"Right. Grips." He shook his head. "You Hollywood types sure have funny words for stuff."
Said the man serving moose-tinis.
"I imagine they've been in here a lot?" I asked. "The film cast and crew?"
Brock nodded. "You people have been real good for business. Had to up our vodka order twice this month."
"Did you notice any of the other actors in here last night?" Dana jumped in.
He filled our glasses from a little spray gun, and the ice cubes crackled in protest. "There were an awful lot of people in here last night. We had a full house." He set the drinks on the bar. "Of course, it kept Marci busy, what with all the special orders. No bun for this one, no cheese for that one, fat-free dressing on the side for another. No gluten or casein for the hairdresser—whatever ca-seen is," he muttered.
"Did you happen to notice Alia Altor come in?" I asked.
He blinked at me. "Who?"
"About my height," Dana supplied. "Blonde, blue eyes, pretty."
Brock grinned through his beard. "That could be half your cast."
He had a point. "Pretty blonde" was not exactly an anomaly in the film industry.
"She's young. Twenty-three. She plays the Dragon Queen," I added, hoping it jarred some memory.
But Brock just shook his head. "Sorry. I can't say specifically. We had a lot going on. I had to call Manny in to help with the serving, we were so busy. Then there was Gus and the whole fight thing."
"Gus?" I asked, remembering the local who'd been upset about beavers. "What happened with him?"
"Gus was just itchin' for a fight last night. Buggin' all of you film people. I knew I shoulda cut him off," Brock continued. "But he got into it with one of the actors. Tall guy, real dark hair, kind of a pretty boy."
"That's Jaden." Dana turned to me. "Jaden Plume. He plays the Evil Prince Demoy, Pixnetta's love interest who ends up being in league with Modura and leading the Sworfs into an uprising against her."
Brock blinked at her like she'd been talking gibberish. "Yeah, well, last night he was playing the drunk idiot. Musta raided the mini bar at the hotel, 'cause he came in here three sheets to the wind. I served him a couple of shots, and he got downright plastered. Started complaining about the road conditions in town. Well, that got Gus riled up."
"Why is that?" I asked, trying to follow.
"Well, Gus is the city planner!"
I tried to reconcile the flannel wearing man ranting about beaver sex with the idea of planning…well…anything. Besides baby beavers.
"Anyway, the two traded a coupla punches before someone called the police. They took that Plume character to sleep it off in the drunk tank for the night. Gus wanted to press charges, but the mayor, that's Bud Bristol, talked him out of it, on account of the money you all been spending in town."
"Sounds like quite the excitement," Dana mumbled, sipping from her water.
"Coulda been worse. You don't want to mess with Gus," he warned us. "He was the all-time best nose tackle on the Moose Haven High Ragin' Antlers."
"Good to know," I told him. I was about to ask more, when my purse started vibrating. I dug around to fish my phone out as Brock turned away to grab our salads. I glanced at the screen and felt the sugary soda churn in my stomach.
Ramirez.
With a silent apology to my husband, I swiped to ignore, and tucked the phone back into my handbag.
"Anything important?" Dana asked.
I shook my head. "Nothing that can't wait." Mostly because I was currently too chicken to face an interrogation.
I turned my attention back to Brock as he reappeared with two plates of dressed romaine in hand.
"This looks great," Dana said, grabbing a fork and digging in. "Is that kale?"
"Yep. We special ordered it in from Toronto to give it a kick. Marci said you California people like it." He shrugged, clearly not getting the appeal.
"It's an antioxidant and a good source of the carotenoid needed to maintain healthy skin," Dana said, munching down on a bite of the wonder leaf.
Brock just blinked at her.
"Uh, Brock, did you happen to notice Selma Frost here last night?" I asked, getting back to the point of our visit.
"Who?"
"Dark hair, maybe fifties, heart-shaped face," I supplied.
He frowned. "A what shaped face?"
"A face shaped like a heart." I traced a heart shape superimposed over my own face.
He stared at me, uncomprehending. "Lady, I only seen face-shaped faces."
