Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (15 page)

Gordon, not stupid enough to be making a phone call of this nature without being ready with pen and paper, wrote it down. “One more question, Mr. Dawson. Did Marianna Spellman have a laptop with her?”

“I never saw her use it, but who knows what she kept inside that satchel of hers. Although, come to think of it, she must have, because when we went over shooting schedules, and who needed to be where and when, she took notes in longhand, but she gave me hard copies that were typewritten—or keyboarded, or whatever you call it now that typewriters are a thing of the past. They weren’t handwritten, that’s all I can say. How they got that way, I don’t know. She could have used a computer where she was staying and printed them there.”

Gordon was tired of getting non-answers to his questions. “Thank you. I’ll check with the studio.” Before he called, he made a list of topics to cover.

He punched in Ethan Lang’s number, and was pleasantly surprised that Lang himself answered. Gordon had figured that the man’s admin would answer, which was still closer than a main studio switchboard. Points to Dawson for that much, at least.

Gordon identified himself, wishing he could see Lang’s face. Had Dawson prepped him? Was he expecting the call?

“Chief Hepler, I assume you’re calling about the tragic death of Marianna Spellman. Do you have any news you can share?”

“I’m sorry, not at this time. We’re still investigating. But it would help us if you’d answer a few questions.” Gordon tapped his pen beside the first item on his list.

“Of course.” Lang’s voice sounded sincere, but without the benefit of body language, or seeing facial expressions, Gordon took the usual cop position that people lied to cops. “I want to get to the bottom of this as much as anyone. Marianna was a valuable asset to any production she worked on, and she’s worked on three previous pictures for us. She will be missed.”

“I’m going to record this conversation,” Gordon said. “For everyone’s protection.”

“I understand.”

Gordon switched the phone to speaker and set up his recorder. “You said you’ve dealt with Miss Spellman before, that this would have been her fourth film for your studio. Does this mean there are others who are working on the current film who have worked with her in the past?”

“Yes, she’d worked with a number of people from our studio. In this business, paths cross.”

“Would any of them have been on location in Mapleton?” Gordon asked. Despite the recording, he made notes as they spoke.

“I doubt it, although I’d have to have someone pull the records of the other films. In most instances, we have dozens of behind-the-scenes people—technical and support crews—working on a project. More in the studio than on location for budget purposes, and we’ve tried to cut things as close to the bone as possible on this film because of the charity angle, so we have a skeleton crew.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.” Gordon followed a thought that Lang’s comment triggered. “When you say skeleton crew, are you talking about this location shoot, or the movie itself?”

“Both,” Lang said. “We’ve sent as few as possible to Colorado. Only those who are indispensable.”

“Would you have a list of everyone involved on the production? It might help.” Gordon wasn’t sure how, but maybe something would pop. Always better to have things you didn’t need than need things you didn’t have.

“I can arrange to have it sent,” Lang said.

Gordon gave Lang his email address, then continued. “We’ve been unable to find a laptop in Miss Spellman’s on-site office or in her lodgings. Do you know whether or not she brought one with her?”

“I would assume so.”

“But you can’t be certain?”

“Did I personally see her pack it up? No. Her assistant might know, but he’s left for the day.”

“His name?”

“Neil Ryan,” Lang said.

Gordon went on. “I’m a little bit confused about how things work. You hire most of your people on a picture-by-picture basis? So they might work for other studios on other projects?”

“Close enough,” Lang said.

“So, where does Miss Spellman work?”

“She has her own office in Santa Monica, but there’s one here she uses when she’s working on one of our productions.”

“And her assistant?” Gordon referred to his notes. “Mr. Ryan, was it? Does he work at the studio when Miss Spellman is working there?”

“Yes, she brings him along. Normally, he’d be with her on location, but—”

“Yes, I understand. Skeleton crew. I’d like his number when we finish. For now, can you tell me of anyone who’d want to harm her in any way?”

Lang paused, as if collecting his thoughts. “People do strange things for reasons that make sense only to them, but no, I’m not aware of any feuds or rivalries other than what’s the norm for this business. Nobody makes everybody happy, but things tend to balance out. If you’re asking if I heard anyone threaten her, no. Did anyone file a formal complaint? No.”

“What about the other way around? Did she file any complaints? Threaten anyone?”

“Nothing I’d consider any more than typical office conversation. Disagreements abound, but she’s not in charge of casting.”

Gordon jotted more notes. “Did she have any influence on who was cast for what part, even if she didn’t make the final decision?”

Lang snorted. “Around here, everyone spouts their opinions. Everyone’s got a relative who’d be perfect for a role. But the casting director hires. And fires.”

Gordon crossed that off his list. “Who’s going to replace Miss Spellman? Would her assistant move up?”

“Not automatically, no. He’ll cover for her, but the Human Resources Department at the studio has the final say in hiring all production personnel. Everyone’s aware of that.”

