Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (32 page)

“Maybe. Like, we know that means no, right? So, I leave and was going to give up and head to Evergreen, but then I see Marianna going into her RV. So I decide to hang around awhile longer, trying to decide if I want to go and grovel.”

“Do you remember what time this was?” Solomon asked.

“No. Sevenish?”

“All right. Any sense of how long you were waiting around?” Gordon said.

“Probably not nearly as long as it seemed. I’m hiding under Marianna’s RV, and wondering what the fuck I’m doing there. Then I see Yolanda walking past, so I think I can wait in the lounge where it’s more comfortable, but I’m crawling out when I see Marianna. She’s walking funny—you know, like she’s drunk—and I think maybe the pills are kicking in. I walk around the trailer so she doesn’t see me coming out from under it, and I see she’s grabbing the rail to the Wardrobe steps, like she’s dizzy. I rush over and help her up inside, and she sits on the chair.”

Bart hung his head, then gazed into Gordon’s eyes. “I suppose I should have gone for help, but honestly, you have to believe me, I thought she’d pass out, sleep for a while. If I’d known she was dying, I’d have gone for help. But I didn’t know, so I rushed into her RV and grabbed her laptop, shoved it in her purse, and then got the hell out of there.”

“You locked the door when you left?” Gordon said.

“Well, yeah. I mean, she always kept it locked. And since I had the key, I could get in if I wanted to.”

“Where did you go?” Solomon asked.

“About a block or so away. To that park place where people walk dogs and stuff. I sat at a picnic bench and tried to figure out how to get into Marianna’s files.”

“Did you?” Gordon said. If Marianna was as lax about her laptop security as she was her cell phone, it might not have been too hard.

Bart pounded a fist on the table. “No, damn it. I tried everything I could think of. I could see where some of the files were, but they were locked. Computers aren’t my thing. So I shoved the tablet into the purse and wandered around a little, trying to figure out what to do.”

“Carrying a woman’s purse?” Solomon said, his eyebrow raised.

Bart snorted. “That thing was more like a piece of carryon luggage. I tucked it under my arm and it didn’t look like a purse. Besides, there was hardly anyone on the street. They were all rubbernecking at the shoot.”

Marianna’s laptop had yet to be uncovered. “So you tossed the purse in a vacant lot. What did you do with the laptop?” Gordon said.

“I kept it. Figured I’d find somebody to hack in.”

Gordon tried not to show his surprise at the admission. Why not say he tossed it? Maybe that lent more credibility to Bart’s statement.

“What did you do next?” Solomon asked.

“I figured I’d hang around a little longer, go into Marianna’s RV. By now, all hell seemed to be breaking loose, but I thought nobody would notice me in the chaos. I know we all filled out paperwork when we got here, so I wanted to dig through her hard copies. See what she said about me. But then I saw Lionel Dawson and a cop.” Bart paused, looked more closely at Solomon. “It was you, I think. You went into the RV. You left with some papers. I thought you had all the files, so I knew I needed to check.”

“But you’d already tossed her purse, so you had to break in,” Gordon said.

Bart swiped his hand under his nose. “Not exactly,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Repeat that,” Solomon said.

“See, I thought if I made it look like someone broke in, trashed the place, then you’d think it was some crook or vandal, and it would throw you off the track.”

“Let me get this straight. You locked the door, then used a pry bar to get in?” Gordon tried to wrap his brain around that.

Bart’s brow furrowed. “Hello?” He tapped his temple again. “Duh? I had her key. And I didn’t want anyone to discover a break-in while I was inside. I did that
after
I was done.”

Gordon visualized the contents of Marianna’s purse. Yes, there had been keys. At the time, he’d assumed—kicking himself for that one—her RV key would have been on her main key ring, and only her B and B key was separate. But it stood to reason she’d get a new key to the RV when it was assigned to her at the shoot, and likely on its own ring.

Leaving that behind him, he asked, “Where did you get the pry bar?”

“From the equipment trailer. Nobody was around, and there’s all sorts of crap in there.”

“Taking a big risk, weren’t you?” Solomon said.

“Not really. By then, everyone was being hustled off the lot. And by then, I had everything I needed.”

“You found your file,” Gordon said.

