The Murder of Twelve

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Dinner,” he announced, “is served.”

  And with that, a procession of the staff who’d stayed on to prepare and serve this meal entered the Sea Captains Room in single file, each bearing a tray holding cups of a luscious lobster bisque as the appetizer. I looked at Seamus and just shook my head in amazement at what he’d managed to pull off. I wondered whether cost had even been discussed with our host for the evening, Constance Mulroy. Seamus was old-school when it came to the treatment of guests, and the hospitable tone he set for Hill House was what had made it feel like a home to me for a number of months.

  Under the circumstances, I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a meal more, and I knew the experience wasn’t one I’d easily forget, given the backdrop of the storm. Luckily the Sea Captains Room had no windows, sparing us the view of nature’s wrath in full swing beyond. It was an oasis of sorts, especially for me, since I would otherwise have been stuck in my suite watching both the weather and the Weather Channel, with Jim Cantore as my only company.

  I managed to grab a seat next to Harrison Bak, whose late wife, it turned out, had been a big fan of mine. Wealthy beyond imagination, he claimed, but someone who took all her books from the library because she loved going there and had since she was a little girl. I shared my own experiences as chair of the Friends of the Library group in Cabot Cove, and he promised to make a trip here next summer with Henley when the weather promised to be far better.

  Summer . . .

  It was hard to even picture such a thing in the dreaded conditions of this night.

  I managed to check a tenth guest off my list in the person of Lois Mulroy-Dodge, Connie’s late husband’s niece, whose own husband, Taft Dodge, had perished during a boating accident that had left the newlyweds stranded at sea, found by the Coast Guard too late to save her husband’s life. Connie introduced the young woman as the daughter she’d never had, something clearly welcomed by Lois since I’d later learn both her parents had died in a car accident, after which she’d been raised by her aunt and late uncle and been a virtual sister to the twins. I had seldom witnessed a family struck by so much tragedy, the Kennedys, of course, being one that came to mind immediately.

  The incredible lobster bisque was followed by a lavish salad of mixed greens, with the promise of Hill House’s specialty, sliced tenderloin, still to come. I had no idea how Seamus had come up with such an extravagant menu, and I guessed the only compromise he’d made under the circumstances was not to offer a vegetarian option. None of the guests seemed particularly irked by the presence of two empty chairs at the far end of the table. By my count, we were missing the two parties I believe Connie had referred to as mutual friends of the bride and groom. And I applauded Seamus’s good judgment to remove the additional two chairs when it became clear that Daniel Mulroy and Allison Castavette would not be joining us.

  Just as I formed that thought, the double doors to the Sea Captains Room burst open and a young couple burst in, covered with snow. The young man’s hair was longer than the girl’s, and the dampness of their hair and clothes indicated they’d probably been out romping in the storm.

  “So sorry we’re late,” said the young man, his snow-moistened hair bouncing with every stride.

  “It’s just beautiful out there,” the young woman added.

  “Faye and Ian,” Harrison Bak whispered in my ear, in a somewhat disparaging tone. “Best friends of the bride and groom. Ian’s the best man and Faye’s the maid of honor.”

  That surprised me. “Daniel didn’t choose his own brother to be his best man?” I asked, gaze tilted toward Mark, who was seated on the other side of the table.

  “Ian’s the best man,” Harrison repeated, leaving it there.

  “Any word from the happy couple?” Ian asked those at the table. “Don’t tell me they’re having second thoughts.”

  He was looking at Constance Mulroy and her son Mark as he said that, realizing from their expressions that he’d just touched on a clearly sore subject.

  “Oh,” he added, and then, “I’m sure they’ll come to their senses,” as if to redeem himself.

  “Is there a problem?” Beatrice Sprague posed.

  “There’s always a problem with young people,” her twin sister, Olivia, chimed in.

  “How do you know, when you were never—”

  “Young? Yes, I was. It was you who was born old.”

  “At least I had a boyfriend.” Olivia.

  “No, you didn’t.” Beatrice.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then what was his—”

  “Name? I don’t remember.”

  “If he was real, you’d remember.” Beatrice looked across the table for a sympathetic eye and caught Lois Mulroy-Dodge’s gaze. “I guess making him up was better than nothing.”

  “How would you know?” Olivia challenged. “You never even tried.”

  “Now, now,” the ebullient Ian soothed, crouching between the sisters and dripping melted snow down on the carpet. “This is what always happens when you girls drink too much wine. And you’d still be fine catches for any man worth his salt.”

  “You really think so?” the twin sisters said in unison.

  “If my father were still alive, I’d set you up with him.”

  “Which of us?” Olivia asked, after stealing a glance at Beatrice.

  “Both,” Ian said, without missing a beat, “just to see how long we could get away with it.”

  He stood back up and tossed an arm around Faye’s shoulder, and off they went toward their seats at the far end of the table.

  “Thank you for having us, Mrs. Mulroy,” Faye said, stopping to give Constance a hug from behind.

  “Yes, well, I only wish Daniel and Allison weren’t stranded miles from here so they could be with us. You were my son’s best friend when you were kids, right until you both went off to Brown together.”

