by Terry Odell
He went and found Cassidy in the kitchen, sitting on a stool—the very one Gordon sat on when he watched Angie at work in the early morning hours—regaling the staff with tales from his other productions. Even Ozzie, Daily Bread’s cook, was listening attentively, barely paying attention to the pot he was stirring. Chili, from the smell of it.
Angie rushed over to Gordon. “Isn’t this great? Cass—he said we could call him that—has been telling us about all the things that went wrong when they were trying to film a fly-fishing scene. And he said they might even shoot a scene here. In this kitchen. I would be making my cinnamon rolls. In the background, of course, but who’d have thought something like this would ever happen in Mapleton? And he gave everyone autographs, and let us take pictures with him.”
Oh, how the social media would be abuzz.
Gordon didn’t have the heart to tell Angie that Cassidy Clarke had little, if any, authority in deciding where scenes would be shot and who would be in them.
“I hate to be the one to break up this party, but Lily Beckett wants to see Mr. Clarke.” Let them call him Cass. Gordon would keep things professional.
Angie seemed tempted to invite Lily into the kitchen as well, but she merely turned to Cass and thanked him for visiting.
“Pleasure was all mine, ladies. And gentleman.” He nodded in Ozzie’s direction. “I’m going to speak to the boss about having you cater some of our meals.”
Angie turned to Ozzie and gave him two thumbs up. “We’ll be happy to work with you.”
“Yes, sir, we most certainly would.” Ozzie wiped his hands on the apron that barely covered his ample girth. His grin revealed gleaming white teeth against his coffee-colored skin. His head bobbed in excitement, sending his multiple chins wobbling. “We’ll take good care of you, I promise you that.”
Cass went to meet with Lily. Gordon glanced toward the booth they’d been using. Marianna sat there, working her cell phone, which was in a blood-red case, emblazoned with a sparkly S no less. Gordon gave Angie a quick—okay, maybe not so quick—squeeze. “Crossing guard duty beckons,” he said.
“See you tonight?” she asked.
“I’ll let you know. This movie business has tossed a couple of monkey wrenches into my schedule.”
“Ours too, but it’s so exciting.” Angie bounced on her toes.
At the elementary school crosswalk, it was obvious word about the movie making was all over Mapleton. At least a dozen moms stopped to ask him where they could watch the shooting, and if he knew how they could get their kids—or themselves—in as extras. A headache gripped the back of Gordon’s neck. What next?
The next three days went much smoother than Gordon had expected. He’d managed to juggle shifts, cut meetings with the mayor short, and dodge Marianna. He’d had no shortage of volunteers for extra duty, and the Aspen Lake shoots went off without a hitch, if you didn’t count the bickering and snide remarks amongst the cast and crew. He’d come to understand it came with the territory when egos swelled like hot air balloons.
On Thursday, Gordon joined the morning briefing. He stood at the back of the room and watched as Officer Lloyd Titchener—Titch—laid out the day’s assignments. Titch had been doing a bang up job of reminding everyone about being professional. He’d come to the force from the military and ran his shifts with every “t” crossed and “i” dotted.
Although Gordon rarely had to speak to his staff about dress standards, he’d noticed his officers had been showing up for duty more … polished … from their shoes to their badges, to pressed uniforms and not a hair out of place.
Titch finished up with the normal daily routines, then moved onto the movie angle. Everyone sat up a little straighter. “Shooting begins at zero eight hundred. Weather is clear, so they’ll be shooting exteriors along Main and Maple. Lunch at noon, and then interiors at Daily Bread.”
Gordon couldn’t help but smile. Angie had been unable to contain her excitement about her fifteen minutes of fame. Or, rather her diner’s. She still held out hope they’d need another extra during the interior shots, and would ask her. They’d watched three of Cassidy Clarke’s movies, two of which included Lily Beckett. Gordon admitted they’d been entertaining enough, although romance-themed movies, especially romantic comedies, fell into the chick-flick category for him.
