A Question of Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “A character will get killed during the play, Jessica,” she said brightly. “Nothing you aren’t accustomed to.”

  “Try not to make it during dinner,” I replied. “You don’t want to spoil the guests’ appetites.”

  “Nor mine. The dining room is off-limits, I assure you. The only dead people at Mohawk House will be onstage. Speaking of off-limits: Don’t let anyone rope you into helping them solve the crime.” She laughed. “I have enough trouble coming up with these complicated scenarios without having to worry that an expert will expose my plot after the first act.”

  “Of course,” I said, laughing along with her. “But your plays are wonderful. I’m sure I’ll be just as mystified as the rest of the audience. It sounds as though you’re in the midst of a busy season.”

  “Insanely busy. The play we’re doing this weekend is a new one, which always has its share of problems until the kinks get ironed out. We’ve got two dozen appearances booked over the next three months. That’s good for our bottom line and for the actors, but it has us running in circles,” she said with a chuckle. “But that’s our problem, not yours. I’m so pleased you’ll join us. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

  So there I was, in the rolling hills of Connecticut at a historic mansion that dated back almost two hundred years. It had been a resort for the past fifty. As the story went, its original owner—the third son of a British earl, well out of line to inherit his father’s lands and title—had built an elaborate log cabin as a kind of architectural tribute to his new country. Subsequent occupants, however, enamored with the building’s aristocratic lineage, had added on their visions of what a noble house ought to look like until the resulting hodgepodge was a frightening, albeit fascinating, mix of Tudor, Georgian, and Adirondack styles with a few medieval details thrown in.

  The architecture wasn’t the only fascinating thing about Mohawk House, however. It came replete with its own ghost story to tickle the imaginations of its guests. According to legend, this same third son of a British earl was brutally murdered one night as he slept in the master bedroom suite. His head was severed and left on the pillow but his body was nowhere to be found, nor was the murder weapon. It was assumed that the murderer had weighted down the earl’s decapitated body and taken it out into the middle of the glacial lake, hundreds of feet deep, and dumped it there to be entombed in the frigid black water for eternity.

  According to what I’d read in Mohawk House’s promotional literature, there were a number of suspects, none of whom ever confessed to the crime, nor were any of them charged. The mystery gave rise to some tall tales. It was said in the days and weeks following the murder that by severing the head from the body, the killer had enabled the earl’s soul to escape and live on in the house. There had been countless reports of “sightings” of the murder victim at odd hours of the night, dressed in a crimson satin robe and red satin slippers with turned-up toes, and carrying a large curved axe with a bloody blade, presumably the weapon used to slay him. Scary stuff if you believed in such tales, all good fun if you didn’t.

  “I think I’m due for a good walk before the others arrive,” I said.

  “Your author colleagues?” said Melinda. “They’re already here. Mark Egmon from the hotel arrived with them in tow and introduced them to us. They left just minutes before you walked in.”

  “I’m sorry I missed them,” I said. “I’ll just have to wait for dinner to meet them. Actually, I know John Chasseur.”

  Melinda’s eyebrows went up. “Quite the Romeo, isn’t he? Or aspires to be.”

  “I don’t know him that well, Melinda. We’ve been on a few author panels together in the past, nothing more than that. I’m looking forward to meeting GSB Wick. I really admire her books.”

  “Nice lady. She’s so tiny, like a little bird. I love her Southern drawl.” Melinda giggled.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Paul, the actor who plays Cynthia’s suitor, started flirting with Ms. Wick. He’s always flirting with someone. I think she was annoyed. She was with a friend, an elderly British gentleman, she brought for the weekend.” She leaned close. “Larry’s upset that I hired Paul to play the part of the suitor. Larry says he’s nothing but trouble, but he’s good. He plays the part beautifully.”

  I was about to leave to go on my walk when Lawrence Savoy suddenly got up and asked, “Who are those people up on the stage?”

  A dozen men and women, presumably paying guests, had wandered onto the set through a side door leading to the stage.

  “Excuse me,” Savoy said.

  A young woman carrying a clipboard came to the stage apron. “I told them we were in rehearsal, but they just—”

  “It’s okay,” said Savoy. To the guests he said, “I’m sorry, folks, but this is a closed rehearsal.”

  “We just wanted to see what was going on,” said an older woman who was with a man I assumed was her husband. They wore matching argyle sweaters, his a vest, hers a cardigan.

  The husband spoke: “We were told guests are encouraged to make themselves at home and explore the hotel.”

  “Okay,” Savoy said, “but I’m afraid that doesn’t include rehearsals. Besides, you don’t want to ruin the surprise before you see the play.”

  “We’re looking for clues,” her husband said with a mischievous smile.

  Savoy laughed. “You’ll have to look for them somewhere else.”

  The woman smiled sweetly and said, “Of course.” To her husband, “Come, dear.” She led him away, with the others falling in behind.

  “Always something,” Melinda said.

  “All right,” Savoy said to the cast. “Places!”

  He’d no sooner returned to his seat when a loud crash came from somewhere offstage.

  “What was that?” he bellowed.

