A Question of Murder (7 page)

“I already said that,” the cop wearing the trench coat admonished his colleague.

As they swaggered up to the stage, the uniformed cop waved a handgun back and forth, causing some audience members to duck.

The plainclothes officer faced the crowd. “All right,” he said. “Who’s in charge here?”

“This is my home,” Monroe Whittaker said.

“Who are you?”

“Monroe Whittaker. And who are you, sir?”

“Detective first-class Nick Carboroni, and this moron with me is Officer no-class Clarence Dolt.”

A wave of laughter greeted the comical pair, easing the tension that had been established by the murder.

Carboroni scowled at the crowd. “You think this is funny? You spend the day with this dimwit and you’ll see how funny it ain’t. His elevator don’t go all the way to the top. Know what I mean?” He pointed at his temple and rolled his eyes.

Clarence Dolt pulled on the detective’s sleeve. “Detective? Why are we here?”

“Why are we here? I got a call that somebody was waving around a gun here tonight. That’s why we’re here.”

“I got a gun,” Dolt said, waving his pistol and pointing it at the detective.

Carboroni swatted his hand. “Cut it out.”

Lawrence Savoy stepped from the wings. “A man was being threatened with a pistol earlier this evening. He’s being treated for chest pains as we speak.”

“He ain’t dead?” Dolt asked disappointedly, still waving the pistol.

“Put that thing away,” Carboroni said, “before you kill somebody.” To Savoy: “Who’s the perperpertruder?”

“The what?” Savoy said. “Oh, you mean who threatened him with the gun? We don’t know.”

Carboroni approached onlookers in the first row and started to question them about what they’d seen that night. When one elderly gentleman seemed at a loss for words, Officer Dolt stuck his gun in the man’s face, prompting Carboroni to yell at him to holster his weapon. The mock questioning of audience members continued, the detectives’ ad-libs causing lots of laughter in the room.

All attention, of course, was on the comic scene playing out at the front of the room. While the questioning continued, Officer Dolt wandered up onto the stage, saw Paul still prone on the floor, turned, and said, “Hey, Detective, maybe you better take a look-see here.”

Carboroni spun around and said, “How many times do I have to tell you not to interrupt me when I’m interrogarating people?” Then he saw Paul’s body on the stage, excused himself from the audience, and joined Dolt.

“Who’s this?” Carboroni asked Whittaker.

“My daughter’s
former
suitor,” Whittaker replied, sounding pleased.

“That you?” the detective said to Cynthia.

She responded by letting out a bloodcurdling wail and running from the stage. Her mother, Victoria, had collapsed on the couch, where she fanned herself with a magazine.

Carboroni nudged his toe into Paul’s side. “Hey, where’d you get shot?”

There was no response from the fallen actor.

Carboroni asked Larry Savoy, “Is this the man who was threatened earlier in the evening?”

“No, Detective,” Larry said.

It all sounded like scripted banter, but I sensed something was wrong. From my vantage point, I could tell that Paul hadn’t moved a muscle since stumbling into the scene and falling at Cynthia’s feet. The pool of fake blood had been widening. I saw a stricken look come over Larry Savoy’s face as he looked down at Paul. He motioned to Melinda in the wings, and the curtain began to close. Victoria, sensing something was wrong, rose from the couch and bent down to peer at Paul. She straightened, wailed, “Oh, my God!” and fell into Larry’s arms.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Carboroni asked.

The actor playing Monroe Whittaker came to Paul, crouched, and placed his fingers against Paul’s neck. He slowly stood and raised two bloodstained fingers.

Victoria sniffled. “Is he dead?” she asked.

“Yes, I’d say he’s dead,” her stage husband intoned.

 

 

 

 

Confusion reigned.

Because a play had been in progress, the audience assumed what they’d just witnessed was part of the script, and considered Paul’s “demise” to be a theatrical event. Many team members busily took notes and engaged in intense discussions about who in the cast might have shot Paul. Monroe Whittaker was the obvious suspect, but these savvy murder mystery buffs knew that other possibilities would emerge as the weekend progressed.

