Murder, She Wrote (11 page)

M
y hunt
for Sunny had been unsuccessful, and I was ready to call it a day. Mort had told me to meet him at the production office, and it was toward that green trailer that I directed my feet after leaving the casting office. It rankled that my time at the airport hadn't turned up anything substantial regarding Vera's murder, although the emergence of the true nature of Estelle Fancy had been something of a surprise. This wasn't my first experience with a movie crew, and it was far from my first experience with murder, but Vera's solitary nature made it difficult to track down who might have held a grudge against the actress. From the sound of it, she had kept to herself, using her astrologer as a glorified errand girl, and confining her intimate conversations to the rare visits of her ex-husband, the executive producer.

Chattergee had an alibi for the time when Vera was killed; he was sitting in a poker game. But even without an alibi, what motive could he have had to get rid of his ex-wife when he'd gone to such trouble to find a role for her comeback? The card game also exonerated several others in the production, although I suspected that with the occasional breaks and the rotating in and out of players, it was possible someone had managed to slip away long enough to kill Vera and come back unnoticed. But who? And why?

My reveries were interrupted by a soft sound I recognized, one that jarred me to alertness. Someone was walking nearby, the footsteps matching mine. The sense I'd had earlier of being followed returned in a rush. I spun around to look behind me; no one was there. I was alone in a narrow space between tall shipping containers. I heard a shoe scraping along the pavement. Was the person in the next aisle over?
You're being foolish,
I told myself.
There are hundreds of people here. Why shouldn't someone else be walking among the production trucks?

Still, the uncomfortable feeling persisted. My mind began to visualize ugly scenarios. The countryside surrounding the airport was deceiving. It was not just a pretty rural airfield. It was the site of a recent homicide. The people who worked on the film were not just friendly visitors who happened to be production professionals. There was a murderer among them. Perhaps Vera wasn't the only one to provoke violence. Could this person suspect I was seeking information to flush him or her out? My association with the sheriff surely would not have gone unnoticed. Although I had to assume that the people from Hollywood were, for the most part, unaware of my previous involvement with murder investigations, there may have been an exception. Someone in town could have spread a rumor that Jessica Fletcher was at it again. It wouldn't have been a rumor, though. It was the truth. Seth always warned me I would get myself in trouble.

I quickened my pace. I had to find Mort. I had to tell him I would talk to Sunny another day. I needed some time away from the airport. I was overthinking the case, imagining things, becoming paranoid.

Stop it!
I told myself. I took a deep breath.

Chattergee had said Vera was always making mountains out of molehills. And here I was, doing the same thing. I looked all around. No one was there. I heard the call of a chickadee. A light breeze ruffled the curls Loretta had worked so hard to create. I stretched my arms up and smiled at the blue sky. It was a beautiful day. I shook off the fear and suspicion.

Calm and composed again, I turned the corner at the next break between vehicles—and a man came out of the shadows and shoved me so hard I bounced off a trailer and fell to the ground.

“It's your fault, Jessica Fletcher,” my assailant growled as he loomed over me, his fists ready to strike.

It was the man I'd seen at the press conference, the one who'd taken Walter Benson's picture with his cell phone. A strong smell of alcohol surrounded him like a sickly sweet cloud.

“Who are you?” I said angrily and scrambled to my feet. “And what do you think you're doing?”

“You and your stupid book. If it wasn't for your book, they would never be here.”

“Who?”

“The movie people. It's going to start all over again now. Things were just starting to go right and now they'll all be looking at me again. And you did it. Butting in where you don't belong. The court convicted her, but your book made people doubt the verdict. I've been . . .” He pulled at his gray hair with both hands.

Recognition dawned. “You're Judge Harris's husband, aren't you?”

“N . . . Neil Corday,” he said with a hiccup.

“How dare you attack me like this?” I said, brushing off my clothing and keeping my distance from him to avoid another push.

“Attack you? You're lucky I didn't do more.” He dropped his arms and sniffled. “I didn't punch you. I could've, but I didn't.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

He'd given me quite a start, but instead of fear, I'd reacted with anger. Later on, I might reconsider my response, but at the moment I was fired up, full of adrenaline, and ready to take on the world. He was a pathetic-looking man, disheveled and obviously inebriated. He had trouble standing erect, and I wondered whether he might fall.

“What did you expect to accomplish pushing me to the ground? My book is fiction. The murder of your wife provided the background. If people read into it and come away with a suspicion that the jury might have been wrong in convicting your lady friend, so be it. Besides, I can hardly take back a book that was published years ago.”

