A Question of Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I gasped. “They were twins. Identical twins.”

  No wonder I was confused. Seeing the pictures on the bio had reinforced for me the belief that I was reading Paul’s résumé. I might have picked up on it earlier had the bio not constantly referred to Peter Brody as “Mr. Brody,” and if the printer had not cut off the tops of the pages, including the headline on the first page.

  My thoughts went back to when I’d seen a woman approach Paul Brody in the lobby, claiming to know him. If I remembered correctly, she’d called him Peter. That sort of mistaken identity must happen regularly with twins. There are myriad stories about how twins are constantly being confused for one another, even by those close to them. I’d even heard of instances in which a twin was able to fool his brother’s girlfriend or wife.

  Things began to fall into place for me now. Georgie Wick and Harold Boynton hadn’t seen the ghost of Paul Brody on the third floor. They’d seen his twin brother, Peter. What other explanation could there be?

  The man I’d seen smoking when I came in from my walk that first night was probably Peter, not Paul. Those who said Paul had quit smoking were right. Was it Peter who’d followed me on my sojourn through the inner recesses of the hotel? I couldn’t be sure, but it was a reasonable assumption.

  The auditorium was now filling up. Detective Ladd stood at the back of the room, two uniformed officers flanking him.

  The big question!

  Had Peter murdered his brother?

  If so, it cast serious doubt on the theory I’d carried with me into the theater that night.

  Larry Savoy bounded down the stairs at the side of the stage and headed for the rear of the auditorium.

  “Larry,” I said.

  He stopped.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Not right now. Another crisis. Be back soon.”

  I was peering at the Web site printout, still dismayed at not having taken the time to read the entire document, resulting in my not picking up the difference in names, when Ms. Carlisle entered the auditorium, accompanied by Harold Boynton. I looked for Georgie Wick and spotted her sitting a few rows behind where Boynton and his tall, redheaded companion for the evening took seats in the front row. It was the first time I’d seen Ms. Carlisle at a performance. I couldn’t imagine that Boynton would seriously be interested in her; it was a bizarre pairing of people if I ever saw one. But I learned years ago never to judge mutual attraction between men and women. Individuals see things in each other that outsiders don’t, and it’s silly to second-guess. Had I not known that she wasn’t part of the cast, I would have anticipated her playing a role in the production at this performance.

  Larry returned and plopped down beside me. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Are you planning to have your detective call people up from the audience during this act?” Using audience members in the show was a staple theatrical device for Savoy productions. A number of preselected people would be called to the stage and asked humorous questions based upon information previously provided for the detective, hopefully generating funny responses. Most did, acting silly as the detective in the show used his quick wit and ad-lib ability to milk those situations for laughs.

  “Sure. He’s already got the list.”

  “Would you mind adding another to it?”

  “You mean you’re finally ready for your stage debut, Jessica?”

  “No, not me,” I said, smiling. “I have someone else in mind.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Ms. Carlisle.”

  He looked across the room to where she and Boynton sat. “Why her?” he asked.

  “I think it might prove interesting. Will you do it?”

  “Sure. I’ll have Melinda come up with some material for Carboroni to use.”

  “No need to do that,” I said, handing him a sheet on paper of which I’d written notes and questions for the detective.

  Larry read what I’d written. “Will she go along with it?”

  “I don’t know, Larry, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Does this have to do with Paul’s murder?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think that she—?”

  “I’m not sure what I think at this moment,” I said. “I just know that we’re running out of time. If the killer isn’t apprehended right away, the weekend will be over and he or she will be gone forever.”

  “Okay,” Larry said. “I’m with you, Jessica.”

  He returned to the stage, and I left my seat to join Detective Ladd.

  “I wish you’d tell me more,” he said.

  “It won’t be long,” I said. “I figured out the problem with the Web site.” I told him about the name mix-up.

  “His twin is here?”

  “I’d bet on it—if I were a betting person.”

  “Where is he? If he’s been here all weekend and hiding out, he’s number one on my suspect list.”

  “Along with a few others,” I said. “Enjoy the show.”

  As I resumed my seat, I sensed that the audience was primed, ready to go. There was intense excitement throughout the auditorium. Did they know that something special was about to happen, or were they simply happy to see the weekend coming to an end and looking forward to leaving, now that they finally could? It didn’t matter what was behind their enthusiasm. It was there, and I felt it the way professional entertainers must feel it every time they prepare to face an audience. Opera singers refer to stepping out on a stage in front of an audience as “facing the hungry wolf,” and I have nothing but admiration for performers who are willing to expose themselves to a critical audience.

  The theme from The Pink Panther came from the speakers—the show was about to begin. Larry stepped through the curtains and was handed his wireless microphone by Melinda, who then went down into the audience to pass out the cards on which audience members would record their answers to the latest questions posed by Larry. One of them was mine, about the author who created the beloved Inspector Morse. There were groans from people who didn’t know the answers, and satisfied exclamations from those who did.

  “You’ve all been real troupers,” Larry said as Melinda collected the cards. “Ready for the next installment in this story of murder, mayhem, and mysterious doings?” The audience responded appropriately. “But I must warn you before we begin. What you see tonight will curl your hair and push your pulse rates to new heights. It’s not for the faint of heart!”

