A Question of Murder Read Online Free

preparing for tonight’s performance. Maybe it’s the fog and the threat of snow, bringing out the worst in people, making them feel claustrophobic and trapped.
    I shrugged my shoulders to release the tension, and to dismiss the uneasy feeling I’d begun to develop about Mohawk House and the weekend. I glanced about the smokers’ vestibule, my eyes now used to the dim light. Had I had a dustpan and broom, I would have tidied up—my New England neatness genes coming to the fore. Instead, I ascended the staircase Paul had used to escape my presence and stepped into the warmth of the main hallway.
    At one end of the hallway was the lobby, where an inglenook welcomed guests in from the cold. A pair of benches flanked the blazing fire and drew some of those who were waiting to register for the long weekend. Once they signed in, they were directed to a table where team assignments were handed out along with a packet of written materials. The teams would compete with each other to solve the “murder” that would take place during the course of the festivities, staged as part of the play, of course. Unless guests traveled to Mohawk House together and had requested that they be on the same team of amateur sleuths, they were paired with others on a random basis to ensure equality in numbers.
    The other end of the long hallway in which I stood terminated in the dining area of the old building. I knew from experience that certain cast members would mingle at the tables and pretend to be guests, their true identity revealed only later in the play. The actors and actresses cast by the Savoys were amazingly adroit at concealing their true identities, and I’d marveled on more than one occasion at their skills, not only at playing their scripted roles in the show, but also at slipping into other, offstage personas. The guests were in for a weekend of fun, which I was sure would include more than one surprise.
    “Mrs. Fletcher?”
    I turned to see Mark Egmon approaching. Mark was Mohawk House’s manager of special events and theme programs, including the annual mystery weekends.
    “So glad I found you,” he said. “All settled in your room?”
    “Oh, yes,” I said. “It’s lovely. I especially appreciate the fireplace and the balcony. What a lovely view.”
    “I’m so glad you like it. It’s one of my favorite rooms.”
    “I imagine there are many wonderful rooms here.”
    “They’re all nice. That’s the official line,” he said with a wink and a smile. “But yours is part of the original structure and has some surprising features. I’m not going to tell you what they are. You’ll just have to discover them yourself.”
    “That sounds intriguing.”
    “Have you seen your books in our shop? Let me show you. The store manager has a nice touch. She used to be a window decorator.”
    He escorted me to a table in the gift store where my books, and those of the other authors in attendance, had been artfully arranged.
    “What a nice display,” I said, picking up John Chasseur’s latest thriller. “I bought this book last week,” I said, noting his signature on the title page. “Will you be having a book signing?”
    “Yes, but we are suggesting that the authors autograph some of their books in advance. If you have time, you can do it right now. Some guests will want to skip the author panel and book signing, but buy signed books anyway. Would you mind?”
    “Of course not.”
    He brought me a chair and hovered solicitously while I wrote the date, a greeting, and my name in two dozen copies of my new mystery. As I finished each one, the shop manager affixed a sticker on the book that said SIGNED BY AUTHOR and replaced it in the pile on the table.
    “That’s something else I can check off my list,” Mark said, walking me out of the shop. “Thank you so much.” At the door, his expression turned regretful. “Listen, I hate to put you on the spot,” he said, “but I was wondering whether you’ve had a