Murder, My Suite

by Mary Daheim

  “Those were emergencies,” Judith replied. “Corinne’s got a big family, and she did it because she’s a good neighbor and I was on the spot. Even though some of her kids are grown up and gone, she’s still got small children at home.”

  “Maybe she’d like to get involved in the catering with Arlene,” Renie suggested, soaking a large chunk of lobster in melted butter and wearing an ethereal expression that indicated she could see Valhalla somewhere in the mountain mists. “Or what about cutting back on the catering altogether and doing only the in-house stuff?”

  “That’s possible,” Judith admitted. “I figured it out on paper over the weekend. If I did that, I’d lose about forty percent of my catering profits. That’s sizable, but now that Joe and I are married, we’ve got his income. You’d think we’d be rolling in money, but the truth is, I’m no further ahead than I was three years ago, when I was still single and the B&B was just getting on its feet. Where does the money go?”

  “Don’t ask me. I charge seventy-five bucks an hour, I work an average of thirty hours a week, Bill’s salary at the university is decent, he’s got his private clients, and we’re still broke.” Renie paused to motion at their waiter, who was passing by. “Say, do you suppose we could have another couple of these?” She tapped her empty cocktail glass.

  “It’s baffling,” Judith agreed. “Of course, you’re still sending kids through college. But Mike’s graduated and on his own.” She gave a start and put a hand to her mouth. “Yikes! I forgot to mail off the monthly payment on his new Blazer! It’s due the first of the month.”

  “Send it overnight Friday. You’ll still get it in under the wire.” Renie wrestled with her lobster, trying to remove the last tasty morsels.

  Judith was having problems of her own with the baby-back ribs. She decided it would be acceptable to finish eating them with her fingers. Surreptitiously, she glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Mia Prohowska stepped into her line of vision and leaned down to speak to Nat Linski. A moment later, the couple left the restaurant.

  “Dagmar must have spoiled Mia’s appetite,” Judith remarked. “I wonder what that row was all about.”

  “Dagmar’s book?” Renie offered. “I haven’t seen anything about Mia in the newspaper columns lately.”

  Judith’s eyes strayed across the room. Dagmar’s chair was still empty. Freddy appeared to have everyone’s attention as he performed some kind of finger show and jabbered his head off. Even Agnes Shay wore a diffident smile.

  The waiter brought the cousins’ second round of drinks. Judith finished her ribs and tried to wipe off her hands. “I’d better visit the washroom,” she said, getting out of her chair.

  “The waiter will provide finger bowls,” Renie said.

  But Judith pointed to her scotch. “I’d still better visit the washroom. After all that lemonade and scotch, I’m afloat.”

  While Judith was in the stall, she thought she heard a strange sound that was almost a sob. It was not repeated, and she paid no further attention until she was washing her hands in the powder room section. Adding a dash of lipstick, she looked in the mirror and saw Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth coming out of the lavatory area. She carried her turban and its attached flowing scarf in one hand and her purse in the other. Without the camouflage, Dagmar looked much older. She also seemed upset, even haggard.

  “Mrs. Flynn,” Dagmar said, her voice flat.

  Judith waited for the usually loquacious Dagmar to go on. But she didn’t. The gossip columnist set her purse on the marbleized counter and fussed with her hair. The dark strands with their red highlights were obviously dyed, and pulled back into a tight bun at the base of Dagmar’s head. Without the scarf concealing her throat, Judith noticed definite signs of wrinkles and sags. She and Dagmar were allegedly the same age, but she honestly thought that the other woman was old enough to be her mother. Not Gertrude, of course, but a generic mother, anywhere from fifteen to twenty years Judith’s senior.

  “This is a nice place for a party,” she said at last, to break the awkward silence.

  “Is it?” Dagmar’s tone was sharp. Then, as swiftly as an avalanche, the gossip columnist unleashed a tumult of angry words: “Celebrities are so self-centered! They live in a narrow little world where no one else exists and they are the entire focus! Today, I write about Mel Gibson; tomorrow, Barbra Streisand; then Ken Griffey Jr. I’m not an encyclopedia of their facts and foibles. I’m interested in news, and once it’s been printed, I move on. Why can’t they understand that?”

  Dagmar’s tone had begun to waver, with an undercurrent of anxiety. Judith wasn’t sure how to react.

