Much Ado About Murder

  Also Available by Elizabeth J. Duncan

  Shakespeare in the Catskills Mysteries:

  Ill Met by Murder

  Untimely Death

  Penny Brannigan Mysteries:

  Murder Is for Keeps

  Murder on the Hour

  Slated for Death

  Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By

  A Small Hill to Die On

  A Killer’s Christmas in Wales

  A Brush With Death

  The Cold Light of Mourning

  Much Ado About Murder

  A Shakespeare in the Catskills Mystery

  Elizabeth J. Duncan

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by copyright Elizabeth J. Duncan

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-325-0

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-326-7

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-328-1

  Cover illustration by Ben Perini

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First Edition: November 2017

  For Sheila Fletcher

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Car arriving now. Charlotte Fairfax read the text out loud to her companion and added, “They’re here. Show time.”

  Paula Van Dusen adjusted the curtains one last time, allowing a wider band of late afternoon sunlight to spill into the sitting room and illuminate the vase of exuberant pink-and-white roses cut from her own garden that she had carefully positioned on the mahogany side table. After ensuring the silver spoons on the tea tray were lined up precisely, she took a deep breath, stepped back, and surveyed the room.

  “I hope they like it.”

  “They’d better,” Charlotte replied. “And I can’t see why they wouldn’t.”

  The two women, who had spent the afternoon arranging furniture and putting the finishing touches on their redecoration project, closed the door of the star bungalow and fell into step on the path that led to the front entrance of Jacobs Grand Hotel.

  “Do you think it was wise to bring Rupert?” Paula Van Dusen asked, referring to the tricolor corgi trotting along between them. “What if she doesn’t like dogs?”

  “Of course she likes dogs,” Charlotte replied. “She’s English.”

  “Well, being English yourself, you should know,” replied Paula.

  They reached the graveled drop-off area in front of the hotel to find Harvey Jacobs, the hotel’s third-generation owner, standing at the top of the white-stuccoed steps. Wearing an old-fashioned three-piece suit, his thumbs tucked in the pockets of the pinstripe vest that strained across his well-upholstered stomach, he shifted his weight from one small foot to the other.

  He acknowledged the two women as they took their places on a lower step, and a moment later, a gleaming burgundy Rolls-Royce glided to a slow stop in front of them. The little welcoming party waited while the chauffeur emerged from the driver’s seat, opened the rear door closest to them, and stood to one side, touching the visor of his gray cap. A long leg clad in a black stocking and a sleek black pump emerged from the back seat, followed by the other leg and then the rest of an elegant woman. When she was out of the car, the chauffeur ambled around the back of the vehicle and opened the other passenger door for the last occupant, a short woman who wore her gray hair in a trim pageboy style. Her mouth drooped at the corners, accentuated by a sagging jawline, giving her a stern, unintended contemptuous look. She wore dark shapeless trousers and a pale-blue cardigan, with a beige raincoat draped over her left arm. In her right hand, she held a battered brown leather briefcase.

  When the new arrivals were standing together beside the car, Paula Van Dusen stepped forward and extended her hand to the first woman. In her early fifties, Paula wore her dark hair pulled back in a tidy chignon. Her complexion was smooth and unlined, and she looked like the kind of woman who could wear red lipstick until the end of her days. She carried herself with an air of confident authority, as if she was used to asking for what she wanted in a way that was polite but firm and always got the result she expected.

  “Miss Ashley. Hello. I’m Paula Van Dusen, chairperson of the board of directors of the Catskills Shakespeare Theater Company, and it’s my very great pleasure to welcome you. Our cast and crew are so looking forward to working with you.”

  “Thank you,” Audrey Ashley replied in a clipped, precise English accent. “And may I introduce my sister and manager, Maxine Kaminski.”

  Paula held out her hand to the other woman. “I hope you had a good journey from London. It’s a long flight. You must both be exhausted.”

  “It has been a long day,” Audrey Ashley acknowledged, “especially when you factor in the five-hour time difference.”

  “Of course.” Paula Van Dusen gestured to her companion, who took a step forward. “And now I’d like you to meet Charlotte Fairfax, our company’s costume designer.”

  When the women had greeted one another, Paula Van Dusen indicated to the man on the steps that it was his turn to be introduced. “And this is Harvey Jacobs, owner of the hotel.”

  “Miss Ashley,” gushed Harvey, descending the stairs nimbly, considering his weight. “Welcome to Jacobs Grand Hotel. We hope you’ll be very happy during your stay here with us.” He nodded at her companion. “And you too, of course, Miss, er . . .” His words trailed off and ended in an embarrassed little cough.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind,” Audrey Ashley replied, turning her gaze to the white-frame building behind him. Her head tilted back slightly as her eyes roamed upward over the three stories.

  She then directed her wide-set blue-violet eyes to Charlotte’s corgi.

