The Murder of Twelve

by Jessica Fletcher

  I heard the muffled echo of the grandfather clock in the lobby striking two o’clock, meaning two hours had passed since we’d convened there following the discovery of Mark Mulroy’s body. But I’d lost track of time, had begun to judge its passage by the mounting snow out the window and nothing more.

  “Who’s next on our list?”

  I figured we’d interview the Sprague sisters last. That left Tyler Castavette as our next subject. I would’ve really liked to hear what Ian and Faye had to say. They were such an odd couple, even outside of the fact that only Lois Mulroy-Dodge was familiar with them—and only vaguely.

  “Tyler Castavette,” I chose, referring to the young man I’d first met when he broke into my suite.

  “I was hoping you’d say that, ma’am,” Seamus said, grinning.

  * * *

  * * *

  Tyler had propped his door open with the swinging metal security lock I always engage before I go to sleep—not here at Hill House, for some reason, but whenever I’m on the road, on a book tour or something of that sort.

  I knocked and led the way in without waiting to be invited.

  Tyler Castavette was standing by the window, looking out into the storm as if transfixed by it, his reflection captured in the glass displaying a face flat in amazement.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life.” He still hadn’t turned around, but I gathered he’d spotted my and Seamus’s reflections in the glass. “It just keeps piling up.”

  His television, like all others right now, was tuned to the Weather Channel, where a banner that read FIVE FEET PREDICTED FOR PARTS OF MAINE dominated the bottom of the screen. I wasn’t sure what was more historic in that moment: the storm itself or having loose among us a killer who might well be a serial mass murderer.

  Or, perhaps, one of the survivors.

  Tyler Castavette turned slowly, reluctant to take his eyes off the storm as if afraid he might miss something. He looked somehow smaller when measured against the scope of the storm beyond, and more timid without others around him to either impress or intimidate. I had to blink away the notion that I was looking at his now-late father as a young man.

  “I have nothing to say to you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, not as staunchly as he’d meant to. “I have nothing to say to either of you. I suppose that makes me a prime suspect, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all,” I said, trying to sound as conciliatory under the circumstances as I could manage with two more bodies having been added to the tally just minutes before. “In fact, it’s my experience that guilty parties are normally the most cooperative, not the least. Call it a costume they don for the occasion.”

  “And you’re dealing with a shrinking list of suspects, aren’t you?”

  “You mean we’re dealing, don’t you? We’re all in this together.”

  Tyler’s gaze jerked from me to Seamus before darting back. “Not the two of you, though. You’re not part of the wedding party.”

  “I don’t believe that will stop the killer who struck on that plane and at that wilderness lodge from claiming us as trophies as well.”

  “You believe he does it for sport?”

  “Or she, Tyler, and the answer’s yes, since I can’t find another explanation. And the list of potential suspects among us was just shortened by another two.”

  Tyler Castavette’s expression remained blank. “Those two weirdos, Faye and Ian?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Wishful thinking. Maybe I’m a jerk for being glad that if it had to be somebody, it was them.”

  Tyler’s expression tightened as he said that, faint lines springing up over the brow of his otherwise youthful face. He was a handsome young man who had managed to retain his boyish good looks. I had the sense he wore his hair the same way he had in middle school, never mind high school. A blessing and a curse since, between his good looks, charm, and money, he’d maintained an existence that was extremely superficial in nature. Tyler Castavette was used to having things come his way, virtually fall into his lap. I could probably count on fewer than my ten fingers the number of times he’d been told no in his life.

  I found myself wondering if he had any idea about the tote bag full of cash in his father’s room, a likely payoff from Constance Mulroy. And I supposed the placid reflection that had fallen over him must’ve been rooted in the shock over his father’s murder. Their lack of a relationship aside, the death of his father wasn’t something he would get over quickly, especially since this most recent trio of murders confirmed that any of us could be the killer’s next victim.

  “I would like to cover one item with you,” I said to Tyler, “concerning your father’s murder.”

  He swallowed hard. “What about it?”

  “You charged into the room moments after the struggle had ceased, after Eugene had battered down the door.”

  “Eugene?”

  “The large kitchen worker.”

  “Oh, him,” Tyler said matter-of-factly.

  “In any case, in my recollection you seemed a bit winded.”

  “I rushed there from the other end of the hall to see what all the commotion was about, fearing the worst.” He hesitated, tried for a laugh but failed. “So—wait a minute—you think I killed my father, climbed out the window, made my way back into the hotel through the storm, changed clothes, and then joined the rest of you back in his suite? I’d expected plenty better from you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Actually, I have an alternative theory. You’re young and strong and clearly know your way around a gym.”

  “Are we talking about Mark Mulroy’s murder or my father’s?”

