A Question of Murder (24 page)

 

Our conversation hadn’t been particularly fruitful, although I did have a chance to present him with some of my conclusions. I told him what I’d learned about John and Claudette Chasseur’s previous experience with Paul Brody, which he found especially interesting.

“Sounds to me,” he’d said, “like you might have come up with the murderer.”

It’s possible that either Mr. or Mrs. Chasseur killed Brody,” I said. “Motive is certainly present.”

“The wife said her husband was probably out killing Brody?”

“Yes, that’s what she said. But I considered it a flippant comment, not necessarily meaningful. What I can’t unravel is this.” I handed him the printout I’d made of Brody’s Web site.

“What happened to the rest of it?” he asked. “Looks like it got cut off at the top.”

“The hotel’s printer needs adjusting, but not much is lost. Go ahead and read.”

He flipped through the pages, pausing at each of the photographs and shaking his head. He handed them back to me with a sour expression on his thin, angular face, “Well, I’ll be. The deceased dressed up in women’s clothing, huh? I’ve heard about people like that and always wondered why they do it.”

“Presumably because they like to,” I said. “In Paul’s case, it’s how he made his living, at least part of the time. How long have you been with the police department?”

“Be fourteen years this coming September, but a detective just a short time. I have to admit I never ran across any men who dress up like women, but I suppose that’s a big-city thing.”

“Do you remember a theater called the Newsome?” I asked.

“Sure. Used to be what they call a legitimate theater. It’s a movie house now. My wife and I used to go there to see traveling shows that came through, mostly musicals. My wife likes musicals. We saw some great ones, with real talented people.”

“I’m sure you did. Do you happen to remember when Paul Brody was here one summer acting at the Newsome?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“According to one of the hotel staff who’s been here a long time, Brody spent a summer here acting at the theater and doing odd jobs around town to make ends meet.”

“Doesn’t ring any bells for me,” he said.

“It was worth asking. Getting back to the bio and the fact that Mr. Brody spent a good part of his acting career appearing as a female impersonator, my problem is that no one who knew him seems to be aware of that aspect of his career.”

“Well, maybe it’s like him sneaking a smoke now and then. Doesn’t want others to know.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “but I somehow think there’s a lot more to it than that. I have a request.”

“What’s that, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I’d appreciate it if you and some of your officers are present during the performance tonight.”

He frowned.

“Is that a problem?” I asked.

“It’s just that once the plows free up the road, I’ve got to let some of my men get home and grab some sleep.”

“I understand,” I said, “but I have a hunch that this evening’s performance could wrap up your investigation.”

The frown disappeared, replaced by eyebrows raised into question marks. “I’ll be there,” he said, “and I’ll have a couple of my men with me.”

“Thanks. That’s all I can ask.”

“Care to tell me more?”

“I’d love to, but I think it might be better to wait. Indulge me?”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t think of doing anything else, Mrs. Fletcher.”

 

Despite having spent the time with Detective Ladd, I was early for the performance and had my choice of seats. Mr. and Mrs. Pomerantz were already there, seated in the front row. As usual, they were dressed alike, this time wearing matching dark blue button-down shirts and light blue cardigans. On the opposite side of the room was Claudette Chasseur, minus her husband. A sheet of paper announcing the remaining schedule, and promoting various services offered by Mohawk House, was on each chair. I read mine before pulling from my pocket the printout of Paul Brody’s Web site.
There has to be an answer to this,
I told myself, almost willing it to appear. This time, I read it from beginning to end, every line. It was on the last page that I found the answer. It was so simple, there in black and white had I taken the time to read all of the pages. What I was reading was not Paul Brody’s Web site. It was the Web site of an actor named Peter Brody.

When I’d typed in Paul Brody’s name on Google, the search engine had brought up anything that mentioned his name. In this case, the final page of Peter Brody’s long bio contained the line: “He is the brother of another actor, Paul Brody.”

I gasped. “They were twins. Identical twins.”

No wonder I was confused. Seeing the pictures on the bio had reinforced for me the belief that I was reading Paul’s résumé. I might have picked up on it earlier had the bio not constantly referred to Peter Brody as “Mr. Brody,” and if the printer had not cut off the tops of the pages, including the headline on the first page.

My thoughts went back to when I’d seen a woman approach Paul Brody in the lobby, claiming to know him. If I remembered correctly, she’d called him Peter. That sort of mistaken identity must happen regularly with twins. There are myriad stories about how twins are constantly being confused for one another, even by those close to them. I’d even heard of instances in which a twin was able to fool his brother’s girlfriend or wife.

Things began to fall into place for me now. Georgie Wick and Harold Boynton hadn’t seen the ghost of Paul Brody on the third floor. They’d seen his twin brother, Peter. What other explanation could there be?

The man I’d seen smoking when I came in from my walk that first night was probably Peter, not Paul. Those who said Paul had quit smoking were right. Was it Peter who’d followed me on my sojourn through the inner recesses of the hotel? I couldn’t be sure, but it was a reasonable assumption.

The auditorium was now filling up. Detective Ladd stood at the back of the room, two uniformed officers flanking him.

Had Peter murdered his brother?

If so, it cast serious doubt on the theory I’d carried with me into the theater that night.

Larry Savoy bounded down the stairs at the side of the stage and headed for the rear of the auditorium.

“Larry,” I said.

He stopped.

“Got a minute?”

“Not right now. Another crisis. Be back soon.”

