Murder, She Wrote (8 page)

“It was from some movie, all right,” Seth said. “But I wouldn't know any more than that. Held it up to the light and you could see these square images between the sprocket holes.”

“Mort will have to find out what movie the film was from. It could be a message from the killer.”

“And how's he going to do that?” Seth asked, taking another piece of garlic bread. “He likes to watch cartoons. His favorite film star is probably Yosemite Sam.” Seth looked over my shoulder. “Isn't that right, Sheriff?”

“I see you're saying nice things about me again,” Mort said, pulling out an empty chair and sitting down.

“I take it the news conference is over,” I said to him.

“Must be,” he replied, waving at our waitress. “Saw you sneaking out the side door,” he continued. “Figured while the movie stars were drawing their attention, it was a good time to make my exit.” He took the menu from Marie, gave it a quick once-over, and ordered a small sausage pizza. “And tell the chef I like my crust thin and crispy.”

“I'll tell him,” Marie replied, “but he'll make it the way he always does.”

“Just give him the message, please,” Mort said, grinning. He waited until Marie disappeared into the kitchen. “Actually, it's not bad for not–New York pizza,” he told us.

“So how is the case going, Sheriff?” Seth asked. “Locate the bullet yet?”

“No! Can't find the darn thing. And I had my guys comb that set.” Mort tore off two pieces of the garlic bread and stuffed them into his mouth, leaving the hard heel in the basket.

I waited, giving him time to chew, then asked, “How do you explain it?”

He shrugged. “The killer must have moved her from somewhere else,” he said, swallowing, “but the evidence techs didn't find any blood smears on the carpet or carpet fibers on her robe or whatever you call that thing she was wearing. There was nothing to show the body had been dragged.”

Marie brought Mort a napkin, plate, silverware, and a glass of water, and replaced our bread basket with a full one. I grabbed a piece before all the bread disappeared again.

“So where do you go from here?” Seth asked.

“Back to square one, I guess,” Mort answered. “I'm planning to drive out to the airport tomorrow to question some more people—that is, if I can get away with it without having some reporter dogging my steps.” He looked at me. “I especially want to interview your former houseguest, Mrs. F. She might have some insights into who disliked her mother, and I'd like to know where she was when Ms. Stockdale was killed. Will you give me a hand with that?”

“Be happy to,” I said.

“Here's your mussels,” Marie said, deftly balancing two heaping bowls of the bivalves and placing one in front of me and the other before Seth. “Your pizza will be out in a minute, Sheriff, and I'll be right back with a basin for the shells and with Dr. Hazlitt's spaghetti.”

“She's a wonderful waitress,” I said. “Do you mind if we start without you?” I asked Mort.

“Go ahead.”

As I picked up my fork, Mort leaned over to inhale the spicy scent rising from my dish. “May I?” he asked me.

“Help yourself,” I said.

He plucked out a mussel and tipped his head back to allow the plump meat to slide into his mouth along with a bit of the sauce. He made a fist. “Mmm!
Delizioso.
Reminds me of home.”

“Your mother was Italian?” Seth asked.

“Nope, but we had a great Italian restaurant right around the corner. This was my favorite dish.”

“Then why didn't you order it for yourself just now?” Seth asked.

Mort shrugged. “I don't know. I was in the mood for pizza.”

“And here it is,” Marie said, sliding a metal stand on the table with Mort's pizza atop it, and placing a side dish of spaghetti next to Seth.
“Bon appétit!”

“That's French,” I said.

“Sorry,” she replied. “I've been watching Julia Child reruns.
Buon appetito!
”

I waited until Marie turned to another table before saying to Mort in a low voice, “What are you going to do with that piece of film we found?”

While the tables at Peppino's are not on top of each other, and the sound level is pretty high, I was nevertheless being careful not to be overheard. Many a rumor had begun as an innocent statement plucked at Peppino's, then nurtured at Sassi's Bakery, until it burst into full bloom at Mara's Luncheonette. It was like a grown-up version of Telephone, a game I'd played as a child. The first player whispers a secret phrase into the ear of the one sitting next to her, something like “I'll call for you.” The second whispers the message into the ear of the third, and so on down the line until the last child to receive the message announces what she heard: “cauliflower.” We didn't want any “cauliflowers” grown in the gossip garden.

“Do you have any idea what movie it might have been from?” I asked.

“I didn't recognize anything on it, but frankly it was hard to see the pictures,” Mort said. “They were so tiny. I didn't have my reading glasses with me.”

“Maybe you should see if someone can run it slowly through a projector for you,” Seth put in. “Let you look at a bigger image.”

