Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (5 page)

Telling himself an audience with Mayor Hunter McKenna was nothing like one with former Mayor Martin Alexander, Gordon set off.

Gordon’s head whirled as he covered the distance between himself and the mayor. He kept his stride purposeful, but not quick. Every second of thinking time helped. Not that it would matter a whole lot. He had a feeling the mayor would be doing most of the talking, and all Gordon would have to say would be variations on
too soon to tell
or
we’re working on it
.

But best to keep things positive. He spoke before the mayor could. “Mayor. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was interviewing a critical witness, and she’s been able to help us with the investigation.”

“What in the world happened?” the mayor asked. “All your officers would tell me was there was a problem in one of the trailers, and until it was worked out everything had to be put on hold. I’m assuming from all the hoopla, that it was more than a flat tire or petty vandalism.”

No point in sugarcoating anything. “You’re right. Marianna Spellman was found dead in one of the trailers, and until we find evidence to the contrary, we have to investigate it as a homicide. Standard procedure for any unattended death.”

The mayor’s eyes widened and his skin grew pale. “You think someone …
killed
her?”

“No idea. The medics are with her now, and the coroner’s been called. We’re also coordinating with CSR.”

At the mayor’s blank expression, Gordon added, “That’s the County’s Crime Scene Response unit. You know, kind of like CSI on television, but for real.”

The mayor shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes, I know what it is. I’m shocked that this happened to us.”

Us? What us? It happened to Marianna
.

“I assure you, we’re staying on top of things. My officers are already taking statements. Have they talked to you yet?”

McKenna’s eyebrows rocketed upward. “Me? Why would they talk to me?”

“Because you were here. You might have seen something.”

“No, of course I didn’t see anything. I was standing with you the whole time.”

“And you’d just arrived, straight from your office, right?”

“Yes, as I told you. We were going to discuss the press conference.” He paled further. His jaw dropped. “Oh my God. The press conference. There’s no time to cancel it. No, we can’t cancel it. Word of this will have spread by then. We’ll have to use the opportunity to explain we’re doing everything that can be done.” He peered at Gordon. “You don’t think you’ll have this solved by then, do you?”

“I strongly doubt that, sir. But I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. You have a way with the press.”

Gordon would rather face whoever had killed Marianna—assuming it was a homicide—in a dark alley, unarmed, than speak to the press. He still got the jitters when he had to address his troops at a briefing.

“As long as you’re here, Mayor, did Marianna ever mention any issues, any problems with the production? Anyone who might have wanted her out of the way?”

“No, of course not. She had some rough edges, but being a woman in a position of power often means having to be more aggressive than a man would in the same job. Sad, but equality is—well, it
isn’t
. Not where it should be by now, at any rate.” McKenna paused, as if realizing he’d strayed from the main point of their discussion. “In our meetings, she never indicated any strife between herself and the rest of the production people.”

“No complaints from any of the citizens?” Gordon asked. “Nobody grumbling about how having a movie crew here was going to mess up their routines?”

“Not to me,” the mayor said. “I would think complaints would be channeled through your office.”

Laurie, Gordon’s admin, hadn’t reported anything negative. The questions she’d fielded had been from people wanting to see more of the filming, not less.

Gordon’s radio interrupted. Gordon lifted his hand. “Sorry, Mayor. I need to deal with the police side of things.” He turned his back on the man. “Hepler.”

“Sir,” Titch said, “the director is about ready to explode. I think you should get in here.”

“Where are you?” Gordon asked.

“Daily Bread, sir. Locals are at Finnegan’s.”

“On my way.” Gordon turned to the mayor. “I’m going to talk to the crew now. Bottom line, until we’ve cleared the scene and questioned everyone, filming is stopped. I’ll keep you posted, but you’re the expert at dealing with the media. I’m sure you’ll know what to tell them.”

He strode past the mayor, toward Daily Bread, before the man had a chance to respond. The clumping of the mayor’s boots followed, but Gordon kept his pace brisk, and the man went off in his own direction.

Gordon opened the rear door to the diner. A small corridor branched off, the dining room to the right, the kitchen to the left. He poked his head into the kitchen. The wait staff was busily arranging cinnamon rolls, muffins, and cookies onto large platters. The aroma of brewing coffee taunted him. Angie was sprinkling filling onto a rolled-out sheet of dough. She gazed up, her eyebrows raised in question. He shook his head, then moved into the dining room.

Lionel Dawson, a short, stocky man with a trim goatee and booming voice, intercepted him as soon as Gordon crossed the threshold. The man wore black denims and black Converse sneakers with neon-green laces, and a plaid flannel shirt over a black turtleneck. “When can we resume shooting?”

