Death Is a Cabaret Read online

  Jeff nodded. “The Cupola. Hell of a view from up there. I looked down, saw him in the gardens talking to someone.”

  Brookner’s brows raised. It was his turn to lean forward.

  “Sorry, Detective. I can’t identify her—”

  “Her?”

  “Yes, her. At least, I hope it was a woman. She had on a picture hat. You know, big brim. Dark dress, too. Probably black. It was hard to tell.”

  “Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”

  “That’s what it reminded me of.” Jeff said. An immediate image of Jennifer Hurst popped into his brain. He wondered if he should tell the detective that he’d just described what Jennifer was wearing the night before. The night Frank Hamilton was killed. He decided to sit on it since she wasn’t the only one whose clothes fit the description. “I don’t envy you your job, Detective. There were probably twenty women dressed like that last night.”

  Brookner shook his head wearily. “You’ll be here tonight, won’t you?”

  Jeff said he would.

  “If we don’t come up with anything by then, we may have to put a couple officers down there with a radio, see if re-creating it sheds any light. You can show me from up top where Hamilton and his lady friend were standing.”

  “I don’t know that I’d call her his friend. Looked like they were arguing.”

  “Arguing?” Brookner’s eyes narrowed. “And how the hell do you know they were arguing?”

  “Body language. I could tell something was going on.”

  “Yeah? And did you know it was Hamilton?”

  “I didn’t at first. But that boiled down to body language, too. You see, Hamilton has this habit when he’s angry. He pops his forehead, like this.” Jeff demonstrated. “Only with his left hand instead of his right.”

  “So, you’ve seen him angry?”

  Jeff’s lips tightened. He hadn’t seen that one coming. Maybe he had been out of investigating for too long. “It might help if you know Hamilton’s work ethics. He’s like a hungry car salesman. If his tactics don’t work, he pushes pretty hard. I saw him Thursday. An old woman had to threaten to call the cops on him if he didn’t leave her property.”

  “You know the old woman?”

  “No.” Jeff told the detective about checking out the sale early. “I wrote her a check, but she told me her name was hard to spell and that she’d fill it in herself. It’ll be hard to track since today’s Saturday.” Jeff took a drink and winced. Nothing worse than cold coffee. “Wait a minute. She was having a two-day estate sale. If you want to make sure she’s still in Washington, have the authorities check. I jotted her address in my notebook from the ad in the paper. It’s in my room.”

  Brookner told Jeff to get the notebook. “And, Talbot, you know the drill, so don’t make me say it.”

  “Don’t leave town.”

  “Right.” Brookner left. Once outside, he yelled, “Somebody get those damn doughnuts out of there.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After copying the estate sale information from his notebook, Jeff found Officer Mel Littlefield, gave her the slip of paper, then checked his watch. It was 8:30, so he made his way to the dining room for breakfast.

  The huge room was animated, filled with the metallic tinkle of silver against china, the clatter of cup against saucer, the chatter of people making plans for the day. Many didn’t even seem to be aware of what they were eating, so intent were they upon finishing so they could move on. Jeff refused to sit down to a meal with that agenda. Sheila had instilled in him the desire to savor a meal for its own merits, not rush through it without an appreciative and conscious nod to the chef who had created it.

  The dining room was busy, and Jeff stood just inside the entrance, scanning the room and waiting for the return of the maitre d’, when Ben caught his eye and motioned him over to the table where he was sitting. Jennifer was there, too, along with Edward Davenport.

  As Jeff walked toward the trio, he picked up pieces of conversation about the body that had been found earlier on the premises. Speculation, mostly. Observation. Some were complaining about their newfound knowledge that there were motorized vehicles on the island, saying it ruined the ambience, while others voiced relief that emergency services were available. They touted that one never knew when one might need an ambulance.

  Jennifer laughed in response to something Davenport was saying. The auctioneer was rather jovial, quite different from the night before. Jeff figured him to be a morning person. He would be, too, just as soon as he’d had another pot of coffee.

