The Murder of Twelve

by Jessica Fletcher

  I was about to respond, but Harry kept right on going.

  “These thieves, hackers, or whatever you want to call them have become experts on knowing exactly when to enter a room and which rooms are empty at any given time.”

  “That wasn’t the case with my thief.”

  “Good thing it was amateur hour. You tell Mort about this?”

  “He’s got a bit on his mind right now, Harry, and I don’t think he could even get to Hill House from the sheriff’s station if he wanted to.”

  “Maybe I should take a drive up.”

  “You wouldn’t get past the New Hampshire line.”

  “Then I’ll ski my way from there.”

  “You don’t know how to ski, Harry,” I reminded him.

  “First time for everything, little lady.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Harry was right. I’d called him because I was nervous, unsettled. I suppose I’d called in the hope of gaining new information that would take my mind off a man using a hacked key card to break into my suite. I tried to imagine the kind of thief who targeted wedding parties and other venues where people were likely to gather with expensive jewelry, gifts, and plenty of cash. Wait for everyone to depart for dinner and then sweep up their valuables while they were gone. Of course, he couldn’t know who was whom or in which exact rooms they were staying. The young man’s mistake had been not to knock to ensure the room’s real occupant, me in this case, wasn’t present.

  I realized I really should call Seamus to report the incident, given all the potential targets staying at the hotel right now. Just as I suspected, though, according to Janey at the front desk, he was busy in the kitchen supervising dinner preparations and hadn’t even taken his walkie-talkie with him. I’d bring him up to date at dinner, hoping the thief, whose appearance I’d committed to memory, didn’t use that same master key card to access any other rooms before then.

  I needed to shower and change clothes before dining with the wedding party, but I couldn’t separate myself from the Weather Channel. Jim Cantore, the network’s extremely recognizable correspondent who based himself in the center of the worst America’s weather had to offer, was doing spots live from right here in Maine, fifty miles down the coast from Cabot Cove. As bad as it looked outside my window, it looked even worse from his vantage point, and as ominous and foreboding as it got, forecasters were in 100 percent agreement on one thing:

  The worst was yet to come, and that worst was going to be something truly historic.

  One good thing about my house still being reconstructed in the wake of the fire that had nearly claimed my life was that I wouldn’t have to worry about getting my walk shoveled and driveway plowed. I have any number of friends and acquaintances who’ve traded homes like my beloved one for condo living, and times like this made me better understand the nature of their decisions.

  As night tightened its hold over the windswept snows, I finally pulled away from the television and readied myself for the evening to come. I was used to being in rooms where I knew practically no one and was actually looking forward to this particular occasion not being focused on me as a typical signing, talk, or benefit would be. I was grateful for Constance Mulroy’s invitation even more than I had been initially, as I needed a break from the storm I knew would remain all consuming for several days to come.

  Just before eight o’clock I took the stairs down to the first floor, where the Sea Captains Room was located off the lobby just down the hall from the elevators, hoping against hope that the bride and groom had finally arrived. As I entered, though, my quick count put the number already gathered for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres still at ten, which told me they hadn’t and that, in fact, two of the guests already registered had yet to arrive as well.

  I surveyed the room, cataloging whom I knew from the lobby earlier, and spotted someone I recognized for another reason entirely.

  It was the young man who’d used that master key card to enter my suite!

  Chapter Eight

  Jessica!” I heard and turned with a start to see Constance Mulroy approaching, forcing my eyes off the young man I was convinced was a thief.

  “Connie, you look absolutely lovely,” I managed.

  She forced a smile. “Well, I don’t feel it. But there is some good news to report.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mark heard from Daniel!”

  “Mark?”

  “Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met the groom’s twin brother. That’s him over there,” Connie said, tilting her gaze toward the bar.

  I turned in that direction and spotted a man with shapeless clothes and two days of beard growth handing his glass to the bartender for a refill. The bartender had barely extended it across the portable bar when Mark Mulroy snatched it from his grasp and guzzled it down in one single, fluid motion. I also swept my gaze across the Sprague sisters, Doyle Castavette, and his former wife, Henley Lavarnay, and did my best to avoid the gaze of the thief on the other side of the room, who I didn’t believe had noticed me yet. That meant I was now acquainted, at least visually, with half the members of the wedding party so far in attendance.

  “So, where are they?” I asked her. “The future bride and groom, I mean.”

  “That’s just it, Jessica. The future’s no longer so certain. According to Mark, Daniel and Allison got stranded forty miles short of Cabot Cove and checked into one of those roadside motels. That’s the good news. The bad news is, Mark says his brother told him they’re, quote, reassessing the situation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The wedding being in jeopardy, I imagine, as if one or both of them have gotten cold feet.”

  I nodded. “Literally, as it turns out. Well, if nothing else, that explains why neither of them contacted you or Allison’s parents directly,” I said, not bothering to add how relieved I was to learn they weren’t the two people who’d fled that abandoned Lexus SUV.

