A Question of Murder (20 page)

“Where?”

“In the corridor. Oh, I tell you, when he saw me round the bend, he skedaddled away. That’s what you Americans would say, isn’t it? Well, that’s what he did. Disappeared into one of those rooms up there just where Georgie said she’d seen him.”

“Which one of the rooms?” I asked.

He gave me the number. “Knocked on the door, but got no answer. Not surprised, though.”

“You’re sure it was Brody?”

“Well, I—I think it was. I might be getting on in years, but my eyesight is still bloody good, like a man half my age.” He leered. “My eyesight is not the only thing that hasn’t aged, Jessica.”

“You’re saying it was the actor, not a ghost?” I persisted.

“Unlike my esteemed friend Georgie, I don’t believe in ghosts. I’ve seen a lot of dead men in my life, Jessica, my dear. I may call you Jessica, may I not? And I think I can tell the difference between dead and alive. And this body was definitely alive.” He fingered the collar of my sweater.

I thanked him for confiding in me and moved away as quickly as I could, but not fast enough. He grabbed my hand. “It would be my pleasure to buy the lovely Jessica Fletcher a drink,” he said, stroking my fingers and peering into my eyes.

“You’re too kind,” I said, “but I’m afraid there’s no time.” I extricated my hand from his. “I must run. I’ll see you and Georgie at dinner.”

I left him standing in the hall and headed back in the direction of the gift shop. Chasseur was still surrounded by fans. Georgie had only two people in her line—Sydney Pomerantz, the man Detective Ladd suspected of strangling his first wife, and the redheaded Ms. Carlisle.

As I proceeded to Mark Egmon’s office, I tried to make sense out of what I’d just heard from Harold Boynton. Had what he claimed to have seen been an alcoholic vision? Maybe he was so influenced by Georgie and her purported sighting of Paul Brody that he, too, imagined seeing him. Or was he using Georgie’s story for himself, to get closer to me? I shuddered at this last possibility.

But why he and Georgie had made their bizarre claims really didn’t matter. There were more worldly avenues to pursue in going after Brody’s murderer, and I intended to follow up every one of them. Chasseur had thrown down the gauntlet, and while I had no interest in competing with him—or anyone else, for that matter—I was determined to get to the bottom of things—even if it killed me.

 

 

 

Before going to Mark Egmon’s office, I swung by the auditorium, where Larry Savoy was rehearsing the next scene.

“I still can’t believe Chasseur pulled that dumb trick,” he said, “announcing Paul’s murder.”

“And becoming very popular in the bargain,” I said. “You promised me a copy of Paul’s bio.”

“Right.”

He called to Melinda, who was blocking a bit of stage action for Monroe and Victoria Whittaker, and asked for the bio. She rummaged through a large briefcase and found it. “Here you go,” she said, handing the bio to Larry, who passed it to me. I folded it and put it in the pocket of my sweater.

“Don’t believe everything you read on it, Jessica,” Larry cautioned. “Actors and actresses have a habit of embellishing their résumés.”

“Like many people,” I said. “I read someplace that thirty percent of people looking for jobs exaggerate or downright lie on their résumés. Did you check Paul’s references?”

He laughed. “Who has time for that?” he said.

“I’ll leave you to your rehearsal,” I said. “Thanks for the bio.”

Mark Egmon was on his way out the door when I arrived at his office. “Oh, Jessica,” he said, “I’m afraid I can’t go with you right now. The storm brought down a couple of big trees across the access road. They’re on our property and the plows can’t get up here until we clear them. I’m on my way to a meeting with the grounds super.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “You go to your meeting and I’ll—”

“No, no,” he said. “Wait. I’ll get you the pass-keys.” He popped back into his office and returned with a large ring holding dozens of keys. He went through them until he found the one he wanted and handed the ring to me by that key. “This is the one for that door up in the VIP section of the third floor. Be my guest.” He grinned. “You’re now holding the keys to every room in the hotel. Lucky for me you’re not a robber. Just drop them on my desk when you’re through.”

