A Question of Murder Page 6

  “Right,” Larry said. “And you’d better stop touching things.” He looked at me. “Right, Jess?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “The police will be very unhappy if they know the crime scene isn’t pristine.”

  “Don’t lecture me,” Chasseur said, kneeling and feeling Paul’s wrist for a pulse.

  “Who was supposed to fire the weapon?” I asked Larry.

  He hesitated. “One of the tech crew, I’m not sure who. Easy to find out. Melinda knows. She’s in charge of offstage business.”

  “Is the weapon you use in the production capable of firing live ammunition as well as blanks?” I asked.

  “Yes, but we only load blanks and use minimal powder.”

  My change of expression must have concerned him because he asked, “What’s the matter, Jess?”

  “I was just thinking that whoever did this might be long gone from Mohawk House by now. It’s a shame there wasn’t a way to contain everyone within the hotel.”

  “Chances are the frightful weather has done a good job of that. But I’ll get Egmon to station his people at the exits,” Larry said, sounding grateful he had a reason to leave. “Maybe the killer hasn’t had a chance to escape yet.”

  “He’s definitely dead,” Chasseur said, standing and pulling a white handkerchief from his back pocket. He wiped his hands, although there’d been no blood on Paul’s shoulder or wrist.

  “Do you think the killer’s escaped already?” Georgie asked. She’d been keeping her distance from Paul’s body.

  “With the barn door open, I’ll bet that horse is already gone,” Chasseur said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “If the killer is staying in the hotel, it might raise less suspicion to simply stay put.”

  Georgie offered, “The killer might be milling around with the people who’re still out there.” She pointed to the curtain.

  “Are people still in the auditorium?” I asked.

  She nodded, her pale face even more ashen under the harsh stage lights.

  “Let me see what I can do,” I said.

  I parted the heavy curtain and descended the stairs to where a dozen hangers-on were gathered in a tight circle, whispering among themselves. I hoped our backstage conversations hadn’t carried out to the auditorium. Whoever shot Paul couldn’t be certain if he was dead, or had merely been wounded. That possibility, coupled with the blizzard raging outside, might keep the killer from leaving. The only road leading up to Mohawk House was at least four miles long and full of hairpin turns, steep inclines, and dangerous drop-offs.

  The minute they saw me emerge from backstage, they converged and asked whether it was true that someone had been shot to death.

  I held up my hands. “There’s been an unfortunate accident with one of the cast members,” I said, working hard to sustain calm in my voice. “An ambulance has been called for. The police have been summoned, and I suggest we all stay away from this area until they arrive.”

  The questions flew: “Is he dead?” “Do they have the gun?” “Do they have the shooter?” “Has it really happened, or is this part of the play?”

  One woman shook her finger at me and said, “You naughty devil, Jessica Fletcher. You’re just saying what you’re supposed to say as part of the play. You don’t fool me.”

  I was happy to see Mark Egmon enter the room. I excused myself and went over to him.

  “The police are on their way,” Mark told me, “provided they can get up the road.” He kept his voice low to avoid being overheard. “And I spoke with a couple of the management team members about how to handle this. We’re scheduled to meet again in a half hour to formulate plans. What’s going on backstage?”

  “Nothing for you to be concerned about, Mark. I’ll certainly feel better when the police arrive and secure the crime scene. It’s already been contaminated.”

  “By whom?”

  “It doesn’t matter. In the meantime, you might consider clearing this room. When the police arrive, they—”

  The doors opened and two uniformed officers entered. Following behind them was a young man wearing a heavy red and black plaid wool jacket, jeans, a fur hat of the sort seen on Russian Cossacks, and pale yellow ankle-high boots. He brushed snow from his shoulders and arms and introduced himself as Detective Dwayne Ladd.

  “Where’s the deceased?” the officer in the plaid wool jacket asked in a nasal voice.

  “On the stage, behind the curtains,” Egmon said, pointing at the stairs.

  There was a gasp from one of the audience members. A woman standing close enough to hear started to cry. Her friend consoled her. “For heaven’s sakes, Gertrude. This is still part of the play. Don’t you see? No real detective looks like that.”

  “You think?” The sniffling woman looked the detective up and down, and smiled at her companion.

  “Get them out of here,” the detective said.

  Mark Egmon ushered the few stragglers in the auditorium out the back door, consoling them in comforting tones, answering questions diplomatically, and reassuring them that they were safe at the hotel. I stayed back, trying to catch the detective’s attention.

  As the police walked toward the stage, I called after them, “Excuse me, Detective.”

  He stopped, turned. “Yes?”

  “It might be a good idea to seal off the hotel.”

  He cocked his head and squinted, as though trying to bring something fuzzy into focus. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I don’t mean to intrude, but whoever did the shooting may be planning to leave the premises. That could have happened already, I admit, but it would be prudent to take precautions in any event.”

  His squint was accompanied by a frown, which rendered his face prunelike. For a moment, I thought he might lash out at me for injecting myself into what was his bailiwick. Instead, his face softened almost into a smile. “Good suggestion, Mrs.—what did you say your name was?”

  “Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher.”

  “The mystery writer?”

