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Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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officers and said, “Get outside and make sure nobody leaves the hotel. Get some backup here and cover every exit. And do it fast before we get enough snow to close the mountain road.”
“There’s a downstairs door in the rear that leads outside,” I called to the officers’ backs as they exited the room.
Detective Ladd walked to the stairs leading to the stage. After a moment’s debate, I decided to follow, but observed from a distance as the detective encountered my writing colleagues and Larry Savoy, who had returned backstage.
Ladd removed Monroe’s smoking jacket, and bent down on one knee to observe the victim and his wound at close range. He stood. “When did the shooting take place?”
Larry stepped forward. “A half hour ago maybe,” he said, introducing himself and proceeding to fill Ladd in on the details of what had occurred.
“He was supposed to get shot in the play,” Chasseur put in.
“It’s written into the script,” Georgie Wick added. “The gun’s only supposed to shoot blanks.”
“Are you all in the cast?” Ladd asked. “You look familiar.”
Chasseur pointed to his T-shirt and the illustration depicting the cover of his latest novel. “John Chasseur, best-selling novelist.”
“You write the Agent Benny series,” Ladd said. “I’ve heard of you.”
Chasseur faked a modest smile.
Ladd looked at Georgie. “Are you a writer, too?”
She gave a small, uncertain smile. “GSB Wick. You’ve probably never heard of me.”
He pointed at her and squinted. “Yeah,” he said. “I know the name. And weren’t you on Regis once?”
She looked relieved. “Yes, and the Today show, too.”
He swept a hand around the stage, his gaze going from face to face. “You’re all here for the mystery weekend, huh? Isn’t that ironic? Murder mystery writers. And now you have a real murder instead of the ones you make up.” He paused. “Interesting.”
Lawrence Savoy cleared his throat.
“Right,” Ladd said to him. “You’re the producer. You have the gun?”
“No, but I called my wife on my cell phone a few minutes ago. She’ll bring it.”
Ladd became aware that I was standing behind him. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “you seem to know a lot about what happened here.”
“Oh, no,” I said, closing the gap between us. “I hope you weren’t offended that I injected myself the way I did, but it seemed to me that—”
“It’s okay,” the detective said. “You were right.”
“What did she tell you?” Chasseur demanded. “She doesn’t know any more than the rest of us. We were watching the play, too. Our powers of observation are every bit as good as hers.”
“Of course, I’m not as experienced with violent crime as my distinguished colleagues,” Georgie said, “but I’ll be happy to tell you what I saw.”
I hadn’t realized till then that Chasseur, and Georgie to a lesser extent, was competing with me for Detective Ladd’s attention. Fortunately, at that moment Melinda Savoy came from the opposite side of the stage, accompanied by the young woman who’d tried to keep guests from invading the stage that afternoon. All eyes turned in their direction. Melinda carried a handgun, holding it by her fingertips as far away from her body as possible, as though it might bite. She handed the weapon to Detective Ladd, who pulled a handkerchief from his pocket before touching it.
“Is that the murder weapon?” Georgie asked before Ladd could get a word out.
“No,” Melinda replied. “I mean, it’s a stage prop. It makes noise, but we only shoot blanks.”
“Then you don’t have to bother worrying about fingerprints with that thing,” Chasseur said.
“So, where’s the weapon that shot a real bullet into the victim?” Ladd asked Melinda.
She shrugged and looked at Larry, who did the same thing.
“Who are you?” Georgie asked the young woman with Melinda.
“Laura Tehaar. I’m in charge of props and costumes.”
“And?” Chasseur
“There’s a downstairs door in the rear that leads outside,” I called to the officers’ backs as they exited the room.
Detective Ladd walked to the stairs leading to the stage. After a moment’s debate, I decided to follow, but observed from a distance as the detective encountered my writing colleagues and Larry Savoy, who had returned backstage.
Ladd removed Monroe’s smoking jacket, and bent down on one knee to observe the victim and his wound at close range. He stood. “When did the shooting take place?”
Larry stepped forward. “A half hour ago maybe,” he said, introducing himself and proceeding to fill Ladd in on the details of what had occurred.
“He was supposed to get shot in the play,” Chasseur put in.
“It’s written into the script,” Georgie Wick added. “The gun’s only supposed to shoot blanks.”
“Are you all in the cast?” Ladd asked. “You look familiar.”
Chasseur pointed to his T-shirt and the illustration depicting the cover of his latest novel. “John Chasseur, best-selling novelist.”
“You write the Agent Benny series,” Ladd said. “I’ve heard of you.”
Chasseur faked a modest smile.
Ladd looked at Georgie. “Are you a writer, too?”
She gave a small, uncertain smile. “GSB Wick. You’ve probably never heard of me.”
He pointed at her and squinted. “Yeah,” he said. “I know the name. And weren’t you on Regis once?”
She looked relieved. “Yes, and the Today show, too.”
He swept a hand around the stage, his gaze going from face to face. “You’re all here for the mystery weekend, huh? Isn’t that ironic? Murder mystery writers. And now you have a real murder instead of the ones you make up.” He paused. “Interesting.”
Lawrence Savoy cleared his throat.
“Right,” Ladd said to him. “You’re the producer. You have the gun?”
“No, but I called my wife on my cell phone a few minutes ago. She’ll bring it.”
Ladd became aware that I was standing behind him. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “you seem to know a lot about what happened here.”
“Oh, no,” I said, closing the gap between us. “I hope you weren’t offended that I injected myself the way I did, but it seemed to me that—”
“It’s okay,” the detective said. “You were right.”
“What did she tell you?” Chasseur demanded. “She doesn’t know any more than the rest of us. We were watching the play, too. Our powers of observation are every bit as good as hers.”
“Of course, I’m not as experienced with violent crime as my distinguished colleagues,” Georgie said, “but I’ll be happy to tell you what I saw.”
I hadn’t realized till then that Chasseur, and Georgie to a lesser extent, was competing with me for Detective Ladd’s attention. Fortunately, at that moment Melinda Savoy came from the opposite side of the stage, accompanied by the young woman who’d tried to keep guests from invading the stage that afternoon. All eyes turned in their direction. Melinda carried a handgun, holding it by her fingertips as far away from her body as possible, as though it might bite. She handed the weapon to Detective Ladd, who pulled a handkerchief from his pocket before touching it.
“Is that the murder weapon?” Georgie asked before Ladd could get a word out.
“No,” Melinda replied. “I mean, it’s a stage prop. It makes noise, but we only shoot blanks.”
“Then you don’t have to bother worrying about fingerprints with that thing,” Chasseur said.
“So, where’s the weapon that shot a real bullet into the victim?” Ladd asked Melinda.
She shrugged and looked at Larry, who did the same thing.
“Who are you?” Georgie asked the young woman with Melinda.
“Laura Tehaar. I’m in charge of props and costumes.”
“And?” Chasseur
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