  A strapping young man wearing a T-shirt and jeans and carrying a hammer joined the cast. He peered out into the house, spotted Savoy, and said, “I can’t fit the set through the door.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” Savoy said, “just great.” He returned to the stage. “Can’t you take it apart and put it back together once you’ve got it in place?” he asked the young man.

  “Not easily,” came the response.

  “That’s Jeremy,” Melinda told me. “He’s our lead stagehand.”

  “Easy or not,” said Savoy, “you have to get it in here. Do whatever you have to, but do it quick. We’re running late.”

  “Right,” Jeremy said, not sounding pleased. He shouted to the others, “Hey, anybody see my pick?”

  “Pick?” I said to Melinda.

  “One of a stagehand’s basic tools, like gaffer tape. You know, duct tape. Crew use picks to temporarily hold things down on the set.”

  “Jeremy,” Savoy said loudly, “please. Not now. Your pick will show up.”

  “I know I laid it down back here,” said Jeremy, wandering off the stage.

  Melinda left my side to confer with her husband, which gave me the opportunity to slip out and embark on that walk I’d been looking forward to. I was glad to get away. I’d become uncomfortable with the tension in the room even though I’d been around enough theatrical productions to know that nerves often frayed and tempers rose when talented, creative performers act out their frustrations—as well as their roles.

  I trekked out to the lakeshore, where I stood and looked back at the forbidding structure of Mohawk House. It was shrouded in mist, its stone-clad turrets visible when the fog would suddenly part, only to be obscured moments later when the haze swirled around them again.

  I shivered. Despite the premature warming, it had turned damp and chilly, and I could “smell” snow in the air. If the weather forcasters were correct, we were in for a doozy of a spring snowstorm. Although I’d put on what I thought would be warm enough clothing, I wished I’d added an extra layer before heading outside. I put into play some positive thinking—The exercise will warm me up, I assured myself—and turned away from the building as I rubbed
my arms briskly.

  But I never did get warm. The expedition was short-lived. I hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes before it became apparent that I wasn’t going to get very far along the trail. My intention had been to walk around the lake, but those best-laid plans were thwarted by the vapors, which thickened and rose from the surface of the glacial pool, rolling over the land and filling the valley. They enveloped me, slowing my steps and making the scenic hike along the rocky, icy track too risky to continue.

  Wrapped in the mist, I became disoriented. Had I wandered off the path? Was I too close to the lake? The sharp sound of cracking ice fired off to my right. Oh dear, I thought. One errant move and I could tumble off a ledge and down into the frigid waters. I remembered reading about mountain climbers getting caught in a “whiteout” when the snow swirled so heavily around them that they couldn’t tell which direction they’d been heading, or even distinguish up from down. Imitating Melinda’s motion earlier, I stuck out my arm. I could see my hand, but not much else in front of me. There were some shadows that might be tall trees. The weight of the air made breathing difficult. My walking shoes sank into the damp earth and little puddles filled my footprints. Looks like an early mud season, I told myself, trying to get my bearings. Back home in Cabot Cove, Maine, “mud season” is what we call the long melt between winter’s frost and the appearance of the first blades of grass in the spring.

  As I felt a few snowflakes on my cheeks, the thought of a roaring fire in my suite compelled me. I carefully retraced my steps down the path in the direction of the hotel. I began to shiver, not quite sure if it was the cold or the apprehension of taking a wrong step that set off the tremors. The mist lifted slightly as I retraced my steps across a rickety wooden walkway with rope railings, and I sighed heavily in relief when I reached a back entrance to the building. I paused just outside the door. I could hear muffled voices, male and female, on the other side.

  “If you think you’re going to get away with this, you have another think coming.”

  “Stop being so melodramatic.”

  “You can dismiss this, but I’ll have the last laugh.”

  “Yeah? What are you going to do? Kill me?”

  I thought I heard a scuffle. I turned the doorknob. The heavy door squealed when I opened it and the sound of someone hurrying up the stairs echoed in the hall. I stepped inside, my eyes not yet acclimated to the gloom, and came face-to-face with the young actor who played Paul in the production. A cigarette in his hand, he stood alone, partially hidden by shadows that engulfed most of the concrete area just inside the door. A single low-wattage bulb in a wall sconce shaped like a torch cast uncertain light, but it was enough for me to see the gleam of sweat on his brow and the look of fury on his face.

  “My goodness,” I said. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry,” he said sullenly.

  I looked at where he was standing. Judging from the half dozen cigarette butts scattered on the floor, this small alcove was where smokers retreated when the urge struck them. There was a no-smoking policy throughout the resort, which had no guest rooms for smokers. It occurred to me that the management of Mohawk House, knowing smokers came here to indulge, would have been smart to provide an urn or other receptacle in which they could extinguish their cigarettes.

  “No need to apologize,” I said. “You didn’t do anything except stand here. I simply wasn’t expecting anyone. I was just out for a walk, but the weather made it impossible.” I hugged myself and rubbed the backs of my arms. “Brrrr,” I said. “It’s chilly out there, and the snow has started. The dampness goes right through you. The fog—”

  He pushed away from the wall, crushing the half-consumed cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe, and took the narrow, winding concrete steps two at a time.

