A Question of Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Now see here, sir,” Boynton said, pulling himself up straighter in his chair. “You’re insulting Ms. Wick, and I won’t stand for it.”

  “It’s all right, Harold,” Georgie said.

  “No, it is not all right,” Boynton said. “Georgie has special powers of observation and insight that most people don’t. If she says she saw the dead actor, she did!”

  Good for you, Harold, I thought, seeing a decidedly good side of the corpulent, amorous, former medical examiner.

  “Suit yourself, pal,” Chasseur said as he signaled to Jody that he wanted a refill of his martini. While the days of the three-martini lunch were just a vague memory for most people, it obviously didn’t apply to all.

  “The snowplows are due here this afternoon,” I said, changing the subject.

  “Good,” said Chasseur. “Why anybody would choose to live in a place like this is beyond me.”

  Boynton’s defense of Georgie had left him red-faced and breathing laboriously. He finished what was on his plate, wiped his mouth, pushed back his chair, and belched loudly.

  “You don’t look too good, Pops,” Chasseur said, smiling. “Past your bedtime?”

  “You, sir, are a bloody bore,” Boynton said.

  Chasseur’s laugh was nasty.

  Boynton got up unsteadily, using the back of his chair for support. “I’m not feeling well,” he said.

  “Maybe you should lie down,” Georgie said.

  “Yeah, lie down, Pops,” Chasseur said.

  I watched the tiny Georgie help Boynton walk away from the table.

  “That was cruel of you,” I told Chasseur when we were alone.

  “Just having some fun with the old coot. They’re some pair, huh? He spent his life carving up dead bodies, and she sees people who’ve been shot dead walking around. Whew!”

  Mark Egmon came up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “All set for the panel this afternoon, Jessica?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “You, John?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Chasseur said. “Frankly, I could do without it.”

  “Mark, can we catch up after lunch—say in fifteen minutes?” I said.

  Egmon glanced at his watch. “Sure. I should be back in my office by then. Know where it is?”

  “I do. I’ll see you there.”

  After Egmon was gone, I said to Chasseur, “I understand you requested to be part of this weekend.”

  “Who told you that? Larry?”

  “Yes.” I paused. “I can’t help but wonder why you’re so unenthusiastic about being part of it if you wanted so much to participate.”

  “Larry doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And neither do you.”

  I should have been accustomed to his rudeness by now, but somehow I always expect people to behave well. My appetite had flown. I folded my napkin, placed it on the table next to my half-consumed meal, and rose. “I’ll see you on the panel,” I said and left.

  I went to my room and took a closer look at the cigarette butts I’d picked up last night in the smokers’ vestibule and from my balcony. The same brand had been smoked in each location. I thought back to what Larry Savoy had said about Paul Brody not smoking. Maybe Larry was right that Brody was hypocritical about his anti-smoking stance, sneaking a few puffs now and then when others couldn’t witness it. But I considered it unlikely. From my experience, people who developed vehement opposition to something seldom strayed from that position. Besides, how long could he keep his secret from others? A theatrical cast and crew developed into a tight-knit group.

  I was about to go downstairs to meet with Mark Egmon when the phone rang.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Todd Waisbren. I’m a reporter with the local paper.”

  Detective Ladd had cautioned me about this. Obviously, the murder at Mohawk House was no longer a secret.

  “How can I help you?” I asked.

  “Well, I’ve gotten word that someone was killed at Mohawk House, an actor in the theater group that’s performing up there this weekend.”

  I said nothing.

  “Is it true?” he asked.

  “I’m really the wrong person to answer that question, Mr. Waisbren. I—”

  “Detective Ladd is there,” he declared.

  Again, I neither confirmed nor denied.

  “I know he’s there, along with the whole town police force. Since you’re a famous mystery writer, I thought I might get a comment from you about the murder.”

  “Frankly,” I said, “my major concern right now is this incredible snowstorm we’re experiencing. Are the plows on their way?”

  “That’s what I’m told. I’ll be coming up right after they clear the road. Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but a murder at Mohawk House is big news. We haven’t had a murder in the town since—well, since a woman was strangled ten or so years ago.”

  The Sydney Pomerantz case, I thought, only back then he was Sydney Powell.

  “That may be,” I said, “and I would like to be of help. I know how tough it is to develop information for a story. But I really have nothing to say.”

  “I understand,” he said. “Fortunately, one of your colleagues wasn’t so reticent.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m a big fan of John Chasseur and his Agent Benny series. When I heard he was going to be part of the weekend, I planned to come up and have him sign some books. But with the snow and all—anyway, he was good enough to fill me in on the murder. He’s a really nice guy. I just wanted a few additional comments from another successful murder mystery writer, like you.”

  “I’m glad Mr. Chasseur was helpful to you,” I said, “but I really must go. I’m late for an appointment.”

  “Sure. Maybe when I get there you’ll feel freer to talk. Thanks for your time.”

  I wasn’t at all surprised that Chasseur had been the one to grant an interview with the press. Had Detective Ladd given him the same admonition about keeping quiet? If so, he’d wasted his breath.

