A Question of Murder (3 page)

“That’s Jeremy,” Melinda told me. “He’s our lead stagehand.”

“Easy or not,” said Savoy, “you have to get it in here. Do whatever you have to, but do it quick. We’re running late.”

“Right,” Jeremy said, not sounding pleased. He shouted to the others, “Hey, anybody see my pick?”

“Pick?” I said to Melinda.

“One of a stagehand’s basic tools, like gaffer tape. You know, duct tape. Crew use picks to temporarily hold things down on the set.”

“Jeremy,” Savoy said loudly, “please. Not now. Your pick will show up.”

“I know I laid it down back here,” said Jeremy, wandering off the stage.

Melinda left my side to confer with her husband, which gave me the opportunity to slip out and embark on that walk I’d been looking forward to. I was glad to get away. I’d become uncomfortable with the tension in the room even though I’d been around enough theatrical productions to know that nerves often frayed and tempers rose when talented, creative performers act out their frustrations—as well as their roles.

I trekked out to the lakeshore, where I stood and looked back at the forbidding structure of Mohawk House. It was shrouded in mist, its stone-clad turrets visible when the fog would suddenly part, only to be obscured moments later when the haze swirled around them again.

I shivered. Despite the premature warming, it had turned damp and chilly, and I could “smell” snow in the air. If the weather forcasters were correct, we were in for a doozy of a spring snowstorm. Although I’d put on what I thought would be warm enough clothing, I wished I’d added an extra layer before heading outside. I put into play some positive thinking—
The exercise will warm me up,
I assured myself—and turned away from the building as I rubbed my arms briskly.

But I never did get warm. The expedition was short-lived. I hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes before it became apparent that I wasn’t going to get very far along the trail. My intention had been to walk around the lake, but those best-laid plans were thwarted by the vapors, which thickened and rose from the surface of the glacial pool, rolling over the land and filling the valley. They enveloped me, slowing my steps and making the scenic hike along the rocky, icy track too risky to continue.

Wrapped in the mist, I became disoriented. Had I wandered off the path? Was I too close to the lake? The sharp sound of cracking ice fired off to my right.
Oh dear,
I thought. One errant move and I could tumble off a ledge and down into the frigid waters. I remembered reading about mountain climbers getting caught in a “whiteout” when the snow swirled so heavily around them that they couldn’t tell which direction they’d been heading, or even distinguish up from down. Imitating Melinda’s motion earlier, I stuck out my arm. I could see my hand, but not much else in front of me. There were some shadows that might be tall trees. The weight of the air made breathing difficult. My walking shoes sank into the damp earth and little puddles filled my footprints.
Looks like an early mud season,
I told myself, trying to get my bearings. Back home in Cabot Cove, Maine, “mud season” is what we call the long melt between winter’s frost and the appearance of the first blades of grass in the spring.

As I felt a few snowflakes on my cheeks, the thought of a roaring fire in my suite compelled me. I carefully retraced my steps down the path in the direction of the hotel. I began to shiver, not quite sure if it was the cold or the apprehension of taking a wrong step that set off the tremors. The mist lifted slightly as I retraced my steps across a rickety wooden walkway with rope railings, and I sighed heavily in relief when I reached a back entrance to the building. I paused just outside the door. I could hear muffled voices, male and female, on the other side.

“If you think you’re going to get away with this, you have another think coming.”

“Stop being so melodramatic.”

“You can dismiss this, but I’ll have the last laugh.”

“Yeah? What are you going to do? Kill me?”

I thought I heard a scuffle. I turned the doorknob. The heavy door squealed when I opened it and the sound of someone hurrying up the stairs echoed in the hall. I stepped inside, my eyes not yet acclimated to the gloom, and came face-to-face with the young actor who played Paul in the production. A cigarette in his hand, he stood alone, partially hidden by shadows that engulfed most of the concrete area just inside the door. A single low-wattage bulb in a wall sconce shaped like a torch cast uncertain light, but it was enough for me to see the gleam of sweat on his brow and the look of fury on his face.

“My goodness,” I said. “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” he said sullenly.

