A Question of Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Answers to the questions posed at Mohawk House’s Murder Mystery Weekend, which ...

  . . . AND . . . CURTAIN!

  “Who’s this?” the actor playing Detective Carboroni asked the character Whittaker.

  “My daughter’s former suitor,” Whittaker replied, sounding pleased.

  “That you?” the detective said to Cynthia.

  She responded by letting out a bloodcurdling wail and running from the stage. Her mother, Victoria, had collapsed on the couch, where she fanned herself with a magazine.

  Carboroni nudged his toe into Paul’s side. There was no response from the fallen actor.

  It all sounded like scripted banter, but I sensed something was wrong. From my vantage point, I could tell that Paul hadn’t moved a muscle since stumbling into the scene and falling at Cynthia’s feet. The pool of fake blood had been widening. I saw a stricken look come over Larry Savoy’s face. He motioned to Melinda in the wings, and the curtain began to close. . . .

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE Murder, She Wrote SERIES

  Manhattans & Murder

  Rum & Razors

  Brandy & Bullets

  Martinis & Mayhem

  A Deadly Judgment

  A Palette for Murder

  The Highland Fling Murders

  Murder on the QE2

  Murder in Moscow

  A Little Yuletide Murder

  Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

  Knock ’Em Dead

  Gin & Daggers

  Trick or Treachery

  Blood on the Vine

  Murder in a Minor Key

  Provence—To Die For

  You Bet Your Life

  Majoring in Murder

  Destination Murder

  Dying to Retire

  A Vote for Murder

  The Maine Mutiny

  Margaritas & Murder

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, April 2006

  Copyright © 2006 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All rights reserved.

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-01072-3

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  For good friends,

  Denise Lee and Michael Millius

  NOTE: The answers to the questions that appear at the beginning of each chapter can be found at the end of the book.

  No peeking!

  Chapter One

  The girl was young and pretty. The large yellow sunflowers on the mid-calf-length white dress she wore perfectly matched her blond hair and seemingly sunny disposition. Her smile was wide and genuine; there was a sweetness about her that was palpable.

  The young man, named Paul, standing next to her was not so sanguine. He was of medium height and wore a brooding expression along with his khaki slacks, two-tone boat shoes, and pale blue button-down shirt. A maroon cardigan tied loosely around his neck and draped down his back completed his preppy wardrobe. He was handsome in a rough sort of way. By that I mean there was a thickness to his facial features that contributed to what seemed like a perpetual frown. He lacked interest in the others in the drawing room—with the single exception, of course, of the young woman, whose name was Cynthia.

  With the young couple were an older man wearing a purple silk smoking jacket, and a patrician woman in knee-high riding boots, wide-hipped tan jodhpurs, and a white silk blouse.

  “Feel like taking a walk?” Paul asked Cynthia in a voice that carried to the others. Softly he added, “Let’s get out of here.” He ducked his head down, gave her a quick kiss on the neck, and stroked her arm, gliding his hand from her shoulder down to her fingers.

  Cynthia shivered and took a step forward. “What a grand idea,” she said, turning to the older couple. “I certainly could use a walk. I hear there’s a full moon.”

  “You won’t see any moon,” declared the older man, whose name was Monroe Whittaker. “Not with the fog out there off the lake. Besides, there’s still snow on the ground, and more in the forecast.” His tone was that of a board chairman used to making statements that no one would dare challenge.

  “That’s okay, Daddy,” Cynthia said, plucking at the collar of her dress. “It’s so warm in here with the fire going. I really need some fresh air. I’m sure Paul does, too. Besides, you always say a walk after dinner is good for your digestion. Isn’t that how you put it?”

  His ruddy, full face set in stone, her father said nothing. Victoria Whittaker addre
ssed Paul. “We have a very busy day tomorrow with the attorneys coming. Cynthia will need a clear head. I want to be sure she gets enough rest. Make sure you don’t keep her out late again.”

  “He won’t,” Cynthia said, kissing her mother’s cheek. They put on outdoor jackets, and she wrapped a red and green tartan scarf around her neck. Smiling at Paul, she grabbed his hand and led him through the French doors into the garden, her voice trailing back into the room. “Let’s look for that moon anyway.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” Monroe Whittaker said the moment they were gone. “I don’t like him.”