I was peering at the Web site printout, still dismayed at not having taken the time to read the entire document, resulting in my not picking up the difference in names, when Ms. Carlisle entered the auditorium, accompanied by Harold Boynton. I looked for Georgie Wick and spotted her sitting a few rows behind where Boynton and his tall, redheaded companion for the evening took seats in the front row. It was the first time I’d seen Ms. Carlisle at a performance. I couldn’t imagine that Boynton would seriously be interested in her; it was a bizarre pairing of people if I ever saw one. But I learned years ago never to judge mutual attraction between men and women. Individuals see things in each other that outsiders don’t, and it’s silly to second-guess. Had I not known that she wasn’t part of the cast, I would have anticipated her playing a role in the production at this performance.

Larry returned and plopped down beside me. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Are you planning to have your detective call people up from the audience during this act?” Using audience members in the show was a staple theatrical device for Savoy productions. A number of preselected people would be called to the stage and asked humorous questions based upon information previously provided for the detective, hopefully generating funny responses. Most did, acting silly as the detective in the show used his quick wit and ad-lib ability to milk those situations for laughs.

“Sure. He’s already got the list.”

“Would you mind adding another to it?”

“You mean you’re finally ready for your stage debut, Jessica?”

“No, not me,” I said, smiling. “I have someone else in mind.”

“Who would that be?”

“Ms. Carlisle.”

He looked across the room to where she and Boynton sat. “Why her?” he asked.

“I think it might prove interesting. Will you do it?”

“Sure. I’ll have Melinda come up with some material for Carboroni to use.”

“No need to do that,” I said, handing him a sheet on paper of which I’d written notes and questions for the detective.

Larry read what I’d written. “Will she go along with it?”

“I don’t know, Larry, but it’s worth a try.”

“Does this have to do with Paul’s murder?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think that she—?”

“I’m not sure what I think at this moment,” I said. “I just know that we’re running out of time. If the killer isn’t apprehended right away, the weekend will be over and he or she will be gone forever.”

“Okay,” Larry said. “I’m with you, Jessica.”

He returned to the stage, and I left my seat to join Detective Ladd.

“I wish you’d tell me more,” he said.

“It won’t be long,” I said. “I figured out the problem with the Web site.” I told him about the name mix-up.

“His twin is
here
?”

“I’d bet on it—if I were a betting person.”

“Where is he? If he’s been here all weekend and hiding out, he’s number one on my suspect list.”

“Along with a few others,” I said. “Enjoy the show.”

As I resumed my seat, I sensed that the audience was primed, ready to go. There was intense excitement throughout the auditorium. Did they know that something special was about to happen, or were they simply happy to see the weekend coming to an end and looking forward to leaving, now that they finally could? It didn’t matter what was behind their enthusiasm. It was there, and I felt it the way professional entertainers must feel it every time they prepare to face an audience. Opera singers refer to stepping out on a stage in front of an audience as “facing the hungry wolf,” and I have nothing but admiration for performers who are willing to expose themselves to a critical audience.

The theme from
The Pink Panther
came from the speakers—the show was about to begin. Larry stepped through the curtains and was handed his wireless microphone by Melinda, who then went down into the audience to pass out the cards on which audience members would record their answers to the latest questions posed by Larry. One of them was mine, about the author who created the beloved Inspector Morse. There were groans from people who didn’t know the answers, and satisfied exclamations from those who did.

“You’ve all been real troupers,” Larry said as Melinda collected the cards. “Ready for the next installment in this story of murder, mayhem, and mysterious doings?” The audience responded appropriately. “But I must warn you before we begin. What you see tonight will curl your hair and push your pulse rates to new heights. It’s not for the faint of heart!”

The curtain opened, and Detective Carboroni and Officer Dolt entered stage right, eliciting applause from the audience. Dolt stepped to the front of the stage and bowed dramatically, prompting Carboroni to elbow him aside and do the same. This time the audience booed. It was all great fun, and I was happy to see the audience enjoying it so much.

Carboroni began questioning the Whittakers while Catarina cowered off to the side. Cynthia assumed a defiant posture behind Carboroni, arms crossed across her chest, one foot tapping loudly on the stage floor. After a few minutes of baseless questioning, Carboroni turned to the audience, pulled a piece of paper from his trench coat, and read off a name. It was the first of four names he would call over the next ten minutes. One was the doctor who’d been brought into things outside the dining room the first night. Another was an extremely nervous woman who could do nothing but giggle as Carboroni asked silly questions about her life and career. She was, she told him, a schoolteacher, which prompted Carboroni to ask whether she thought she could teach Officer Dolt anything. She said she doubted it, prompting Dolt to announce that he’d graduated at the head of his class in high school. Carboroni asked how many students were in his graduating class. “Three,” he said proudly, obviously using a routine he and Carboroni employed whenever a teacher was rung into the act.

Carboroni went through the four people, tying them to the Whittaker family in absurd scenarios he concocted. The audience loved it.

“All right, youse can sit down,” Carboroni said, “but don’t leave.” To Dolt, “Make sure they don’t leave the premisesses.”

“It’s premises,” Dolt corrected.

Carboroni shot him an angry look, causing Dolt to raise his hands in mock defense.

“Is there a Ms. Carlisle in the audience?” Carboroni asked.

Everyone turned to see whether the mysterious redheaded woman dressed in black would respond to his call.

“Come on, dear,” Carboroni called. “You’re the most glamorous lady here. We couldn’t miss a chance to talk with you.”

She didn’t move for a few seconds. But then she slowly stood, straightened her dress, and looked down at Boynton, who shook his head. She patted his bald pate, drew herself up to full height, and climbed the short set of steps, head high, carrying herself regally. She crossed the stage to where Carboroni stood, smiled at him, and waited for his question.

“Your name is Ms. Carlisle?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s your first name?”

She replied coquettishly, “I only give my first name to men I know especially well.”

“Yeah? Well, look, lady, I’m a police officer, and I don’t take kindly to people who don’t answer my questions.”

“I like it when you’re angry,” she said, touching his cheek with the fingertips of her right hand, setting off a roar of laughter from the audience.