“Yes, and that bitch had put all sorts of bullshit crap on it. But I figured if mine was the only one missing, that would make me a suspect, so I grabbed Cassidy’s and Lily’s, too, because they were in folders next to mine, and then two others at random. I tossed all the papers on the floor. I thought it would be harder to notice what was missing.”

“You seem to think we’re not capable of doing our jobs, don’t you?” Solomon said.

“I wasn’t thinking too clearly by then,” Bart said.

“What about the spilled coffee?” Gordon asked.

Bart shrugged. “I wanted to confuse things. There was a little coffee left in Marianna’s pot, so I poured it on the floor and washed the pot out. I thought you’d spend your time checking into coffee, not the hot chocolate. I washed her hot chocolate mug, too, and tossed it in the trash behind Finnegan’s. If I’d had time, I’d have grabbed those cups from the lounge, but by then, I knew I had to haul ass and pick up Kathy.”

He bowed his head, peered upward, like a dog caught after stealing the roast thawing on the counter. “Guess I screwed up, huh? But you did say if I told you the truth, things would go easy for me. It was all an accident.”

“That may well be, Mr. Bergsstrom, but I’m afraid you’re under arrest for the murder of Marianna Spellman.”

Gordon rolled into his parking space early Monday morning and took a moment to enjoy another crisp fall day. With Bart Bergsstrom in the hands of the legal system, the public parking lot void of movie vehicles, and a cup of Daily Bread coffee in hand, he was looking forward to a normal, quiet day in Mapleton.

Inside his office, he set his coffee on his desk, booted his computer, and headed for the workroom to retrieve the weekend reports. He almost collided with Solomon, who was on his way out of the room.

“Was coming to find you, Chief. Colfax said they’ve got proof Franklin Fitzgerald was a homicide.”

Franklin Fitzgerald? Gordon reorganized his thoughts. Not a movie person. “Right. The potential Deadbeat Dad victim.”

“Lab reports found evidence of a sedative in his system,” Solomon went on. “And before you say anything about how he wanted to make sure he didn’t chicken out, or make things easy on himself, it was injected at the hairline at the back of his neck, which doesn’t seem to be a logical place to do it yourself. It didn’t kill him, though. They have proof he was still alive when he was overcome by the exhaust fumes.”

“So he was drugged to make him compliant, or keep him in the car. Then the car was rigged to make it look like a suicide. Any leads as to who their culprit is?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask, Chief. I put in a bunch of OT on Marianna Spellman’s case, and with your permission, I’d like to work with Colfax on this one. He said he’s got a couple of good leads.”

“Let me check the duty roster first,” Gordon said, more as a formality, because he knew he could juggle a shift to cover Solomon’s absence for a day.

He grabbed the report folders and strolled to his office, Solomon almost nipping at his heels. As he pulled up the files, he asked Solomon, “Did Colfax say he’d cover your salary for the day? There are rules against working for free. I can’t justify paying you to do County work.”

“Colfax said he knew his way around the system, so it can show up as comp time on the Mapleton end,” Solomon said. “Or, I could take a sick day. You’re the number cruncher.”

“I’ll work it out,” Gordon said. “Keep me posted.”

Solomon shot out of the room like a bottle rocket. “Will do, Chief. And thanks.”

A happy officer was a good officer, and Gordon had to admit he was curious to see whether Solomon’s theory panned out.

Gordon called Dispatch, told Tessa about the personnel switch, made sure she’d let Connie know at shift change, then went through the reports, sipping his coffee. Even for Mapleton, it had been a slow weekend—not counting arresting Bart Bergsstrom, of course—but that hadn’t impacted routine patrol work. Not even a nuisance call from Mr. Johnson. Life was good.

Gordon put the murder book in order, locked it in the evidence room with the other two, and caught up on neglected paperwork until it was time for his crossing guard duty.

When he got back, Laurie stopped him, a huge smile on her face, a file folder in her hand. “We got the computer grant.”

Could the day get better? Gordon took the folder. “How much red tape do we have to cut before we see these computers? Or the money to buy them?”

“I’ll have the paperwork ready for your signature by lunchtime.” She swiveled her chair toward her file cabinet and pulled out a catalog. “Meanwhile, you can start shopping. I’ve flagged everything we requested in the grant.”