  “Where I met Ian,” Faye said, tossing her arm back around the young, long-haired man’s shoulder. “And Daniel met Allison.”

  “She should have gone to Harvard,” Doyle Castavette muttered under his breath, then cleared his throat when the entire table heard him.

  Harrison Bak leaned in closer to me. “Long story,” he whispered. “Suffice it to say that the Castavettes don’t believe the Mulroys are good enough for their daughter. After the scandal and all.”

  “That money thing,” I whispered back, “what led Connie’s husband to take his own life.”

  “How does Anna Karenina begin? Something like, ‘All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’”

  “I’d prefer an Agatha Christie quote in this case: ‘Money is always the great clue to what is happening in the world.’”

  Harrison toasted me with his wineglass. “Well said.” He clinked my glass. “I must read one of your books, Mrs. Fletcher. Which one would you suggest?”

  Before I could answer, the loud shattering of a glass drew everyone’s attention to the bar, where Mark Mulroy, Connie’s son and the groom’s fraternal twin, had dropped his just-poured drink. He shook his hand in the air and then wrapped a cloth napkin around it as if he’d cut himself, which must have been minor since I spotted no blood.

  “I always recommend the latest,” I said, turning my attention back to Harrison Bak.

  With all the guests now present, the main course, that sumptuously flavored sliced tenderloin broiled to perfection, was served to actual applause and wolfed down with fervor. After we’d all devoured our meals and conversations had resumed in earnest, Constance Mulroy rose from the head of the table, tapping a spoon against her water glass to get everyone’s attention.

  “I’d like to propose a toast to the bride and groom,” she said, raising her glass of red wine into the air. “Though they’ve been waylaid by the storm, we’re all here to celebrate them on this wonderful occa
sion that sees us—that sees us . . .”

  Connie’s voice drifted off there. She looked confused, stumbling over her words as her gaze went first distant and then blank. She tried to sit back down, and I saw that her eyes were starting to roll back in her head. I bounced up out of my chair instinctively, and was halfway to my new friend when Constance Mulroy fell over forward, landing facedown on the dinner table.

  Chapter Nine

  I could see immediately that Connie was convulsing horribly in the grip of a grand mal seizure, the kind normally associated with epilepsy. Glasses, plates, and silverware went flying in all directions from the head of the table, some of them shattering at the same time my eyes recorded other guests rushing to her aid ahead of me. For the present, Tyler Castavette and her son Mark tried to hold her down, especially her arms, so she couldn’t harm herself.

  I felt helpless standing there, watching Connie’s convulsions continue, spittle foaming up at the sides of her mouth. When it was clear no one at the dinner had any medical training, I drew my cell phone from my bag and hit Seth Hazlitt’s number.

  “How’s the storm keeping you, Jess?” he answered, after the first ring.

  “Someone’s having a seizure! I need to know what to do!”

  “Did you say you’re having a seizure?”

  “Not me! Someone else, here at Hill House! Tell me what to do!”

  “Where is he?”

  “It’s a she, and currently convulsing atop a table, legs kicking in the air.”

  I could hear the tone of his voice change to doctor mode. Seth might be a crusty curmudgeon who lamented his status as no more than a small-town general practitioner, but in truth he was an excellent doctor who kept himself well schooled on the most recent tricks of the medical trade.

  “Okay, first thing,” he said as I made my way to the head of the table, sliding right up to Connie’s side next to her son Mark, who was straining to hold her down, “you need to stabilize her.” Seth seemed to catch himself in the midst of that thought. “You’re not alone, are you, Jess? There are others, I assume.”

  “Twelve,” I told him, the count frozen in my head. “Eleven able-bodied. A wedding party.”

  “A what? Never mind. The woman’s being tended to, then?”

  “Held down, anyway.”

  “Tell whoever’s holding her down to get her onto the floor, gently onto one side to help her breathe.”

  “Mark, Tyler!” I called, and proceeded to repeat Seth’s instruction.

  They saw the phone in my grasp and didn’t protest, having rightfully concluded I was speaking to someone well versed in medical matters. I watched the two young men do as Seth had prescribed, no easy task given Constance Mulroy’s constant thrashing.

  “She’s still convulsing, Doctor,” I said, addressing Seth that way to provide everyone a signal as to my intentions.

  “Make sure the area is clear of any hard or sharp objects, anything she might cut or smack herself on.”

  There were only a few pieces of dinnerware in the area, some in pieces and some whole, and I kicked all of them away from Connie’s jerking hands and legs.

  “Okay,” I said to Seth.

  “Now put something soft and flat, like a folded jacket, under her head. And make sure to remove her glasses, if she’s wearing any.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Never a dull moment with you, is there, Jess?” Seth said, reverting to form.

  Harrison Bak must have overheard the last of Seth’s instructions, because he stripped off his jacket and balled it up as I watched. He handed it to me, and instead of passing it on I slid it beneath Connie’s head myself, while Mark and Tyler did their best to hold her fast.

  “She’s still convulsing. There are two men holding her down. Is that okay?”

