Murder, She Wrote (19 page)

“
S
he sounded desperate,” I told Mort as we drove from my house to Cross Acres.

“What'd she say again?”

“She said that Corday had arrived at her house, drunk and in a rage. Somehow he must have gotten wind that she'd given the private investigator damaging information about him and revealed the comments he'd made before Jenny Kipp was charged with his wife's murder.”

“I talked to Joe Scott in the DA's office just before I picked you up. Looks like he's about to petition the court to reopen the Harris case.”

“Not good news for Neil Corday,” I said. “If Corday did shoot his wife, he'll be desperate to keep Tiffany from testifying against him. He's obviously unstable, Mort.”

“We're spread a little thin these days, but I'm going to call in for extra help.” He radioed headquarters and reported our destination. “Make sure we get another squad car over there.”

“What I can't figure out is why he dared to return to Cabot Cove. When I first called Tiffany, she wasn't keen on changing her statements to the investigator. But when I told her that Corday had returned to town, her whole manner changed. I don't think I told you that he fathered a child with her.”

Mort swerved to avoid a bicyclist busy reading a text message on his cell phone and not paying attention to where he was going. “Should give him a ticket for texting while driving,” Mort growled.

“Does the no-texting law apply to bicycles?” I asked.

“It should. Ms. Parker didn't say whether Corday was armed?”

“No, but it's safe to assume if he's threatening her life, he may have some weapon,” I said. “She said he was drunk. I fear for her
and
her child.”

Mort turned off the highway and headed down a narrow two-lane road leading toward Cross Acres.

“Do you ever hear anything about Jenny Kipp?” I asked.

“Last I heard, a legal aid lawyer had filed a motion to reopen the case. She didn't have anything to base it on, but now—”

“Now she will—if nothing happens to Tiffany Parker. Can you go faster, Mort?”

“Not if you want to live to get there, Mrs. F.”

“Sorry to be a backseat driver,” I said.

“I don't like front-seat drivers, either,” he said as he turned on the siren and the flashing red lights on the roof of the squad car and increased his speed a little. A few slower drivers pulled off to the side of the road to allow us to pass.

The road narrowed even more as it entered the unincorporated village of Cross Acres, a strip of gas stations, a few timeworn restaurants, a launderette, and a shuttered Woolworth's in the middle of a small shopping center.

“Cross Acres has certainly fallen on hard times,” I commented, although I didn't need a visual confirmation. The problems of the village were pretty well known to everyone in Cabot Cove. Our mayor, Jim Shevlin, had spearheaded a drive with the Maine Development Agency to allocate funds to help rebuild it, an unsuccessful effort to date.

Mort had entered the address I had for Tiffany into the vehicle's GPS system. According to the map display we were a few turns from her house. He switched off the siren and flashing lights and slowed down.

“What do you intend to do?” I asked in a whisper, although it was unnecessary.

“Confront Corday.”

“But what if he
is
armed?”

Mort ignored my concern and said, “I'll go to the door, Mrs. F. You stay by the car unless I motion for you to join me.”

“All right,” I said, “but be careful. If he has a gun—and we know he's deranged, and drunk—there's no telling how he'll respond to seeing you.”

Tiffany's house was a small one-story dwelling at the end of the street. A healthy growth of grass and weeds in the tiny front lawn, and peeling yellow paint on the house itself, testified to its neglect. A late-model white car was parked in the short driveway, and Mort looked at the license plate. “Rental car,” he muttered. It blocked a second car, the one in which Tiffany had driven me to Judge Borden's office. Mort pulled up, parking his car across the end of the driveway, effectively keeping either of the other cars from leaving. He'd taken off his Stetson during the trip, but now put it on, took a breath, got out, and approached the front door, his right hand resting on the weapon in the holster on his hip. He'd told me to stay with the car, which didn't mean I had to remain inside it. I got out and gently pressed the passenger door shut to avoid making a noise that might startle him.