  The curtain opened, and Detective Carboroni and Officer Dolt entered stage right, eliciting applause from the audience. Dolt stepped to the front of the stage and bowed dramatically, prompting Carboroni to elbow him aside and do the same. This time the audience booed. It was all great fun, and I was happy to see the audience enjoying it so much.

  Carboroni began questioning the Whittakers while Catarina cowered off to the side. Cynthia assumed a defiant posture behind Carboroni, arms crossed across her chest, one foot tapping loudly on the stage floor. After a few minutes of baseless questioning, Carboroni turned to the audience, pulled a piece of paper from his trench coat, and read off a name. It was the first of four names he would call over the next ten minutes. One was the doctor who’d been brought into things outside the dining room the first night. Another was an extremely nervous woman who could do nothing but giggle as Carboroni asked silly questions about her life and career. She was, she told him, a schoolteacher, which prompted Carboroni to ask whether she thought she could teach Officer Dolt anything. She said she doubted it, prompting Dolt to announce that he’d graduated at the head of his class in high school. Carboroni asked how many students were in his graduating class. “Three,” he said proudly, obviously using a routine he and Carboroni employed whenever a teacher was rung into the act.

  Carboroni went through the four people, tying them to the Whittaker family in absurd scenarios he concocted. The audience loved it.

  “All right, youse can sit down,” Carboroni said, “but don’t leave.”
To Dolt, “Make sure they don’t leave the premisesses.”

  “It’s premises,” Dolt corrected.

  Carboroni shot him an angry look, causing Dolt to raise his hands in mock defense.

  “Is there a Ms. Carlisle in the audience?” Carboroni asked.

  Everyone turned to see whether the mysterious redheaded woman dressed in black would respond to his call.

  “Come on, dear,” Carboroni called. “You’re the most glamorous lady here. We couldn’t miss a chance to talk with you.”

  She didn’t move for a few seconds. But then she slowly stood, straightened her dress, and looked down at Boynton, who shook his head. She patted his bald pate, drew herself up to full height, and climbed the short set of steps, head high, carrying herself regally. She crossed the stage to where Carboroni stood, smiled at him, and waited for his question.

  “Your name is Ms. Carlisle?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your first name?”

  She replied coquettishly, “I only give my first name to men I know especially well.”

  “Yeah? Well, look, lady, I’m a police officer, and I don’t take kindly to people who don’t answer my questions.”

  “I like it when you’re angry,” she said, touching his cheek with the fingertips of her right hand, setting off a roar of laughter from the audience.

  Carboroni jumped back in mock horror. “Don’t touch me,” he said. “I’m pledged to another.”

  “Don’t touch the detective,” Dolt said, walking in a circle around Ms. Carlisle and bending down to peer under her veil.

  “You’re cute,” she said to Dolt. “I’d like to take you home with me as a mascot.”

  He beamed at the audience. More laughter.

  Carboroni referred to the notes I’d provided. “I’m here investigating a murder, Ms. Carlisle,” he said, “and I have to know who my suspects are. Sorry, but the veil has to go.”

  She gasped in shock at what he’d suggested.

  “Come on, Ms. Carlisle,” he said, “don’t play games with an officer of the law—which is what I happen to be.”

  “If you insist,” she said.

  Instead of following his order where she stood, she sauntered to the front of the stage and looked down at the audience, batting her long eyelashes and thrusting out one hip. “I have the feeling I am about to be exposed,” she said, laughing softly. Then, in one swift, unexpected motion, she whipped off her black veil and red wig and tossed them into the crowd.

  “I am,” she said in a dramatic female voice, “Paul Brody.”

  There were gasps, followed by loud expressions of disbelief by some, affirmation by others.

  “I knew he wasn’t dead,” a man yelled as Ms. Carlisle continued to disrobe until she’d shucked her long black dress and women’s shoes and stood there in a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt.

  My attention went to Harold Boynton, who looked as though he’d gone into permanent shock. He leaned forward in his seat, mouth hanging open, confusion written all over him as he stared at the “woman” who’d been his seat companion only moments earlier.

  Detective Ladd came up the aisle, flanked by the two uniformed officers. He looked up at Brody, who’d assumed a dramatic pose, a broad smile on his heavily made-up face. “Arrest him,” Ladd said.

  I stepped up next to the detective and said, “No, not yet.”

  “This isn’t in the script,” Monroe Whittaker intoned from the stage.

  Larry Savoy came from the wings and asked me, “What’s this all about, Jessica?”

  “It’s about the murder of Paul Brody,” I said.

  “He wasn’t murdered,” a woman in the audience said. “See? They did it to throw us off.”

  I waited for the conversations to cease. “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” I said to the woman. “Paul was murdered, both in the play and in reality. This isn’t Paul Brody. This is his twin brother, Peter.”

  “He looks just like Paul,” a man exclaimed.

  “Identical twins usually do,” I said.

  I climbed the steps to the stage and stood next to Peter, who was going through a series of poses for the audience, the smile never leaving his face. “Why did you come here?” I asked. Carboroni brought the microphone to us so the audience could hear.