Once everyone was dismissed, Gordon headed to the main public parking lot, which had been dubbed Seesaw Village. In addition to the trailers housing all the production equipment, Cassidy Clarke and Lily Beckett each had a large RV. Two smaller ones served as offices for Marianna Spellman and Lionel Dawson, the director. Makeup and wardrobe were housed in RVs, and two more trailers served as community “lounges” where actors could hang while waiting for their next shot. There was a lot of that. Movie making seemed to be a lot more about waiting than making. And, thank goodness, whatever issues Cassidy and Lily had arrived with were either solved or forgotten. Or hidden away from the public eye.
Gordon ambled through the walkway from the parking lot to the street where the shooting was going to take place.
The streets and sidewalks were already filling with curious onlookers. The school board had declared today the equivalent of a snow day, so there were no classes. It hadn’t made sense to Gordon, because having all those kids free to wander around and potentially get in the way of the shooting seemed to add to his workload, not reduce it. But, the actual shooting area had been cordoned off with barricades and ropes, and so far, everyone was respecting the boundaries.
Marianna had sledgehammered home the point that anyone sneaking into any of the shots, even in the background was not acceptable, and Gordon had pounded the point home to his officers.
“Good morning, Gordon.”
At the sound of the mayor’s voice, Gordon turned. “Mayor.”
The man wore his “good old boy” Stetson and cowboy boots, which Gordon never thought went well with the business suit and tie, but what did he know about fashion?
“Perfect weather, wouldn’t you say?” the mayor said.
Gordon gazed at the bright blue sky with its scattering of cottony white clouds. He breathed in the cool, crisp air. “I would.”
“I was looking for Marianna Spellman.” Mayor McKenna patted a large manila envelope. “We have a few minor wrinkles to iron out for tonight’s press conference.”
As if Mapleton’s weekly paper warranted a press conference. However, Gordon knew there would be some local television coverage and reporters from other neighboring small towns. All of Marianna’s talk about keeping this production under wraps, and she scheduled a press conference? Under wraps until she thought the time was ready for the big unveiling, he figured.
“I think we’ve got the Denver papers coming,” the mayor said. “I know Marianna’s been trying to lure reporters from Boulder and the Springs, too. She said she had a special announcement to make concerning the picture.”
“I’m sure she’ll have everything under control. She’s probably in her office.” Marianna’d about had Gordon ready to take the short way down Pikes Peak with her needs—because she never made demands—to have everything arranged to her satisfaction. She’d spent hours making sure the high school auditorium was set up to meet her requirements.
And, he supposed, because of all her nit-picking about microphones, camera angles, reserved seating, security, down to specific brands of bottled water for the “talent” as she referred to all the actors, things would run smoothly.
Fifteen minutes later, crew members were still positioning lights. Camera people were checking angles. Other people were adjusting a sign renaming Daily Bread to The Mountain Café. He suspected Angie was fuming inside at that one. Lionel Dawson, the director, was moving from one spot to another, pointing, giving orders, and checking his tablet.
“I need stand-ins on the set. Now,” he bellowed. “Where are Bart Bergsstrom and Kathy Newberg?”
“I think they’re in wardrobe,” one black-clad crew member said as h
e fussed with laying tape on the sidewalk. Marks, Gordon had learned. Places where the actors were supposed to stop and do their acting.
“Well, somebody get them,” Dawson shouted. “Time is money, people, time is money.”
Gordon snorted. In that case, a lot of both were being wasted.
“I’ll go.” An Asian woman—Mai something or other—who had a minor supporting role, trotted off through the walkway toward the trailers. Rather than have to continue making small talk with the mayor, Gordon followed a short distance behind, allowing himself to enjoy the view. These actors might be wearing climate-appropriate wardrobes, but no women in Mapleton wore jeans that let you tell if a quarter in the rear pocket was facing heads or tails out. Or sweaters that clung to their curves like a coat of paint. Enhanced curves, Gordon figured, but that didn’t make it any harder on the eyes.