  “And who’s this?” She bent over and gave the dog a friendly pat. Over Audrey’s head of frosty-blonde curls, Charlotte threw Paula Van Dusen a rather smug I-told-you-so glance.

  “That’s Rupert,” she said. Rupert waggled his bottom in his usual friendly fashion.

  “Oh, what a lovely little fellow.” Audrey straightened up. “And now, if you wouldn’t mind showing us to our suite, please. I must admit, I am rather starting to fade.”

  “You’ll be staying in our star bungalow,” Harvey said. “We’ll
have your bags delivered in just a few minutes. These ladies will be happy to take you there now and help you get settled in.”

  “Oh, a bungalow! How charming. Like at the Beverly Hills Hotel, you mean?” she asked, referring to the famous Los Angeles hotel where the grounds were dotted with hillside and poolside bungalows, and the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, and Richard Burton had partied.

  “Yes, well, sort of.” Harvey ran a pudgy finger around his sweaty collar. “I guess you could say that.”

  As Paula, Maxine, and Audrey set off for the bungalow, he hissed to Charlotte, “Have you seen Aaron? He was meant to be here to help with the arrival of the star actress.”

  “He must be nearby,” Charlotte said. “He sent me a text letting me know they’d arrived, and since you’re here, you must have got the text from him as well.”

  “When I get my hands on that boy . . .”

  “Never mind that now. You’ve got to calm down,” said Charlotte. “Look, here he comes,” she added, tipping her head in the direction of the wooded parkland adjacent to the hotel. “There’s no problem, so don’t make this into one. Paula’s more than capable of looking after Audrey and Maxine for a few minutes.”

  Slightly out of breath, Aaron lurched to a stop beside Charlotte and his uncle. Aaron was in his early twenties and had a head of dark curly hair and unremarkable but pleasant features. He had studied fashion design at Parsons in New York City but, after interning with Charlotte, had decided to pursue a career in costume design.

  “Did you want me to carry the bags to the bungalow?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said his uncle. “That’s the general idea.” The chauffeur, who was staring into the trunk of his vehicle, breathed a sigh of relief when Aaron materialized and easily lifted four pieces of matching luggage in a timeless brown pattern and two plain black suitcases out of the car and set them on the gravel.

  “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’d best get back inside,” Harvey said. “No point in hanging ’round here. Nancy’s got plenty of things lined up to keep me busy for the rest of the day.” He disappeared into the hotel, and Charlotte turned her attention to Paula Van Dusen’s chauffeur, Barnes.

  Tall and thin, he carried himself with a shoulders-back, no-nonsense posture that hinted at a military background. Although his employer had told him several times he could wear a plain dark suit, he proudly opted to remain in the traditional gray chauffeur’s uniform with the double row of gold buttons that started wide at the shoulders and tapered as they descended toward the bottom of the jacket. A small gray mustache clung to his upper lip with the tenacity of an elderly centipede. His eyes were hidden behind dark-green aviator sunglasses.

  “Barnes, I don’t know how much longer Mrs. Van Dusen will be. So it might be best if you parked around the side of the hotel, and if you go inside to the staff cafeteria, they’ll be happy to give you a cup of coffee while you wait for her,” Charlotte said.

  “A piece of pie wouldn’t go amiss. This hotel used to serve the best homemade pies in the Catskills. People came from all over to have a piece of pie and a cup of coffee in the little coffee shop they had.” Barnes let out a resigned sigh. “Long gone, of course. But then nothing nowadays is as good as it used to be.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be happy to give you a piece of pie or cake, or whatever they’ve got,” Charlotte assured him.

  Barnes climbed back in the car, and as he drove slowly off, Aaron set the two black suitcases beside the stairs, picked up the two brown ones, and with Charlotte in charge of the matching carryall and beauty case, they set off down the path to the star bungalow.

  In the hotel’s heyday, the three bungalows in the grounds were occupied by vacationing families, but two were now home to members of the Catskills Shakespeare Theater Company: Charlotte and her partner, Ray, lived in one, and the second was included in the contract of the director, currently Simon Dyer. The third, known as the star bungalow, provided on-site accommodation for the season’s star performer.

  The star performer position was filled by a British actor or actress who still had several seasons of good performances ahead of them but was no longer the box office draw in the United Kingdom they had once been. On this side of the Atlantic, however, with the cachet of a polished British accent, they had box office clout. The previous star, who had been forced to return home to England for medical treatment, had suggested as his replacement an actress whose long and distinguished career had undergone a huge boost over the past few years when she portrayed a crusty dowager in a popular television costume drama. But concerned about the travel and time away from home, she had declined, recommending a colleague who had played a scheming servant in the same series.

