A Question of Murder (12 page)

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 space 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?”

“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 maintenance 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.

 

 

 

 

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.

It was too early for breakfast to be served in the dining room, and the brochure of hotel services in my room indicated that room service wouldn’t be available for another hour. I changed into a lightweight sweat suit I usually travel with and did a half hour of stretching exercises, finishing up with running in place to get the blood flowing. By the time I’d showered and dressed for the day in a plaid wool skirt, burgundy blouse, and wheat-colored cardigan sweater, it was almost time for the dining room to open.

I went to the door, drew a deep breath—
What does this day have in store?
—opened it, and headed for breakfast.

I noticed on my way to the dining room that the same officers were posted at various exits who’d been stationed at them during the night. Thanks to the snow, there wasn’t any chance of their being relieved. I hoped Detective Ladd would come up with a scheme to allow for some sleep time.

As I entered the dining room, it appeared that I was among very few guests there at that hour. But as the hostess led me to the authors’ table, I realized that there were more people than I’d initially seen. Detective Ladd sat alone at a small table partially hidden by a column and potted ferns. He glanced up and nodded as I passed, and I returned his nod. Once seated, I looked to the opposite side of the room and saw the flamboyant redheaded woman who’d engaged in the argument with a couple during check-in and who’d almost bowled me over in the hall. Two tables away from her was the couple in matching sweaters. They’d exchanged the argyle cardigan and vest for a pair of heavy wool pullovers with a Scandinavian pattern in blue, gray, and red. They wrapped some food in a napkin and left the dining room.

Jody, our waitress from dinner, looked exhausted as she came to the table to see whether I wanted coffee and juice.

“Working dinner
and
breakfast, I see,” I said.

“No choice,” she replied, “not with the storm. My replacement couldn’t get here this morning, so I’m on double duty, like everybody else.”

“Well,” I said, hoping to boost her flagging spirits, “I’m sure the plows will get here soon and things will get back to normal.”

“I sure hope so,” she said. She looked around to see that we weren’t being overheard, then leaned closer and asked, “Is Mr. Chasseur really a Hollywood producer?”

“He’s ah—he has spent time in Hollywood, and he and his wife”—I stressed the word “wife”—“live there. Why do you ask?”

“He told me that I was perfect for a movie he’s producing and wants me to read for him.”