“You could stop the movie,” he whined.

Suddenly I remembered Mitchell Elovitz complaining about “some old nut” downtown trying to interrupt his filming.

“I cannot stop the movie,” I said. “It wasn't my decision to make it in the first place. And I have no reason to object to a screenplay of my novel. As I said, my book was a fictionalized account, not a true-crime report of what occurred.”

Corday waved his arms around. “But everyone knows that the judge's husband in the book was me. The reviews said it was a . . . was a . . . roaming-something.”

“Roman à clef?”
I said.

“That's it. I was humiliated, I had to leave town. Everyone was pointing fingers at me. My reputation was in . . . in . . . I lost my good reputation. You forced me to leave my home and my practice.”

“You left town because there was a string of lawsuits hanging over your head and you didn't want to take responsibility for your own actions. You were also disbarred. I'm not to blame for that. You are your own worst enemy, Neil Corday.”

He looked at me with rheumy eyes. “Jenny used to say that, too.”

“Jenny Kipp? Your sometimes girlfriend? She's in jail now, serving a life sentence for killing your wife. Does she deserve to be there?”

Corday's expression changed from pitiful to calculating. “You're trying to get me to admit I killed Ruth, but it's not going to work.” He wiped his mouth. “I was ex . . . exoner . . . cleared. Jenny was the one with the gun, not me.”

“It was a weapon you gave her, wasn't it?”

“Not my gun,” he said, waving his arms around again. “I use these weapons now.” He stepped closer, held up a fist, and threatened me with it.

“You'd better stand back and drop your hands,” Mort's voice said in a commanding tone.

Mort held his service revolver steady with both hands. It was pointed at Corday.

“Don't shoot!” Corday called, raising his arms in surrender. “Don't shoot! I didn't punch her, Officer. You can ask her. Did I punch you, Mrs. Fletcher? I did not. We were just talking, that's all.”

“You all right, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked, keeping an eye on Corday.

“I'm fine,” I said, but I walked to Mort's side to increase my distance from the drunken man. “He knocked me down,” I said. “But I'm okay. No broken bones.”

Mort lowered his revolver. “You're under arrest,” he told Corday.

“That's not necessary,” I said.

“He knocked you down, didn't he?”

“Yes, but I'm not hurt.”

“He's drunk and disorderly.”

Corday stood with his head hanging down. He mumbled to himself, sniffling and wiping his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his wrinkled suit.

Despite my protestation, Mort handcuffed the late judge's husband, recited the Miranda warnings, and marched him toward the front of the airport. At the hangar, he turned his prisoner over to a deputy. “Lock him up downtown; keep him till he's sober. If he gives you a hard time, charge him with criminal threatening. While you're at it, check his priors,” he said, putting his hand on Corday's head as he placed him in the rear seat of a patrol car. “I'll be in later.”

Elovitz, who'd been standing in the doorway of the production trailer watching the scene, stepped down once the deputy drove away. Today he wore a Boston Bruins cap, one of a rotating collection. I imagine that he thought he would ingratiate himself with the Cabot Cove citizenry by showing his affinity for our favorite teams. Maine has no professional sports franchises, but we're big fans of those in Boston. The last time I'd seen Elovitz, he'd been holding a Celtics cap, a nod to our basketball team, even though the season had ended disappointingly. I now wondered if his wardrobe included hats for the New England Patriots and the less well-known Boston Cannons lacrosse team.

“Who was that guy?” Elovitz asked.

“Just an idiot who can't hold his liquor,” Mort said.

“I thought for a minute that maybe he was the one who killed Vera.”

“Hold your horses,” Mort said, shaking his head at the director, “and don't go jumping to stupid conclusions. I don't need more rumors around here.”

“So he's not the killer, huh?” Elovitz said through a laugh. “Too bad. I was about to congratulate you.”

“I'll let you know when you can do that.”

“I'm surprised you didn't recognize him,” I said to Elovitz. “I thought he might have been the same man who tried to interrupt your filming the other evening.”

“You know, come to think of it, he did look familiar. Yeah, the guy from downtown, the one the PA found hiding in a doorway.” Elovitz pulled off his Boston Bruins cap, dislodging the Bluetooth headset in his ear. He wiped his brow and put the headset back in place. “I told Chattergee we needed a security detail. This is a dangerous situation. Our star is shot and some weirdo is stalking around the production area. Maybe this drunk is the killer, huh? Wouldn't that be great? Case solved, and we can get back to making the film. So, who is the idiot? Just a drunk like the sheriff says?”

