A Question of Murder Read online

  “I’m absolutely in shock,” he said.

  “Murder is always shocking,” I said.

  “Shocked or not, we have a lot of decisions to make.”

  “I imagine you do.”

  “The police have sealed off all the doors, and that has some of the guests upset. No, that’s an understatement. A few are already clamoring for their money back.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand that it isn’t management’s decision. It’s a police matter.”

  “You’re being rational, Jessica. Interesting, though, how some who suspect a real murder has taken place want very much to stay and help solve the crime. They considerate it some sort of a bonus for the weekend, an added value.” He shook his head. “I’ve been toying with the idea of moving the author panel to tomorrow morning, maybe even later tonight. Seeing how calmly you and the other writers are taking the situation might rub off.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Mark, but I should mention that I’ve suggested to the Savoys that we proceed with the entire weekend as planned.”

  “All of it? The show, too?”

  “Yes.”

  I explained my thinking and he listened attentively. When I was finished, he said, “I buy it, Jessica. I don’t know if others in management will, but I’ll try to convince them.”

  “Good. Larry Savoy was going to speak to his cast members to see if they’re willing, considering the tragedy that’s taken place.”

  “And I’ll talk to my bosses. I may ask you to weigh in with them.”

  “I’ll be happy to do anything I can. The biggest hurdle might be Detective Ladd. If he feels it will get in the way of his investigation, he’ll veto the idea.”

  “Hopefully, he’ll listen to you.”

  I left the library and found the detective in the main lobby conferring with other officers. Dozens of guests milled about, many obviously wanting to speak with him, but most, including me, had the good sense to give him a wide berth.

  Ladd eventually became aware of my presence and came over to me, ignoring others trying to capture his attention. “You said you had something to talk to me about,” he said. “An idea you have?”

  “Yes, Detective. I appreciate your taking the time.”

  We went along the hallway to a relatively secluded alcove.

  “So,” he said, “what’s this idea? You’ll have to make it quick.”

  I outlined my reasons for allowing the theatrical production to continue as planned. If I judged his reaction by the sour look on his thin face, my idea didn’t have a chance of being accepted. But to my surprise, he said, “Makes sense to me, Mrs. Fletcher. But the minute it gets in the way of my investigation, it’s over.”

  “Understandable,” I said. “I’ll make sure the Savoys, the show’s producers, keep everyone out of your hair.”

  A small smile crossed his lips as he touched the thinning reddish hair on top of his head. “Not a lot of hair for people to get into,” he said. “We’ll question the cast first to free them up to do their show. Anything else?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Okay. By the way, where were you when he was shot?”

  “Me? I was sitting in the audience along with everyone else.”

  “Did you know the deceased?”

  “No. I’d never met him before arriving here for the weekend. Actually, we were never really introduced. I saw him in the play during rehearsal and bumped into him earlier this evening.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Just inside the rear door downstairs. It seems to be a place where smokers go to have a cigarette.”

  “Show it to me?”

  “Certainly.”

  I led him to the area, where cigarette butts still littered the floor. A uniformed officer was posted to ensure that no one left the premises.

  “I came through this door after taking a walk,” I said, “and Paul—the deceased—was standing here smoking a cigarette.”

  “You talk to him?”

  “Just barely. I was startled to see him here, and said so. He snuffed out his cigarette and left”—I pointed—“up those stairs. The next time I saw him was during the first act this evening. He left the stage with the young actress. There was the shot. She raced into the room screaming, as she was supposed to do according to the script, and he stumbled back onto the set, pretending to have been shot. But as we know, he wasn’t pretending.”

  The detective pushed a few butts with the toe of his boot and looked around the small space. “Who’s the murderer in the play?” he asked absently.

  “In the play? I don’t know. I haven’t seen it before. It’s a new show. The Savoys are putting it on for the first time this weekend.”

  “Do me a favor and take a look at the script,” he said. “I have to get back. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  I followed him up to the main floor and decided to go to my room. I was standing at the elevator when Larry Savoy approached. “The detective has agreed to let you continue with the show,” I said. “So has Mark Egmon, although he has to get final management approval.” The elevator doors opened, but I pulled Larry aside. “Larry,” I said in a low voice, “do you have any hunches about who might have killed Paul?”

  He shrugged.

  “If it was a member of the cast, is there one person who might have had it in for him?”

  He chewed his cheek and frowned. “No, Jess, but I really hadn’t thought about it before. He wasn’t the most popular guy with the cast and crew. Arrogance was his middle name.” He lowered his voice. “Do you really think the killer is a cast member?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But someone shot Paul backstage, and unless one of the guests came here with the intention of killing him, considering cast members as primary suspects seems logical.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Look, I’m assembling the cast on the enclosed front porch in half an hour. Join us? With your track record for solving murders, I’d feel better having you around. I’ve invited the other writers, too.”

  “Of course I’ll be there,” I said. “Count on it. Oh, Detective Ladd has asked me to read the script. He wants to see who the murderer is in the show with a thought to linking it up with what really happened.”

