A Question of Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I noticed that members of the audience were frantically taking notes. Did they still think this was part of the play? Obviously, some did. The cast onstage stood mute, taking it all in.

  “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher,” Detective Ladd said, “this has all been very interesting. But if this Mr. Brody—Paul. No, Peter—whatever—if he isn’t a murderer, who is?”

  “I wouldn’t say Peter Brody isn’t a murderer,” I said.

  “But I thought you said that—”

  I walked to the side of the stage near where Mr. and Mrs. Pomerantz were seated. He sat stone-still, his eyes glazed, looking straight ahead.

  “Mr. Pomerantz,” I said.

  He slowly raised his head to look at me. His expression hadn’t changed. He had the look of someone who’d just had a devastating message delivered to him.

  “Quite a shock, isn’t it, Mr. Pomerantz?” I said.

  He sat in silence.

  “You thought it was Paul Brody who’d strangled your wife, didn’t you?”

  “I killed the wrong man,” he said so softly I almost missed it.

  I turned to Peter Brody. “If Mr. Pomerantz wanted to avenge his wife’s murder, he should have focused on you. You’d spent the summer in this area pretending to be your brother, Paul.”

  “He was off in Hollywood making dirty movies. He never knew I pretended to be him,” he said. A faraway look came into his eyes. “It was the only time my father ever gave me a pat on the back—when he thought I was Paul.”

  “What happened with Mrs. Powell?” I asked.

  He squirmed. “She caught me stealing money and said she was going to call the police.”

  “So you strangled her?”

  He seemed to realize all of a sudden that he was still onstage. “I didn’t say that,” he said. “You didn’t hear me say that. I want a lawyer.”

  Mr. Pomerantz was now on his feet and approaching the stage, his wife close behind him. They climbed the steps and came directly to where Peter Brody stood with Detective Ladd. Carboroni, the detective in the play, continued to hold the microphone, moving it from speaker to speaker like a talk show host interviewing guests.

  “All these years,” Pomerantz said, “I’ve been accused of having murdered my wife. I’ve had to live with it and turn my back on the cruel comments people made about me and Ethel”—he pointed to his new wife—“I had to turn the other cheek, excuse them for their behavior. I’ve spent the years since the murder trying to find her killer, using every cent I made to pursue justice. I finally narrowed it down to only one person—Brody, who was here that summer acting in a play and doing odd jobs. My wife told me she’d hired someone to help do some gardening and other small jobs around the house, but she never told me his name. He’d only worked at the house for two days, and just a few hours at that. And then he killed her. I’ve devoted my life to finding him, and I thought I had.”

  He fixed Peter Brody in a hard stare. “But I was wrong. It was you.”

  It occurred to me as I listened to his confession that he no longer spoke with the catch in his throat. Had this moment of soul-cleansing rid him of that affliction? His wife, who’d stood stoically by his side, her hand in his, said in a quiet voice, “It’s all right, Sydney. You did what you felt you had to do. Everything will be all right.”

  One of the uniformed officers led Pomerantz away.

  Ladd said to Peter Brody, “Looks like we got two murders solved at once. You’re under arrest, too, for the murder of Mrs. Sydney Powell.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Brody said.

  “Take him away,” Ladd instructed the other officer.

  Brody put up a struggle but was no match for the brawny officer and Ladd.

  Up until the arrest, the audience had watched and listened in rapt attention. Now a cacophony of voices broke out, everyone eager to discuss the scene they’d witnessed. I looked at Larry Savoy, whose expression was bewildered.

  “What do we do next?” he said.

  I leaned over the microphone still held by Carboroni, “There’s one more murder to be solved,” I said. “The one in the play.”

  I turned to Larry and the cast. “I think your audience is anxious to see if they’ve correctly solved the mystery.”

  “You mean—?”

  “Yes! The show must go on.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Who wrote the 1868 mystery The Moonstone?