I looked at where he was standing. Judging from the half dozen cigarette butts scattered on the floor, this small alcove was where smokers retreated when the urge struck them. There was a no-smoking policy throughout the resort, which had no guest rooms for smokers. It occurred to me that the management of Mohawk House, knowing smokers came here to indulge, would have been smart to provide an urn or other receptacle in which they could extinguish their cigarettes.

“No need to apologize,” I said. “You didn’t do anything except stand here. I simply wasn’t expecting anyone. I was just out for a walk, but the weather made it impossible.” I hugged myself and rubbed the backs of my arms. “Brrrr,” I said. “It’s chilly out there, and the snow has started. The dampness goes right through you. The fog—”

He pushed away from the wall, crushing the half-consumed cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe, and took the narrow, winding concrete steps two at a time.

Well, I must say I’ve had more pleasant encounters
, I thought ruefully.
It seems the climate inside is no better than it is outside.

 

 

 

 

Don’t take offense,
I told myself.
He’s an actor. He’s probably absorbed in his role, preparing for tonight’s performance. Maybe it’s the fog and the threat of snow, bringing out the worst in people, making them feel claustrophobic and trapped.

I shrugged my shoulders to release the tension, and to dismiss the uneasy feeling I’d begun to develop about Mohawk House and the weekend. I glanced about the smokers’ vestibule, my eyes now used to the dim light. Had I had a dustpan and broom, I would have tidied up—my New England neatness genes coming to the fore. Instead, I ascended the staircase Paul had used to escape my presence and stepped into the warmth of the main hallway.

At one end of the hallway was the lobby, where an inglenook welcomed guests in from the cold. A pair of benches flanked the blazing fire and drew some of those who were waiting to register for the long weekend. Once they signed in, they were directed to a table where team assignments were handed out along with a packet of written materials. The teams would compete with each other to solve the “murder” that would take place during the course of the festivities, staged as part of the play, of course. Unless guests traveled to Mohawk House together and had requested that they be on the same team of amateur sleuths, they were paired with others on a random basis to ensure equality in numbers.

The other end of the long hallway in which I stood terminated in the dining area of the old building. I knew from experience that certain cast members would mingle at the tables and pretend to be guests, their true identity revealed only later in the play. The actors and actresses cast by the Savoys were amazingly adroit at concealing their true identities, and I’d marveled on more than one occasion at their skills, not only at playing their scripted roles in the show, but also at slipping into other, offstage personas. The guests were in for a weekend of fun, which I was sure would include more than one surprise.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

I turned to see Mark Egmon approaching. Mark was Mohawk House’s manager of special events and theme programs, including the annual mystery weekends.

“So glad I found you,” he said. “All settled in your room?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “It’s lovely. I especially appreciate the fireplace and the balcony. What a lovely view.”

“I’m so glad you like it. It’s one of my favorite rooms.”

“I imagine there are many wonderful rooms here.”

“They’re all nice. That’s the official line,” he said with a wink and a smile. “But yours is part of the original structure and has some surprising features. I’m not going to tell you what they are. You’ll just have to discover them yourself.”

“That sounds intriguing.”

“Have you seen your books in our shop? Let me show you. The store manager has a nice touch. She used to be a window decorator.”

He escorted me to a table in the gift store where my books, and those of the other authors in attendance, had been artfully arranged.

“What a nice display,” I said, picking up John Chasseur’s latest thriller. “I bought this book last week,” I said, noting his signature on the title page. “Will you be having a book signing?”

“Yes, but we are suggesting that the authors autograph some of their books in advance. If you have time, you can do it right now. Some guests will want to skip the author panel and book signing, but buy signed books anyway. Would you mind?”

“Of course not.”

He brought me a chair and hovered solicitously while I wrote the date, a greeting, and my name in two dozen copies of my new mystery. As I finished each one, the shop manager affixed a sticker on the book that said SIGNED BY AUTHOR and replaced it in the pile on the table.