  “I made Mark promise not to tell anyone else,” Connie confessed to me, “at least until the two of them come to their senses. But I can’t help fearing the worst.”

  If only she knew what the worst could have been, I thought to myself.

  “To be expected,” I said, consoling her. “After all, you’re the groom’s mother, with an awful lot invested here.”

  “Not as much as the Castavettes . . . They’re footing the bill for the entire wedding.” She lowered her voice a pitch. “My late husband left me in a bit of a bad way, Jessica, as you probably got a sense of down in the lobby earlier.”

  I tried to ease her clear discomfort at broaching the issue. “I’m not all that familiar with what happened and I don’t need to be.”

  “There’s not a lot to tell that you couldn’t have read in the papers. My husband committed suicide by jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge after his role in a Ponzi scheme was revealed. It hasn’t been easy this past year or so, and to add insult to injury, the fact that his body has never been found has kept the whole mess going in a circle. The authorities are convinced he faked his own death to stage an escape.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “That he wasn’t smart or brave enough to do any such thing. He killed himself because he was weak and a fraud. I guess I knew that all along, but never let myself admit it. And you know the worst thing? He made my son Daniel complicit in his scheme, too, whether Daniel realized it or not. Heath jumping off that bridge left our son holding the bag and having to deal with the FBI and the Justice Department, who are threatening to prosecute him instead of Heath.”

  “Mark didn’t work in the business, too?”

  “He tried, but it wasn’t the right fit. He just doesn’t have a mind for numbers or money.”

  “Well,” I said casually, “I can certainly relate to that.”

  “I had the good sense to keep o
ur apartment in my name, since I inherited it from my parents. And I kept their modest trust fund out of his greedy hands as well. Not the product of ill-gotten gains, in other words.”

  “Thankfully, Connie.” I squeezed both her shoulders tenderly. “We’re two of a kind, both of us letting ourselves see only the good in people, even if we have to squint really, really hard to do so.”

  Constance Mulroy sighed, then settled herself with a deep breath, her eyes holding mine warmly as if we’d known each other for far longer than a few hours. It was a good time to change the subject.

  “Who’s that across the room talking to Beatrice and Olivia?” I asked her, nodding toward the man who’d used that master key card to enter my room.

  He was dressed like a cover model and boasted the rugged, harshly masculine looks of an actor.

  “Oh, him. That’s Doyle and Henley’s son, and Allison’s brother, Tyler Castavette.”

  “Your tone suggests you’re not a fan, Connie.”

  Her expression flattened out. “He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth that turned out to be plated instead of sterling. Every family has its own black sheep, and Tyler fits that description to a T,” Connie said, lowering her voice as she drew closer to me with a look of concern, and something else I couldn’t quite identify, dawning on her features. “Can I confide something in you, Jessica?”

  “Of course you can.”

  She was nearly whispering now, close enough for me to smell the gin on her breath. “Actually, I need your expertise on a sensitive matter, something rather personal involving family.”

  “I’m hardly the person to ask about that, given I have so little family about myself, at least close by.”

  “Family secrets, to be specific. I believe you are something of an expert when it comes to secrets.”

  “Mysteries are full of them, both real and made-up. So are families,” I added.

  Connie scanned the area about us, as if afraid someone might have overheard that particular comment. “That’s what I need to speak with you about,” she said, her voice still hushed.

  “Of course, but I’m hardly the right person to discuss family secrets with.”

  “I believe you are in this case, especially given your real specialty.”

  “Writing mysteries?”

  “I was speaking more about solving them. Tell me, Jessica, have you ever solved a crime before it happened?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  Her gaze, suddenly taut with anxiety, bored into mine. “You see, I fear my life may be in—”

  “Aunt Constance!” a voice boomed, stopping her from finishing her sentence.

  I recoiled as the muscular shape of Tyler Castavette swallowed Connie in a hug without a drop of his drink being spilled.

  “How is it I haven’t even seen you today until now?”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Connie said awkwardly, before her eyes fixed on me again. “And this is Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer.”

  Tyler turned my way, not bothering to hide the spark of recognition flashing in his eyes. “We’ve already met, actually.”

  “Really?” posed a clearly curious Constance Mulroy.

  Tyler responded with his gaze focused on me. “Would you believe the front desk checked me into Mrs. Fletcher’s suite by accident?”

  “You’re kidding!” Connie said, eyes on me again. “Jessica, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was just about to. And we didn’t actually meet, did we, Tyler?” I asked, choosing not to mention he’d had no luggage with him when he’d entered my suite.

  He extended his hand, bubbling over with charisma to make up for whatever Connie believed he lacked. “Well, we are now. A pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. I didn’t know there was a celebrity staying at the hotel.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher is living here for a time, while her house is being renovated. We met in the lobby and I invited her to join us for dinner.”

