A Question of Murder (16 page)

“My pleasure.”

“Oh, and Mrs. Fletcher, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to hear what’s being said in this room.”

“Detective, I hope you don’t think that I would—” I stopped myself and laughed. “Guilty as charged,” I said.

“Plea accepted. See you around. And watch your step when you go up to the third floor. There’s a loose piece of carpet up in that corner.”

Was my inborn sense of curiosity that evident?
I wondered as I left the room and went to the elevators. He knew the first thing I would do after leaving him was to check out those rooms for myself. But as an elevator arrived, I ignored the opening doors and went to the desk, where the man I’d spoken with the night before was still on duty.

“Long shift,” I said.

“Sure is,” he said, “but they say the plows should be here this afternoon. All I want to do is get home and go to bed.”

“I understand. May I ask you a question?”

“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. How can I help you?”

“Someone told me there are three special suites on the third floor, back in a corner, at the rear of the building.”

“That’s right. We call them our VIP suites, only they really aren’t that fancy, nothing like a presidential suite or anything. But they’re bigger than other rooms.”

“I’d love to see one,” I said, “for when I come back to Mohawk House sometime in the future.”

“I’d be happy to show them to you, Mrs. Fletcher, except they’re occupied.”

“I see,” I said. I leaned on the desk, closing the distance between us. “Would you mind telling me which guests are in those suites at the moment? Perhaps if I asked them directly . . .”

The dilemma I’d posed was written all over his weathered face. “I really can’t do that, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Hotel policy. Privacy.”

“Of course,” I said. “It’s just that one of the reasons I’m here this weekend, aside from being on the author panel this afternoon, is to research the next novel I’m writing. Seeing the rooms would have been helpful, but of course I wouldn’t ask you to breach hotel policy. Actually, the names of the people aren’t important to me, just a sense of the sort of VIPs who reserve such suites.”

He laughed. “Nobody real important,” he said. “At least not that I know of. There’s a couple in one of them.”

“Oh, of course,” I said. “Mr. and Mrs. Pomerantz.”

“You know them?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” I said, amazed that my stab in the dark had been correct. “Any of the cast members in those suites?” I asked. “Mr. and Mrs. Savoy, the producers of the play?”

“No, ma’am. They’re on the second floor. One of the better rooms, though.”

“And they certainly deserve it.”

“Miss Carlisle is there, too.”

“Oh? I don’t know her.”

Now, it was his turn to become conspiratorial. He, too, leaned on the desk as he said, “A really strange lady, Mrs. Fletcher. Some of the guests have been complaining about her.”

“Why?”

“Well, she’s not very pleasant, they say. She’s had a few run-ins with other guests.”

A vision of the tall redheaded woman came to mind. “The woman with the red hair,” I said.

He nodded and smiled.

“Actually,” I said, “I think she’s a member of the cast.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“What I’m anxious to find out is what role she’s playing,” I said. “She hasn’t been onstage yet.”

“She told me she’s not supposed to be on the stage, Mrs. Fletcher. She’s one of Mr. and Mrs. Savoy’s audience ringers. They’ve done their shows here before, and they always have a few people like her. Know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think that if I wrote the play, I’d have her killed.”

“Interesting idea,” I said. “Maybe she will be. Good talking to you. I’m glad to hear that the plows will be showing up soon. I hope you get some rest. As for me, it’ll be nice to be able to go outside again and get some fresh air.”

But fresh air was furthermost from my mind at that moment. Larry Savoy had something to tell me. Could it be that a cast member had a reason to kill Paul Brody? He certainly wasn’t a popular member of the troupe. He’d been disrespectful, dismissive, and downright aggressive. Had he so alienated his fellow thespians that one of them took revenge backstage?

I’d become so engrossed with Georgie Wick and her supernatural sighting, and with Detective Ladd, that I’d almost forgotten what Larry had promised. I hurried down the hall toward the auditorium, where I hoped Larry could provide a better clue than the leads Melinda had written into her play. The other guests at Mohawk House weren’t the only ones that weekend with a need to solve a murder.