“Great idea, Doc!”

“The problem with that,” I said, “is that the light from a regular movie projector is so strong, it could burn a hole in the film.”

“It went through a projector at the movies, didn't it?” Mort asked.

“Yes, it did, but very quickly, before the film had time to burn,” I replied. “But maybe we can blow up the images and take photographs of them using an overhead projector. They have one at the high school.”

“A neighbor of mine is a science teacher there,” Mort said. “I'll give him a call.”

“Well, that problem's solved,” Seth said, adding his last empty mussel shell to the pile in the basin. “What's next?” He patted his mouth with his napkin.

“We dusted the film strip for prints,” Mort said, “but it was pretty well wiped clean—some smudges, but nothing I could send to AFIS.”

Also known as IAFIS, but not as easy to pronounce as
ay-fiss
. Mort was referring to the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System maintained by the FBI that serves police departments across the country. IAFIS is a central record of fingerprints, as well as criminal history, mug shots, scar and tattoo descriptions, and other pertinent details, and has aided in the solving of many a crime.

“It's a shame there were no prints, but I keep coming back to the strip of film. It must have significance, given where we found it. And if we can learn what movie it's from, that may lead us to the killer.”

“I watch a lot of old movies on TV,” Mort said, “but it didn't ring a bell.”

“If you didn't have your reading glasses,” Seth said, looking askance at Mort, “you couldn't see anything to begin with, never mind recognizing what motion picture that truncated bit of celluloid came from.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Mitchell Elovitz said he would be happy to help you with any production questions,” I said to Mort.

“Who's he?” Seth asked.

“The director,” I replied. “You met him at the scene.”

“You mean that child is the director?”

“He is,” I said. “Mort, maybe if you show him the images your friend gets from the overhead projector, he might recognize what movie it's part of. It's worth asking him, don't you think?”

“Yeah, I bet a lot of those kids out at the airport are film buffs. We could show the images to all of them. We might just get a hit. I'll talk to my neighbor tonight.”

“Looks like you've got it all worked out,” Seth said. “There's just the one little matter left to tie up.”

“What's that?” Mort asked.

“Who pulled the trigger and where did that bullet end up?”

“
S
o I told Eve that if she wanted to play a role in the movie, she'd need to change her hairstyle,” Loretta Spiegel said as she ran a comb through my wet hair. “It's about time. I've been pushing her for years to get her to try something new.”

Loretta was talking about Eve Simpson, Cabot Cove's crack real estate agent, who with little encouragement can make a mud hut sound like a mansion. Eve is a friend of long standing, although we have been known to see things differently when she occasionally stretches the truth.

I was sitting on my back porch with a towel around my shoulders and a plastic garbage bag spread out on the floor under my chair while Loretta caught me up on the latest gossip and gave me what she called “a wash, curl, and dry.” With her salon still under construction, she was making the rounds of her regular customers' homes to ensure that they didn't miss their weekly appointments.

“And what did Eve say to that?” I asked.

“She said she'd ‘take it under consideration.' But Ideal Malloy said Eve's had the same hairstyle for twenty years, and since the movie is set in the past, she should be just right for the role.”

“It's not that far in the past,” I said. “And what role is that?”

“I'm not sure,” Loretta said, as she wound a lock of my hair around a foam roller and secured it to my head. “Eve said she was convinced they wouldn't let her play the judge even though she'd be perfect for the part, but she bought a legal phrase book just in case. She said she was flexible as long as she had some lines to say. I think she's going to audition for the casting lady today.”

“Oh, dear,” I said. “Does the casting lady know she's coming?”

“I don't know. Does she need an appointment?”

“I doubt if they're holding auditions,” I said. “At least no one's mentioned them to me. They haven't even announced if they're planning to go forward with the film.”

“Ideal said she saw Elsie Fricket down at the Merry Mart and
she
said she heard from her nephew Albert, who drives the bakery truck for Charlene Sassi, who told him that one of the catering people told her that they're going to start filming again soon.”

“Then it must be so,” I said, thinking about the game of Telephone and trying to keep a straight face.

“Oh, you,” Loretta said, tapping her comb on my shoulder. “Well, if they give Eve Simpson a speaking part, then I'm going to ask for one, too.”

“You are?”

“I know exactly what the styles looked like when the judge was murdered. I could raid my sister's closet. They wouldn't even have to bother the wardrobe people for my costume.”

“I didn't know you were interested in being an actress,” I said.

