A huge canopied bed was sumptuously covered with a ruffled pink satin comforter that cascaded to the floor on one side. Across the sheets, sprawled so dramatically that she might have been styled by a photographer, lay Maria Taylor. Her famous black hair fanned out around her upturned face in luxuriant snakes of dark color. Her arms were outstretched, and her mouth was slightly open. She was clad in a luminescent white dressing gown that pooled around her in shimmering waves and revealed a matching slip.
Dr. Sussman opened one of her eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then gazed into her pupil. “It’s just happened,” he said confidently. He examined her face. “The wound goes right through the forehead. There’s absolutely no question about it.”
“Well, then, for God’s sake, get out of this room and stop contaminating the evidence,” Auntie Lil answered briskly.
The doctor glanced at Auntie Lil. “I apologize, but I took an oath to save lives and fulfilling that oath is my first priority. I had an obligation to see if I could help. I assure you I touched nothing.”
“Well, now that you know you can’t help,” Auntie Lil said sensibly, “get out and stop spoiling things for the police.”
Dr. Sussman snapped his black bag shut, annoyed. “It’s a suicide, you silly old bat. This isn’t one of those dismal murder mystery games.”
Auntie Lil looked him over quietly. “That’s all the more reason to let the police take over,” she said.
The doctor had been outflanked. He marched from the room, head held high, and slammed the door pointedly behind him.
This was just what Auntie Lil had hoped. Scurrying over to the bedside, she examined the actress, gently stroking her face and noting that the skin was already cooling. Without makeup, Maria Taylor’s celebrated beauty was decidedly pedestrian. Fine wrinkles spread out like miniature fans from the corner of each eye. Heavy lines traced from each side of her nose to the edges of her too-thin lips. Her famed complexion looked splotchy and reddened by death. And it was indeed a fresh bullet wound: small, deadly, and perfectly placed in the center of the forehead like a Brahmin’s mark. How odd that so precise and neat a hole could destroy a life. But where was the gun? Auntie Lil lifted the edge of the comforter where it had slipped to the floor. There, deep beneath the folds of satin, lay a flat gray gun. She touched it with the tip of her elbow. It was still warm. No sense leaving fingerprints, not with this crowd. They’d read clues into everything.
Which wasn’t a bad idea at all. Auntie Lil hurriedly detoured into the closet, where she discovered a small box containing a spectacular jewelry assortment, including a costly diamond necklace and bracelet set. The actress had not been robbed. She quickly scanned the bathroom as well, where a collection of cold cream and beauty jars on the windowsill drew her attention. She examined the labels in the bright moonlight, chose two, and slipped them into the enormous pockets of her housecoat.
T.S. was waiting for her by the door. “What were you doing?” he hissed. “The police and ambulance are on their way.”
“Never mind what I was doing,” she murmured, looking up at the crowd huddled in the darkness. “The doctor is right,” Auntie Lil announced. “Maria Taylor is dead.”
“Dead?” someone called out. “How?”
“Suicide,” Dr. Sussman said sadly. “The graceless exit of yet another aging actress. The gun is right there by the bed where it slipped from her hand.” He shook his head sadly. “Such a waste of talent and beauty.”
“An actual death,” Charles Little said with reverence.
“I’ve never seen a real dead body,” Agnes ventured.
“Me either,” Dotty agreed. “It would be so interesting to—”
“No,” Auntie Lil said firmly. “Absolutely not. We must not disturb the scene.”
“She’s quite right,” Dr. Sussman agreed. “Perhaps we should guard it against curiosity seekers. I am used to such things. I shall be glad to wait by her bedside until the police arrive.”
“Theodore, go with him,” Auntie Lil said. “Don’t argue. Just do it.”
T.S. knew better than to debate. He followed the doctor inside, taking a position by the window where he could gaze out at the clean snow and forget that a suddenly still life force was lying void on the bed before him.
After a moment, the doctor excused himself and almost ran to the bathroom. T.S. could hear the sounds of repeated flushing. Thank God he wasn’t that squeamish himself. And Sussman was a doctor.
