheriff Metzger,” I said to my newfound friend and moved over to the lobby’s side wall to view the storm from that angle.

  The outside was already an unbroken sheet of white, the sky starting to dump vast curtains of snow in relentless fashion. I couldn’t see much beyond ten or so feet and could only imagine the same scene once all the light faded from the sky. Nothing moved outside except for what shifted in the wind, which would pick up once the storm hit its peak that evening. I tried to envision how I’d describe such a scene in one of my books and drew an utter blank. It was almost as if the world beyond the window didn’t exist anymore, was not just buried but swallowed up.

  I shook myself from my trance and dialed Mort’s cell phone. When it rang unanswered, I waited for a few moments and tried again, then a third and fourth time, before he finally answered.

  “I’m a little busy here, Mrs. F.,” he finally responded in a gruff, impatient voice. “In case you haven’t heard, we could be looking at four feet of snow now. Tell me again why I took this job?”

  “Sorry to pile more onto your plate, Mort, but we’ve got an issue here likely related to the storm.”

  “Where’s ‘here’?”

  “Hill House. Did I tell you about that wedding party that’s making this home through the weekend?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the bride and groom haven’t shown up for their own rehearsal dinner yet. According to the mother of the future groom, the last time they checked in was after their plane had landed in Portland, going on five hours ago now.”

  “Storm was just getting started then.”

  “That’s the point,” I told him.

  “Wait, Mrs. F. You said they flew into Portland?”

  I felt something flutter in my stomach. “What’s going on, Mort?”

  “Remember the Lexus SUV we found abandoned?”

  “With Pennsylvania plates? Sure. Why?”

  “It’s a rental, registered to Hertz.”

  Chapter Seven

  The jetport in Portland has a Hertz,” I said softly.

  “But it’s closed, along with the jetport itself, thanks to the state of emergency and travel ban issued by the governor. I’ll see if I can get anything out of Hertz’s eight hundred number, but I’m not expecting much based on my past experience pumping some call service tech in the Philippines or India for information related to a potential crime scene,” Mort said.

  I looked across the lobby to find Constance Mulroy conversing with another woman, who must have been part of either her or the bride’s family. Her back was to me, which spared her from seeing the drawn look of concern that had claimed my expression.

  I did some quick figuring in my head. “The timing checks out perfectly, based on when Constance Mulroy said she last heard from her son.”

  “Who’s Constance Mulroy?”

  “Mother of the groom.”

  “That’s not good. But we can’t be sure, Mrs. F., not yet.”

  “And a few hours from now, if the couple still hasn’t shown up?”

  “I can’t order a search of the woods, not in this storm. I already told you that.”

  “What were they running from, Mort?” I asked myself as much as him. “Where did they go?”

  “And who was sitting in the backseat, dragging gravel on his shoes that matched the Cabot Manufacturing Company parking lot?”

  “Or her shoes,” I corrected.

  “Point taken.”

  “Murder doesn’t discriminate between genders,” I reminded him.

  “Of course, according to Hank Weathers, we’re actually looking for Bigfoot.” I could feel the weight of the storm in his voice then and in the guttural groan that followed. “You need to keep this quiet, Jessica, at least until we’re able to gather more information.”

  I gazed across the lobby at Constance Mulroy. I could feel the icy chill permeating through the window at my back, could feel the whole frame buckle under a sudden gust of wind that lashed a fresh blanket of snow against the plate glass.

  “And how long will that take? The wedding’s scheduled for Saturday, and the rehearsal dinner for the immediate family is tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “Seamus McGilray’s going to host it right here at Hill House, thankfully.”

  “Please tell me everyone’s accounted for.”

  “Everyone except the guests of honor.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mrs. F.,” Mort said after a pause.

  I was still gazing across the lobby at Constance Mulroy, wondering exactly how I was going to keep this news from her. “We need to find out who rented that Lexus SUV from Hertz, Mort,” I said to him, fearing it had indeed been the missing couple, Daniel Mulroy and Allison Castavette.

  “I could get the president of the country on the phone quicker than the president of Hertz. I’d wager somebody had good reason to remove the contents of the Lexus’s glove compartment, which must have included the rental agreement.”

  “Same man who killed Loomis Winslow, Mort?”

  “Or woman,” he quickly corrected, just as I would have.

  “Or Bigfoot, in the mind of Hank Weathers,” I added.

  “I can’t see us learning much more until the storm subsides tomorrow. Wherever people are hunkered down now is where they’ll be staying for a while. That includes this wedding party. No reason I can see for scaring these people more than they must already be with the bride and groom both no-shows.”

  “I wouldn’t even know what to say to the parents.” I stopped, recalling the squad car’s flashing lights illuminating the Lexus abandoned on the side of the road with its front doors open and gravel on a backseat floor mat. “Why’d they run, Mort? What or whom were they trying to get away from, risking ending up lost or stranded in the woods during a storm like this?”

