Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4)

by Terry Odell

  “Yes, sir.” Gaubatz looked at Jost, then pointed to his left. “I’ll start at that end. Meet you in the middle.”

  Titch’s voice came over the radio. “Sir, Mayor McKenna says he needs to talk to you. Now.”

  Of course he would.

  “Tell him I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  “Sir, I don’t think he’s going to like that.” Titch’s voice dropped. “He’s kind of steamed.”

  “I know he’s not going to like it. Tell him I’m conducting a crucial interview, and I’ll be with him as soon as I’m finished. Be charming. But firm. Under no circumstances is anyone—mayor or not—other than medical or law enforcement personnel to come back here until we know what’s what. Feed him the line about how I’m making sure Mapleton is represented as a city that makes sure everyone’s rights are respected, that we’re not going to do anything that would show us in a bad light, that we know how to investigate a crime properly—whatever it takes to unruffle his feathers. And let’s switch all related radio traffic to channel five.”

  “Yes, sir.” Titch didn’t sound happy. He liked things clear cut, and playing the diplomat, especially with a politician, didn’t come close to hitting his top ten favorite things to do.

  An ambulance pulling into the lot announced the arrival of the medics, and Gordon was glad to see Gilman and Reynolds hop out of the vehicle.

  “What have we got?” Gilman said.

  “Body in the wardrobe RV.” Gordon walked them in that direction. “We’ve notified the coroner’s office, but you can call the death faster than anyone can get here.”

  Gordon knew Gilman and Reynolds would disturb as little of the scene as possible, so he left them to their work and went to finish with Mai.

  “Thanks for your patience,” he said.

  Mai gave a weak smile. “Actually, if I don’t think about it being Marianna—and I hardly know her—it’s kind of interesting, watching the way real cops work. Not like the time I was in a police show for television.”

  “They do tend to make things seem easy,” Gordon said. “Now, a couple more questions. You and Yolanda Orozco were in the RV at about six-fifteen. How long were you there?”

  “Like I said, I’m not wearing a watch, and left my cell at the hotel, so I can’t be exact, but not very long,” Mai said. “Yolanda handed me these clothes, and I put them on. Then I went to makeup, which didn’t take long, either. No close-ups, so just the basics.”

  Gordon studied her more closely. Aside from a heavier layer of foundation than most women wore, she projected a natural look. “Was anyone else in the makeup RV with you? Ian Patrick?”

  She shook her head. “Not while I was there, and I didn’t ask. He’d need even less work than I got, so he could have come and gone, or more likely, planned to pop in closer to last minute. He hates wearing the stuff. Calls it face gunk.”

  “You’ve been a big help, Mai. Thank you.” He took down her contact information and told her she could join everyone else.

  When she’d gone, he helped Solomon string the yellow crime scene tape across the entrances to the Village and the pedestrian walkway. “I’ll get the RV as soon as the medics are done,” Solomon said. “I’ve already photographed everything.”

  “Jost and Gaubatz are knocking on doors through the Village. Once you have statements, send them out to Daily Bread or Finnegan’s, wherever Titch and McDermott have stashed the movie group. Meanwhile, I have a summons from the mayor to deal with.”

  Solomon’s sympathetic smile didn’t help. Neither did seeing the mayor pacing behind the barricade across the entrance to the walkway.

  Telling himself an audience with Mayor Hunter McKenna was nothing like one with former Mayor Martin Alexander, Gordon set off.

  Chapter 5

  Gordon’s head whirled as he covered the distance between himself and the mayor. He kept his stride purposeful, but not quick. Every second of thinking time helped. Not that it would matter a whole lot. He had a feeling the mayor would be doing most of the talking, and all Gordon would have to say would be variations on too soon to tell or we’re working on it.

  But best to keep things positive. He spoke before the mayor could. “Mayor. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was interviewing a critical witness, and she’s been able to help us with the investigation.”

