Murder, My Suite

by Mary Daheim

  Judith decided not to tantalize her cousin. “Dagmar seems very vague about those files. I’m wondering if Agnes did far more than maintain them for her. The typewriter is in Agnes’s unit, not Dagmar’s. Dagmar said she hadn’t been in Agnes’s part of the condo since they arrived over the weekend. But Karl told us that Dagmar had written her column for today on Monday. How did she do it? Where did she do it? Or did she do it at all?”

  Enlightenment burst over Renie. “Agnes wrote the columns? The books, too?”

  Judith shrugged. “It’s possible. If Agnes knew all the dirt better than Dagmar did, it would account for her being killed. The attempt on Dagmar’s life may be merely a backup, to ensure that whatever it was the killer wanted suppressed stayed that way.”

  Renie considered Judith’s theory. “But the killer would have to know that Agnes was the real Chatty Chatsworth. Unless I’m reading the Kreagers wrong, I don’t think they realize it.”

  Judith agreed. “They wouldn’t have such a fit about getting Dagmar to finish her manuscript. Or meet her newspaper deadline. Instead they’d be figuring out a way to cut their losses.”

  “Nat and Mia couldn’t know,” Renie remarked. “Freddy is the only real possibility. He was with Dagmar and Agnes all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t trust Freddy with a secret, though,” Judith said, getting up from the table and going to the kitchen counter to consult her tourist brochure. “If our idea is right, I’ll bet Dagmar and Agnes knocked themselves out to keep the truth from Freddy. Besides, I don’t see what motive he’d have. So he threw a few races, which is about the worst thing I can think of that he’d do. Worst, from his point of view, that is. So what? He’s retired. Plus, Dagmar is his meal ticket. Getting rid of her—or Agnes—cuts off his income. Of course, there’ll be royalties from the book—Oh!” Judith smacked her hand against her head. “Dagmar’s estate! If Freddy really is her nephew, and he’s the only relative, maybe he inherits!”

  “So why kill Agnes?” Renie asked dryly.

  Judith hesitated in the act of perusing the brochure’s food services. “You’re right,” she allowed. “That part doesn’t make sense. Besides, I seem to recall Dagmar saying she’d never made a will. She’s too young.”

  Renie made a snide face. “Right. The Immortality Factor at work again. That wouldn’t matter, though—Freddy would still get everything as her only survivor.” She waited for Judith to finish scanning the restaurant listings.

  “If you’re not really hungry, let’s go to a deli,” Judith suggested. “There’s one right by where we parked for The Bells and Motley. We’re going to eat in tonight, remember?”

  Renie did. Judith picked up her handbag and started for the stairs, but her cousin had yet another uncharacteristic surprise in store.

  “Let’s walk. It’s gorgeous outside, and we could use the exercise.”

  “Walk?” Judith was incredulous. “As in one foot in front of the other? Okay, I’m game.”

  It was downhill all the way, which, Judith reminded Renie as they reached the halfway point, meant uphill coming home. Renie reminded Judith that Bugler had a bus system. And taxis. She also pointed out the Chateau Arbutus, a tall glass-and-stone structure which shimmered before their very eyes.

  “I think there’s a deli in the hotel,” said Renie. “If not, they must have a coffee shop.”

  There was no deli. The coffee shop was surrounded by more rough stonework and tall tinted mirrors which gave the effect of vastness. Coming face-to-face with a smiling hostess, the cousins couldn’t refuse the offer of a table.

  “Yikes!” Renie exclaimed as she encountered the six-page luncheon menu, “this place isn’t cheap. Dinner here would beggar us.”

  Judith concurred. The least costly item, a watercress sandwich, was six dollars, Canadian. She sighed, pitching the menu back between the condiments and a slim vase with a single white rose. “Oh, well, it’s our last full day here. I’m having the pastrami on whole wheat.”

  “Sounds good,” Renie said, also putting her menu away. She scooted forward on her chair. “What I don’t get is why Agnes would agree to being Dagmar’s ghostwriter. Do you suppose they split the profits? Dagmar certainly got all the glory.”

  Judith inclined her head. “True, but Agnes was very shy. She wouldn’t want the attention. I can understand that part. But the money is another matter. They must have negotiated something between them.”