  As was so often the case with the Savoys’ interactive murder mystery weekends, it was virtually impossible to come up with the solution on the basis of what was presented onstage. This play was no exception. In Melinda’s convoluted script, Victoria, the mother, had had an affair with Paul’s father, the New York City cop, and had given birth to a son she put up for adoption. She shot Paul, her own son, to keep Cynthia—the daughter she and Monroe had together—from marrying the young man, and in the process committing incest. And Paul was actually an undercover cop looking to get the goods on Monroe, an embezzler, using Cynthia to get close to him and trying to keep the maid, his former lover, from exposing who he really was.

  There were many moans the next day when, after each team had presented their conclusions, this plot was revealed by Larry and Melinda. The winning team was nowhere close to having figured out the murder mystery, but they put on a delightfully creative sketch that wowed the judges, including myself. An older man got the most correct answers to the questions posed by Larry, and won a free weekend at Mohawk House. But while the performances had been fun, the real murder of Paul Brody dominated most conversations. The morning ended with a round of applause for the winners and for all the participants.

  The road had been cleared, allowing the guests to leave and the local reporter, Todd Waisbren, and a few other media types to arrive and seek out anyone willing to make statements about what had happened over the weekend. John Chasseur was among those interviewed. “I knew all along who murdered Paul Brody,” I heard him say. He spoke at length, giving his opinions on what had transpired as if he alone had the key to the case.

  I smiled and slipped away before an enterprising reporter could waylay me. I was determined to use my final hours at the hotel to relax and to put what had occurred behind me, to think of anything and everything but murder.

  But I couldn’t avoid discussing it in the dining room when I sat down to lunch with Larry and Melinda Savoy, Georgie Wick, Harold Boynton, and Mark Egmon.

  “Okay, Jessica,” Mark said, “we’re all waiting to hear how you knew it was Mr. Pomerantz who killed Brody.”

  “I couldn’t be sure,” I said, “but I was pretty confident after a conversation I had with him. He suggested that a kitchen worker might be the murderer because he’d have easy access to knives and cleavers. As far as I knew, I was the only hotel guest who was privy to the fact that Brody had been stabbed, not shot.”

  “How did you know that?” Melinda asked.

  “Detective Ladd had taken me into his confidence. I knew he’d never have given the same information to Mr. Pomerantz, since he suspected him of murdering his first wife. So, I concluded that if Mr. Pomerantz knew the victim had been stabbed, it could only be because he was the killer.”

  “Speaking of the detective, Jessica, how did he take it that it was you who identified the murderer, and not he?”

  “I don’t think it disturbed him at all. He’s a nice man, not at all competitive. He was really pleased that, along with the Brody killing, the murder of Mr. Pomerantz’s wife also got solved. That file had been inactive for years, but he maintained an ongoing interest in it. Of course, the police may have a difficult time proving to a jury that Peter Brody killed Mrs. Pomerantz—I mean Mrs. Powell. That was Pomerantz’s former name. Detective Ladd called me to say that the story appeared in the local paper this morning, including Peter Brody’s picture. He’s hoping it will cause someone with damaging evidence against Brody to come forward. Only time will tell whether he’s convicted or not. Detective Ladd promised to stay in touch and keep
me informed.”

  “I feel very sorry for Mr. Pomerantz,” Georgie Wick said. “Poor man. He was innocent of killing his wife, but now he’s guilty of murder. If he found out it was Brody—that’s Peter, not Paul—who killed his wife, why didn’t he just go to the police and clear his name?”

  “Detective Ladd asked him that same question, Georgie, and his answer was that he was afraid there wasn’t enough hard evidence to convict Brody of his wife’s murder. Of course, he thought it was Paul Brody, not Peter, and he was wrong. Paul was innocent of murdering anyone but paid the ultimate price.”

  Boynton hadn’t said a word during the discussion. He avoided eye contact and focused on his food, and his martinis. I knew he was feeling acute embarrassment. I decided to try and ease his discomfort.

  “It’s remarkable,” I said, “how effective Peter Brody was in portraying himself as a woman. I never doubted for a moment that he was just that, a woman—until toward the very end when I learned some things that led me to a different conclusion.”

