A Question of Murder (10 page)

“From what I’m told, Mrs. Fletcher, you’re a lot more than that. Not only do you write murder mysteries, but you’ve also solved your share of real ones. Am I right?”

“That has happened on occasion.”

“So, I figure I can use all the help I can get with this one.”

“I’m flattered, of course, and will do anything I can to help.”

His lips almost touched my ear as he whispered, “The deceased wasn’t shot.”

There was no need for me to respond verbally. My face said it all.

“That’s right,” he whispered again. “He wasn’t shot.”

“But—”

“He was stabbed. Everybody assumed he was shot because of the sound of gunfire off the stage. But the ME says it was a knife wound that killed him. The gunshot sound must have been from the pistol with blanks that Ms. Tehaar fired.”

“I see,” I said.

“So, do me a favor, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Of course.”

“Keep your eyes open for somebody carrying a bloody knife. And keep this to yourself, okay?”

My mind raced. The news that a knife had been used to kill Paul Brody changed, to some extent, the perception of what sort of individual might have killed him. A woman is less likely to use a knife as a murder weapon than a man. A knife is up close and personal. A gun is less so. That isn’t to say that plenty of women haven’t used knives to kill someone, nor should a woman ever be ruled out as a suspect simply on the basis of that premise. But statistically, a betting person would be safer placing a bet on a man using a knife to kill someone.

Two women carrying notebooks interrupted us. “Excuse me,” one of them said to Detective Ladd. “I hate to bother you, but we were told it was all right to approach any of the actors at any time during the weekend.”

Ladd’s expression was one of confusion. He looked at me. If he was seeking my help, he was disappointed. All I could do was smile. Like many others in the hotel that weekend, these women obviously had decided that a real murder had
not
taken place, and that this real police officer was part of the cast. Ladd picked up on what was happening and said, “Sorry, but as long as the investigation is continuing, I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

“Oh, that isn’t fair,” said the second woman. With pen poised over her notepad, she said, “Now, I believe that the maid should be looked at very, v-e-r-y closely. Have you interrogated her, Detective?”

“I, ah—I haven’t gotten around to it yet,” Ladd said, “but you’re correct. I’ll question—I’ll
interrogate
her right now. Excuse me.”

He left me with the two amateur sleuths. One said, “Mrs. Fletcher, maybe you can help straighten something out for me. There seem to be two officers in charge of the investigation.” She consulted her notes. “There’s Detective Carboroni, and now this detective. We don’t even have his name.”

“His name is—” I stopped, assuming that Ladd would be just as happy not having his name bandied about. “I think he might announce it at the next performance. Then again, he might prefer to operate incognito.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” one of the women said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well,” said her friend, “I’m just glad someone like you is here to keep an eye on things. You won’t mind, will you, if we stay close?”

“Of course not. It will be my pleasure.”

I excused myself and left the room with the intention of going to my suite and calling it a night. I was on my way to the elevators when Victoria, the actress playing Mrs. Whittaker in the play, approached.

“Good evening,” I said.

“Hello,” she said. “I still can’t believe what happened to Paul.”

“I know. It was so sudden, so tragic. A young life snuffed out like that.”

“Not such a young life,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Paul wasn’t as young as he looked. I liked to kid him about being too old to play juvenile leads.”

“How old was he?” I asked.

“Late thirties.”

“He certainly didn’t look it,” I said. “I would have thought early twenties.”

“He didn’t act his age, either. You’d think those dismal years in Hollywood would have matured him.”

The elevator arrived.

“Coming to the cast meeting?” Victoria asked.

“Oh, my goodness, I forgot about that. Larry asked me to attend. I’m glad I bumped into you.”

As we walked together to an enclosed porch where the cast had gathered, the things I’d just learned whirled in my brain, and I was anxious to get to my room where I could start making notes of my own. There were two murders to solve that weekend, the one written into the script and the one that had occurred earlier in the evening. I hoped there wouldn’t be a third—theatrical
or
real.

 

 

 

A uniformed officer stationed at the door to the enclosed porch stopped us as we tried to enter. “This is a private meeting,” he said.

“And we’re part of it,” Victoria said.

Larry Savoy saw through the glass doors what was happening and came to us. “They’re part of the group,” he told the officer, who grunted and stepped aside to allow us to enter.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said as we followed Larry to a couple of empty chairs at the front.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re here. Some of the troupe have second thoughts about continuing.”

Our arrival didn’t hush those already in attendance. A spirited argument was under way, with everyone talking at once. Some voices were loud, and an occasional four-letter word cut through the general din. Monroe suddenly rose from his chair and took center stage. Wearing a fresh smoking jacket like the one that had been used to cover Paul Brody’s body, he stepped in front of Savoy. With his hands on his hips, he looked very much as though he was playing the father’s role again. He raised his hands in a plea for silence and said in a booming voice, “Please, pay attention to what I have to say.”

No one heeded him, so he repeated it, louder this time. A few ceased talking, and eventually the noise level lowered to the point where Whittaker could be heard. “I feel as though I’m surrounded by babies,” he said in the stentorian tones of a veteran stage actor. “Do none of you have any respect for what has come before you, the traditions of the theater, the giants who have walked the great stages of the world, the men and women who treasured the age-old tradition of the show having to go on no matter what tragedies intrude?”

“Oh, can it, Monroe,” someone said.

Whittaker’s expression was one of abject hurt. Larry Savoy came around in front of him and said to the cast, “The least we can do is hear what Monroe has to say, and respect his right to say it.”

Cynthia stood and faced her acting colleagues. Fighting back tears, she said, “I don’t like going through with it any more than you do, but I’m willing to do so. After all, Paul fell dead at my feet, not yours. His blood is on my shoe, not yours. Monroe is right. We all have to grow up and respect tradition.”