He was almost to the door when a female shriek from inside the house pierced the air. Mort didn't hesitate, nor did I. My fight-or-flight reaction kicked into gear and I ran toward the house as Mort flung open the door, his weapon drawn. I came up behind and looked past him to where Corday had Tiffany pinned to a couch, with one hand on her throat. His other arm was raised in the air, a gun in his hand, poised to strike her in the head.

“Drop that gun!” Mort commanded.

Corday looked up, fury in his eyes. “You!” he roared at me. “Didn't I warn you to stay out of this?”

“I don't take well to anonymous telephone threats,” I said. “I see you've thrown Tiffany's belongings around in the same way you trashed the production office.”

Corday's lip curled. “I knew your buddy the sheriff would tell you about that.”

“Actually, it was the other way 'round,” Mort said, still holding his gun on the lawyer. “She told me about it. Now let me see you drop your weapon. Don't be stupid! Drop the gun and let her go.”

Corday's angry eyes moved from Tiffany to me and back again. He seemed conflicted on whether to heed Mort's warning or not. In that moment of indecision, a child's cry was heard from another room in the house.

“My baby,” Tiffany wailed as she struggled to get out from under his grip.

I had to say something to break the impasse. My speaking up may have been inappropriate, but it was instinctive. “Mr. Corday,” I said, “please let her go. There's a small child who needs her. Don't complicate your situation. Please, release her so she can go to her child.”

“You heard Mrs. Fletcher,” Mort said. “I'm running out of patience. I'll shoot you, Corday, if you don't drop that gun immediately and let Ms. Parker up.”

To my relief, Corday released his grip on Tiffany's neck, got to his feet, and glared at us. He still held the weapon, although now the barrel was pointed in our direction.

Tension clogged the air in the small room. Tiffany slowly pulled herself up to a sitting position and massaged her neck where his fingers had restrained her. The child cried again. I glanced at Mort, who still pointed his revolver at Corday. At that moment I was certain that both men would pull the trigger, but then Tiffany's small daughter appeared, sobbing, crying, “Mommy. Mommy.” Tiffany bolted from the couch and scooped up her child.

Her sudden movement distracted Corday, and Mort took advantage of it to charge him. He brought his own weapon down hard on Corday's wrist, sending the weapon he'd been holding skittering across the floor, where it stopped at my feet. Mort wrestled Corday to the floor and held him there, a knee on his chest, his revolver held against Corday's temple. I picked up Corday's gun. I hated the feel of it in my hand and looked for somewhere to deposit it. But I had second thoughts and continued to hold it to ensure that Corday wasn't able to retrieve it.

Corday let out a moan and ceased being combative. He allowed Mort to turn him over and place handcuffs on his wrists behind his back.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Nothing, Mrs. F.,” Mort said as the sound of sirens outside reached us. He shook his head. “Better late than never.”

Tiffany's daughter was now cuddled in her mother's arms. Her crying had stopped as Tiffany stroked her hair and whispered that everything was going to be all right. The sheriff allowed Corday to sit against the couch.

“That was a pretty dumb thing you did,” Mort told him.

Corday snarled, “You don't know what you're talking about.” He jerked his head toward Tiffany. “She's a liar, a dirty liar. What are you gonna do, believe some hophead?” He turned to Tiffany. “Tell 'em, Tiffany, about all the pills I got you, how I took good care of you, paid to have the kid delivered, even gave you money to put down on this house. Tell 'em, Tiffany. Go on, tell 'em!” He was shouting now.

“Pipe down,” Mort said.

“Maybe it would be better if she didn't stay in this room,” I said to Tiffany, indicating her daughter.

“Good idea, Ms. Parker,” Mort said.

When Tiffany left the room, I realized that I was still holding Corday's gun. I opened my shoulder bag and dropped it inside.

Two deputies knocked on the doorframe and crowded into the small front room. Tiffany returned alone moments later as Mort instructed the officers to take custody of the prisoner.

“Well, look at you, the hotshot lawyer,” she taunted Corday as the deputies pulled him to his feet. “Why I ever got involved with you is beyond me.”

