“Because we didn’t want to,” the ever-petulant Ian said, smirking. “It’s our room, our right.”
“No,” snapped Lois Mulroy-Dodge, from behind me, “it’s my aunt’s room. All of us are staying in her rooms, because she paid for them all. We’re her guests.”
Ian smirked again. “I guess it’s too bad, then, that she’s not in any condition to send me to bed without my supper.”
Beatrice and Olivia Sprague were shaking their heads in perfect unison.
“You are a very rude—,” one of them started.
“Young man,” the other finished.
Ian ignored them. I finally spotted the ever-silent Faye riding his shadow, standing just out of sight from the door.
“Constable McGilray and I were just about to begin interviewing the guests about their general whereabouts,” I said, making that up on the spot, “and what they might have seen, around the time of each of tonight’s tragic events. I believe now that we’ll start with you, Ian.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Just make sure you open the door this time.”
* * *
* * *
“Now, what is it you have to show me?” I said to Seamus, once all the other guests were secured in their rooms.
The plan was for them to wait inside for their turn to be interviewed, the one exception being the actress Virginia Da Salle, the late Doyle Castavette’s companion, who had taken her refuge with the Sprague sisters.
“Two things, actually,” he said, opening the door to the Castavette suite with his pass key card and tilting his gaze toward me. “Both of them most interesting.”
We entered the living room section, leaving Eugene at his post down the hall to make sure no one emerged while we were indisposed prior to beginning our interviews. I noticed immediately that a slightly recessed, rectangular section of the ceiling had been pushed back to reveal a dark space beyond. I remembered that my suite had the very same recessed rectangle—two of them, actually, in each room comprising my suite.
“A crawl space?” I posed to Seamus. “I didn’t realize the hotel still had one, thought it had probably been removed during all the renovating over the years.”
“We use it as a conduit to string electrical and television cables after they’re fished through the walls. Besides workmen and perhaps technicians from time to time, I don’t think a soul has been inside the space in years. Here, Mrs. Fletcher, have a look for yourself.”
He offered to help me up onto a chair he’d placed immediately before the recessed opening but I managed the task quite easily on my own. He’d had to pull a chair in from the living room area since the desk chair that matched the bedroom desk had broken during the struggle between Doyle Castavette and his killer and now sported only three legs. At five feet eight inches, I found that standing on the chair just allowed me to crest my head through the sliding panel Seamus must have opened to check the crawl space himself. But I couldn’t see a thing.
“Take hold of this, Mrs. Fletcher,” Seamus said, pressing a flashlight into my hand.
I maneuvered awkwardly to raise that hand through the cramped opening. I switched on the beam, illuminating a long shaft the approximate dimensions of an old-fashioned laundry chute. The crawl space was very much in keeping with his description, save for confines so tight that I couldn’t at all picture a cable TV or electric company technician squirrelling around in there. Besides the dust swirling in my flashlight beam, all I saw was a warren of thin and thick cables and wires strung together and either running along the bottom of the crawl space or affixed to the walls with some kind of riveted ties. Although I was balanced precariously on the chair, I maintained the presence of mind to use the flashlight to study the dust-riddled bottom, finished in what looked like tin, for any signs of disturbance. The thin layer of accumulated dust remained untouched, though, at least as far as my beam reached.
“You actually had people working in this?” I said down to Seamus.
“It was quite a few years ago, and we’ve rerouted a number of our systems with the coming of Wi-Fi. But the answer is yes, for a short time, anyway.”
“I can see why,” I said, having gained an even closer perspective. “An average-sized man, or woman, would have to hold their breath to squeeze through, and even then . . .”
I let my voice tail off, unsure of what I wanted to say next. I found myself deeply missing the presence of Mort Metzger, even more because he must surely be close by now. I felt like I had as a young child waiting by the window for my father to return from work as the light drained from the daytime sky.
Mort, where are you?
The dust had started getting into my eyes and mouth, and once I’d lowered myself from the crawl space opening in the ceiling, Seamus helped me down from the chair.
“I believe you’ll find what I’ve got to show you next even more interesting, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, leading me across the room.
I resolved to cover the still form of Doyle Castavette with a sheet so as not to be discomfited in the presence of a corpse. I kept my eyes from it and trailed Seamus to the broken closet door he proceeded to open all the way, gesturing upward to reveal a tote bag that didn’t match the rest of the collected luggage. It lay by itself on the closet shelf, shoved far enough back to explain how I’d missed spotting it in my original check of the closet after we’d found Doyle Castavette’s body. Illuminating indeed.
Because it belonged to Constance Mulroy, a perfect fit for that gap I’d noticed between the medium-sized suitcase and makeup kit in the comatose woman’s closet.
Chapter Fifteen
You didn’t touch or disturb it, of course?” I said to Seamus.
He shook his head, saying lightly, “I am a constable, after all.”
