A Question of Murder (14 page)

“Yes, you are,” she said.

She was right, of course. Paul Brody had been murdered. We all stood over his body. Whether he died of a gunshot wound or a stabbing made little difference, at least from the standpoint of GSB Wick’s tale. The man was dead. The only conclusion I could come to as we sat there, the snow falling behind us outside the window, was that she had a very active imagination, and perhaps more of a problem with alcohol than I’d realized. One thing was certain: GSB Wick, best-selling author of murder mysteries involving the supernatural, was—different.

After I assured her a few more times that I hadn’t doubted her story and was just trying to get the facts straight, she excused herself, saying she wasn’t feeling well, and left me alone. I heard noise from the auditorium and was about to see what was going on when Detective Ladd walked in.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Enjoy breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you. You?”

“I suppose so. What I need is some sleep rather than food, but you need fuel to keep the ol’ engine running.”

“That’s important,” I agreed.

“A question.”

“Yes?”

“After breakfast I saw you talking to an older man in the hall.”

“Yes. He’s part of the murder mystery group. His name is Pomerantz, I believe. Sydney Pomerantz.”

“Not his real name.”

My eyebrows arched. “Oh? How do you know that?”

“He’s a local. He’s been in the papers.”

“Is he a politician or a businessman?”

“He’s an accused murderer.”

“Accused, you say. Not convicted?”

“Right. Seems Mr. Sydney Pomerantz—his real name is Sydney Powell—came home from work early one summer day ten years ago—he was in construction, actually worked on one of the wings that was added here at Mohawk House—and found his wife strangled to death on the kitchen floor.”

“How horrible. You say
he
was accused of having done it?”

“Right again. The local DA tried to build a case against him but didn’t have enough evidence to go on, so it was dropped.”

“They never accused anyone else of killing her?”

“Nope. It’s a cold case. But every once in a while I pull out the file and go over it. Looks bad for the department to have an unsolved murder.”

“He’s obviously remarried,” I said. “His wife is here with him.”

“Yeah, I know. They got married a month after his wife was killed, which makes people even more suspicious.”

“I can imagine it would.”

“Funny thing about it, though,” Ladd said.

“Can murder ever be funny?” I said.

“No, but sometimes strange things come out of it. You notice how he talks?”

“You mean that sound from his throat.”

“Yup. The way people in town figure it, that sound is his punishment for what he did to his wife. God works in strange ways.”

“So I’ve been told. You think he murdered his first wife so he could marry the second one?”

“That’s one theory, but there was a young guy involved, too.”

“Who would that be?”

“Don’t know. Some laborer who came around the house to clean the pool, trim hedges, stuff like that. The scuttlebutt at the time was that the wife must’ve been having an affair with the laborer, and Pomerantz interrupted them in flagrante delicto, if you get my meaning, and killed her.”

“But might it not have been the young man who killed Mr. Powell’s wife?”

“So Pomerantz claimed. Said she was dead when he got home. Problem was, this laborer disappeared right after her body was found. Gone. Poof! Never heard from him again.”

“No one knew his name?”

“Not that anyone admitted to. My former boss handled it, his last investigation before he retired and headed for Florida.”

Ladd stood. “I’d better get going. I’m trying to streamline the questioning of all the guests.” He turned and looked out the window. “Still coming down.”

He left. I got up, took my own look at the white stuff still falling from the heavens, and silently agreed with his assessment.

In the auditorium next door, I recognized Larry and Melinda Savoy’s voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. I stepped through the doorway, about to greet them, when I heard Larry curse. He jumped up out of the chair in which he’d been sitting, knocking it over. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Larry,” Melinda said angrily, slamming something down on the table “You’re just dredging up the past for no reason. That’s ancient history. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, I do, and I have a long memory. Don’t you forget it.”

I cleared my throat to give away my presence. Larry’s face lit up. “Good morning, Jessica,” he said, too heartily.