I didn’t share their illusions. Something tragic—something
real
—had just taken place before the curtain fell, and it had nothing to do with the script. I made my way to the stage, went up three short steps, and slipped backstage, where the scene was chaotic. The actor playing Paul lay where he’d fallen, his blood penetrating the wooden floor, creating a dark red aura about his lifeless body.

Larry Savoy was trying to calm everyone down. “Please,” he said. “Hysteria isn’t going to help anyone, especially Paul. Come on, come on, everyone, there’s nothing to be gained by standing around. Go back to the dressing room, and for God’s sake, don’t say anything about this to the hotel guests if you want to get paid this weekend.”

Mark Egmon, Mohawk House’s special-events manager, burst through the curtains. “What happened?” he asked no one in particular. “There’s a rumor he’s really dead. Is it true?”

“We need an ambulance,” Larry answered, putting his arm around Egmon’s shoulder and moving him away from Paul’s inert form.

“What you need is a coroner,” Monroe muttered.

Larry shot him an angry look, but it was too late. Egmon had overheard Monroe. He wrung his hands and looked from person to person. “This is horrendous,” he said. “Nothing like this has happened at Mohawk House. The only deaths we ever experienced were from natural causes—a heart attack, a stroke. Who could have done such a thing? Why did it have to happen here?”

“That will be up to the police to determine,” Savoy said.

Egmon turned to the actor playing the uniformed officer in the mystery, who still held a revolver. “Are you—?”

The actor raised his arm, inadvertently pointing the weapon at Egmon. The manager stepped backward, his hands extended in a defensive position.

“Put that down,” Savoy said to the pretend cop. To Egmon he said, “You’d better get some real cops here as fast as possible.”

“Nobody touch nothing,” the actor portraying Detective Carboroni ordered.

“Oh, shut up,” Savoy said. “Monroe, give me your jacket.”

Monroe stroked one hand down his lapel. “This is a genuine silk smoking jacket, Lawrence. Tell me you’re not going to do what I think you’re suggesting.”

Larry held out his hand. “Whittaker—the jacket.”

“If you get blood on it, I won’t wear it again. That I can promise you.”

“Wardrobe will get you another one. Now hurry up.”

Monroe slipped off the smoking jacket and hooked one finger in the collar to pass it to Savoy. The ascot at his neck looked strange against his sleeveless ribbed undershirt.

Larry placed the jacket over Paul so that it covered his head. There was an audible sigh from several cast members. Despite the horror of murder, shielding the dead body from view made it less painful for those in attendance. “I’ll stay until the police arrive to make sure nothing is touched,” Larry said. “The rest of you get out of here. The audience should be at the reception in the bar by now. You know what you have to do.”

Egmon said, “Oh, I’m not sure about this. I’ll have to check with others in management.”

“You have to call the police, remember?”

“Of course,” Egmon said, looking back over his shoulder at Paul’s body. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and rushed off the stage.

“Lawrence,” Victoria said, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “You can’t expect us to carry on as if nothing has happened. Look at my hands. They’re shaking. How can I hide it? The audience may suspect the truth. They’ll ask us questions.”

“That’s what they’re supposed to do,” Larry said, looking at each member of the cast, “and you’ll answer them in character. And if you shed a tear in talking about Paul, they will assume you’re the best actor they’ve ever met. Now, find Cynthia and tell her what I said. No one talks about this unless they’re in character, and keep Paul’s situation fictitious. Understood?”

The actors nodded, and one by one shuffled off the stage.

“Nicely done,” said a voice from the wings after Egmon and the cast had departed the stage. John Chasseur sauntered into the light. “Have you felt for a pulse? The victim may not be gone yet.”

“Of course he’s ‘gone,’ ” said GSB Wick, who’d slipped through the slit in the curtains. “I could see that from the front row. If he didn’t die from the wound, he probably croaked from the loss of blood. He’s been lying there a while.”

Obviously, Georgie had made a hasty recovery from the flu she’d felt coming on. Perhaps her momentary malaise had been an excuse to get away from her companion, Harold, the randy coroner. If so, I certainly understood her need to remove herself.

