“That’s odd,” she said, coming up empty. “It doesn’t seem to be here. But I’m sure it was earlier in the day—I’m sure. I might have left it in the bathroom.” Her eyes fixed on the closed door separating the living room from the bedroom. “Would you mind checking? I can’t bring myself to go in there.”
I nodded and moved through the door into the bedroom, then closed the door so as not to give her any view of the murder scene and was very glad I had covered the deceased Mr. Castavette with a sheet. I found the small bottle of nail polish on a modest shelf between the bathroom wall mirror and the sink, where Virginia Da Salle must have left it. Looking up, I noticed the closet door still hung open and moved to close it. Something else grabbed my eye as I started to do just that. I was about to pass it off as a trick of my imagination when I noticed the large suitcase in the closet was unzipped. But I distinctly remembered it being fully closed when I did a check of the room with Seamus McGilray after we’d discovered Doyle Castavette’s body.
“Might this be it?” I asked Virginia, emerging from the bedroom with a tiny bottle of nail polish in exactly the right shade of red, tabling for now the apparent anomaly of the suitcase being opened.
She rose to take it from my grasp. “Yes, yes, it is. Royal Magenta, it’s actually called. They have a hundred names for these colors that are basically red.”
“Kind of like my book covers. You know what Samuel Goldwyn once said when asked what he wanted in his next movie? ‘Give me the same thing, only different.’”
We shared a smile, hers slipping from her face ahead of mine.
“Do you believe me? Do you believe me, Jessica?”
I nodded. “I do, Virginia, yes.”
She looked from the small bottle of nail polish to the smudge of it on Constance Mulroy’s tote bag full of cash. “I just wonder how that got there.”
“Since you’re clearly innocent of Mr. Castavette’s murder, I don’t think we need to worry about that now.”
It was time to take our conversation in a different direction. “One more thing, Virginia. After the wedding party left Mrs. Mulroy’s room, and her son Mark made his way to the gym, where did you go?”
Her expression tightened. “You just said I wasn’t a suspect.”
“You’re not. But Constable McGilray and I are doing our best to ascertain everyone’s whereabouts when someone tried to murder Mrs. Mulroy and succeeded in murdering her son.”
“Back to our suite, of course, where I remained until we were called to the lobby and learned of that young man’s death—murder.”
“Was Doyle Castavette with you?”
“The whole time, I believe. If he was out of my sight, it wasn’t for much more than a few minutes.”
“And can you account for anyone else’s presence between the time you left Constance Mulroy’s room and the time Constable McGilray summoned everyone to the lobby?”
“Let me see. . . . Well, I thought I heard footsteps at one point, right outside our door. But when I opened it no one was there.”
“What about the younger Mr. Castavette?”
“What about him?” Virginia said defensively.
“You didn’t see him again until the two of you were seated next to each other down in the lobby?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Listen to me, Virginia,” I said, hardening my tone a bit. “Two people have been murdered tonight and a third is lying in a coma. Since it’s my firm belief that the same person is responsible for all three, I’m trying to figure out who among the original twelve of you remaining had the opportunity to do so.”
She swallowed hard, didn’t seem to enjoy meeting my gaze. “No, I didn’t see Tyler Castavette anywhere until we all got to the lobby. So I suppose he could have killed Mark Mulroy, if that’s what you’re asking. But his father? Not based on when he appeared in the suite, which was just seconds after that big man broke the door down.”
I didn’t bother challenging her assertion, having arrived at that same conclusion myself.
“Given that, I do have one final question for you. You say you haven’t returned to the bedroom since Mr. Castavette’s death, yes?”
She nodded. “And I don’t intend to either, not so long as his . . .” Her voice cracked, broke off. “You know what I mean.”
“You’re sure?”
“That I haven’t been in the bedroom since his death? Absolutely. What makes you ask?”
My memory was suddenly fuzzy on whether Doyle Castavette’s large suitcase had been opened or closed on my initial inspection of the room.
“No reason,” I told Virginia Da Salle.
* * *
* * *
“You were quite the good sport back there, Mrs. Fletcher,” Seamus said to me after we’d delivered Virginia Da Salle back into the care of the Sprague sisters down the hall. “I could see your mind working when she asked you how the nail polish got there.”
“She didn’t ask, Seamus—she was just wondering.”
“All the same, you could have answered her, but you chose not to.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“It was to me, Mrs. Fletcher, but then, I have read all of your books, so I know the signs.”
I nodded, seeing no reason to hold anything back from him. “I think Doyle Castavette planted the nail polish on the tote bag, so he could blame Virginia for the theft if his crime came to light. Call it a contingency plan.”
“How awful.”
“But not surprising, given what we witnessed from Castavette tonight.”
He frowned. “I suppose. Does it say anything about Mr. Castavette’s killer that he, or she, left the money behind?”
“That he, or she, either didn’t know about it or didn’t care.”
We stood in the hall alone, well apart from Eugene, who remained at his post.
