Murder, My Suite

by Mary Daheim

  In the crowd, speculation was rampant, if hushed. Judith kept her thoughts to herself. She was sure that Renie hadn’t been able to see the inert body lying near the lift shack.

  The storm was now moving swiftly to the southwest. Darkness had descended on Bugler. Judith tried to hear what the people next to her were saying, but they spoke in Japanese. On her right, the language was German. Frustrated, she grabbed the sleeve of Renie’s tunic and led her on an end run around the crowd. They stopped on the far side of the lift office, standing on a knoll.

  It seemed that the medics were working on the victim. The minutes dragged by. The police maintained order with polite but firm commands. Judith noticed that the college student who had waved them onto the lift was being questioned by one of the officers.

  The fire truck pulled away, its red light now off. The big shiny vehicle lumbered slowly down the winding road, like a tired animal heading for the barn. Then the medics covered the victim and placed the body on a gurney. As if in time to a slow march, the attendants carried their burden to the ambulance and closed the doors.

  “Oh, my God,” breathed Renie. “Is—was—that Dagmar?”

  Judith might have been taller than her cousin, but Renie was farsighted. “Do you think so?” Judith asked in a hollow tone.

  “I thought I recognized her turban.” Renie bit her lip. “Do you suppose she fell? Or maybe tripped on those high heels?”

  The big letters on the computer paper leaped in front of Judith’s eyes. But it would be impossible to push anyone off the chairlift. Perhaps Dagmar had suffered a heart attack.

  “I don’t know,” she finally answered in an uncertain voice. The ambulance had left and the crowd was beginning to disperse. The chairlift still wasn’t moving. “It had to be something freakish,” Judith declared, more to herself than to Renie. “Why else would they stop the lift? They must have started it up just long enough to get everybody safely to the top or the bottom.”

  The cousins found themselves walking aimlessly. So were a number of other puzzled spectators. The crowd milled around them, eventually drifting toward the road or onto the terrace of Fiddler Lodge.

  “Maybe Dagmar had a stroke,” Renie suggested as they crossed the flagstones and wandered in through the open French doors.

  “That would be less frightening than—” Judith caught herself. What was the point of bringing up the possibility of murder? There had already been too much unexpected violence in Judith’s life.

  But Renie wasn’t so reticent. “Than somebody killing her? Well, you said she got threats. If the police hear about those letters, they’ll investigate.”

  The lobby was huge, a cross between an Alpine chalet and an English hunting lodge. Gleaming wood and shining brass caught the lights of large chandeliers. Big bouquets of wild and exotic flowers were mingled in stoneware vases. The furniture was solid, comfortable, and inviting.

  Judith gave herself a shake. “It’s so hard to believe that Dagmar’s dead. Just a short time ago, she was downing martinis and slurping up meringues. For all her faults and enormous ego, she was so…alive.”

  Renie stopped in her tracks and grabbed Judith’s arm so tightly that it hurt. “She still is, coz.” Renie pointed across the lobby to a long forest-green divan. “There’s Dagmar now, and she’s alive and well and drinking brandy from a balloon snifter.”

  Judith all but leapfrogged across the lobby. Several more decorous guests, who were sipping sherry and after-dinner drinks, stopped to stare. Judith, however, paid no heed. She was staring at Dagmar.

  Dagmar was staring at the plush floral carpet. The hand that clutched the big brandy snifter shook, and Tessa Kreager had an arm around the gossip columnist.

  Renie had caught up with Judith. Dagmar seemed oblivious of the cousins’ presence. Tessa shook her head at them in an apparent attempt at dismissal. But Judith wasn’t so easily put off.

  “Excuse us,” she said, her voice sympathetic. “What’s going on? We thought Dagmar had met up with an accident.”

  “Dagmar’s fine,” Tessa snapped, her face flushed under the tan. “Please leave us alone. We’re waiting for Karl.”

  Balancing on one foot and then the other, Judith scanned the long lobby. She saw no sign of Karl Kreager. “Is there something we can do?” she offered.

  Tessa Kreager’s fine features curdled in anger, but before she could reply, Dagmar’s head suddenly jerked up. “Mrs. Flynn! Mrs. Jones! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here! Please sit!” Dagmar inched closer to Tessa, making room for the cousins.

