A Question of Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I wish you did, too. When will you be leaving?”

  “Day after tomorrow. The official weekend ends tomorrow, but I decided to extend my stay by a day.” I laughed. “I’d say I’m doing it to relax, but considering the circumstances, that doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  He touched my shoulder in a friendly gesture as he stood and stretched. “Going to the play tonight, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes. Will you be there?”

  “I suppose so. I’ve interviewed everyone in the hotel and came a cropper. See you later.”

  I watched the rehearsal to its conclusion. Larry and Melinda came to where I sat. “This show will be the death of me,” Larry said, sprawling in a chair and rubbing his eyes. “Pardon the pun. I’m not sure continuing with the show was a good idea.”

  “Whether it was or not,” I said, “that’s the reality. I’ve been meaning to ask you all weekend about the redheaded woman.”

  “Oh? You mean that big gal who’s got everyone in the hotel talking about her?”

  “Yes. When does her role in the play become obvious?”

  Larry and Melinda looked at each other with quizzical expressions. “She doesn’t have a role with us,” Larry said.

  “She doesn’t?”

  Melinda laughed. “I can see why you would have thought she did,” she said. “We always have a couple of ringers like that in our shows, but I decided that the cast for this show was big enough without adding anyone else. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” I said. “I assumed all along she was with you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Larry said. “I’m glad she’s not. I have enough trouble with the cast I have. I need a quick nap and a shower.”

  As he prepared to leave, Catarina walked past us and exited the auditorium. Larry waited until she was out of earshot before he mimicked her again, using his best female voice. “If I never hear her voice again, it will be too soon. See you at dinner.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Melinda said. “I could use ten minutes with my feet up, too. See you later, Jessica.”

  I decided to take a look outside to see how things were going with snow removal. I went to the main entrance and opened the door. There were no plows in sight, but I could hear the whine of their engines in the distance. I chatted for a minute with one of the officers on duty, then wandered down to Mohawk House’s lower level and went to the door at which I’d first seen Paul Brody.

  “Hello,” I said to the officer there.

  “Hi,” he said, a smile crossing a face that sported a two-day beard. “I heard the plows are on their way.”

  “And I imagine that makes you very happy.”

  “Sure does,” he said, “but it’ll be a while before they clear things all the way up here. The mountain road is more than four miles long. You’re Mrs. Fletcher, right? The writer.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Be here for a few minutes?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Mind if I disappear for a minute? Nature calling. No one should leave through this door.”

  “I’ll hold the fort for you,” I said.

  He wandered away, leaving me alone just inside the door. Judging from a fresh supply of butts on the concrete floor, I concluded that some of the smokers in the crowd had found the spot. I thought back to that first meeting and replayed in my mind what had happened that night.

  I’d been outside, gotten cold, and found this door. As I approached it, I heard a man and a woman arguing. When I opened the door, the woman—whoever she was—had already started up the stairs. But as I mulled this over, it struck me that the only reason I’d thought the second person was a woman was because of the second voice, distinctly female.

  Or was it?

  Larry Savoy’s imitation of Catarina sounded female. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to hear his voice again. If I hadn’t known it was a man speaking in a falsetto, I would have assumed that I was hearing a woman. Was the female voice I heard from outside the door the same voice I’d just heard in the auditorium? I couldn’t be sure, but it was a definite possibility.

  The officer returned. “Thanks,” he said. “Anybody show up?”

  “No, just me,” I said. “Glad you’ll finally be able to leave and get some rest.”

  I walked up to the main floor, where I bumped into John Chasseur and his wife, Claudette. She wore a skintight white leotard and oversized sunglasses; Larry was in his usual T-shirt, serving as a billboard for his latest book, and jeans. Claudette returned my greeting but immediately walked away, saying she was on her way for a massage.

  “Finger the killer yet, Jess?” Chasseur asked, grinning.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  His eyes widened. “You sound serious.”

  “Oh, I am, very serious. By the way, I was wondering why neither you nor your wife mentioned that the actor who was killed had been in a movie you’d produced, and that Claudette appeared in.”

  His smiling face changed, less smug now. “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

  “I did some checking. You obviously knew him before you came here to Mohawk House.”

  “I don’t remember him. Probably had some walk-on part along with dozens of others.”

  “His bio says he played a character with a name and had a speaking role.”

  He shook his head and spoke to me as though I was the class dunce. “You believe what actors put on their bios, Jess, and you’ll believe the moon is made of cheese. See ya.”

  I’m not a person who gloats over victories, but I couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction at seeing the cocky, ego-driven John Chasseur a bit shaken.

  Dinner promised to be interesting.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  In the short story “Silver Blaze,” the detective

  solves the crime by observing that a dog failed

  to act like a dog the night of the crime. Who

  wrote it?

  Before going to my room to get ready for dinner, I managed to speak with a few cast and crew members I found wandering about the hotel. When I asked whether they knew about the cross-dressing aspect of Paul Brody’s acting career, their reactions were uniformly incredulous, which posed a dilemma for me. How had he managed to keep that phase of his professional life from everyone in the cast and crew? It was there on his own Web site, along with photos of him in women’s clothing. Surely, someone must have known.