“Just keep your mouth shut,” he said.

She laughed. “Like hell I will, and that's where you belong. In hell.”

He struggled to break free, threatening to kill her if she didn't shut up, but the deputies held him fast.

“Maybe you'd best go tend to your little girl,” Mort suggested to her. “You'll have your chance to tell a jury what he did.”

Tiffany looked disappointed that she couldn't continue to berate Corday, but she heeded Mort's advice. She left the room again, returning with her child as the deputies muscled Corday toward the door.

“Book him on assault, intent to kill, and possession of an unlicensed weapon. I'll think of some more charges when I get back.”

We watched the deputies lead Corday from the house and settle him in the backseat of their vehicle just as a second squad car arrived.

“You okay?” Mort asked Tiffany.

“Sure,” she said, touching her skin where the pressure of Corday's fingers had left red marks. “I loved seeing him squirm.”

I wished that she wasn't taking such obvious glee in her former lover's predicament. She would need to tone down her hatred of him when dealing with the district attorney's office, and especially during any testimony she would be called upon to give. Juries—and judges—don't take well to displays of revenge.

The second set of deputies entered the house and Mort instructed them to take Tiffany's statement.

It felt good, even liberating, to walk outside. Mort checked the car that Corday had driven and found the rental agreement. “I'll call the rental agency when we get back and tell them to come get the car.”

I looked back at the house as Mort started the engine. Through the window I could see Tiffany talking to the deputies. Then she turned and looked outside, hands on her hips and what looked like a satisfied grin on her face.

“Not the most likable of women,” Mort commented as we headed back into town.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “She elected to become involved with Corday, a married man, and she took what she could from him.”

“She's lucky we have him in custody now. He's a dangerous man.”

“What's important is that Judge Harris's real killer be brought to justice and that Jenny Kipp taste freedom again.”

“I hope it works out that way.”

Mort was quiet on the way back to town. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I'm thinking about those movie people and how glad I'll be when they're done and gone. They make more noise than a taxi driver in a traffic jam.”

I hesitated before saying, “I called you this morning, not to talk about Tiffany Parker and Neil Corday, but to say we need to get out to the airport as soon as possible. May we go now?”

“Gee, Mrs. F.,” he said. “Don't I get a break?”

“It's important, Mort.”

With a heavy sigh, he took the next turn toward the airport.

“May I make a suggestion?” I said, knowing I was treading on thin ice.

“What now?”

“Do you have any more deputies you can call in?”

“Why?”

“Because if things go the way I think they will, it might be time to arrest Vera Stockdale's killer.”

I
t was getting dark when Mort pulled into a parking space behind the hangar that housed the interior set where Vera's body had been discovered. We got out of the car to find two young crew members functioning as sentries outside the door. A red bulb had been inserted in the overhead lamp and was illuminated, a signal not to come inside.

“Sorry, folks. They're shooting right now. We can't let you in.”

Mort pointed to his badge and said, “We're here on official business.”

There was a feverish whispered discussion between the pair, but the answer was the same.

“We can't open the door right now,” one of them said.

“If we interrupt the scene, we'll be fired,” his companion added.

“How long do you expect them to be filming?” I asked.

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“I'll give it five minutes,” Mort told them, “and then I'm going in with or without your permission.” He walked back to the car and leaned against the door. I joined him there. He withdrew his cell phone and dialed a number. “Hon? I'm out at the airport with Mrs. F. Yeah, there's always a new development. No, don't wait for me to eat dinner. I don't know how long I'll be. Maybe an hour or two, maybe more. Can you put it in the fridge? I can heat it up when I get home. Sure. Me, too.”

I gave Mort the note Sunny and Eric had brought to the house.

“When did you get this?” he asked.

“Last night,” I said and explained the circumstances.

“So you think Zee did it?” he asked.

“If he wrote that note it's certainly incriminating. He's admitted being at the set the evening Vera was killed.”