Outside in the hallway, the assembled guests waited anxiously. The maid had appeared with a Coleman lantern. Clarabelle hovered beside her, her bright orange hair bulging at odd angles where the pouf had been flattened on one side from a pillow. Mr. Little crept toward the beacon, blinking like a baby owl in the glare from the lamp. He had obviously fallen asleep in his clothes, and his vest had fallen open to reveal a large red wine stain spread across the breast of his white shirt like a pool of blood. The sisters stared at it with keen interest and exchanged glances that threatened to erupt into accusations.
A distraction averted such a disaster. The door opposite the murder scene opened, and Donald Travers, Wall Street mogul, appeared with suitcases clasped in each hand. He ignored the crowd and called back into his room. “I said, let’s go. I didn’t come here for the weekend to get tangled in this nonsense.”
“I’m not leaving with you,” a determined voice answered. Marion Travers appeared in the doorway of her room and stared at her husband.
“This place is dangerous,” her husband said. “I forbid you to stay.”
“No.” Her voice grew in confidence as she surveyed the many onlookers. “I refuse to leave with you. If you pursue the matter, I will start screaming.”
“What?” Travers stared down at his wife. So did everyone else. The thought of the proper Marion Travers screaming was startling indeed.
“If you so much as move one more step closer to me, I’m going to start screaming.” She opened her mouth silently, as if practicing.
Auntie Lil butted in with little hesitation. “Could I be of assistance?” she asked Mrs. Travers.
“Yes, thank you. I would like someone to remove my things from the room I am currently sharing with my husband,” she replied with quiet dignity. “You may put them in Clarabelle’s room, if you like. I’ll wait there for the police.”
“Stop this nonsense at once, Marion. You’re coming with me.” Donald Travers looked around, challenging anyone to interfere.
Auntie Lil parked herself directly in front of Mrs. Travers. “We won’t let you take her anywhere against her will,” Auntie Lil declared firmly. “In fact, I don’t think it’s a good idea for anyone to leave until the police get here. Perhaps it would be best if we all gathered together in the dining room to wait.”
The thrust of her strong jaw and the glint in her eye dared anyone to disagree. Slowly the group began to trudge down the stairs, exchanging theories in low voices. Auntie Lil followed behind them, peeking out each window as she passed, examining the snow for fresh tracks. When they passed the sitting room, she popped in for a few seconds, emerging with a satisfied look.
They gathered in silence in the dining room, taking their places around the large table and gratefully accepting mugs of hot tea from the maid. Sipping in silence, they eyed one another suspiciously until the doorbell finally rang. The maid hurried to answer it as tension in the room rose palpably.
A burly man in a heavy down jacket appeared in the doorway. A gold badge was pinned to the lapel of his coat, and he wore a sheriff’s hat pushed back on a graying crew cut. Behind him, a small group of uniformed men stood holding battery-operated lanterns, as if they were a particularly mature group of Halloween trick-or-treaters.
“Who’s in charge?” the sheriff asked in a growl.
No one answered. “In that case, I am,” he announced. “Everyone stay in their seats. Who was injured?”
“Not injured—dead!” Agnes cried out and other voices joined in.
The s
heriff efficiently dispatched several officers and the ambulance crew to Maria Taylor’s room. Soon T.S. and Dr. Sussman joined their fellow guests in the dining area. The sheriff nodded for them to be seated. As soon as everyone was still, he placed two lanterns in the center of the table, making them all look spectacularly guilty, their faces alternately shrouded in darkness or glare.
He waved an arm expectantly. “Who’s the person who phoned me?”
“I am,” T.S. admitted.
“Then start,” the sheriff ordered.
“But I saw the body first,” Dr. Sussman interrupted. “I was lying awake, unable to sleep, when I heard a gunshot. The sound was unmistakable. I met Miss Clarke here in the hallway”—he nodded toward Clarabelle—“and together we ascertained where the shot had come from. As these people can attest, the outer door to Miss Taylor’s room was locked, and I was forced to break it down. She had clearly committed suicide. The gun is lying right by the bed.”
The silence that descended on the room after this seemingly inarguable synopsis was interrupted when Auntie Lil rose from her chair and pointed to the doctor. “That man,” she announced calmly, “is a murderer. And I can prove it.”
