Murder, My Suite

by Mary Daheim

  After a few desultory words about the progress of the investigation, Tessa headed back to Dagmar’s condo. The cousins waited for the garage gate to go up, then drove out into the late-afternoon sunshine.

  “Power,” Renie muttered, waiting for a couple of young skateboarders to glide past. “When you stop to think about it, the Kreagers wield enormous power.”

  Tracing their intended route on the map provided by the real estate company, Judith told Renie to head back to the village. “You’re right,” she allowed, after her cousin had pointed the car along the road that zigzagged up the first stages of the mountain. “I’ve been seeing the Kreagers mainly as Dagmar’s book editor and publisher. But there’s the other Kreager who runs the newspaper chain.”

  “Kirk? Since Kurt, the eldest, died, Kirk has the newspapers, the TV and radio stations, and the magazines, right?” Renie sensed, rather than saw, Judith nod. “I wonder how closely Karl and Kirk cooperate.”

  As they came to a three-way stop by the golf course Judith suddenly strained at her seat belt. “Hey—there’s the ice rink! And Nat Linksi!”

  “Amazing,” Renie murmured sarcastically. “A man at his place of work. What next, firemen putting out a fire?”

  Judith tugged at Renie’s arm. “Come on, coz. Pull up. We have a chance to talk to Nat without Mia hanging onto his frame.”

  Rush hour in Bugler wasn’t exactly like gridlock on the freeway, but parking places were definitely at a premium. Since Renie had never learned to parallel-park properly, she merely drove up onto the sidewalk, scaring the wits out of several pedestrians and two boys on bicycles.

  “Coz!” Judith gasped.

  “Go on, get out. I’ll drive around.”

  “On the sidewalk? I think that’s illegal in Canada as well as the United States.”

  “Probably.” Renie made a face at her cousin. “I’ll get back onto the street up there.” She nodded at a driveway some thirty feet in front of them. She also ignored a middle-aged man who was yelling at her to get out of the way. “Buzz off!” Renie yelled back. The man pounded on her hood. Renie pressed the accelerator. The man fell back against a lamppost. Judith flew out of the car, barely managing to land on her feet.

  Not wanting to see what other mayhem Renie was causing, Judith hurried back toward the ice rink. Nat Linski was getting into a white Bentley. Judith waved frantically. With one long leg still outside the car, Nat rested his chin on the open door and regarded Judith quizzically.

  With no time to fabricate an improbable story, Judith smiled brightly at Nat. “Hi, how’s Mia? We were so worried about her.”

  Nat raised his bushy eyebrows. “You? Why should that be?”

  Judith leaned against the Bentley. “Well…we found her up in the woods, and she seemed…despondent. That’s why we invited her to our condo. She must be extremely sensitive, since she’s such a great artist and all. My cousin and I are just ordinary souls, and heaven knows we were distraught about being in the vicinity when Agnes Shay was murdered. I can imagine how the tragedy must have shattered Mia.”

  A puzzled expression enveloped Nat Linski’s bearded face. “She hardly knew this woman named Shay. Why should it disturb her? We hear later—this morning, in fact—of the tragedy. It is unfortunate, but we are hardened. Murder, treachery, imprisonment, torture—all these are part of our past.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, as if listing the sights on the local bus tour through Further Pomerania.

  “Oh.” Judith ran a hand through her short silver-streaked hair. “Yes, of course.” Desperately, she sought an excuse to keep Nat from driving off. A quick glance at the street showed that the goal had already been accomplished. A big blue streak had just made a U-turn and raced off, causing three cars to rear-end each other. The exit to the ice-rink parking lot was effectively sealed.

  “That’s right,” Judith said, gathering her scattered wits. “You and Mia left Crest House sometime ahead of the Chatsworth party. You were probably home by the time the murder occurred.”

  “Possibly.” Nat seemed disinterested. Judith said nothing. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier suspicions of the cousins. He drew his leg into the car and prepared to leave, then noticed the jam-up out in the street. “Good God!” he exclaimed, putting his head out the window. “What’s that? An accident? In the village? Incredible!”