"Never mind. It must be a girl thing." I looked to Dana.
"She was Jasper Frost's wife. The director who died," Dana reminded him. "She would have been dining with him."
"Well, why didn't you say so?" Brock shot me a look like my description had been utterly useless. "Yeah. I seen both of them in here. Hard to miss the way they were arguing."
"Arguing?" I asked. He had my full attention now.
He nodded. "Goin' at it like two bull moose after a cow. Talk about your toxic relationship. I'm not one for all that kind of female drama. I had a girl once—she was all about the drama. One time—"
"Did you hear what they were arguing about?" I cut in.
"What do I look like, an eavesdropper?"
I'd hoped.
"Was it Mrs. Frost or Mr. Frost doing the arguing?" Dana asked.
"Well, it takes two to argue," Brock reasoned. But he paused, scrunching his face up so that it was almost all bushy beard. "But now that you mention it, I guess it was the lady doing most of the talking."
I shot Dana a look. That was something Selma had neglected to tell us when she'd mentioned having dinner with her husband.
"She seemed angry?" Dana fished.
"Downright angry. Not sure why. The way she was dressed, seemed like her husband took good enough care of her. Real rich looking. You can always spot rich. Especially around here. We don't get much big money in Moose Haven, unless you count Shady McAllister. Trust me, he made a few bucks at the flea market selling those old editions of Moose Haven Life stashed in his attic. Pretty savvy fellow."
"You didn't catch any of what Mrs. Frost was saying?" I pressed.
He shook his head as he topped off Dana's water glass. "Well, not me personally, but Manny did."
"Who's Manny?" I asked.
"Manny," he repeated. "Manfred Addison. He helps me out on busy nights, but he's not here too often 'cause Manny has the arthritis pretty bad in his knees. He can't stand for too long at a stretch. Some nights we have to put a stool behind the bar here so he can sit down between customers. It's a real shame. I can remember a day when Manny—"
"What did Manny hear her say?" I said, cutting his story short again.
"Well, I don't know that you can take it to the bank," Brock said, "since Manny hasn't had the best hearing since his own wife boxed his ears a coupla decades ago over ogling some young thing at the Moose Mart. Manny's got an eye for the ladies, you see. But only one, on account of he don't see too good out of the other one. He's got the cataracts."
I glanced at my watch.
"Anyway," Brock went on, "Manny claimed this older lady didn't seem too happy with something the guy did earlier that day. Didn't catch what it was, but he said the woman, Frost's wife, I guess? She told him she wasn't going to stand for it anymore."
"Stand for what?" I asked.
Brock wiped at a water spot on the bar and shrugged. "That's what I asked Manny, but he didn't know. He said she just got up and stormed off after that."
* * *
"That man was a born storyteller," Dana said once we were back at the hotel and flopping once again onto her sage covered queen bed.
"Yeah, a regular Ravensberg," I joked.
"Well, they say, write what you know. He could always publish the Tales of Moose Haven."
"Riveting, I'm sure," I said with a laugh. "But he did tell a slightly different story than Selma floated us about the last time she saw her husband."
Dana nodded. "She did negl
ect to mention that they were arguing."
"Loudly enough to be overheard." I paused. "I wonder what it was she wasn't going to stand for anymore."
"Well, whatever it is, she won't," Dana noted.
I shot her a questioning look. "Won't?"
"Won't have to stand for it anymore. He's dead."
I stabbed a finger her direction. "Good point."
I was about to expound more upon that, when my purse vibrated from the bed beside me. With a wave of dread in my belly, I fished it out and checked the screen.
"Who is it?" Dana asked, leaning over to look.
"Ramirez. Again."
"Again?"
I nodded. "He called when we were talking to Brock."
"You could let it go to voicemail."
"I did that last time."
She winced. "Then you should probably take it. He might have heard about the death."
Which was exactly why I didn't want to take it. However, she was right. The longer I put it off, the more he'd worry. And the worse the interrogation would be once I finally answered.