  “We don’t know it was them, Jessica,” Mort reminded me. “There were plenty of other flights that landed before the jetport closed. Any number of those passengers could have just as easily rented that Lexus.”

  “And how many of them would have reason to come all the way to Cabot Cove with a killer blizzard bearing down?”

  “Need I remind you that you’ve been wrong before, Mrs. F.?”

  “Not about something like this.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Fearing the worst, I put on the bravest face I could before approaching Constance Mulroy, just as her conversation with the woman she’d been speaking with looked to be ending.

  “And who have we here?” the woman asked behind a blinding sheen of ultrabright teeth.

  “This is Jessica Fletcher, Henley,” my newfound friend said to her, “the famous mystery writer. We have Mrs. Fletcher to thank for the ability to use Hill House for the rehearsal dinner tonight.”

  “You have the hotel manager, Seamus McGi
lray, to thank far more than me, but it’s greatly appreciated nonetheless.”

  “Jessica, this is Henley Lavarnay, Doyle Castavette’s wife.”

  “Ex-wife,” the woman hastily corrected, smiling pleasantly, in stark contrast to her former husband’s demeanor. “Doyle and I are thankfully divorced. It’s not like my daughter not to call,” she continued with an anxious edge creeping into her voice. “Constance here was just telling me you hoped to inquire about the children with your local sheriff.”

  “I have, and there’s no news. That’s a good thing, given that if Sheriff Metzger had anything to share it would normally be something bad at this point,” I informed the mothers of the bride and groom, letting go unmentioned for now the unsubstantiated facts involving the vehicle the missing couple might have rented at Portland Jetport.

  “And what time do you expect Hill House will be prepared to serve our dinner?”

  “I believe the hotel manager, Mr. McGilray, mentioned something about eight o’clock, just over three hours from now. And I’ll bet the bride and groom will be accounted for by that time.”

  It was a bet I would have lost.

  * * *

  * * *

  I finally returned to my suite and found myself staring out the window into the storm as night solidified its hold over the scene. Our childhood memories inevitably exaggerate the size and scope of the storms we watched through the window in the same fashion I was doing now. Part of that tendency is due to childhood exaggeration, but an equal part is because we were smaller and a foot of snow seemed like a lot more than a foot.

  Watching Hill House’s outdoor floodlights struggling to make a dent in the snow-swept scene brought my mind back to the fate of the missing bride and groom, Allison Castavette and Daniel Mulroy. Their being on the road as the storm began to intensify was cause enough for concern on its own. And now Mort had added the very real possibility that they had been the people who’d fled the front seat of the rented Lexus abandoned on the side of the road. Had they been running from whoever was seated behind them? Could it have been Loomis Winslow’s killer? And I don’t mean Bigfoot either.

  Something about that thought stoked a memory of something awry in the Lexus’s backseat, something I couldn’t quite hold on to then or recapture now. I was starting to think the key to this whole mystery, perhaps including the disappearance of Daniel Mulroy and Allison Castavette, was whatever Winslow was investigating and who’d hired him to do so. Harry McGraw hadn’t come up with much yet on his fellow private investigator, but the fact that Winslow specialized in the forensics side of financial misdeeds was plenty in itself. Indeed, it was Socrates who once said, “He who is not contented with what he has would not be contented with what he would like to have.” In my experience, greed trumps revenge or passion as the primary motive for murder, and I steadfastly believed that Winslow must have been onto something likely connected to the financial scandal that involved Constance Mulroy’s husband and had led to his suicide.

  I turned on the television and went to the Weather Channel, noting the feed at the bottom of the screen read FOUR FEET OF SNOW PREDICTED FOR MAINE AND NORTHERN NEW ENGLAND. I’d just plopped down on the couch to watch the storm both on the television and out the window when I heard the door to my suite rattle. I figured the rattle must be a product of the wind, until there was a click of the locking system engaging, and then the door slowly opened.

  I bounced up off the couch and spotted a man in his late twenties, early thirties maybe, easing himself through the door, only to freeze when his gaze fell upon me.

  “Oh,” he said, sounding genuinely surprised, “I must have the wrong room.”

  I looked at the key card still clutched in his hand and made sure he could see me reaching for the hotel phone, ready to press zero. “Yes, that must be it,” I said, opting for discretion as opposed to valor, given the circumstances. “They’ve been having trouble with the computer at the front desk lately,” I added as nonchalantly as I could manage. “Checking guests into rooms that are already occupied.”

  The young man slipped the key card into his pocket. “Well, that explains it. Terribly sorry to have startled you. I think I’ll go raise some trouble down at the front desk.”

  “Are you here for the wedding?” I asked him.

  “Wedding?” He shook his head. “No, ma’am, I’m just a stranded traveler who found his way here just in time. No night to be going anywhere.”