  All three drivers were out of their cars, arguing in various languages. Onlookers had gathered, and Judith wondered if anyone would recollect the blue Chevy. She hoped that Renie would have the good sense not to return to the ice rink immediately.

  “Five o’clock traffic,” Judith murmured. “You just can’t get away from it.” She leaned against the Bentley once more. “You were saying…about being home?”

  “Yes, yes.” Nat sounded testy. He kept his eyes on the street, where two of the three drivers seemed close to blows. “We live on Crystal Lake, west of the town. We walk down the mountain. The lift is for tourists and the lazy.”

  Being both, Judith gave Nat a limp little smile. “The mountain trail must be lovely at night.”

  “Lovely?” Nat’s tone was uncertain. His attention was fixed on the melee at curbside. In the near distance, the off-key siren of a police car could be heard. “It is evocative, the mountains. I think of my homeland, with the snow-covered peaks, the rushing streams, the eagle soaring overhead.” He sighed plaintively. “I grow nostalgic. Last night, I stand alone at the cliff’s edge and regard the forest primeval. The storm shatters the sky, with lightning dancing in the heavens. In my mind, I can see my native country, I can hear peasant melodies, I can smell the rich, damp earth.”

  Judith was moved as well as disconcerted. Nat’s imagery had conveyed something else, but the disturbance in the street kept Judith mentally off-balance. “You were born…ah, where, exactly?” she finally asked.

  Nat Linski seemed lost in his reverie, now indifferent to the policemen who were trying to separate the irate motorists. “It was the most insignificant of sites, a mere speck on the map. For all that, it was still a glorious place.” With grave dignity, he drew himself up in the Bentley’s sleek leather seat. “I am a Lusatian, and proud of it.”

  “Really.” Judith evinced awe, even as she scratched her memory for Lusatia. Germany, maybe, or Poland. Surely, during her years as a librarian, she had looked it up for some geography student.

  In the street, the police had managed to get matters in hand and were taking down information. If Renie showed up in the next few minutes, someone was bound to identify her as the cause of the accident. Judith turned her back on the chaos.

  A mental map of Europe came into focus. “East Germany,” Judith said suddenly. “What used to be, right?”

  While the crowd still congregated on the sidewalk, the policemen were moving traffic. The parking-lot exit was no longer blocked. Nat Linksi exhibited impatience.

  “Yes, yes.” He turned on the ignition. “Pardon me, I must go home.”

  But Judith wasn’t quite ready to give up. “You should,” she asserted, still leaning on the Bentley. “To Germany, I mean. Now that things are different over there. Is that what you were brooding about last night?”

  The car began to move, slowly but smoothly. “No.” Nat Linksi gave a solemn, definite shake of his big head. “Never. Impossible, that. Good-bye.”

  Caught off-balance, Judith staggered, then watched Nat cautiously pull out into the street. Somehow, she had expected the mercurial ice mentor to drive aggressively, heedlessly, even dangerously. Like Renie.

  But Renie was nowhere in sight. Judith walked over to the curb, gazing up and down the street. There was no sign of her cousin. Maybe, Judith thought with a little jolt, she’d already been picked up and cited for reckless endangerment, or however the crime would be codified under Canadian law.

  Getting her bearings, Judith decided to head for the police station. If Renie wasn’t there, then she could try the big parking lot across from the municipal buildings. Surely it wasn’t possible
for the cousins to lose each other in a town as small as Bugler.

  Down the main boulevard Judith went, past the conference center, the elementary school, and the post office. She kept looking in every direction, though the only side streets led to the town square. At the junction of Bugler Boulevard and Fiddler Way, she turned left, by the fire department. The police station was next door, and so was the blue Chevy, parked in the space reserved for Rhys Penreddy. Alarmed, Judith started to run toward the main entrance.

  “Psst! Hey, coz!” Renie’s head was poking out of the driver’s window. “Hurry up, before I get busted!”

  A huge sense of relief washed over Judith. Her legs felt shaky as she jogged over to the car. “I thought you were busted already,” she said, getting in beside Renie.

  “Heavens, no!” Renie seemed to find the idea preposterous. “I figured that the best place to hide from the police was at the police station. You know, plain sight and all that.”