  “Why, to kill my brother, of course,” he responded, sounding gleeful.

  Detective Ladd started up the stairs, but I shook my head and held up my hand. I said to Peter, “Why did you want to kill Paul?”

  “To get even,” he said, no longer using his forced feminine voice. He was now a baritone. “He had all the breaks in life, thanks to daddy dearest, and he even stole what money was left to me. My brother was not a very nice person. I hated him.”

  Behind us, Victoria Whittaker said to Melinda, “This is better than the script.”

  In front of us, someone shouted, “Help!” I looked to where Harold Boynton had apparently fainted, pitching forward off his seat to the floor. Those close to him fell to their knees, and the physician who’d been on the stage joined them and took over reviving him, with Georgie Wick at his side.

  “Oh, poor Harold,” Peter said. “I’m afraid the shock was too much for him. Such a dear man.”

  This time, Detective Ladd and the two officers wouldn’t be put off. They mounted the stage, and Ladd confronted Peter. Carboroni held the microphone in front of him as the detective said, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Paul Brody.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “He confessed,” Ladd said. “He said he came here to kill his brother.” To Peter: “Isn’t that right, young—man?”

  I answered for him. “He said he came here with that intention, Detective, but he didn’t say he went through with his plan.”

  Ladd faced Peter again. “Well, did you kill your brother?”

  “I would have,” Peter said, “but someone beat me to it.”

  “Who?” Ladd asked me.

  I looked out over the audience and saw that John Chasseur, who’d joined his wife, had gotten up and was heading for the door. “I don’t think anyone should be allowed to leave,” I said to Ladd.

  “Hey,” Ladd shouted. “Mr. Chasseur. You can’t leave.”

  Chasseur stopped just short of the door. “I’ll go wherever and whenever I want,” he said.

  “No sir, you will not,” Ladd replied, sounding as though he meant it. He instructed the two uniformed officers to go to the door and prohibit anyone from leaving the auditorium. Chasseur muttered under his breath as one of the officers escorted him to his seat next to Claudette.

  I took the microphone from Carboroni and addressed the audience. “You’ve all had a chance to meet John Chasseur and his lovely wife, Claudette. You may know that John is a successful writer and Claudette was a Hollywood actress. What you may not have known is that they knew Paul Brody in Hollywood. He was in a film that John produced, and in which Claudette appeared.”

  A wave of murmurs rolled across the auditorium. Many people pulled out their pads and began scribbling.

  “So what?” Chasseur called from where he sat. “What does that prove?”

  “It doesn’t prove anything on the surface,” I said, “but you both know that certain things happened in Hollywood with Paul that provide you, John, with a motive for wanting him dead.”

  Chasseur stood. “That may be,” he said, “but wanting somebody dead isn’t against the law.”

  “That’s true,” I said, “but battering one’s wife is.”

  He looked down at Claudette and muttered an obscenity.

  I returned my attention to Peter Brody. “Why did you stay?” I asked. “Once you knew that your brother was dead, why didn’t you leave?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “I thought about leaving, but the snowstorm changed my mind. Besides, I was having too much fun.” He looked to where Harold Boynton had come to and was back in his seat. Georgie Wick sat next to him in the chair that
Peter Brody, aka Ms. Carlisle, had occupied. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Harold,” Peter said. “I apologize for misleading you.”

  “You stayed because you were having fun making people think you were a woman?” I said.

  “Yes. Why not? After all, I make my living doing that.” He told the audience: “If you’re ever in San Francisco, you must come and see the show I’m in.” He mentioned the name of the nightclub a few times, then turned to me and asked, “Anything else, Mrs. Fletcher? Am I free to go?”

  “You followed me when I explored some out-of-the-way places in the hotel, didn’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Why not? My friend Harold told me that you would probably solve the murder of my brother, so I thought I’d see what you were up to. By the way, have you solved his murder? Not that I care very much.”

  “That remains to be seen,” I said. “Mind another question?”

  “Ask all you want.”

  “You and your family used to come here to Mohawk House when you and Paul were little.”

  “Yeah. I loved this place. We were constantly exploring to find the secret rooms and passages, playing pranks on the staff. I wished we could live here.”

  “You did for a while,” I said, “as an adult. You came back here one summer to appear in summer stock at a theater, the Newsome.”

  His brow furrowed. “That’s right,” he said, drawing out the words as if he had trouble remembering.

  “And you did odd jobs in order to make ends meet.”

  He forced a laugh. “You’ve really been digging, haven’t you?”

  “I’m a good listener,” I said. “People at this hotel thought it was Paul who’d come here that summer. But when Paul was reminded of it, he said he had no memory of it. That’s because it was you, not Paul.”

  He laughed again. “I’ve pretended to be Paul many times, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s one of the few advantages of being an identical twin. There aren’t many advantages, especially when your father favors one over the other. The old man always preferred Paul to me, gave him financial backing when Paul was trying to break into Hollywood. He never did that for me. I have a lot more acting talent than Paul ever did, but he got all the breaks. A lot of good it did him, huh? He’s dead and I’m very much alive.”