  “Are you talking about Mia Prohowska?” she offered in a kindly voice.

  Dagmar threw up her hands. “Mia! Yes, yes, Mia and a hundred others! They’re all the same! Mia just happens to be the one who is here. Tonight. In this very restaurant. While I’m trying to enjoy myself. She and Nat Linski are like a plague, shadowing me everywhere. First at the Cascadia Hotel, now here at Bugler! Why can’t they go to the Bahamas?” She set her jaw and eyed Judith with a mixture of fury and self-pity.

  “You said yourself that stirring up people is part of your job,” Judith pointed out reasonably. “I got the impression that you expect these celebrities to react badly.” And, Judith thought to herself, that it’s part of the payoff.

  But Dagmar didn’t look as if she were enjoying the fruits of her labor one bit. With a trembling hand, she rummaged in her big, woven leather purse. “Here,” she said, pulling out several folded sheets of paper. “Would you like getting these?”

  Judith carefully unfolded the top sheet, which, like the rest, seemed to be standard computer printout paper. It read: YOU ARE A VICIOUS BITCH AND YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR CRUELTY.

  “Oh, my,” breathed Judith. “That’s nasty.”

  Dagmar snorted, her equilibrium returning. “It certainly is. Look at the rest. Go ahead, read it all.”

  There were seven such messages, all short and to the point. Dagmar’s writings had harmed someone—many someones—and she would pay for her poisoned pen. Possibly with her life, or so read the final missive:

  YOUR SMEARS AND LIES WILL COST YOU MORE THAN MONEY. WHEN YOU ARE DEAD, NO ONE WILL MOURN.

  “That’s definitely not nice,” Judith said in a weak voice. “How long have you been receiving these things?”

  Dagmar jammed the letters back into her purse. “A month. That last one was waiting for me when I arrived at Bugler yesterday. They come by regular mail, with a New York postmark.”

  “Have you shown them to the police?” Judith asked, lowering her voice as two young women came into the washroom, laughing and talking.

  “Not yet.” Dagmar seemed to fret. “I know what they’d say—what I say myself. It’s a crank, and probably harmless. No real damage has been done.” Her eyes narrowed even as her mouth curved into an ironic smile. “I have to get killed first.”

  Fortunately, the two young women had gone into the lavatory section of the ladies’ lounge. Judith fingered her chin. “I’d definitely show them to the police when you get back to New York,” she said. “I’d consult a lawyer, too. I assume you have one.”

  Dagmar tossed her head, the dyed hair threatening to come loose from its plethora of pins. “Lawyers! They’re a leech on the commonweal! I have an agent in New York with a legal background. What more do I need? Thor Publishing and the Kreager chain have a regiment of attorneys, all sucking up money like vampires drinking blood!”

  Judith gave a helpless shrug. “Everybody needs a lawyer now and then. You know, personal stuff. Property lines, liability, insurance claims, wills.”

  Dagmar gave a superior sniff. “I own a Manhattan penthouse, the publishers and the agent take care of my professional needs, I’ve got enough insurance to cover a Third World country, and I’m too young to make a will. If you knew half the things I do about some of those big-name, grandstanding lawyers, you’d faint with shock!”

  Judith deci
ded to risk a pointed question. “The call you got in my living room last week—was that a threat?”

  Dagmar avoided Judith’s eyes. “It was…a crank.” Under scrutiny, she squirmed a bit. “Well, yes, it was sort of a threat. But I couldn’t identify the caller’s voice.” Now, almost defiantly, Dagmar did return Judith’s gaze.

  Before Judith could respond, Agnes Shay slipped into the washroom. When she saw Dagmar, her plain face was flooded with relief.

  “Oh! You’re all right! I was so worried!”

  Dagmar poked at the pins that held her bun in place. “Really, Agnes, you’re such a fussbudget! Why wouldn’t I be all right? I was merely adjusting my toilette and chatting with Mrs. Flynn. Has dessert arrived yet? I understand the meringues here are divine.”

  Judith lingered briefly, but it was clear that with Agnes’s arrival, Dagmar had assumed her characteristically self-confident persona. Murmuring a word of farewell to both women that was acknowledged only by Agnes, Judith left the ladies’ room.