  “What in the world happened?” the mayor asked. “All your officers would tell me was there was a problem in one of the trailers, and until it was worked out everything had to be put on hold. I’m assuming from all the hoopla, that it was more than a flat tire or petty vandalism.”

  No point in sugarcoating anything. “You’re right. Marianna Spellman was found dead in one of the trailers, and until we find evidence to the contrary, we have to investigate it as a homicide. Standard procedure for any unattended death.”

  The mayor’s eyes widened and his skin grew pale. “You think someone … killed her?”

  “No idea. The medics are with her now, and the coroner’s been called. We’re also coordinating with CSR.”

  At the mayor’s blank expression, Gordon added, “That’s the County’s Crime Scene Response unit. You know, kind of like CSI on television, but for real.”

  The mayor shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes, I know what it is. I’m shocked that this happened to us.”

  Us? What us? It happened to Marianna.

  “I assure you, we’re staying on top of things. My officers are already taking statements. Have they talked to you yet?”

  McKenna’s eyebrows rocketed upward. “Me? Why would they talk to me?”

  “Because you were here. You might have seen something.”

  “No, of course I didn’t see anything. I was standing with you the whole time.”

  “And you’d just arrived, straight from your office, right?”

  “Yes, as I told you. We were going to discuss the press conference.” He paled further. His jaw dropped. “Oh my God. The press conference. There’s no time to cancel it. No, we can’t cancel it. Word of this will have spread by then. We’ll have to use the opportunity to explain we’re doing everything that can be done.” He peered at Gordon. “You don’t think you’ll have this solved by then, do you?”

  “I strongly doubt that, sir. But I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. You have a way with the press.”

  Gordon would rather face whoever had killed Marianna—assuming it was a homicide—in a dark alley, unarmed, than speak to the press. He still got the jitters when he had to address his troops at a briefing.

  “As long as you’re here, Mayor, did Marianna ever mention any issues, any problems with the production? Anyone who might have wanted her out of the way?”

  “No, of course not. She had some rough edges, but being a woman in a position of power often means having to be more aggressive than a man would in the same job. Sad, but equality is—well, it isn’t. Not where it should be by now, at any rate.” McKenna paused, as if realizing he’d strayed from the main point of their discussion. “In our meetings, she never indicated any strife between herself and the rest of the production people.”

  “No complaints from any of the citizens?” Gordon asked. “Nobody grumbling about how having a movie crew here was going to mess up their routines?”

  “Not to me,” the mayor said. “I would think complaints would be channeled through your office.”

  Laurie, Gordon’s admin, hadn’t reported anything negative. The questions she’d fielded had been from people wanting to see more of the filming, not less.

  Gordon’s radio interrupted. Gordon lifted his hand. “Sorry, Mayor. I need to deal with the police side of things.” He turned his back on the man. “Hepler.”

  “Sir,” Titch said, “the director is about ready to explode. I think you should get in here.”

  “Where are you?” Gordon asked.

  “Daily Bread, sir. Locals are at Finnegan’s.”

  “On my way.” Gordon turned to the mayor. “I’m going to talk to th
e crew now. Bottom line, until we’ve cleared the scene and questioned everyone, filming is stopped. I’ll keep you posted, but you’re the expert at dealing with the media. I’m sure you’ll know what to tell them.”

  He strode past the mayor, toward Daily Bread, before the man had a chance to respond. The clumping of the mayor’s boots followed, but Gordon kept his pace brisk, and the man went off in his own direction.

  Gordon opened the rear door to the diner. A small corridor branched off, the dining room to the right, the kitchen to the left. He poked his head into the kitchen. The wait staff was busily arranging cinnamon rolls, muffins, and cookies onto large platters. The aroma of brewing coffee taunted him. Angie was sprinkling filling onto a rolled-out sheet of dough. She gazed up, her eyebrows raised in question. He shook his head, then moved into the dining room.