So much for killing one’s way to the top. Gordon finished up with Lang. Nothing particularly helpful, although he’d crossed a couple items off his list.

He moved on to Neil Ryan. If anyone would know the ins and outs of her life, her assistant should. The phone rang for a good long time before a breathless—and irritated sounding— “hello” greeted him.

“Neil Ryan?” Gordon said.

“Yes, who is this?”

Gordon identified himself.

“Police? Mapleton. Thank God.” The irritation left Ryan’s tone. “Have you found out anything? I heard rumors, but couldn’t believe it. Then I saw it on the news. Everyone’s been calling me, asking what’s going on. Who would kill her?”

“Slow down, Mr. Ryan. First, nobody said anything about killing. I hope you’re not giving anyone information that could potentially hamper our investigation.”

“Of course I’m not. I don’t know anything, so I have nothing to tell them.”

“Good. It’s still very early in the investigative process, so I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Once again, Gordon gave his preamble to recording the conversation, then moved on with his questions. “When did you last hear from Miss Spellman?”

“Last night. Seven-thirty. Jeopardy was over, and I gave her the Final Jeopardy answer, like always. When she’s out of town, that’s our usual check-in time, and it’s a game we play. She’s pretty good. Last night, it was a movie theme, so I wasn’t surprised she got it right.” He sucked a breath. “It’s not important, I’m sure, and I don’t know why, but it does make me feel better. That I have a positive memory of her.”

Gordon stopped him before the conversation turned into a game show recap. “What did you discuss?”

“Our next project.”

“Same studio?”

A pause. “No, but until things are tighter, I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

“Nothing that might have created animosity toward Miss Spellman?”

“No. We aren’t—
weren’t
—far enough along, very few people know about it, and if anything, they’d be bending over backward to get on her good side.”

“You didn’t discuss what was going on in Mapleton?”

“Oh, some. They’d wrapped the lake scenes, and she was looking forward to moving on, but she said everything was under control, and we didn’t talk long.”

“She didn’t mention any friction on the set? Maybe with the crew, not the actors?”

“No, nothing. But she rarely vented with me. If things weren’t going well, she’d be brusque, but she didn’t share. It’s not an easy job, and she knew it.”

Gordon had been hearing that a lot. And, so far, everyone had given him the same story. Marianna Spellman might not have been loved, but she wasn’t hated, and nobody knew—or was willing to name—anyone who might have wanted to harm her or her career.

“What about medications? Did she take any prescriptions routinely?”

“Not that I know of. She didn’t like doctors. She preferred the health food, vitamin, and supplement routine.”

Which agreed with what Solomon said he’d found in her room. “What about a laptop? Did she have one? Would she have brought it with her?”

“She had one of the new two-in-ones. She complained about the smaller keyboard, but for road trips, it was easier to deal with.”

“Make? Model?” Gordon asked. Would help if they knew what to look for.

A momentary silence. “Um … I don’t know. I don’t pay attention to those kinds of details. She showed it to me once, right after she got it. In the office, she uses her computer, and I couldn’t tell you what kind that is, either.”

“Anything you remember that would help us identify the tablet? Color? A logo? Anything?”

“I remember she was stoked because she could write on it with a stylus. And … wait. Blue. The keyboard part was light blue. I wish I could tell you more.”

Gordon recalled Marianna using the tablet at their meeting at Daily Bread. He hadn’t paid attention to make, model, or anything else, either. Cell phones and tablets had become so commonplace, he tended to take them for granted.

“That’s a help, Mr. Ryan. Another question. Did she mention a Yolanda Orozco?”

“Who?”

Gordon repeated the name. “She was the wardrobe manager on the project.”

“Ah, right. Do you think she killed Marianna?”

“I doubt it. She was taken to the hospital for a heart condition.”

“You think there’s a connection between what happened to her and what happened to Marianna? I’m sure Marianna didn’t have a heart condition,” Ryan said.

Gordon jotted a note, then returned to the conversation. “The coroner will be able to verify that tomorrow.”

“They’re doing an autopsy? Oh, ick.”

“We can learn a lot that way.”

Further questions proved fruitless. Although he’d tried to be helpful, Neil Ryan was upset, and the more questions Gordon asked, the more distraught the man became.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Ryan. You’ve been helpful.” Gordon gave him his number. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

He spent a few minutes with Google, searching for two-in-one computers. New, blue keyboard, and it used a stylus. He found one or two possibilities, high-end, but he assumed that’s what Marianna would have wanted. Worth a few bucks to someone, but he couldn’t buy stealing it as a motive for murder.

What else could he do tonight? He was out of questions to ask until he found out what the poison—if it was a poison—was.

He’d do better to be fresh when Colfax and Solomon showed up in the morning. And, if he left now, he might catch Angie before she went to bed. He took a few minutes to organize his notes, jot down brainstorming points for tomorrow, and head to the war room to take one last, long look at the whiteboard. Sometimes the best ideas came when you weren’t thinking about them, but it helped to get them into your subconscious.