  “Misery loves company,” I said, forcing a smile, “and this storm certainly qualifies there.”

  “Not to mention being to blame for the bride and groom being no-shows. Did Mark speak to you, Aunt Connie?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did, but I wasn’t aware he’d shared his phone call from Daniel with anyone else.”

  “No worries. My lips are sealed,” Tyler said, zipping them up with a slash of his finger across his mouth.

  He was the kind of young man I’d always had crushes on in my school days, the charming bad boy who carried himself with a swagger that belied his lack of achievement. I found myself glad I hadn’t found an opportunity to inform Seamus McGilray about the intruder in my room. The fact that Tyler Castavette was part of the wedding party, brother of the bride-to-be, was reason enough to give him a pass for now, especially in light of my new friendship with Connie. But at some point I’d have to tell her what had transpired, though I wasn’t thinking about when.

  The hors d’oeuvres table featured a sumptuous selection of the sort that would have taken significant planning to prepare. I had no idea how Seamus and the Hill House kitchen had managed that task while also fashioning an appropriate dinner menu. The help who’d stayed on would now surely be stranded here for the night, as those who remained were fiercely loyal to Seamus and Hill House because the hotel had continued to employ them, going without layoffs even during the most turbulent financial times. The hotel maintained all but its dedicated summer staff year-round, relying on the big bump it received during the summer tourist season to make up for the depleted revenue during the winter months. I doubted Hill House turned much of a profit after the busy season ended; Seamus McGilray probably would’ve been happy to break even.

  For my part, I spent the remainder of the cocktail hour familiarizing myself with the identities of the remaining wedding guests who’d come in early for a rehearsal summarily canceled by the storm. This while the bride and groom were discussing putting a halt to all the festivities. Being cooped up at some roadside motel, imprisoned by the storm, was no way to work out their differences. But who knows? Maybe the opposite extreme would come into effect and the overall impact of being alone and isolated would bring them close together again.

  Prepared to crane my neck to keep up with their repartee, I greeted the Sprague sisters, and said a quick hello to both Doyle Castavette and his ex-wife, Henley Lavarnay. I could now cross Tyler Castavette off my list of those I’d yet to meet, and I introduced myself to Daniel’s brother, Mark. I also had the opportunity to meet Doyle Castavette’s date for the festivities, a woman quite a number of years younger than he whom I found to be surprisingly pleasant. Her name was Virginia Da Salle, and I thought she looked familiar even before I learned she’d carved out a decent career for herself as an actress, playing supporting roles in more than a hundred and fifty films.

  “I was actually born Desalle, one word, but switched to two because my first agent thought it would help my career,” she confessed.

  “Did it work?”

  “I didn’t land a single role until I found another agent.”

  Henley’s date, meanwhile, arrived late, explaining that he was in the midst of a difficult legal case back home in New York. He walked with the aid of crutches, and I thought I also spotted the telltale bulge of leg braces beneath his baggy trousers. Henley introduced him as Harrison Bak and made it a point to add that he was an esteemed lawyer with any number of high-profile cases and clients to his credit.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m sorry I haven’t actually read any of your books, but it’s nice to see a face I recognize,” he said, no doubt referring to the fact that, like me, he was a virtual stranger here.

  “Then I hope you’ll sit next to me for dinner, Mr. Bak,” I suggested.

  “I’d love to. Since neither of us knows the bride and groom very well at all—”
<
br />   “Not at all in my case,” I corrected.

  “—we’ll have to busy ourselves talking about other things. Our many adventures, perhaps.”

  “I’m afraid mine take place only in my head.”

  “And mine,” Harrison Bak said, casting a subtle glance toward his cane crutches, “are limited to the courtroom. Ever pen a courtroom thriller?”

  “Not precisely. But I’m always game for listening to new ideas.”

  He grinned. “It’s settled, then. Perhaps I can serve you up an idea for your next book by the time the main course is served.”

  That left only three more guests with whom to acquaint myself, two of whom had yet to make their presence known. Before I could approach a young woman who bore a strong resemblance to Constance Mulroy, my attention was drawn to a projection screen flashing a constant loop of pictures featuring both the missing Daniel Mulroy and Allison Castavette from their infant and toddler years onward. One shot that especially grabbed my attention was of fraternal twins Daniel and Mark standing up happily in their respective cribs in the nursery they must have shared. It was a wonderful shot that showed them bubbling over with happiness, distinct in their looks even then.

  Just before the slideshow flashed to another picture, something caught my eye. It was some kind of shadow just beyond the farther crib, in which the toddler I had pegged for Mark was standing with his hands grasping the crib’s top safety rail. The shadow looked equidistant between his crib and his brother Daniel’s. I moved in to see what about the shadow had captured my attention but the loop had moved to the next picture, so I went back to watching the dueling family photos come one after another.

  I probably would have waited for the crib shot to come back around, but Seamus McGilray entered the room to ring a traditional dinner bell.