A Question of Murder (23 page)

“I just want this to be over and to get out of here,” she said. “I’ve had enough of Larry’s hysterics and that detective’s questions. He doesn’t look to me like someone capable of solving anything.”

As she said it, Detective Ladd entered the auditorium and took a seat directly behind us. Victoria turned, feigned a smile, and left. Ladd leaned on the back of her empty chair and said quietly, “I hear that the plows are on the job.”

“That’s good,” I said, my tone reflecting the ambivalence I’d felt about the road being cleared.

“Anything new,” he asked, “besides finding the murder weapon?”

“No. I wish I had something positive to offer.”

“I wish you did, too. When will you be leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow. The official weekend ends tomorrow, but I decided to extend my stay by a day.” I laughed. “I’d say I’m doing it to relax, but considering the circumstances, that doesn’t make sense, does it?”

He touched my shoulder in a friendly gesture as he stood and stretched. “Going to the play tonight, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes. Will you be there?”

“I suppose so. I’ve interviewed everyone in the hotel and came a cropper. See you later.”

I watched the rehearsal to its conclusion. Larry and Melinda came to where I sat. “This show will be the death of me,” Larry said, sprawling in a chair and rubbing his eyes. “Pardon the pun. I’m not sure continuing with the show was a good idea.”

“Whether it was or not,” I said, “that’s the reality. I’ve been meaning to ask you all weekend about the redheaded woman.”

“Oh? You mean that big gal who’s got everyone in the hotel talking about her?”

“Yes. When does her role in the play become obvious?”

Larry and Melinda looked at each other with quizzical expressions. “She doesn’t have a role with us,” Larry said.

“She doesn’t?”

Melinda laughed. “I can see why you would have thought she did,” she said. “We always have a couple of ringers like that in our shows, but I decided that the cast for this show was big enough without adding anyone else. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” I said. “I assumed all along she was with you.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Larry said. “I’m glad she’s not. I have enough trouble with the cast I have. I need a quick nap and a shower.”

As he prepared to leave, Catarina walked past us and exited the auditorium. Larry waited until she was out of earshot before he mimicked her again, using his best female voice. “If I never hear her voice again, it will be too soon. See you at dinner.”

“I’ll go with you,” Melinda said. “I could use ten minutes with my feet up, too. See you later, Jessica.”

I decided to take a look outside to see how things were going with snow removal. I went to the main entrance and opened the door. There were no plows in sight, but I could hear the whine of their engines in the distance. I chatted for a minute with one of the officers on duty, then wandered down to Mohawk House’s lower level and went to the door at which I’d first seen Paul Brody.

“Hello,” I said to the officer there.

“Hi,” he said, a smile crossing a face that sported a two-day beard. “I heard the plows are on their way.”

“And I imagine that makes you very happy.”

“Sure does,” he said, “but it’ll be a while before they clear things all the way up here. The mountain road is more than four miles long. You’re Mrs. Fletcher, right? The writer.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Be here for a few minutes?”

“I suppose so.”

“Mind if I disappear for a minute? Nature calling. No one should leave through this door.”

“I’ll hold the fort for you,” I said.

He wandered away, leaving me alone just inside the door. Judging from a fresh supply of butts on the concrete floor, I concluded that some of the smokers in the crowd had found the spot. I thought back to that first meeting and replayed in my mind what had happened that night.

I’d been outside, gotten cold, and found this door. As I approached it, I heard a man and a woman arguing. When I opened the door, the woman—whoever she was—had already started up the stairs. But as I mulled this over, it struck me that the only reason I’d thought the second person was a woman was because of the second voice, distinctly female.

Or was it?

Larry Savoy’s imitation of Catarina sounded female. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to hear his voice again. If I hadn’t known it was a man speaking in a falsetto, I would have assumed that I was hearing a woman. Was the female voice I heard from outside the door the same voice I’d just heard in the auditorium? I couldn’t be sure, but it was a definite possibility.

The officer returned. “Thanks,” he said. “Anybody show up?”

“No, just me,” I said. “Glad you’ll finally be able to leave and get some rest.”

I walked up to the main floor, where I bumped into John Chasseur and his wife, Claudette. She wore a skintight white leotard and oversized sunglasses; Larry was in his usual T-shirt, serving as a billboard for his latest book, and jeans. Claudette returned my greeting but immediately walked away, saying she was on her way for a massage.

“Finger the killer yet, Jess?” Chasseur asked, grinning.

“Maybe,” I said.

His eyes widened. “You sound serious.”

“Oh, I am, very serious. By the way, I was wondering why neither you nor your wife mentioned that the actor who was killed had been in a movie you’d produced, and that Claudette appeared in.”

His smiling face changed, less smug now. “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“I did some checking. You obviously knew him before you came here to Mohawk House.”

“I don’t remember him. Probably had some walk-on part along with dozens of others.”

“His bio says he played a character with a name and had a speaking role.”

He shook his head and spoke to me as though I was the class dunce. “You believe what actors put on their bios, Jess, and you’ll believe the moon is made of cheese. See ya.”

I’m not a person who gloats over victories, but I couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction at seeing the cocky, ego-driven John Chasseur a bit shaken.

Dinner promised to be interesting.

 

 

 

 

Before going to my room to get ready for dinner, I managed to speak with a few cast and crew members I found wandering about the hotel. When I asked whether they knew about the cross-dressing aspect of Paul Brody’s acting career, their reactions were uniformly incredulous, which posed a dilemma for me. How had he managed to keep that phase of his professional life from everyone in the cast and crew? It was there on his own Web site, along with photos of him in women’s clothing. Surely, someone must have known.