“He's the husband of the judge who was shot and killed here in Cabot Cove, the case I based my book on,” I said.

“Wow!” Elovitz said. “The real one, huh? The screenplay makes the point that maybe the woman who was convicted for killing the judge was innocent, and maybe her husband did the deed, the way you wrote it in the book. Nice guy.”

“He was upset when the book came out,” I said. “And he's upset that the movie is being made.”

“So there you go,” Elovitz said. “He wants to stop production. Isn't that enough? How better to accomplish that than to kill our star?” He looked at Mort, whose expression told him he was far off base.

“Okay! Okay!” Elovitz said, rubbing his hands together. “I'm jumping the gun. I guess I'm just excited because we start shooting again tomorrow. Come to think of it . . .” He ran inside the production office, yelling into his headset, “Call Nicole!”

“Can I drop you off at home, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked, opening the door to his patrol car. “I've got to get back to headquarters to question this buffoon before he sobers up enough to call in a lawyer.”

“It's been a strange afternoon,” I said, climbing into Mort's car.

“Did you talk to Sunny?”

“No. I never found her, but I did run across Estelle Fancy rummaging through Vera's jewelry.”

“No kidding! Did she steal anything?”

“I hope not, but I can't be certain. I left a note for Terrence Chattergee suggesting he lock the trailer door.”

We were about to drive away when I remembered Cecil.

“Do you think Mr. Chattergee will take care of him?” I asked after I had explained the situation. “He can't just be left alone.”

“I doubt it,” Mort replied. “He flew back to California this morning.”

“Oh, no!” I said.

“Want me to stop at the pet store to pick you up some doggie bones, Mrs. F.?” he said, a knowing grin on his face.

“That won't be necessary,” I said as I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number for Jack and Tobé Wilson's kennel and veterinarian center. “Tobé,” I said, “this is Jessica. I need a favor.”

W
hen I came downstair
s the next morning, Cecil was curled up on the settee in my living room snoring gently. At the sound of my steps, he opened one eye and watched me approach.

“Get down,” I said. “I didn't say you could sleep on my furniture. Didn't I make a bed for you on the kitchen floor?”

Cecil arched his back and stretched, sliding his paws forward and digging into the cushion with his claws like a cat. He jumped down delicately and shook his little body as if ridding his fur of water, then pranced into the kitchen without looking back.

I followed after him and watched as he lapped up some water, then stood at the back door looking up at me expectantly. “You're certainly well trained,” I said, as I attached his leash and walked with him outside. “But there has to be a better home for you than mine.”

The phone was ringing when we returned inside.

“Did I wake you?” Seth asked.

“No. I was outside walking with Cecil.”

“Who's Cecil?”

“It's a long story,” I said.

“Well, you'll have plenty of time to tell it if you want to accompany me up to Bangor today.”

“Why are you going to Bangor?”

“Remember that colleague I told you about? I sent him photos of the entrance and exit wounds I found on the actress.”

“Oh, yes. You said you weren't sure which was which.”

“Ayuh. That's true. But he thinks he knows. He's a forensic pathologist, a former medical examiner from Chicago, retired now, but consults for those who have tricky questions regarding autopsies. He's spent his career looking at gunshot wounds, and he invited me up to see his lab and review the photos. He said you could come, too, if you like.”

“I would like to,” I said, “but it's a long ride to Bangor. Can you take off that much time?”

“Already rescheduled my patients. Jed Richardson said he'd fly us up today. You game to go?”

“What time are you leaving?”

“Ten o'clock. We can stop for lunch before we see him.”

“I have one errand to run,” I said. “I should be able to get a ride out to the airport after that. I'll meet you there.”

“Sounds good.”

He was about to say good-bye when I added, “If I remember correctly, the last time we were in a small plane, you told me you'd be happy never to have that experience again.”

“Ayuh. I'm not a happy flier, but a lot depends on the pilot.”

“Meaning?”

“I figure we'll get to Bangor safely with Jed at the controls—and you in the backseat. See you later.”

He hung up before he could hear my sputtering at the other end of the line. Clearly Seth didn't trust me as a pilot. I'm a competent pilot—not nearly as experienced as Jed, of course, but careful and with a good feeling for the balance and workings of a small plane. I wasn't about to take offense at my good friend's teasing—he was teasing, wasn't he?—but a little devil on my shoulder said I should arrange with Jed to get the right-hand seat on our way back to Cabot Cove. With dual controls on the plane, Seth would never know who was doing the flying. We'd see what Dr. Hazlitt had to say then.