  “Good morning,” Jeff said. “Everyone here seems to be in high spirits.” He accepted the waiter’s offer of coffee, grateful that he’d come around so quickly, then ordered a frittata and orange juice.

  “Aren’t you?” Jennifer passed him a basket of assorted pastries. “It’s going to be a perfect day. Lots of sun, lots of antiques.”

  “If I can get that sort of day jump-started, sure. I’ve spent the last couple hours with detectives and dead men.”

  “You’re kidding,” Ben said. “Why?”

  “That’s how an investigation tends to go when you’re the one who finds the body.”

  Jennifer almost choked on her orange juice. “You found him?”

  “I’m afraid so. And, as it turns out, I know him—rather, I know who he is. Was. God, I’ll never get used to that. He’s from Seattle.”

  Ben spoke up. “So you know who it was. We’ve been trying to find out, but no one will give us a straight answer.”

  “Maybe you knew him, although I’m not sure whether he’d attended this festival before. His name was Frank Hamilton.”

  Jeff watched his companions as he spoke, but all three had bowed their heads slightly, as if concentrating, trying to find the name in their memory banks. Jeff thought how difficult it was to read someone when you couldn’t look into their eyes.

  One by one, the three stated that they didn’t know the man.

  Ben added, “I might know him if I saw him. But we talk to so many people at these things. . . . The name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “You said you knew him. What kind of person was he?” asked Jennifer.

  “Well, he wasn’t easy to get along with, but that could describe a lot of people. It’s not a motive for murder, though.”

  It was Davenport’s turn to choke. He set his cup down hard, splashing coffee onto the white linen tablecloth. “Murder? I heard he slipped on the wet grass and split his head on the ledge of the fountain.”

  “He slipped, all right. But it looks like he had some help from behind.”

  Davenport’s happy mood faded. “The next thing the bobbies will want is alibis. And the only way I could have an alibi for the night is if I had employed the company of a woman—which I most certainly did not” He eyed Jeff. “You’re here alone, too, aren’t you, Talbot?”

  “Afraid so. It’s not always wise to be alone in one’s room, is it?”

  “At least we’ve got that covered,” Ben announced with a smile and no small amount of relief in his tone.

  “That’s right,” Jennifer responded. “It helps to be inseparable, doesn’t it?” She leaned over and lightly kissed her husband’s cheek.

  “Except around midnight,” Jeff said.

  The couple’s eyes widened.

  “Are you telling us that you were with Jennifer last night?” Davenport winked, obviously trying to lighten the mood again.

  Jeff ignored him and addressed Jennifer. “You left the bar before Ben, remember? You were going to make a stop in the ladies’ room, then meet Ben in your room.”

  “Well, yes. But it was only for something like three minutes. Who on earth could have gotten from the Cupola Bar to the Tea Garden that quickly? Not to mention have some sort of confrontation with someone you know—I assume the victim knew the killer, since the police said the man’s wallet was still on him.”

  “Who told you about the wallet? The police?”

  “No, but I heard o
ne of the other guests mention it earlier. Everyone’s talking about it, you know. At any rate, Ben says they’ll have to interview all the guests. He and I were together all evening. I don’t see what difference two or three minutes can make.”

  Jeff listened for any sign of nervousness while Jennifer spoke, but found none.

  “Ben?” Jeff prompted, surprised that the young man hadn’t offered any sort of explanation.

  Ben shrugged his shoulders. “She’s right. We met back in the room. Matter of fact, she told me that she’d gone straight to the room. ‘Why stop at a ladies’ room, when our own room was so close?’ That’s what she said.”

  “Ben, I feel like we’re being questioned now, don’t you?” Jennifer pushed chunks of melon around on her plate. “Jeff, are you working as an undercover cop or something?”

  “I’m sorry.” Jeff didn’t want to have to explain his background unless he had to. “It’s just my curious nature, I guess. I like trying to fit puzzle pieces together.”

  Davenport cleared his throat. “Well. I say we try and put this behind us. There is much to be done, and I think it would be better if we continued with our schedules until the police decide who they will—and won’t—be interrogating.” He checked his watch, gave the face a quick tap. “Ah, my seminar begins in ten. Will you all be attending?”