  Clearly annoyed, Tessa shot Judith and Renie malevolent looks, but said nothing. Dagmar took a last sip of brandy, held the snifter out in front of her, then set it down on the leather-topped coffee table. She shut her eyes tight and uttered a pathetic little keening noise.

  “I was going to ask Agnes to get me another,” she whispered in a shaky voice. “Then I remembered. Agnes can’t. She’s dead.” Tears rolled down Dagmar’s wrinkled cheeks, ruining her makeup.

  It was Renie who reacted first. “Agnes is dead? Oh, no! What happened?”

  Tessa spoke sharply. “We don’t know. That’s what we’re waiting for. Karl is trying to find out.”

  Dagmar was literally beating her crepe-covered breast. “It’s all my fault. We left the restaurant in a group, but I’d forgotten my turban and scarf in the washroom. I sent Agnes back to fetch my things.”

  A waitress strolled by, inquiring if Dagmar cared for a refill. She did. Tessa requested a glass of sparkling Vouvray. Judith hemmed and Renie hawed, but they finally settled on joining Dagmar in a bit of brandy.

  “Then what happened?” Judith asked, ignoring Tessa’s sour expression.

  Dagmar’s hands fluttered in a helpless gesture. “Nothing. I mean, the rest of us got on the lift, except Freddy, who’d met some lowlife friend in the bar. We came down the mountain, and decided to come here for a nightcap. The next thing I knew, there was a commotion outside.” She waved at the nearest set of French doors. “When Tessa returned from the bar, she went to see what was going on. I waited forever, or so it seemed. Tessa finally told me that something terrible had happened to Agnes.” Dagmar held her head in her hands.

  The drinks were delivered to the big coffee table. After a sip of Vouvray, Tessa began to relax. “I was one of the first to get to the scene,” she said, her Southern drawl more pronounced under stress. “When I saw that turban and scarf, I felt as if I were hallucinating. Then I realized it was Agnes, not Dagmar. I tried to get to her, but there were already some official types keeping everybody at a distance.” Tessa slowly shook her head, apparently still shocked. The perfect little blond curls seemed to lack their usual buoyancy.

  Judith envisioned the scene. “Was Agnes still in the chair when you arrived?”

  “Yes. A couple of men were getting her out. I suppose they thought she was afraid, or maybe sick. They carried her over by that shack where they sell the lift tickets. I tried to follow, but that was when I got warned off with the others.” Tessa was not only relaxing, she seemed to be unraveling. Her hand also shook, spilling droplets of wine on her tailored ecru slacks. “I didn’t realize that Agnes was dead until the medics or whoever they were covered her up.”

  Dagmar’s fingers flitted at her neck, then her hair. She seemed to be searching for the turban and the scarf that were no longer there, just as, by reflex, she had tried to summon Agnes. “Her heart, perhaps…Agnes was never strong. Not that she complained, but what if she had an undiagnosed condition? She almost never saw a doctor.” Again Dagmar covered her face with her hands. “Oh, my! I blame myself! For everything!”

  Tessa tried to console the distraught Dagmar. Various other patrons in the lobby were watching, if discreetly. Judith sipped at her brandy, wishing she didn’t feel so uneasy.

  Karl Kreager’s entrance was noted by all. His distinguished figure would have made waves in any setting. But the urgency of his manner caused a stir. Very few would have recognized him on sight
, but everyone seemed to acknowledge that he was an important personage.

  Karl was taken aback by the presence of Judith and Renie. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. Reaching out with both hands, he urged Dagmar and Tessa to come with him.

  “We must speak privately. We’ll go back to Clarges Court.”

  But Dagmar didn’t budge. “No. Tell me now. I won’t be able to walk as far as the parking lot if you don’t.”

  The agate blue eyes flashed. It was clear that Karl Kreager didn’t like to be crossed, not over big issues, or over small matters, either. There was no space left for him on the sofa. He stood in front of the four women like an executive conducting a meeting.

  “There’s nothing definite yet,” he said, his deep voice very low. “However, I can tell you this much.” Karl licked his lips as if, in having been thwarted, he relished the news he was about to deliver. “The local police suspect foul play. They’re going to perform an autopsy.”