  “Yes. I—”

  “You’re here for this mystery weekend, right? I saw your picture in the paper.”

  “That’s right, but aren’t we wasting valuable time discussing this?”

  The squint and frown returned. He turned to the uniformed officers and said, “Get outside and make sure nobody leaves the hotel. Get some backup here and cover every exit. And do it fast before we get enough snow to close the mountain road.”

  “There’s a downstairs door in the rear that leads outside,” I called to the officers’ backs as they exited the room.

  Detective Ladd walked to the stairs leading to the stage. After a moment’s debate, I decided to follow, but observed from a distance as the detective encountered my writing colleagues and Larry Savoy, who had returned backstage.

  Ladd removed Monroe’s smoking jacket, and bent down on one knee to observe the victim and his wound at close range. He stood. “When did the shooting take place?”

  Larry stepped forward. “A half hour ago maybe,” he said, introducing himself and proceeding to fill Ladd in on the details of what had occurred.

  “He was supposed to get shot in the play,” Chasseur put in.

  “It’s written into the script,” Georgie Wick added. “The gun’s only supposed to shoot blanks.”

  “Are you all in the cast?” Ladd asked. “You look familiar.”

  Chasseur pointed to his T-shirt and the illustration depicting the cover of his latest novel. “John Chasseur, best-selling novelist.”

  “You write the Agent Benny series,” Ladd said. “I’ve heard of you.”

  Chasseur faked a modest smile.

  Ladd looked at Georgie. “Are you a writer, too?”

  She gave a small, uncertain smile. “GSB Wick. You’ve probably never heard of me.”

  He pointed at her and squinted. “Yeah,” he said. “I know the name. And weren’t you on Regis once?”

  She looked reliev
ed. “Yes, and the Today show, too.”

  He swept a hand around the stage, his gaze going from face to face. “You’re all here for the mystery weekend, huh? Isn’t that ironic? Murder mystery writers. And now you have a real murder instead of the ones you make up.” He paused. “Interesting.”

  Lawrence Savoy cleared his throat.

  “Right,” Ladd said to him. “You’re the producer. You have the gun?”

  “No, but I called my wife on my cell phone a few minutes ago. She’ll bring it.”

  Ladd became aware that I was standing behind him. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “you seem to know a lot about what happened here.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, closing the gap between us. “I hope you weren’t offended that I injected myself the way I did, but it seemed to me that—”

  “It’s okay,” the detective said. “You were right.”

  “What did she tell you?” Chasseur demanded. “She doesn’t know any more than the rest of us. We were watching the play, too. Our powers of observation are every bit as good as hers.”

  “Of course, I’m not as experienced with violent crime as my distinguished colleagues,” Georgie said, “but I’ll be happy to tell you what I saw.”

  I hadn’t realized till then that Chasseur, and Georgie to a lesser extent, was competing with me for Detective Ladd’s attention. Fortunately, at that moment Melinda Savoy came from the opposite side of the stage, accompanied by the young woman who’d tried to keep guests from invading the stage that afternoon. All eyes turned in their direction. Melinda carried a handgun, holding it by her fingertips as far away from her body as possible, as though it might bite. She handed the weapon to Detective Ladd, who pulled a handkerchief from his pocket before touching it.

  “Is that the murder weapon?” Georgie asked before Ladd could get a word out.

  “No,” Melinda replied. “I mean, it’s a stage prop. It makes noise, but we only shoot blanks.”

  “Then you don’t have to bother worrying about fingerprints with that thing,” Chasseur said.

  “So, where’s the weapon that shot a real bullet into the victim?” Ladd asked Melinda.

  She shrugged and looked at Larry, who did the same thing.

  “Who are you?” Georgie asked the young woman with Melinda.

  “Laura Tehaar. I’m in charge of props and costumes.”

  “And?” Chasseur prompted, walking to her side.

  “I was supposed to fire the gun when the script calls for it,” she said, looking up at him.

  “You didn’t?” Georgie asked, coming to her other side.

  Laura swung her face toward Georgie.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Ladd said, waving his hands as though to physically push them away. “All of you, back off. I’m the detective here. I’ll ask the questions.” He gave Chasseur and Georgie stern looks. They appeared to be annoyed, but stepped back.

  Ladd coughed before asking Laura, “Did you fire the gun when the script called for it?”

  “Yes, sir.” She started to cry, and Melinda wrapped her arms about her.

  “What’s the deceased’s name?”

  “Paul Brody,” Larry offered.

  “Paul’s the name of the character,” Chasseur said. “Is that his real name?”

  “Or stage name?” Georgie added.

  Ladd shot them an angry look. He turned to Larry and raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s his real name,” Larry said. “We use the actors’ real names for their roles whenever possible. It makes it more natural for them to respond to questions from the hotel guests. When the actors are offstage, they’re still required to stay in character. That’s part of the mystery experience. The guests ask the actors questions about the plotlines, and they answer as if they’re actually the person in the play. If someone calls out ‘Paul,’ he’s going to turn around. It’s his name after all.” Larry hesitated. “Or was.”

  Melinda added, “There are exceptions. Our two police officers use stage names, Carboroni and Dolt.”

