A Question of Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Now,” Ladd continued, “I know that this is bound to be pretty upsetting to you folks, especially since you came here for a fun weekend and didn’t bargain on bein’ part of an investigation—and I apologize for any inconvenience you might be experiencing. Can’t be helped, though, and I appreciate how cooperative most of you have been. Of course, I figure no one was going anywhere anyway, not with this snowstorm we’ve had. But there’s good news on that score. The plows are scheduled to get up here any minute now. Once they do their job, everybody will be free to pack up and leave, at least those folks I’ve already questioned. But I think Mr. Egmon has something to say in that regard.”

  Mark announced that for those who stayed for the rest of the planned events, ten percent would be deducted from their final bill, prompting vigorous applause. A smart move, I thought. Keeping even a few people from defecting and demanding a full refund would more than offset money lost through the discount.

  “Now,” Mark said, “my suggestion—and Detective Ladd concurs—is that we let the police go about their business, cooperate with them, and enjoy the rest of the weekend. You still have a mystery to solve,” he said, sweeping a hand toward Melinda.

  He and Ladd started to walk away, but a woman wearing a large white straw hat stood and said loudly, “Easy enough for you to say that, sir, but what about us? You haven’t apprehended the murderer, which means he might strike again at any time. Who’s going to protect us?”

  “Maybe it was a woman,” said a man, followed by a hearty laugh. “Who’s going to protect me from some bloodthirsty female?”

  His comment elicited giggles, and everyone started conferring with their teammates.

  Amazing, I thought, how quickly moods can change. Was it Mark Egmon’s announcement that ten percent of their bills would be waived that elevated their spirits? Or was it the challenge of actually being so close to a real murder mystery, as opposed to the literary ones they were used to reading? No matter what had caused it, there was a marked excitement in the room that certainly hadn’t been there during our abbreviated session.

  I stood, assuming that the panel discussion was over. But Chasseur pulled his microphone close and said, “If I could please have your attention.” He repeated it twice more, until conversations ebbed. “I know,” he continued, “that Mrs. Fletcher has this reputation of being a super detective, besides writing about murder. But in this case, I’m afraid she’s about to be outdone by yours truly.”

  His statement brought a further hush to the room.

  “I’ve been working closely with Detective Ladd and his men,” he said, flashing a diabolical grin at the police officer. “In fact, I’ve already offered the police my take on what might have occurred, and I intend to continue delving into the matter until the murderer—and it was a murder—is exposed and brought to justice. I tell you this because I want, and need, your help. The local press will be arriving right after the snowplows, and my publicist has arranged for national media to be involved, too. What I want to do is work with you on solving this crime. How about this? We split up into three teams. I’ll lead one, and Jessica Fletcher and GSB Wick will lead the other two. You can keep working with your original teams to solve the murder in the play. But we’ll also work together to solve the real murder that’s taken place. It’ll make for a great story—noted mystery writers band together with devoted mystery lovers to bring a criminal to justice.”

  A number of people affirmed with whoops, hollers, and applause. I looked to the rear of the room where Ladd and Egmon stood, their expressions very much at odds with the sentiments of the audience.

  Chasseur turned to Georgie and me. “Up to the challenge, ladies?” he asked.

  “I think this is totally inappropriate,” I said.

  “I agree with Jessica,” said Georgie.

  “Suit yourselves,” Chasseur said. He spoke into the microphone again. “One of the reasons we’re here,” he announced, “is to sign books. I’ll be in the gift shop, pen in hand. See you there.”

  Chasseur left the room, with a group of fans trailing behind him.

  “The nerve,” Georgie said.

  “He’s not without ego,” I said, “and a flair for self-promotion. Nothing will come of it.”

  Other members of the audience encircled us at the dais.

  “I’d like to be on your team, Mrs. Fletcher,” some people said.

  “I’ll bet you win,” said others to Georgie.

  “Ah don’t think there’s anything to win,” she responded softly.

