A Question of Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  It was too early for breakfast to be served in the dining room, and the brochure of hotel services in my room indicated that room service wouldn’t be available for another hour. I changed into a lightweight sweat suit I usually travel with and did a half hour of stretching exercises, finishing up with running in place to get the blood flowing. By the time I’d showered and dressed for the day in a plaid wool skirt, burgundy blouse, and wheat-colored cardigan sweater, it was almost time for the dining room to open.

  I went to the door, drew a deep breath—What does this day have in store?—opened it, and headed for breakfast.

  I noticed on my way to the dining room that the same officers were posted at various exits who’d been stationed at them during the night. Thanks to the snow, there wasn’t any chance of their being relieved. I hoped Detective Ladd would come up with a scheme to allow for some sleep time.

  As I entered the dining room, it appeared that I was among very few guests there at that hour. But as the hostess led me to the authors’ table, I realized that there were more people than I’d initially seen. Detective Ladd sat alone at a small table partially hidden by a column and potted ferns. He glanced up and nodded as I passed, and I returned his nod. Once seated, I looked to the opposite side of the room and saw the flamboyant redheaded woman who’d engaged in the argument with a couple during check-in and who’d almost bowled me over in the hall. Two tables away from her was the couple in matching sweaters. They’d exchanged the argyle cardigan and vest for a pair of heavy wool pullovers with a Scandinavian pattern in blue, gray, and red. They wrapped some food in a napkin and left the dining room.

  Jody, our waitress from dinner, looked exhausted as she came to the table to see whether I wanted coffee and juice.

  “Working dinner and breakfast, I see,” I said.

  “No choice,” she replied, “not with the storm. My replacement couldn’t get here this morning, so I’m on double duty, like everybody else.”

  “Well,” I said, hoping to boost her flagging spirits, “I’m sure the plows will get here soon and things will get back to normal.”

  “I sure hope so,” she said. She looked around to see that we weren’t being overheard, then leaned closer and asked, “Is Mr. Chasseur really a Hollywood producer?”

  “He’s ah—he has spent time in Hollywood, and he and his wife”—I stressed the word “wife”—“live there. Why do you ask?”

  “He told me that I was perfect for a movie he’s producing and wants me to read for him.”

  “Here?”

  “In his room later today.”

  “I see.” I, too, ensured that no one else was listening before I added, “Maybe it isn’t a good idea to go to his room to audition, Jody. My suggestion is that you ask him to give you the script to read at your leisure, and tell him that you’ll be happy to audition for him at a later date, perhaps in California.”

  She snorted softly. “Like I’ll ever get to California.”

  “If you do decide to read for him today, insist it be in one of the public rooms, or at least that his wife be present. Do things the proper way.”

  “I thought that, too,” she said. “Frankly, he’s creepy, like a dirty old man.”

  I pursed my lips, resisting a smile. “I wouldn’t know about that, Jody, but I think you’re a very smart girl. What would you recommend for breakfast?”

  “The breakfast buffet for sure, Mrs. Fletcher. Can I get you anything right now?”

  “A cup of tea and an orange juice would be nice, thanks.”

  By now, a number of people had arrived, and the huge dining room’s deathly silence had been broken by their conversations. Several guests greeted me as I perused the table of hot breakfast items, settling on a freshly made omelet from a chef in whites who deftly flipped it and slid it onto my plate. A few strips of bacon and a bowl of fruit completed my selections, and I carried them to the table where Georgie Wick and her friend, Harold Boynton, he of the wandering hands, were now seated.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Good morning,” they responded.

  “Sleep well?” Boynton asked.

  “Not especially,” I said, “but I doubt whether anyone did last night.”

  “I slept like a rock,” he said, chuckling. “Dead bodies don’t bother me. Spent my entire adult life in the morgue frolicking with them. They make surprisingly pleasant companions. Never argue with you.” He laughed heartily and excused himself to go to the buffet.

  “How about you?” I asked Georgie. “Sleep all right?”

  “Barely a wink,” she said as she limply sat back in her chair.

  “I understand,” I said as I started on my breakfast.

  “I’m almost afraid to mention it,” she said.

  “Mention what?” I asked

  “What I saw after leaving you last night.”

  I placed my fork on the plate, dabbed at my mouth with my napkin, sat back, and allowed my quizzical expression to ask the obvious question.

  “I saw him.”

  “Him?” Was she about to tell me that her former lover, the young man who’d died, had paid her a nocturnal visit? Mohawk House did have a history of ghost sightings, if you believed the stories, and Ms. Wick had a history of seeing ghosts.

  “The actor.” She said it so softly I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly.

  “Actor?” I asked. “Which actor?”

  “Paul. The one who was shot.”

  “You saw Paul?”

  She nodded.

  “I thought the medical examiner removed his body.”

  “He looked so alive to me.”

  “I’m certain you must be mistaken.”