 

 

 

 

 

Larry was backstage giving the cast post-production notes when I arrived. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I stayed in the wings and listened as he and Melinda ran down a list they’d compiled during the second act. It seemed to me that the points they made were minor, small adjustments for various members of the ensemble to incorporate into the next scene, which was scheduled for early that afternoon.

But when he came to Catarina, the maid, his tone changed. He had been upbeat and positive with the others. Now his voice hardened. “Damn it, Catarina,” he said, “how many times do I have to tell you that you’re not performing in an amphitheater? Sure, you’re supposed to be upset, but you’re not a wounded banshee. Tone it down before that grating voice of yours sends the whole audience running for cover.”

I wasn’t sure whether the actress was about to erupt into tears or respond with an angry outburst. She did neither. She glared at Larry for what seemed an eternity before turning on her heel and stomping from the stage.

Larry shook his head and addressed the rest of the cast. “It went well. It looks like the decision to go ahead with the play is working. But we can’t let up now. The audience will be all over you throughout the day, especially wanting to know whether Paul is really dead. Keep ’em guessing. Keep them here at the hotel. They say the plows will be getting to us this afternoon, which means those guests who want to leave will be able to. Mark Egmon from the hotel staff says that anyone cutting short their stay because of the murder will be eligible for a refund. Obviously, that’s not good for Mohawk House’s bottom line, so let’s cooperate. I want us invited back again next year.”

As the cast and crew dispersed, Larry joined me in the wings.

“What did you think?” he asked.

“You handled it very well,” I said. “The audience certainly seemed to enjoy it.”

“That’s what counts,” he said.

“Larry, you said you wanted to talk with me about a cast member who might have had reason to kill Paul.”

“Right, but not here. Too many ears.”

We went through a door at the rear of the wings and entered a narrow corridor that ran the width of the stage and led to a closet-sized space being used as a wardrobe room. Once inside, he closed the door and pushed aside a rolling clothes rack holding a variety of costumes. “Here, sit,” he said, making room on a folding chair by dumping its contents—props and wigs—to the floor. “Okay, Jessica, here’s what I wanted to tell you. According to Melinda’s script, Catarina, the maid, had an affair with Paul back in New York. He jilted her and took up with Cynthia. Anyway, when she learned that he was involved with this pretty, rich society type, she applied for a job as a maid to the Whittakers so she could be at their house to witness what was happening and do what she could to throw a monkey wrench into the romance. Melinda loves complicated plots.”

“But wouldn’t Paul the character have recognized the maid?” I asked.

“Sure, except that she had extensive plastic surgery in New York before coming up to the Whittaker mansion.”

I laughed. “It must have been
very
extensive surgery for him not to figure out who she is.”

“I know, I know,” Larry said, holding up his hand. “Far-fetched, but you’ve seen our shows before. Everything is far-fetched. Like opera. If you insist on reality in your entertainment, you won’t like us or opera. That’s the fun of it. That’s what brings out the groans at the end when the audience is made aware of all the unlikely things that go into solving the crime. Some of them get annoyed, but they’re in the minority. At any rate, Jessica, that’s how Melinda wrote it.”

“I see,” I said. “But what does that have to do with Paul Brody’s death?”

“It looks like Melinda’s script isn’t as fictitious as it seemed.”

“Now wait a minute, Larry,” I said. “You aren’t telling me that Catarina underwent plastic surgery and—”

He shook his head. “No, no, not that part of it. I’m hearing from members of the cast who know Catarina and Paul that they really did have an affair back in New York. He jilted her, they say—dumped her pretty hard. When she heard he’d signed on with us to do a series of interactive murder mystery productions like this one, she auditioned, too. I understand he wasn’t too happy that Melinda invited her to join the show, but of course we didn’t know their history, and in any case he didn’t have any say about it.”

“He could have quit,” I offered.