The errand I needed to run was to our local veterinarian, Jack Wilson. Jack and his wife, Tobé, were longtime friends, and I've written before about Tobé's beloved pig, Kiwi, now deceased, which she used to walk on a leash in town, to the delight of our citizens as well as the summer tourists.

Since it was early enough to squeeze in an appointment before Jack's regular office hours began, I called and he agreed to keep Cecil for the day. I'd been planning to bring Cecil in anyway so Jack could give him a checkup. He was going to test to see if the dog had a microchip. If so, Jack could trace Cecil's health records and make certain his inoculations were up to date.

I didn't have a carrier for Cecil, but he was accustomed to traveling in someone's arms, so he made no objection when I tucked him into my shoulder bag (emptied of its contents, of course) and placed the bag in the basket of my bike. As I pedaled over to Jack and Tobé's office, I crooned to Cecil, much the way I'd seen Estelle Fancy do when she'd lured him out from under the desk on the movie set. Had any of my neighbors seen me talking to my shoulder bag, they surely would have thought that Jessica Fletcher was losing her marbles. Fortunately, my voice lulled Cecil to sleep, and he napped all the way to the vet.

“He looks to be in fairly good condition,” Jack said once he'd examined Cecil, “except for his teeth, of course—or lack of teeth, I should say. What do you feed him?”

“I've only fed him a few times. I took a bag of kibble from his late owner's place, and supplemented it with cooked hamburger cut up in small pieces.”

“There are pet food formulas for senior dogs, but you can save money if you cook for him. Meat should be the main ingredient, then vegetables and starch. Chihuahuas love potatoes. He won't eat a lot. But he'll need something to chew to exercise the few remaining teeth he has.”

“I wasn't planning to keep him very long,” I said, dismayed at the idea of a permanent canine houseguest. I've owned many pets during my life, almost all of them adopted from a shelter, but in recent years, with my busy travel schedule, I felt it wouldn't be fair to adopt another animal only to have to board it when I was on the road. “I'm hoping the daughter of his owner will claim him,” I told Jack. “I haven't had the chance to talk with her yet.”

“Don't worry about him today. We'll take care of him. What time do you expect to be back?”

“I'm not certain. May I call you later?”

“Sure. We close at five, but there's always a tech on duty in the kennel.”

It was too far for me to ride my bicycle out to the airport, so I left it in Jack's parking lot and called for a cab to drive me. My plan was to have Seth drop me at the vet's office when we got back from Bangor, assuming it wasn't too late, and I could ride home with Cecil the same way we'd come.

It was still a bit early when I arrived at the airfield. I wasn't due to meet Seth for another hour, but Jed was already conducting his usual preflight check.

“Morning, Jessica,” he said, meeting me at the side of the plane. “Nice day for flying.”

“Good morning, Jed. Yes, it is.”

“We're expecting some scattered clouds. Might be a bit of turbulence over the river on the way in, but otherwise should be a smooth ride.”

“Sounds good, Jed.”

“Want to log a few hours of flying while we're at it?”

“I'd love to,” I said, “but I suspect that Seth wouldn't be comfortable knowing I was at the controls.”

“He doesn't have to know,” Jed said, winking at me. “We'll let him sit in the copilot seat on the way to Bangor, and then say it's your turn to be up front on the way back.”

“I like the way you think,” I said, not letting on that those were my plans precisely.

I left Jed to finish his inspection of the plane and walked around to the back of the hangar, intending to drop in on Mitchell Elovitz to see if he knew where Sunny was. There was no way I was going to give Cecil to Estelle Fancy, but my hopes of Chattergee taking over care of the Chihuahua had been dashed when he returned to California. Sunny was my last resort. If she didn't want the dog, I was going to be stuck with him.

I knocked on the door of the green production trailer and listened. When there wasn't a response, I turned the knob and peeked inside. I gasped at the scene before me. No one was in the production office, but someone had been there recently and had left the place in a shambles. Storyboards were strewn all over as if thrown around in a fury. The video monitors had been swept off the desks. The wastebaskets and recycling bins had been upended. The floor was covered with papers. I stepped inside, gingerly making my way toward the back of the trailer, hoping that no person had been a target of the rage that had clearly been behind the trashing.

I heard a loud whistle behind me and whirled around.