  “I’d hope those aren’t their real names,” Ladd said through what passed for a laugh.

  Mark Egmon rejoined us on the stage. “We have a lot of people lingering outside the auditorium,” he told the detective. “They expect to be questioned and they’re getting restless. I also have a few who want to check out immediately. The play was too gruesome, they said. I’d appreciate some guidance on how to proceed.”

  Ladd rubbed his chin. “Okay,” he said. “You’ll have to tell everybody that no one can leave until they’ve been questioned.”

  “There’s more than a hundred guests, Detective,” Egmon said, his voice mirroring his dismay.

  “Can’t be helped,” said Ladd. His cell phone rang. “All right,” he said after listening to the caller. “All the exits are covered. The ME’s on her way—if she can make it through the snow.”

  One of the uniformed officers entered, and Ladd directed him to guard the body. “Don’t let anyone near him. Got it?”

  The officer patted his holster and positioned himself near the corpse, standing spread-legged as if ready to take on any and all attackers.

  “I’ll be back,” Ladd said, and left with Egmon, Chasseur, and Georgie trailing after him.

  I went to where Larry, Melinda, and Laura stood in a tight circle. Melinda had tried to retrieve Monroe’s jacket, but the officer waved her away. “Don’t mess with the scene,” he’d said.

  “What do you think, Jessica?”

  “About what, Larry?”

  “About getting through the rest of the weekend. We might as well pack up and get out of here.”

  “I don’t think that’s an option,” I said. “It’s a police matter now. You heard the detective. No one can leave until they’ve been questioned, and that will include you and the other members of the troupe.” Especially the troupe, I thought.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “I’m still in shock. I’m not thinking clearly. I only know I can’t believe any of my people had anything to do with this.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Larry,” Melinda said. “We’re actors. The show must go on. You can’t call it off. We’d have a lot of angry people—and not just cast members.”

  “If it gets out that Paul is really dead, people might be angrier that we’re going forward,” he said, chewing his lip. He looked at Laura. “What do you think?”

  She glanced at Paul’s body, sniffled, and straightened her shoulders. “If the show must go on, I won’t let you down,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you decide.”

  Larry sighed.

  “I don’t envy you making the decision,” I said. I wandered over to the wings and peered into the gloom backstage. I glanced up at the line of spotlights with different colored gels covering the bulbs and at the scaffolding to which they were attached.

  “Melinda, you’re right,” Larry said, pacing back and forth in front of the body. “The show should go on. But, of course, that decision won’t be ours to make. I’ll ask Mohawk House management what they want us to do. I’ll leave it up to them.”

  “They’re going to want us to go forward,” Melinda said. “They stand to lose a lot of money if all the guests check out after they’re questioned by the police. And don’t forget, we do, too. We still have to pay the cast, according to Equity rules. Not to mention the cost of their transportation and all the props and costumes we rented for this weekend. No, we can’t quit. The show has to go on. You have to convince them of that.” She turned to me. “Don’t you think I’m right, Jessica?”

  “Hmmm? I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening. I had a thought.”

  “What is it?” Melinda asked.

  “I was thinking—and I know this may sound outlandish, even ghoulish—but I was thinking that your play might help point to the young man’s murderer.”

  “Really?” Melinda said. “How?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Just an instinct.”

  “Your instincts have always been pretty
good,” Larry said.

  “And sometimes they haven’t,” I said. “But in this case, they might pass the test. Everyone is captive here at Mohawk House until Detective Ladd is satisfied. The snowstorm plays a role, too, in keeping them here. The paying guests are going to have an awful lot of time on their hands, and you know what that can result in. I think continuing with the play will serve two purposes. First, it will calm those who suspect that a murder truly took place. Second—and this is certainly more important—it might—and I emphasize might—shed some light on the murder and the murderer.”

  “See?” Melinda said. “Jessica agrees. The show must go on.”

  “But what about the detective?” Larry asked. “Will he go along with it?”

  “You can ask.”

  “I’ll take a shot at it.”

  “Poor choice of words,” Melinda said as the medical examiner, two white-coated assistants, and a crime scene tech arrived, along with Detective Ladd, followed by his mystery author attendants.

  As we were leaving the scene in the hands of the professionals, I asked Detective Ladd if he could find a few minutes to speak with me.

  “About what?” he asked.

  “About an idea I have that might help you solve this terrible crime.”

  The squint and frown crossed his face again.

  “I would really appreciate it, Detective.”

  “Okay,” he said, taking my elbow and leading me into the wings. “I need ten minutes with the ME. After that I’ll look for you, but I hope you won’t waste my time with some cockamamie scheme like your friends over there.” He nodded at Chasseur and Wick.

  “I’ll certainly try not to,” I said, not at all sure that that wasn’t exactly what I was doing.

  Chapter Eight

  The Postman Always Rings Twice was published

  in 1934. Who wrote it?

  Mark Egmon intercepted me as I left. “Can we talk?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  We went in a small library in which floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined one wall and a movable ladder afforded access to the top shelves. Two red leather chairs flanked a table; a Tiffany lamp on it provided the room’s only illumination. Mark closed the door and we sat.