A Question of Murder Page 9

  “Mr. Savoy is getting me information so we can notify his next-of-kin. Not my favorite job, let me tell you.”

  “I would think not,” I said. “Well, are we finished?”

  “For now. I just want you to know how much I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I’m only too happy to help.”

  “Yeah,” he said, walking me to the door, “I need all the help I can get, this being my first murder investigation.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Clint Eastwood starred in the film version of

  Firefox, penned by a leading British thriller writer.

  Who is he?

  I felt for the young lawman as I watched him walk away. His first murder investigation certainly wasn’t going to be easy, no matter how much help he might receive.

  I admired his honesty. Many macho policemen wouldn’t have admitted to being a novice, particularly to a woman who’d injected herself into their business from the start. Until Detective Ladd’s revelation that he’d never investigated a homicide, I’d found myself anxious to get to the bottom of who’d killed Paul Brody. That’s my nature, I suppose, built into the genes. But now I had an even greater incentive, and I wanted to do everything I could to aid Detective Ladd.

  I considered dropping by the late-night rehearsal that was now under way but decided instead to explore portions of Mohawk House I hadn’t seen yet. As I passed the main check-in desk, one of the staff on duty, an older man, stopped me.

  “Anything I can do for you?” he asked.

  “Thank you, no,” I said. “Just taking a self-conducted tour of this grand old lady of a building.”

  He laughed. “We’re just hoping this grand old lady will weather the storm.”

  “Have you heard the latest forecast?” I asked.

  “Sure have. They keep upping the snowfall totals. They’re calling it the worst March storm in the area’s history. Could be up to four feet, they say.”

  “Oh, my,” I said. “How unfortunate for the guests this weekend.”

  He motioned me closer to the desk. “You’re Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in a low voice.

  “Yes.”

  He looked past me to where two uniformed officers stood just inside the front door. He lowered his voice even more and asked, “Is it true that one of the actors was murdered? I mean really murdered?”

  “I’m not sure what happened,” I said. “There was an accident and—”

  “I heard he was murdered,” he said with conviction.

  “Until the police decide to release information,” I said, “it’s probably best for everyone to go about their business and try not to speculate.”

  He glanced over at a young colleague who was busy doing paperwork at the opposite end of the long desk. “Lorraine says she thinks the killer is still here. She and some of the others wanted to leave, but the snow made it impossible. You can’t make it down the mountain in this weather. You’ll end up dead just like him, if he’s really dead. I can’t believe it was Mr. Brody.”

  “ ‘Mr. Brody’? You sound as though you knew him.”

  “Oh, yes. Not well, but he used to come here with his family.”

  “How long ago?” I asked.

  “Oh, years and years ago. Little scamps, those boys were, that’s for sure, always running around, playing make-believe, that sort of thing. His brother’s name was Peter. I remember that because whenever I saw them together, I thought of having to rob Peter to pay Paul.” He chuckled. “You could tell they were from a theatrical family. Lots of imagination. They loved finding secret places in the building—and believe me, we have plenty of those.” He shook his head, smiling. “I remember one time they got stuck in an abandoned stairwell and started screaming for help. They’d found their way there, but couldn’t figure out how to get back.”

  “You said it was a theatrical family. What did the parents do?”

  “The father was a producer. Theater, I believe, more than motion pictures, although I think he was involved in that, too. Very wealthy guy, made his money in pharmaceuticals, I think. The mother had been a showgirl. Nice-looking woman.”

  “Did you speak with the son this weekend?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, had a brief chat with him. Very brief. I said I remembered him from when the family vacationed here, and when he’d spent a summer in the area.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Not exactly certain.” He scratched his head. “The brain doesn’t remember as well as it used to.”

  “You remembered Paul Brody and his family coming to Mohawk House.”

  “Well, that’s going back some. The newer stuff doesn’t stick with me so well. But I remember he was here, appeared in a summer stock production in a small theater, the Newsome, on the other side of town. Turned into a movie house now. Must’ve been about a dozen years ago.”

  “That the theater became a movie house?”

  “No, no. That young Paul was acting there. Didn’t pay much; he worked odd jobs to bring in some extra money. I thought he might come to work here but he didn’t. Sad.”

  “Sad that he didn’t come to work here?”

  “No. I was disappointed that he didn’t seem to have much of a recollection of it. He said he vaguely remembered coming here as a youngster with his folks, but told me he’d never been here working in summer stock. Made me feel foolish. Oh, well. I’m sorry that he’s gone, and in such a terrible way. All I can say, Mrs. Fletcher, is that if what I’m hearing is true, there are going to be a lot of upset people around here.”

  “It’s natural for nerves to be a little frayed,” I said, “but I’m sure everyone will be fine. The biggest problem seems to be what Mother Nature has decided to dump on us. I think I’ll take a look around myself. I enjoyed our chat.”