“And lose a steady paycheck? Do you know what a steady paycheck means to actors, Jessica? We pay union scale, which isn’t a lot, but it’s better than waiting tables.” He smiled as he added, “Maybe you earn more being a waiter, but it ain’t showbiz. Anyway, Paul was like thousands of other actors in New York, scraping by, running from one audition to another, taking acting lessons from this or that guru, and refusing to admit that their talent is marginal and that their acting days are numbered. It’s especially true of guys like Paul. It was one thing when he was young and playing juvenile leads. He was probably pretty good at it, although the scuttlebutt is that his lousy attitude torpedoed his career in Hollywood.”

“Victoria told me that Paul was older than he looked,” I said.

“She’s right.”

I thought for a moment before saying, “If I’m hearing you correctly, you think Catarina had a motive to kill Paul because of the way he treated her back in New York.”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility. I figure I should give you everything I know.”

“Did you tell this to Detective Ladd?”

“No. I just heard about their relationship. I didn’t know before.”

“Do you think Catarina did it?”

“Murder him? I don’t know. All I can tell you is that there have been times when I wanted to kill Paul Brody myself.”

“His attitude?”

“That, and the trouble he was threatening to cause me with the union.”

“Over what?”

“Rehearsals, not being paid overtime for ones that run a few minutes longer than the contract calls for.”

“This may be a silly question, but why did you keep him in the cast? Surely there are plenty of other actors who could have played the role.”

“I would have fired him in a minute,” Larry replied, “but Melinda had a soft spot for him, claimed he added something special to the cast. I didn’t see it and intended to get rid of him after this weekend. Looks like somebody else saved me the bother.”

“Well,” I said, “the scorned woman has always had a viable motive for murder. But there would have to be a lot more evidence before pointing a finger at Catarina. Most women who are jilted don’t end up murdering their former lovers.”

“You’re right, of course. But don’t the police always look first at those who had a motive to do a crime?”

“Yes, and a spouse or significant other, as they call it, is always highest on the suspect list.”

There was a tap on the door. Jeremy, the stagehand, looked into the room. “Hey, Larry, we’re moving some scenery back here,” he said. “Don’t open this door till we get it out of the hall, okay?”

“Sure, sure. Knock again when you’re done.”

“How long do you suppose they’ll be?” I asked.

“Ten, fifteen minutes tops,” Larry said, “unless it gets wedged in again. We had a time of it yesterday.”

I didn’t relish being cooped up with Larry in the wardrobe room if the scenery became unmanageable again. I looked past him to a pile of boxes and steamer trunks, behind which there appeared to be a door. “Where does that lead?” I asked.

Larry turned. “I have no idea,” he said. “I never gave it any thought.”

I got up, squeezed between the boxes and trunks, and tried to see through a dirty glass insert in the door’s upper half. Embedded in the glass was a mesh screen of the chicken wire variety. I reached down behind the boxes, wrapped my hand around the doorknob, and turned. It opened easily.

“Do Detective Ladd and his officers know about this door?”

“Never occurred to me to tell them,” he said.

“Help me move these things out of the way,” I said as I pulled down the top box and handed it to him. A few minutes later the door was fully revealed. I pushed it open and stepped into a small room, no larger than ten feet square. Beyond it was a dark, narrow passageway. I squinted against the gloom and saw a spiral staircase at the far end.

“Coming?” I asked Larry.

“Where does it lead?” he asked.

“We’re about to find out,” I said as I started walking, slowly and deliberately, touching the wall with my hand in case I tripped over something. I stopped halfway to the staircase and turned to see if Larry was behind me. He remained standing in the open doorway, obviously ambivalent about proceeding.

I continued until I reached the foot of the stairs. Larry had now joined me. I started up, still taking cautious steps. The treads were extremely narrow, the risers taller than normal. My upward path came to an abrupt end at another door, this one leading to the outside. It, too, had glass with mesh embedded in it. I looked through it and saw only white—the snow continued to fall, adding to a large snowbank on a small terrace. The door had one of those horizontal bars you push to open. I glanced up and saw a sign: EMERGENCY EXIT-ALARMED.