  Well, I must say I’ve had more pleasant encounters, I thought ruefully. It seems the climate inside is no better than it is outside.

  Chapter Three

  Which mystery writer features cats and dogs

  in her novels?

  Don’t take offense, I told myself. He’s an actor. He’s probably absorbed in his role, preparing for tonight’s performance. Maybe it’s the fog and the threat of snow, bringing out the worst in people, making them feel claustrophobic and trapped.

  I shrugged my shoulders to release the tension, and to dismiss the uneasy feeling I’d begun to develop about Mohawk House and the weekend. I glanced about the smokers’ vestibule, my eyes now used to the dim light. Had I had a dustpan and broom, I would have tidied up—my New England neatness genes coming to the fore. Instead, I ascended the staircase Paul had used to escape my presence and stepped into the warmth of the main hallway.

  At one end of the hallway was the lobby, where an inglenook welcomed guests in from the cold. A pair of benches flanked the blazing fire and drew some of those who were waiting to register for the long weekend. Once they signed in, they were directed to a table where team assignments were handed out along with a packet of written materials. The teams would compete with each other to solve the “murder” that would take place during the course of the festivities, staged as part of the play, of course. Unless guests traveled to Mohawk House together and had requested that they be on the same team of amateur sleuths, they were paired with others on a random basis to ensure equality in numbers.

  The other end of the long hallway in which I stood terminated in the dining area of the old building. I knew from experience that certain cast members would mingle at the tables and pretend to be guests, their true identity revealed only later in the play. The actors and actresses cast by the Savoys were amazingly adroit at concealing their true identities, and I’d marveled on more than one occasion at their skills, not only at playing their scripted roles in the show, but also at slipping into other, offstage personas. The guests were in for a weekend of fun, which I was sure would include more than one surprise.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I turned to see Mark Egmon approaching. Mark was Mohawk House’s manager of special events and theme programs, including the annual mystery weekends.

  “So glad I found you,” he said. “All settled in your room?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “It’s lovely. I especially appreciate the fireplace and the balcony. What a lovely view.”

  “I’m so glad you like it. It’s one of my favorite rooms.”

  “I imagine there are many wonderful rooms here.”

  “They’re all nice. That’s the official line,” he said with a wink and a smile. “But yours is part of the original structure and has some surprising features. I’m not going to tell you what they are. You’ll just have to discover them yourself.”

  “That sounds intriguing.”

  “Have you seen your books in our shop? Let me show you. The store manager has a nice touch. She used to be a window decorator.”

  He escorted me to a table in the gift store where my books, and those of the other authors in attendance, had been artfully arranged.

  “What a nice display,” I said, picking up John Chasseur’s latest thriller. “I bought this book last week,” I said, noting his signature on the title page. “Will you be having a book signing?”

  “Yes, but we are suggesting that the authors autograph some of their books in advance. If you have time, you can do it right now. Some guests will want to skip the author panel and book signing, but buy signed books anyway. Would you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  He brought me a chair and hovered solicitously while I wrote the date, a greeting, and my name in two dozen copies of my new mystery. As I finished each one, the shop manager affixed a sticker on the book that said SIGNED BY AUTHOR and replaced it in the pile on the table.

  “That’s something else I can check off my list,” Mark said, walking me out of the shop. “Thank you so much.” At the door, his expression turned regretful. “Listen, I hate to put you on the spot,” he said, “but I was wondering whether you’ve had a chance to come up with yo
ur first question.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have it right here,” I said, reaching into my pocket and extracting a slip of paper. “I have the others in my room.”

  He adjusted half-glasses and read the question I had written down.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Nothing like Dame Agatha to get things rolling. I have to run now. See you at dinner.”

  I watched him bound down the hallway and smiled, satisfied that he’d been pleased at the question I’d come up with. When I accepted the invitation to be on the writers’ panel, I was told that each panelist was expected to come up with a series of questions that would be presented to the guests over the course of the weekend. Lawrence Savoy would read the questions before the start of each performance, and the audience members were to write their answers on a card provided in their packets of written materials. The person with the most correct answers would receive a free weekend at the resort. The cards would be collected at each performance to avoid having someone retreat to his or her room and consult a book or go on the Internet.

  I’d agonized over the questions before leaving Cabot Cove. Aware that there would be many knowledgeable mystery lovers in the audience, I didn’t want my questions to be overly simplistic. At the same time, I wanted to avoid getting too esoteric for those whose knowledge was marginal. My instructions were to start with a relatively easy question and make each one progressively harder. The one I’d given Mark Egmon had to do with the first appearance of Agatha Christie’s Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot. Simple enough, I thought, for Christie devotees, but perhaps not so easy for less widely read mystery fans.

  My thoughts about the question were interrupted by the sound of an altercation in the lobby. Angry words carried above the general drone of people talking. They drew me down the hall, where I witnessed what was happening. A middle-aged woman standing in the registration line shouted at a tall, redheaded woman dressed all in black, including a black lace veil. “Go to the back of the line. You can’t just cut in front of me.”