“I beg your pardon. I did not cut in. A lady wouldn’t do such a thing, and I am above all a lady,” the redhead retorted in the raspy, high-pitched voice often associated with heavy smokers. She towered over the other woman.
“You did cut in on us,” a man, presumably the other woman’s husband, told the redhead. Short and round, with his fists resting on his hips, he reminded me of a little teapot as he glared up into her face.
The redhead looked down at the couple. “If I offended you,” she said, “I certainly didn’t intend to. But I suggest that you temper your—temper.” She giggled and flounced away, looking back and wiggling her fingers at the couple.
I hope they don’t end up on the same team, I thought as I ambled down the hall to the elevators and pushed the UP button. The elevator arrived and I entered the empty car. The doors were nearly closed when an arm, draped in black, was thrust through the narrow opening.
“Good heavens,” I said, darting forward, searching the panel for the DOOR OPEN button, but the arm had accomplished the same task. “I’m sorry,” I said, as the door slid back to reveal the redheaded woman. “I didn’t see you coming or I would have held it.”
“That’s all right, dearie,” she said, peering at me from under the veil. She whirled around to face the door, her ankle-length black skirt following her. Her arm shot out and I saw the button for the third floor light up.
With her back to me, her face was concealed, but I couldn’t help but smile. She was probably one of Melinda Savoy’s creations. Melinda reveled in throwing mysterious characters into the mix, characters who might never appear onstage but who would capture the attention of the guests and be linked to the solution in the end, most likely in improbable ways. You never really knew who was real and who wasn’t until the end of the weekend.
I exited the elevator at my floor and entered my room. I was delighted to find that someone from housekeeping had considerately put a match to the logs in the fireplace to take the chill out of the air. I picked up the John Chasseur novel I’d brought with me, kicked off my shoes, and drew a chair up in front of the grate, resting my heels on an embroidered footstool. The heat was relaxing, and several pages into the book I became drowsy and nodded off, my chin dropping against my breastbone. Then an icy draft nipped my neck. I came awake with a start, the book sliding off my lap and landing on the floor. This wouldn’t do, I realized. Dinner was within the hour, with a welcoming speech and the first act of the play to take place after dinner in the massive auditorium where I’d seen that afternoon’s rehearsal. A quick wake-up shower was in order.
I changed into a terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel and spent a few minutes standing under water that threatened to become hot but never quite did, although it was warm enough for its purpose. Refreshed, I stepped back into the bedroom. The wind had picked up outside, sending currents of cold air through unseen cracks around the windows and the French doors leading to the balcony. I went to the doors, over which I’d drawn heavy gray drapes, with the intention of pulling them even tighter against the drafts. A loud crash from the balcony caused me to tense and take a few steps back. What could that have been?
I tightened the belt on the robe, opened the drapes slightly, and peered into the gloom. The light fixture just outside the door casing revealed nothing except blowing snow. The storm had started. I pulled aside the drapes and opened one of the doors. The source of the noise was now evident. The wind had blown a glass container of some sort from a railing to the cement floor of the balcony. Despite the cold and the swirling snow—the temperature had dropped considerably over the past hour—I stepped outside and leaned over to examine the mess. It must have been a large ashtray because an assortment of half-consumed cigarettes lay on the floor along with the broken glass. I noted that a few of the cigarettes had lipstick on the filters. Obviously, whoever had previously occupied the room had used the balcony to indulge their habit. Probably a couple, I surmised, judging from the two different brands of cigarettes and the traces of lipstick on some of the cigarette butts.
I found a piece of cardboard in the closet and, leaving the balcony door ajar, went outside again to scoop up the glass and butts, with the intention of depositing them in a wastebasket in the room. But as I bent to my task, a gust of wind blew up and the door to my room slammed shut behind me with a bang. I gathered what was left of the glass ashtray and consumed cigarettes, and then, balancing the shards on the cardboard, I turned the knob on the door and pushed. The balcony door would not open.