“I played Persephone in our high school production of the Greek myths,” Loretta said, holding up the hand mirror she ordinarily used to show me the back of my hair. She patted her own curls, and checked her teeth for lipstick. “I beat out Eve Simpson for the role.”

“Anything more recent?” I asked.

“Who'm I kidding?” Loretta said, putting the mirror down. “Eve will never get any lines. She'll just be an extra like the rest of us.”

When Loretta finished up, I was washed, curled, and dried to perfection. I waited until she left the house to run upstairs and brush out my hair, hoping the tight ringlets she'd arranged would loosen up a bit.

“Going for the Shirley Temple look?” Mort said when he came to pick me up.

“Loretta doesn't have access to all her usual supplies,” I replied. “It'll look better tomorrow. It always does the next day.”

“Heard anything new about the movie folks?” he asked, turning the patrol car toward the airport.

“According to the Cabot Cove grapevine,” I said, “the production company is going to start filming again.”

“That's good news if it's true.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Gives us more time to interview these people and figure out who had a grudge against Ms. Stockdale.”

“From the way her former husband put it, it could be just about everyone. Vera Stockdale was not one to stand on formalities. She spoke her mind whether you liked it or not.”

“Yeah. She doesn't sound like the nicest person around.”

“Yet her daughter is. Sunny couldn't be, well, sunnier. I'm curious about their relationship. Mother and daughter.”

“Here's a case where the apple fell pretty far from the tree, don't you think, Mrs. F.?”

“I do. But if Vera's child was in school in Europe while she was in Hollywood making movies, they might not have had much of a relationship at all.”

Our first stop was the hangar, where Mort consulted with the deputy at the door and was assured that no one had been allowed inside. I knew there were several alternative ways to get into the hangar apart from the back door, and mentioned it.

“Had my guy check it out. They're all locked,” Mort said.

We went inside and groped our way around the back of the scenery flats until we saw the lights focused on the make-believe judge's office. While the set was illuminated, the vast space of the rest of the hangar lay in shadows. One end of the yellow crime scene tape had come free and was draped around the base of the metal stand to which it had been affixed. We stepped over it and stood at the edge of the set, gazing out over the scene of the crime. It was easy to spot evidence of the investigation squad's presence. In addition to the white residue left behind when they dusted for fingerprints, someone had forgotten to pack up a ruler that sat on the judge's desk, and a cellophane envelope had been discarded on the floor near the bookcase.

“Where's the chair?” I asked, noting that the seat in which Vera had been found was missing.

“Had it sent to the State Bureau of Identification crime lab,” Mort said. “It had one of those tufted backs. I figure it was possible the bullet was lodged in one of the folds. If it is, those guys will be able to dig it out.”

A noise from the front of the hangar caught our attention, and we turned to peer into the darkness. It sounded like something was being wheeled across the concrete floor. Mort pulled a flashlight from his belt and pointed it away from the set and toward the cavernous area in which the outlines of cameras and equipment could barely be seen. “Who's there?” he yelled.

A black case tied to a hand truck with a bungee cord came into view.

“Stop right there,” Mort called out.

Whoever was wheeling the case let the hand truck tip forward until the case was upright. Then a large figure dressed in a black T-shirt and shorts stepped out from behind the case.

“You're Zee, right?” Mort said, switching off his flashlight. “How did you get in here?”

“Came through the front door,” Zee said, sticking up a thumb and jerking it back over his shoulder. “Jed unlocked it for me, said it would be okay. We just got in from Bangor. Went to pick up my camera mount. I need to leave the case in place before the next shoot.”

“Have you been gone for days?” Mort asked.

“Nah. Just went back this morning to pick it up.”

“So you know what happened here?”

“I heard what was found here,” he said, “but I don't know exactly what happened.”

Either Zee was naturally precise, I thought, or else he'd had experience with the authorities before.

“Did any of my men interview you about the incident?” Mort asked.

“No, sir.”

“Then I'd like a little of your time. When would be convenient?”

“Now is convenient,” Zee said.

“Okay,” Mort said, pulling out his pad. “Let's see if we can find some chairs.”

“What happened to the one that was on the set?”

“Sent it out for testing.”

“Oh.” Zee cast his eyes around the hangar. “We can use the director's chair here and the script supervisor's stool over there. I have a couple of apple boxes I can stack for myself.”

“Okay. Let's set them up,” Mort said. He grabbed the director's chair for himself. It had the name
MITCHELL ELOVITZ
stenciled on the canvas back. “Do you mind if I use this chair, Mrs. F.? That way I can lean on the arm.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

Mort picked up Nicole Domash's stool—her name wasn't on it—and set it next to the chair for me to use. “Can you put on any more lights in here?” he asked Zee. “I'm not a cat; I can't see in the dark.”