  Lionel Dawson, a short, stocky man with a trim goatee and booming voice, intercepted him as soon as Gordon crossed the threshold. The man wore black denims and black Converse sneakers with neon-green laces, and a plaid flannel shirt over a black turtleneck. “When can we resume shooting?”

  No introductions, no pleasantries. Then again, if Gordon’s staff here had been as effective in keeping things quiet as they had over at Finnegan’s, maybe Dawson wasn’t aware of why they’d closed down the shoot. And, since Gordon was in uniform, it was obvious to anyone who could read he was the Chief of Police. “Wait here one moment, please,” Gordon said. He ducked into the kitchen and motioned to Angie.

  “What the heck happened?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel tucked into the waistband of her jeans.

  “Problem on the set,” he said. “Can I take Mr. Dawson upstairs to your place and fill him in? I need a little privacy.”

  “Sure. You have your key?”

  At least she was locking the door now. He nodded. Then pecked her cheek. “Thanks.”

  “You are going to tell me what this is all about, aren’t you.”

  “When I can.” Gordon went back to the dining room where over two dozen people sat. Most were from the production company, but the locals who had been hired to be in this morning’s shoot were included in this group. Those people gave him stares demanding answers. The rest seemed to be accustomed enough to waiting that they didn’t push. Some were chowing down on the pastries, some nibbling. Most had steaming mugs in front of them. Some were reading newspapers, some paperbacks. Surprised at the lack of cell phone activity, Gordon remembered Mai Phan telling him no cell phones were allowed on the set.

  “Thank you for waiting,” Gordon said to Dawson. “If you’ll come with me, we can talk in private.”

  He led the man through the diner, to the alcove between the restrooms, and unlocked the door that said Staff Only, which opened onto a flight of stairs to Angie’s apartment door. He unlocked that one as well, glad Angie had taken his advice and boosted her security.

  “You live here?” Dawson asked.

  “No, it belongs to one of the owners of Daily Bread. She’s letting us use it. Let’s sit down.” Gordon led the man to Angie’s couch and moved one of her easy chairs so he sat directly across from him. He pulled out his notepad and pen.

  Dawson crossed an ankle over a knee. “I assume that there’s something seriously wrong, then.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Gordon said. “Do you object to me recording this conversation? Saves relying on my memory when I can’t read my own writing.” He held up his notepad and gave a quick smile.

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Gordon hadn’t brought a pocket recorder, so he used a comparable app on his phone. After noting the date, time, place, and that the two of them were present, Gordon watched the man’s face as he asked his first question. “When did you last see Marianna Spellman?”

  “Marianna?” Lionel Dawson uncrossed his legs and scooted forward.

  Gordon detected no reaction other than a brief moment to consider the question before Dawson said, “After dinner last night. We met at that bar, Finnegan’s. Discussed the production schedule, went over any fires she’d need to put out. Why?”

  “Fires? Can you specify? Was she having problems with anyone in particular regarding these fires? Or anything else?” Gordon asked.

  Dawson shook his head. “It’s all part of the game. I’ve worked with her a couple of times on other productions, and she knows how to get the job done. She’s not in it to make friends, and doesn’t do the warm fuzzy bit, but I can’t say anyone would hold a grudge. If you’re in the business, you have to understand the business.”

  “Did she have any health issues?”

  “She didn’t eat enough, if you ask me, and was fussy about what she did eat, but no, nothing I was aware of. Not that she’d confide in me. Our relationship is strictly professional, and other than when our paths cross for a job, I have no contact with her.”

  Slowly, the man’s expression grew wary, as if he’d caught on to where this might be going. “Something happened to her, didn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you, we found her dead in the wardrobe RV. The entire area has to be considered a crime scene until we know exactly what happened.”

  The man blanched and gripped the arm of the sofa. “My God. You’re sure?”

  Although Gordon hadn’t been present when Gilman and Reynolds did their official exam, he knew if, by some remote chance, they’d found Marianna alive, he’d know about it. “Afraid so.”