“A private investigator was found murdered in Cabot Cove this morning,” I confided in Constable Seamus McGilray. “Yesterday morning now,” I added, since it was well past midnight, closing in on one a.m. “I learned this evening that he had been hired by Constance Mulroy.”
“That doesn’t explain why she’d bring so much cash along with her.”
“Unless she had planned to hand it over to someone.”
I could tell my assertion sent Seamus’s mind whirling. “For a payoff of some kind, you think? Some form of blackmail or extortion?”
I nodded. “I’m leaning in that direction, yes. It would certainly be consistent with Doyle Castavette’s character.”
“In which case, Mrs. Fletcher, Constance Mulroy would be the most likely suspect in his murder, but we can safely rule her out.”
“Right now, Seamus, I’m not ruling anyone out.”
Chapter Sixteen
I had learned plenty about the late Doyle Castavette from Virginia Da Salle and decided to interview his ex-wife, Henley Lavarnay, next. Before doing so, though, I called Seth Hazlitt.
“At last, Jess! Why haven’t you been returning my calls?”
“I haven’t gotten any. My phone hasn’t even rung.”
“Blasted cell service! I tell you, these things aren’t worth the metal they’re made of. I’m of a mind to turn mine back in.”
“If I didn’t have one, you wouldn’t be able to contact me at all.”
“Which I wasn’t able to do anyway. Just tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“And that there’ve been no further murders.”
“That would be a lie.”
“Oh no . . . Who was it this time, Jess, on top of that young man in the weight room?”
“Did you get the pictures I sent you of the scene?”
“That’s what I was calling you about. From what I can tell, your initial diagnosis was correct. The young man died of asphyxiation
, not a broken neck. Now tell me about this most recent victim.”
“The father of the bride, killed by a knife to the chest.”
“No mystery as to the cause of death there.”
“Have you heard from Mort?” I asked him, wondering if Mort, too, had been unable to reach me by phone.
“Not since he was setting out for Hill House by snowmobile, but that was quite a while ago. He should have arrived by now.”
“It’ll be an awful ride in these conditions, Seth. It’s been two hours, during which the storm’s only gotten worse. Maybe he turned around and went back to the station.”
“He would have called you if he’d done that, Jess.”
“Maybe I didn’t get his call just like I didn’t get yours,” I said, determining to check my phone log and voice mail to be sure.
I heard Seth sigh on the other end of the line. “I knew this night was going to be bad, but it’s gotten even worse.”
* * *
* * *
I decided to interview Henley Lavarnay in the company of her date for the occasion, Harrison Bak. It’s been my experience that sometimes a joint interview produces far more usable information, in part because the participants are more likely to let their guards down. It also allows me to judge those participants’ reactions to each other’s answers and comments, and sometimes those reactions prove more fruitful than the answers themselves.
“Harrison,” I said to the man currently seated in the room’s desk chair, his hands looped through the handles of his crutches on either side of the chair as if to balance him, “you have the distinction of being the one suspect I can cross off the list, since we were seated next to each other at dinner and you never had the opportunity to poison Constance Mulroy’s wine.”
He held his crutches up. “These are good for that much, anyway. You’d like to know how I came to use them.”
“I was curious, under the circumstances.”
“A spinal cord injury suffered in a car accident closing in on twenty years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Harrison Bak asked, coming up just short of a smile. “Since you’ve ruled me out as a suspect, it’s the first time they’ve ever come in handy.”
Bak had positioned himself alongside the armchair in which Henley Lavarnay was seated. I had taken the matching ottoman, and Seamus was leaning forward just to my right on the edge of one of two beds.
“How did the two of you meet?” I asked them both.
Henley laid a hand over Harrison Bak’s. “He represented me in my divorce from my ex-husband—late ex-husband now.”
He grinned. “Took him for a pretty penny, didn’t we? And before the whole mess with Heath Mulroy surfaced to boot.”
“A criminal attorney of your stature handling a divorce proceeding?” I posed to Bak.
He shared a smile with his client before responding. “I made an exception in this case, though I relied heavily on my firm’s family law specialists. And it was a true pleasure putting the hurt on Doyle Castavette.”
“Harrison had represented my ex-husband on several matters,” Henley said, by way of explanation.
“Criminal matters, I suppose?”
“Since he’s no longer with us, I can tell you there were DWIs, among other matters handled discreetly for both Doyle and his son. Doyle liked his ‘people’—that’s what he called us—to be available for him at all hours of the day or night. He expected us to jump when he said so, and I suppose for five hundred dollars an hour, he had that right.”
“I gather the two of you had a falling out,” I advanced.
Harrison Bak nodded. “I wasn’t going to suborn perjury,” he said, and left it there.
“May I ask you a legal question?”
“Of course.”
“If the late Mr. Castavette had come into any funds due him as a result of the money he lost to Mr. Mulroy’s scam, a settlement or the like, would Ms. Lavarnay be entitled to half of it?”
“Almost certainly.”