  Renie was absorbed in the dessert menu. She glanced up as Judith sat down. “Did you have to wait in line? What do other women do in the bathroom? I’ve never figured it out. They fiddle around and take forever, and everybody else is practically doing a dance, waiting her turn. Not me—I’m in, I’m out. What’s to do, unless you’re a graffiti artist?”

  Judith explained what had happened. Renie listened closely, pausing only to order a slice of mocha cheesecake. Not having had the opportunity to study the menu, Judith did the same, adding a Kahlúa and cream. Renie requested Galliano on the rocks.

  “So Dagmar’s scared?” Renie remarked after their waiter had gone off with the order.

  Judith nodded. “Her fright seems genuine.” She glanced across the restaurant. Dagmar and Agnes were returning to their table. The Kreagers welcomed them with apparent enthusiasm. Freddy was ogling a platinum blonde who had just arrived with a bronzed male escort in a tank top and tight jeans. Judith ogled the escort.

  “Of course,” she went on, tearing her eyes away from the handsome young man, “it’s hard to tell with Dagmar. She’s as much of a show-biz character as the people she writes about. Why would she carry those letters around? And why show me?”

  Renie shrugged. “Maybe Dagmar feels safer with the letters under wraps. Maybe she’s trying to impress you. Maybe, as usual, your sympathetic manner has encouraged her to get chummy. Maybe I’m still hungry.” To prove the point, Renie was distracted by the entrees being delivered to other tables. “The prime rib looks wonderful. I could have had that. See, there’s a filet mignon with fresh mushrooms. Oh! Salmon! Do you think it’s sockeye or king?”

  Judith, who was replete and not entirely certain she could down a hunk of cheesecake, eyed her cousin with reproach. “Knock it off. We’ve eaten like the two little pigs. But we haven’t resolved my catering conflict.”

  Renie waved a hand, almost knocking a tray out from under a waiter who was delivering drinks to the next table. “Yes, we have. No matter how hard you work and how much you make, you’ll always be in the hole. So quit killing yourself, give Arlene and whomever else the outside catering jobs, and keep everything else on the B&B premises. End of advice. Where’s the cheesecake?”

  It was arriving nearly on cue. Judith discovered that she could actually stuff herself just a little bit more. The cheesecake melted on her tongue. She sighed with pleasure.

  “Wonderful. And,” she added in a more businesslike tone, “I think you’re right about the catering. That’s sort of the way I’ve been leaning, and you’ve confirmed it. Let’s face it, coz; people like us never get ahead.”

  Renie nodded. “Exactly. It’s the Kreagers and the Dagmars and that ilk who make it big.” She gestured across the room with her fork. “We’re the Little Guys, and maybe that’s not so bad in the big scheme of things.”

  Judith gazed over at the Chatsworth table. The group was about to leave. Karl Kreager was embracing Dagmar; Tessa brushed cheeks with Agnes; Freddy leered at the platinum blonde.

  Renie grinned at Judith. “Dagmar isn’t wearing her turban. What did she do, flush it down the toilet?”

  “Maybe it got too warm,” Judith replied, arguing with herself whether or not to eat all of the cheesecake. “It feels kind of muggy in here this evening.”

  Briefly, Renie turned thoughtful. “You’re right. Almost every night there’s a storm. Mostly lightning, and it doesn’t last too long. In fact, it’s quite beautiful.” Suddenly she grimaced. “Jeez, I hope it doesn’t hit the chairlift!”

  Judith refused to let such alarmist thoughts spoil her evening. Virtuously pushing aside the last bites of cheesecake, she sipped at her Kahlúa. Toward the front of the restaurant, the Chatsworth party was taking its leave. Idly, Judith wondered if a few bites of Chateaubriand had been reserved for Rover.

  The bill jolted her from her comfortable mood. Even with the favorable U.S.—Canadian exchange rate, the cousins owed over a hundred dollars, not including tip. They were thankful that at least they’d taken the time in Port Royal to trade in most of their American currency for Canadian bills.

  “It’s a good thing we’ve got that discount for tomorrow night,” Judith muttered as they headed for the chairlift. “I brought along only three hundred bucks.”

  “We got carried away,” Renie replied in a subdued voice. “I hope Bill brings back a lot of salmon from Alaska. We may have to live on it this winter.”