  “That’s patently obvious,” his wife said, checking her hair in the mirror over the fireplace. “But the least you can do is be civil to him this weekend.”

  “Civil?” Monroe snorted. “How about if I pack his bag and send him away from here? Would that be civil enough?”

  “Monroe,” his wife scolded, “you’re not thinking clearly. Cynthia is like all young women her age. She’s rebelling against us because it’s the thing to do. I share your opinion of Paul. He’s obviously not of Cynthia’s class. I’ll give him credit for trying to dress the part, although anyone can see the poor quality of his clothes.” Her small laugh was dismissive. “Not that I’d expect him to know the difference. His father is a policeman in New York City. Good Lord, you know how crude policemen can be.”

  “A cop? How do you know that?”

  Victoria turned to her husband, her hand still on her hair. “I don’t recall exactly. Does it matter? He must have told me. But the point is that the more we challenge the young man, the more we’ll push Cynthia into the relationship. Trust me, darling, the best way to see the last of him is to shower him with kindness and expose him to our daughter’s lifestyle and breeding. He’ll become uncomfortable soon enough and seek his own kind.” She turned back to the mirror. “I think I’ll go up. Are you coming?”

  “Not yet,” he growled.

  With that, Victoria left her husband alone in the room.

  Monroe went to the doors and peered outside. “Damn fog,” he muttered. He walked to his desk and slumped heavily in the chair, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a harsh slash. Suddenly, he slammed his fist on the desktop. He reached into a desk drawer, withdrew a bulky envelope that he shoved into the pocket of his smoking jacket, and stormed out the doors into the garden.

  As he left, a maid carrying a carpet sweeper entered the room through another door. She leaned the sweeper against the wall, pulled a cloth from her apron pocket, and proceeded to dust the furniture, moving from a table to the mantel to the desk. She ran her dustrag across the desk’s broad mahogany top, then paused and bit her lip. Her eyes darted from the French doors back toward the door through which she’d entered the room. Gingerly, so as not to make a sound, she drew open one drawer after another. Each time, she dipped down and twisted her body to see into the back, and rummaged inside with her free hand.

  Victoria’s voice could be heard from another room. “Monroe, have you seen my handbag?”

  The maid swiftly closed the drawers, ran to the other end of the room, and resumed her dusting. She was only a minute into her chores when the room’s stillness was assaulted by the sound of a weapon being discharged somewhere outside, followed by a woman’s piercing scream.

  Cynthia burst through the doors. “Help!” she shouted. “Someone help me!”

  Paul stumbled into the room behind her, his jacket open, his hand pressed against his chest. Cardinal red blood oozed through his fingers and ran down the front of his blue shirt. The maid gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Then, wailing, she rushed out the door and was replaced by Monroe and Victoria Whittaker coming in from opposite ends of the room. Paul fell to his knees at Cynthia’s feet. With a final, agonizing gasp, he pitched forward, his face coming to rest on her shoe.

  “Daddy!” Cynthia shrieked and collapsed into her father’s arms, sobbing.

  Victoria tiptoed toward the prone body and leaned in closer. “Is he dead?” she asked calmly.

  Her husband scowled down at the body on the floor and looked over at his wife. “Yes, I’d say he’s dead. Very dead.”

  Chapter Two

  In what Agatha Christie book did her Belgian

  detective, Hercule Poirot, make his first

  appearance?

  Lawrence Savoy clapped his hands to gain everyone’s attention. “Okay, folks, that wasn’t bad. Let’s try it one more time. And Paul, try to avoid Cynthia’s shoe when you land on the floor. Makes it hard for her to fall into her daddy’s arms if her foot is stuck under your head.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Paul said, as he removed his shirt and handed it to the props girl. “What a mess! Laura, you put too much blood in the sponge.”

  “It’ll wash out,” Savoy said. “At least we know the prop works. The blood came right through your fingers just the way we wanted it to. We’ll do it without the blood this time. Just be aware of Cynthia’s foot.” Savoy took a few steps away, stopped, turned, and added, “And Paul, project, please. This isn’t a scene from a movie. Your Brando mumble doesn’t work on the stage. It’s a play with a live audience. P-r-o-j-e-c-t!”

  “Yeah, Larry, okay,” Paul said, shrugging on the fresh shirt Laura held out for him. He grabbed the towel she’d slung over her shoulder and wiped his hands.