Under
Laptop,
he added the two computer models he’d found. Before leaving, he stopped by Dispatch. “If anything breaks, call my cell.”

“Roger that, Chief,” Tessa said.

The night was clear, the air was crisp, and he opted to walk to Angie’s.

Lights were off at Daily Bread and on in Angie’s apartment. Good. That meant the movie people had gone to their lodgings, and Angie was still up.

He took the back stairs, waving his fingers for Angie’s security camera, although he still had his doubts that she bothered activating it half the time. He tapped on the door. Because he had a key didn’t mean he used it to barge in if Angie was home. He guessed that meant there were still lines he didn’t feel comfortable crossing. What that said about where they were in their relationship was something he wasn’t going to think about now. Especially when Angie came to the door wearing the lapis pendant and earrings he’d given her. And nothing else.

Gordon got up with Angie the next morning, loose and rested, despite the 4:30 alarm. After showering, shaving, and putting on his uniform, he followed the aromas of coffee and cinnamon downstairs. He sat, taking rationed sips of his allotted cup of fully leaded coffee, while Angie took the first batch of cinnamon rolls out of the oven.

They hadn’t talked much last night—not that he’d minded. No brilliant insights about the case had popped into his mind, either.

Angie moved the cinnamon rolls to cooling racks and put the next trays into the oven, then sat across the counter from him. She reached over and rested a hand atop one of his. “What’s your day looking like?”

“Meeting with Ed Solomon and Tyler Colfax at six. Maybe we’ll come up with something we haven’t thought of yet. What about you? What’s up with the movie making?”

Although Angie had become more discreet in what she discussed since they’d been together, Gordon knew nothing would have gotten past her.

“Mr. Dawson was busy on the phone with the studio people. A lot. They’re hoping they can get the street scenes shot today. He said that since most of their equipment was already set up on the street, it shouldn’t be off-limits, and I heard him mention schmoozing the mayor.”

“Which means the mayor will undoubtedly be calling me very soon to tell me it’s in the best interest of Mapleton to let them continue shooting.”

She fixed her puppy-dog expression on him. “You must have all the clues you need. The crime scene people were around for ages. And,” she added, “if the production people are here, you can keep a better eye on them, right?”

She did have a point, even though her motives were clearly personal. “I’ll run it by Ed and Colfax at our meeting this morning.”

“Great. I’ll pack up those cinnamon rolls for the station.”

He finished his coffee, then helped her put the pink boxes together. “It’s the least I can do,” he said as he folded and inserted tabs into slots.

“You’re very good at that,” Angie said. From her hooded eyes and sultry tone, Gordon was fairly certain she wasn’t talking about his box construction skills.

Once the boxes were filled with the aromatic sugary treats, he took Angie in his arms. She rested her head against his chest, and he ran his fingers through her short blonde hair. “You take it easy today,” he said.

“I’d rather be busy,” she said, pulling away and gazing at him with sparkling blue eyes. She ran a fingertip down his jaw. “Let me know what you decide about the filming.”

“I will.” And he’d damn well make his decision based on good police work, and not those riveting blue eyes.

He carried the boxes to the station, their warmth and cinnamon aroma in perfect harmony with the crisp fall air. As he balanced the boxes on his hip while he unlocked his door, he got the expected buzz of his phone. Another beautiful autumn day interrupted with a call from the mayor.

Before dealing with it, Gordon took the boxes to the breakroom. The smell of scorched coffee threatened to negate that of the rolls. He dumped the half inch of sludge from the pot and rinsed it out. He
could
make a fresh pot, but there were people who were in charge of that, and he’d let the duty officer know it was time for another mention of breakroom etiquette. He took a platter from a cabinet, placed three rolls on it, and headed for his office. When he got there, Solomon was sitting in the visitor chair, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. A file folder lay on the desk in front of him.

“You’re early,” Gordon said.

“Can’t have the big city cops think we’re slackers.”

“Or, you wanted first crack at a cinnamon roll.”

“There is that.” Solomon reached out, but Gordon swerved and held the platter out of reach. “Not until we’re officially underway.”

“Spoilsport. I
could
go down to the breakroom and have one of those, too.”

Gordon didn’t bother asking how Solomon knew there were more in the breakroom. Angie knew everything that transpired at Daily Bread, and Ed Solomon was her equivalent at the station.

“Seriously,” Solomon said, “I came in early to talk about the Deadbeat Dad Killer.”

Not that Gordon didn’t want to listen to Solomon’s theories, but … he didn’t want to listen to them
now
. “After I return this call.”

Look at you. Choosing Mayor McKenna over Ed?

Gordon verified that his hunch had been correct, and that it was the mayor texting him. At least the man had the decency to refrain from interrupting with actual phone calls in these early morning hours. Gordon sat at his desk, powered on his computer, and reached for the phone.

“Mayor. What can I do for you?” As if he didn’t know.