Showered and dressed in a fresh outfit, I went to the dining room, where my tablemates were already seated. I was happy to see Claudette there with her husband, the large sunglasses doing a good job of shielding her bruises from the eyes of others. Judging from the expression on her husband’s face, he wasn’t especially pleased to see me. My comment to him about Paul Brody having known him and Claudette in Hollywood had obviously altered his mood. Gone was the wide, dazzling white smile and gregarious manner. He was downright sullen, and only muttered responses to comments and questions directed at him.

“Have a pleasant day, Jessica?” Boynton asked between sips of his martini.

“I don’t know if I’d characterize it as pleasant, but it was productive. You?”

“Actually,” the Englishman said, “I had a most interesting day. Didn’t I, Georgie?”

She nodded. “Harold thinks he’s solved the murder,” she said.

“Oh, yeah?” Chasseur said. “The real one, or the one in the play?”

“The real one, sir,” said Boynton proudly.

“Has your team made any progress?” I asked Chasseur.

“What team?”

“The one you formed with paying guests.”

“The one that Jessica and ah thought was silly,” Georgie chimed in, sounding pleased at having said it.

“I wasn’t serious about it, but it sold books,” Chasseur said.

Jody appeared to take our food orders. I noted that Chasseur didn’t flirt with her, which pleased me. That sort of behavior in the presence of a spouse always makes me uncomfortable.

As we proceeded with our dinners, I took stock of others in the room. Most tables were occupied, some pushed together to accommodate members of various teams. Ms. Carlisle sat alone at a secluded table. The only time I’d ever seen anyone with her during meals was when Boynton had joined her at breakfast.

“So,” I said to Boynton as Jody removed my salad plate and placed my entrée in front of me, “tell us who done it.”

He seemed reluctant to respond, which prompted Georgie to answer for him. “Harold’s only come to a speculative conclusion,” she said, signaling to Jody that she wanted another Bacardi cocktail by pointing to her empty glass.

“Anybody can speculate,” Chasseur said. “Big deal.” He looked at me. “You say you may have solved it, Jessica, but I doubt whether you have anything more than speculation, too.”

“You’re probably right,” I said.

“Tell us what you think,” Claudette said to me, which surprised me. It was the first sign of interest she’d shown since we’d arrived at Mohawk House.

“I’d rather not,” I said. “If any of us knows something that might shed light on the murder, Detective Ladd is the appropriate person to share it with.”

“That country bumpkin?” Chasseur said, punctuating his words with a sardonic laugh. “You might as well tell our waitress, or the redhead over there.” He nodded in Ms. Carlisle’s direction. “Hey, Boynton, you seem chummy with her.” He leaned toward Harold and asked, “What’s she like under that black dress?”

Boynton ignored him, but I could see Chasseur’s arrogance was having its effect on the round Englishman. His face reddened, and a vein started pulsating in his neck.

“Ah have a good idea,” Georgie said gleefully. “Why don’t all of us here at this table write down who we think killed the actor? The winner gets some sorta prize.”

“Like what?” Chasseur said. “Another weekend at this dump?”

Claudette spoke up again. “I would like to hear what Mrs. Fletcher has to say.”

“What’s so special about her?” her husband asked.

“Who do you think killed the actor?” she asked, lowering her sunglasses slightly on her nose and peering at me over them.

Before I had a chance to reply, she said, “Mrs. Fletcher obviously knows how to investigate a murder. She’s done her homework and discovered that Paul Brody knew John and me in Hollywood.”

“Shut up, Claudette,” Chasseur said.

Claudette dismissed him and continued, “Paul and I were in a film together. John was one of a dozen so-called producers.”

His face hardened.

“John also knows that Paul and I had an affair—a brief fling, really.” She turned to her husband. “You did know that, didn’t you, darling?”

“I told you to shut up,” he said.

“That’s no way to speak to a lady,” Georgie Wick said, “especially one’s wife. Go on, Mrs. Chasseur. Ah find this fascinating.”

“Well, I don’t,” Chasseur said, throwing his napkin down on the table and stalking away.

“Why are you telling us this?” Boynton asked.

“Because it will come out anyway, thanks to Mrs. Fletcher,” Claudette said. “John and I are now prime suspects. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“It does focus some extra light on you,” I said. “Did your affair with Paul Brody end badly?”

A sly smile crossed her pretty lips. “No, not at all. I wasn’t angry with Paul—but John sure was.”

An awkward silence descended on the table until I asked, “Did you know that Paul would be in the cast here this weekend?”

“Yes. John told me.”

“And did you want to see him again?”

“No. John insisted I come, sort of a punishment. He’s always looking for ways to punish me.” She pushed back her chair, stood, leaned on the table, and said, “By the way, for all you sleuths, John wasn’t in the audience when Paul was killed.”

“Where was he?” Boynton asked.

“Probably out killing Paul,” she said. “See you at the play.”

Georgie broke the silence that accompanied Claudette’s departure. “That is not a happy woman,” she said.

“No surprise, married to an oaf like him,” said Boynton. “Excuse me.” He left the table and went to Ms. Carlisle, who had finished dinner and was drinking coffee. She extended her hand, which he kissed before taking a chair opposite her.

“Looks like Harold is smitten,” I said.

“Harold is smitten by every woman he meets, Jessica. Pay him no mind. He’s harmless and can be quite an entertaining traveling companion.”

“If you say so.”

“Ready to see the next act in the play?” she asked.

“I think so,” I said. “But first, there’s someone I must speak with.”

“Who might that be?” she asked. At that moment Detective Ladd entered the dining room. Georgie saw him and said, “Oh, ah see. I’ll bet you’re about to solve the case for him.”

“I had something like that in mind,” I said. “Excuse me, Georgie. Save me a seat. I wouldn’t want to miss a minute of it.”

 

 

 

 

I spent twenty minutes with Detective Ladd before leaving the dining room and going to the auditorium.