  A well-scrubbed young waitress with a coronet of blond braids came to take the cousins’ order. “Which,” Renie said after the waitress had moved away, “brings up the matter of Agnes’s heirs. If she made a lot of money, somebody may stand to gain by her death.”

  “Dagmar told me Agnes had no family. At least not in Minnesota.” Judith’s high forehead furrowed. “The trouble with this line of thought is that we don’t know a blasted thing about Agnes’s finances. And we’re really just guessing that she was the actual writer of the gossip columns.”

  “It’s a bollix,” Renie said, then stared across the coffee shop. “Here come some suspects now. Mia and Nat.” Renie’s eyes widened. “They’re heading straight for us.”

  Casting discretion to the wind, Judith turned. Sure enough, the couple was approaching. Nat looked resigned; Mia wore a determined air.

  “Excuse, please,” Mia said, though there was no sign of deference in her voice. “We are here for a meeting, and saw you from the mezzanine balcony in the lobby. We are hearing rumor about Dagmar Chatsworth being not quite dead. Why is this?”

  Judith hedged. “She may have mixed alcohol with sleeping pills. We’ll know more later.”

  The sandwiches arrived. The waitress inquired if Nat and Mia would like to order. At first, they declined; then Nat decided he’d enjoy a plate of kielbasa. Dropping into an extra chair, Mia mulled a bit, then asked for grilled chicken breast and a beet salad. The waitress had already started off when Nat called for her to come back. He requested wine, a Gewürztraminer from Baden-Württemberg.

  Nat appeared melancholy. “Dagmar Chatsworth may be ill. That is a minor pity. But she will not print lies!” His voice rose as he banged the menu on the table, rattling china and silverware.

  Renie looked up from her sandwich. “My cousin was being tactful. That’s probably because we’re eating.” She gazed innocently at Mia and Nat. “The truth is, Dagmar’s been poisoned.” Renie took a big, deliberate bite out of her pastrami and whole wheat.

  “Aha!” shouted Nat, with obvious glee.

  “Ooooh!” cried Mia, but her pleasure was hard to conceal. “Is she dead?”

  “Not yet.” Judith tried to keep from expressing her dismay, not only at Nat and Mia’s reaction, but at Renie’s candor. She decided to trot out a ploy of her own. “It happened right after the metal file box was returned.”

  Judith was disappointed. Nat was still emitting a rumbling chuckle, and Mia swayed in her chair, as if to music only she could hear. Judith tried again.

  “The only file missing was yours, Mr. Linski.”

  This time, Nat did evince surprise, even shock. “My…file? What is this file? Who keeps it, the police?”

  The wine arrived, but Nat rejected the ritual of label and cork. “Pour,” he commanded. The waitress with the blond coronet obeyed, quivering slightly as she placed four glasses on the table.

  Judith explained that the files belonged to Dagmar. “She keeps information on famous people in them. Like you and Ms. Prohowska. Background data. Or so we gather.”

  Nat was brooding. “This is not good.” He sipped his wine. “This is bad.”

  Renie was eating a dill pickle. “The wine?”

  Nat shook his head. “This file.” He drank again. “But if Dagmar Chatsworth dies, it will not matter, hey?”

  “True.” Judith took a sip from her glass. “The material won’t go into her column or a book.”

  “So who now has this box?” Mia asked as the waitress brought the new orders.

  Judith wasn’t sure she s
hould tell. Indeed, it occurred to her that she didn’t know. Perhaps Rhys Penreddy had confiscated the files. She shrugged, and took another bite of sandwich.

  Nat ate and drank with abandon. Judith hadn’t seen anybody eat with such verve since the last time Renie had gone for six hours without food and had buttered her eyeglasses.

  “We must discover if this Chatsworth creature lives,” Nat declared between mouthfuls. “Hurry, Mia. For this time only, disregard your digestion.”

  Mia complied, devouring beets and chicken with energy. Judith marveled at the young woman’s appetite, then reminded herself that Mia was an athlete. No doubt she burned calories every day on the practice rink.

  “I don’t suppose,” Judith remarked after finishing her sandwich, “that you’d care to tell us what awful thing Dagmar was supposed to reveal.” She saw Nat’s startled face over the rim of his wineglass and amended her statement. “I mean, do you have reason to believe that Dagmar knows something detrimental to one or both of you?”