I didn’t dare inspect it before donning a pair of plastic evidence gloves. I kept a collection in my suite, although I couldn’t readily explain why. I’d sometimes find them still in my pocket, normally unused, after Mort and I had found ourselves involved in something that required their use. I’d discard them in a drawer because I generally couldn’t bear tossing away anything new and in perfectly good condition. Call it a consequence of being raised in a large family.
Seamus remained in place, while I retreated to my third-floor suite as quickly as I could and returned with a pair of evidence gloves donned even more quickly. I made short order of easing the tote bag from the shelf and carried it into the suite’s living room section to avoid having to keep company with the late Mr. Castavette. There, I set the tote down on the couch and unzipped it.
“Oh my,” Seamus gasped, at the sight of the contents.
* * *
* * *
“I don’t want to go back inside there!” Virginia Da Salle protested, stiffening as we reached the open door to Doyle Castavette’s suite, where Seamus was waiting. “I never want to go in there again!”
“I fully understand, Ms. Da Salle,” I said, still urging her on. “But it’ll only be the living room portion, and we managed to keep the broken door to the bedroom closed. And there’s something that you really must see. To help in the investigation into Doyle’s murder,” I added.
She nodded and reluctantly allowed me to lead her inside the suite, her arm as stiff as a board.
The tote bag belonging to Constance Mulroy, opened atop the couch, was stacked to the brim with tightly wrapped bundles of cash. A combination of fifty- and one-hundred-dollar bills, by the look of things.
“What’s that?” Virginia Da Salle asked, pointing at the bag.
“We were hoping you could tell us that,” Seamus started.
“Especially since it matches the tote missing from the luggage set in Mrs. Mulroy’s closet,” I added. Seamus and I were becoming like the Sprague sisters, comfortable with completing each other’s thoughts.
“How much money is in there?
”
“Somewhere around a half million dollars,” I ventured, looking toward Seamus, who nodded in assent.
Virginia’s expression tightened. “Wait—who . . . How . . . ?”
She left both thoughts dangling.
“Exactly the question I was going to ask you, Ms. Da Salle,” I said, moving my gaze from her down to the tote bag.
I pointed toward dual handles.
“Notice that mark?” I asked her.
“Looks like a stain,” she said, squinting to see it better. “Paint or something.”
“Or nail polish, perhaps. Red nail polish, Ms. Da Salle, a fine match for the color you’re wearing right now,” I said, tilting my gaze in the direction of her hands.
The former actress pulled them aside, as if to hide that fact. I glimpsed Seamus’s mouth dropping in surprise at my spotting something that had escaped his attention.
“In fact,” I continued, seizing the moment, “looking at your nails now, I’d say it’s a perfect match. Any idea how that could possibly be, apart from your actually having come into contact with this tote?”
“I assure you that I don’t, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Why don’t we sit down?”
Virginia’s gaze swept toward the closed-off bedroom section of the suite, as if to explain her resistance. “Here?”
“Just for a few minutes.”
“You don’t think I had anything to do with Doyle’s death?”
“Not since you were standing by my side during the struggle. Constable McGilray and I are interviewing all the members of the wedding party to ascertain their presence at varying times.”
“You mean, those of us who are still alive—at least for the time being, with that fiend loose in this horrible place.”
I could sense Seamus wincing at that description of his beloved hotel.
“You should be looking into the killer from that plane and that retreat, Mrs. Fletcher,” Virginia Da Salle continued. “How he managed to take so many victims in those other locales as well. Have you even spoken to anyone involved in those investigations?”
“I haven’t gotten that far in my thinking yet, and in case you’ve forgotten, we’ve all been rather otherwise involved since receiving that text message.”
“He knew we were all gathered together at the time,” the woman said, her voice cracking in fear. “That’s why he must have sent the text when he did, to let us know we were all to be his next victims!”
“Ms. Da Salle—”
“Doyle was alive at the time, no idea his name was at the top of the list. Sitting right alongside me,” Virginia added, her eyes starting to moisten.
“That doesn’t explain the presence of your nail polish on Constance Mulroy’s missing tote bag,” I said.
“Doesn’t it? You just admitted you haven’t looked into those other murder sprees, Mrs. Fletcher. How can you be sure similar things didn’t happen with those poor people? You know, to cast false suspicions, confuse the issue.”
“Well,” I told her, “there’s one thing here at Hill House that neither that airplane nor that wilderness lodge had.”
“What’s that?”
“Me. And Constable McGilray, of course,” I added.
I’d intended the remark to provide some solace, but the truth was, I found the notion of murder victims being claimed at a wilderness retreat to be especially disconcerting. They would likely have included at least a few hardier sorts, perhaps of the hunting or soldiering mode, on the premises who would have proven formidable adversaries for any killer, especially one who announced their intentions. A struggle with a man like that might have ended in considerably different fashion than the one we’d heard from outside the door to Doyle Castavette’s bedroom.