Oh, for heaven’s sakes, I thought. Did it lock behind me?
I set the cardboard down on a metal chair and tried the door again. It was stuck. When Mark Egmon said the room had surprising features, I didn’t think this was what he had in mind. I rattled the doorknob, thinking perhaps it required a special touch. I have a few doors like that at home. Changes in the weather make them stick, and old latches sometimes temporarily freeze, usually when I’m in a hurry. And I was in a hurry now.
The terry robe, which had felt so cozy when I’d stepped out of the shower, was not much protection against the elements. I gathered the material close with one hand and tried the knob again. It turned freely, but the latch wouldn’t budge. I pressed my hip against the door and twisted the knob again. It came off in my hand. I tried to put it back on, delicately probing for the rod to which the knob had been attached. My efforts were rewarded with the sound of a thud, and I looked in to see that the inside doorknob had fallen to the carpeted floor.
“Oh dear,” I said aloud. I leaned out over the edge of the balcony, peering into the dark, hoping to see the windows of another room and perhaps catch the attention of its occupants. But there were no other windows in view. My room was in a corner of the building that thrust out over the lakeshore, which must provide a lovely daytime view when the weather was clear. I looked up. Perhaps someone was in the room above mine.
“Hello?” I called out. “Can anyone hear me? Hello? Is anyone there?”
My only answer was the sting of snow on my face, the wind curling around me, rushing through my hair, pulling at my robe, and rattling the panes of the door. If worse comes to worst, I thought, I’ll use one of the chairs to break the glass in the door. I envisioned Mark Egmon’s expression when I tried to explain why I had to destroy the room’s beautiful French doors. I gave an involuntary shiver, and my teeth began to chatter. I’d better figure this out quickly, I thought, before hypothermia sets in. I imagined the headlines if I were unsuccessful. JESSICA FLETCHER FREEZES TO DEATH. MYSTERY WRITER COULDN’T SOLVE THE RIDDLE OF THE LOCK.
Next to the French doors was a window. It was an old-fashioned double-hung window, thank goodness, but the sill was very high, and my fingers couldn’t get a grip on the wooden frame. I moved the cardboard and broken glass to the balcony floor, pulled the metal chair over to the window, and climbed onto the seat. Reaching up to where the bottom portion of the window ended, I pressed the heels of my palms into the frame and pushed. The window squealed in response, almost as if it objected to being handled roughly. But to my great relief, it moved. I managed to open a small gap, enough to fit my fingers through, and still standing on the chair, I pulled the window the rest of the way open. I passed the cardboard with the butts and shards of glass into the room and followed. Fortunately, no one could see me clamber through the open window while trying to keep the robe from flying off in the wind—it did claim one of my slippers—only to do battle with the heavy drapes on the inside before I emerged, unkempt but unscathed.
There wasn’t time for a second shower. I washed my hands and face and brushed my hair. Dressed for the evening, I checked myself in a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door and headed for a wide, carpeted staircase in the hallway. I would stop at the front desk later to report the broken knob on the French door.
As I turned a corner, the tall redhead I’d seen earlier came from the opposite direction, walking quickly. Even though her eyes were trained on the floor, I could
see she was wearing heavy makeup under the dotted veil attached to a black hat that matched her dress. Her attention diverted, she almost bumped into me.
“My, my,” she said, “we meet again. Clumsy old me.” She carried on in the direction she’d been going before we almost collided.
Quite a character, I thought as I continued toward the staircase. It would be interesting to see what role she played in the production. I reached the top and started down. Halfway down the steps, the heel of my right shoe caught in a frayed portion of the carpeting, causing me to stumble. I grabbed the brass railing for support and managed to right myself, suffering only embarrassment at my clumsiness in front of the same white-haired couple with matching sweaters I’d seen on the stage a few hours earlier. They gave one another a swift glance as they passed me on the stairs, their eyes averted. I was baffled by their aloof behavior—they did not even pause to inquire if I was all right. Then it dawned on me. They must think I’m tipsy.