  “I could tell you, but I won’t. I’ll get you a script, but I can’t see anything coming of it.”

  “I agree,” I said, “but I said I would look. Thanks.”

  He walked away, and I pressed the button for the elevator again. But instead of getting in when it arrived, I descended the stairs and returned to the unofficial smoking area just inside the lower door. I pulled a Kleenex from my pocket and used it to push the discarded cigarette butts into a neat pile, which I carefully picked up with the tissue. That chore completed, I went to my room. The cigarette butts I’d collected from the balcony were still in the trash. I retrieved them from the wastebasket, spread everything out on a sheet of paper, and examined them. I knew nothing about the slain actor, but was looking for anything that would link another person to him. Had his killer shared a cigarette with him prior to pulling the trigger? Probably not. But at least I’d taken a first action. And as my doctor friend, Seth Hazlitt, back in Cabot Cove always says, any action is better than no action.

  Chapter Nine

  John Dickson Carr specialized in a certain type of

  murder mystery plot. What was it?

  It wasn’t late enough for bed, and after what had just occurred I was too wound up to settle into the mundane pleasure of reading a book. I left my room and wandered down to a small lounge that housed Mohawk House’s only bar, whimsically named Earl’s Pub. As I approached the room, I could hear a pianist and accompanying musicians playing one of my favorite tunes, “Cheek to Cheek.”

  I stood in the doorway and took in my surroundings. I’d assumed that the events of the evening would cast a somber pall over the guests, even though most of them probably weren’t sure whether what had occurred on the stage was real or part of t
he production. I had thought the presence of uniformed police throughout the building, and the fact that no one was allowed to leave, would have injected a hefty dose of reality into the situation. But that didn’t seem to be the case.

  The bar was busy and festive despite two dour cops in uniform watching over the gathering, one stationed at each of the two doors. Couples danced to the trio’s infectious beat while others gathered in small groups, drinks in hand and voices raised—badly, I might add—as they sang the words to the familiar melodies cranked out by the pianist, an older black woman, and her colleagues, a bassist and drummer. Considering what I knew to have happened, the scene was surreal, something out of an avant-garde movie. A young man had been shot to death in front of a hundred witnesses, and a party was in full swing.

  I was debating leaving when a male voice close behind me said, “Buy you a drink?” It was John Chasseur.

  “I hadn’t planned on staying,” I said.

  “Come on, be a sport,” he said. “I hate to drink alone.”

  We went to a spot at the bar where two adjacent barstools were vacant. When we’d settled on them, he asked, “And what does the famous Jessica Fletcher drink?”

  “That depends,” I replied. “Right now, a tall glass of orange juice sounds perfect.”

  “Orange juice is for breakfast,” he said.

  “Back home in Maine,” I said, “orange juice is considered a proper drink at any time of the day.”

  “The lady will have an orange juice, straight up,” he told the bartender. “A perfect Manhattan for me, no cherry.” He turned to me and asked, “So, have you got it all figured out yet?”

  “Afraid not. You?”

  “Sure I do. Paul, our dead actor, probably did dirt to some pretty young thing, maybe somebody’s wife, and she whacked him.”

  “You make it sound like a mob hit.”

  “Iced him. Offed him. It’s all the same.”

  “Why do you assume it was a woman who shot him?”

  He shrugged and sipped his drink. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Handsome kid like that must have had plenty of broads falling all over him. Hard to figure women. It’s all surface with them. The kid probably had the mind of a mole and was a quarter inch deep, but he looked good. That’s all that seems to count with the so-called fairer sex, present company excepted, of course.”

  I had no interest in getting into a debate with an obvious misogynist, so I took a long swallow of my juice and said nothing.

  “Offended?” he said.

  “Not at all,” I said. “I do feel a little sorry, though.”

  “For what?”

  “For you.”

  He guffawed. “Don’t waste your sorrow on me, Jessica Fletcher. I’m at the top of my game, on the upside.”

  “Are you inferring that my career is on a downward slope?”

  “No. Touchy, are we?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Okay, so maybe I am a little hard on women,” he said. “Maybe it wasn’t a woman who killed the actor.” He snickered. “Maybe it was the ghost of Mohawk House, the headless earl.”

  “Believe in ghosts?” I asked, taking another taste of my drink.

  “Ghosts? Sure. Why not? Hollywood’s filled with them. Real ones. And ghouls, too.”

  “How many of your books have been made into motion pictures?” I asked.

  “I’ve had half a dozen optioned, but only two have made it to the screen. I’m producing now. Writers are treated like dirt in Hollywood. All the real action is in producing.”

  “Have I seen any films you’ve produced?” I asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve been doing low-budget ones as a start, but I’ve got some major projects in development. Maybe one of your books would make a good flick.”

  “Perhaps.” I didn’t bother mentioning that some of my novels had been optioned and were the basis for motion pictures. “Where’s your wife?” I asked.