  As Boynton headed back to the table, she placed her index finger against her lips. I got the message and concentrated on my food. But my mind couldn’t focus on an omelet or bacon. What was she talking about? Had she conjured a vision of the slain actor? She’d said Paul reminded her of her lover. Had she dreamt of her former sweetheart and replaced the image of his face with one of Paul’s? Or had the ME not been able to negotiate the mountain in the storm and returned with the body? Georgie could have stumbled upon where the ME and Detective Ladd had taken the corpse. If so, I’d like to see it again myself. Obviously, I wouldn’t get any answers as long as her corpulent friend was around.

  Chasseur joined us. He wore a T-shirt and the same sandals as the previous evening, black socks his only concession to the weather outside. He rubbed his hands together, grinned, and looked around. “Lovely morning.”

  “Your wife’s sleeping in?” I asked.

  “Not feeling well,” he said, the grin never wavering. “She gets these bouts of psychosomatic illness once in a while.”

  A fist to the eye isn’t psychosomatic, I thought.

  Jody came to the table, and Chasseur turned his full attention to her, his eyes moving up and down the ample, youthful body that was evident despite her uniform.

  “Would you like coffee and juice?” she asked.

  He leered. “I won’t tell you what I really want,” he said. “Maybe when we get to know each other a little better.”

  “Jody says you’re interested in her for a part in a film,” I said.

  He glared at me, then looked up at Jody and said, “It was supposed to be our little secret.”

  She looked at me, smiled, and walked away without getting his order.

  “Cute kid, huh?” he said, going to the buffet.

  “Quite a fellow,” Boynton said between bites from a plate laden with sausage, bacon, and waffles swimming in syrup. “Tells me all of his books are being made into films. Are your books in the cinema, too, Jessica?”

  “A few have been made into movies, but certainly not all of them.”

  Boynton poked Georgie with his elbow. “Better get yourself a new agent, Georgie, eh? Yours doesn’t seem to be doing his job.”

  “My books are difficult to translate into film,” Georgie said, straightening in her chair. “Ah don’
t like the way Hollywood treats the black arts, and ah’d rather control the images my readers see than let some young film school grad make my books look like a warmed-over combination of Halloween and Mardi Gras.”

  “Still, you could make a bundle,” he said, popping the last of his waffle into his mouth. “Might be worth the sacrifice.”

  “Were you happy with the results, Jessica?” Georgie asked.

  “With the film versions of my books?”

  She nodded.

  “The first one was an interesting experience,” I said. “I’ll grant you that. But the final product was so different from what I’d written that I think they just wanted to use my title, but not my plot. During the shoot, I tried to convince the producer to change it back, but they had a budget and a schedule to keep, so my advice went unheeded. It did well at the box office, but I can’t say I felt it was truly mine.”

  “And the others?”

  “After the initial encounter with the way Hollywood works, I decided it was probably wise not to watch the process again. Much better for the digestion.” I took a sip of tea and smiled at her.

  “You make my point,” she said primly. “Ah couldn’t stomach it if they changed my vision of the characters I spent so much time developing.”

  Harold patted his stomach and burped behind a fist. “Splendid food,” he said, sighing, then placed both hands on the edge of the table and pushed his chair back. “I think I’ll see what I missed the first time round. If you ladies will excuse me.”

  “So,” I said as soon as Harold had ambled out of earshot, “tell me more about what you saw last night.”

  “Ah know y’all will think it strange,” she said, her Southern accent deepening, “but it’s true. Couldn’t sleep and took a walk around the hotel. Sometimes ah do that at night, wander about. It’s when some of the best ideas for my novels come to me.”

  “I hope you carry a pad and pen with you,” I said lightly.

  “Oh, yes, always do. Anyway, ah was walking in a hallway on the top floor—it must have been three or four o’clock this morning—when he just appeared.”

  “Paul, the actor who was killed.”

  “Yes. It was only a fleeting glance, no more than a second or two. He was coming out of a room. I think he saw me, because he quickly vanished back inside.”

  “You’re quite sure it was Paul? Couldn’t it have been someone else?”

  “Oh, no. I have very sharp vision. He put his hand to his chest, right where the wound had been—I saw the blood—and floated—that’s what it looked like—back into the room.”

  “That’s, um—that’s really interesting, Georgie,” I said, fumbling for what to say. I felt like the people who attend a terrible theatrical production in which a friend is appearing, and who must come up with a comment when they go backstage after the curtain has fallen. “Very interesting.” Noncommittal. No harm done, no feelings hurt.

  “You probably don’t believe me,” she said softly as Chasseur returned from the buffet line.

  “So,” he said, once seated, “what’s the latest on the murder?”

  I shrugged. So did Georgie.

  “Why do I have the feeling that you two are cooking up something, hatching a plot?” he said. He didn’t give us time to reply before he looked around the dining room for Jody, spotted her, and waved her to the table. “Where’s my coffee and juice?” he asked.

  “You didn’t order it,” she said.

  “Well, I am now. You want to be in the movies, you’d better get on the ball, sweetheart.”

  She walked away, and I said, “She’s right. You didn’t order it when she asked earlier. You were too busy—”

  “Too busy what?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “The next act of the play is in an hour, and we have the authors’ panel later today. I’ll see you there.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Georgie said. “I don’t want anything to eat.”

