Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (22 page)

“I’ve heard rumors she likes to party. Are you covering for her? Does she come to work late? Hung over?”

Dawson ducked his head. “Okay, okay. First, that party stuff? I don’t know where you heard it, but she’s as dedicated to her job as Cassidy Clarke is to his. She’s meticulous, and sometimes her attention to detail slows things down a bit. For this location shoot, she’s been doing double duty with wardrobe continuity, but I’ve never had an issue with her work before now.”

“Continuity?”

Dawson rolled his eyes. “If a character’s wearing a red scarf in a scene, it’s not going to disappear, or turn into a blue one. You’d be surprised what can happen when you’re shooting a scene over several days, or have to re-shoot weeks later. If someone’s spreading rumors, I’ll want it stopped. Or, maybe they were true on another picture. Like I said, people’s paths cross in this business.”

“If she’s that dedicated, why isn’t she here?” Gordon said.

“Damned if I know.” Dawson pulled out his cell and swiped his thumb up the display. “I’ve got about twenty voicemails. I’ve had my phone off since we started working this morning. If you want to wait, I can listen and see if any are from Yolanda.”

“Wouldn’t your missed calls log be more efficient?”

Dawson sighed. “There are forty-seven of them. Since I don’t have Yolanda in my contacts, I wouldn’t know which call was hers. However, there are—” he scrolled some more, his lips moving as if he were counting— “fifteen from the studio. Logically, Yolanda would have called them, and they’d have relayed a message. It’s still going to be a wait while I listen to them all.”

“If she called the studio, why don’t you call them and find out?”

Dawson’s expression said the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “I can do that. Still might take a while—”

“I’ll wait,” Gordon said, and listened as Dawson repeated his request several times. Apparently even if you were the director of a picture, you still had to go through channels, but the man eventually lowered his phone.

“She called. She said her new granddaughter had to be rushed to the hospital, and the studio approved her leaving. Once I go through my messages, I’ll find the one that asks me if I need a replacement for the rest of the time we’re here.” He clipped his phone to his belt. “I’ll say no, if you’re interested. Can I get to work now, or do you want to continue this inquisition?”

Gordon’s cell rang. A call from Solomon. “I’ve got something, Chief.”

Gordon told him to wait. “That should do it for now, Mr. Dawson. Thanks for your time.”

Phone to his ear, Gordon headed for his SUV. “What do you have?”

“I’ll put off your lesson in database searches for another time, or I’ll chalk this one up to you being focused elsewhere. Cassidy Clarke is a movie star. He’s not a typical bad guy, but if you were searching for a crook, I know you’d be smart enough to check for aliases. Or name changes.”

“Shit.” Feeling like a green rookie, not even making the mental excuse he’d been in a hurry and hadn’t done any serious digging, Gordon unlocked his vehicle and sat sideways on the seat. “You’re right. I’m an idiot. So, what’s his real name?”

“He was born Kristoff Chrusciel, although he’s been Cassidy Clarke since his early teens. He never changed it legally, though. That’s the name he was booked under when he was arrested. Which he was, pretty much the way you said. But what you didn’t find was he was in a serious bike accident in some podunk town in Oklahoma, was in the hospital—under his real name—and apparently became addicted to painkillers. That’s what led to the aforementioned arrests, which were DUIs. He was one messed up fellow, and again, you did have the part about it being related to his mother’s death right.”

“And yet this doesn’t show up in the tabloids? You’d think they’d have jumped all over it.”

“Cassidy Clarke has excellent spin doctors, is my guess,” Solomon said. “And given he was purportedly abducted by aliens and half a dozen other crazy-ass scenarios, including my own special favorite—he’s the illegitimate son of a Swedish princess and a South African diamond miner—I can buy that a lot of people assumed these were more rumors. I had to shovel a lot of shit to find out anything about his past.”

“I bow to your expertise at all things cyberspace,” Gordon said. “Back to Cassidy’s mother. How did she die?”

“ODed on—wait for it—Celexa, which is the brand name for—”

“Citalopram,” Gordon said. “Hang on. I’ll be at the station in a couple of minutes.”

Gordon disconnected, then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. He was in his office within five minutes, and totally unsurprised to see Solomon waiting there for him.