I reluctantly swiped to take the call, putting on my best chipper attitude. "Hey, babe."
"Hey, yourself." Ramirez's rich, deep voice washed over me, the familiarity suddenly making me homesick. "I happened to be watching the news this morning."
I thought a dirty word. "Were you?" My voice sounded unnaturally high. "See anything interesting?"
"No, not much," he said. Maybe it was my imagination, but that answer might have been laced with sarcasm.
My best course of action was deflection. "I was planning to call you later. How are Max and Livvie?"
"They're fine. They miss their mother."
"I miss them, too. I can't wait to be back home with all of you." Which was the honest truth. Max and Livvie, while a double handful, were the lights of my life. And Ramirez was, well, Ramirez. He didn't need to be anything else. "You should see this place," I added. "It's kind of pretty, but it makes a one-horse town look like the big city."
"Uh-huh." A moment of silence. Then, "Did you really think I wouldn't see it, Maddie?"
I winced. "Well, it is baseball season."
"Sorry, babe. The Dodgers suck this year."
Just my luck.
"Want to tell me about it?" he asked.
Not even a little bit. "Do I have a choice?"
"Well, I could always go with Channel 4's version."
"How did that go?" I asked. Yes, clearly I was stalling.
"Dead director. Terrible tragedy. My wife in the middle of it."
"They said that?"
"I'm paraphrasing."
I let out a long sigh. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Dana ducking into the restroom to give me a little privacy.
"So what happened?" Ramirez asked.
"Okay, so obviously you already know Jasper Frost was found dead on the Lord of the Throne set."
"Obviously," he said. "I also know he didn't die from natural causes. Medieval sword."
"Channel 4 said that?"
"Uh-huh. Led with it. Very sensational."
"It was only a prop sword," I said, trying to mitigate it.
"That prop sword killed a man."
I had no answer for that.
"Maddie," he pressed. Though his voice was softer, and I could tell he was more in Husband Mode than Cop Mode. "What's going on up there?"
The softness got me. And before I knew it, I was spilling everything I knew—from the difficult director being found dead in his trailer to the police asking Dana about an alibi and telling us all not to leave town.
"It looks like I'm going to be stuck here for a while," I finished.
I heard Ramirez draw in a deep breath on the other end. "Yeah, I figured as much. They take your passport yet?"
"Yet?" Ugh. "No."
"Well, that's a good sign."
The first one I'd had all day.
"I have a bad feeling that unless someone throws up their hands and yells 'I confess!' I'm not going to be home on Monday."
As I'd expected, he didn't seem to find that amusing. "Do you need me to fly up there?"
I shook my head, even though I knew he couldn't see me. "No. I'm fine. You stay with the twins. You've got enough to do at home, and I'm a big girl. I can handle a little murder."
"Don't I know it," he muttered.
I ignored that. "Besides, I'm not alone. Dana's here with me."
"I know I don't need to tell you to be careful, do I?" Ramirez knew Dana's accessory-after-the-fact influence on me as well as anyone.
"No, you don't," I assured him. "We're fine. Really."
Someone knocked on the door. I got up to check the peephole and felt my heart sink to my toes.
Detective Bartlett and a second grim-faced police officer were standing in the hall.
"Uh, listen, I've got to run," I told Ramirez, trying to keep the tension from my voice. "Room service is here with our lunch."
"Maddie—"
I pretended I didn't hear that as I tossed my phone onto the bed and hurried across the room to tap softly on the bathroom door. I kept my voice low. "Dana, the police are here."
The door cracked open, and she stuck her head out. "What? Why?"
"I don't know." I didn't add but it can't be good. I didn't have to. I could see the fear imprinted on her face.
"I'll be right out." The door closed again.
Another knock came from outside, this time more insistent. They were tired of waiting. With a deep breath, I opened the door. Both men looked down at me without expression. Bartlett had his little notebook out, and the uniformed officer had his hands hooked on his utility belt. At least he wasn't brandishing a gun or handcuffs, so that was a good start.
"Ms.—uh, Springer?" Bartlett said. "Is that right?"