  “You’re lucky you made it this far. But if you don’t mind . . .”

  The man realized he was still halfway through my door. “Yes, of course. A thousand pardons again,” he said, bowing slightly. “I hope I don’t find a stranger in my own room, once I’m properly checked in.”

  I smiled at him, glad he couldn’t see my knees shaking, and I stormed to the door and bolted the lock as soon as it closed behind him. My heart was hammering against my chest and I felt suddenly short of breath. Though I’m not easily startled, having a stranger trip my lock and find his way into my suite was unnerving, to say the least. The wrong-room story might have made some sense if he’d had any luggage with him. Not only that, but the man wasn’t wearing a coat, indicating he must already be settled in the hotel. I’d heard only members of the wedding party had kept their reservations, but it was conceivable Hill House had rented out a few rooms to strangers like this, given the storm’s severity bearing the very real potential of stranding travelers at its doorstep.

  I knew I should call and report the incident to Seamus McGilray right away, but I didn’t dare disturb him, given his commitment to fashion a dinner party for thirteen—fifteen, hopefully—at the last minute. I didn’t bother calling Mort either since he, too, already had enough on his hands, more than he could handle. Gazing out the window at the snow piling up fast and hard on the road fronting Hill House beyond, I pictured Ethan Cragg’s famous fiery temper being stoked by his best-laid plowing strategy going for naught. No plan could keep up with the fall of snow the Weather Channel was saying could reach five inches per hour at times overnight. And I think I caught the meteorologist currently on-screen showcasing a map of New England with certain areas of Maine now caught in a snow band capable of dumping even five feet of snow, never mind four.

  And Cabot Cove was located smack-dab in one of those areas.

  I retrieved my cell phone from the desk where I’d placed it and I pressed the number for Harry McGraw.

  “You must be lonely,” he greeted.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Why else would you call me in the middle of a blizzard? I hear you could be looking at five feet now.”

  “Are you watching the Weather Channel?”

  “No, that’s on cable. I can’t afford cable anymore on account of too many clients who don’t pay their bills.”

  “Please tell me you’ve uncovered something more on Loomis Winslow.”

  “I’ve uncovered something more on Loomis Winslow.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but you asked me to tell you I had. And we only spoke, what, a few hours ago?”

  “Things have gotten a bit more complicated in those few hours.”

  “You mean, besides the storm that’s hammering you?”

  Stressing the possible disappearance of the bride and groom, I filled Harry in on everything I’d learned since we’d spoken that afternoon at the scene of the abandoned Lexus.

  “Hey, if I’d known what marriage was going to be like, little lady, I would have hightailed it before the I dos, too.”

  “This couple apparently hightailed it together.”

  “But you can’t even be sure it was their rental, at this point.”

  “The rental was a Lexus, Harry. That’s rarefied air, and I get the feeling from the wedding party that both sides are no strangers to money.”

  “Hmm,” Harry uttered. “Loomis Winslow?”<
br />
  “Does tend to be moving in that direction, doesn’t it? I believe we’re on the same page,” I told him.

  “Except I don’t write. I barely read. I’m more of a movie guy, and right now I’m seeing the same thing you’re seeing.”

  “There’s something else, Harry,” I said, and proceeded to tell him what I’d been able to gather from Constance Mulroy and Doyle Castavette’s tense conversation in the lobby, specifically the notion of her future in-law being swindled by her late husband.

  A pause followed, during which the connection may have been broken, but his voice returned. “You want to tell me what else is bothering you, little lady? Besides this murder, the storm, and these financial shenanigans, I mean.”

  “How do you know there’s something else bothering me?”

  “Well, I am a detective, so it’s kind of my business to know things.”

  I took a deep breath, amazed by Harry’s intuitive skills, which were second only to his investigative ones. “Someone just walked into my room.”

  “What do you mean, walked into your room?”

  “He used what must have been some kind of master key card. Claimed he’d just gotten the room wrong, which of course doesn’t hold any water at all. Is that even possible—the master key card, I mean?”

  “Not only possible, Jess, but becoming increasingly common,” Harry said in his professional, as opposed to typically dour, voice. “Cybersecurity experts have only recently begun to acknowledge a new hack whereby millions of hotel rooms around the world have become vulnerable to exactly what you just experienced. Did you know a single lock manufacturer is responsible for the electronic locks that secure the bulk of the world’s hotel rooms, including the major chains?”

  “To tell you the truth, I never even thought about it.”

  “Of course not, because like everybody else you swipe or flash your card and the door opens. What you don’t know is that a thief could do the very same thing. It isn’t exactly rocket science either. Pretty simple process that involves finding a key card, any key card, of the hotel in question, using a cheap piece of hardware combined with custom-built software to read the card and search for the master key code, and then copying the master key information onto a new or existing card. That card is specific to an individual hotel and would allow a thief to access any room in the building.”