“I don’t suppose you’ve been answering my phone, too?” Gordon said.

“Didn’t want to steal any of Laurie’s thunder. Then again, it didn’t ring, so the question is moot.”

Gordon reached across the desk and picked up the phone to check in with Laurie. “Anything hit the fan while I was gone?” he asked her.

“I wouldn’t call it hitting the fan, but the mayor is anxiously awaiting an update.”

“Of course he is. If he calls again, tell him we’re waiting on lab results, so at this point in time, he can deny there’s been a homicide in Mapleton. Don’t know how long that statement will hold water, so make it clear it’s still up in the air.”

“Will do.”

Gordon turned to Solomon, who shoved a file folder across the desk. “Printouts of the results of my searches. I’ll get them summarized into a full report, but I thought we could hash things out first.”

“Sounds good.” Gordon updated him on Yolanda’s whereabouts. “I don’t know if the rumors about her partying are true, but from what I read, mixing anti-depressants with alcohol is a major no-no, so if she got into whatever Marianna ingested, it might explain her symptoms.”

“I thought you said you found the drugs in Marianna’s purse. How would Yolanda have gotten them? And why? You don’t go around taking pills at random. At least not if you have the brains of a tree stump.”

“The prescription wasn’t for Marianna, though. The label was worn, but it was obvious the name wasn’t close to hers. Unless she’s been living under an alias as well.”

Before Solomon spoke, Gordon continued. “But if she were, I’m sure Edna Mae would have mentioned it. She never referred to her as anything other than Marianna.”

“So whose prescription was it, and how did it get in her purse?” Solomon asked.

Gordon pulled up the image of the vial on his computer and swiveled the monitor so Solomon could see it. “While we’re waiting for the geeks, what can you make out?”

Solomon grabbed a pen from the container on Gordon’s desk and opened the file folder. Inside the front cover, he copied down the letters, leaving spaces the way the partial name appeared on the vial. He rapped the pen on the table a couple of times, then started writing. “While my genius as a detective is legend, I’ll confess I had the advantage of seeing this in print while I was researching, so it’s fresh in my mind.” He turned the folder so it faced Gordon.

“Karola Chrusciel.” Gordon fumbled with the pronunciation.

“Cassidy’s mother,” Solomon said, a broad grin on his face.

“Marianna had a prescription for Cassidy Clarke’s mother’s meds in her purse? Why?”

“And how?” Solomon said.

“You think Marianna found them in his possession somehow, and confiscated them?”

“If she did and was going to go public with the fact that he was on drugs, that might be a motive to get her out of the way. Make it look like suicide.” After a pause, Solomon asked, “How many pills were in the vial?”

Gordon consulted his notes. “Four. But can we confirm the pills in the vial match the prescription?”

Solomon went to the computer image. “You have Photoshop or another photo manipulation program on this computer? I might be able to sharpen things instead of zooming in.”

“Sorry, no. Maybe I can work it into the budget, but for now, we’re dependent on the labs.”

Solomon played with the image a little more. He pointed to a spot near the bottom of the label. “There’s a C and an X. I’d be willing to bet the prescription is for Celexa.”

“But his mother died over three years ago,” Gordon said. “Why would anyone still have this prescription?”

“I’m beginning to wonder why we’re not asking Cassidy Clarke these questions,” Solomon said.

“Let’s bring him in.” Gordon reached for the phone, but Solomon intercepted his arm.

“You want to give him a chance to finish shooting?” Solomon asked. “You can let whoever’s on guard duty know Cassidy’s not to leave the area. Until then, we can line up our ducks. And I can run my newest findings on the Deadbeat Dad Killer by you.”

Gordon considered it. “That would keep Dawson happy. He’s already lost a day, and I see no problem letting him finish today’s filming,” Gordon said. Although he did wonder what would happen to the movie if it turned out Cassidy Clarke was a viable suspect in the murder of Marianna Spellman. He told Connie to relay the message. As for Solomon’s latest brainstorm—Gordon would hear him out as long as it didn’t interfere with their real investigation.

As soon as Gordon hung up, his direct line rang. “Chief Hepler.”

