A Question of Murder (11 page)

“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.”

 

 

 

 

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 happened.”

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.”

“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.”

 

 

 

 

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.