A Question of Murder Read Online Free Page A

chance to come up with your first question.”
    “As a matter of fact, I have it right here,” I said, reaching into my pocket and extracting a slip of paper. “I have the others in my room.”
    He adjusted half-glasses and read the question I had written down.
    “Perfect,” he said. “Nothing like Dame Agatha to get things rolling. I have to run now. See you at dinner.”
    I watched him bound down the hallway and smiled, satisfied that he’d been pleased at the question I’d come up with. When I accepted the invitation to be on the writers’ panel, I was told that each panelist was expected to come up with a series of questions that would be presented to the guests over the course of the weekend. Lawrence Savoy would read the questions before the start of each performance, and the audience members were to write their answers on a card provided in their packets of written materials. The person with the most correct answers would receive a free weekend at the resort. The cards would be collected at each performance to avoid having someone retreat to his or her room and consult a book or go on the Internet.
    I’d agonized over the questions before leaving Cabot Cove. Aware that there would be many knowledgeable mystery lovers in the audience, I didn’t want my questions to be overly simplistic. At the same time, I wanted to avoid getting too esoteric for those whose knowledge was marginal. My instructions were to start with a relatively easy question and make each one progressively harder. The one I’d given Mark Egmon had to do with the first appearance of Agatha Christie’s Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot. Simple enough, I thought, for Christie devotees, but perhaps not so easy for less widely read mystery fans.
    My thoughts about the question were interrupted by the sound of an altercation in the lobby. Angry words carried above the general drone of people talking. They drew me down the hall, where I witnessed what was happening. A middle-aged woman standing in the registration line shouted at a tall, redheaded woman dressed all in black, including a black lace veil. “Go to the back of the line. You can’t just cut in front of me.”
    “I beg your pardon. I did not cut in. A lady wouldn’t do such a thing, and I am above all a lady,” the redhead retorted in the raspy, high-pitched voice often associated with heavy smokers. She towered over the other woman.
    “You did cut in on us,” a man, presumably the other woman’s husband, told the redhead. Short and round, with his fists resting on his hips, he reminded me of a little teapot as he glared up into her face.
    The redhead looked down at the couple. “If I offended you,” she said, “I certainly didn’t intend to. But I suggest that you temper your—temper.” She giggled and flounced away, looking back and wiggling her fingers at the couple.
    I hope they don’t end up on the same team, I thought as I ambled down the hall to the elevators and pushed the UP button. The elevator arrived and I entered the empty car. The doors were nearly closed when an arm, draped in black, was thrust through the narrow opening.
    “Good heavens,” I said, darting forward, searching the panel for the DOOR OPEN button, but the arm had accomplished the same task. “I’m sorry,” I said, as the door slid back to reveal the redheaded woman. “I didn’t see you coming or I would have held it.”
    “That’s all right, dearie,” she said, peering at me from under the veil. She whirled around to face the door, her ankle-length black skirt following her. Her arm shot out and I saw the button for the third floor light up.
    With her back to me, her face was concealed, but I couldn’t help but smile. She was probably one of Melinda Savoy’s creations. Melinda reveled in throwing mysterious characters into the mix, characters who might never appear onstage but who would capture the attention of the guests and be linked to the solution in the end, most likely in