“Are you sure you won’t need these?”

“No problem. Have to run. Just don’t lock yourself in up there. Could take a week to find you.” He was gone, his laugh trailing behind.

I would have preferred that Mark accompany me, but I understood that he had other priorities at that moment. As I waited for an elevator to arrive, I looked down at the ring of keys and stifled a sense of discomfort at holding the keys to the hotel’s inner recesses, almost as though I were embarking on an illicit act. Silly, of course. He’d willingly given me the keys and encouraged me to explore on my own. Still . . .

The elevator arrived. I got in, pressed the button for the third floor, and was soon standing in front of the three VIP suites. Although I was alone—the housemaids had probably finished tidying up that section of the hotel and were performing their duties elsewhere—I had the feeling I was being watched. Was someone observing me from one of the suites through the peephole in the door? I glanced around for a surveillance camera but saw none. I knew that this portion of the building was part of the original Mohawk House where the earl had lived and died. I’ve always loved old buildings with historic significance, although when it comes to choosing hotels in my travels, I find myself increasingly drawn to newer ones with more up-to-date amenities, charm failing to compensate for faulty plumbing and balky air-conditioning. It comes with age, I suppose.

I turned in a circle and tried to visualize what it was like living in Mohawk House generations ago. Had the earl been married? Did he have children? How many servants catered to his wishes? Did he entertain lavishly, or live in relative seclusion, rattling around his mansion until that fateful night when someone separated his head from his body as he slept? Maybe I’d learn more about him one day, I told myself as I looked at the three doors leading into the suites, and the fourth, smaller door, not a guest room, that was locked, the key to which I held in my hand.

I looked at the other keys on the ring. Mark had said that the ring held keys to every room in the hotel. Curiosity can be a powerful compulsion, rivaling smoking, drinking, gambling, and other addictions. Was the answer to Paul Brody’s murder contained in one of the suites? Probably not, but I’ve always operated under the leave-no-stone-unturned theory. A closed door, including that fourth one, never fails to pique my curiosity.

As I started toward it, the door to the middle suite opened. “Mrs. Fletcher,” Sydney Pomerantz said. His wife came to his side. They’d changed into matching red vests with gold buttons over white turtlenecks.

“Hello,” I said.

“Looking for someone?” he asked, eyeing my fistful of keys.

“No, not exactly,” I said, hoping they were on their way out.

“That’s quite a lot of keys you have,” he said, the space between
keys
and
you
filled by a
glunk
from his throat.

“Yes, it is,” I said, hoping they wouldn’t ask more questions. “Are you enjoying yourselves this weekend?”

“Very much,” said Mrs. Pomerantz, who had blue-white hair and a pink face remarkably unlined considering her age. “It was quite a shock to hear Mr. Chasseur say that precious young actor was brutally murdered.” She shuddered. “Gives me the chills.”

“Fortunately,” I said, trying to stuff the large key ring in my small pocket, “the police have the situation well in hand.”

“Oh, don’t count on that,” Mr. Pomerantz said. “I’ve lived here for many years and know firsthand how inept they are. Take it from me. I have experience.”

I didn’t acknowledge that I knew what he was talking about.

“Well, nice seeing you again,” I said. It seemed to me that they weren’t about to move. But they did, closing the door behind them and starting down the hall.

“Oh, by the way,” I said. They stopped and turned. “Do you know Ms. Carlisle, the woman who has the suite next to you?”

They looked at each other, their expressions clearly saying that they weren’t fond of their neighbor.

“Do you know anything about her?” I asked.

“Just that she’s a very rude lady,” Mrs. Pomerantz said. “Doesn’t even say good morning to me.”

“I think she’s part of the play,” Mr. Pomerantz said.

“Yes, I’ve heard that, too,” I said. “Have you seen a young man in this hallway who might look like the actor who was killed?”

Another look at each other before he said, “Can’t say that we have, but we’ve heard noises out here in the hall in the middle of the night.”

