course.”
“Meet you downstairs? Mr. Egmon has given me a private room to use.”
“Fine.”
He was there when I arrived. “Have a seat,” he said. “Anybody from the press try to reach you tonight?”
“The press? No. Why do you ask?”
He twisted his torso against a pain in his neck or back, winced, and shook his head. “This is a funny town, Mrs. Fletcher. The leaders like to keep everything hush-hush, if you know what I mean.”
“Like a murder in its midst?” I said.
“You’ve got it,” he said. “Especially since it happened here at Mohawk House.”
“Why would that make a difference?”
“Clout. Seems like nine-tenths of the people in the town work here. The mayor, my boss, called me and said I was to keep it under wraps until things got resolved. As far as he’s concerned, having a murder splashed all over the newspapers and on the tube would be bad for business.”
I couldn’t help but smile, and thought that as far as murder mystery weekends went, having a real killing take place would add to their appeal, certainly to mystery buffs. But I didn’t challenge him. Instead, I asked, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you seem to be the biggest name here this weekend. The way I figure it, if the press wants to find out what’s going on at the hotel, they’ll be looking to interview someone like you.”
I started to protest his logic but he cut me off.
“Makes sense, doesn’t it? Get a famous mystery writer to give her impressions of what happened.”
I started to say something again, but he held up his hand. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I know that you can say and do anything you please. All I’m asking is that you consider keeping mum for a while. Not only that, but I have a feeling that you carry some weight with the others, the actors and actresses, the writers who are here with you, that sort of thing.”
I thought for a moment before saying, “I’ll be happy to avoid making statements to anyone outside the hotel, and I’ll do my best to convey your message to the Savoys, the cast, and the writers. But I can’t promise anything.”
“Sure, I know that.”
“I must say, though, that confiding in me about aspects of the murder places me in somewhat of an awkward position.”
“How so?”
I explained that some of the others were envious of what they perceived as my special treatment.
“You mean Mr. Chasseur.”
“For one.”
“He’s not my favorite guy, Mrs. Fletcher. I hear he’s been going around saying nasty things about me and my handling of this case.”
I didn’t respond.
“And that actor who plays the cop in the play, Carboroni? Turns out he used to be a cop in Philadelphia. He’s like my shadow, acting like he’s still the real thing.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m sure you’re used to dealing with difficult people. Have you questioned many of the guests yet?”
“Not as many as I’d like to, but I’ll get around to it. That Mrs. Wick”—he chuckled and shook his head—“she’s a real character, isn’t she?”
“She’s, ah—she’s different.”
“That’s what I meant, only you put it nicer. By the way, Mrs. Fletcher, what do you know about the deceased’s history, family, that sort of thing?”
“Absolutely nothing, I’m afraid.” I remembered what Victoria had said about Paul Brody being older than he looked, and mentioned that to Ladd, who noted it on a small notepad. “And he evidently spent time in Hollywood,” I added, “at least according to Victoria, the actress who plays the mother in the show, and Larry Savoy.”
“Mr. Savoy is getting me information so we can notify his next-of-kin. Not my favorite job, let me tell you.”
“I would think not,” I said. “Well, are we finished?”
“For now. I just want you to know how much I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I’m only too happy to help.”
“Yeah,” he said, walking me to the door, “I need all the help I can get, this being
“Meet you downstairs? Mr. Egmon has given me a private room to use.”
“Fine.”
He was there when I arrived. “Have a seat,” he said. “Anybody from the press try to reach you tonight?”
“The press? No. Why do you ask?”
He twisted his torso against a pain in his neck or back, winced, and shook his head. “This is a funny town, Mrs. Fletcher. The leaders like to keep everything hush-hush, if you know what I mean.”
“Like a murder in its midst?” I said.
“You’ve got it,” he said. “Especially since it happened here at Mohawk House.”
“Why would that make a difference?”
“Clout. Seems like nine-tenths of the people in the town work here. The mayor, my boss, called me and said I was to keep it under wraps until things got resolved. As far as he’s concerned, having a murder splashed all over the newspapers and on the tube would be bad for business.”
I couldn’t help but smile, and thought that as far as murder mystery weekends went, having a real killing take place would add to their appeal, certainly to mystery buffs. But I didn’t challenge him. Instead, I asked, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you seem to be the biggest name here this weekend. The way I figure it, if the press wants to find out what’s going on at the hotel, they’ll be looking to interview someone like you.”
I started to protest his logic but he cut me off.
“Makes sense, doesn’t it? Get a famous mystery writer to give her impressions of what happened.”
I started to say something again, but he held up his hand. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I know that you can say and do anything you please. All I’m asking is that you consider keeping mum for a while. Not only that, but I have a feeling that you carry some weight with the others, the actors and actresses, the writers who are here with you, that sort of thing.”
I thought for a moment before saying, “I’ll be happy to avoid making statements to anyone outside the hotel, and I’ll do my best to convey your message to the Savoys, the cast, and the writers. But I can’t promise anything.”
“Sure, I know that.”
“I must say, though, that confiding in me about aspects of the murder places me in somewhat of an awkward position.”
“How so?”
I explained that some of the others were envious of what they perceived as my special treatment.
“You mean Mr. Chasseur.”
“For one.”
“He’s not my favorite guy, Mrs. Fletcher. I hear he’s been going around saying nasty things about me and my handling of this case.”
I didn’t respond.
“And that actor who plays the cop in the play, Carboroni? Turns out he used to be a cop in Philadelphia. He’s like my shadow, acting like he’s still the real thing.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m sure you’re used to dealing with difficult people. Have you questioned many of the guests yet?”
“Not as many as I’d like to, but I’ll get around to it. That Mrs. Wick”—he chuckled and shook his head—“she’s a real character, isn’t she?”
“She’s, ah—she’s different.”
“That’s what I meant, only you put it nicer. By the way, Mrs. Fletcher, what do you know about the deceased’s history, family, that sort of thing?”
“Absolutely nothing, I’m afraid.” I remembered what Victoria had said about Paul Brody being older than he looked, and mentioned that to Ladd, who noted it on a small notepad. “And he evidently spent time in Hollywood,” I added, “at least according to Victoria, the actress who plays the mother in the show, and Larry Savoy.”
“Mr. Savoy is getting me information so we can notify his next-of-kin. Not my favorite job, let me tell you.”
“I would think not,” I said. “Well, are we finished?”
“For now. I just want you to know how much I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I’m only too happy to help.”
“Yeah,” he said, walking me to the door, “I need all the help I can get, this being
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