  “Me, too. It’s fun reminiscing about old times. You know, I was in the theater once myself. Did some acting as a young man but got smart and took up something with a steady paycheck. I’ve been here many, many years and wouldn’t trade it for any other job. I really enjoy working the desk, welcoming guests, seeing to it that they’re happy. I meet lots of interesting people—like you and Mr. Brody. The father, I mean. The boys, too.” He grinned. “And of course there was the accountants’ convention. You think those guys are serious, but you get them all together and they play pranks on each other, just like kids. I could tell you some things. Give you lots of material for your books, I bet.” He paused, and a flush rose to his cheeks. “I hope you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher. I can go on and on. The boss thinks I talk too much, take up too much of the guests’ time. But when you work in a hotel, there’s no end to the stories. It’s late. I’m sorry I kept you.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself about it at all. You didn’t keep me, and I’m sure we’ll have a chance to talk again.” I gave him a little wave as I turned back toward the hall.

  I went to the glass doors where two uniformed officers stood watch. The storm was raging, the snow blowing horizontally to create a white sheet that obscured everything beyond.

  “I’ve seen bad snowstorms before where I come from,” I said to the officers, “but nothing as fast-moving as this.”

  “Worst in history,” said one. “The mayor’s declared a state of emergency.”

  “Well,” I said, “we’re fortunate to be in this warm building.”

  “As long as we don’t lose electricity,” said the second officer.

  “I certainly hope we don’t,” I said.

  I bid them good night and continued my exploration of Mohawk House, going down a hallway I hadn’t seen before. It led to a small circular room that jutted out from one corner of the building. Large windows that afforded a ringside seat for the storm rattled in the wind. Two high-backed, overstuffed chairs flanked a small table and a single low-wattage lamp cast a small pool of yellow light in the room. I thought I was alone. But as I was about to leave, I sensed that someone was seated in one of the chairs. I took a few steps into the spac
e and saw that it was Claudette Chasseur. She sat perfectly still, her head listing slightly to one side, eyes cast down. Was she sleeping? I wondered, or—?

  I fabricated a cough. No movement. I tried again, a little louder this time. She stirred, bringing her head up straight, and turned slightly in my direction.

  All I could see was her elegant profile. She had delicate features and her skin was pale and translucent, the veins of her cheek a pale shadow beneath the fine surface.

  “It’s quite a storm,” I said. “You’ve found the perfect spot from which to watch it.”

  “I wasn’t watching,” she said.

  I hesitated before asking, “Mind if I join you?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I took the other chair. She remained in the same position as when I’d arrived, one long leg crossed over the other, torso erect, her eyes open but focused on her hands, which lay in her lap. She gripped a tissue in one tightly curled fist.

  “They say this will be the worst storm in history for this area,” I said, trying to make conversation.

  “I hate it,” she said.

  I smiled. “I can understand someone from sunny California not liking cold and snow. I guess I’m used to it. We have very rugged winters in Maine. That’s where I live. To us, that’s the way the season is supposed to be. It makes us appreciate spring that much more when it finally arrives.”

  “I guess you would,” she said, raising her eyes and staring blankly at the windows and the wintry show playing out beyond them.

  “Has your husband gone to bed?” I asked, wondering whether the lady preferred to be alone and not engage in conversation.

  “I suppose,” she said.

  Now she turned to face me. The area surrounding her left eye was swollen and discolored, and her streaked makeup indicated she’d been crying.

  “That’s a nasty-looking bruise,” I said. “Did you fall?”

  “Fall?” she repeated, punctuating the word with a cynical chortle. “Try walking into a line of knuckles.” She turned away from me again, her mouth set in a hard, straight line. I knew I shouldn’t press for more information, but I wasn’t comfortable saying nothing. I decided to be direct.

  “Did your husband do that to you?” I asked, certain that I already knew the answer.

  She nodded, gently placed the fingertips of her left hand on the bruise, and drew in a sharp breath. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe you should see a doctor,” I suggested. “I’m sure the hotel has one on call.”

  “And I’m sure he can’t wait to come out in a blizzard to patch up my eye.”

  She had a point.

  “Do you mind if I ask whether your husband has hit you before?”

  “You can ask anything you want,” she said. “Has he hit me before? Yes. How many times? A few. Why do I put up with it? Because right now he’s all I’ve got.”

  “All you’ve got?” I said, incredulous. “You’re young and beautiful and have your whole life ahead of you. Why would you have such a low opinion of yourself?”

  She faced me. “Ever tried to make it in Hollywood as an actress, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “It’s Jessica. And no, I can’t say that I’ve ever had any aspirations to act.”

  “Women who look like me—some far more beautiful—are a dime a dozen in Hollywood. I think I have talent, but no one was interested in finding out if it’s true. I was just one of many young women who win a local beauty pageant and leave their hometowns to become Hollywood stars. I roomed with three of them. We used to tell each other we were going to become, you know, overnight sensations, living in a Beverly Hills mansion, walking down the red carpet at the Academy Awards dressed in designer clothes, the hunks of the week on our arms. But it doesn’t take you long to realize that those dreams are just that, naïïve dreams that have as much chance of coming true as wanting to become an astronaut. At least I didn’t end up on the street—or worse.”

  She’d become emotional as she spoke, animated and earnest. I didn’t want to interrupt the flow, so I said nothing, content to be a sincerely interested listener. Besides, she didn’t need any prompting from me to continue.