Melinda Savoy stood as Cynthia sat. “You might keep in mind,” she said, “that none of us are going anywhere while the police investigate Paul’s murder. We have a choice. Either we sit in our rooms and feel sorry for ourselves, or you perform for those people who paid good money to see our play. Besides, unless you came here by dogsled, you aren’t going anyplace until the storm stops.” She looked at me and said, “You won’t find Mrs. Fletcher or the other writers running away from their commitments.”

The cast’s eyes turned to me. I nodded my agreement with what Melinda had said. As I did, loud voices outside the doors captured everyone’s attention. I saw through the glass that John Chasseur and GSB Wick were arguing with the officer. Larry started for the door, but I stood and told him I’d take care of it.

Chasseur was chastising the officer for his arrogance. When he saw me, he demanded, “What is this, some sort of plot to keep us out?”

“Not at all,” I said. I told the officer, “These people are part of the program this weekend. They should be attending the meeting.”

He reluctantly granted them access to the porch. As we reentered, Laura Tehaar, the young woman in charge of props, pushed past us in the direction of the door. She stopped, turned, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, she shouted, “All you care about are your own needs and feelings. Paul is dead! Murdered! I hate all of you!” With that, she was gone.

“Emotional little thing, isn’t she?” Chasseur said as he and Georgie Wick found seats. A cast member had taken the chair next to Victoria that I’d vacated, so I joined my writing colleagues.

“So, what have we missed, Jessica?” Chasseur asked.

“They’re debating whether to continue with the play.”

“I didn’t mean them,” he said. “I meant with the investigation. You seemed wired in with that hick cop. Has he solved the murder yet?”

I ignored the snide question and said, “Detective Ladd strikes me as a capable young man. I’m sure he’s doing his best to get to the bottom of things.”

“I wouldn’t dare write him into a novel,” he said. “He looks like he’d be more at home tending to cows and pigs.”

Larry Savoy managed to quiet the crowd again and said, “Okay, let’s do it this way. Some of you have indicated to me privately that you’re willing to continue with the show, but now that you’re all here, let’s put it to a vote. All in favor of going on with the show raise your hands.”

I counted, along with Larry. Only a few failed to respond favorably.

“All right,” he said. “We keep going.”

One of those who hadn’t raised his hand said, “Just because the majority wants to continue, it doesn’t mean I have to.”

“That’s true,” said Larry. “But like Melinda said, you can’t leave the hotel anyway. You might as well keep busy working on the production. Besides, if you don’t work, you don’t get paid.”

“Tell that to the union,” the man retorted.

“I’ll be happy to,” Larry said. “Okay, let’s get some rehearsal in. See you in fifteen minutes in the auditorium.”

The cast and crew filed out, leaving Larry and Melinda Savoy, Chasseur, GSB Wick, and me on the porch. “Well,” Larry said, “looks like we keep on going. I hope that includes the three of you.”

“I’m willing,” Chasseur said, “but I do have an objection to lodge.”

“Which is?”

“It seems that Jessica here has been given some special access to what’s going on.”

“That’s not true,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter what you say, Jessica. It’s the facts that count. Ms. Wick and I aren’t told of things like this meeting, Larry’s plans, and what progress the bumpkin detective is making. I insist on being informed of such things.”

“I assure you no one has decided to cut you, or anyone else, out, John,” Melinda assured him.

“I’ll take your word for it, Melinda,” Chasseur said. “Let’s just make sure it stays that way.”

Chasseur seemed appeased, at least for the moment. My dilemma, I realized, was that I didn’t have any control over the extent to which Detective Ladd chose to confide in me and not the others. Now that I knew that Paul Brody had been stabbed, not shot, did I have an obligation to share that information with my fellow writers? I thought not, and hoped that my being in possession of such inside information could be kept from them.

Larry asked whether we wanted to attend the rehearsal. Chasseur said he did; Ms. Wick and I declined the invitation. She and I left the porch together and walked slowly in the direction of the lobby and elevators.

“I would very much like a nightcap,” she said. “Will you join me?”

“I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better,” I said.

“Just a case of nerves,” she replied.

We went to the bar where I’d been earlier and took a booth in a far corner. There weren’t as many people there as had been previously. The trio was packing up their instruments, and it looked like the bartender was getting ready to call it a night. He spotted us. “Last call,” he announced pleasantly.

After Wick had ordered what seemed to be her usual—a Bacardi cocktail—and I’d opted for a tall glass of cold water, she said, “Well, well, well, here we are cooped up for the weekend with a murderer.”

“Frankly,” I said, “I hope that we are.”

She looked at me and frowned. “Whatever do you mean by
that
?”

I laughed. “If we are, cooped up with the murderer,” I said, “it means that whoever killed Paul is still here. If the killer managed to flee, he, or she, might never be found.”

“Frankly, that wouldn’t bother me a bit,” she said as our drinks were placed before us and I signed for them using my room number. She took a sip, smacked her thin lips, and said, “Now I’m really feeling better.”

“Mind a question?” I asked.

“Not at all, but if it’s about Harold, I plead no contest.”

“No,” I said, “it’s not about your friend. I was wondering—”

“Harold says he finds you very attractive.”

“Oh? That’s flattering.”

“Don’t mind him. He can be a bit of a lecher, I know. All those years alone with dead bodies, I suppose.”

“Yes, I suppose. I was wondering what to call you.”

“Call me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you mean what name to use.”

“Exactly.”

“Georgie is fine.”

“Mind another question?”

“No.”

“What do your other initials stand for, the
S
and the
B
?”

She grinned impishly and took a long sip of her cocktail. “I’m afraid I prefer to keep that little secret to myself,” she said, more to the glass than to me.

“As you wish,” I said. If it was important for her to maintain a veil of secrecy about it, so be it.