  The exodus from the restaurant had been heavy. The cousins had to wait in line for the lift. As dusk descended over the mountains, spidery streaks of lightning crackled in the sky to the north. The thunder was still faint, and well distanced from the lightning. Judith watched and listened with a sense of awe.

  “At least the summer storm is free,” she remarked. “Will it rain?”

  “Maybe. It doesn’t always.” Renie was frowning, obviously concerned about their descent on the chairlift.

  The line was moving quickly. Judith stood on tiptoe, noticing Dagmar’s signature turban up ahead. “Everybody must have finished eating about the same time,” she commented.

  “They had quite a crowd when we got here, remember?” Anxiously, Renie watched the chairlift deposit newcomers to Liaison Ledge. “People are still coming up to have dinner. It’s not quite nine. They eat later here, like in Europe.”

  At last it was the cousins’ turn to take the lift. Again Judith went first. Renie didn’t dare linger, lest her place be taken by the dozen or more people behind her in line. As they made their descent, Judith couldn’t resist turning around and grinning at her cousin. Renie was clutching the safety bar and looking more than mildly terrified. The thunder was louder now, and the lightning was flashing on its heels. Judith was enchanted.

  Three-quarters of the way down the mountain, the lift came to an abrupt halt. Judith’s chair swayed, but she wasn’t concerned. Mother Nature was performing on a grandiose scale, with the lightning moving closer, creeping across the sky like slender snakes.

  “Help!” The voice caught Judith’s ear, forcing her to turn again. Renie was leaning forward, looking desperate. “Coz! Is this thing busted?”

  Another clap of thunder delayed Judith’s reply. “I don’t know,” she finally yelled back, trying not to laugh. They weren’t all that far off the ground, though Judith supposed that if they actually fell, a few broken bones might result. But there seemed to be no problem with the cable: For some reason, the revolving mechanism had come to a dead stop. Renie started to yell again, demanding to know what was going on. Judith peered into the oncoming darkness. She could see a cluster of people at the bottom of the lift. They seemed to be grouped around the chair that was in the arrival position.

  Judith turned again. “Somebody’s stuck,” she called to Renie. “Maybe the safety bar won’t open.”

  Trying to enjoy the summer lightning storm and the view of the village with the lights now flickering below, Judith relaxed. But dangling in midair was a bit vexing, and she knew t
hat Renie’s nerves and temper must be badly frayed. Across the way, in the chairs headed up the hill, people were beginning to grouse.

  And then, with a jerk, the cable came to life. Two minutes later, Judith was on the ground, with Renie right behind her. A loud crash of thunder and a blinding bolt of lightning only made them laugh. The cousins were both smiling when they first noticed the sounds and sights that had nothing to do with Mother Nature’s summer caprice. Sirens screamed and red lights flashed. They were headed straight for Judith and Renie.

  FIVE

  BETWEEN THE THUNDER and the sirens, it was impossible to hear anything else. The cousins tried to get closer to a growing crowd which had gathered by the lift-ticket office. With every crack of lightning, the scene took on an eerie, gold-green cast.

  “See?” Renie shouted in Judith’s ear. “I told you—there’s been an accident on the lift. Someone has fallen off, I’ll bet.”

  Judith edged closer, using her height to look over shorter heads. The emergency vehicles had come to a halt just a few yards away. The sirens stopped, but the red lights kept flashing, in garish counterpoint to the lightning. Uniformed personnel spilled out of the fire engine, the police car, and the ambulance. A path was cleared, and Judith tried to see where it led.

  “I’m right,” Renie went on doggedly, still speaking at the top of her lungs. “They’ve stopped the lift again.”

  Judith turned. The lift had come to another halt, and now all the chairs were empty. Their carefree swinging motion struck Judith as macabre.

  The emergency crew had formed a circle, urging people to step back. Along with everyone else, Judith and Renie complied. But as the onlookers retreated and shuffled about, there was a brief opening in Judith’s line of sight. The lightning crackled again, and the red warning lights illuminated the scene. A figure was lying on the ground. Judith was too far away to see a face or a form. Yet though the colors were distorted, there was no mistaking the turban and the matching scarf. If an accident had occurred on the chairlift, Judith was certain that the victim was Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth.