A Question of Murder (19 page)

“Jessica?” Melinda said.

I was faced with an ethical dilemma. Earlier, there had been genuine confusion about what had happened to Paul Brody on the stage during the first act, and I wasn’t uncomfortable fudging my answers to questions about whether he had, in fact, been killed. I also didn’t want to betray the trust Detective Ladd had placed in me by saying anything that might hinder his investigation.

But it was now obvious to me that the actual murder could no longer be kept under wraps, and I didn’t want to continue to perpetuate a lie with good people who had paid money to enjoy a strictly fictional murder mystery. I looked to Detective Ladd, who’d been joined by Mark Egmon. A few seconds of conversation ensued between them before they came to the front of the room. Ladd appeared uneasy facing a large group. He avoided eye contact and shifted from one foot to the other. Egmon, on the other hand, seemed supremely confident. He flashed a wide smile, held up his hands, and said, “I hate to interrupt this excellent panel of distinguished writers, but your questions lead me to believe that you have more on your minds than how these authors turn out such wonderful books.” He turned to the dais. “Sorry, Melinda, but we’ve decided it’s time to level with the folks.”

“Finally!” someone said.

“I’ll leave it to Detective Ladd to provide the specifics, at least to the extent he can. But let me say something first on behalf of Mohawk House. Our foremost concern is, and has always been, the comfort, and especially the safety, of our guests. We bend over backwards to ensure that your stay with us is pleasurable and memorable. But there are times when things happen that are beyond our control, and this unfortunate situation certainly qualifies as one of those times.” He turned to Ladd. “Care to take it from here, Detective?”

“I suppose so,” Ladd said, clearing his throat a few times before continuing. “Yup, the young actor named Paul Brody is dead. He was supposed to die in the play, and actually died in real life. We’re investigating his death.”

There were a few gasps from the audience, and a buzz as people voiced their reactions to the news. A number of them busily made notes, as though this revelation could be used to solve the murder presented in the play.

“You mean it might have been an accident and not murder?” said one man, sounding disappointed.

“All I can say is we’re investigating.”

The buzz grew louder as the alternative that Ladd had presented swept through the crowd. I wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. A murder had taken place. But evidently he felt that raising the possibility that the death was accidental or from natural causes might calm those susceptible to hysteria.

“Now,” Ladd continued, “I know that this is bound to be pretty upsetting to you folks, especially since you came here for a fun weekend and didn’t bargain on bein’ part of an investigation—and I apologize for any inconvenience you might be experiencing. Can’t be helped, though, and I appreciate how cooperative most of you have been. Of course, I figure no one was going anywhere anyway, not with this snowstorm we’ve had. But there’s good news on that score. The plows are scheduled to get up here any minute now. Once they do their job, everybody will be free to pack up and leave, at least those folks I’ve already questioned. But I think Mr. Egmon has something to say in that regard.”

Mark announced that for those who stayed for the rest of the planned events, ten percent would be deducted from their final bill, prompting vigorous applause.
A smart move,
I thought. Keeping even a few people from defecting and demanding a full refund would more than offset money lost through the discount.

“Now,” Mark said, “my suggestion—and Detective Ladd concurs—is that we let the police go about their business, cooperate with them, and enjoy the rest of the weekend. You still have a mystery to solve,” he said, sweeping a hand toward Melinda.

He and Ladd started to walk away, but a woman wearing a large white straw hat stood and said loudly, “Easy enough for you to say that, sir, but what about us? You haven’t apprehended the murderer, which means he might strike again at any time. Who’s going to protect
us
?”

“Maybe it was a woman,” said a man, followed by a hearty laugh. “Who’s going to protect me from some bloodthirsty female?”

His comment elicited giggles, and everyone started conferring with their teammates.

Amazing,
I thought,
how quickly moods can change.
Was it Mark Egmon’s announcement that ten percent of their bills would be waived that elevated their spirits? Or was it the challenge of actually being so close to a real murder mystery, as opposed to the literary ones they were used to reading? No matter what had caused it, there was a marked excitement in the room that certainly hadn’t been there during our abbreviated session.

I stood, assuming that the panel discussion was over. But Chasseur pulled his microphone close and said, “If I could please have your attention.” He repeated it twice more, until conversations ebbed. “I know,” he continued, “that Mrs. Fletcher has this reputation of being a super detective, besides writing about murder. But in this case, I’m afraid she’s about to be outdone by yours truly.”

His statement brought a further hush to the room.

“I’ve been working closely with Detective Ladd and his men,” he said, flashing a diabolical grin at the police officer. “In fact, I’ve already offered the police my take on what might have occurred, and I intend to continue delving into the matter until the murderer—and it
was
a murder—is exposed and brought to justice. I tell you this because I want, and need, your help. The local press will be arriving right after the snowplows, and my publicist has arranged for national media to be involved, too. What I want to do is work with you on solving this crime. How about this? We split up into three teams. I’ll lead one, and Jessica Fletcher and GSB Wick will lead the other two. You can keep working with your original teams to solve the murder in the play. But we’ll also work together to solve the real murder that’s taken place. It’ll make for a great story—noted mystery writers band together with devoted mystery lovers to bring a criminal to justice.”

A number of people affirmed with whoops, hollers, and applause. I looked to the rear of the room where Ladd and Egmon stood, their expressions very much at odds with the sentiments of the audience.

Chasseur turned to Georgie and me. “Up to the challenge, ladies?” he asked.

“I think this is totally inappropriate,” I said.

“I agree with Jessica,” said Georgie.

“Suit yourselves,” Chasseur said. He spoke into the microphone again. “One of the reasons we’re here,” he announced, “is to sign books. I’ll be in the gift shop, pen in hand. See you there.”

Chasseur left the room, with a group of fans trailing behind him.

“The nerve,” Georgie said.

“He’s not without ego,” I said, “and a flair for self-promotion. Nothing will come of it.”

Other members of the audience encircled us at the dais.

“I’d like to be on your team, Mrs. Fletcher,” some people said.

“I’ll bet you win,” said others to Georgie.

“Ah don’t think there’s anything to win,” she responded softly.

“I’m afraid Ms. Wick and I don’t agree with what Mr. Chasseur has suggested,” I said. “But you’re free to join with him if you wish.”

I saw in their faces disappointment at the stance I’d taken. This weekend of an interactive theatrical murder mystery had now taken on an entirely new dimension. Chasseur had offered them a bonus, a chance to work closely with an established writer to actually investigate and solve a real murder. Egmon probably could have saved the hotel the ten percent rebate if he’d known how excited the guests would be about this new wrinkle in their weekend experience. I seriously doubted if any of them would opt to leave early. I heard one of them say to another as they turned to leave, “She isn’t very friendly, is she?”

“Too stuck up to join in,” said her friend.

I didn’t have time to feel the sting of their comments because Egmon and Ladd came to the dais.

“Did you know he was going to do that?” Mark asked.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “Georgie and I don’t want any part of it.”

“Good,” Ladd said. “Maybe the whole stupid thing will just die a natural death.”

“In the meantime,” Mark said, “you two ladies have books to sign.”

“Right,” I said.

“Ah’d better check on Harold,” Georgie said. “Ah’ll join y’all in a few minutes.”

Mark walked me to the gift shop. We were almost there when Larry Savoy intercepted me. “I heard what John did,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Well, you’d better,” I said.

“I’ll make sure he mentions the troupe. This’ll plaster our names across the country,” Larry said. “I couldn’t ask for better publicity.” He rubbed his hands together and hustled into the gift store, pushing aside people on the line to get up front to where Chasseur was autographing books.

“Maybe he has a point,” Egmon said. “I wonder if the publicity will help or hurt us. For sure, we’d better plan on another mystery weekend next year.”

I sighed.

“Oh, Jessica, you wanted me to open one of the doors on the third floor.” He pulled out a ring of keys

“That’s right,” I said.

“Want to go now?”

“Why don’t we wait until after I sign books?” To myself, I added,
If people still want Jessica Fletcher’s signature even if she won’t participate in this farce of an investigation Chasseur planned.