  Boynton looked up at me and managed a small smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “This old fool needs some understanding.”

  “Oh, Harold,” Georgie said, placing her hand on his arm, “you’re not an old fool. You’re just—well, you’re just a romantic at heart. Isn’t he, Jessica?”

  I nodded and smiled. “We need more romantics in the world,” I said, not adding that I would prefer that they keep their hands to themselves.

  We had dessert and coffee and prepared to say good-bye.

  “You’re staying until tomorrow?” Georgie asked me.

  “That was my original plan, but I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll relax a lot more at my home in Cabot Cove. I have a driver picking me up in a half hour.”

  “Ah know one thing,” Georgie said as we said farewell. “At least y’all know I wasn’t seeing things when I said I saw the actor after he was killed. ’Course, it wasn’t him. I’m kinda disappointed it wasn’t his spirit. I thought it was my first real contact with the other world. It’s something I’ve been dreaming about.”

  “And writing about,” Harold added.

  “Yes, for a long time. But this wasn’t my imagination. I did see something.”

  “You certainly did,” I agreed. “But before we go our separate ways, there’s still a mystery to be solved here at Mohawk House.”

  “What’s that?” Mark Egmon asked.

  “What do your initials, GSB, stand for, Georgie?”

  A small smile crossed her small, delicate face. She downed what was left of her Bacardi cocktail, smacked her lips, and said, “Ah’m afraid even the great Jessica Fletcher won’t be solving that mystery. Come, Harold, it’s time we left.”

  Detective Ladd called me at home four months later to tell me that a grand jury had indicted Peter Brody for the murder of Mrs. Powell. After a second person came forward, Brody confessed, and a plea bargain was struck that would keep him in prison for a minimum of sixty years. Sydney Pomerantz’s lawyer built a case for insanity, and Pomerantz was committed to a state institution. I couldn’t help but wonder whether his wife would visit on a regular basis and bring him clothing to match what she wore each time. And I wondered whether John and Claudette Chasseur were still married. If they were, I just hoped she’d learned some self-defense.

  I did a lot of thinking about my weekend at Mohawk House and the events that had turned a good-natured theatrical murder into a real one. I’d been right about Sydney Pomerantz having stabbed Paul Brody to death, but there were other questions that I’d never been able to resolve to my satisfaction, the cigarette butts on my room’s balcony being one of them. Since Paul Brody didn’t smoke, it must have been his twin brother who’d gone out there to indulge his habit, perhaps to pique Paul’s curiosity as mine had been piqued. Peter seemed to enjoy that sort of mischief.

  Melinda Savoy also called to ask whether I would participate in another interactive murder mystery weekend they’d booked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m contenting myself these days with writing about murder, Melinda, not experiencing it firsthand. But thanks for thinking of me.”

  It was good to be home.

  Answers to the questions posed at Mohawk House’s Murder Mystery Weekend, which appear at the beginning of each chapter.

  Read on for a sneak peak at the next

  exciting Murder, She Wrote original

  mystery, Three Strikes and You’re Dead

  Coming from New American Library in

  October 2006

  “We’re down to the Rattlers’ last out, folks, and the tension is palpable in Thompson Stadium—bottom of the ninth, the score three-two, with the Texans on top, two outs and the tying run on base. If the Rattlers fail to pull it out here, it will be back to the showers and another year before they get a chance to win a league championship and bask in the glory.”

  “Shortstop Junior Bennett, number fourteen, is up next, Ralph, but he’s oh-and-three for the day against this left-handed pitcher. Think they’ll leave him in?”

  The camera focused on a heavily perspiring young fan wearing a number-14 Rattlers jersey over a Hawaiian shirt. He held up a sign that read JUNIOR FOR MVP. Ralph Trienza checked the TV monitor before lifting his red-and-green ball cap to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. “Wishful thinking on the part of that young man, don’t you think, Doug?” he said, as the camera swung back to the two announcers. “Junior’s been in a slump for a month, and Washington’s been trying to let him play through it. But there’s a lot at stake today. If I was a betting man—and I am—I’d have to go with a right-handed pinch-hitter here.”

