by Terry Odell
“On it.” Vicky chewed her lower lip as she worked. A few moments later she raised her head in triumph. “Got ’em. Even Yolanda.”
“Forward them to Laurie. Get prints made and distributed.” He let his gaze roam the room. “All right, everyone. Take five, then grab those pictures and hit the streets.”
Chairs scraped and the room emptied, except for Gaubatz.
“You finding anything on our extra wannabes?” Gordon asked him.
“One name left in one more database, but no, nothing on the women. One DUI eight years ago on the man, and I’m running him now.”
“Finish up, then return to your duties,” Gordon said.
A few seconds later, Gaubatz said, “Done. Soon as this shuts down, I’m out of here.”
“Thanks for your work.”
Gaubatz bobbed his head and closed the laptop.
Gordon took a deep breath. Maybe Asel would call and say Marianna Spellman died of natural causes. They’d still have the vandalism to deal with, but unless Dawson or someone else asked for police help in locating their missing people, or Marianna’s laptop or purse, it wasn’t a Mapleton PD problem. Let the studio put their Keystone Cops on it. That would keep the mayor happy. And add a checkmark in the plus column for Gordon’s next performance review.
Maybe Solomon had more from his interview with Ian Patrick. He headed for the room the department used for questioning suspects. Four bile yellow-green walls, no windows. No one-way mirror, no hidden camera. Small square table, two straight-back wooden chairs. A wastebasket with a plastic liner in case a suspect puked. Or threw away a water bottle, which was a great way to collect prints and DNA. Not that a single Mapleton case had ever required DNA to catch the bad guys. All in all, an unpleasant place to spend a few hours, which was what it was designed for.
He tapped on the door but didn’t wait for an answer before opening it and stepping inside. The smell of disinfectant threatened to overwhelm him, but he blinked and closed the door behind him. Solomon rose to attention. Saluted. “Chief.”
So, he was playing it in full-blown, by-the-book, cop mode. “As you were, Officer.”
“Mr. Patrick, this is Police Chief Hepler.”
Patrick’s eyebrows rose a fraction before his face resumed a neutral expression. “So, I warrant a call from the chief, do I?”
“Making sure you’re comfortable and have been treated fairly,” Gordon said, noticing the water bottle in front of Patrick. Half-empty.
“No complaints. I was telling Officer Solomon I’m guilty of ditching some of the sit-around-and-wait time this business is known for. A seven o’clock call rarely means you’ll come anywhere near shooting before nine even when they say eight, and I thought I’d explore your little town while I waited. And I’m guilty of doing it wearing studio property. However, as I told this good officer, I saw Yolanda when I got my duds.” He waved his hands in front of his red turtleneck like a fashion model. A lightweight navy-blue windbreaker hung over the back of the chair.
“I don’t know what it is about the studio. The clothes I was wearing this morning weren’t that much different from what I have on now. I think it’s a liability thing for the talent.”
The way he said talent set Gordon’s teeth on edge. The station could use a second interrogation room just for the man’s ego. “And Marianna Spellman wasn’t in the RV when you were there?”
“Nope. Again, we’re covering previously charted territory. Or is this like the movies where they want at least five takes before they decide the first one was all right to begin with?” He pointed to the recorder in the middle of the table. “You can hear it all for yourself.”
“I prefer the live version, if you don’t mind,” Gordon said.
Patrick shrugged. “I saw Yolanda in wardrobe. Went to makeup for my face gunk. Moseyed on out front to see what was going on with the setup. I could tell it would be hours, so I went for a walk. When I came back, there was all sorts of whoop-de-do going on, so I decided to kill time at that bar—Flannagans?”
“Finnegan’s,” Solomon said. “You reported you didn’t see Marianna Spellman this morning.”
“Yes, yes, yes, and yes. I think that’s how many times you asked me.” Patrick took a pull from his water bottle.
“Tell me this,” Gordon said. “Do you know anyone who would like her dead?”
Patrick shook his head. “I think I answered that one at least twice, too.”
“If she was dead, who might benefit?” Solomon asked.
“You mean like who was in her will? How would I know that?”
“No, not in her will. The movie, or the business in general. Who would move up the ladder?” Gordon said.
“Damned if I know,” Patrick said. “I mean, I can’t imagine anyone wanting her job. Details. That’s what she was all about. Details. Sign this piece of paper, be here at this time for that, don’t go there—that’s all she did.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Although, I suppose, if she was making decisions that weren’t in someone’s favor, they might think they could do better if she was out of the way. But everything’s locked in for this picture, so that doesn’t make sense, unless she’s working on another deal.”
He huffed. Rolled his eyes. “You know, this is crazy. I haven’t done much work for Vista. They’re small potatoes, and I only took this gig because I had time before my next job.”
Which meant, Gordon assumed, he was between gigs and would have taken a job playing a talking cabbage if one came up.
“You see Bart Bergsstrom or Kathy Newberg this morning?” Solomon asked. “They were staying at the hotel. Should have been on the bus.”