  “I’m afraid Ms. Wick and I don’t agree with what Mr. Chasseur has suggested,” I said. “But you’re free to join with him if you wish.”

  I saw in their faces disappointment at the stance I’d taken. This weekend of an interactive theatrical murder mystery had now taken on an entirely new dimension. Chasseur had offered them a bonus, a chance to work closely with an established writer to actually investigate and solve a real murder. Egmon probably could have saved the hotel the ten percent rebate if he’d known how excited the guests would be about this new wrinkle in their weekend experience. I seriously doubted if any of them would opt to leave early. I heard one of them say to another as they turned to leave, “She isn’t very friendly, is she?”

  “Too stuck up to join in,” said her friend.

  I didn’t have time to feel the sting of their comments because Egmon and Ladd came to the dais.

  “Did you know he was going to do that?” Mark asked.

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “Georgie and I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Good,” Ladd said. “Maybe the whole stupid thing will just die a natural death.”

  “In the meantime,” Mark said, “you two ladies have books to sign.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Ah’d better check on Harold,” Georgie said. “Ah’ll join y’all in a few minutes.”

  Mark walked me to the gift shop. We were almost there when Larry Savoy intercepted me. “I heard what John did,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, you’d better,” I said.

  “I’ll make sure he mentions the troupe. This’ll plaster our names across the country,” Larry said. “I couldn’t ask for better publicity.” He rubbed his hands together and hustled into the gift store, pushing aside people on the line to get up front to where Chasseur was autographing books.

  “Maybe he has a point,” Egmon said. “I wonder if the publicity will help or hurt us. For sure, we’d better plan on another mystery weekend next year.”

  I sighed.

  “Oh, Jessica, you wanted me to open one of the doors on the third floor.” He pulled out a ring of keys

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Want to go now?”

  “Why don’t we wait until after I sign books?” To myself, I added, If people still want Jessica Fletcher’s signature even if she won’t participate in this farce of an investigation Chasseur planned.

  Mark put the keys back in his pocket. “Sure. I’ll be in my office all afternoon getting ready for the press. I don’t know why Chasseur pulled a stunt like this. I hope it doesn’t backfire on us.”

  I smiled and patted his arm. “No one’s going to blame the hotel,” I said. “And maybe Larry is right. The publicity could be helpful.”

  Larry emerged from the crowd standing in line, books in hand, waiting for their turn with Chasseur, and they hoped, Georgie and me. “I’ve got to get to rehearsal,” he said. “The next scene is pretty rough.”

  “It’ll be a standing-room-only crowd, judging from their reaction to the last performance,” I said. “Larry, do you have a bio of Paul Brody?”

  “Bio? Sure. I have a bio for every actor, and plenty of head shots, too. Why?”

  “I’d like to know more about him, his past, his career, anything at all.”

  “Swing by the auditorium after the signing. I’ll put it aside for you.”

  The gift shop manager had set up three small tables,
with a pile of the appropriate books in front of each author. Chasseur’s bravado announcement had paid off for him; the line to purchase a signed book from him was considerably longer than those for Georgie and me. I kept waiting for her to return as I chatted pleasantly with the book-buying guests and personally inscribed the books they purchased.

  “Where’s Ms. Wick?” a woman asked. “I’m her biggest fan.”

  “She had to tend to a personal matter,” I said, “but I’m sure she’ll be along any minute.”

  It wasn’t until I’d signed my last book and was preparing to leave to go to Mark Egmon’s office that Georgie entered the shop. With her was Harold Boynton. A wave of relief swept over me. I had expected her to announce that he’d had a heart attack. He looked a lot better than he had at lunch. It was Georgie who appeared to be ill now. I didn’t know whether she’d actually seen Paul Brody’s spirit, or for that matter any one of the ghosts she was fond of writing about, but she certainly looked as though she had.

  “Feeling better?” I asked Boynton.”

  “Yes, quite. Thank you for asking.”