“I know I’ve seen some of your movies, Ms. Da Salle,” I said, changing the subject to something she’d be more comfortable with. “But forgive me for not being able to name the titles or your roles.”
She smiled, not sadly so much as reflectively. “That’s understandable, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve enjoyed a great career as a working actress many recognize but nobody really knows. Never had a starring role, but it’s not that I didn’t try. I suppose it’s not unlike being a writer. There’s only space for so many bestsellers like yours, right?”
“I appreciate the kind words, Ms. Da Salle, but there are plenty of authors out there who can match me in every way except longevity.”
“Your first book was a bestseller right out of the box.”
“The Corpse Danced at Midnight,” I said, nodding. “I was in the right place at the right time, with a publishing house that desperately needed a popular hit.”
She smiled whimsically. “I almost got the biggest role of my career when another actress took sick just before shooting was scheduled to start. I showed up on the set the first day having memorized all of her lines for the day’s shoot, as well as my original character’s.”
“What happened?”
“The production was shut down. The producers realized they could do better claiming the insurance than risking a failure at the box office. Too bad, because it was a wonderful script. I was to play a mystery writer, of all things.”
“You’re kidding.”
Virginia Da Salle shook her head, smiling. “If I’d known you at the time, I could have asked for a few pointers.”
“Not that I would have been able to help you much, given that a movie about my life would be the most boring film ever made.”
“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit, Mrs. Fletcher. And that’s coming from an actress without a single role anyone really remembers her playing.”
I liked this woman much more than I should have, considering how briefly I’d known her and the circumstances that had brought us together. Virginia Da Salle had a quiet humility about her; she was a woman in touch with the limitations forced upon her and she had the ability to persevere in spite of them.
“May I ask you a personal question, Ms. Da Salle?”
“Only if you call me Virginia.”
I leaned in a bit closer to her. “How did you meet Doyle Castavette?”
“He invested in a few films I was in. I think it was about the lifestyle, an excuse to be on set and attend nonexistent Hollywood parties everyone believes are real. The truth is, Hollywood is an early-to-bed-early-to-rise town.”
I held Virginia’s gaze briefly. “Not for Doyle Castavette, I imagine.”
She looked down. “This isn’t easy for me to say.”
I gave her the time she needed. Her face was stoic and reflective when she lifted her gaze again.
“An actress my age goes from small roles to no roles. Mr. Castavette seemed to be aware of my financial situation. I imagine it may have been what led him to approach me, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Jessica, and I find that horrible.”
“Because he took advantage of me? Don’t blame him for that, Jessica. I was doing the very same thing to him. A wealthy older man who’d fallen out of love with his wife, if he’d ever loved her in the first place. I doubt it, because Doyle didn’t seem the kind of man who could love anyone. But that was okay, because we both accepted each other for what we were. And I appreciated the fact he didn’t try to woo me with false promises of a starring role in the next film he was financing. You’d be amazed at how often that still happens out there.”
“Not really. But I suppose I should feel grateful that doesn’t happen to writers. You know, Richard Burton once said that if he had to come back to life he’d want to do it as a novelist, because you’re only famous if you tell people who you are.”
“Everyone knows who you are, Jessica.”
“Many know my books, even my name—at least J. B. Fletcher—but they don’t know me, and the only time anyone ever approaches me is during the summer right here in Cabot
Cove to ask for directions to this place or that while I’m out on my bicycle.”
“I envy you that—not the lack of recognition so much as the value you’re able to place on your privacy. In my world—well, former world—your success can often be judged by how many people recognize you on the street. For a while there, I was doing pretty well.”
“Would you mind another personal question, Virginia?” I said, leaning back again.
“Not at all.”
“Did Mr. Castavette ever discuss with you the financial problems he was experiencing?”
She looked genuinely surprised. “I wasn’t aware he was experiencing anything of the sort. If you’re right, he hid it from me very well, and never skimped when we were together.”
“Then he never mentioned the money he’d been swindled out of after investing in the late Heath Mulroy’s investment fund?”
“No, not a word, Jessica. Like everyone else, I could sense some friction between Doyle and Constance Mulroy, but I passed it off as nothing more than prewedding future–in-law jitters. I did a romantic comedy once where that was basically the log line.”
“Because, Virginia, it occurs to me that his financial issues, together with the cause of them, make for a great motive for stealing a significant sum from the family that cost him his fortune. Of course, that brings up the issue of why Constance Mulroy would be carrying around a tote bag full of cash.”
“You think maybe she gave it to him, like a payoff of some kind?”
I held her stare, not letting myself blink. “That wouldn’t explain the presence of your nail polish on the handle,” I said, pointing out the small smudge yet again.
“I can’t explain it either, Mrs. Fletcher,” she responded, going back to referring to me in a more formal manner.
I wanted to believe her—I really did. “Do you have that nail polish with you, Virginia?”
“Yes, right here in my bag,” she offered.
She was already searching through its contents, which rattled around as she sifted through them.
The Murder of Twelve Page 15