  “I’m with you, Ralph. Washington has Ty Ramos on the bench. Ramos has had a good year. He’s batting three-ten, three-twenty-five against left-handers. That’s a pretty convincing argument.”

  “Might not be enough to satisfy H.B., though. Ty’s got that strained hamstring that kept him from starting today. But Washington said in the pregame that Ty’s available for pinch-hitting.” Trienza looked into the camera. “You’re watching KRM-TV, and I’m Ralph Trienza, with Doug Worzall, coming to you from Thompson Stadium in Mesa, Arizona, with the score three-two and a lot of folks wondering what manager Buddy Washington will decide to do. We’ll find out in a minute, but first a few words from our sponsor.”

  “Who’s H.B.?” I asked my friend Meg Duffy as the bright light trained on the announcers was switched off, and the monitor reflected a commercial for Thompson Tools and Hardware. With our seats next to the broadcast booth behind the visiting team’s dugout, we could watch the game and listen to the local station’s play-by-play at the same time.

  The organist struck up “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” and a dozen cheerleaders ran out onto the field, behind the first-base foul line. They performed an acrobatic dance routine that ended with each cheerleader holding up a letter on a card, which together spelled out THOMPSON TOOLS. A boy on the end held both the L and the S.

  I was in Arizona visiting an old school friend, Meg Hart Duffy, and her husband, Jack—Judge Jack Duffy to his legions of fans and detractors in the Family Division of the Superior Court, Hudson County, in the state of New Jersey—who had invited me to join them in Mesa, where they’d rented a house for the baseball season. The Rattlers were a Double-A team in the Pacific West division, and we were rooting for them to win. But even more, we were rooting for Ty Ramos to get to play in what was the final day of the season for the Rattlers. Ty was the Duffys’ foster son.

  “H.B. is Harrison Bennett, Senior, the team’s owner,” Meg said in answer to my question.

  “Is he related to the shortstop?”

  She nodded, and her eyebrows flew up. “Junior is his son. And you can see why it’s been hard for Ty to get time on the field when they both play the same position. Buddy Washington tries his best—he knows Ty’s the better player—but the orders come from above, and Junior gets preference. It’s been very frustrating.”

  �
��I imagine it would be.”

  “Jack won’t come to watch the game if Junior’s playing. He even did some research to see if Bennett’s actions were a breach of league rules, but there’s no regulation about an owner’s conduct if he has a son on the team. It may be unethical, and certainly not good for the team, but it isn’t illegal. Too bad for us.”

  It was late afternoon. The Arizona sky was a clear blue, the sun still high enough to heat the stadium to a constant simmer. Summer in my home of Cabot Cove, Maine, is plenty hot, but it never reaches the thermometer heights of the Arizona desert.

  “Couldn’t Ty play another position?” I asked, fanning myself with the program.

  “The manager uses him in the outfield every now and then to keep his bat in the lineup, but the regular outfielders complain when they have to sit one out. No one wants to miss a chance to play. Besides, Ty likes the action at shortstop. It’s a busy position, and he thrives when there’s lots to do.”

  “I guess he’ll have to learn to be patient then.”

  “Not for long. At least I hope not.” Meg lowered her voice and leaned closer to me. “We heard there was a scout from New York down here last week talking to the manager about Ty.”

  “So he has a good chance to move up to the major leagues?”

  “Most likely Triple-A first. The Rattlers are in the Chicago Cubs’ farm system. They have a good Triple-A team here in Arizona, too. Of course, there’s always the possibility of a trade to another major-league ball club. It doesn’t matter who he ends up playing for as long as he makes it to ‘the Show.’ That’s what the kids call the majors, ‘the Show.’ That’s what we’re all praying for. Everyone tells us how talented he is. All he needs is a little more experience. He’d get it on a Triple-A team once he’s out from under Junior and Harrison Bennett. If he does, it could be less than a year before he gets called up.”