  The Catskills Shakespeare Theater Company normally performed three plays per season: two comedies and one tragedy. The spring and summer seasons had seen Romeo and Juliet, King Lear, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream in repertoire. However, with the departure of the lead actor, it had been decided that the company would drop all three plays from the fall schedule and replace them with an exclusive run of Much Ado About Nothing.

  And so, Audrey Ashley had agreed to play the part of Beatrice in Much Ado. A seasoned performer in her midforties who had enjoyed great popularity as a child actress, she had transitioned successfully into adult roles, and although she had timed out of playing some of the more youthful of Shakespeare’s female roles and was at the outer edge of others, with soft lighting and a well-designed costume, she could still take on many of the best parts. Theater audiences, after all, agree at every performance to suspend disbelief and to believe the unbelievable.

  Charlotte knocked on the door of the star bungalow, and a moment later, Paula Van Dusen answered it.

  “You can leave the bags just there,” Paula Van Dusen instructed Aaron as he and Charlotte entered the kitchen. “Thank you. Charlotte and I can manage from here.” Aaron set the suitcases down, and Charlotte indicated he should return to the hotel to fetch the remaining luggage.

  Charlotte picked up two large suitcases, carried them through the sitting room, and deposited them in the larger of the two bedrooms. Over the past three weeks, the bungalow had undergone a complete but somewhat unintentional refurbishment, as a bit of freshening up had led to a complete makeover.

  Paula Van Dusen had sent workers from Oakland, her magnificent estate located a few miles outside town, to smarten everything up. Old flooring had been ripped up and new carpets and hardwood flooring laid, and a new kitchen and bathroom installed. The property had been painted inside and out, and clean, bright rooms were now filled with new, comfortable furniture.

  Fortunately, Paula Van Dusen knew a lot of tradesmen and had called in so many favors that almost all the goods and services had been donated. And she herself had loaned one or two pieces of fine furniture and artwork to dress the sitting room.

  Although the work had been done under pressure to ensure the rooms were ready for Audrey’s arrival, Paula Van Dusen had seen to it that the work had been done right.

  “You did a great job overseeing this project, Paula,” Charlotte said when Paula appeared in the bedroom doorway with the lighter bags. She set them down and crossed to the window.

  “It would have been better if we’d had a couple of days to air everything out,” Paula said. “The smell of the paint and new carpet is almost overpowering.” She unlocked the newly installed window and opened it. It slid easily along in its track, and a warm blast of late summer air drifted in. Charlotte ran a smoothing hand over the new coverlet on the queen-sized bed, and the two women returned to the sitting room.

  Having slipped off her shoes, Audrey had settled herself in the sitting room, and thanks to the restorative properties of Earl Grey tea, had perked up a little. The plate of Scottish shortbread biscuits on the tea table remained untouched. Maxine hovered near her, ready to relieve her of the cup and saucer.

  “I hope you aren’t allergic to paint or carpeting,” Paula commented. “Th
at awful chemical smell they give off when they’re new really bothers some people. Unfortunately, we were working to a very tight deadline, and there wasn’t time to get the place aired out properly.” Audrey handed her empty cup to Maxine and sank back into the comfort of the new dove-gray sofa. After lifting her stockinged feet onto the ottoman, she reclined fully, motionless, with her eyes closed.

  “The smell is rather noticeable,” she said, “but I can live with it. I expect we’ll get used to it, and besides, it should go away soon.” Her eyes remained closed. They had been expertly made up, with a light touch of blended mauve eye shadow, brown eyeliner, and mascara so finely applied it was difficult to tell whether she was wearing false eyelashes. Her brows were beautifully shaped. She’s older than she looks, Charlotte thought. And she’s definitely had a little work done around the eyes, and maybe the jawline. But it was well done, subtle, and whoever had done it had known when to stop. The result took ten years off her.

  “Well, we’ll leave you to settle in,” Charlotte said. “There’s a house phone on the end table, and my number is right beside it. Just dial the four digits if you need me. I’m in the bungalow nearest the hotel. It’s the first one we passed on the way here. Oh, and we’ve got in a few groceries for you . . . milk, butter, coffee, cheese, eggs, strawberries, bread . . . that sort of thing, so you can make yourself a light supper. Or, if you prefer, you can ring the hotel and they’ll send something over.”

  Audrey’s eyelids fluttered open. “Thank you. I’d like a bath and then a quiet evening and early night. I expect I’ll be meeting the director tomorrow, and we can start discussing how he envisions my role.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Charlotte. “I should have explained that to you. Our director, Simon Dyer, asked me to pass on his apologies. He wanted to be here to greet you and he would have been, but he had to leave suddenly for a family bereavement in Colorado. We’re expecting him back within the next day or two. In the meantime, he’s asked that we schedule costume fittings for you. And in case he’s delayed longer, he’s left notes for Aaron, our stage manager, so we can get a rehearsal or two under way.”