All in all, I thought as I reached the bottom of the stairs, straightened my skirt, and walked into the dining room, this evening is not getting off to an auspicious start.
Chapter Four
The origin of the detective story is generally
attributed to what nineteenth-century writer?
Mohawk House’s dining room was cavernous. Whoever had decided fifty years ago to convert the structure into a resort had turned the ballroom into a restaurant. The ceiling was easily thirty feet high, and was decorated with painted scenes that the artist evidently considered examples of classic European art. I would have to disagree.
The paint had faded badly, and small patches from some of the scenes had disengaged from the ceiling over the years, leaving gaps in the images. Huge, ornate chandeliers formed a line along the center of the ceiling; they were augmented by more modern lighting from wall sconces and strategically installed recessed fixtures. Large tapestries, some of them showing their age, provided the primary wall decorations and blocked drafts from ill-fitting windows. Between them were large framed portraits of turn-of-the-century men and women, perhaps those who’d actually lived in the mansion during that period.
A young hostess ushered me to a round table by a window that I knew overlooked the lake, although the fog and snow precluded any enjoyment of it that evening. Already seated were the other writers I’d be joining on the panel.
John Chasseur was more youthful in appearance than the last time I’d seen him. I knew he was a regular visitor to his plastic surgeon’s office—he’d once presented me with his doctor’s card, “just in case.”
“Good to see you again, Jessica,” he said, rising.
The stunning blonde with him, whom Chasseur introduced as his wife, Claudette, appeared to be half his age. She gave me what amounted to a smile as she took my hand without comment.
“You’re looking well,” I told Chasseur.
“It’s the Hollywood glow,” he replied. “We bought a place in Malibu and I’m swimming every day. It sure beats this dreadful weather. A blizzard in March. You can have it.”
His bronzed face looked more like a tanning-parlor tan to me, but I didn’t say so.
“Do you know GSB Wick?” Chausseur asked, indicating the second woman at the table.
“We haven’t had the pleasure before,” I said, smiling and extending my hand. “I’m a great admirer of your work.”
“You thought I was older, right?” she said. “Everyone does.”
The warm tone of her Louisiana accent contrasted with her severe appearance. GSB Wick, whose story-telling style had led me to expect an older woman, was far younger than I. I’d already read her bio, in the conference brochure, though, so I now knew she was forty-four. She was a striking woman who didn’t look her age. Her face was the palest white, her hair inky black and shaped tightly about her head like a helmet. She wore crimson lipstick and green eye shadow with tiny sparkles in it. I noticed how thin she was under the black dress she wore; her pale arms extended from half sleeves like matchsticks. Her books dealt with the supernatural, New Orleans voodoo, the deceased rising from their crypts, and vampires stalking the innocent in the wee hours on the streets of the French Quarter. When reading her works, I was taken with her ability to weave such subject matter into stories that were distinctly contemporary, featuring modern detectives fully grounded in the here and now. Applying the term “artistic” to her was not exaggeration.
Sitting next to her was a portly, elderly, ruddy-faced gentleman dressed in a vested brown tweed suit.
“This is a friend of mine, Harold Boynton,” she said. “He’s visiting from London.”
“Terribly pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, taking my outstretched hand and caressing it.
I took my seat just as Lawrence and Melinda Savoy joined us.
“I believe I’ve read just about everything you’ve written, Jessica,” GSB Wick said as menus were placed before us. “You’re among my favorites.”
“I’m flattered to hear that,” I said. “Your books occupy an honored place on my bookshelves back home in Cabot Cove.” I didn’t add that, like many of her fans, I wondered what her initials stood for. In interviews, she had steadfastly refused to reveal her full name, a public relations stunt that had served her well. The Internet was full of sites devoted to speculation about her initials and the names they represented. I wasn’t even sure if her publisher knew. I’d heard rumors, but none were based upon tangible knowledge.