Mai climbed the short flight of metal stairs to the RV and disappeared inside. Gordon stopped at the far edge of the lot, close to the rear entrance to Daily Bread. He was about to go inside, see how Angie was doing, when a shriek pierced the crisp fall air.
Chapter 4
Hand on his weapon, Gordon headed to the RV at a dead run. A pale Mai stood on the top step, gripping the metal rail. She stumbled downward, and he caught her before she face-planted on the asphalt.
“What?” he asked.
She turned and pointed to the open door. “She’s … I think … She’s … Dead.”
By now, five of his officers, three production security guards, and a throng of onlookers were streaming through the walkway like salmon heading upstream to spawn. He helped a trembling Mai away from the scene, into the arms of Ed Solomon, one of his top officers.
“Keep everyone away,” Gordon commanded. The security guards hesitated, moving in, but slowly.
Solomon settled Mai on a wooden bench at the edge of the lot. Titch appeared and took immediate control, herding the crowd to the street. People dispersed, albeit reluctantly, with many over-the-shoulder glances. However, Titch’s bulging biceps, close-shaved head, and steely-eyed expression carried a don't mess with me attitude that few citizens challenged.
Trailer and RV doors flew open. Heads poked out. Gordon ordered everyone to stay where they were.
Gordon didn’t know how much the movie security guards knew about police procedure, so he told his officers to have everyone stick around, to start collecting names and contact information.
He caught a glimpse of Vicky McDermott, another of his top officers. “Stay with Mai,” he told her. She strode to the bench and sat beside Mai, who had lowered her head into her hands.
“Solomon, with me,” Gordon said.
His officer insisted on going first, darting inside the open door, then moving to the right. Gordon followed, going left. As he slipped a pair of gloves on, he studied the room.
Racks of clothes covered one wall. Two open doors at the far end revealed changing rooms. Across from the clothes racks, there was an ironing board and a sewing machine on a table beside it. On the other end was a low, round platform in front of a three-way mirror. An easy chair and an end table holding a lamp were tucked into a corner. What appeared to be a sewing basket sat below the table.
And in the middle of everything lay the body of Marianna Spellman.
“Shit,” Solomon said.
“I’ll double that.” Gordon stepped carefully to the body, making sure not to move Marianna’s glasses, which were lying near her face. He checked for a pulse, although her arms and legs akimbo, glassy-eyed stare and slack facial muscles told him he wasn’t going to find one. He did a cursory visual check of her clothing—jeans, a turtleneck, and her fancy boots. No blood, no gunshot holes, or torn clothing. However, there were rules to follow.
“Call Dispatch,” he said. “Have Connie get the medics rolling. And call the Coroner’s Office. Alert County Homicide, too. Tyler Colfax will love this one. We’ve got a PR nightmare, and we’re going to need to do everything by the book, one letter at a time.” Gordon noted the time. Oh seven-fifty-two.
“I don’t see any blood,” Solomon said. “No obvious signs of foul play. You don’t think there’s a chance she died of a heart attack, do you?”
“It’s possible, but my gut says it’s right up there with walking out of this trailer now and being struck by lightning.” And, regardless, until they knew the cause of death, they’d have to investigate it as a homicide.
“I know you want this done by the book,” Solomon said, “but I could do some preliminary stuff.”
Solomon was a first-rate investigator, but Mapleton didn’t have detectives, much less homicide detectives. “We need to secure the scene. Get your camera. Then we can start working the crowd, hunting for witnesses, and all the fun stuff. The crime scene team knows what it’s doing, and until we get a coroner’s investigator here, we can’t touch the body. See if you can round up a key to this trailer and lock it. Then check all the other units in this lot, get anyone who’s in them to stay put. See if anything looks disturbed.”
“I’ll get the tape,” Solomon said. “How far out do you think we should set it?”
Gordon sighed. “Probably the whole damn lot.” He wondered what Marianna would have thought about yellow crime scene tape on her precious movie set.
Gordon stepped onto the platform at the top of the trailer’s stairs and scanned the lot. Empty. Kudos to the efficiency of his officers. However, keeping things that way was going to take more. He turned to Solomon. “While you call Dispatch, I’ll get our people started.”