The puzzled expression on Patrick’s face had Gordon believing the man was being honest when he said no. “That bus left before five a.m. I took advantage of the ride to catch some shut-eye, so because I didn’t see them doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
So far, other than deciding Ian Patrick was too full of himself for his own good, Gordon couldn’t see what the man had to offer. He glanced at Solomon, who scratched his ear. Which meant he agreed there was no point in keeping this guy.
Gordon handed Patrick one of his cards. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Patrick. If you think of anything else, please let us know. An officer will give you a lift to the production area.”
“What? You’re not going to tell me I can’t leave town?”
Solomon broke his stern cop persona and laughed. “We know where to find you if we need you. And, if you want to know the truth, that line is for the movies. We don’t have the right to keep you here.”
“I wouldn’t mind. Nice place. Quiet. More … honest … if you know what I mean.” Patrick picked up his windbreaker and Solomon held the door for him.
Once Patrick had been sent off with Jost, Gordon and Solomon went to the war room where interview sheets and BOLO printouts were spread along the perimeter tables. The whiteboard stood at the far end of the room, as if daring him to fill it with answers to their questions.
“This might be more exciting if the real stars were here,” Solomon said.
Gordon hoped Solomon wasn't becoming star-struck. “They’re shooting—I mean, they were supposed to start shooting their scenes this afternoon.”
Solomon picked up one of the sheets of paper. “This guy—Bergsstrom—is Cassidy Clarke’s stand-in, right?”
“Yep.”
“There’s a resemblance, but I don’t think anyone seeing this guy would mix him up with Clarke. Not anyone who’s seen the real deal, anyway.”
Gordon leaned over Solomon’s shoulder. “I think it’s about height, build, and coloring. Mainly for setting up lighting and camera angles. He’s not a double.”
“So unlikely someone snatched him thinking they had Cassidy Clarke.”
“Doubtful.”
Solomon set the paper aside. “I’ll call the Richardsons’ place. Make sure our stars are there. Or that someone knows where they are.”
“Couldn’t hurt. While
you’re at it, there are the two co-stars, Damien Rivers and Julie Ames. See if you can track them down as well.”
“Are they at the Richardsons', too?” Without waiting for an answer, he leafed through the papers on the table, snagged one and headed for the door. “Yes, they are. On it.”
Gordon stared at the names on the whiteboard. Yolanda, Bart, Kathy.
Where the hell are you?
Because even if technically they weren’t his to worry about, because they were in Mapleton, they were. Right about now, he’d rather be listening to more of Solomon’s off-the-wall speculations about the Deadbeat Dad Killer.
When his phone rang and it was the mayor calling, Gordon definitely wanted to work on Solomon’s puzzle.
He kept his tone civil. “What can I do for you, Mayor? Things are kind of busy here.”
“The press conference will go on as scheduled. I expect you to give a report on the progress of this debacle.”
Assuming there’s any progress by then.
“Yes, sir.” Gordon disconnected the call before the mayor could start telling him what to say. This was not a good time to get into any kind of discussion with the mayor, and hanging up, even if it pissed the mayor off, was a safer alternative than trying to deal with all the hoops the mayor would want him to jump through.
He ambled to the war room, added Laptop and Purse to the whiteboard, then went to Laurie’s desk.
“The mayor wants me to give an update at this evening’s press conference,” Gordon said. “Can you draft something that sounds important and official without saying anything? If we do have something we can release, I’ll update you.”
“No problem, Chief. I can tap-dance with the best of them.” Laurie grinned. “You going to feel like you owe me enough to get me that face-to-face with Cassidy Clarke?”
“I already do. But first, we have to find him.”
Her eyes popped wide. “He’s not missing, too, is he?”
Gordon shook his head. “No, he isn’t due on the set until this afternoon, so he’s been off our radar.”
He’d better not be missing, or I’m going to be in some deep droppings.
“I’ll get your statement started.” Laurie addressed her keyboard, and clicked away. “I’ll have it on your desk within the hour.”
He most certainly was going to have to get Laurie an audience with Cassidy Clarke.
In the war room, Gordon studied the timeline. A narrow window for Marianna’s death, and a slightly wider one for the break-in. He strode to the board and wrote the times in.
Solomon returned and said, “Cassidy Clarke and the other principals—see, I’m picking up the jargon, too—went off on a sightseeing venture to do some leaf-peeping. Flo Richardson said they’re with the studio driver. She overheard a bit of bickering, but it was about how long they dared stay away, and the driver said he’d have them at the site in time for their call. They left around oh seven-thirty.”
“So it’s possible they haven’t heard what happened,” Gordon said.
“Not unless someone called them, and cell reception out there sucks, so I’d say they don’t know or they’d have come back.”
“Mayor said I have to make a statement at the press conference, so let’s at least find a bone I can toss the vultures.” Gordon tapped the board. “To summarize. We have two events. A dead body and a break-in. Starting with the first. Marianna Spellman died, whether due to natural causes or a homicide, sometime between oh six-thirty and oh seven fifty-two, when Mai Phan found the body.”
He drew a circle on the board and wrote M.S. RV inside it. “What time did you and Dawson retrieve her paperwork?”