  “She knows too much,” Nat replied darkly. He gobbled up the last piece of sausage and drained his glass. “Now we go to the clinic. It is en route to the rink.”

  Nat and Mia rose from their chairs and departed without another word. Judith sat frozen in place. Renie sank into her seat.

  “Oh, no!” Judith gasped. “The bill!”

  Even now, the waitress approached with a big smile. “Dessert?” she asked cheerfully.

  Judith and Renie shook their heads. The waitress produced the bill. The cousins were speechless. They were out another sixty dollars, American. Capitalism didn’t seem to be working for them. But it was doing very well for a pair of ex-Communists. Judith and Renie dug deep into their wallets and barely managed to come up with enough cash to cover the tab and the tip.

  They were skulking through the lobby when they spotted Kirk Kreager, surrounded by hotel security personnel. It wasn’t until they got a few steps closer that they saw Nat and Mia.

  A scuffle broke out; voices were raised. The cluster of people ebbed and flowed, with Nat and Mia now in the center of the melee. It looked to the cousins as if the pair were under house arrest.

  SIXTEEN

  “LET THE WOMAN go!” Kirk Kreager’s voice carried no less authority than that of his older brother. One of the four security guards, a statuesque woman with expressionless features, took Mia’s arm and pulled her out of the circle.

  Mia, however, wasn’t going willingly. “No!” She attempted to fend off the woman. “Remove your hands! I stay with Anatoly!”

  Nat Linski was putting up quite a fight. His big bearlike body charged the cordon, knocking Kirk off-balance. Nat ran through the lobby like a punt returner, dodging guests, bellhops, and a UPS deliveryman. The three male security guards followed him outside. They were all last seen leaping the privet hedge between the driveway and the street.

  A writhing Mia was still in the clutches of her adversary. “Monster!” she screamed at Kirk, then spit in his direction.

  The concierge and the desk clerk padded around nervously on the plush lobby carpet. A considerable crowd had gathered to watch the excitement. Mia was recognized by several of the onlookers. She glared as she heard her name, then suddenly became inspired.

  “My friends, my admirers!” Mia was playing to the crowd, as if she were performing on the rink. “Is this justice in your fine, free country? The great Anatoly Linski is treated like a criminal! Protest, I beg you! He is innocent!”

  Her long red hair had come loose from its French roll and flew around her shoulders. Her gray eyes snapped with anger and indignation, skewering Kirk Kreager. Her free arm was raised, a finger pointing in Kirk’s direction. “See him? Attack! Tear him to pieces! Kill!”

  Since anyone who could afford to stay at Chateau Arbutus was either personally affluent or on a corporate expense account, Mia wasn’t exactly playing to a discontented mob. The Germans were morbidly fascinated; the Americans looked confused; the Canadians were too polite to attack a guest; the Japanese took pictures.

  Though visibly shaken, Kirk still assumed command. Warily, he approached Mia, one hand extended. “Please—let’s go somewhere and talk this out. I’m doing this for you and Ice Dreams, not just for myself and Karl.”

  It was clear that Mia didn’t believe him. But she was weakening. The security guard finally let go. Mia brushed at her pleated linen skirt and gave Kirk a haughty stare.

  “I will not be alone with you,” she asserted. “You I do not trust. Nor your brother.”

  Kirk’s brother arrived at that moment, looking unusually harried. Karl Kreager sized up the situation and asked where Nat Linski had gone. Kirk tried to explain.

  Mia seemed buoyed by Karl’s response that he had seen no sign of either Nat or the security men who had given chase. Still, she refused to go with the Kreagers. Kirk resorted to cajolery. At last Mia’s eyes rested on the cousins.

  “The prosaic middle-aged American women,” she said. “They treat me kindly, with respect. Usually. If they come, I go.”

  Judith and Renie looked at each other. Judith gave a faint nod. Renie turned to Mia. “That’s fine, but the drinks are on you. We’re broke.”

  The cousins, the Kreagers, and Mia didn’t go into a bar, but to a small meeting room off the mezzanine. It was Mia who led the way, and apparently it had been there that she and Nat had held their morning conference. Despite the ventilation system, the room smelled of smoke and sweat.

  Kirk was regarding Mia’s chaperones with distaste. “I’m not comfortable with this,” he said in annoyance. He eyed Karl. “How do you know these women aren’t…in the other camp?”