  “Are you all right?” I asked Georgie as she settled behind her table and uncapped a pen.

  “I don’t know,” she said, greeting the first buyer in her line and managing a smile.

  I glanced up at Boynton, who stood behind us. His eyes darted right and left before he bent over and whispered in my ear, “I saw him.”

  I turned in my chair. “Who did you see?” I asked.

  “The dead actor.”

  “Paul Brody?”

  “Yes.”

  Chasseur was still signing books and chatting with buyers. My line had dried up completely. I stood and said to Boynton, “Let’s go outside.”

  We went into the hall and to an alcove. I stood with my back to the wall. He stood too close to me, his large belly pressing against my arm. He breathed heavily, and I smelled alcohol on his breath. I managed to slide to my right, providing a little distance between us. “Now,” I said, “tell me about seeing Paul Brody.”

  “It’s a long story. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Try the beginning,” I said, not eager to prolong the conversation.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “You Americans like to get to the point. No dillydallying.”

  “Yes. We’re very direct.”

  “I will try to accommodate you. As you know, I wasn’t feeling well after my altercation with Mr. Chasseur.”

  “Did the food make you ill?”

  “I might have overindulged a bit. The plat du jour was absolutely superb. But I felt better after lying down for a while, and when I got up I treated myself to a taste of a fine single-malt scotch. I always carry it with me in a traveling flask. I think it aids digestion. In any case, it positively aids disposition.” He laughed at his own joke, but seeing no smile on my face, sobered his expression and cleared his throat. “Anyway, I grew restless waiting for Georgie to return and decided to take a walk. Not a long one, mind you. I still wasn’t feeling tip-top.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Just about the hotel. Fascinating place, isn’t it? Lots of bloody history within these walls.” A chuckle. “Bloody in more ways than one.”

  I sighed and glanced at my watch. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have someplace to be, Mr. Boynton. Please tell me what you saw during your walk.”

  “Oh, yes, right-o. I decided to stroll upstairs where Georgie said she’d seen the dead chap, up on the third floor. And there he was.”

  “Where?”

  “In the corridor. Oh, I tell you, when he saw me round the bend, he skedaddled away. That’s what you Americans would say, isn’t it? Well, that’s what he did. Disappeared into one of those rooms up there just where Georgie said she’d seen him.”

  “Which one of the rooms?” I asked.

  He gave me the number. “Knocked on the door, but got no answer. Not surprised, though.”

  “You’re sure it was Brody?”

  “Well, I—I think it was. I might be getting on in years, but my eyesight is still bloody good, like a man half my age.” He leered. “My eyesight is not the only thing that hasn’t aged, Jessica.”

  “You’re saying it was the actor, not a ghost?” I persisted.

  “Unlike my esteemed friend Georgie, I don’t believe in ghosts. I’ve seen a lot of dead men in my life, Jessica, my dear. I may call you Jessica, may I not? And I think I can tell the difference between dead and alive. And this body was definitely alive.” He fingered the collar of my sweater.

  I thanked him for confiding in me and moved away as quickly as I could, but not fast enough. He grabbed my hand. “It would be my pleasure to buy the lovely Jessica Fletcher a drink,” he said, stroking my fingers and peering into my eyes.

  “You’re too kind,” I said, “but I’m afraid there’s no time.” I extricated my hand from his. “I must run. I’ll see you and Georgie at dinner.”

  I left him standing in the hall and headed back in the direction of the gift shop. Chasseur was still surrounded by fans. Georgie had only two people in her line—Sydney Pomerantz, the man Detective Ladd suspected of strangling his first wife, and the redheaded Ms. Carlisle.

  As I proceeded to Mark Egmon’s office, I tried to make sense out of what I’d just heard from Harold Boynton. Had what he claimed to have seen been an alcoholic vision? Maybe he was so influenced by Georgie and her purported sighting of Paul Brody that he, too, imagined seeing him. Or was he using Georgie’s story for himself, to get closer to me? I shuddered at this last possibility.