  Dagmar fainted.

  The well-trained and highly efficient personnel who worked in Bugler weren’t accustomed to handling multiple crises. Emergencies usually involved broken bones on the ski slopes, twisted ankles at the ice rinks, and the occasional celebrity overdose from drugs or alcohol.

  But a dead body on the chairlift and an unconscious woman in the lobby of Fiddler Lodge put the staff’s usually cheerful poise to the test. The waitress who had served drinks insisted upon finding smelling salts; the concierge tried to summon a doctor; the publisher of the Bugler weekly put aside his mug of Molson long enough to whip out his camera. That was the last straw for the assistant manager, a Tlingit tribal member who utilized his native powers by decking the newspaperman, who fell flat out under the lobby’s grand piano.

  It was Tessa Kreager who managed to bring Dagmar around by putting the columnist’s head between her knees and speaking words of comfort in a soft Southern drawl.

  “Writers are notoriously emotional,” she asserted in an aside to the assistant manager, who was rubbing his sore knuckles. “Don’t worry, we’ll handle this.”

  And somehow, they did. Between them, Karl and Tessa Kreager maneuvered Dagmar out of the lobby and, presumably, from the hotel to the parking lot. Judith and Renie remained on the forest-green sofa, drinking their brandy. Their presence was ignored.

  “I don’t believe it,” Judith said flatly after the hubbub had died away. “Foul play?”

  Renie smirked. “Hey, coz, it’s right up your alley. Murder. Suspects. Motives. Opportunity. A police force that can’t find its backside in a small box. Go for it. Otherwise, we have to do wholesome things, like hike and play tennis.”

  “Aaaargh!” Judith’s exclamation was genuine. The cousins differed in many of their interests and personality traits. But neither was athletic, nor ever had been. Renie had given up sports in the sixth grade because she’d been hit in the face with a medicine ball; Judith had surrendered after an ill-fated adventure on a pogo stick. Both preferred more intellectual pursuits, and in Judith’s case, her curiosity had often been activated by murder.

  “Maybe,” she mused, swirling the brandy in the big snifter, “we should go visit the local police.”

  “What’s our excuse?” Renie asked, sufficiently game to find one.

  Judith waved a hand. “Bugler. It’s a small resort town, barely twenty years old. What—two, three thousand regular residents? This is probably their first homicide. What do they know? They’ve had no experience; their facilities must be unsophisticated; the personnel is undoubtedly limited. They might actually welcome our help.” Abruptly, Judith clasped a hand to her head. “It’s going on ten. I’ve got to call Joe. Afterward, let’s drive down to police headquarters.”

  Joe Flynn answered on the second ring. Arlene Rankers had done a bang-up job hosting Hillside Manor’s guests. Or so Joe thought, since they were all comfortably settled in for the night and not threatening lawsuits. As for Gertrude, a light had been on in the toolshed when he got home. Ergo, she must be well.

  “Wait a minute,” said Judith. “What time did you come home? It doesn’t get dark until after eight-thirty.”

  “I worked late,” Joe replied. “Then Woody and I went out for dinner. Sondra was giving a potluck for her day-care co-op.”

  Judith knew that Woody’s wife, Sondra, had been involved in a neighborhood day-care program since the arrival of the Prices’ second child. The baby girl had been born in late May; Woody’s firstborn, a son, was almost two.

  “Are you and Woody still working the tavern homicide?” Judith asked.

  “Right,” Joe answered. “It’s more complicated than we realized.”

  Judith frowned into the payphone. “I thought it was a showdown between the owner and the bartender. What’s complicated about that?”

  “Oh, there was a classic triangle. The owner, the bartender, and the owner’s wife. The bartender, Phil Lapchick, is stable now, and he claims that he was having an affair with Mrs. Bauer. She denies it. She insists that her husband, Les, was the jealous type, and that Lapchick is a pathological liar. Diana is pretty sharp. I think she may have these characters nailed down.”

  “Diana?” Judith’s tone was sardonic. “Since when do you call suspects by their first name?”