“I didn’t note the exact time, because there was nothing hinky about the RV, but I’d say it was between oh eight-fifteen and oh eight-thirty.”
Gordon wrote that down. “And, I discovered the break-in at oh ten-fifty-three, so it had to have happened between those times. That gives us a way to narrow down opportunity.”
“Are we assuming the same person did both?” Solomon said. “Could be two entirely different motives, two entirely different people. The lack of violence at Wardrobe doesn’t connect with the mess at Marianna’s office.”
“Point taken. Not happy to hear it, but it’s valid.”
“Would help if we had a motive. Or motives.”
“Doesn’t it always,” Gordon muttered.
“Shut down the production?” Solomon offered.
“I’d think there would be more effective ways to do that without resorting to murder,” Gordon said. “And it’s not a guarantee the production would be shut down. They’d bring in a replacement to do whatever it was Marianna did.”
“Granted. Someone had it in for Marianna for personal reasons?”
Gordon rolled his eyes. “No shit, Solomon. That really helps narrow it down. I think you’ve hit on the motive for almost every crime in history.” He paused. “But, seriously, when both Cassidy and Lily showed up, they looked like they could chew Marianna up and spit her out in tiny pieces. That passed quickly, though, and everything seemed copacetic between them.”
Gordon added their names to the front of the board, and Solomon added them to his own notes.
“In the spirit of continued speculation,” Solomon went on, “let’s say the motive is profession-related, since, as far as we know, there’s nobody here who admitted to having a personal relationship with our victim.”
“According to Ian Patrick, nobody would want Marianna’s job, but that’s his narrow perception,” Gordon said.
“But why would an actor want her job? Wouldn’t it be someone on the production side?”
“Okay, so not her job. Her laptop and purse are missing, so what about the she had something I want angle?”
“That one makes more sense to me,” Solomon said. “What I don’t like about it is if they wanted something in addition to her laptop and purse, and they found it and took it, we have no idea what it might have been. Could have been one stupid sheet of paper.”
“Like taking a piece of hay from the haystack.”
“Or, maybe her laptop was password protected, so they tried finding what they needed the old-fashioned way. Hard copy.”
“Her phone was unlocked,” Gordon reminded him. “If we’re going on the hypothesis that she popped over to wardrobe for a quick errand, she might have left her laptop accessible as well.”
“I’m sick of all these ifs and mights,” Solomon said.
“You are not,” Gordon said, laughing for the first time all day. “You love venturing into that world. What about you and your Deadbeat Dads? Nothing but ifs and mights.”
“Which reminds me, there was another killing, still unsolved, in Healdsburg, California, and Paula’s Places had a blog post from there. I’m working on another theory.”
Gordon had been through all that with Solomon before. Unsolved homicides weren’t unusual, and there were a lot of deadbeats out there. Having a travel blog that covered sites all over the country meant the law of averages would have them coinciding from time to time. “You can run it by me when we’ve made more headway here.”
Solomon didn’t seem to mind that his personal puzzle had been shoved aside. Again. He stood. “I’ll get the card out of my camera, see if I can compare the personnel papers we found in the trailer with the list I got. If they don’t all match, we’ll have another clue.”
“Get one of the civilian patrol guys on desk duty to enter that information into a database or spreadsheet. Scrolling through pictures is a time suck we don’t need.”
“Smart thinking. Guess that’s why you’re the Chief. On it.”
While Solomon was dealing with his tasks, Gordon snuck a minute to call Angie. “How’s it going?”
“Not great. They said they can’t waste any more time waiting around.” He heard the deflated tone in her voice. “They got their shots at Aspen Lake, and they can recreate a small town—and Daily Bread—on their own back lot or on a sound stage.”
She sighed. “Besides, they changed the name of the diner for the movie, so it’s not like we’d get any advertising out of it.”
“Wait a minute. Back up. Did you say they were leaving?” It was still a crime scene, damn it. They couldn’t leave with potential evidence. Not without permission. Phone still at his ear, Gordon was already on his way to his car.
“I think so,” Angie said. “They’re packing up all the gear from the street scene. On the bright side, they’re going to let me have the sign they made as a memento. And, we still get paid, which will cover some improvements Ozzie and I have been wanting to make.”
“Is Dawson—the director—still there?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s commandeered half the diner as his personal office. Since we were going to be closed today anyway, he said he’s got the right to be here since—and I’m quoting him here—that small town cop has denied him access to his own office.”
Gordon didn't bother hiding his groan.
Chapter 11
Gordon caught Solomon in the parking lot before he left. “Continue what you’re doing. I’m going to have a nice, long chat with Lionel Dawson.”
Gordon did the breathing exercises he’d learned when he’d been dealing with his eye issues earlier in the year. Storming into Daily Bread and confronting Dawson was not the right approach. Hear him out first. Angie’s information was second-hand. Or so he kept telling himself.
Slightly calmer when he arrived, he noticed the street was still blocked off, and although the movie crew seemed to be packing their gear, they were leaving it on the set. He swung around the block and checked the Village. Still barricaded, and one of his officers guarded each entrance.