  “Your father’s. See, one of the theories I’m pursuing is that the killer has been using the narrow crawl space that runs between floors of the hotel to make their way from one room to another. But the only means to climb back up into it from your father’s bedroom was a desk chair that broke in the struggle. That means whoever killed him must’ve hoisted themselves up into the crawl space, a task that would require just the kind of upper-body strength you possess.”

  Tyler Castavette’s gaze tightened. “On whose authority, exactly, are you accusing me of murdering my father?”

  “I wasn’t accusing you. I was merely pointing something out.”

  “Right, because the truth is, you have no authority and I’m under no obligation to talk to you.”

  “Are you under any obligation to stay alive, Tyler? Because my questions are meant to rule things out as much as in.”

  We locked stares, each of us waiting to see who would make the next move.

  “Show us your hands, boy,” said Seamus, breaking the standoff between us. “If you pulled yourself into that crawl space, there’ll be cuts or bruises on your palms and fingers.”

  At first I didn’t think Tyler was going to comply, out of either indignation or something far more nefarious. Then he held his hands up, palms out, and turned them around for both Seamus and me to see.

  “Satisfied? Because I’ve got nothing else to say to you.” Tyler Castavette’s face was starting to darken. “If you ask me for the time of day, don’t expect me to check my watch.”

  “And quite a nice one it is,” I remarked. “I noticed your father wasn’t wearing one when we found him stabbed to death. Might you have come by it somehow? Because you don’t impress me as someone who could afford a watch of that quality on his own.”

  “Are we done now?”

  “Just one more thing, if I may. Did either Mark or Daniel Mulroy ever mention their brother to you?”

  “Brother?”

  “The third triplet, who was stillborn.”

  “A few times, but . . .”

  “But what?” I pushed gently.

  “That was when they’d been drinking. They even mentioned his name—Owen—a few times. Sob
er, I don’t think they ever said a word about the third triplet’s death at all. It’s like there was something about that night in the hospital they wanted to avoid at all costs.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “What an unpleasant young fellow,” Seamus said after we’d adjourned to the hall.

  I heard Tyler close the door and throw the locks behind us. “Let’s go to the lobby, Seamus.”

  “Has something come up, Mrs. Fletcher, something the good doctor told you before speaking with that wretched chap?”

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “I just want to check something.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I wasn’t surprised by what greeted us in the lobby, because I’d been fully expecting it. Somehow, though, that didn’t lessen the impact, which still felt like a punch to the gut.

  “Well, I’ll be gobsmacked,” Seamus muttered, following my gaze.

  The roman numerals marking three, four, and five o’clock on the grandfather clock had been crossed out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I don’t like this, Mrs. Fletcher,” Seamus remarked stiffly, unable to lift his eyes from the clock face. “I don’t like this one bit.”

  “We’ll catch whoever it is before this goes any further,” I promised.

  “We’d better,” he said, sounding angry. “That clock dates back to the eighteenth century, property of the original owner of this establishment. The blasphemy of it all!”

  “The blasphemer is also a murderer, Seamus.”

  He finally turned from the clock toward me. “There is that, too, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, with a calm that belied the gravity of our circumstances.

  Worrying about what had become of Mort had begun to consume me. I had this horrible vision of him freezing to death ten feet from the entrance to Hill House because he couldn’t see the door. It was closing in on three a.m., meaning three hours had passed since Mort had set out for Hill House aboard a snowmobile. Even in these wretched conditions, it shouldn’t take that long for him to cover a distance of slightly more than three miles. And the fact that he’d never piloted a snowmobile before left me even more worried over what had become of him.

  Besides that, the storm seemed determined to bury us all, and I had this desire to confront it on its own terms. See it in its true form, instead of through a frost-encrusted window.

  There is something placid and beautiful about falling snow, to go with the sense of security one has while watching the inches pile up safe at home. Once the inches become feet, though, that placidity tends to change. And with the total approaching four feet, the scene had long since stopped qualifying as placid or beautiful. This was downright terrifying and foreboding, much more like something out of a horror novel than a murder mystery.

  But a murder mystery was what I found myself embroiled in now, one that continued to deepen and grow deadlier as the evening wore on and the snow continued to pile up. It all made for a strong contrast with the vast bulk of my real-life experience with murder, in which my participation had started after the fact instead of during it. I could, in other words, sleep soundly in my bed, comforted by the notion that I was not necessarily in danger myself and that the murderer’s work was likely finished. Tonight, I found myself a participant rather than a spectator, a witness to murder instead of a mere observer of its aftermath. I suppose if I had time to ponder that further, I’d be nothing short of terrified by the prospect of what awaited me and the remaining members of the wedding party while we remained hostage to this storm and the number of crossed-off numerals on the grandfather clock threatened to mount.

