A Question of Murder Read online

  “Of course not. It will be my pleasure.”

  I excused myself and left the room with the intention of going to my suite and calling it a night. I was on my way to the elevators when Victoria, the actress playing Mrs. Whittaker in the play, approached.

  “Good evening,” I said.

  “Hello,” she said. “I still can’t believe what happened to Paul.”

  “I know. It was so sudden, so tragic. A young life snuffed out like that.”

  “Not such a young life,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Paul wasn’t as young as he looked. I liked to kid him about being too old to play juvenile leads.”

  “How old was he?” I asked.

  “Late thirties.”

  “He certainly didn’t look it,” I said. “I would have thought early twenties.”

  “He didn’t act his age, either. You’d think those dismal years in Hollywood would have matured him.”

  The elevator arrived.

  “Coming to the cast meeting?” Victoria asked.

  “Oh, my goodness, I forgot about that. Larry asked me to attend. I’m glad I bumped into you.”

  As we walked together to an enclosed porch where the cast had gathered, the things I’d just learned whirled in my brain, and I was anxious to get to my room where I could start making notes of my own. There were two murders to solve that weekend, the one written into the script and the one that had occurred earlier in the evening. I hoped there wouldn’t be a third—theatrical or real.

  Chapter Ten

  The first Shamus Awards were presented at Bouchercon

  in San Francisco in 1982. What genre

  of crime writing do the awards honor?

  A uniformed officer stationed at the door to the enclosed porch stopped us as we tried to enter. “This is a private meeting,” he said.

  “And we’re part of it,” Victoria said.

  Larry Savoy saw through the glass doors what was happening and came to us. “They’re part of the group,” he told the officer, who grunted and stepped aside to allow us to enter.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said as we followed Larry to a couple of empty chairs at the front.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re here. Some of the troupe have second thoughts about continuing.”

  Our arrival didn’t hush those already in attendance. A spirited argument was under way, with everyone talking at once. Some voices were loud, and an occasional four-letter word cut through the general din. Monroe suddenly rose from his chair and took center stage. Wearing a fresh smoking jacket like the one that had been used to cover Paul Brody’s body, he stepped in front of Savoy. With his hands on his hips, he looked very much as though he was playing the father’s role again. He raised his hands in a plea for silence and said in a booming voice, “Please, pay attention to what I have to say.”

  No one heeded him, so he repeated it, louder this time. A few ceased talking, and eventually the noise level lowered to the point where Whittaker could be heard. “I feel as though I’m surrounded by babies,” he said in the stentorian tones of a veteran stage actor. “Do none of you have any respect for what has come before you, the traditions of the theater, the giants who have walked the great stages of the world, the men and women who treasured the age-old tradition of the show having to go on no matter what tragedies intrude?”

  “Oh, can it, Monroe,” someone said.

  Whittaker’s expression was one of abject hurt. Larry Savoy came around in front of him and said to the cast, “The least we can do is hear what Monroe has to say, and respect his right to say it.”

  Cynthia stood and faced her acting colleagues. Fighting back tears, she said, “I don’t like going through with it any more than you do, but I’m willing to do so. After all, Paul fell dead at my feet, not yours. His blood is on my shoe, not yours. Monroe is right. We all have to grow up and respect tradition.”

  Melinda Savoy stood as Cynthia sat. “You might keep in mind,” she said, “that none of us are going anywhere while the police investigate Paul’s murder. We have a choice. Either we sit in our rooms and feel sorry for ourselves, or you perform for those people who paid good money to see our play. Besides, unless you came here by dogsled, you aren’t going anyplace until the storm stops.” She looked at me and said, “You won’t find Mrs. Fletcher or the other writers running away from their commitments.”

  The cast’s eyes turned to me. I nodded my agreement with what Melinda had said. As I did, loud voices outside the doors captured everyone’s attention. I saw through the glass that John Chasseur and GSB Wick were arguing with the officer. Larry started for the door, but I stood and told him I’d take care of it.

  Chasseur was chastising the officer for his arrogance. When he saw me, he demanded, “What is this, some sort of plot to keep us out?”

  “Not at all,” I said. I told the officer, “These people are part of the program this weekend. They should be attending the meeting.”

  He reluctantly granted them access to the porch. As we reentered, Laura Tehaar, the young woman in charge of props, pushed past us in the direction of the door. She stopped, turned, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, she shouted, “All you care about are your own needs and feelings. Paul is dead! Murdered! I hate all of you!” With that, she was gone.

  “Emotional little thing, isn’t she?” Chasseur said as he and Georgie Wick found seats. A cast member had taken the chair next to Victoria that I’d vacated, so I joined my writing colleagues.

  “So, what have we missed, Jessica?” Chasseur asked.

  “They’re debating whether to continue with the play.”

  “I didn’t mean them,” he said. “I meant with the investigation. You seemed wired in with that hick cop. Has he solved the murder yet?”