I nodded, wondering if Doyle Castavette had asked Constance Mulroy to pay him in cash in order to hide the transaction—a payoff, essentially—from his ex-wife. Might that have somehow played into the scenario unfolding before us?
“You should keep your eyes on my son, Tyler, Mrs. Fletcher,” Henley Lavarnay said, quite out of nowhere.
“You have reason to suspect him of something?”
“I have reason to suspect him of everything. He used to steal cash from my handbag as a child, and he’s only gotten worse from there. We like to believe our children can do no wrong, because otherwise they’d reflect badly on us. But Tyler was his father’s son. He’s barely said a word to me since the divorce.”
I was tempted to tell her of how he’d accessed my room with a master key card, but I decided against it. She had, after all, stuck up for her son down in the lobby, though I suppose that was likely more about siding against her former husband than defending Tyler.
“Do you think Tyler killed his father, Ms. Lavarnay?”
She hedged. “He was standing in the doorway when we found Doyle’s body, so it doesn’t seem possible, does it?”
I didn’t respond.
“Just like we were all in our rooms when young Mr. Mulroy was murdered in the gym,” Harrison Bak put forth. “As a defense lawyer, Mrs. Fletcher, I might go so far as to venture that all the suspects here had alibis for at least one and potentially both murders, as well as the attempt on Mrs. Mulroy’s life. I could be wrong, but I don’t think your efforts are going to point to anyone in particular.”
“Nothing new, at this stage of an investigation,” I told him.
* * *
* * *
I decided to interview Lois Mulroy-Dodge next, figuring she was the guest most likely to have the answers I was seeking, now that I’d learned that Loomis Winslow had been retained by Constance Mulroy, clearly to ferret out some level of the financial malfeasance that had laid ruin to the family. My assumption was that Winslow was on the trail of whatever money Heath Mulroy had managed to squirrel away, but only Connie could tell me that for sure, and she was in no condition to do so.
Beyond that, my challenge was to determine whether her husband’s financial dealings were connected with the attempt on her life and the murder of her son Mark, not to mention the very real possibility that Loomis Winslow’s killer was also responsible for the disappearance of Daniel Mulroy and his fiancée, Allison Castavette. I had the sense that the killer wouldn’t stop until all twelve members of the wedding party were dead.
Thirteen, including me.
Lucky thirteen.
The young woman opened the door after our initial knock, a slight pause indicating she had checked the peephole first.
“Hello again, Mrs. Fletcher,” she greeted. Then, to Seamus, she added, “Constable.”
“May we have a word, ma’am?” Seamus said, growing more and more comfortable in his role.
I nodded toward him, impressed.
“Is there news? Has something else happened?”
“No,” I replied this time. “Just an interview to help the constable and me determine the whereabouts of all the guests at the time of each of the murders and the attempted murder.”
“Weren’t we all together in the Castavette suite when Doyle was murdered?”
“I recall you storming in late, after the deed was already done, and the couple’s friends Faye and Ian weren’t there at all. The constable and I are trying to determine who was in a position to poison your aunt, as well as murder your cousin and Doyle Castavette.”
“That would seem to be a very short list.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” I noted.
“In that case, come right in,” Lois Mulroy-Dodge said, moving away from the door so we could enter.
S
he was staying in one of Hill House’s smaller single rooms, featuring a king-sized bed and modest space to maneuver around it. It had only a single desk and armchair for additional furniture. Lois sat down on the edge of the bed, while Seamus and I opted to simply remain standing. Her window was crusted with a thick layer of snow that hid the outside world from us as well as drawn blinds would have. I’m not claustrophobic by nature, but the notion of being essentially entombed in here by the ever-growing mountains of snow—now stretching past three feet—beyond had begun to wear on me. I actually felt in my head a light pressure that could have been the result of tumbling barometric pressure from the storm or, just as easily, a symptom of my growing unease over being trapped. And then there was Mort Metzger, who could be stranded somewhere between here and the fire station where he’d retrieved the snowmobile, and no one, including me, would even know it.
“May I ask you a blunt question first, Ms. Dodge?”
She nodded, not looking exactly thrilled by the prospect of that.
“What was the nature of your relationship with your late cousin, Mark Mulroy?”
“Close.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“We were practically raised together. I was like the third sibling with him and Daniel.”
“And you and Mark stayed close, by all accounts.”
She nodded. “More like brother and sister, as I mentioned before.”
“Which also left you close with your aunt, Constance Mulroy.”
“Like mother and daughter. I don’t know what I would have done without her after losing my mom.”
“This family has been struck by an unusual amount of tragedy, hasn’t it?” I asked Lois Mulroy-Dodge. “Your parents, your husband, Connie’s husband before and after he was revealed to be a fraud . . .”
She nodded slowly, the motion looking painful for her. “Heath Mulroy destroyed a lot of lives, Mrs. Fletcher, his own family included.”
“Before he took his own life.”
I could see her hedging. “Well . . .”
I nodded, coaxing her on.
The Murder of Twelve Page 16