  “She’s not a suspect.” Joe suddenly sounded irritable. “I told you, she was a hostage. Lapchick was going to kill her, too, if Woody and I hadn’t shown up. The problem is that we have to establish motive—for Lapchick. Did he shoot the boss because Bauer had accused him of putting his hand in the till, as was originally claimed, or because he was allegedly hot for Diana? We can’t present a case unless we know what was really going on.”

  Almost three hundred miles from home and enjoying every luxury that a world-class resort could provide, Judith didn’t feel justified in making insinuations about how her husband was handling his latest homicide investigation.

  “It sounds tricky,” she said, “but you’ll figure it out. Did we get any interesting mail?” Somewhat guiltily, she thought about the ledger and the bills she’d brought with her. They still reposed in her suitcase. The gas and phone bills had arrived Saturday and remained sealed in their envelopes.

  “The usual,” Joe replied, then corrected himself. “No, you got a little box from some telecommunications company. Should I open it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Judith replied with a note of excitement. “That’s the thing that goes with the Caller I.D. If you get a chance, can you hook it up?”

  Joe agreed that he’d give it a try. “How’s it going up at Bugler? Nice digs?”

  Judith didn’t want to brag about the accommodations. “Nice enough,” she answered breezily.

  “You and Renie having fun?”

  Judith hesitated, on the verge of telling Joe about Agnes Shay. But she didn’t know what had really happened. “We ran into some people we knew from—”

  “My beeper just went off, Jude-girl. It might be Woody. Or Diana Bauer. Take care. Love you.” Joe hung up.

  Still holding the receiver, Judith tried not to be annoyed. She considered calling Gertrude. But Judith’s mother despised phone calls, even from her daughter. She’d wait until the next day to check in with Gertrude.

  Renie was window-shopping in the lodge’s boutiques. “Well? How’s Joe?”

  “Fine.” Judith’s step was brisk. “Let’s drive to police headquarters. Didn’t you say it was in that big red building near the main highway?”

  Renie nodded, eyeing Judith curiously. But the cousins had built-in antennae when it came to each other’s moods. Renie sensed that she shouldn’t press Judith for further details about Joe.

  Instead, they went to call on the police.

  SIX

  BUGLER’S CHIEF OF police was in his mid-thirties, with wavy auburn hair, brown eyes, and a muscular build. Rhys Penreddy worked in cramped but up-to-date surroundings. He was more curious than annoyed by the cousins’ arrival.

  “You were acquainted with the deceased?�
�� he asked after Judith and Renie had been left to cool their heels for almost thirty minutes.

  Judith explained how the Chatsworth party had stayed at Hillside Manor the previous week. She told Rhys Penreddy about accidentally running into Dagmar and the others at Clarges Court. She recounted the coincidental meeting at Crest House and her conversation with Dagmar in the ladies’ washroom.

  “Mrs. Chatsworth showed me some letters she’d received,” Judith continued in her most earnest voice. “They were definitely of a threatening nature. She also received a strange phone call while she was at my B&B. I can’t help but wonder, if it turns out that Agnes was actually murdered, that the intended victim might not have been Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth.”

  Rhys Penreddy’s clever brown eyes regarded Judith with amusement. “That might be assumed, of course, since Ms. Shay was wearing her employer’s turban. But we mustn’t jump to conclusions, eh?”

  Judith bridled a bit. “I’m basing the assumption on threats to Dagmar. Agnes Shay was a completely harmless woman. But her employer is a powerful person, a nationally syndicated columnist who knows all the dirt.”

  Penreddy consulted his notepad. It seemed to Judith that his jottings had been remarkably sparse during the course of his interview with the cousins.

  “Anything else?” Penreddy asked smoothly.

  Judith glanced at Renie, who was looking blank. “Well…” Judith frowned. “I realize you won’t know anything for certain until after the autopsy, but what makes you think that foul play was involved?”

  Penreddy’s brown eyes danced with high spirits. “Really, Mrs. Flynn, I’m not allowed to say. We don’t have facilities for a complete autopsy here in Bugler, so the body has been sent to Port Royal. We’ll have our results in the morning, and if you’re still here on Wednesday, you can read about them in the weekly newspaper.”