my first murder investigation.”
Chapter Twelve
Clint Eastwood starred in the film version of
Firefox , penned by a leading British thriller writer.
Who is he?
I felt for the young lawman as I watched him walk away. His first murder investigation certainly wasn’t going to be easy, no matter how much help he might receive.
I admired his honesty. Many macho policemen wouldn’t have admitted to being a novice, particularly to a woman who’d injected herself into their business from the start. Until Detective Ladd’s revelation that he’d never investigated a homicide, I’d found myself anxious to get to the bottom of who’d killed Paul Brody. That’s my nature, I suppose, built into the genes. But now I had an even greater incentive, and I wanted to do everything I could to aid Detective Ladd.
I considered dropping by the late-night rehearsal that was now under way but decided instead to explore portions of Mohawk House I hadn’t seen yet. As I passed the main check-in desk, one of the staff on duty, an older man, stopped me.
“Anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“Thank you, no,” I said. “Just taking a self-conducted tour of this grand old lady of a building.”
He laughed. “We’re just hoping this grand old lady will weather the storm.”
“Have you heard the latest forecast?” I asked.
“Sure have. They keep upping the snowfall totals. They’re calling it the worst March storm in the area’s history. Could be up to four feet, they say.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “How unfortunate for the guests this weekend.”
He motioned me closer to the desk. “You’re Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in a low voice.
“Yes.”
He looked past me to where two uniformed officers stood just inside the front door. He lowered his voice even more and asked, “Is it true that one of the actors was murdered? I mean really murdered?”
“I’m not sure what happened,” I said. “There was an accident and—”
“I heard he was murdered,” he said with conviction.
“Until the police decide to release information,” I said, “it’s probably best for everyone to go about their business and try not to speculate.”
He glanced over at a young colleague who was busy doing paperwork at the opposite end of the long desk. “Lorraine says she thinks the killer is still here. She and some of the others wanted to leave, but the snow made it impossible. You can’t make it down the mountain in this weather. You’ll end up dead just like him, if he’s really dead. I can’t believe it was Mr. Brody.”
“ ‘Mr. Brody’? You sound as though you knew him.”
“Oh, yes. Not well, but he used to come here with his family.”
“How long ago?” I asked.
“Oh, years and years ago. Little scamps, those boys were, that’s for sure, always running around, playing make-believe, that sort of thing. His brother’s name was Peter. I remember that because whenever I saw them together, I thought of having to rob Peter to pay Paul.” He chuckled. “You could tell they were from a theatrical family. Lots of imagination. They loved finding secret places in the building—and believe me, we have plenty of those.” He shook his head, smiling. “I remember one time they got stuck in an abandoned stairwell and started screaming for help. They’d found their way there, but couldn’t figure out how to get back.”
“You said it was a theatrical family. What did the parents do?”
“The father was a producer. Theater, I believe, more than motion pictures, although I think he was involved in that, too. Very wealthy guy, made his money in pharmaceuticals, I think. The mother had been a showgirl. Nice-looking woman.”
“Did you speak with the son this weekend?” I asked.
“Oh yes, had a brief chat with him. Very brief. I said I remembered him from when the family vacationed here, and when he’d spent a summer in the area.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Not exactly certain.” He
Chapter Twelve
Clint Eastwood starred in the film version of
Firefox , penned by a leading British thriller writer.
Who is he?
I felt for the young lawman as I watched him walk away. His first murder investigation certainly wasn’t going to be easy, no matter how much help he might receive.
I admired his honesty. Many macho policemen wouldn’t have admitted to being a novice, particularly to a woman who’d injected herself into their business from the start. Until Detective Ladd’s revelation that he’d never investigated a homicide, I’d found myself anxious to get to the bottom of who’d killed Paul Brody. That’s my nature, I suppose, built into the genes. But now I had an even greater incentive, and I wanted to do everything I could to aid Detective Ladd.
I considered dropping by the late-night rehearsal that was now under way but decided instead to explore portions of Mohawk House I hadn’t seen yet. As I passed the main check-in desk, one of the staff on duty, an older man, stopped me.
“Anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“Thank you, no,” I said. “Just taking a self-conducted tour of this grand old lady of a building.”
He laughed. “We’re just hoping this grand old lady will weather the storm.”
“Have you heard the latest forecast?” I asked.
“Sure have. They keep upping the snowfall totals. They’re calling it the worst March storm in the area’s history. Could be up to four feet, they say.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “How unfortunate for the guests this weekend.”
He motioned me closer to the desk. “You’re Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in a low voice.
“Yes.”
He looked past me to where two uniformed officers stood just inside the front door. He lowered his voice even more and asked, “Is it true that one of the actors was murdered? I mean really murdered?”
“I’m not sure what happened,” I said. “There was an accident and—”
“I heard he was murdered,” he said with conviction.
“Until the police decide to release information,” I said, “it’s probably best for everyone to go about their business and try not to speculate.”
He glanced over at a young colleague who was busy doing paperwork at the opposite end of the long desk. “Lorraine says she thinks the killer is still here. She and some of the others wanted to leave, but the snow made it impossible. You can’t make it down the mountain in this weather. You’ll end up dead just like him, if he’s really dead. I can’t believe it was Mr. Brody.”
“ ‘Mr. Brody’? You sound as though you knew him.”
“Oh, yes. Not well, but he used to come here with his family.”
“How long ago?” I asked.
“Oh, years and years ago. Little scamps, those boys were, that’s for sure, always running around, playing make-believe, that sort of thing. His brother’s name was Peter. I remember that because whenever I saw them together, I thought of having to rob Peter to pay Paul.” He chuckled. “You could tell they were from a theatrical family. Lots of imagination. They loved finding secret places in the building—and believe me, we have plenty of those.” He shook his head, smiling. “I remember one time they got stuck in an abandoned stairwell and started screaming for help. They’d found their way there, but couldn’t figure out how to get back.”
“You said it was a theatrical family. What did the parents do?”
“The father was a producer. Theater, I believe, more than motion pictures, although I think he was involved in that, too. Very wealthy guy, made his money in pharmaceuticals, I think. The mother had been a showgirl. Nice-looking woman.”
“Did you speak with the son this weekend?” I asked.
“Oh yes, had a brief chat with him. Very brief. I said I remembered him from when the family vacationed here, and when he’d spent a summer in the area.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Not exactly certain.” He
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