The room erupted in murmurs, and Dr. Sussman raised his hands in a gesture of friendly helplessness. “Officer, this is a murder mystery weekend,” he explained. “Everyone’s imagination is on overdrive, shall we say. I’m afraid you’ll find your progress hampered by all kinds of theories. Please don’t hold it against this nice woman.” He smiled kindly at Auntie Lil.
“Wipe that smirk off your face, you cold-hearted killer,” Auntie Lil retorted. “And don’t you dare patronize me.”
“This is ridiculous,” Dr. Sussman said, looking to the sheriff for help. “I was in my room when the gunshot occurred. Everyone saw me. The door was locked. I can’t possibly have killed her.”
The sheriff stood mutely between them, content to watch the play unfold. Several officers entered the room and were directed to stand around the table.
“You most certainly did kill her,” Auntie Lil snapped back. “But not with the gun.” She took two round bottles of face cream from her pocket and slammed them down on the table. Everyone jumped. “You killed her with these.”
The sheriff stared at the objects. “Please continue,” he said calmly.
“Maria Taylor is supposed to have the finest skin on television,” Auntie Lil explained. “Yet when I examined her right after her death, her skin was red and splotchy.”
“Did you happen to notice the gunshot through her head?” the doctor interrupted, his voice tight with anger.
“There was a gunshot wound, all right,” Auntie Lil agreed. “But Maria Taylor was dead well before she was shot. I touched her skin. She had started to cool. She’d been dead for at least an hour.”
“So now you’re a pathologist?” Dr. Sussman challenged.
“Let her continue,” the sheriff ordered.
Auntie pointed toward the beauty jars. “These are the murder weapons,” she insisted. “If you let me, I can explain.”
“Continue,” the sheriff said.
“I knew at once it had not been a suicide,” Auntie Lil said, “because of the body’s temperature. But murder? Only by an outsider. It would have been impossible for anyone to shoot Maria Taylor and return to their room in time without being noticed by another guest. Yet when I checked the snow all around the house, it was undisturbed. No one had entered. So that left only one explanation: events had not happened as they seemed. A murder had been staged after all. I had to figure out how—and why—Maria Taylor had really been murdered.”
“This is ridiculous.” The doctor rolled his eyes and stood. “Is everyone going to get a chance to play this game?”
“Shut up and sit down,” the sheriff ordered. Dr. Sussman quickly complied.
“There were plenty of oddities to consider,” Auntie Lil went on. “For example, traveling here this weekend was quite difficult, yet everyone made an effort to get here. My nephew and I came simply because we had promised Clarabelle. But why had the others traveled through sleet and snow to get here? And why had Maria Taylor agreed to take the part in the first place? No offense, Clarabelle, dear. But what was the doctor doing here—he thought the whole idea ‘dismal’? Or Mr. Travers, who clearly thought it beneath him?”
“I resent the insinuation,” Donald Travers said.
Auntie Lil eyed him carefully and continued. “The staged mystery was really very silly. People drank too much, the acting was wretched, and we all retired early in defense. The alcohol, the fatigue, the weather all combined to encourage heavy sleeping. No one heard a door opened here or there, no one heard footsteps in the hall. No one heard the murder being committed—because it all happened hours before the gunshot rang out.” She stopped and glanced around the table. “The gunshot was merely to establish an alibi for Dr. Sussman here, who had decided to murder the wrong woman. And he’s not the only murderer among us.”
“What do you mean?” one of the sisters asked.
“I believe that Miss Taylor had recently started an affair,” Auntie Lil answered. “An affair with a very rich man. I’m speaking, of course, of Donald Travers. There can be no other credible explanation for his presence here.”
The millionaire rose from his chair and stared at Auntie Lil. She shrugged. “It will be quite easy to prove, you know. While searching Maria Taylor’s room—you needn’t look so shocked, I’m not bound by rules of search and seizure—I discovered a fabulously expensive bracelet and necklace set. You can trace its purchase back to Donald Travers. Or simply ask Marion Travers—Maria Taylor does not strike me as a very discreet woman.”