  The Chevy reversed and was headed for Fiddler Way when Rhys Penreddy drove up in his official vehicle. Judith turned apprehensive, but Renie seemed unperturbed. Recognizing the cousins, Penreddy stopped alongside the blue sedan.

  “Giving another statement?” he inquired a bit wearily.

  “No,” Renie answered blithely. “Just trying to find our way. Isn’t Maple Leaf Lane on the west side of town?”

  Briefly, Penreddy’s tanned brow cleared. “Yes, not far from Lake Paragon and the other golf course. Follow Fiddler Way. It takes several bends after you leave the business area, then turns into Slalom Drive. Keep going until you hit Maple Leaf and…” His expression turned bleak. “Take a left.” He floor-boarded his police car and zoomed into the reserved parking spot Renie had just vacated.

  Judith sighed. “He knows where we’re going. Which means he’s already seen Esme MacPherson.”

  “Well, he didn’t try to stop us.” Renie waited for the traffic light to change. “Do you suppose that’s because it’s after five and he’s off duty?”

  Judith shook her head. “I suppose it’s because he thinks we’re impossible. At least he didn’t have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “True,” Renie agreed. “This place is well planned, but there’s not enough parking. I wonder what it’s like during ski season. Of course, a lot of visitors probably come by train. Driving might be risky.”

  The remark caused Judith to raise her eyebrows. “No kidding. I’d hate to see you take any risks.”

  Renie glanced at Judith and scowled. “You know I won’t drive in the snow. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Uh-huh.” Refusing to argue with Renie, Judith tried to sit back and relax. They were passing some of the older lodges, already weathered by a dozen winters but appearing comfortable and well maintained. There were condos, too, with sunbathers on balconies and outdoor barbecues sending up trails of charcoal smoke. Plots of bright flowers and window boxes were everywhere, adding a festive, and very English, touch. Along Slalom Drive, the buildings were more modest, possibly geared for students and the economy-minded. When the cousins made their left turn into Maple Leaf Lane, they realized they were in what amounted to Bugler’s low-rent district. Here were the pensions and the apartments where the less affluent dwelled. Judith figured that many of the resort’s full-time employees lived in this section of town. Esme MacPherson lived here, too.

  Still, the complexes were neat and attractive. Judith saw William Tell House on their right. The address was 121 Maple Leaf Lane, and the decor was traditional Swiss chalet. Renie decorously pulled into a spot marked for visitors.

  All of the units faced the street, under sheltered walkways. Esme MacPherson’s 2B was reached by a flight of concrete stairs. Judith pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened. She pressed again.

  Esme MacPherson flung the door open.

  He was holding a walking stick above his head and was ready to pounce.

  ELEVEN

  “MY WORD,” EXCLAIMED Esme MacPherson, lowering the ebony walking stick with its silver horse-head ornament, “I thought you were the police! Again.”

  “Ah—did you intend to bludgeon them?” Judith asked in a startled voice.

  MacPherson ran a thin finger inside his silk ascot. “I suppose not. But I wanted them to know I’m not one to trifle with. These Canadian chaps have some very queer ideas about a man’s castle and all that.” The gaunt face above the ascot suddenly paled. “I say, who are you? A woman was killed last night, and that’s the other reason I’ve seen fit to arm myself.”

  Having had time to ready her story, Judith smiled in her most affable manner. “We’re crime writers from the States. Canada isn’t as violent as our country, or so it seems. We wanted to get the reaction of private citizens to a murder in their hometown. Someone gave us your name.”

  “The police?” Esme was looking even more alarmed. The hand that still held the walking stick shook rather badly.

  “No,” Judith answered truthfully. “Charles de Paul, the bartender at Crest House. He said you were a very observant and intelligent person.” Honesty was seldom the best policy, as Judith knew well.

  Esme MacPherson broke into a smile that made him look like a malnourished rabbit. He was in his early sixties, perhaps a bit older, with receding gray hair worn a trifle long and a lush, curling mustache. His plaid silk bathrobe hung limply on his slight frame. He was shorter than Judith but taller than Renie, and emanated a furtive air. With a bow, he ushered the cousins into his living room.