I nodded. "Can I help you?" I asked, my gaze going from him to the officer, whose nametag read Sergeant Pembroke. He was tall and lean, with thick dark hair and startling blue eyes.
"Actually, we'd like to speak with Ms. Dashel. Is she here?" Bartlett asked, stepping around me without an invitation.
"She'll be right out," I said, indicating the closed bathroom door.
"Ah, great. We'll wait." Bartlett gave me an overly jovial smile.
Pembroke gave me a poker face.
I wasn't sure which was more unnerving.
"We already gave our statements," I told Bartlett. "I'm not sure what else we can tell you."
"Oh, we just have a few follow-up questions," Bartlett assured me. He nodded toward the closed bathroom door. "For Ms. Dashel."
As if on cue, the bathroom door opened, and Dana emerged—makeup retouched, every hair neatly in place, her features arranged in an expression of serene confidence. The actress, putting on a performance. I hoped that serenity would hold firm once the officers gave us the reason for their visit.
"Can I help you?" she asked them in a steady voice.
"Ah, Ms. Dashel. Just the lady we wanted to see," Bartlett said.
"Oh? I can't imagine why. I already told you everything I know in my thorough statement yesterday, Detective Bartlett."
"Yes. Well, as I was telling your friend here"—he nodded in my direction—"we just have a couple follow-up questions."
I noticed that Sergeant Pembroke had casually moved closer to the front door, as if bracing for Dana's possible escape attempt. Not a great sign.
"Follow-up questions?" Dana asked.
"Well, just one question, really," Bartlett amended.
Dana tilted her head inquisitively. I found myself holding my breath.
"Can you explain why your fingerprints were found on the murder weapon?" he asked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The room went utterly silent, so silent that I could hear the white noise of a television playing in the next room over. Down the hallway, a door slammed, and the housekeeper's cart squeaked along the floor. Pembroke shifted his weight, making his utility belt jangle unnervingly, as if reminding us
that it contained handcuffs. As if we needed to be reminded. Fleetingly, I wondered if that was some kind of psychological ploy, letting us know who was in charge. If so, it worked. I'd never felt so helpless.
I don't know how she did it, but Dana remained outwardly composed.
"Of course my prints are on it," she said. "I'm sure lots of prints are on it. It's a sword, and we're shooting a medieval battle movie."
"Funny enough, that's not true," Bartlett said. "Yours were the only prints found on it."
I froze, eyes shooting to Dana.
"That's impossible," she said flatly. "Two dozen Elves have used those swords in scenes. All of the swords."
"Elves?" Bartlett repeated.
"I play Pixnetta, the Elf Princess," Dana told him. "The Elves are my warriors. They don't fight with boxing gloves."
Careful. No point in agitating people who had the guns.
"I see," Bartlett said with maddening calmness. "But the fact remains they must have fought with other swords. Because yours are the only prints on this particular sword."
"I guess I was the last one to use the sword, then," she shot back.
No, no, no!
She must have immediately realized her gaffe, as she quickly backtracked. "Well, not the last, last. I mean, that would have been the person who killed Jasper Frost. Which wasn't me. I must have been the last one to use it during filming."
Bartlett leveled her with a flat stare. "Must have been." He didn't sound the least bit convinced. "You know, there was one other thing I was curious about," he continued, pulling out his notebook.
Oh boy. This guy had watched one too many Columbo movies. I shifted nervously from foot to foot as he flipped the little spiral bound pages.
"It occurred to me that you never did tell me what your fight with Mr. Frost was about."
"Didn't I?" She licked her lips, her eyes flitting to mine, her first sign of her composure cracking as a look of pleading entered them.
"No," Bartlett answered. "You didn't."
She cleared her throat. "Well, we had a difference of opinion on a matter."
"Uh-huh. Yeah, fights usually start that way."
"It wasn't a fight!" she said hotly. Which did nothing to help her case. She must have realized that, as she immediately put her serene look back on. "It was just a disagreement."
Peril in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 11) Page 6
