A Question of Murder Page 12

  Chapter Fifteen

  The daughter of a former U.S. president has

  written more than twenty murder mysteries set in

  Washington, D.C. Who is she?

  The rest of the second act went smoothly. I’ve always been impressed with the way the actors and actresses chosen by the Savoys were able to ad-lib, both onstage and with members of the audience. The scripts used in the productions, written by Melinda Savoy, were loosely constructed, leaving plenty of room for improvisation.

  Carboroni returned to the stage with the maid, Catarina, in tow, and she histrionically overplayed the fear she was supposed to be experiencing at having to face her employer, the formidable Monroe Whittaker. It was all entertaining theater, and the audience enjoyed it immensely. The act ended with Catarina loudly denying that she’d found Monroe’s weapon and given it to his wife. There was more comic interplay between Carboroni and Dolt, broad, slapstick humor that had the onlookers laughing heartily. Of course, a Savoy production would not be complete without the actor who played the detective coming into the audience and questioning those who looked as though they might provide interesting, funny answers. The curtain closed with Catarina standing center stage and pleading for someone to come forward and help her. A couple of people started to do just that, but Larry Savoy stepped in front of them and announced, “Before you commit yourself to helping Catarina, think twice. She may not be the innocent young woman you think she is.” He started to put down the mike, then raised it to his mouth again and said, “Detective Carboroni and Officer Dolt will be making a special effort to interrogate more of you today. Be careful what you say—or you may end up in a pair of cold steel handcuffs.”

  I slipped out of the auditorium the moment the curtain closed. I could find Larry later. I wanted to see where Georgie Wick and Detective Ladd had gone. They weren’t in the immediate vicinity, so I headed down a hallway in the direction of the private room Mark Egmon had provided for the detective. The door was shut when I approached, but I could hear Ladd’s voice and that of a woman through it. I looked around to ensure I was alone. Satisfied, I pressed my ear to the door and strained to hear what was being said. Ladd’s voice was the softer of the two; the woman’s was more clearly audible.

  “. . . And, yes, I fired off the pistol when the script called for it,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Offstage, in the hallway that leads backstage.”

  “And you saw no one else in that vicinity?”

  “No. I was alone and—”

  “Ah, Jessica. Always with an ear to the ground—or in this instance, to the door.”

  I turned to face John Chasseur. He was grinning, his pearly white teeth vivid against his tanned face.

  “Goodness! You startled me,” I said.

  “Eavesdropping, I see. Is that how you get information for your books?”

  “On occasion,” I said, embarrassed to be caught.

  The door opened. Detective Ladd looked from me to Chasseur, his quizzical expression asking the obvious question.

  “I was just about to knock,” I said.

  Ladd ignored me and asked Chasseur, “Something I can do for you?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” Chasseur said. “No, to be more accurate, there’s something I can do for you.”

  I looked past Ladd and saw Laura Tehaar, the young woman in charge of props and costumes for the Savoys, standing by the window. I already knew she was there, of course, by the snippets of conversation I’d heard through the door. She’d obviously been crying. She looked at me with wide, wet eyes.

  Ladd started back into the room, stopped, turned and said, “Mrs. Fletcher, got a minute for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ms. Tehaar was just leaving.” Ladd said it loud enough for her to hear. She walked past us, a tissue pressed to her nose and mouth.

  I followed Ladd into the room, Chasseur so close behind he was almost against me.

  Ladd said, “Mr. Chasseur, maybe we can get together later today.”

  “I thought you were a detective,” Chasseur said.

  Ladd cocked his head and grimaced.

  “I thought you’d benefit from some insight,” Chasseur said. “I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open, and believe me, there are plenty of likely suspects. That’s one of the strengths of my novels. I develop suspects like nobody else in the business.”

  “Sure,” said Ladd, “always happy to have input in a case. But right now I’ve got something to discuss with Mrs. Fletcher. Can you come back, say, in a half hour?”

  “It might be possible,” Chasseur said, annoyed at being put off.

  He turned to leave, but Ladd stopped him with, “By the way, I do have a question for you, Mr. Chasseur.”

  “Do you? Maybe later.”

  “Maybe now,” Ladd said. “Were you in the auditorium when the young man was killed?”

  Chasseur screwed up his face in exaggerated thought. “Of course I was. Why?”

  “I’ve been developing a list of people who were in the auditorium and those who might not have been.” Ladd said. “Most people have someone else to vouch for them, people on their teams, folks sitting next to them, things like that. I know Mrs. Fletcher was there because people said she was. Hard to miss a celebrity like her.”

  His comment didn’t sit well with Chasseur, who frowned and pressed his lips tightly together.

  “Well?” Ladd said. “Anyone with you in the theater when it happened?”

  A forced laugh came from Chasseur. “I love it,” he said. “Making me a suspect. I’ll call my publicist in Hollywood. We can make some media hay out of this.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” Ladd said. “In the meantime, if you come up with somebody who saw you there, let me know. Thanks for stopping by. See you in a half hour.”

  Chasseur, still feigning amusement, left, and Ladd closed the door behind him. “Now, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “what’s with this friend of yours, Ms. Wick?”