“Yeah, I checked with the carpenters he mentioned hearing. They never saw him, and they said they were out the door by eight.”

“So no one can verify his whereabouts before, during, or after the time she was killed.”

“He's a pretty cool customer,” Mort said. “If what you say is true, he kills Ms. Stockdale, calmly goes back to his trailer, and even brings Sunny to the scene of the crime the next morning. Does he know she's Vera's daughter?”

“Apart from her father, only three people in the production company are supposed to know of her relationship—Mitchell Elovitz, Estelle Fancy, and Eric Barry.”

Mort chuckled. “You know the saying: ‘Three people can be counted on to keep a secret if two of them are dead.' You can't count on three people to keep a secret.”

“You're right, of course. Zee rooms with Eric Barry. Eric strikes me as the kind of man who would boast of knowing Terrence Chattergee's daughter, especially since he's jealous of Zee and suspects him of flirting with Sunny.”

“But if he thinks Zee is her brother, why be jealous?”

“He just learned that yesterday.”

“If Zee did kill Vera, why do you think he chose this time to do it?”

“I don't have an answer for that, Mort. I can only speculate. He's had a lot of years to build up resentment of his birth mother. The motive is there. As for the timing, maybe this was the first opportunity that presented itself. The director said Zee was especially excited about working with her.”

Mort nodded and checked his watch. “Yeah, the motive and opportunity are there, but there isn't much more to go on.” He counted on his fingers. “We've got no gun. We've got no bullet. No fingerprints. No witnesses. I can arrest a man on suspicion, but any decent attorney will get him off. We've got no proof.”

“Maybe we can entice him into making an incriminating statement,” I said.

“How, Mrs. F.?”

“I'll think of something.”

“I hope you do. Otherwise this will be a colossal waste of time. Are you sure we should even be here?”

“Oh, yes. If Zee is the murderer, his emotions will be running high since he's at the scene of the crime again, watching another actress, Lois Brannigan, sitting in the same chair in which Vera Stockdale died and taking over her role. I'm counting on him being off balance.”

“He strikes me as a pretty self-assured young man,” Mort said.

“We'll just have to see how he reacts.”

Another Cabot Cove marked police car pulled up next to Mort's, its window rolled down. “What's up, Sheriff?” one of the deputies in the car asked.

“Not sure I know,” Mort answered. “You,” he said, pointing to one of the deputies, “go around to the back and watch the doors. Make sure no one leaves.” He pointed to the other deputy. “You, just hang loose till I tell you it's okay to cut out or come in. Got your walkie-talkies?” he asked, patting his own, affixed to his shoulder.

“Yes, sir.”

“And if anyone comes out of
this
door,” I added, “don't let him or her leave.”

The deputies looked quizzically at their boss.

“Just do like the lady says,” he said. He squinted at his watch. “I think we've given those bozos enough time.” He pushed himself off the car and walked toward the young men standing guard.

I followed.

“Okay, boys, I'm going in, like it or not.”

“Please, Sheriff, we don't want to get in trouble. It'll only be a little while longer.”

“How the heck will you even know when there's a pause in filming?” Mort asked.

One pointed to the red bulb. “When they stop, they turn off the light.”

“Let's give it a few more minutes,” I said to Mort. “We have time.”

“You have time, Mrs. F. Me? I don't have time.” He pulled off his Stetson, stomped back to the car, got in, and drove it to within a few feet of the door. Before exiting the vehicle he pressed the button that set off the siren.

A piercing wail filled the air, followed by a kind of
whoop-whoop
, then another rising, blaring note so loud I had to cover my ears.

The light over the entrance went out, and a moment later the door was flung open. A red-faced, breathless Eric Barry yelled over the racket of the siren. Fortunately, we couldn't hear what he was saying.

Mort shut off the alarms, held up his ID, and marched up to Eric. “Police business,” he said. He turned to me, a satisfied smile on his lips. “Come on, Mrs. F. I think they just decided to take a break in the filming.”