No introductions, no pleasantries. Then again, if Gordon’s staff here had been as effective in keeping things quiet as they had over at Finnegan’s, maybe Dawson wasn’t aware of why they’d closed down the shoot. And, since Gordon was in uniform, it was obvious to anyone who could read he was the Chief of Police. “Wait here one moment, please,” Gordon said. He ducked into the kitchen and motioned to Angie.

“What the heck happened?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel tucked into the waistband of her jeans.

“Problem on the set,” he said. “Can I take Mr. Dawson upstairs to your place and fill him in? I need a little privacy.”

“Sure. You have your key?”

At least she was locking the door now. He nodded. Then pecked her cheek. “Thanks.”

“You
are
going to tell me what this is all about, aren’t you.”

“When I can.” Gordon went back to the dining room where over two dozen people sat. Most were from the production company, but the locals who had been hired to be in this morning’s shoot were included in this group. Those people gave him stares demanding answers. The rest seemed to be accustomed enough to waiting that they didn’t push. Some were chowing down on the pastries, some nibbling. Most had steaming mugs in front of them. Some were reading newspapers, some paperbacks. Surprised at the lack of cell phone activity, Gordon remembered Mai Phan telling him no cell phones were allowed on the set.

“Thank you for waiting,” Gordon said to Dawson. “If you’ll come with me, we can talk in private.”

He led the man through the diner, to the alcove between the restrooms, and unlocked the door that said
Staff Only
, which opened onto a flight of stairs to Angie’s apartment door. He unlocked that one as well, glad Angie had taken his advice and boosted her security.

“You live here?” Dawson asked.

“No, it belongs to one of the owners of Daily Bread. She’s letting us use it. Let’s sit down.” Gordon led the man to Angie’s couch and moved one of her easy chairs so he sat directly across from him. He pulled out his notepad and pen.

Dawson crossed an ankle over a knee. “I assume that there’s something seriously wrong, then.”

“I’m afraid so,” Gordon said. “Do you object to me recording this conversation? Saves relying on my memory when I can’t read my own writing.” He held up his notepad and gave a quick smile.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Gordon hadn’t brought a pocket recorder, so he used a comparable app on his phone. After noting the date, time, place, and that the two of them were present, Gordon watched the man’s face as he asked his first question. “When did you last see Marianna Spellman?”

“Marianna?” Lionel Dawson uncrossed his legs and scooted forward.

Gordon detected no reaction other than a brief moment to consider the question before Dawson said, “After dinner last night. We met at that bar, Finnegan’s. Discussed the production schedule, went over any fires she’d need to put out. Why?”

“Fires? Can you specify? Was she having problems with anyone in particular regarding these fires? Or anything else?” Gordon asked.

Dawson shook his head. “It’s all part of the game. I’ve worked with her a couple of times on other productions, and she knows how to get the job done. She’s not in it to make friends, and doesn’t do the warm fuzzy bit, but I can’t say anyone would hold a grudge. If you’re in the business, you have to understand the business.”

“Did she have any health issues?”

“She didn’t eat enough, if you ask me, and was fussy about what she did eat, but no, nothing I was aware of. Not that she’d confide in me. Our relationship is strictly professional, and other than when our paths cross for a job, I have no contact with her.”

Slowly, the man’s expression grew wary, as if he’d caught on to where this might be going. “Something happened to her, didn’t it?”

“I’m sorry to tell you, we found her dead in the wardrobe RV. The entire area has to be considered a crime scene until we know exactly what happened.”

The man blanched and gripped the arm of the sofa. “My God. You’re sure?”

Although Gordon hadn’t been present when Gilman and Reynolds did their official exam, he knew if, by some remote chance, they’d found Marianna alive, he’d know about it. “Afraid so.”

“That’s … horrible. Tragic. How did she die? Who did it?”

“That’s what we’re investigating.” Gordon leaned in closer. “I’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“Of course. Anything you want.”

“First, it’s what I don’t want. I don’t want any of this leaked to the press. I’m sure that’s impossible, but please impress upon your people the need for silence. Your no cell phone policy has helped, but I’m sure there will be those who will find a way around it.”

“I will demand full cooperation when it comes to social media interactions,” Dawson said. “The production doesn’t need any negative publicity.”

How far could he trust this guy? After all, they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

For half a second, Gordon wondered if Mayor McKenna felt the same way.

“I’ll need a list of everyone who is working on the picture, their position, and their assignments.”

Dawson opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped it shut. He sighed. “I almost said that was Marianna’s department and to ask her for the names. I still can’t believe this happened. There should be a list in Marianna’s on-site office.”

“What about your security guards?” Gordon asked. “Would they check people off?” And what were they doing while Marianna was dying?

“They should. I can’t believe my brain functions have dissolved. I’ll get that list for you. It’ll only have the names, though. No scheduling. Marianna is—
was
—the keeper of the details.”

Gordon figured Solomon, Gaubatz, and Jost should be done clearing trailers by now. “I’ll verify with my officers that it’s all right to go in there. One of them will accompany you.”