  “That’s … horrible. Tragic. How did she die? Who did it?”

  “That’s what we’re investigating.” Gordon leaned in closer. “I’d appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Of course. Anything you want.”

  “First, it’s what I don’t want. I don’t want any of this leaked to the press. I’m sure that’s impossible, but please impress upon your people the need for silence. Your no cell phone policy has helped, but I’m sure there will be those who will find a way around it.”

  “I will demand full cooperation when it comes to social media interactions,” Dawson said. “The production doesn’t need any negative publicity.”

  How far could he trust this guy? After all, they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

  For half a second, Gordon wondered if Mayor McKenna felt the same way.

  “I’ll need a list of everyone who is working on the picture, their position, and their assignments.”

  Dawson opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped it shut. He sighed. “I almost said that was Marianna’s department and to ask her for the names. I still can’t believe this happened. There should be a list in Marianna’s on-site office.”

  “What about your security guards?” Gordon asked. “Would they check people off?” And what were they doing while Marianna was dying?

  “They should. I can’t believe my brain functions have dissolved. I’ll get that list for you. It’ll only have the names, though. No scheduling. Marianna is—was—the keeper of the details.”

  Gordon figured Solomon, Gaubatz, and Jost should be done clearing trailers by now. “I’ll verify with my officers that it’s all right to go in there. One of them will accompany you.”

  “Understood.” Dawson rose, then flopped back onto the couch. He licked his lips, twisted his neck, and glanced around the room. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water? I’m afraid I’m still more upset than I thought.”

  Gordon went to the kitchen and filled a glass. After Dawson drank and set the glass down, Gordon said, “I’d like to start by interviewing your wardrobe manager. I’ll also have my officers interviewing your people, to speed things along.”

  “I assure you, you’ll have everyone’s full cooperation. Do you think we can resume shooting tomorrow?”

  You’ve got to be kidding.

  “I can’t promise anything.” Gordon headed for the door. “You understand we can’t cut corners. But I will keep you apprised as we continue the investigation. If you’ll wait downstairs, I’ll see if we can get into Marianna’s office.”


  Gordon opened the door for Dawson and once the man had left, he carefully emptied the rest of the water from the glass, and put the glass in a paper lunch bag from the kitchen. Not that the man wouldn’t have voluntarily given his fingerprints, but why waste time? He took the back stairs out and went to his vehicle where he put the glass in an official evidence bag.

  Dawson was low on his list of suspects, but at this point, Gordon wasn’t about to rule anyone out, no matter how genuine they came across. The man worked with actors. Maybe he’d been one himself. He’d learned the hard way there were people who slid under his radar.

  He called Solomon on his cell rather than put anything over channels that might be overheard. Yes, they’d cleared all the trailers. Yes, everyone who’d been inside one of the vehicles was now ensconced at Daily Bread. No, nothing had seemed out of place. Yes, the medics had officially proclaimed Marianna dead. No, nobody from the Coroner’s Office had arrived—and Gordon had mixed feelings when it turned out Pierce Asel was the investigator on duty.

  After working an interesting case involving skeletal remains, Gordon no longer thought of him as Asel the Asshole, which was how most cops referred to him, but Asel still had a reputation for taking his sweet time showing up at scenes. Granted, the county was large, but his reputation of tending to his own needs first, especially when those needs included a meal, had some basis in fact. Maybe he’d finished his breakfast before he got the call. Or maybe the mayor pulled a few strings and lit the fuse that would get Asel moving. Or maybe he’d like to rub elbows with movie people.

  “Anything promising?” Gordon asked.

  “If you’re asking if I found anything that looked like a murder weapon, or someone sitting around wearing a sign saying I killed Marianna Spellman, then no. But Lily Beckett is one hot babe, Chief. I’ll volunteer for overtime bodyguard duty if she needs it.”