“It’s true,” Marion Travers confirmed quietly, as her husband abruptly reclaimed his seat. “I never dreamed she would be here this weekend. I thought my husband wanted to get away together to repair our marriage.”
“He wanted to destroy your life,” Auntie Lil explained sadly. “You have a great deal of money on your own, do you not? Forgive me if I pry.”
The woman nodded, not looking up.
“Money I believe your husband needed,” Auntie Lil confirmed. “And this need coincided with Maria Taylor’s own need to marry quickly and to marry well, before the bloom faded even more from her rose, shall we say. She and your husband conspired to have you killed, I am sure, and turned to Dr. Sussman for help. There was a very curious conversation earlier in the sitting room that helped me make the connection. Dr. Sussman attempted to force his beauty creams on Mrs. Travers.” Auntie Lil pointed toward the graceful woman. “Her skin is flawless. Why in the world attempt to alter perfection? What Dr. Sussman was really trying to do was force his poison creams on her.”
“How dare you?” Dr. Sussman shouted.
“Chemical analysis will confirm it,” Auntie Lil said simply, sliding the jars toward the sheriff. “I suspect a topical poison capable of soaking through the skin. Some sort of insecticide, perhaps Parathion.”
The sheriff took the jars without comment, storing them in a jacket pocket for safekeeping. He was not smiling.
“It had to be done that way,” Auntie Lil said. “Marion Travers couldn’t be poisoned any other way because she is very strict about what goes into her body. She eats only the purest of foods with the blandest of tastes. So Donald Travers came up with a plan worthy of a successful businessman when Marion Travers mentioned to her husband that she’d met a woman named Clarabelle at a New Age convention. Clarabelle owned a lodge, she told her husband, and staged mystery weekends. People paid a lot of money to participate. How much fun it all sounded.” Auntie Lil nodded an apology toward Clarabelle. “It was terribly rude of them to involve you,” she said.
“This is just too awful,” Clarabelle choked out, her hand massaging the base of her throat.
“Because Donald Travers had always been vain himself—and had affairs with vain women—he assumed that his wife must be as well,” Auntie Lil continued. “He based his plan on vani
ty and that was his undoing. He cultivated an acquaintance with Dr. Sussman at Maria Taylor’s suggestion and offered him a significant sum of money, I suspect, to prepare a special set of face creams for his wife. Dr. Sussman appears quite vulnerable to offers of money.” Auntie Lil shook her head in great distaste; this was a clear sign of poor breeding in her book. “Executing the plan was easy. Maria Taylor was part of it. She simply called up Clarabelle and asked to be in one of her weekend mysteries.”
“It’s true,” Clarabelle confirmed. “I could not believe my good luck.”
“Donald Travers then invited his wife up here that same weekend,” Auntie Lil continued. “The plan was to compliment Maria on her skin, to make Mrs. Travers jealous enough to try Dr. Sussman’s remedies. But Marion Travers would not accept the cream, and the doctor saw his payment slipping away.”
“Then why was Maria Taylor killed instead?” Mr. Little asked.
“You’ll have to ask Dr. Sussman,” Auntie Lil said. “I think he had a deeper grudge against Maria Taylor in mind all along, despite the fact that he had offered to commit murder on her behalf. Perhaps Dr. Sussman had wanted more from Maria Taylor than she cared to give him, in terms of both money and affection. I noticed Miss Taylor snubbed him in the dining room. She pretended not to know him at all. Certainly her murder was premeditated.”
“You have no proof of that!” the doctor cried.
“Don’t I?” Auntie Lil said. “Last night, for whatever reason, you entered Maria Taylor’s room and switched her regular creams for your poisons, making it look as if the jars were half-used. I am sure if these nice young officers search thoroughly enough, they’ll find plastic gloves and poison residue in this house somewhere. Try the drains in Miss Taylor’s bathroom first. Thanks to my nephew Theodore standing guard on the body, the doctor here was unable to remove the creams from Miss Taylor’s room. But perhaps he tried to flush away other evidence.”
The doctor’s back stiffened and he looked away.
“But why the gunshot?” the sheriff asked, intrigued.
Tar Heel Dead Page 28