“Boy, lady, you must have some temper.” In the doorway I'd left open stood the actor Walt Benson, shaking his head.

I put a hand up in defense. “I didn't do this. I just arrived.”

“Well, someone was in a bad mood.”

“It looks that way,” I said, skirting the shattered remains of the video monitors.

“Anyone back there?” Benson asked.

“I don't think so,” I said, “but I want to be sure.”

When I completed my circuit of the trailer and assured Benson that no bodies were lying about, he came inside, righted two overturned chairs, offered me one, and sat in the other himself. “Doesn't look like the stars are aligned in the right place to resume filming, as our mutual friend Estelle Fancy would say.”

“Who would do something like this?” I asked.

“Beats me, but if weird stuff keeps happening, I'm going to put in for hazard pay.”

“What ‘weird stuff' are you referring to?” I asked. “Are you including Vera's death in that?”

“Yes, indeed! A murder isn't the normal course of events when you're making a film. And I heard some vagrant was wandering around here threatening to shut down production; the guy actually challenged one of the grips to a fistfight. Also, Estelle reported a theft from Vera's trailer. She's not the only one either. Someone broke into hair and makeup and walked off with Audrey's gun. I'm glad I still have mine,” he said.

“You carry a gun?” I asked.

“Sure do. It's not safe around here.” He heaved a big sigh.

“I think I'd better call the sheriff,” I said.

“Are you sure he's not on the lot? He practically lives here.”

“I'm not sure,” I said, dialing Mort's number on my cell phone.

He didn't answer, but I left a message about the vandalizing and suggested that he come to the production office.

“I'm beginning to think this movie is jinxed,” Benson said.

“Aren't you scheduled to start filming again today?”

“So I hear, but there's been no announcement about a leading lady. I'm hoping that's why Chattergee ran out to California. Maybe he'll bring us back a star. This movie needs something to get its juices flowing. Of course, Brannigan will be heartbroken if she doesn't get the part. She's been lobbying hard for it.”

“Does she carry a gun, too?” I asked.

He gave a bark of laughter. “Do you mean did she kill Vera to get the part? She's capable of it.”

“Good heavens!”

“Just kidding, but we're all cutthroat when it comes to good roles.” He picked up one of the storyboards from the floor. “Do you think we should call a couple of PAs to clean this place up?” he asked, leaning the board against a wall.

“I think we should leave everything exactly as it is until the director and the authorities get here. Mitchell Elovitz will know if anything's missing, although burglary doesn't appear to be the motive.”

“How can you tell?”

“Whoever did this left valuable electronic equipment,” I said. “If they were looking for something to steal, that would have been at the top of their list.”

“I hope this won't cause another delay to filming. I'm getting antsy hanging around with nothing to do. And I'm losing my shirt in the nightly poker games.”

“That's right. You were playing poker the night Vera Stockdale was shot. Did you hear anything? Did anyone in the game comment on a strange noise?”

“You couldn't have heard anything if an earthquake occurred,” he replied. “Elovitz had his stereo set at a deafening volume. That's why I kept stepping out of the game to rest my eardrums.”

“Did anyone else step out of the game?”

“Everyone at some point,” he replied. “Barry and Elovitz came out to smoke a cigar. Chattergee doesn't let anyone smoke around him.”

“Do you mean Eric Barry?”

“Yeah, the first AD.”

“I didn't realize he was at the game.”

“A number of guys stopped in for a hand or two, then took off. Barry said he had a date and left early.”

“What time is early?” I asked.

Benson shrugged. “Around eleven, I guess.”

“Do you know who he had a date with?”

“One of the PAs. I heard she gave him an earful for being late.”

“Was Terrence Chattergee there the whole time?”

“As far as I know. I was whipped when the game broke up, but he was on California time. It was the shank of the evening for him.”

“Did anyone leave the game for an extended period and then return?”

“I see where you're going with this, but these are all good guys, Mrs. Fletcher. I don't see any of them carrying a grudge against Vera, except maybe Chattergee, but he's the one who insisted she be in the film.”

There was a knock at the door and one of the production assistants poked his head inside. “Is Jessica Fletcher here?”

“Yes,” I said. “I'm here.”

“The pilot is looking for you.”

“Oh, my goodness,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I forgot all about my flight.”

“You go ahead,” Benson said. “I'll wait for the sheriff.”

The production assistant held the door open and extended a hand to help me as I rushed down the stairs. “What happened in here, Mr. Benson?” I heard him ask as I trotted away.