  Showered and dressed in a fresh outfit, I went to the dining room, where my tablemates were already seated. I was happy to see Claudette there with her husband, the large sunglasses doing a good job of shielding her bruises from the eyes of others. Judging from the expression on her husband’s face, he wasn’t especially pleased to see me. My comment to him about Paul Brody having known him and Claudette in Hollywood had obviously altered his mood. Gone was the wide, dazzling white smile and gregarious manner. He was downright sullen, and only muttered responses to comments and questions directed at him.

  “Have a pleasant day, Jessica?” Boynton asked between sips of his martini.

  “I don’t know if I’d characterize it as pleasant, but it was productive. You?”

  “Actually,” the Englishman said, “I had a most interesting day. Didn’t I, Georgie?”

  She nodded. “Harold thinks he’s solved the murder,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Chasseur said. “The real one, or the one in the play?”

  “The real one, sir,” said Boynton proudly.

  “Has your team made any progress?” I asked Chasseur.

  “What team?”

  “The one you formed with paying guests.”

  “The one that Jessica and ah thought was silly,” Georgie chimed in, sounding pleased at having said it.

  “I wasn’t serious about it, but it sold books,” Chasseur said.

  Jody appeared to take our food orders. I noted that Chasseur didn’t flirt with her, which pleased me. That sort of behavior in the presence of a spouse always makes
me uncomfortable.

  As we proceeded with our dinners, I took stock of others in the room. Most tables were occupied, some pushed together to accommodate members of various teams. Ms. Carlisle sat alone at a secluded table. The only time I’d ever seen anyone with her during meals was when Boynton had joined her at breakfast.

  “So,” I said to Boynton as Jody removed my salad plate and placed my entrée in front of me, “tell us who done it.”

  He seemed reluctant to respond, which prompted Georgie to answer for him. “Harold’s only come to a speculative conclusion,” she said, signaling to Jody that she wanted another Bacardi cocktail by pointing to her empty glass.

  “Anybody can speculate,” Chasseur said. “Big deal.” He looked at me. “You say you may have solved it, Jessica, but I doubt whether you have anything more than speculation, too.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said.

  “Tell us what you think,” Claudette said to me, which surprised me. It was the first sign of interest she’d shown since we’d arrived at Mohawk House.

  “I’d rather not,” I said. “If any of us knows something that might shed light on the murder, Detective Ladd is the appropriate person to share it with.”

  “That country bumpkin?” Chasseur said, punctuating his words with a sardonic laugh. “You might as well tell our waitress, or the redhead over there.” He nodded in Ms. Carlisle’s direction. “Hey, Boynton, you seem chummy with her.” He leaned toward Harold and asked, “What’s she like under that black dress?”

  Boynton ignored him, but I could see Chasseur’s arrogance was having its effect on the round Englishman. His face reddened, and a vein started pulsating in his neck.

  “Ah have a good idea,” Georgie said gleefully. “Why don’t all of us here at this table write down who we think killed the actor? The winner gets some sorta prize.”

  “Like what?” Chasseur said. “Another weekend at this dump?”

  Claudette spoke up again. “I would like to hear what Mrs. Fletcher has to say.”

  “What’s so special about her?” her husband asked.

  “Who do you think killed the actor?” she asked, lowering her sunglasses slightly on her nose and peering at me over them.

  Before I had a chance to reply, she said, “Mrs. Fletcher obviously knows how to investigate a murder. She’s done her homework and discovered that Paul Brody knew John and me in Hollywood.”

  “Shut up, Claudette,” Chasseur said.

  Claudette dismissed him and continued, “Paul and I were in a film together. John was one of a dozen so-called producers.”

  His face hardened.

  “John also knows that Paul and I had an affair—a brief fling, really.” She turned to her husband. “You did know that, didn’t you, darling?”

  “I told you to shut up,” he said.

  “That’s no way to speak to a lady,” Georgie Wick said, “especially one’s wife. Go on, Mrs. Chasseur. Ah find this fascinating.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Chasseur said, throwing his napkin down on the table and stalking away.

  “Why are you telling us this?” Boynton asked.

  “Because it will come out anyway, thanks to Mrs. Fletcher,” Claudette said. “John and I are now prime suspects. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “It does focus some extra light on you,” I said. “Did your affair with Paul Brody end badly?”

  A sly smile crossed her pretty lips. “No, not at all. I wasn’t angry with Paul—but John sure was.”

  An awkward silence descended on the table until I asked, “Did you know that Paul would be in the cast here this weekend?”

  “Yes. John told me.”

  “And did you want to see him again?”

  “No. John insisted I come, sort of a punishment. He’s always looking for ways to punish me.” She pushed back her chair, stood, leaned on the table, and said, “By the way, for all you sleuths, John wasn’t in the audience when Paul was killed.”

  “Where was he?” Boynton asked.