  We left Chasseur sitting alone and exited the dining room. Boynton had taken his second overflowing plate and joined the redheaded woman who’d been eating alone. He must have said something amusing to her because she laughed loudly, her fingertips pressed to her lips as though whatever he’d said was naughty.

  The hallway was warm, the radiators along its length hissing. “My, it feels like summah in New Orleans,” Georgie said, tugging on her collar.

  “It must be difficult to keep the temperature even in an old building like this,” I said.

  “He’s a very difficult man, isn’t he?” she said as we ambled toward the main lobby.

  “John Chasseur?”

  “Yes. He makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Why?”

  “I have the feeling there’s something evil in his spirit, but he can’t help it. Perhaps he’s struggling against the demons, just not successfully yet.”

  “You’re being kind,” I said, thinking if Chasseur had demons, he was more likely to embrace them than fight them off.

  “Ah always try to be kind, Jessica. Sometimes it hurts me.”

  “There isn’t enough kindness in the world,” I said, mentally chastising myself for expressing my negative thoughts aloud. We rounded a corner and approached a room in which a dozen or so weekend guests were gathered. The man who dressed in concert with his wife spotted us as we passed, came from the room, and said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher, Ms. Wick. I’ve been hoping to talk to you this morning. My name’s Sydney Pomerantz.”

  Mr. Pomerantz was a beefy man of medium height. His complexion was sallow, almost gray, his eyes cobalt blue and sunk deeply into their sockets. Sparse strands of white hair went off in a dozen different directions. He’d taken off his Scandinavian sweater, and wore a blue button-down shirt. A card with the room key attached was tucked into the breast pocket, the number 3 just visible.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, taking his hand. Georgie Wick shook it, too.

  “I hope I’m not imposing on your morning,” he said.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “I don’t know whether this is breaking the rules,” he said, “but Mrs. P. and I have a question about something in the play. I thought you might be good enough to help.” He had a speech tic that resulted in a guttural sound coming from his throat every dozen words or so, sort of a “glug.” Probably a nervous habit rather than something physiological, I thought.

  I looked at Georgie, whose expression said she didn’t know anything about rules.

  “What’s your question?” I asked.

  “You see,” he said, “I noticed during the scene that happened outside the dining room last night, the one with the actor Paul threatening the older gentleman, that Paul hid the gun on his person. Now that he’s been shot”—he coughed to cover his vocal tic—“my wife and I wondered whether it could have been a self-inflicted wound, or even an accident. Would we be too far off the mark to include that in our deliberations with the other team members?” He smiled sheepishly. “I wouldn’t want to look foolish in front of them, you know.”

  “Mr. Pomerantz,” I said, “I don’t know anything about the rules, but all I can say is that in productions put on by the Savoys, anything is possible. Anything! Rule nothing out. I assure you there will be many people who will be far off the mark by the time the weekend is over. No one will look foolish, but everyone will have had lots of fun.”

  His wife, who’d also doffed her sweater and wore a blue shirt, came from the room and said, “Now, Sydney, don’t you be bothering the writers. I’m sure they have better things to do than talk with you.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, “it’s a pleasure to—”

  His wife wasn’t listening. She grabbed his arm and led him back into the room, where their team members were deep in conversation, a trail of apologies from him echoing behind them.

  Georgie and I continued down the hall and went into a room just off the auditorium where the play would be performed in an hour or so. We took chairs by a window. “Now,” I said, “tell m
e more about this sighting of yours last night.”

  “There’s really nothing more to tell, Jessica. I saw him come from a room and step into the hallway. It was dark, shadowy. He saw me coming and disappeared back inside.”

  “How could you be sure it was Paul if it was so dark?”

  A small pout inhabited her mouth. “It wasn’t that dark,” she said defensively.

  “Do you think this was an apparition?” I asked.

  “His spirit, you mean,” she said, brightening. “Of course. It must have been. I’m very sensitive to them, you know. They make themselves visible to me. Sometimes, when they materialize, they look so substantial, they fool us into thinking they’re alive.” She looked at me. “They do,” she insisted.

  “I’m not doubting you,” I said.

  “Yes, you are,” she said.

  She was right, of course. Paul Brody had been murdered. We all stood over his body. Whether he died of a gunshot wound or a stabbing made little difference, at least from the standpoint of GSB Wick’s tale. The man was dead. The only conclusion I could come to as we sat there, the snow falling behind us outside the window, was that she had a very active imagination, and perhaps more of a problem with alcohol than I’d realized. One thing was certain: GSB Wick, best-selling author of murder mysteries involving the supernatural, was—different.

  After I assured her a few more times that I hadn’t doubted her story and was just trying to get the facts straight, she excused herself, saying she wasn’t feeling well, and left me alone. I heard noise from the auditorium and was about to see what was going on when Detective Ladd walked in.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Enjoy breakfast?”

  “Yes, thank you. You?”

  “I suppose so. What I need is some sleep rather than food, but you need fuel to keep the ol’ engine running.”

  “That’s important,” I agreed.