Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (21 page)

“Thanks, gentlemen. Probably idle gossip. I’ll let you get on with your work.” Gordon watched the two men saunter across the lot through the Village. Bart headed toward the passageway to the entrance to Daily Bread, while Cassidy peeled right, toward the rear entrance to Finnegan’s, where another deputy stood on clipboard duty. Gordon thanked Eagleton, then headed for Daily Bread. If the cast was still arriving, he ought to be able to check in with Dawson without interrupting the filming. For reasons Gordon couldn’t put his finger on, he got the feeling Dawson was holding back.

Feelings? Great. Now you sound like Angie
.

McDermott stood at the service entrance, looking bored. She brightened at Gordon’s approach. She, too, held a clipboard.

“Not the same as securing a crime scene,” he said.

“On the boredom scale, they’re pretty close. But I did get to meet Cassidy Clarke and Lily Beckett.”

“You can’t lock the door once everyone’s checked in?” he asked.

“Once they start shooting, it has to be quiet, and they don’t want anyone knocking on the door.”

“So they haven’t started yet?”

“No, sir. They’re rehearsing. You can go in if you want. But cell phones off.”

“Will silent work?”

She smiled. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

Gordon returned her smile and made a show of turning the sound off on his phone. “I need to check with Lionel Dawson, so thanks. And the Village is open for business again, but I want everyone logged in.”

“Yes, sir. Have you gotten word on manner of death?”

“A couple of leads, but Asel was doing the autopsy this morning. Which reminds me, I need to check in with Solomon.”

And Edna Mae Withers, although he wasn’t optimistic about a little old lady in Riverside shedding light on possible reasons for Marianna’s death. But it was another “t” to cross. McDermott opened the door for him.

“Shut the damn door.” Dawson’s voice boomed across the space.

Gordon sidled inside and closed the door behind him. When Dawson didn't pursue the open door, Gordon hurried through the short hallway and paused outside Angie’s office. Dawson’s voice continued shouting directions, but since there was nothing about
quiet
or
action
, Gordon found a spot where he could watch what was happening without being visible.

Extras were seated at three perimeter booths. Water glasses and coffee mugs sat on the tables, along with plates and silverware. One also included menus. Dawson stopped at each booth, apparently giving instructions. He noticed Angie, sitting at a table by herself, her back to him.

Ian and Mai were seated at a center table, plates of food in front of them. Cassidy and Lily were hanging around the counter, talking to someone Gordon didn’t recognize, and Bart was standing near the entrance while the crew adjusted cameras and lights. Gordon noted Bart was wearing different clothes, almost identical to Cassidy’s, so he assumed even stand-ins needed stinkin’ wardrobes.

“Okay, listen up everyone,” Dawson said. “Extras, remember. No actual talking. In this scene, Cassidy and Lily are going to get their check, get up from their table, then go to the register and wait to pay. They’ll have some dialogue, then walk out the door. All you need to do is pretend you’re eating lunch or reading the menu, as we’ve discussed.” He turned toward the crew. “You ready?”

One by one, as if this were a familiar routine, crew people gave their affirmations. Bart left his position and sat at one of the tables in a corner, apparently out of camera range.

“Let’s try a walk-through,” Dawson said. “Places, everyone.”

Angie got up from her table and crossed to the counter. Her head was bowed, and she rotated her shoulders. Cassidy and Lily moved to one of the tables, sat, and held hands. They gazed into each other’s eyes as if sharing a secret. Gordon could see how fans might interpret that look, taken out of context, as the two of them having a relationship. Life in a fishbowl.

Dawson called action. Gordon’s heart bounced against his ribs as Angie walked across the diner, set a slip of paper at Cassidy’s side, then turned and walked away. Had she known she was going to be doing more than sitting in a booth pretending to eat when they’d spoken? Was this going to be a surprise? Or was it a last-minute change? Didn’t matter. He prepared himself for a round of serious celebrating later.

Once the walk-throughs were complete, Dawson gave a few more instructions, then said they were filming for real. Gordon ducked into the doorway to Angie’s office. The last thing he needed was to be visible on camera, and Angie would probably do better if she wasn’t aware of his presence. He made a mental note to pick up a bottle of wine—maybe champagne. And chocolate. She wasn’t the only one who could dish out surprises.

He watched one more take, which to him looked no different from the first, but when Dawson asked for another, Gordon slipped out the back door before the director called action. Watching filming might be less boring if you had a friend in the cast, but not by much, and he had a job to do.

After telling Vicky he’d try to rotate her off door duty, and to notify him when the production took a break, Gordon strode to the station, checking his phone for any missed calls. One from Solomon. Gordon checked his texts. A message from Solomon said he was on his way. It also said
Want to talk about the DDK. Think there’s another one.

Right now, Gordon wanted to talk about the Marianna Spellman case, not Solomon’s pet project. He radioed Solomon. Good cops didn’t text and drive.