  “Probably out killing Paul,” she said. “See you at the play.”

  Georgie broke the silence that accompanied Claudette’s departure. “That is not a happy woman,” she said.

  “No surprise, married to an oaf like him,” said Boynton. “Excuse me.” He left the table and went to Ms. Carlisle, who had finished dinner and was drinking coffee. She extended her hand, which he kissed before taking a chair opposite her.

  “Looks like Harold is smitten,” I said.

  “Harold is smitten by every woman he meets, Jessica. Pay him no mind. He’s harmless and can be quite an entertaining traveling companion.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Ready to see the next act in the play?” she asked.

  “I think so,” I said. “But first, there’s someone I must speak with.”

  “Who might that be?” she asked. At that moment Detective Ladd entered the dining room. Georgie saw him and said, “Oh, ah see. I’ll bet you’re about to solve the case for him.”

  “I had something like that in mind,” I said. “Excuse me, Georgie. Save me a seat. I wouldn’t want to miss a minute of it.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Inspector Morse ranks among the most memorable

  characters created by British crime writers.

  Who introduced him to the reading public?

  I spent twenty minutes with Detective Ladd before leaving the dining room and going to the auditorium.

  Our conversation hadn’t been particularly fruitful, although I did have a chance to present him with some of my conclusions. I told him what I’d learned about John and Claudette Chasseur’s previous experience with Paul Brody, which he found especially interesting.

  “Sounds to me,” he’d said, “like you might have come up with the murderer.”

  It’s possible that either Mr. or Mrs. Chasseur killed Brody,” I said. “Motive is certainly present.”

  “The wife said her husband was probably out killing Brody?”

  “Yes, that’s what she said. But I considered it a flippant comment, not necessarily meaningful. What I can’t unravel is this.” I handed him the printout I’d made of Brody’s Web site.

  “What happened to the rest of it?” he asked. “Looks like it got cut off at the top.”

  “The hotel’s printer needs adjusting, but not much is lost. Go ahead and read.”

  He flipped through the pages, pausing at each of the photographs and shaking his head. He handed them back to me with a sour expression on his thin, angular face, “Well, I’ll be. The deceased dressed up in women’s clothing, huh? I’ve heard about people like that and always wondered why they do it.”

  “Presumably because they like to,” I said. “In Paul’s case, it’s how he made his living, at least part of the time. How long have you been with the police department?”

  “Be fourteen years this coming September, but a detective just a short time. I have to admit I never ran across any men who dress up like women, but I suppose that’s a big-city thing.”

  “Do you remember a theater called the Newsome?” I asked.

  “Sure. Used to be what they call a legitimate theater. It’s a movie house now. My wife and I used to go there to see traveling shows that came through, mostly musicals. My wife likes musicals. We saw some great ones, with real talented people.”

  “I’m sure you did. Do you happen to remember when Paul Brody was here one summer acting at the Newsome?”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “According to one of the hotel staff who’s been here a long time, Brody spent a summer here acting at the theater and doing odd jobs around town to make ends meet.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells for me,” he said.

  “It was worth asking. Getting back to the bio and the fact that Mr. Brody spent a good part of his acting career appearing as a female impersonator, my problem is that no one who knew him seems to be aware of that aspect of his career.”

&nbs
p; “Well, maybe it’s like him sneaking a smoke now and then. Doesn’t want others to know.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but I somehow think there’s a lot more to it than that. I have a request.”

  “What’s that, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you and some of your officers are present during the performance tonight.”

  He frowned.

  “Is that a problem?” I asked.

  “It’s just that once the plows free up the road, I’ve got to let some of my men get home and grab some sleep.”

  “I understand,” I said, “but I have a hunch that this evening’s performance could wrap up your investigation.”

  The frown disappeared, replaced by eyebrows raised into question marks. “I’ll be there,” he said, “and I’ll have a couple of my men with me.”

  “Thanks. That’s all I can ask.”

  “Care to tell me more?”

  “I’d love to, but I think it might be better to wait. Indulge me?”

  He grinned. “I wouldn’t think of doing anything else, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Despite having spent the time with Detective Ladd, I was early for the performance and had my choice of seats. Mr. and Mrs. Pomerantz were already there, seated in the front row. As usual, they were dressed alike, this time wearing matching dark blue button-down shirts and light blue cardigans. On the opposite side of the room was Claudette Chasseur, minus her husband. A sheet of paper announcing the remaining schedule, and promoting various services offered by Mohawk House, was on each chair. I read mine before pulling from my pocket the printout of Paul Brody’s Web site. There has to be an answer to this, I told myself, almost willing it to appear. This time, I read it from beginning to end, every line. It was on the last page that I found the answer. It was so simple, there in black and white had I taken the time to read all of the pages. What I was reading was not Paul Brody’s Web site. It was the Web site of an actor named Peter Brody.

  When I’d typed in Paul Brody’s name on Google, the search engine had brought up anything that mentioned his name. In this case, the final page of Peter Brody’s long bio contained the line: “He is the brother of another actor, Paul Brody.”