  “I’d hardly call her a friend, Detective. I just met her this weekend, although I have been a fan of her writing for quite some time. What are you getting at?” I remembered our previous conversation about GSB Wick when he’d indicated he found her a little strange.

  “I had a talk with her this morning,” he said.

  “Yes, I saw you two together.”

  “She, ah—she told me something really weird.”

  I smiled. “I assume you mean having seen Paul Brody’s ghost last night.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Yes. She told me, too.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And what do you make of it?”

  I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. “I think that she has a vivid imagination, Detective. That’s one of the major strengths of her novels, her creativity. Plus, she sincerely believes in the supernatural.”

  “Maybe she saw that earl who got his head cut off here years ago. Know what I think?” he said.

  “Tell me.”

  “I think she’s a loony. Gives me the creeps with that black hair and pale face. Looks like a ghost herself.”

  “Oh, I think that’s unnecessarily harsh,” I said. “Frankly, I enjoy her way of looking at things. It’s different, and I’ve always appreciated people who use their imaginations to entertain us with a different view of our world—provided, of course, that they aren’t hurtful to others.”

  I didn’t know whether or not he agreed with me because he didn’t say anything.

  “I tried to reach her this morning,” I said, “to ask where exactly she thought she saw Mr. Brody.”

  “I asked her.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She wasn’t really sure, but said it was on the third floor at the rear of the building. I popped up there to take a look myself. There are three rooms in a corner, separated from all the others on that floor. I figure they’re suites or something. Could have been any one of
the three.” He gave me the room numbers.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m sure there’s nothing to be concerned about. She thought she saw Paul, but it was probably someone else who reminded her of him.”

  “And that’s just the thing.”

  “What’s just the thing?”

  “Ordinarily, I’d dismiss what she said as the ravings of a lunatic. Except—”

  I waited.

  “Except that she also told me she had this boy-friend back in New Orleans, an actor, who looked just like Brody.”

  “She mentioned him to me, too,” I said. “Are you suggesting that she might have had a reason to shoot—to stab—Brody because of his resemblance to her former lover?”

  “It crossed my mind,” he said.

  “I have to admit, it crossed mine, too,” I said, “but I don’t really think she did it. She seems too timid for murder. But of course, I could be wrong. Have you found the murder weapon yet?”

  “Still working on it,” he said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Oh, and Mrs. Fletcher, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to hear what’s being said in this room.”

  “Detective, I hope you don’t think that I would—” I stopped myself and laughed. “Guilty as charged,” I said.

  “Plea accepted. See you around. And watch your step when you go up to the third floor. There’s a loose piece of carpet up in that corner.”

  Was my inborn sense of curiosity that evident? I wondered as I left the room and went to the elevators. He knew the first thing I would do after leaving him was to check out those rooms for myself. But as an elevator arrived, I ignored the opening doors and went to the desk, where the man I’d spoken with the night before was still on duty.

  “Long shift,” I said.

  “Sure is,” he said, “but they say the plows should be here this afternoon. All I want to do is get home and go to bed.”

  “I understand. May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. How can I help you?”

  “Someone told me there are three special suites on the third floor, back in a corner, at the rear of the building.”

  “That’s right. We call them our VIP suites, only they really aren’t that fancy, nothing like a presidential suite or anything. But they’re bigger than other rooms.”

  “I’d love to see one,” I said, “for when I come back to Mohawk House sometime in the future.”

  “I’d be happy to show them to you, Mrs. Fletcher, except they’re occupied.”

  “I see,” I said. I leaned on the desk, closing the distance between us. “Would you mind telling me which guests are in those suites at the moment? Perhaps if I asked them directly . . .”

  The dilemma I’d posed was written all over his weathered face. “I really can’t do that, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Hotel policy. Privacy.”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’s just that one of the reasons I’m here this weekend, aside from being on the author panel this afternoon, is to research the next novel I’m writing. Seeing the rooms would have been helpful, but of course I wouldn’t ask you to breach hotel policy. Actually, the names of the people aren’t important to me, just a sense of the sort of VIPs who reserve such suites.”

  He laughed. “Nobody real important,” he said. “At least not that I know of. There’s a couple in one of them.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said. “Mr. and Mrs. Pomerantz.”

  “You know them?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do,” I said, amazed that my stab in the dark had been correct. “Any of the cast members in those suites?” I asked. “Mr. and Mrs. Savoy, the producers of the play?”

  “No, ma’am. They’re on the second floor. One of the better rooms, though.”

  “And they certainly deserve it.”

  “Miss Carlisle is there, too.”

  “Oh? I don’t know her.”

  Now, it was his turn to become conspiratorial. He, too, leaned on the desk as he said, “A really strange lady, Mrs. Fletcher. Some of the guests have been complaining about her.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she’s not very pleasant, they say. She’s had a few run-ins with other guests.”

  A vision of the tall redheaded woman came to mind. “The woman with the red hair,” I said.

  He nodded and smiled.

  “Actually,” I said, “I think she’s a member of the cast.”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “What I’m anxious to find out is what role she’s playing,” I said. “She hasn’t been onstage yet.”