  Mark Egmon was on the phone when I walked into his office. He gestured for me to take a chair, which I did while he continued his conversation. When he was through, he sighed and said, “The press knows about the murder. That was a reporter from the local paper.”

  “Mr. Waisbren,” I said.

  “How did you know?”

  “I just got off the phone with him myself.”

  “Seems your buddy, Chasseur, spilled the beans.”

  “Yes, it does seem that way. Nothing can be done about it now. I suspect that when the plows clear the road, you’ll have more than one reporter on the premises.”

  He rolled his eyes and groaned.

  “Mark,” I said, “I have a question for you.”

  “About what?”

  “About your three VIP suites on the third floor.”

  “What about them?”

  “Well I’m not sure how to put this. Ms. Wick was up there late last night and claims she saw Paul Brody come out of one of those suites.”

  “The actor? He’s dead.”

  I nodded.

  “You know,” he said, “Ms. Wick is a little strange.”

  “She is different,” I said, thinking I’d have to come up with another description of Georgie before the end of the weekend.

  “Is she all there?”

  “I think she’s a very smart woman. I don’t know what her motive might be, but I suppose we can chalk up her claim to having a novelist’s overactive imagination.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I prefer to explain it that way. It’s my understanding that two of the three suites are occupied.”

  “Only two?”

  “I think so. Of course, my sources might not know for certain. There’s a Mr. and Mrs. Pomerantz in one, Ms. Carlisle in a second one.”

  “Carlisle? Oh, right, the big redheaded woman, part of Larry Sav
oy’s cast.”

  “Yes. I’m surprised that a cast member was put up in a suite like that. I assumed they’d be in lesser rooms, probably doubled up.”

  “You’re right. I can’t think that we ran out of all the regular guest rooms. I’ll check into it.”

  “Would you mind letting me know what you find out?”

  “Sure. You’re in a suite, too. A junior suite.”

  “Yes. It’s lovely.”

  “There was a cast member in your suite before you came. Rooms were tight, so we did some juggling. As a matter of fact—I hope this won’t upset you . . .”

  I waited.

  “Brody spent a night in your suite. He was doubled up, but I don’t know who shared the room with him. We moved him to make room for you.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “Where was he moved to?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll check that out, too.”

  “I’d appreciate it. How are the guests handling the news? Do they all know?”

  “If the press knows, I’ve got to believe the staff does, and information gets around pretty quickly. I’d say the guests are handling it amazingly well,” he said. “Half of them still aren’t sure whether a real murder has taken place or not. The other half—if they believe it happened—seem to enjoy being involved. At any rate, no one has asked for their money back yet. Once the road is cleared, that might change. But for now, everything’s pretty quiet.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Thanks for your time.” I checked my watch. “I’d better get going. The panel starts in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, “one other thing.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “There’s a small door up in the area where the three VIP suites are located. Do you know where that leads?”

  It was a warm laugh. “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he said. “There are lots of strange doors in this old building. I’ve looked behind a few, with trepidation, I might add. Could be an old laundry chute or a dumbwaiter shaft. Some of them lead nowhere, nothing behind them except maybe storage. We keep them locked to discourage guests from wandering where they shouldn’t.”

  “Do you have the keys to them?”

  “I have the keys to everything,” he said, smiling.

  “Would you mind opening the one on the third floor for me after the panel?”

  “Happy to. Mind if I ask why?”

  “Just to satisfy my natural curiosity.”

  “That’s good enough reason for me,” he said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  What writer created the Dortmunder gang in a

  series of comic crime novels?

  The panel discussion was held in a room approximately half the size of the auditorium. It filled up quickly, and by the time Melinda Savoy, who moderated, asked for attention, most of the seats were occupied. While she prepared to introduce us, I leaned over to Georgie and whispered, “How is Harold feeling?”

  “Not well,” she said. “I’m worried about him.”

  “He should see a doctor.”

  “I told him that,” she replied, “but he’s stubborn. He says he doesn’t need to see a doctor because he is a doctor.”

  I smiled and thought of Seth Hazlitt back in Cabot Cove, one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever known. But even Seth wouldn’t hesitate to seek medical help if he needed it. Besides, since Boynton had spent his medical career dissecting dead bodies, I’m not sure he would be the best physician to diagnosis his own ailment—unless it was after the fact.

  Melinda’s introductions were lengthy and flowery. Chasseur, who didn’t seem to display any outward sign of his drink consumption at lunch, basked in the kind words Melinda used to describe his career. Georgie was next, and seemed uncomfortable at hearing all the praise Melinda heaped upon her.

  I was last to be introduced. The minute she finished reading from the bio I’d provided, Chasseur said, “Everyone knows that Jessica Fletcher not only writes about murder, she has a reputation for solving real ones.” He turned to me. “Making any headway, Jessica, with the r-e-a-l Mohawk House murder?”

  I’d been looking out over the audience while Melinda read my bio, and noticed that Detective Ladd and two of his uniformed officers had taken seats along a wall to my right, far away from others. Ladd’s wince summed up his reaction to Chasseur’s comment.