  “In the room fussing with her hair or something. Actresses are all alike, vain as all get-out and looking for the secret to eternal youth.”

  “She’s an actress?”

  “Not a very successful one. A couple of grade-B films. I rescued her.”

  Judging from the way he’d treated her at dinner, he hadn’t done her any favors by “rescuing” her.

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” I said. “How long have you been married?”

  He started to answer when Detective Ladd entered the room and came to us. “Enjoying yourselves?” he asked, his eyes going from table to table.

  “I’m not sure that’s the way I’d characterize it,” I said, “but a break certainly is welcome. Anything new in your investigation?”

  He shook his head, his attention still on others in the room.

  “Mr. Chasseur has a theory about who killed the actor,” I said.

  “Is that so, Mr. Chasseur?” Ladd said. “I’d love to hear it.”

  Chasseur shot me a nasty look. I smiled. He said, “I think I’d better be going.” He stood, laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, and said, “Have a good evening.”

  When he was gone, Ladd took his place at the bar. “What’s this theory of his?” he asked.

  “Ignore what I said, Detective. I was making a point with him.”

  He ordered a club soda from the bartender. “The ME got the body out of here just in time,” he said. “Another couple of inches of snow and our departed actor would have been with us for the duration.” He leaned close to me and said, “I understand you’re pretty tight with the Savoys.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I replied. “We’ve appeared together before, but I don’t see much of them socially.”

  “What about the actors and actresses?”

  “All strangers to me until this weekend. Why do you ask?”

  “Just trying to get a handle on the players.”

  “The suspects.”

  “Yeah, the suspects. What about the young gal, Laura Tehaar, the one who was supposed to shoot off the phony gun?”

  “I know nothing about her,” I said.

  “What about the victim?”

  “As I told you, I bumped into him—literally—only today, and saw him during a rehearsal.”

  Ladd nodded, swiveled on his stool, and scrutinized the crowd, which had begun to thin out. He returned his attention to me. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

  “I believe I can, but be warned, Detective. Secrets have a way of not staying secret once they’ve been told to another person, no matter how closemouthed that other person might be.” He started to respond, but I interrupted with, “Might I ask why you would trust me with a secret? It obviously has to do with the murder that has taken place here this evening. I’m just another witness, another suspect.”

  “From what I’m told, Mrs. Fletcher, you’re a lot more than that. Not only do you write murder mysteries, but you’ve also solved your share of real ones. Am I right?”

  “That has happened on occasion.”

  “So, I figure I can use all the help I can get with this one.”

  “I’m flattered, of course, and will do anything I can to help.”

  His lips almost touched my ear as he whispered, “The deceased wasn’t shot.”

  There was no need for me to respond verbally. My face said it all.

  “That’s right,” he whispered again. “He wasn’t shot.”

  “But—”

  “He was stabbed. Everybody assumed he was shot because of the sound of gunfire off the stage. But the ME says it was a knife wound that killed him. The gunshot sound must have been from the pistol with blanks that Ms. Tehaar fired.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “So, do me a favor, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Of course.”

  “Keep your eyes open for somebody carrying a bloody knife. And keep this to yourself, okay?”

  My mind raced. The news that a knife had been used to kill Paul Brody changed, to some extent, the perception of what
sort of individual might have killed him. A woman is less likely to use a knife as a murder weapon than a man. A knife is up close and personal. A gun is less so. That isn’t to say that plenty of women haven’t used knives to kill someone, nor should a woman ever be ruled out as a suspect simply on the basis of that premise. But statistically, a betting person would be safer placing a bet on a man using a knife to kill someone.

  Two women carrying notebooks interrupted us. “Excuse me,” one of them said to Detective Ladd. “I hate to bother you, but we were told it was all right to approach any of the actors at any time during the weekend.”

  Ladd’s expression was one of confusion. He looked at me. If he was seeking my help, he was disappointed. All I could do was smile. Like many others in the hotel that weekend, these women obviously had decided that a real murder had not taken place, and that this real police officer was part of the cast. Ladd picked up on what was happening and said, “Sorry, but as long as the investigation is continuing, I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  “Oh, that isn’t fair,” said the second woman. With pen poised over her notepad, she said, “Now, I believe that the maid should be looked at very, v-e-r-y closely. Have you interrogated her, Detective?”

  “I, ah—I haven’t gotten around to it yet,” Ladd said, “but you’re correct. I’ll question—I’ll interrogate her right now. Excuse me.”

  He left me with the two amateur sleuths. One said, “Mrs. Fletcher, maybe you can help straighten something out for me. There seem to be two officers in charge of the investigation.” She consulted her notes. “There’s Detective Carboroni, and now this detective. We don’t even have his name.”

  “His name is—” I stopped, assuming that Ladd would be just as happy not having his name bandied about. “I think he might announce it at the next performance. Then again, he might prefer to operate incognito.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” one of the women said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Well,” said her friend, “I’m just glad someone like you is here to keep an eye on things. You won’t mind, will you, if we stay close?”