Mark put the keys back in his pocket. “Sure. I’ll be in my office all afternoon getting ready for the press. I don’t know why Chasseur pulled a stunt like this. I hope it doesn’t backfire on us.”

I smiled and patted his arm. “No one’s going to blame the hotel,” I said. “And maybe Larry is right. The publicity could be helpful.”

Larry emerged from the crowd standing in line, books in hand, waiting for their turn with Chasseur, and they hoped, Georgie and me. “I’ve got to get to rehearsal,” he said. “The next scene is pretty rough.”

“It’ll be a standing-room-only crowd, judging from their reaction to the last performance,” I said. “Larry, do you have a bio of Paul Brody?”

“Bio? Sure. I have a bio for every actor, and plenty of head shots, too. Why?”

“I’d like to know more about him, his past, his career, anything at all.”

“Swing by the auditorium after the signing. I’ll put it aside for you.”

The gift shop manager had set up three small tables, with a pile of the appropriate books in front of each author. Chasseur’s bravado announcement had paid off for him; the line to purchase a signed book from him was considerably longer than those for Georgie and me. I kept waiting for her to return as I chatted pleasantly with the book-buying guests and personally inscribed the books they purchased.

“Where’s Ms. Wick?” a woman asked. “I’m her biggest fan.”

“She had to tend to a personal matter,” I said, “but I’m sure she’ll be along any minute.”

It wasn’t until I’d signed my last book and was preparing to leave to go to Mark Egmon’s office that Georgie entered the shop. With her was Harold Boynton. A wave of relief swept over me. I had expected her to announce that he’d had a heart attack. He looked a lot better than he had at lunch. It was Georgie who appeared to be ill now. I didn’t know whether she’d actually seen Paul Brody’s spirit, or for that matter any one of the ghosts she was fond of writing about, but she certainly looked as though she had.

“Feeling better?” I asked Boynton.”

“Yes, quite. Thank you for asking.”

“Are you all right?” I asked Georgie as she settled behind her table and uncapped a pen.

“I don’t know,” she said, greeting the first buyer in her line and managing a smile.

I glanced up at Boynton, who stood behind us. His eyes darted right and left before he bent over and whispered in my ear, “I saw him.”

I turned in my chair. “Who did you see?” I asked.

“The dead actor.”

“Paul Brody?”

“Yes.”

Chasseur was still signing books and chatting with buyers. My line had dried up completely. I stood and said to Boynton, “Let’s go outside.”

We went into the hall and to an alcove. I stood with my back to the wall. He stood too close to me, his large belly pressing against my arm. He breathed heavily, and I smelled alcohol on his breath. I managed to slide to my right, providing a little distance between us. “Now,” I said, “tell me about seeing Paul Brody.”

“It’s a long story. I don’t know where to begin.”

“Try the beginning,” I said, not eager to prolong the conversation.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “You Americans like to get to the point. No dillydallying.”

“Yes. We’re very direct.”

“I will try to accommodate you. As you know, I wasn’t feeling well after my altercation with Mr. Chasseur.”

“Did the food make you ill?”

“I might have overindulged a bit. The plat du jour was absolutely superb. But I felt better after lying down for a while, and when I got up I treated myself to a taste of a fine single-malt scotch. I always carry it with me in a traveling flask. I think it aids digestion. In any case, it positively aids disposition.” He laughed at his own joke, but seeing no smile on my face, sobered his expression and cleared his throat. “Anyway, I grew restless waiting for Georgie to return and decided to take a walk. Not a long one, mind you. I still wasn’t feeling tip-top.”

“Where did you go?”

“Just about the hotel. Fascinating place, isn’t it? Lots of bloody history within these walls.” A chuckle. “Bloody in more ways than one.”

I sighed and glanced at my watch. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have someplace to be, Mr. Boynton. Please tell me what you saw during your walk.”

“Oh, yes, right-o. I decided to stroll upstairs where Georgie said she’d seen the dead chap, up on the third floor. And there he was.”