Gordon took it to his desk and had turned to the first marked page when Laurie buzzed him on the intercom. “Sir, Mayor McKenna said you’re presence is required at a meeting of the Town Council at nine-thirty.”

Which was fifteen minutes from now. “I don’t suppose he said what it’s about?” Gordon said. “The regular meeting isn’t for another month.”

“No, just that it was imperative you be there. Maybe he’s going to commend you for your work in getting Marianna Spellman’s murder wrapped up so quickly.”

The gnawing sensation in Gordon’s gut said he didn’t think the mayor would go that far, but he thanked Laurie and went to change into his dress uniform. Clothes made the man.

After one final check to make sure he was as spiffed up as he could stand being, he drove to City Hall and strode into the room where the council met. The room smelled of lemon furniture polish. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the window.

Aside from the mayor and the council members seated at the expanse of dark wooden tables at the front of the room, no one else was there. So, hardly a congratulatory meeting. If the mayor was going to present him with a medal, Gordon figured he’d have had at least the reporter from the
Mapleton Weekly
on hand.

Back straight, head erect, Gordon marched toward the tables.

“Thank you for coming, Chief Hepler.” Mayor McKenna gestured to the rows of chairs facing them. “Please, take a seat.”

“I’d rather stand, sir.” And he did. At full attention. Titch would approve, although Gordon doubted Titch’s heart would thud the way Gordon’s was now.

The mayor fussed with a pile of papers. The rest of the council either stared into space beyond Gordon or studied the table in front of them. When the former mayor had left, there’d been a shakeup of the council, and until this minute, Gordon had felt they supported the way he ran the Mapleton Police Department.

Gordon opted to take the offensive. “Before you begin, Mayor McKenna, I want to inform you and the esteemed members of the council that as of this morning, the Mapleton Police Department has been approved for a grant to cover in-vehicle computers for the entire fleet. This will not only make communication easier and faster, but will also increase the safety of our officers by allowing them to do traffic checks and run vehicle plates without having to radio them through Dispatch. And, because it’s a grant, it will have no impact on our budget.”

“That is good news, indeed,” the mayor said. “However, there is still the matter of your conduct during the recent investigation that needs to be addressed. I’ll be frank, Chief Hepler. Such behavior cannot be condoned by the city of Mapleton, and we have put you on probation.”

Gordon suppressed the
what the fuck?
that threatened to spring from his mouth. He waited.

Furtive glances, clearing throats amongst the council members suggested the mayor’s decision hadn’t been met with unanimous approval. The mayor continued.

“We are a small town, Chief Hepler. As such, we do not have the resources to deal with major crimes when in reality they have little or no bearing on our populace. In the case of Vista Ventures, they arrived as a self-contained unit, with their own personnel, housing, and security. Any criminal investigations should have been left to them. Instead, you insisted on taking over, thereby costing Mapleton significant dollars and disruptions. I, on several occasions, suggested—and I stress the word
suggested
because in no way did I intend to run the police department—that you allow Vista Ventures to get along with their business. I pointed out you might be opening Mapleton to a potential lawsuit. Instead, you ignored my counsel, to the point of almost ridiculing their own security.”

As if those clowns would have had a clue what to do. Who’d gone crying to Daddy? Lean and Lanky, or Porky, or the third guard, so nondescript he couldn’t even recall his face? Or was it Lionel Dawson?

“With all due respect, Mayor McKenna, the crime happened in Mapleton.”

“On studio property,” one of the council members interjected. “Nothing in that parking lot beyond the asphalt was part of Mapleton.” One of the new guys, chosen to rubberstamp whatever the mayor wanted to put through, Gordon assumed.

Tempted to turn and leave, instead Gordon schooled his features into full cop mode and let things play out.

The mayor started reading from a list of expenses. Gordon’s cell vibrated at his hip, followed by a klaxon alert. The mayor peered over the papers. While he was chastising Gordon’s level of respect for the meeting by not silencing his phone, Gordon read the display. The rising and falling tone meant only one thing. Officer in trouble.

Gordon waved off the mayor. “This is an emergency.”

He left the room and raced to his vehicle where he got on the radio. “What happened?”