  I ignored the snide question and said, “Detective Ladd strikes me as a capable young man. I’m sure he’s doing his best to get to the bottom of things.”

  “I wouldn’t dare write him into a novel,” he said. “He looks like he’d be more at home tending to cows and pigs.”

  Larry Savoy managed to quiet the crowd again and said, “Okay, let’s do it this way. Some of you have indicated to me privately that you’re willing to continue with the show, but now that you’re all here, let’s put it to a vote. All in favor of going on with the show raise your hands.”

  I counted, along with Larry. Only a few failed to respond favorably.

  “All right,” he said. “We keep going.”

  One of those who hadn’t raised his hand said, “Just because the majority wants to continue, it doesn’t mean I have to.”

  “That’s true,” said Larry. “But like Melinda said, you can’t leave the hotel anyway. You might as well keep busy working on the production. Besides, if you don’t work, you don’t get paid.”

  “Tell that to the union,” the man retorted.

  “I’ll be happy to,” Larry said. “Okay, let’s get some rehearsal in. See you in fifteen minutes in the auditorium.”

  The cast and crew filed out, leaving Larry and Melinda Savoy, Chasseur, GSB Wick, and me on the porch. “Well,” Larry said, “looks like we keep on going. I hope that includes the three of you.”

  “I’m willing,” Chasseur said, “but I do have an objection to lodge.”

  “Which is?”

  “It seems that Jessica here has been given some special access to what’s going on.”

  “That’s not true,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter what you say, Jessica. It’s the facts that count. Ms. Wick and I aren’t told of things like this meeting, Larry’s plans, and what progress the bumpkin detective is making. I insist on being informed of such things.”

  “I assure you no one has decided to cut you, or anyone else, out, John,” Melinda assured him.

  “I’ll take your word for it, Melinda,” Chasseur said. “Let’s just make sure it stays that way.”

  Chasseur seemed appeased, at least for the mo
ment. My dilemma, I realized, was that I didn’t have any control over the extent to which Detective Ladd chose to confide in me and not the others. Now that I knew that Paul Brody had been stabbed, not shot, did I have an obligation to share that information with my fellow writers? I thought not, and hoped that my being in possession of such inside information could be kept from them.

  Larry asked whether we wanted to attend the rehearsal. Chasseur said he did; Ms. Wick and I declined the invitation. She and I left the porch together and walked slowly in the direction of the lobby and elevators.

  “I would very much like a nightcap,” she said. “Will you join me?”

  “I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better,” I said.

  “Just a case of nerves,” she replied.

  We went to the bar where I’d been earlier and took a booth in a far corner. There weren’t as many people there as had been previously. The trio was packing up their instruments, and it looked like the bartender was getting ready to call it a night. He spotted us. “Last call,” he announced pleasantly.

  After Wick had ordered what seemed to be her usual—a Bacardi cocktail—and I’d opted for a tall glass of cold water, she said, “Well, well, well, here we are cooped up for the weekend with a murderer.”

  “Frankly,” I said, “I hope that we are.”

  She looked at me and frowned. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

  I laughed. “If we are, cooped up with the murderer,” I said, “it means that whoever killed Paul is still here. If the killer managed to flee, he, or she, might never be found.”

  “Frankly, that wouldn’t bother me a bit,” she said as our drinks were placed before us and I signed for them using my room number. She took a sip, smacked her thin lips, and said, “Now I’m really feeling better.”

  “Mind a question?” I asked.

  “Not at all, but if it’s about Harold, I plead no contest.”

  “No,” I said, “it’s not about your friend. I was wondering—”

  “Harold says he finds you very attractive.”

  “Oh? That’s flattering.”

  “Don’t mind him. He can be a bit of a lecher, I know. All those years alone with dead bodies, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I suppose. I was wondering what to call you.”

  “Call me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, you mean what name to use.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Georgie is fine.”

  “Mind another question?”

  “No.”

  “What do your other initials stand for, the S and the B?”

  She grinned impishly and took a long sip of her cocktail. “I’m afraid I prefer to keep that little secret to myself,” she said, more to the glass than to me.

  “As you wish,” I said. If it was important for her to maintain a veil of secrecy about it, so be it.

  “Maybe the slain earl’s murderer has struck again,” she offered absently.

  I smiled and said, “Actually, that would be preferable. I’d prefer a ghostly killer to a flesh-and-blood one.”

  Her face became animated. “As would I,” she said as though my comment had opened a floodgate of thoughts within her. “So many people are cynical when it comes to ghosts, Jessica. I’m not one of them. Are you?”

  “I suppose my view is that I have no reason not to believe in them. Like extraterrestrial creatures. I doubt if they’re there, but since I really don’t know whether they are or not, I have to assume they could be.”

  She said nothing, as though pondering the mysteries of the universe. I took the moment to look at her more closely. The conversation about ghosts seemed apt. GSB Wick had a “ghostly” quality about her, a not-of-this-world aura—the milky white skin stretched tight over her cheekbones, the bloodred lipstick that made her mouth seem larger than it really was, the raven hair and slightly garish green eye shadow with its tiny sparkles above small, piercing black eyes that seemed to focus on something only she could see.