  “She told me she’s not supposed to be on the stage, Mrs. Fletcher. She’s one of Mr. and Mrs. Savoy’s audience ringers. They’ve done their shows here before, and they always have a few people like her. Know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think that if I wrote the play, I’d have her killed.”

  “Interesting idea,” I said. “Maybe she will be. Good talking to you. I’m glad to hear that the plows will be showing up soon. I hope you get some rest. As for me, it’ll be nice to be able to go outside again and get some fresh air.”

  But fresh air was furthermost from my mind at that moment. Larry Savoy had something to tell me. Could it be that a cast member had a reason to kill Paul Brody? He certainly wasn’t a popular member of the troupe. He’d been disrespectful, dismissive, and downright aggressive. Had he so alienated his fellow thespians that one of them took revenge backstage?

  I’d become so engrossed with Georgie Wick and her supernatural sighting, and with Detective Ladd, that I’d almost forgotten what Larry had promised. I hurried down the hall toward the auditorium, where I hoped Larry could provide a better clue than the leads Melinda had written into her play. The other guests at Mohawk House weren’t the only ones that weekend with a need to solve a murder.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Many actors have played Agatha Christie’s famed

  detective, Hercule Poirot, in movies. Name

  three.

  Larry was backstage giving the cast post-production notes when I arrived. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I stayed in the wings and listened as he and Melinda ran down a list they’d compiled during the second act. It seemed to me that the points they made were minor, small adjustments for various members of the ensemble to incorporate into the next scene, which was scheduled for early that afternoon.

  But when he came to Catarina, the maid, his tone changed. He had been upbeat and positive with the others. Now his voice hardened. “Damn it, Catarina,” he said, “how many times do I have to tell you that you’re not performing in an amphitheater? Sure, you’re supposed to be upset, but you’re not a wounded banshee. Tone it down before that grating voice of yours sends the whole audience running for cover.”

  I wasn’t sure whether the actress was about to erupt into tears or respond with an angry outburst. She did neither. She glared at Larry for what seemed an eternity before turning on her heel and stomping from the stage.

  Larry shook his head and addressed the rest of the cast. “It went well. It looks like the decision to go ahead with the play is working. But we can’t let up now. The audience will be all over you throughout the day, especially wanting to know whether Paul is really dead. Keep ’em guessing. Keep them here at the hotel. They say the plows will be getting to us this afternoon, which means those guests who want to leave will be able to. Mark Egmon from the hotel staff says that anyone cutting short their stay because of the murder will be eligible for a refund. Obviously, that’s not good for Mohawk House’s bottom line, so let’s cooperate. I want us invited back again next year.”

  As the cast and crew dispersed, Larry joined me in the wings.

  “What did you think?” he asked.

  “You handled it very well,” I said. “The audience certainly seemed to enjoy it.”

  “That’s what counts,” he said.

  “Larry, you said you wanted to talk with me about a cast
member who might have had reason to kill Paul.”

  “Right, but not here. Too many ears.”

  We went through a door at the rear of the wings and entered a narrow corridor that ran the width of the stage and led to a closet-sized space being used as a wardrobe room. Once inside, he closed the door and pushed aside a rolling clothes rack holding a variety of costumes. “Here, sit,” he said, making room on a folding chair by dumping its contents—props and wigs—to the floor. “Okay, Jessica, here’s what I wanted to tell you. According to Melinda’s script, Catarina, the maid, had an affair with Paul back in New York. He jilted her and took up with Cynthia. Anyway, when she learned that he was involved with this pretty, rich society type, she applied for a job as a maid to the Whittakers so she could be at their house to witness what was happening and do what she could to throw a monkey wrench into the romance. Melinda loves complicated plots.”

  “But wouldn’t Paul the character have recognized the maid?” I asked.

  “Sure, except that she had extensive plastic surgery in New York before coming up to the Whittaker mansion.”

  I laughed. “It must have been very extensive surgery for him not to figure out who she is.”

  “I know, I know,” Larry said, holding up his hand. “Far-fetched, but you’ve seen our shows before. Everything is far-fetched. Like opera. If you insist on reality in your entertainment, you won’t like us or opera. That’s the fun of it. That’s what brings out the groans at the end when the audience is made aware of all the unlikely things that go into solving the crime. Some of them get annoyed, but they’re in the minority. At any rate, Jessica, that’s how Melinda wrote it.”

  “I see,” I said. “But what does that have to do with Paul Brody’s death?”

  “It looks like Melinda’s script isn’t as fictitious as it seemed.”

  “Now wait a minute, Larry,” I said. “You aren’t telling me that Catarina underwent plastic surgery and—”

  He shook his head. “No, no, not that part of it. I’m hearing from members of the cast who know Catarina and Paul that they really did have an affair back in New York. He jilted her, they say—dumped her pretty hard. When she heard he’d signed on with us to do a series of interactive murder mystery productions like this one, she auditioned, too. I understand he wasn’t too happy that Melinda invited her to join the show, but of course we didn’t know their history, and in any case he didn’t have any say about it.”