  I suppose I’d hoped getting away from the second floor might yield some eye-opening insight into the mystery. Maybe, like an expectant child again, I believed if I stared out the window long enough it would make a loved one appear—in this case Mort Metzger. There was nothing to see beyond the lobby windows, though, except white cast almost blindingly bright by the persistent spill of Hill House’s outdoor floodlights. The trees had disappeared; the landscape beyond Hill House had disappeared; the whole world had disappeared. There was only this building and those who remained alive inside it. That defined my life, my very existence, at least for the time being.

  The families of the bride and groom seemed to have enough skeletons in their respective closets to stock an entire cemetery, never mind a wedding. All members of the wedding party, both living and now deceased, seemed to have their share of secrets and sins, with the possible exception of the Sprague sisters. And all of us now found ourselves subject to the whims of an especially sadistic killer, potentially the same killer who’d struck two other isolated settings two and four years ago this very week. I hadn’t had the opportunity to do a deeper Internet dive into those occasions, and I knew only the bare minimum: that then, as now, the murders had been committed in a remarkably short period of time, not exceeding a day in either instance.

  Or night, as the case might be.

  Since my options for ferreting out a monster who had perfected such a formula for murder were few, I resolved to keep my focus on the possibility that someone in our midst had devised this devilish scheme for reasons yet unknown.

  “Seamus,” I said to the manager of Hill House, between the lobby’s snow-encrusted windows, “I need you to play Sheriff Metzger for me.”

  “And how might I do that?”

  “Just act as a sounding board for me.”

  “I’m hardly an expert investigator.”

  “That’s okay—neither is Mort.” I tried to joke, but my remark fell flat. “Let’s start with Loomis Winslow.”

  “The private detective you mentioned.”

  “The very same. According to Harry McGraw, he was apparently hired by Constance Mulroy. Since Mr. Winslow’s specialty is—er, was—financial forensics, we can assume the case involved large sums of money, especially in view of the cash found in Mrs. Mulroy’s tote bag.”

  “The one we found in Mr. Castavette’s closet, with that smudge from the actress Virginia Da Salle’s nail polish.”

  “Which she denies ever touching,” I picked up. “How the tote bag was moved from Constance Mulroy’s closet and into Doyle Castavette’s remains one of the biggest mysteries facing us.”

  Seamus sighed. “These people are exhausting, ma’am. I’m knackered by all the whining and recrimination.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Everyone seems to have something to hide, and we’re neglecting perhaps the most important facet of any investigation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Its origin. First, we have the murder of Loomis Winslow, and second, we have the disappearance, the likely flight of the bride and groom from their rented Lexus, those two incidents being connected by the gravel from the Cabot Manufacturing Company parking lot.”

  “There would have been no motorcars when the factory first opened. That would be correct, wouldn’t it?” Seamus posed.

  “Of course. The parking lot was created years and years later, on land the company purchased for the first of their expansions. The gravel had to be trucked in and was likely replaced or supplemented on any number of occasions, explaining its distinctive nature. What were you getting at?”

  “Nothing in particular,” he said, not all that convincingly. “It just seems like too obvious a clue, as if we were meant to believe that Winslow’s killer and whoever the young couple fled from into the frigid cold were the same person.”

  “Are you sure traffic was your only responsibility when you were a constable? Because you definitely have a flair for this kind of work.”

  “Coming from an expert like you, Mrs. Fletcher, that means a lot.”

  “Expert at making fake crimes up or solving real ones?”

  A slight smile danced across his lips. “Does it matter?”

  “Well, in this case my imagination is at a loss
to determine a firm suspect here, Seamus. And we must consider the chance that all our ruminations will be rendered moot if Hill House becomes like that airplane or wilderness lodge: no survivors found when the outside world finally reaches us.”

  Seamus stiffened. “That’s not going to happen, Mrs. Fletcher, not on my watch.”

  My cell phone’s ringing jarred us both, and I yanked it from my pocket in the hope that it was Mort Metzger at long last.

  “Hello, Harry,” I greeted, after HARRY MCGRAW lit up at the top of the screen.

  “Put Mort on.”

  “I wish I could, but he’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I was just wondering the same thing. . . .”

  “He left hours ago.”

  “At least three now.”

  “I haven’t been able to get through to the station. My calls keep getting routed to an emergency number that nobody answers. Has all of Cabot Cove fallen victim to this killer you’re chasing?”

  “I have no idea, Harry, since we’re cut off from the rest of the town. And what was it you wanted to speak to Mort about?”

  “Guess I’ll have to settle for you, under the circumstances. I was able to dump Loomis Winslow’s phone records—again, don’t bother asking me how. Private detectives are like magicians in that we never give away our tricks.”

  “What did the trick reveal in this case?”