  “You start getting down on yourself,” she said. “You’re embarrassed that you’ve failed, and you dread ever going home again where they know you headed to Hollywood to be a star. ‘Some star!’ they would think, and be secretly glad you fell on your face because they never liked you in high school and are happy that you didn’t make it. They didn’t make it either, of course, but they never promised they would. That’s the difference.”

  “It seems to me that I heard you had some success in Hollywood,” I said. “Didn’t you appear in some films?”

  Her laugh was rueful. “None that you’ve ever seen, I’m sure, Jessica. There’s always a part in porn flicks. I did my share of them, not hard-core but soft porn, nothing I wanted to write home to my folks about. Thank God they’ll never see them. They would never watch garbage like that. And there was John’s film. That was the last role I ever had.”

  “You mean your husband, John Chasseur?”

  “Uh-huh. An independent producer bought the rights to one of his books. Part of John’s deal was that he’d be listed as a producer, one of a dozen. That was okay with him because he always wanted to live and work in Hollywood, play the big shot, live the Hollywood high life. So he got to do some casting for the film. A girlfriend of mine knew where they were holding the readings. We bought the book, dressed up the way we thought the character would, went to the studio, and charmed our way past the security guard. There must have been a hundred other girls there who’d done the same thing. My friend was sent home, but I was asked to stay. I met John.” She hesitated. “And got the part.” She held her hand up to me. “And, yes, Jessica, it was a classic casting couch situation. John was between marriages and needed somebody on his arm, somebody to feed his ego and pick up his dry cleaning. He proposed, I said yes, and here we are.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a match made in heaven,” I said.

  “You might say that. But as I said, it’s all I have. The folks back home—that’s a little town outside St. Louis—they think I married a big-shot movie producer and writer, so to them it looks like maybe I did succeed. Pathetic, huh?”

  “Certainly sad,” I said. “I think you’re selling yourself short. You’re obviously a bright woman along with your good looks. What’s most important is that you not allow John, or anyone for that matter, to abuse you. He has no right to lay a hand on you for any reason. You must do something to put a stop to it, even if it means leaving him.”

  “Oh, don’t think I haven’t considered that every day, Jessica. But I—”

  Her eyes filled, and she began to weep softly. I placed my hand on her arm and squeezed. “Would you like to stay in my room tonight?” I asked. “There are two queen-sized beds. It wouldn’t be an imposition.”

  “No, but thank you,” she said, pulling another tissue from a pocket and dabbing at her eyes. “I’d better get back.”

  “Did you have much of a part in your husband’s motion picture?” I asked.

  “Not a lead or anything, but I had some lines and a pretty good scene with the male lead.”

  “I’d love to see it,” I said. “Is it out on video or DVD?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What’s the title?”

  “Murder by Special Delivery.”

  “I’ll look for it.”

  I gave her my room number in case she changed her mind, and watched her walk slowly away, straightening and stiffening as though girding for something distinctly unpleasant. Poor thing, I thought, so typical of too many women who have options but fail to see and act upon them. I was deep in that thought when, behind me, the loud sound of shattering glass caused me to jump. I spun around to see that a sizable tree limb, carried by the wind, had smashed one of the windows, and a torrent of frigid air and snow poured through the gaping hole. Almost immediately, a mainte
nance man who’d been working in the area appeared.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” I said, wrapping my arms about me against the windy chill.

  He ran up the hall in search of something to repair the damage, and I went in the opposite direction, happy to get away from the storm’s intrusion into the hotel’s inner recesses.

  I went to my room, where I changed into night-clothes and the terry-cloth robe, performed my usual bedtime ablutions, and resumed making notes. Although I’d been wide awake all evening, it was late and the warmth from the fire made me drowsy. I left the light on in the bathroom, which I always do to ensure that I won’t trip over something on my way there in the middle of the night, left the bathroom door slightly ajar, and climbed into bed. I fell asleep immediately, but awoke two hours later with the image of the actor Paul Brody pitching forward on the stage, his blood seeping through his fingers, just as the script had called for.

  But this was real life. He’d been stabbed to death by someone I might well have spoken with that evening, or might spend time with the following day. Despite my efforts, sleep returned only in fitful spurts of a few minutes at a time, and I finally gave up at five in the morning, groggy and out of sorts but even more determined to get to the bottom of things.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In what book did Dame Agatha Christie introduce

  her enduring character Miss Marple?

  I looked out the window of my room and noted that the snow had begun to abate, although it was still falling, the flakes larger and fatter than they’d been during the night. According to veteran weather watchers back home in Cabot Cove, a change from small to large flakes meant we were on the trailing edge of the front, with clearing on the horizon. Their predictions were usually accurate—no surprise considering how many of them made their living out in the elements and depended upon their observations and experience.

  But even though it was snowing less hard, the damage had been done. The narrow, corkscrew road leading up the mountain to Mohawk House looked impassable. Hopefully, heavy equipment from the town would soon be pressed into service to augment machinery owned by the hotel. In the meantime, anyone with a notion to leave had better own a good pair of snowshoes or cross-country skis and possess a healthy constitution.