Melinda turned, waved, and hurried backstage.

“How are you feeling?” Larry said, walking up the aisle to where I stood.

“A bit tired. Otherwise, fine. You?”

“The same.”

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything serious.”

“Serious? My wife is an actress and a playwright. Being a drama queen comes naturally to her. She’s not happy unless she’s emoting about something.”

I’d never noticed that about Melinda, but decided not to challenge him.

He pulled me away from the door and lowered his voice. “Remember when you asked me whether I knew anyone in the cast or crew who might have had it in for Paul?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

He looked around as the audience began filing into the room for the next performance. “Well, I might have an answer for you.”

 

 

 

 

I knew I couldn’t press Larry at that moment, not with the next act about to start. But I would try to catch him as soon as it was over. Did he have some solid information about a cast member that might shed light on Paul Brody’s killer? It certainly sounded that way.

My thoughts shifted to Georgie Wick’s bizarre claim that she’d seen the deceased coming from a room in the dead of night, and I was annoyed at myself for neglecting to ask her the room’s number. I went to a house phone, and asked the operator to connect me to Ms. Wick’s extension. Harold Boynton answered.

“Hello,” I said. “It’s Jessica Fletcher.”

“Of course it is,” he said in his British baritone. Like many Englishmen I’ve known over the years, he tended to laugh a lot as he spoke, swallowing some of his words and making it difficult to understand him. We share the same English language, but . . .

“Is Georgie there?”

“That she is, but she’s in the loo. Glad you rang. I was telling her just this morning that you and I probably have a lot to talk about, lots in common. Up for a spot of tea?”

“Thank you,” I said, “but it’s a busy morning. Georgie said she wasn’t feeling well and was going to her room.”

“Upset stomach, that’s all. She’ll be tip-top in no time. Shame you’re too busy. Would love to find some time alone with you. Lunch? Maybe we can sneak away from the others and—”

“I’ll try and connect with Georgie later,” I said, interrupting him. “Please tell her I called.”

The seats in the auditorium were filling up. I looked around for an empty chair. I spotted John Chasseur sitting between two women, and deliberately made my way to the opposite side of the theater, where Detective Ladd stood leaning against a wall, his eyes taking in everyone as they entered and found seats. The various teams to which guests had been assigned, and those made up of friends who’d arrived together, staked out areas of the auditorium from which they could get a clear view of what was about to happen onstage. Ladd didn’t acknowledge me as I casually sidled up to him—his attention was fixed on Sydney Pomerantz, aka Sydney Powell, and his wife, who’d taken seats with their fellow team members.

“What did he say to you earlier?” Ladd asked without turning to me.

“Mr. Pomerantz? He asked about what he considered a clue, and wondered whether he was breaking the rules by speaking about it with me.”

A small smile crossed Ladd’s lips. “
He’s
worried about breaking the rules?” he said, his voice filled with irony. “Killing your wife is breaking the rules in my book.”

“You said he was never tried for the murder,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” he said, mimicking the throaty catch in Pomerantz’s voice.

“Or that he did,” I said. “Frankly, I can’t conceive why someone accused of having murdered his wife would opt to attend a murder mystery weekend—in his hometown to boot.”

“The way I hear it, he gave up his construction business shortly after his wife’s death and has been devoting his life to finding her killer.” He guffawed. “Sounds a bit like Mr. O. J. Simpson, doesn’t it? At any rate, he and his new wife attend forensic conferences around the country trying to learn new techniques of solving crimes. Looks like murder mystery weekends like this one are on their agenda, too.”

“Still,” I said, “I can’t imagine coming to one in my hometown. What do other people say about him?”

“He’s a bit of a joke in town,” Ladd replied, “with that catch in his throat and speculation about how and why it developed. I suppose he’s used to it by now, lets it roll off his back. I agree with you. If I was accused of something like that, I’d leave town pronto and get as far away as possible. Maybe that’ll be his undoing, hanging around.”