“Be at the station in half an hour,” Solomon said. “Heading into a dead zone. Can it wait?”

The signal was breaking up. “I’ll be in my office,” Gordon said. “Stop in when you get back.”

More waiting. After telling Connie to rotate the production duty officers, Gordon found the number for Edna Mae Withers and dialed.

“This is Edna Mae. To whom am I speaking?”

Taken aback by the unusual greeting, Gordon paused for a second or two longer than normal before responding. “Ms. Withers, this is Gordon Hepler. I’m the Chief of Police in Mapleton, Colorado.”

Apparently she was taken aback as well, because there was a pause before she came back on the line. “I’ll tell you up front, sir, I don’t make any donations of any kind based on unsolicited phone calls, so if you’re asking for money, you can hang up right now.”

“No, ma’am, it’s not that. I’ve got a few questions about Marianna Spellman, and according to her phone records you called her on Thursday.”

“Of course I did. I call her every Thursday.”

Gordon waggled his pen with his fingers. “You called her before six a.m., which would have been five your time. That’s early for a routine call, isn’t it?”

“Early is relative, Chief Hepler. A carryover from my teaching days, when I had to be at work before seven. After all those years, I’ve never been able to switch my circadian rhythms.”

“Do you mind telling me what you talked about? Why you call her every week?” Gordon asked.

“She’s my favorite success story, and we’ve stayed in contact. We don’t talk about much. I tell her everything’s the same here. She tells me what she’s working on, or at least what she says she’s allowed to tell me.”

“Did she mention anything about her current project?”

“The one in Colorado?” A pause. “Where you’re calling from. Something bad has happened, or the Chief of Police wouldn’t be calling me. I must be slow today.”

Gordon dreaded what he had to say next. Edna Mae Withers seemed like a very nice, very sharp woman. He took a breath.

“I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am, Marianna was found dead yesterday morning.”

Edna Mae gasped. “Dead? That can’t be. She was a healthy woman. How did it happen? Was she in an accident?”

Gordon, as gently as he could, explained what had happened, and why they were investigating. “We’re doing everything we can to find out how, and why. Anything you can tell me about her—her personality, how she got along with others, anyone she might have mentioned, complained about—could help a great deal. Was she depressed?”

“Marianna? Depressed? Never. You think she killed herself?”

“We don’t know. But we found antidepressants in her purse.”

“I can’t believe she’d take any kind of drugs. All vitamins, all supplements. She never liked taking so much as an aspirin.” A pause, as if Edna Mae were running through the possibilities. “If she didn’t kill herself, and I refuse to believe she would have, then you’re thinking someone killed her. A murder? Marianna? That’s—” Her voice cracked.

Gordon waited out the silence.

When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, but controlled. “She came from a broken home. Mother did drugs, her father was an alcoholic, and they were both dead before Marianna was eight. She survived being shuttled through the foster care program. Smart as a whip, that one. Determined to make something of herself. She could be stubborn, single-minded when she wanted something, but I think those traits serve—served—her well in her business. She was going to move up to executive producer, she said. Have a blockbuster hit. Maybe open her own independent studio, or move to the top of one of the big ones. She’d have made it, too.”

“Did she ever mention any rivals? Anyone who’d see her as an obstacle to their own goals?”

Edna Mae choked out a laugh. “Everyone in the business, according to her. But that was part of what she loved about it, I think. Having people think she was important. As far as somebody wanting her out of the way enough to kill her? I find that hard to believe. Otherwise, the entire movie industry would be defunct.”

Gordon gave her his number, asking her to call if she thought of anything else. Before he hung up, she said, “Wait. You asked about depression. The movie they’re making—they’re donating money to finding a cure, or helping people, or public awareness. I remember Marianna mentioning it. And the star—the good-looking one who makes me wish I were forty—no, make that sixty—years younger. Cassidy Clarke. Marianna said something about depression and drugs when she was talking about him. Not that she said much, mind you, but I recall some kind of connection.”

Gordon wished he hadn’t made the assumption this little old lady would have nothing to offer, or that he’d be waking her if he’d called earlier this morning. She’d provided a lead worth tracing.

“Thank you, Ms. Withers. You’ve been a help.”

“You’ll let me know if you find out anything, please. I’m sure the news will be all over this, but I doubt what they’ll report will be factual. All they want is to garner ratings.”

Even as Gordon assured her he would let her know if he found out anything, he pulled up a search engine and started digging into Cassidy Clarke.

Although he discounted at least half of what he read as media hype or creative editing, given the contradictions in the articles, Gordon pieced together enough to learn Cassidy Clarke had been Hollywood’s darling until about three years ago, when he’d stopped getting parts. Reasons ranged from alien abductions to amnesia to entering a monastery, and everything in between. He found a couple of articles confirming what Cassidy had said, that he’d had a substance abuse problem and had gone into rehab, resurfacing a year ago. He wasn’t welcomed into the fold with open arms, and had taken small roles in second-rate productions to prove he was responsible. Gordon could understand why thinking he was going to have to be tested for drug use while working here would have set Cassidy off.