“Pierce Asel.”

Gordon hit the speaker button. “Ed Solomon’s here with me. You’re on speaker. I trust you have news.”

“I do. The studio greased the skids of the private lab, and their results show evidence of citalopram hydrobromide in both Yolanda Orozco and Marianna Spellman. If it were only one of them, I’d be unwilling to call Marianna Spellman’s manner of death a homicide, but given the levels of the drug in Miss Spellman’s system, I’m going to rule it as such. It’s still iffy, but based on what you’ve told me of her history, I don’t think it was suicide or an accidental overdose. I’ll alert Detective Colfax as well. However, if your investigation proves otherwise, I trust you’ll let me know.”

“Can they tell how it got into her system?” Gordon asked. “In food? Her coffee? Something else we can test for? Stomach contents, maybe?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have tests to analyze what was eaten once it’s been digested,” Asel said. “So, no, I can’t tell you she ate waffles, or hot dogs, or even one of Daily Bread’s cinnamon rolls. Whatever she did eat that morning, if anything, was long enough before her death that it had moved through her stomach.”

“She didn’t seem to be a big eater,” Gordon said. “Thanks for your ruling. What about all the other samples from the trailers and RVs at the production site?”

“They’ll be a while yet, but I’ll make sure you’re notified,” Asel said.

“Thanks.” Gordon set the handset in the cradle and looked at Solomon. “Seems we’ve got a murder to solve. Not that we haven’t been working in that direction already, so for what it’s worth, we’re a few steps ahead of the game.”

“What next?” Solomon asked.

“Let’s have another go at the whiteboard.” Gordon grabbed a binder from a box in his closet. “And get an official murder book going.”

Gordon hustled to the war room. Second shift had moved the tables and chairs around for their briefing, and the whiteboard was against the far wall. Gordon rolled the whiteboard out so both sides were accessible, and dragged a table in front of it, where he set the blue binder. Solomon came in and added his pages of notes. He paused in front of the whiteboard, then went up and drew lines between Marianna Spellman and Cassidy Clarke.

“You think we ought to extend the timeline to when Clarke’s mother died?” Solomon asked.

“It might have been the inciting incident for him.” Gordon rolled the board around. He and Solomon went over the names they’d listed on the back, and erased most of them as not relevant to the case. Solomon drew a large X and wrote
CC’s mother dies
beside it.

Gordon stepped closer. “Cassidy is hit hard by his mother’s death. He starts drinking, doing drugs, acting out.” He grabbed another marker and added the dates of Cassidy’s arrests. “Maybe he starts using her pills. Mixes them with the booze, gets into the accident. Gets hooked on the painkillers. Ends up in rehab.”

“But has a
see-the-light
moment and straightens out. Gets back into acting,” Solomon said.

“Gets spooked when he thinks he’s going to have to be tested for drugs.”

Solomon frowned. “But if he was hooked on painkillers, why switch to anti-depressants?”

“Does clinical depression run in families?” Gordon asked. “Maybe he’d started out taking those, then went back on them so he could function. I don’t think they’d show up on the kind of screenings a studio would do, unless they knew what to test for, just like our labs.”

“Let’s say they were looking for them,” Solomon added. “If you don’t have to go through all the pain-in-the-ass documentation for chain of evidence, it wouldn’t take long.”

“But if he
was
taking them, why did we find his mother’s prescription vial, not one for him?”

“Could be he transfers his pills into that one rather than carry his own around. But what we need is a way to tie him to Marianna Spellman’s overdose. He must have had opportunity given all the times they were together. And having her undo everything he’d been working for sounds like a viable motive to me.”

“Run your how-to by me, then,” Gordon said. “He mixes a bunch of pills in her coffee. How would he know how many? What little I got off the Internet said it’s a pretty hard way to kill someone. Takes a huge dose.”

“Yeah, but would he know that? His mother died that way.”

“So how did Yolanda end up with the drug in her system?” Gordon asked. “You think Cassidy heard the two of them talking, knew Yolanda could blow the whistle on him, too?”

“Or maybe it was Yolanda who knew,” Solomon suggested. “Cassidy mixes up his brew, but somehow Marianna gets it as well.”