Zee flipped a switch on a wall panel and the lights in the rest of the hangar came to life. They weren't as bright as those illuminating the set, but at least we weren't squinting into the gloom. He reached into a canvas cart with a big
Z
painted on the side and the words
KEEP HANDS OFF!
and pulled out two wooden crates that he stacked on top of each other before settling his solid body on it. He tipped his head to the side and ran a hand through his thick black hair.

Mort licked the point of his pencil. “Let me have your full name,” he said.

“Ernest Zalagarda,” he said, spelling his last name, “but everyone knows me as ‘Zee.'”

“Age?”

“Thirty-four.”

“And where are you from?”

“Currently, I live in Los Angeles.” He recited his address and telephone number without Mort's asking.

“What's your occupation?”

“Key grip on this film. Me and my crew rig the lights, operate the dollies and cranes, work with the gaffer—that's the electrician.”

Mort looked up from his pad. “U.S. citizen?”

“Yes. Want to see my driver's license? Union card?”

Mort shook his head. “That's okay. Do you own a gun?”

“No, sir.”

“Where were you when the murder took place?”

“I have no idea,” Zee said, a small smile on his face. “When did the murder take place?”

Mort gave him the date. “We figure she was killed somewhere between ten at night and two in the morning. Where were you at that time?”

“We weren't shooting that night, but I had been here earlier setting up equipment. That's when I learned we had a malfunctioning camera mount.”

“Weren't you invited to the poker game?” I asked.

Zee smirked. “I was invited, but I like to keep my money in my pocket.” He patted the side of his pants.

“Was anyone here with you?” Mort asked.

“I didn't see anyone, but I heard a couple of the carpenters when I came in. They were building something back there, in one of the offices. There was a lot of banging.” He cocked his head toward the front of the hangar.

“So what happened next? You found a problem with your equipment, and . . .”

“I took it back to my trailer to see if I could fix it.”

“You took that whole big case back to your trailer?” I asked.

“It's not
that
heavy,” Zee said, chuckling. “Anyway, I can handle it, but, no, I didn't take back the whole thing. I thought the problem was in the head, and if it was, maybe I could fix it. But it turned out I couldn't. Had to bring it to Bangor for repair.”

“What time did you go back to your trailer?” Mort asked.

“Around nine thirty.”

“Anyone see you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you live in the trailer by yourself?” I asked.

“I should,” he replied, combing his thick hair with his fingers. “The union says I'm supposed to have a single room if available. But we're a little squeezed for space here, so I agreed to share with Eric Barry.”

“The first AD?” Mort said, writing down “assistant director.”

“Yeah,” Zee said. “You're getting the lingo, Sheriff.”

“Do movie companies always bring crew members all the way across the country for a job?” I asked.

“Depends,” Zee replied. “Most of the time, crew is pulled locally or from the nearest city with union members. But some directors like to have their peeps around them, and they specify who's to travel with them.”

“Are you one of those
peeps
?” Mort asked.

Zee nodded. “I worked with Mitch on his first big film.”

“
Vampire Zombies from Jupiter
?”

“Wow, Sheriff. I'm impressed.”

Mort blushed. “So? Go on.”

“I worked with Elovitz on
Zombies
and he wanted me on this picture, too. It's kind of a good luck thing. You don't want to break the chain.”

“Is the same true of Eric Barry?”

“Yup.”

“Mitchell Elovitz said you were excited to work with Vera on this picture. True?” I asked.

“Who wouldn't be? She was a big star.”

“Did you speak with her at all?”

“Only in the course of business. She didn't really lower herself to talk with the crew.”

“Was that a disappointment?”

“You might say that.”

“Was she rude to you?”

His expression hardened for a moment. “She wasn't anything to me.”

“Where was Eric Barry while you were trying to fix the camera mount?” I asked.

Zee shrugged. “Seeing his girlfriend, I guess, but you'll have to ask him.”

“Who's his girlfriend?” Mort asked.

“One of our PAs, Sunny. I don't know if you know her.”

I glanced at Mort. “We know Sunny,” I said, “assuming she's the only production assistant going by that name.”

“She is.”

“Okay,” Mort said. “So you couldn't fix the camera mount head—or whatever it's called. Did you bring it back here?”

“Not until the next morning.”

“The next morning?” I said. “Did you come in here, to the hangar, to get the case?”

“I did.”

“And you didn't see the dead body sitting in the chair?”