Gordon walked down the stairs and over to McDermott. Mai had regained some color and composure. “Mai, I’m going to need to ask you a few questions.” He told McDermott to get to the street, help with sorting out everyone who’d had access to the trailer. “Corral everyone. Separate movie people from Mapleton people. See if you can put one group in Daily Bread, the others in Finnegan’s.”
“On it, Chief.” She strode briskly from the scene.
Solomon exited the trailer and gave Gordon a quick thumbs up as he headed toward the side street where the police on duty had left their vehicles.
Gordon asked Mai to wait a moment, then got on his radio and called Titch. “I need two more officers here. Can you spare them?”
“Roger that, Chief,” Titch said. “Everyone’s being cooperative.”
While he kept an eye out for his officers, Gordon returned to continue questioning Mai. “Your full name, please.”
“Mai Phan.”
“Thank you.” He took out his notepad and a pen. “First, was the wardrobe RV locked when you arrived?” Gordon asked. Although he’d seen her go in, he hadn’t noticed whether or not she used a key.
She sniffed, wiped her eyes, and shook her head. “No, it was open.”
Damn. That expanded his list of suspects to include any of the cast, crew, and half the citizens of Mapleton. He hadn’t seen anyone in the lot when he’d followed Mai.
“Where are the wardrobe people?” he asked. “Shouldn’t they have been in the RV? Didn’t you say two of the stand-ins were supposed to be here?”
“I didn’t say that. Someone else did. I volunteered to go check.” Mai wiped her eyes. “It gave me something better to do than wait around.”
“Did you see any of the wardrobe people today?”
She nodded. “Yolanda was in the RV when I got here this morning. It was a little after six, I think. No cell phones allowed on the set, and I don’t wear a watch. No, wait. First, I went to a lounge for coffee. Didn’t want to take a chance on spilling any on the wardrobe. After that, I came here and changed.”
“So, maybe six-fifteen?”
She shrugged. “Sounds about right.”
“Who else was in the wardrobe RV?”
“Nobody except Yolanda. She’s in charge of wardrobe. The extras are all wearing their own clothes for background shots. Aside from the stand-ins, Ian and I are the only cast members in this morning’s shoot. He’d been by earlier, acco
rding to Yolanda—so once I was dressed, I went to the street to wait to be called.”
“Ian’s last name?”
“Patrick.”
He wrote it down. “What about when you stopped in the lounge? Was anyone else there?”
“Of course. There are always people in there.”
“I’ll need their names.”
She inhaled a deep, shaky breath. “A bunch of extras I don’t know. Local people for background. Most of the main players aren’t on call until after lunch. And there’s an unspoken hierarchy, so the more important ones tend to use the other lounge, even though everyone’s free to use either. Or, if they’re really important, like Cassidy and Lily, they get their own places and may or may not use the lounges.”
“About how many in the bunch you mentioned?” At her hesitant expression, he went on. “Close your eyes, visualize where everyone was sitting, standing. Men? Women? Kids?”
She tilted her head upward and shut her eyes. “Six. No, seven. Two men, three women, and two kids. Plus some of the crew. Two men, one woman. I don’t know their names either. Still early days. Sorry.”
As Gordon recalled, the morning’s shooting was simply people walking along the street. Of course, nothing was that simple, but he could see why using extras instead of paying higher rates for real actors made sense. When Officers Gaubatz and Jost appeared through the walkway, Gordon asked Mai to wait while he spoke with his officers. Gaubatz quickened his pace, and Gordon couldn’t help but wonder whether it was because he was eager to help, or because he wanted to beat Jost. The two officers had had a few run-ins not that long ago, but they seemed to have moved past them.
“Titch said to report here,” Gaubatz said.
Gordon explained how the unlocked RV had expanded the scope of their potential suspects. “There are still people inside some of the units. I need all of Seesaw Village secured. Nobody comes in, and the people already inside the units will have to be questioned before we release them. Solomon is the lead.”