  “Should be. Just make sure to loosen anything around her neck that could impede her breathing in any way.”

  “Her face is beet red, Seth. I’m not sure she’s breathing at all. Should we perform CPR?”

  “No!” he ordered definitively. “And don’t put anything in her mouth either. That includes a spoon to keep the victim from swallowing her tongue. Little-known fact, Jess: a person having a seizure can’t swallow their tongue.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. What next?”

  “How long has the seizure been going on?”

  “How long have we been talking?”

  “Just over a minute, I’d say.”

  “Then say somewhere around two minutes.”

  “Then the next step in normal circumstances would be to call nine-one-one, but these are hardly normal circumstances, given the storm.”

  “So what else can we do?”

  While I waited for Seth to answer, my mind jerked back to the conversation I’d had with Connie during the cocktail hour.

  I’m hardly the right person to discuss family secrets with.

  I believe you are in this case, especially given your real specialty.

  “Seth, are you there?”

  Writing mysteries?

  I was speaking more about solving them. Tell me, Jessica, have you ever solved a crime in advance, before it happened?

  “Seth?”

  I’m not sure I know what you mean.

  You see, I fear my life may be in—

  Seth’s voice finally returned to my ear. “I’m here, I’m here. Just thinking. It’s not every day I have to treat a convulsing patient over the phone.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “It should stop on its own.”

  “Should?”

  “As long as it doesn’t last longer than five minutes.”

  “It’s been about that long now. Her face is almost purple, Seth. There’s got to be something!”

  I wonder how much of my desperation sprang from guilt over my having dismissed Connie’s overtures during cocktails despite the fact that she clearly believed her life was in danger. I should have pushed her after we’d been interrupted, should have insisted she finish whatever she had to tell me. Perhaps if I had done that, she wouldn’t be in these dire straits now.

  And if she died . . .

  I couldn’t bear that on my conscience. Coupled with the fact that I genuinely liked this woman, I was left feeling weak and helpless, there being nothing more I could do.

  “It’s not stopping, Seth.”

  “Wait.”

  “It’s not stopping!”

  “Wait!”

  And, sure enough, the next moment found Connie’s convulsions ebbing, then stopping altogether save for a few last twitches of her arms and legs, the awful thrashing done.

  “You were right,” I told Cabot Cove’s favorite physician.

  “Of course I was.”

  “And she’s breathing. A bit shallow and fitful, labored, but she’s breathing.”

  “Is she conscious?”

  “No.”

  “Once her breathing settles and her heart rate slows, she should regain consciousness. Otherwise . . .”

  “Otherwise what, Seth?”

  “Seizures of the intensity you’re describing are known to induce comas. We’ll deal with that if she still isn’t awake in, say, an hour. Not a lot we can do under the circumstances, but the roads aren’t going to be shut down forever.”

  “Your mouth to God’s ears. What should we do now?”

  “With no ambulance coming anytime soon, get her up to her room, onto her bed but not under the covers, and don’t leave her alone until she regains consciousness, Jess.” He seemed finished but resumed speaking almost immediately. “Wait—did you say a wedding party?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Seamus McGilray had appeared at the tail end of my conversation with Seth and
assessed the situation accurately enough to rush off and return moments later pushing a wheelchair. I watched Mark Mulroy and Tyler Castavette position themselves on either side of the now-still Constance Mulroy in order to ease her gently up from the floor and settle her into it, careful to support her head the whole time. A nasty bruise had begun to form across the top and bridge of her nose from where her face had impacted the table. I’d forgotten to mention that complication to Seth and wondered how a possible concussion might have affected his recommendation for treatment.

  I need your expertise on a sensitive matter, something rather personal involving family.

  Connie’s words to me ninety minutes earlier felt like shadowy ghosts. I couldn’t chase them from my mind, or rid my consciousness of their potential meaning.

  Family secrets, to be specific.

  What family secrets? And how might they be connected to the fears Connie had just begun to express to me about her life being in danger?

  It was easy for me to linger while the others surrounded the wheelchair in a pack as Connie’s son Mark wheeled the chair in which his mother’s limp frame drooped from the Sea Captains Room toward the elevator down the hall back in the lobby.

  I needed to be alone for a time to sort through what I was thinking and feeling. I stood in the very spot where Constance Mulroy had been when she’d risen to make her toast; I hoped it would lend me a perspective that would reveal something new.

  Her wineglass had spilled over when she crashed forward. It was lying so its stem was hanging off the edge of the table. Something made me stand it back upright, so it wouldn’t join all the broken dinnerware; I don’t know why, but in that moment it seemed important to me to do so. And that’s when I noticed a thin, chalky residue coating the sides and bottom of Connie’s wineglass. Not everywhere and not all that pronounced, but enough to give me a notion as to what had caused her seizure:

  Constance Mulroy had been poisoned.

  * * *

  * * *

  At that point I was still alone in the Sea Captains Room, the memories captured in the slideshow projected against a screen in the far corner my only company. Prior to joining the wedding party upstairs in Connie’s room, I called Mort Metzger.