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it,” Ben said with a smile.

  “Very well then.” Davenport stood. “I’ll see you there.” Jeff watched as the tall auctioneer hurried toward the exit.

  Jennifer dabbed at the corners of her mouth, then stood and placed the napkin in her chair. “Ben, I’m going to powder my nose and pick up a pad and paper before Edward’s session.” She turned to Jeff. “Unless you think I shouldn’t go anywhere alone. Do my husband and I need to be joined at the hip?” She left without waiting for an answer.

  Ben shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jeff. Jennifer goes on the defensive pretty quickly. Comes from having overprotective parents. I stopped trying to figure her out a long time ago. But, hell, there’s no need for her to get upset. We didn’t even know the guy.”

  “No need to apologize.”

  Ben stood. “I’d better be in the Terrace Room when she gets there. Are you coming?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  After Ben left, Jeff accepted a coffee refill and thought about his conversation with Ben the night before. How long had they talked after Jennifer left the Cupola Bar? He and Ben had gotten caught up in reminiscing about their best antique finds. Both agreed: A best find didn’t necessarily have to be the most valuable one, monetarily speaking.

  After Ben had mentioned his sports memorabilia, he’d talked about his gun collection and how he’d tracked down a musket that had belonged to one of his ancestors who’d fought in the American Revolution. Jeff had been so fascinated by the account, he had no way of pinpointing how long they’d talked before Ben had suddenly said that Jennifer would be out looking for him if he didn’t get to their room.

  The whole thing bothered him, but he wasn’t sure why. If the Hursts had known Hamilton, it would’ve been different. Still, Jennifer Hurst didn’t have an alibi. Not only had Jeff seen her in a large hat and black dress similar to those worn by the woman in the garden, but also she had several minutes unaccounted for.

  Right now, that was the least of Jeff’s worries. He wasn’t fooled by Detective Brookner’s friendly attitude toward him. Some detectives came on like avenging angels, others plied you with fellowship and good humor while they secretly spun a web around you. Jeff was no unsuspecting fly. Until a better suspect surfaced, he knew that Brookner’s list had only one name: Jeffrey Talbot.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The terrace room was decorated in an Asian theme, with jade-colored wallpaper featuring an urn design in salmon above a dado of Chinese lattice. If you missed the Oriental effect, you were probably too busy staring at the beasts that dominated the room.

  They flanked the stage: two enormous, bronzed fu dogs on platforms the size of bankers’ desks. Both the male, with his meaty paw on the world, and the female, protecting her young, snarled viciously as if to say that anyone taking the stage would be guarded against interlopers.

  Jeff pulled his attention from them and looked around. Although he’d been here the night before, he had only poked his head in. Now he realized that he’d missed the chinoiserie entirely.

  The atmosphere today was completely different from last night. People who had danced and laughed now sat quietly in chairs lined up in long rows to create an auditorium setting. Although the stage was still equipped with a grand piano, trap set, and speakers, the instruments seemed naked and out of place without their musicians. A podium had been placed at the front of the stage. Behind the podium and off to its left, Edward Davenport sat quietly going over something written on a notepad. A hotel employee was busy raising the microphone, having obviously noted the speaker’s immense height.

  The room was packed. Jeff finally located a vacant seat in the back and slid into the chair while the auctioneer was being introduced. According to the program, the session would last until ten-thirty.

  Edward Davenport took his place behind the podium and waited for the applause to subside. After making a few opening remarks, he paused. The sound of papers rustling died down. Someone coughed. A throat cleared. Finally, all noise stopped, and every eye in the room was on the auctioneer. Only then did he resume.

  “Journey with me to another place and time. You are in the throes of a war-tom England. . .

  Jeff couldn’t tell whether the auctioneer was really this passionate about his subject or if, perhaps, he relied on theatrics as a way of capturing his audience. Either way, it had its effect.

  Jeff remembered reading somewhere that English history was one of Davenport’s areas of expertise. At least that meant the information should be reliable.