  “Jessica?” Melinda said when I didn’t respond.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I was thinking of something else. As to John’s question, no, I’m as much in the dark as everyone else in the audience. I’m sure you and Larry will give us plenty of clues to help us solve the crime that’s part of your production.”

  Had I successfully deflected his question and brought the audience back to the theatrical murder, rather than the one that had actually taken place? Judging from the expressions on the faces of the crowd, I knew the answer was a resounding no.

  Melinda sensed my discomfort and quickly turned to Georgie, asking her about her work habits, and how her Southern roots, particularly New Orleans, contributed to her stories and books. She answered in that small, thin voice of hers, slowly, deliberately, her Southern accent deepening as she spoke. She went on for quite a while, and I thoroughly enjoyed hearing what she had to say. But some audience members grew restless, prompting Melinda to interrupt and ask me the same question, substituting New England for New Orleans.

  When Melinda turned to Chasseur with a question, my stomach muscles tightened in anticipation of what he might say. But sitting through the answers Georgie and I had given seemed to have mellowed him; at least he didn’t attempt to bring up the murder of Paul Brody again. Instead, he held forth on the link between book publishing and Hollywood, and told amusing anecdotes about his experiences with having a novel turned into a motion picture, including the fact that he’d met his beautiful wife on the set.

  “Definitely one of the perks of moviemaking, if you’ve seen my wife,” he said, setting off a wave of chuckling in the audience. He was altogether charming and entertaining, and I could see what might have drawn Claudette to him when they’d first met. Apparently he no longer practiced that charm on her. And I hadn’t seen his wife recently, not since our encounter in the round room. I began to worry and made a mental note to go upstairs when the event concluded and knock on their door to make sure she was okay.

  When Chasseur finished his talk, Melinda opened the program for questions from the audience.

  A man stood. “This may be off the topic,” he said, “but most of us are confused about what’s going on here. We know that a fake murder was supposed to take place on the stage, but the consensus seems to be that it wasn’t a fake after all. These police officers guarding every exit are real. That’s for sure. And that detective—what’s his name?—Ladd?—he’s been questioning every one of us. I don’t believe he’s part of the show, either. So, what’s going on? I think we deserve to know.”

  The four of us on the dais looked at each other to see who had an answer for him. Melinda tried to change the subject. “That’s a question we can discuss another time,” she said into her microphone. “Right now, I’d appreciate questions for our distinguished panelists about their books.”

  A woman got to her feet. “My question is for Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “What Mr. Chasseur said is true. We’ve all heard about how many real murders you’ve solved over the course of your career. Because we believe that the young man who was shot on stage was really shot and killed, I’d like to know what inroads you and the police have been making.”

  “Jessica?” Melinda said.

  I was faced with an ethical dilemma. Earlier, there had been genuine confusion about what had happened to Paul Brody on the stage during the first act, and I wasn’t uncomfortable fudging my answers to questions about whether he had, in fact, been killed. I also didn’t want to betray the trust Detective Ladd had placed in me by saying anything that might hinder his investigation.

 
But it was now obvious to me that the actual murder could no longer be kept under wraps, and I didn’t want to continue to perpetuate a lie with good people who had paid money to enjoy a strictly fictional murder mystery. I looked to Detective Ladd, who’d been joined by Mark Egmon. A few seconds of conversation ensued between them before they came to the front of the room. Ladd appeared uneasy facing a large group. He avoided eye contact and shifted from one foot to the other. Egmon, on the other hand, seemed supremely confident. He flashed a wide smile, held up his hands, and said, “I hate to interrupt this excellent panel of distinguished writers, but your questions lead me to believe that you have more on your minds than how these authors turn out such wonderful books.” He turned to the dais. “Sorry, Melinda, but we’ve decided it’s time to level with the folks.”

  “Finally!” someone said.

  “I’ll leave it to Detective Ladd to provide the specifics, at least to the extent he can. But let me say something first on behalf of Mohawk House. Our foremost concern is, and has always been, the comfort, and especially the safety, of our guests. We bend over backwards to ensure that your stay with us is pleasurable and memorable. But there are times when things happen that are beyond our control, and this unfortunate situation certainly qualifies as one of those times.” He turned to Ladd. “Care to take it from here, Detective?”

  “I suppose so,” Ladd said, clearing his throat a few times before continuing. “Yup, the young actor named Paul Brody is dead. He was supposed to die in the play, and actually died in real life. We’re investigating his death.”

  There were a few gasps from the audience, and a buzz as people voiced their reactions to the news. A number of them busily made notes, as though this revelation could be used to solve the murder presented in the play.

  “You mean it might have been an accident and not murder?” said one man, sounding disappointed.

  “All I can say is we’re investigating.”

  The buzz grew louder as the alternative that Ladd had presented swept through the crowd. I wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. A murder had taken place. But evidently he felt that raising the possibility that the death was accidental or from natural causes might calm those susceptible to hysteria.