  Karl exuded impatience. “They’re Americans, for one thing. For another, I’ve had them checked out. They’re exactly what they say they are. They’re absolutely nobody.”

  “Thanks,” Renie muttered, picking up a rubber band from the conference table and attempting to shoot it at Karl. She failed, and it fell in her lap. “Darn,” she said under her breath.

  Kirk remained skeptical, but it was Judith who spoke next. “You checked up on us?” Astounded, she put the question to Karl Kreager.

  He waved a hand. “Yes, yes. Purely routine. You don’t think we haven’t had people checking on us? Nothing’s sacred in the world of business these days.” He grimaced, then made an effort to resume his normal affability. “We have our own sources in your hometown. Nothing sinister.” He gave Judith a brief nod. “The state bed-and-breakfast association.” His glance took in Renie. “The local organization for graphic designers.”

  Judith relaxed a bit. Kirk, however, still appeared very tense. “I don’t like this,” he said, again giving the cousins a dubious look.

  “Let’s get down to it,” Karl urged his brother. “I need to know what’s going on.”

  Kirk composed himself, folding his hands on the table. “Very well. This morning, Mia Prohowska and Nat Linski met with the representatives of a Canadian consortium which wants to buy Ice Dreams.” Now Kirk was staring at Mia. She met his gaze without a flinch. “They met,” he went on, “in this very room. Canada’s success in the Olympics and the world championships has made skating extremely popular on this side of the border. They’ve got at least a half-dozen top-notch people who are willing to sign on if the show has Canadian ownership. They’re offering Mia and Nat a bigger percentage of the profits than we now pay them. They’re promising a world tour every other year, with the Americas in between.”

  Karl’s expression showed only mild interest. “So? We could schedule the same thing if Nat and Mia are willing. We might even consider meeting the Canadians’ offer.”

  Renie, who found corporate meetings the least enjoyable part of her career, showed signs of restlessness. Judith, however, was listening intently.

  Kirk’s hands tightened; so did his face. “No, we won’t consider any such thing. We’re pulling out. The Canadians can have them.”

  Although Mia said nothing, her cheeks had turned pink. Ka
rl, on the other hand, grew rather pale under his tan. Renie was toying with her hair, which didn’t help much. Judith watched everyone closely, trying to make sense of what was happening.

  Karl had half-risen out of his chair. “What are you talking about? Ice Dreams has done very well for us. Minneapolis is the perfect home base for the show. Why shouldn’t we keep the company?”

  Kirk unclenched his hands and sat back from the table. “Because we’re Americans, that’s why. I don’t give a damn whether Communism is dead or not. That doesn’t mean we can forget and forgive every Commie swine who brought ruination to Russia and Eastern Europe. Many of them were actual criminals.” His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on Mia. “Like Anatoly Linski.”

  Mia’s lips formed the single word “No.”

  “Yes!” cried Kirk, leaping to his feet and raising one arm. “Anatoly Linski, the great figure-skating coach, mentor of the young, idol of millions, is really Boris Ushakoff, former head of the Lusatian secret police!”

  “You know,” said Renie in a tired voice as the cousins hiked up to their condo, “I don’t give a rat’s fandango if Nat is Boris or not. I hate meetings. Especially in windowless conference rooms that smell bad.”

  Almost an hour had passed since Kirk Kreager had dropped his bombshell. The ensuing arguments, particularly between Mia and Kirk, had been not only acrimonious, but loud. At intervals, Karl had tried to calm both parties. He’d failed. Kirk had insisted that he had concrete evidence of Nat’s dual identity, while Mia had vehemently denied the charges.

  “The evidence is in the mail,” Judith remarked as a trio of young Rollerbladers whizzed past. “Kirk says he’ll have it tomorrow from his anonymous, if highly reliable, source.”

  “Maybe.” Renie didn’t sound convinced. “Mia swears she did in fact know the man she claims is the real Boris, and that he died two years ago in an alcoholic stupor.”

  “The bottom line is that Karl isn’t ready to give in,” Judith noted as they passed several luxurious private residences, built of logs, which reputedly sold for upward of half a million dollars. “He wants to see his brother’s ‘evidence’ for himself. And we’re sworn to secrecy by everybody.”