  “. . . and today,” the auctioneer was saying, “The War of the Roses seems an odd name for a war. We look upon roses as a thing of beauty, do we not? But remember: War disguised in beauty is still war. There are others: the War of the Austrian Succession, the Seven Years’ War, the Battle of Waterloo.

  “Yes, Waterloo was Great Britain’s victory. People tend to get so caught up in the fact that it was Napoleon’s undoing, they forget what it did for our beloved England. Until Waterloo, Napoleon’s control had vastly crippled British trade. What does that have to do with us now? We’ll get to that in a moment.

  “First, though, let’s visit one of the wars.” Davenport paused, leaned into the microphone. “Listen,” he implored. “Hear it? Gunfire cracking, bombs exploding. Feel the ground quake as cannons buck, belching hot orbs of destruction all around you.” He grew louder with each word, his voice shaking the room.

  “Join me. Close your eyes,” Davenport beseeched. “Envision with me the buildings. Look at the destruction, the bombing, the burning. Do you see it? Do you see what we lost?”

  Jeff looked around him. It was a large crowd, and virtually everyone was following Davenport’s instruction. Eyes closed, they were under his charismatic spell. Many were leaning forward in their seats, drawn into the fold by the speaker’s mesmerizing voice. It was like a tent revival, Jeff thought. Davenport was an evangelist, preaching fire and brimstone.

  Jeff’s lack of sleep caught up to him. He closed his eyes. The events of the morning played before him as if a projector’s switch had been flicked on. And while Davenport spoke of destruction, Jeff saw it on its most human level.

  He’s trying to thread his hands under the arms of the dead weight, trying to balance himself; hefting the man, hoping he’s strong enough to clear the stone wall, turning the man carefully onto his back He shifts a hand to the back of the man’s head, cradles it, lowers it gently to the stone walkway surrounding the fountain. The face is swollen, its flesh translucent gray, its lips a dark purple blue, its eyes void of emotion, void of anything. Jeff’s gaze is transfixed upon a jagged ga
sh, and he follows it from above the left eye and down along the temple. The base of the skull feels spongy, the bones shift unnaturally in his palm. This doesn’t completely register, and he doesn‘t jerk his hand away. He scans the form, sees the jacket, the jeans, the shoes without socks. His eyes widen with realization. His gaze darts back to the bloated face. His suspicions are confirmed. It is Frank Hamilton.

  Something banged. Jeff jumped. Davenport had slammed his fist against the podium.

  “Imagine the effect,” the auctioneer was saying, “that those wars had on the English antiques we prize today.”

  Beads of perspiration popped on Jeff’s forehead.

  Davenport smiled sadly. “Now you understand, don’t you? Without the depredations of war, without the destruction, the fires, the vandalism—without all that, those material things that survived wouldn’t have the value we now place upon them.”

  Jeff willed himself to stay in the present. He had to admit it: Davenport’s angle was fascinating. Not many people thought about the material things lost in the path of war. Billions of dollars’ worth—perhaps more—of furniture, glassware, silver, gold, textiles, documents were purged from existence during those devastating times in history. Really, could a price be attached? The remaining items, those that survived the holocausts, were far more valuable, both in sentiment and in dollars.

  “Yes,” Davenport was saying. “I can see that you share in my anguish. Only God knows how much we lost. But. . .” Davenport paused. The audience held its collective breath. “But,” he repeated, this time with less emphasis, “look what we have gained. In addition to our freedom, of course. We have gained an inordinate respect for those things that survived. A reverence, if you will, for the hand-carved oak table that did not burn, for the encrusted sterling silver with its royal hallmarks that did not melt, for the forged weapons that survived at the hands of maniacs, for the very documents that speak of freedom, of heritage.”

  Despite Davenport’s evangelical magnetism, Jeff had trouble focusing on the speech. He couldn’t seem to get the vision of Hamilton out of his mind. As if to erase the nightmare, he rubbed his eyes. Like a charge of electricity, a lightning-quick current transmitted him back to the scene.