  “Once ah had a lover who looked very much like the young man slain here tonight,” she said, her Southern accent deepening, making her sound like Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, a fine, handsome young man with a wonderful future in the theater.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say next, so I said nothing.

  “We were very much in love until—”

  She paused. Was she about to cry? I had the distinct feeling that she now was gazing into some private world unavailable to me, or anyone else for that matter.

  “Until he was cut down in the prime of his youth.” Her expression brightened. “Oh, mah, what a splendid boy he was. When he comes to visit, he always brings me flowers and says the sweetest things.”

  “I, um—”

  She sensed my discomfort, turned to face me, and said, “Ah imagine you think I’m strange, Jessica.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “As I mentioned before, I don’t dismiss any possibilities in this world, not when I don’t have facts to back me up.” I conspicuously looked at my watch. “I think it’s time for this lady to call it a night.”

  Her response was to wave the young bartender over to the booth. When he arrived she said, “Ah would be much obliged if you would make me one more of these heavenly drinks.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I’m closed.”

  She placed a bony hand on his, smiled sweetly, and said, “Considerin’ what’s happened here this evening, certainly you can make an exception for a lonely old woman.”

  He looked to me. I smiled and said, “It would be a true act of kindness.”

  He nodded, smiled, and said to Georgie, “One Bacardi cocktail coming up.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A certain era is considered to be the “Golden Age”

  of murder mysteries. Was it the 1920s through

  the 1940s? The 1950s until the late 1970s? Or the

  1980s through the mid-1990s?

  I was happy to get to my room, kick off my shoes, and reflect on what had transpired that day. I sat at a small desk in the corner, pulled a sheet of hotel stationery from the drawer, and began to make notes. I’d just gotten started when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, this is Detective Ladd. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, not at all. I just got here.”

  “Got a few minutes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Meet you downstairs? Mr. Egmon has given me a private room to use.”

  “Fine.”

  He was there when I arrived. “Have a seat,” he said. “Anybody from the press try to reach you tonight?”

  “The press? No. Why do you ask?”

  He twisted his torso against a pain in his neck or back, winced, and shook his head. “This is a funny town, Mrs. Fletcher. The leaders like to keep everything hush-hush, if you know what I mean.”

  “Like a murder in its midst?” I said.

  “You’ve got it,” he said. “Especially since it happened here at Mohawk House.”

  “Why would that make a difference?”

  “Clout. Seems like nine-tenths of the people in the town work here. The mayor, my boss, called me and said I was to keep it under wraps until things got resolved. As far as he’s concerned, having a murder splashed all over the newspapers and on the tube would be bad for business.”

  I couldn’t help but smile, and thought that as far as murder mystery weekends went, having a real killing take place would add to their appeal, certainly to mystery buffs. But I didn’t challenge him. Instead, I asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you seem to be the biggest name here this weekend. The way I figure it, if the press wants to find out what’s going on at the hotel, they’ll be looking to interview someone like you.”

  I started to protest his logic but he cut me off.

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Get a famous mystery writer to give her impressions of what happen
ed.”

  I started to say something again, but he held up his hand. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I know that you can say and do anything you please. All I’m asking is that you consider keeping mum for a while. Not only that, but I have a feeling that you carry some weight with the others, the actors and actresses, the writers who are here with you, that sort of thing.”

  I thought for a moment before saying, “I’ll be happy to avoid making statements to anyone outside the hotel, and I’ll do my best to convey your message to the Savoys, the cast, and the writers. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “Sure, I know that.”

  “I must say, though, that confiding in me about aspects of the murder places me in somewhat of an awkward position.”

  “How so?”

  I explained that some of the others were envious of what they perceived as my special treatment.

  “You mean Mr. Chasseur.”

  “For one.”

  “He’s not my favorite guy, Mrs. Fletcher. I hear he’s been going around saying nasty things about me and my handling of this case.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “And that actor who plays the cop in the play, Carboroni? Turns out he used to be a cop in Philadelphia. He’s like my shadow, acting like he’s still the real thing.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m sure you’re used to dealing with difficult people. Have you questioned many of the guests yet?”

  “Not as many as I’d like to, but I’ll get around to it. That Mrs. Wick”—he chuckled and shook his head—“she’s a real character, isn’t she?”

  “She’s, ah—she’s different.”

  “That’s what I meant, only you put it nicer. By the way, Mrs. Fletcher, what do you know about the deceased’s history, family, that sort of thing?”

  “Absolutely nothing, I’m afraid.” I remembered what Victoria had said about Paul Brody being older than he looked, and mentioned that to Ladd, who noted it on a small notepad. “And he evidently spent time in Hollywood,” I added, “at least according to Victoria, the actress who plays the mother in the show, and Larry Savoy.”