  But why he and Georgie had made their bizarre claims really didn’t matter. There were more worldly avenues to pursue in going after Brody’s murderer, and I intended to follow up every one of them. Chasseur had thrown down the gauntlet, and while I had no interest in competing with him—or anyone else, for that matter—I was determined to get to the bottom of things—even if it killed me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Some mystery writers make good use of history in

  their novels. One introduced to readers a

  medieval monk, Brother Cadfael, who dabbled in

  solving crimes. Name this author.

  Before going to Mark Egmon’s office, I swung by the auditorium, where Larry Savoy was rehearsing the next scene.

  “I still can’t believe Chasseur pulled that dumb trick,” he said, “announcing Paul’s murder.”

  “And becoming very popular in the bargain,” I said. “You promised me a copy of Paul’s bio.”

  “Right.”

  He called to Melinda, who was blocking a bit of stage action for Monroe and Victoria Whittaker, and asked for the bio. She rummaged through a large briefcase and found it. “Here you go,” she said, handing the bio to Larry, who passed it to me. I folded it and put it in the pocket of my sweater.

  “Don’t believe everything you read on it, Jessica,” Larry cautioned. “Actors and actresses have a habit of embellishing their résumés.”

  “Like many people,” I said. “I read someplace that thirty percent of people looking for jobs exaggerate or downright lie on their résumés. Did you check Paul’s references?”

  He laughed. “Who has time for that?” he said.

  “I’ll leave you to your rehearsal,” I said. “Thanks for the bio.”

  Mark Egmon was on his way out the door when I arrived at his office. “Oh, Jessica,” he said, “I’m afraid I can’t go with you right now. The storm brought down a couple of big trees across the access road. They’re on our property and the plows can’t get up here until we clear them. I’m on my way to a meeting with the grounds super.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “You go to your meeting and I’ll—”

  “No, no,” he said. “Wait. I’ll get you the pass-keys.” He popped back into his office and returned with a large ring holding dozens of keys. He went through them until he found the one he wanted and handed the ring to me by that key. “This is the one for that door up
in the VIP section of the third floor. Be my guest.” He grinned. “You’re now holding the keys to every room in the hotel. Lucky for me you’re not a robber. Just drop them on my desk when you’re through.”

  “Are you sure you won’t need these?”

  “No problem. Have to run. Just don’t lock yourself in up there. Could take a week to find you.” He was gone, his laugh trailing behind.

  I would have preferred that Mark accompany me, but I understood that he had other priorities at that moment. As I waited for an elevator to arrive, I looked down at the ring of keys and stifled a sense of discomfort at holding the keys to the hotel’s inner recesses, almost as though I were embarking on an illicit act. Silly, of course. He’d willingly given me the keys and encouraged me to explore on my own. Still . . .

  The elevator arrived. I got in, pressed the button for the third floor, and was soon standing in front of the three VIP suites. Although I was alone—the housemaids had probably finished tidying up that section of the hotel and were performing their duties elsewhere—I had the feeling I was being watched. Was someone observing me from one of the suites through the peephole in the door? I glanced around for a surveillance camera but saw none. I knew that this portion of the building was part of the original Mohawk House where the earl had lived and died. I’ve always loved old buildings with historic significance, although when it comes to choosing hotels in my travels, I find myself increasingly drawn to newer ones with more up-to-date amenities, charm failing to compensate for faulty plumbing and balky air-conditioning. It comes with age, I suppose.

  I turned in a circle and tried to visualize what it was like living in Mohawk House generations ago. Had the earl been married? Did he have children? How many servants catered to his wishes? Did he entertain lavishly, or live in relative seclusion, rattling around his mansion until that fateful night when someone separated his head from his body as he slept? Maybe I’d learn more about him one day, I told myself as I looked at the three doors leading into the suites, and the fourth, smaller door, not a guest room, that was locked, the key to which I held in my hand.