While Cassidy’s adult life was more or less on public display, Gordon found his childhood and family history were the opposite. It was almost as though Cassidy had sprung forth, fully formed without benefit of the usual conventions, such as being born.

Gordon gazed up as footfalls approached. Solomon strode through the door. Seconds later, Laurie buzzed him. “Ed Solomon’s in your office. Someday he’ll wait three seconds for me to announce him.”

“I heard that,” Solomon said, his voice raised enough to carry through the intercom. “And someday I will. Won’t that be a surprise?”

Gordon smiled. Solomon and Laurie had their rituals, just as she and Gordon did. Gordon thanked Laurie and told her to alert him if any calls came through from the lab. Colfax would call him directly. Solomon plunked himself down in his usual seat across the desk from Gordon.

“How was the autopsy?” Gordon asked.

“Fresh body, no mutilations or other gross stuff. An easy one.”

“But no explanation of how or why she died.”

Solomon shrugged. “Well, yeah, there is that wrinkle.”

“Let’s hope the lab results will iron it out.”

Laurie buzzed through again. “Chief, Vicky McDermott said the movie is on break.”

Gordon thanked her and turned to Solomon. “Want to rub elbows with Seesaw people again? I’d like to pin Dawson down for answers. Something tells me he knows more than he’s been telling us.”

Solomon begged off, saying he’d rather use the time to catch up because he’d been gone most of the day.

“Here’s a job for you, then.” Gordon explained what he’d learned from Edna Mae Withers. “I’ve barely had a chance to scrape at the surface, given how much of what’s out there is tabloid-type hype. Find out where Cassidy Clarke came from. Who his parents are, how his mother died, how it connects to his drug problems. Not the movie star fluff, his real history. Reports say he was arrested. See if you can find out when and where.”

Although Solomon had probably hoped to be working on his latest Deadbeat Dad Killer theory, he agreed to put his computer skills to work on the new puzzle, and Gordon left for Daily Bread. Since the shooting had moved inside, Gordon decided to drive over instead of walk. He couldn’t get closer than half a block away, but he found a spot on the street without having to play the Police Chief card.

He covered the distance to the front of Daily Bread where onlookers still clustered behind the barricade. A deputy chatted with a couple of them, and Gordon strode forward. “Okay to go in this way?”

The deputy stopped chatting, took in Gordon’s uniform. “Yes, sir.”

Gordon stepped around the barricade and strode to the entrance. The window and door were still obscured, so he opened the door enough to peek inside. People milled around. He spotted Angie in an animated conversation with Lily and Cassidy. He shook his head. She was going to be bubbling about this for days. Weeks. Months, maybe. He made a mental note not to forget the chocolate and champagne on his to-do list.

Dawson stood with another crew member, heads bowed over a clipboard. Dawson tapped, the crew member nodded. Gordon marched over. “Mr. Dawson, I’d like a few moments of your time.”

Dawson tapped the clipboard a few more times, giving more orders to the man.

Setting up the next scene, Gordon surmised. He spoke again. “Sir, I need to speak with you. Now.” He chinned toward the door.

Dawson shot him a disgusted look, but handed the clipboard to his colleague and moved in the direction Gordon had indicated.

Gordon stepped outside and walked a few yards down the block where he could speak without any eavesdroppers or interruptions. “What’s the connection between Cassidy Clarke and Marianna Spellman?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s production, he’s talent. They’re working—or at least she
was
working—on the same project. Other than that, there’s no connection I’m aware of.”

“Yet you’re making a movie to raise funds and awareness about depression. Cassidy Clarke says he’s donating his time because it’s a worthy cause. You don’t think he gets hundreds of requests to support a charity? Didn’t you wonder why he chose this movie, which is probably costing him a lot more than writing a check to the charity or doing a public service commercial? Marianna Spellman had a vial of anti-depressants in her purse. Surely you’re more aware of the personal lives of the people you’re working with than you led me to believe.”

Dawson dragged his fingers through his hair. “I knew Cassidy had been in rehab. He had a clean bill of health, and is working for free. That’s all I care about. Sure, I’ve watched him for signs of any substance abuse, but the man shows up on time, knows his lines, and is a damn good box office draw. He’s also a damn good actor.”

“Do you know what substance he was abusing?” Gordon asked.

“No, and I don’t care. As I said, as long as nothing interferes with his work, I see no reason to pry.”

“What about Yolanda Orozco?” Gordon asked. “She’s still not here, and you don’t seem to care. She was hospitalized. That doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me. She didn’t show up, but I can’t be wasting time waiting for her. If she’s taking a sick day, that’s her business. We’re on a schedule. I find other people to fill in. It’s not like costuming is a challenge for what we’re shooting here. I let the studio know she was a no-show, and they’ll deal with it.”