“What sort of noises?”

“Enough to wake us,” said the wife.

“Heard people arguing,” he said.

“A man?”

“Man and a woman. You know, Mrs. Fletcher, you might want to find some time to meet with me. I have a lot of experience with forensic science and police procedures. I’d be happy to share what I know with you for one of your books.”

“That’s kind of you,” I said.

“Just name the time (glunk) and place. By the way, I’ve been doing some investigating of my own since the actor was killed.”

“Oh?”

“That’s right. The way I see it, the murderer is a member of the hotel staff, possibly a kitchen worker with access to weapons, knives, cleavers, that sort of thing.”

“Interesting conclusion,” I said.

They walked away, and I decided I’d better stop standing around in the hall. I went to the door and inserted the key Mark Egmon had identified for me. It turned easily. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Were it not for the dim light coming from what appeared to be a window at the distant end of a corridor, it would have been pitch-black. The ceiling was low, necessitating my crouching to avoid hitting my head. Was this passageway used by the earl’s servants? It was customary in years gone by for household help to remain out of sight as much as possible, and I knew that houses of this vintage often provided ways for the staff to move throughout them without encountering the owners and their guests.
Servants were shorter in those days,
I thought.

I gently closed the door, careful not to allow the latch to engage fully and lock behind me.

A flashlight would have come in handy, but mine was in my shoulder bag, hanging in the closet of my room. Its lack, however, wasn’t cause to abandon my plan. I briefly considered getting down on my hands and knees to avoid straining my back, but I didn’t want to ruin my hose. Instead, I hunched over and started toward the window, which I judged was forty or fifty feet away. It was slow going, and dirty. Years of dust and dirt adhered to the walls and covered the floor, my footsteps kicking it up and fouling the air. My short journey seemed to take forever, and I was happy to reach the window, as the ceiling was higher there, allowing me to straighten a bit and ease the kinks in my back and shoulders. I couldn’t tell what the window overlooked because its panes were covered with decades of thick grime.

The low, narrow corridor took a left turn at the window and continued toward what appeared to be another window. I considered going back. I had no idea what I was looking for. But something told me that Paul Brody’s killer might have discovered these passageways and used one to flee the murder scene and blend back in with the hotel’s paying guests, the theatrical troupe, and the staff.

I set off on the next leg and reached that second window. There was yet another length of corridor, this one with light at the far end that didn’t seem to emanate from a window. It was brighter than that—an artificial light. Grimacing against the strain in my back and shoulders, I forged ahead until I emerged in a wide room with a ceiling almost as low as the paths leading to it, although I was able to stand, the hair on the top of my head brushing the ceiling. Squares of opaque glass, illuminated from below, were inserted in the wooden floor, which was littered with coiled wires and disks of tinted acetate, red, green, yellow, and blue. The windowless room was stuffy and warm, as if no air from outside ever reached it.

As I adjusted to my new surroundings, I heard voices and tried to ascertain where they were coming from. They were below me, I decided.

The play! I was hearing the rehearsal of the next scene of Larry and Melinda’s production, which meant I was standing in a space above the auditorium. The wires and filters must have been for the stage lighting at some point. But what had this room been used for in bygone days? Was it still used now? Given the layers of dust, I doubted it. It must have been abandoned as too difficult to reach.

I looked for another access.
There must be one different from the route I took,
I thought, picking my way across the room carefully, avoiding the glass panels, fearing to tread on any rotten boards, and conscious that I’d just as soon the actors on the stage below me not become aware of anyone creeping around over their heads. As I progressed along the length of the room, the voices from below became louder. I paused a few times to take in what they were saying and could clearly hear the actors and actresses reciting their lines. At the far end of the room, their voices grew inaudible again—
I must be over the backstage area now,
I thought—and there was a door. I went to it and turned the knob. It opened and I stepped into yet another passageway, this one with a ceiling that accommodated my full height. I saw a light switch and flipped it up. A few wall sconces came to life. Splendid! I could stand up straight, and see, too.