“That’s something else I can check off my list,” Mark said, walking me out of the shop. “Thank you so much.” At the door, his expression turned regretful. “Listen, I hate to put you on the spot,” he said, “but I was wondering whether you’ve had a chance to come up with your first question.”

“As a matter of fact, I have it right here,” I said, reaching into my pocket and extracting a slip of paper. “I have the others in my room.”

He adjusted half-glasses and read the question I had written down.

“Perfect,” he said. “Nothing like Dame Agatha to get things rolling. I have to run now. See you at dinner.”

I watched him bound down the hallway and smiled, satisfied that he’d been pleased at the question I’d come up with. When I accepted the invitation to be on the writers’ panel, I was told that each panelist was expected to come up with a series of questions that would be presented to the guests over the course of the weekend. Lawrence Savoy would read the questions before the start of each performance, and the audience members were to write their answers on a card provided in their packets of written materials. The person with the most correct answers would receive a free weekend at the resort. The cards would be collected at each performance to avoid having someone retreat to his or her room and consult a book or go on the Internet.

I’d agonized over the questions before leaving Cabot Cove. Aware that there would be many knowledgeable mystery lovers in the audience, I didn’t want my questions to be overly simplistic. At the same time, I wanted to avoid getting too esoteric for those whose knowledge was marginal. My instructions were to start with a relatively easy question and make each one progressively harder. The one I’d given Mark Egmon had to do with the first appearance of Agatha Christie’s Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot. Simple enough, I thought, for Christie devotees, but perhaps not so easy for less widely read mystery fans.

My thoughts about the question were interrupted by the sound of an altercation in the lobby. Angry words carried above the general drone of people talking. They drew me down the hall, where I witnessed what was happening. A middle-aged woman standing in the registration line shouted at a tall, redheaded woman dressed all in black, including a black lace veil. “Go to the back of the line. You can’t just cut in front of me.”

“I beg your pardon. I did not cut in. A lady wouldn’t do such a thing, and I am above all a lady,” the redhead retorted in the raspy, high-pitched voice often associated with heavy smokers. She towered over the other woman.

“You did cut in on us,” a man, presumably the other woman’s husband, told the redhead. Short and round, with his fists resting on his hips, he reminded me of a little teapot as he glared up into her face.

The redhead looked down at the couple. “If I offended you,” she said, “I certainly didn’t intend to. But I suggest that you temper your—temper.” She giggled and flounced away, looking back and wiggling her fingers at the couple.

I hope they don’t end up on the same team,
I thought as I ambled down the hall to the elevators and pushed the UP button. The elevator arrived and I entered the empty car. The doors were nearly closed when an arm, draped in black, was thrust through the narrow opening.

“Good heavens,” I said, darting forward, searching the panel for the DOOR OPEN button, but the arm had accomplished the same task. “I’m sorry,” I said, as the door slid back to reveal the redheaded woman. “I didn’t see you coming or I would have held it.”

“That’s all right, dearie,” she said, peering at me from under the veil. She whirled around to face the door, her ankle-length black skirt following her. Her arm shot out and I saw the button for the third floor light up.

With her back to me, her face was concealed, but I couldn’t help but smile. She was probably one of Melinda Savoy’s creations. Melinda reveled in throwing mysterious characters into the mix, characters who might never appear onstage but who would capture the attention of the guests and be linked to the solution in the end, most likely in improbable ways. You never really knew who was real and who wasn’t until the end of the weekend.

I exited the elevator at my floor and entered my room. I was delighted to find that someone from housekeeping had considerately put a match to the logs in the fireplace to take the chill out of the air. I picked up the John Chasseur novel I’d brought with me, kicked off my shoes, and drew a chair up in front of the grate, resting my heels on an embroidered footstool. The heat was relaxing, and several pages into the book I became drowsy and nodded off, my chin dropping against my breastbone. Then an icy draft nipped my neck. I came awake with a start, the book sliding off my lap and landing on the floor. This wouldn’t do, I realized. Dinner was within the hour, with a welcoming speech and the first act of the play to take place after dinner in the massive auditorium where I’d seen that afternoon’s rehearsal. A quick wake-up shower was in order.