“Georgie’s newest book is doing splendidly,” her British companion said.
Well, there’s one part revealed—G for Georgie. What was that a nickname for? Georgia, perhaps, or Georgina. Maybe by the time the weekend was over, I’d learn what the S and B represented. I decided not to wait.
“Why do you use initials?” I asked.
Georgie sat back and sighed before responding, “When I started writing, I didn’t want anyone to know whether my books were written by a man or a woman. Using initials accomplished that. Your by-line is J. B. Fletcher. For the same purpose, Jessica?”
“Partially,” I said. “I know that when Phyllis James started her wonderful writing career in England, she was concerned that there would be a bias against female mystery writers, and so she became P. D. James. Whether there was or not—bias, that is—I don’t know. In my case, the publisher thought my name was too long to fit with the type size he wanted to use on the cover. I didn’t want to use a pseudonym, so we compromised. I’ve always liked the neutrality of initials, however. People tend to come to the books with different expectations.”
“Exactly,” she said.
“If there was a bias against women, I’m sure there was a good reason for it,” Chasseur said. While everyone else at the table had dressed for dinner, Chasseur wore a white T-shirt with a picture of the cover of his latest novel emblazoned on the chest. Jeans, sandals, and white socks completed the outfit.
“What good reason could there possibly be, sir?” Georgie asked, taking the bait.
Chasseur smiled, revealing very white teeth that were slightly too large for his mouth. “I don’t think women handle violent crime, particularly murder, as well as men do,” he said, sitting back, obviously pleased with his analysis.
Georgie looked at me and rolled her eyes.
“That’s an interesting theory,” I said, “but I’m sure you’ll excuse me for disagreeing.”
Chasseur said, “Murder is a grisly, nasty business, Jessica. The female species simply doesn’t have the genetic makeup to deal sensibly with it. Murder is a cold-blooded act. Women are, by nature, warmer-blooded than men, which is why they’re so attractive to the male of the species.”
“I think you’re just teasing us, Mr. Chasseur,” Georgie said, her Southern accent thickening. “And Ah’m not going let you pull my chain.”
“John loves to drop bombs and see who comes running,” his wife said in a bored voice.
“Claudette, my sweet,” Chasseur said, his smile more a grimace n
ow, “you’re supposed to sit here and look pretty. It’s not your intellectual insight we’re interested in.”
“It’s not anything of mine you’re interested in,” she replied, her eyes flashing momentarily before resuming their vacant expression.
I realized that pursuing the debate over gender advantage in mystery writing would not accomplish anything other than to create more tension at the table, so I made a conscious decision to drop the subject.
Melinda Savoy also must have sensed the awkwardness of the moment, because she jumped in with, “This might be a good time to go over the schedule with you. But maybe we should order first.”
Once our drink and appetizer orders had been placed, Melinda explained what our roles would be for the weekend. “There is, of course, the author panel,” she said. “I’ll moderate, but I’m sure I won’t have to say much. My three guest authors have plenty of tales to tell to keep the audience interested.”
“How long will we have to speak?” Georgie asked.
“The session’s scheduled for an hour and a half. Other than the panel, you’re pretty much free until the final day, when you’ll judge the competition.”
“Competition?” Chasseur asked.
“The guests have been broken up into teams,” Lawrence Savoy said. “They’ll follow the action all weekend and put their heads together to solve the murder mystery we present in the play. We encourage them to present their conclusions in some sort of skit—singing, costumes, whatever creative approaches they come up with. You’ll decide which ones make the most entertaining presentations and come closest to solving the mystery. The winning team will choose one of its members to enjoy a free weekend at Mohawk House.”
Melinda added, “What’s really important is that you make yourselves available to the guests throughout the weekend. They’re here because they love the murder mystery genre, and they’re looking forward to socializing with famous writers.”
A Question of Murder Page 3
