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dead, or had merely been wounded. That possibility, coupled with the blizzard raging outside, might keep the killer from leaving. The only road leading up to Mohawk House was at least four miles long and full of hairpin turns, steep inclines, and dangerous drop-offs.
    The minute they saw me emerge from backstage, they converged and asked whether it was true that someone had been shot to death.
    I held up my hands. “There’s been an unfortunate accident with one of the cast members,” I said, working hard to sustain calm in my voice. “An ambulance has been called for. The police have been summoned, and I suggest we all stay away from this area until they arrive.”
    The questions flew: “Is he dead?” “Do they have the gun?” “Do they have the shooter?” “Has it really happened, or is this part of the play?”
    One woman shook her finger at me and said, “You naughty devil, Jessica Fletcher. You’re just saying what you’re supposed to say as part of the play. You don’t fool me.”
    I was happy to see Mark Egmon enter the room. I excused myself and went over to him.
    “The police are on their way,” Mark told me, “provided they can get up the road.” He kept his voice low to avoid being overheard. “And I spoke with a couple of the management team members about how to handle this. We’re scheduled to meet again in a half hour to formulate plans. What’s going on backstage?”
    “Nothing for you to be concerned about, Mark. I’ll certainly feel better when the police arrive and secure the crime scene. It’s already been contaminated.”
    “By whom?”
    “It doesn’t matter. In the meantime, you might consider clearing this room. When the police arrive, they—”
    The doors opened and two uniformed officers entered. Following behind them was a young man wearing a heavy red and black plaid wool jacket, jeans, a fur hat of the sort seen on Russian Cossacks, and pale yellow ankle-high boots. He brushed snow from his shoulders and arms and introduced himself as Detective Dwayne Ladd.
    “Where’s the deceased?” the officer in the plaid wool jacket asked in a nasal voice.
    “On the stage, behind the curtains,” Egmon said, pointing at the stairs.
    There was a gasp from one of the audience members. A woman standing close enough to hear started to cry. Her friend consoled her. “For heaven’s sakes, Gertrude. This is still part of the play. Don’t you see? No real detective looks like that.”
    “You think?” The sniffling woman looked the detective up and down, and smiled at her companion.
    “Get them out of here,” the detective said.
    Mark Egmon ushered the few stragglers in the auditorium out the back door, consoling them in comforting tones, answering questions diplomatically, and reassuring them that they were safe at the hotel. I stayed back, trying to catch the detective’s attention.
    As the police walked toward the stage, I called after them, “Excuse me, Detective.”
    He stopped, turned. “Yes?”
    “It might be a good idea to seal off the hotel.”
    He cocked his head and squinted, as though trying to bring something fuzzy into focus. “Who are you?” he asked.
    “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I don’t mean to intrude, but whoever did the shooting may be planning to leave the premises. That could have happened already, I admit, but it would be prudent to take precautions in any event.”
    His squint was accompanied by a frown, which rendered his face prunelike. For a moment, I thought he might lash out at me for injecting myself into what was his bailiwick. Instead, his face softened almost into a smile. “Good suggestion, Mrs.—what did you say your name was?”
    “Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher.”
    “The mystery writer?”
    “Yes. I—”
    “You’re here for this mystery weekend, right? I saw your picture in the paper.”
    “That’s right, but aren’t we wasting valuable time discussing this?”
    The squint and frown returned. He turned to the uniformed