“You sound as though you’re still trying to build a case against him.”

“Officially, it’s a dead case, but I keep it open, at least in my mind. One of these days . . .”

The theme from
The Pink Panther
suddenly came from large speakers suspended at the front of the auditorium, causing an almost visceral change in the guests’ mood. The Savoys liked to begin their presentations with music befitting the event. Toes tapped, and some hummed along with the familiar melody. A few minutes later, everyone turned to see Larry Savoy march down the center aisle to the stage. The music stopped, a hush fell over the audience, and Larry picked up his wireless, handheld microphone.

“Everyone have a good night’s sleep?” he asked, mischief in his voice.

A flurry of answers came from the audience. A man stood, waited for the chatter around him to end, and said loudly, “I’ve been to other shows you’ve put on, Mr. Savoy, but I’ve never seen one like this. We not only have to figure out who murdered the young guy, Paul, onstage, but we’re told he might really have been killed. Is that true?”

Larry smiled and held up his hand against a supportive chorus for what the man had said. “Why don’t you just sit back and enjoy the experience?” Larry suggested.

“Was the young actor murdered?” a woman asked. “I mean, not a phony murder but a real one.”

Larry started to respond, but another man jumped to his feet. “My wife and I were questioned by that detective over there,” he said, pointing at Ladd. “I think he’s a real cop, not an actor.”

One of the women who’d approached Detective Ladd and me in the bar the previous night piped up next. “I think he is part of the play, but he won’t talk to us. I thought all the actors were supposed to answer our questions. It’s not fair.”

“Please, please,” Larry said, “let’s all calm down. You’ll find plenty of answers to your questions in the second act. And don’t forget, a member of the team that comes up with the best answer, and puts on the best skit, wins a free weekend here at the magnificent Mohawk House.” He ignored further comments from the audience and read the next set of questions that had been supplied by me and the other writers, with additional ones from the Savoys. A few minutes later, he instructed Melinda to collect the cards. Once she had, Larry announced, “All right now, the second act is about to begin. Pay attention. Use every ounce of deductive power you possess, and make sure the person next to you doesn’t have blood on his or her hands.” He ended with a wicked chuckle and returned to the rear of the auditorium.

The lights dimmed and the audience became silent. The curtain opened slowly to reveal the same set as had been used in the opening act. On the stage were Cynthia Whittaker, her father, Monroe, and the two police officers, Detective Nick Carboroni and Officer Clarence Dolt. Carboroni held center stage. He wore his trench coat à la the TV detective Columbo, and his fedora was at an extreme angle, almost completely covering one eye. Officer Dolt stood a few paces behind him, arms crossed, a know-it-all expression on his face.

“All right,” Carboroni said as he paced the stage, “lemme get this straight. You say the desists—”

Dolt tapped his boss on the shoulder. “It’s deceased, Boss,” he said. “Not desists.”

“I know, I know,” Carboroni snapped. “And I told you a hundred times never to correct me when I’m in the midst of interrograting suspects.”

“You mean interrogating,” Dolt said.

Monroe Whittaker stepped between the two cops. He snarled at Carboroni, “Do you mean to tell me that I’m being considered a suspect?”

“Yes sir. The way I figure it, everybody who was here is a suspect. Right outta the manual.”

“This is absurd,” Monroe said, waving away the notion that he might be under suspicion.

“I’m told you and the deceased didn’t get along too good,” the stage detective said. “That true?”

“If you mean I didn’t like the young man, you’re absolutely right. He had designs on my daughter despite being her inferior in class, style, and everything else that matters.”

Carboroni turned to where Cynthia sat on the couch, her fist pressed against her mouth. “I hate to bother you at a time like this,” he said, “but I’ve got a dead body on my hands. You and the deceased had something going between you?”

She removed her hand from her mouth and said, “We were going to be married.”