“I’m disappointed,” Chasseur said haughtily. “You’ve started without me.”

“I can’t believe this,” Larry mumbled to me.

“Looks like you’d better,” I said.

Chasseur came to where the body lay and picked up the sleeve of Monroe’s smoking jacket to get a better view. He lifted Paul’s shoulder to expose the wound, which was in the middle of the chest. “He was supposed to be killed as part of the play, wasn’t he?” he asked, letting the body fall back onto the floor.

“Right,” Larry said. “And you’d better stop touching things.” He looked at me. “Right, Jess?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “The police will be very unhappy if they know the crime scene isn’t pristine.”

“Don’t lecture me,” Chasseur said, kneeling and feeling Paul’s wrist for a pulse.

“Who was supposed to fire the weapon?” I asked Larry.

He hesitated. “One of the tech crew, I’m not sure who. Easy to find out. Melinda knows. She’s in charge of offstage business.”

“Is the weapon you use in the production capable of firing live ammunition as well as blanks?” I asked.

“Yes, but we only load blanks and use minimal powder.”

My change of expression must have concerned him because he asked, “What’s the matter, Jess?”

“I was just thinking that whoever did this might be long gone from Mohawk House by now. It’s a shame there wasn’t a way to contain everyone within the hotel.”

“Chances are the frightful weather has done a good job of that. But I’ll get Egmon to station his people at the exits,” Larry said, sounding grateful he had a reason to leave. “Maybe the killer hasn’t had a chance to escape yet.”

“He’s definitely dead,” Chasseur said, standing and pulling a white handkerchief from his back pocket. He wiped his hands, although there’d been no blood on Paul’s shoulder or wrist.

“Do you think the killer’s escaped already?” Georgie asked. She’d been keeping her distance from Paul’s body.

“With the barn door open, I’ll bet that horse is already gone,” Chasseur said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “If the killer is staying in the hotel, it might raise less suspicion to simply stay put.”

Georgie offered, “The killer might be milling around with the people who’re still out there.” She pointed to the curtain.

“Are people still in the auditorium?” I asked.

She nodded, her pale face even more ashen under the harsh stage lights.

“Let me see what I can do,” I said.

I parted the heavy curtain and descended the stairs to where a dozen hangers-on were gathered in a tight circle, whispering among themselves. I hoped our backstage conversations hadn’t carried out to the auditorium. Whoever shot Paul couldn’t be certain if he was dead, or had merely been wounded. That possibility, coupled with the blizzard raging outside, might keep the killer from leaving. The only road leading up to Mohawk House was at least four miles long and full of hairpin turns, steep inclines, and dangerous drop-offs.

The minute they saw me emerge from backstage, they converged and asked whether it was true that someone had been shot to death.

I held up my hands. “There’s been an unfortunate accident with one of the cast members,” I said, working hard to sustain calm in my voice. “An ambulance has been called for. The police have been summoned, and I suggest we all stay away from this area until they arrive.”

The questions flew: “Is he dead?” “Do they have the gun?” “Do they have the shooter?” “Has it really happened, or is this part of the play?”

One woman shook her finger at me and said, “You naughty devil, Jessica Fletcher. You’re just saying what you’re supposed to say as part of the play. You don’t fool me.”

I was happy to see Mark Egmon enter the room. I excused myself and went over to him.

“The police are on their way,” Mark told me, “provided they can get up the road.” He kept his voice low to avoid being overheard. “And I spoke with a couple of the management team members about how to handle this. We’re scheduled to meet again in a half hour to formulate plans. What’s going on backstage?”

“Nothing for you to be concerned about, Mark. I’ll certainly feel better when the police arrive and secure the crime scene. It’s already been contaminated.”

“By whom?”

“It doesn’t matter. In the meantime, you might consider clearing this room. When the police arrive, they—”

The doors opened and two uniformed officers entered. Following behind them was a young man wearing a heavy red and black plaid wool jacket, jeans, a fur hat of the sort seen on Russian Cossacks, and pale yellow ankle-high boots. He brushed snow from his shoulders and arms and introduced himself as Detective Dwayne Ladd.