  “It’s Mr. Savoy,” the director chided, crossing the stage to where Paul stood. “My friends call me Larry, but you haven’t achieved that status. Just because you come from a theatrical family and were in some B movies doesn’t impress me.”

  Paul smirked, tossed the towel back at the props girl, and sat next to Cynthia on the sofa.

  “Victoria, my darling,” Savoy called from where he’d taken a seat in the fourth row of the auditorium. “You found just the right arrogance, my sweet, but I want to see a little more evasiveness when Monroe asks you about Paul’s father. And Monroe, please can that British accent. We’re supposed to be in Connecticut, not the Cotswolds.”

  “I can’t help the way I speak, Lawrence,” Monroe said.

  “Of course you can. You’re an actor. Just put on a Connecticut accent.”

  “And what, precisely, is a Connecticut accent?”

  Savoy closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. He looked up again and said, “Just tone it down. Okay?”

  Cynthia put her hands against Paul’s chest and shoved him against the arm of the sofa. She popped up from her seat and stormed to the edge of the stage. “Mr. Savoy,” she said, her face suffused with anger, “will you please tell him to stop mauling me? If he can’t keep his hands to himself, I swear I’ll sock him, even if we’re in the middle of a scene.”

  “Really, young man,” Monroe said, scowling at the young actor. “How unprofessional.”

  “Hardly surprising,” Victoria added.

  Paul grinned, ran a hand through his dark hair, and retied the sleeves of the maroon sweater around his neck. He eyed his older colleagues and shrugged. “Some of us still have urges,” he said. “Besides, she’s just so beautiful, I can’t help myself.” He winked at Cynthia, who stamped her foot in frustration.

  “Well, learn some control,” Savoy said, “or you’re out. There are dozens of actors in New York who would jump at an opportunity like this. I won’t have someone polarizing the cast.”

  Paul raised his palms in mock submission. “ ‘Polarizing? ’ I’m as bad as that, huh? Okay, okay, I promise I’ll be good.”

  “I’ll assume you mean that,” Savoy said, picking up a clipboard and making notes. “Now, places everyone. We’re in Act One, Scene Two.”

  Cynthia flopped down next to Paul, struggling to keep her expression neutral. Monroe Whittaker took his place across from Victoria and the actors played the scene again.

  “It looks like it’s going very well,” I whispered to Melinda Savoy, Lawrence’s wife. We were watching a rehearsal for the play that would form the center-piece of the murder mystery weekend taking place at Mohawk House, a rustic,
sprawling lakeside lodge in the foothills of the Berkshires. I had been invited to be on a panel of mystery writers, an extra entertainment to complement the mystery performed by the Savoys’ theatrical troupe.

  “Larry added the line about the fog and snow today to make it more realistic,” Melinda said. “He likes to do that so the audience feels like it’s actually happening.” She waved an arm toward the windows, the view from which was obscured by a heavy white mist. “Look at that. You can’t even see your hand in front of you.” She extended her arm and squinted at her fingers as if the fog were obscuring her view.

  “That always happens when the weather warms up quickly before the snow has had a chance to melt,” I said. “I can’t believe the forecast for later today. A blizzard!”

  “Maybe they’re wrong,” Melinda said.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  The weather in the Berkshires had been inordinately warm for early March, the “lamb” part of the month coming in before the “lion” had a chance to roar, although winter wasn’t finished yet. Typical of March, one minute it was sunny and mild, the next windy and cold. From the forecasts I’d seen on TV and read in the newspapers, a freak snowstorm was due to hit within hours and could dump as much as three feet of heavy, wet white stuff.

  I had to smile at the contribution the fog coming off the lake was making to our interactive murder mystery weekend. Nothing like a pea-souper to enhance a sense of dread and foul things to come. In large-scale theatrical productions and high-budget motion pictures, they use expensive machines to create fog. Here we were enjoying it without it costing a cent, thanks to our special-effects director, Mother Nature.

  The Savoys were adept at taking advantage of the built-in atmosphere. I was familiar with their methods, having made appearances at other events at which they had provided the entertainment. They took their shows all over the globe, performing at corporate gatherings and society fund-raisers, aboard luxury cruise ships, and, of course, at myriad weekends such as this one at Mohawk House. When Melinda Savoy had called to say she’d recommended me and the marketing department wanted me to join the authors’ panel, I’d been happy to accept.