  Esme MacPherson lived among clutter, with a few solid pieces of aging furniture. Hunting prints, racetrack photographs, regimental mementos, a cricket bat, pieces of harness, and even a horse collar filled the apartment. There was no scheme to the decor, which appeared to be merely an accumulation of items, as if Esme had brought them inside and dropped them wherever there was room.

  Which, Judith noticed, left little accommodation for guests. Esme put the walking stick next to the door, then quickly cleared off the old sofa, which was covered with sporting magazines, racing forms, and newspapers. The cousins sat down, hearing the springs creak beneath them. Esme took what must have been his favorite chair, positioned as it was a few feet from a TV set and next to a small table which held a telephone, an ashtray full of cigar butts, an almost empty glass, and a notepad.

  “My impressions, eh?” Esme said, gazing at the ceiling where a dusty plywood model of a sulky was suspended. “Sensational stuff, I suppose, is what you had in mind?” He arched his crescent-shaped brows at his visitors. “How much?”

  Judith was puzzled, but Renie understood. “We get paid on publication. When that happens, we’ll let you know about your share.”

  Esme’s thin face grew sad. “Sorry. I can’t remember a bloody thing.” His gaze returned to the sulky.

  Judith gave Renie a hard stare; Renie tried to look innocent. The silence lengthened, its awkwardness hanging on the air right along with the stale cigar smoke and the scotch whiskey. At last, Judith sighed and reached for her handbag. This time, she carefully checked the color of the bills before handing Esme a twenty.

  He took the money, but frowned. “Not much sensation here that I can see.”

  “We’ll settle for the facts,” Judith said briskly. “Let’s start with where you were at the time of the murder.”

  Now Esme looked pained. “Oh, no, not again! The police already covered that ground! What about my reaction to a brutal slaying? Do I think it was a sex crime? Is this the work of a serial killer? Are the mountainsides unsafe for even the most casual visitor?” He paused to finish his drink.

  “I told you,” Judith repeated, “we need facts, not fiction. We’ll get to your personal reflections later.”

  Esme got to the scotch, which he kept in a small cabinet under a big framed photograph showing a group in the winner’s circle at a racetrack. He opened one of the two doors just enough to allow him to extract a fifth of whiskey. Esme didn’t offer to share it with the cousins.

  “I was in a bar,”
he replied, pouting a bit. “That’s not news, by the way.” Again he arched his brows, before taking a sip of his fresh drink. “Crest House, same place as the poor cow who got herself killed. I was having a dram or two with a mate of mine from the racing circuit. Later—much later—we heard a rumor going ’round from the newcomers that there’d been a death on the lift.” Esme shrugged his narrow shoulders and sat back down in his easy chair. “Pity and all that, but naturally we assumed it was a heart attack or some such misfortune. I didn’t know it was foul play until the police came by this afternoon.” He brushed at the silk bathrobe. “Tend to sleep in, don’t you know? Haven’t stepped out yet today.”

  Judith had been pretending to take notes on a pad she kept for household chores. After consulting the reminder to check on bedspread sales when she got home, she fixed Esme with a serious expression.

  “You were with this old friend the entire evening?”

  Esme scratched his balding head. “Well…no. Freddy—Freddy Whobrey to you, Freddy Fall-Off to me—quite the jockey in his time; pity he came a cropper…Where was I? Oh, righto, Freddy. He joined me around…what? Eight? Nine? Ten? Does it matter?” Esme’s confusion seemed genuine. It also appeared to frighten him a bit.

  “It’ll matter if Freddy needs an alibi,” Renie put in somewhat darkly. “We know approximately when he left the dinner party he was attending and went into the bar.”

  “Ah!” Esme clutched at his ascot, as if it were trying to strangle him. “My word! Then you must know that Freddy was well acquainted with the woman who got killed.”

  Judith nodded gravely. “Oh, yes. We know all about that. This is why you’re on our list of…uh, fascinating personalities. You know someone who knew the victim. It brings immediacy to the article.”

  Esme seemed to relax a little, though whether it was from a change of mood or his intake of scotch was hard to tell. “Pity I can’t tell you much. Freddy and I sat around for some time, tippling and exchanging old war stories. Horse wars, that is. I missed the big show, bit too young, but I served in The Queen’s Own Highlanders. Want to see my trews?”