Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4)

by Terry Odell

  Even calmer as he took in the orderly scene, Gordon parked on a side street, and with each step toward Daily Bread, shed his initial fury like a dog losing its winter coat. Ignoring the Closed sign, he tried the door. Open.

  As Angie had proclaimed, Lionel Dawson had shoved a line of tables together, giving him an aircraft carrier of a desk to work at. However, most of the surface remained empty. He had his clipboard, a notepad, a tablet, and his cell phone, which occupied his attention at the moment. Some of the crew members sat around at other tables, most with cell phones or tablets. A few actually spoke to each other.

  Gordon approached. “Your people are using cell phones. You did tell them to lay off communicating with the media, both social and otherwise, right?”

  Dawson met Gordon's gaze. “Yes. And I trust them. My bet is they’re all playing games.”

  After nodding to Jost, who’d been assigned keep an eye on these people duty, Gordon went to the kitchen where Angie and Ozzie were the only ones present. Or so he thought until a bird-like, gray-haired woman appeared from the walk-in refrigerator carrying a bowl of apples. Rose Kretzer? What was she doing here? She didn’t work for Daily Bread.

  “Gordon,” Rose said, her eyes twinkling. “Isn’t this exciting? To think movie people are going to be eating my apfelkuchen.”

  “We’re catering for the crew,” Angie said. “Rose volunteered to help out with desserts.”

  Rose was Mapleton’s mother hen, and she made the best damn apple cake in the county.

  “Crazy day, isn’t it?” Angie said. “Are you any closer to figuring out what happened?”

  “Maybe a smidge.” He inhaled the aroma of Ozzie’s pulled pork. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to part with a sandwich for an overworked cop, would you?”

  “Hmm.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I might scrounge something up for the Chief of Police. Coleslaw, potato salad, corn bread, beans?”

  “Yes,” he said with a grin.

  “You go do your thing with Mister Big Shot, and I’ll get you a plate. If you’re nice, maybe a piece of apfelkuchen for dessert.”

  Gordon ambled to Dawson’s table and dragged a chair over. He stood across from the man, gripping the chair back, staring at him until the man disconnected his call. Dawson gave Gordon a narrow-eyed stare.

  “Chief Hepler. Have you come to release my property?”

  More like the studio’s property, but Gordon wasn’t going to pick nits. “Not yet, I’m afraid. I hear you’re planning to leave.”

  “We’re on a tight schedule and an even tighter budget. I have a payroll to meet, and sitting around isn’t getting the job done. While I understand you have to investigate what happened in the Village, I’ve had to beat the bushes for other potential filming locations. If there are individuals whom you think are pertinent to your investigation, then they’ll stay. Likewise, I can see that Marianna’s RV and Wardrobe might still hold promising leads. However, we—and I’m speaking for the entire studio here as well—would appreciate it if you would allow us to retake possession of anything not directly related to your investigation.”

  Sounded like the man had been talking to the studio’s legal department.

  “Have you located your two stand-ins yet? Or heard from Yolanda?” Gordon asked, letting his tone convey things weren’t as simple as collecting evidence from a couple of trailers.

  “I’ve been here, working, since you shut us down this morning. It’s quite possible they’ve returned but haven’t reported to me.”

  “And who would they have reported to? They can’t access the Village, so they would want explanations for the police barricades, wouldn’t they? Or are they the sort of people who would simply go off on their own? Are those the sorts of people you have working for you?”

  “First of all, they don’t work for me, they’re contracted by Vista Ventures to work on this picture. And there are several people down the food chain to whom they might have reported.”

  “And those lower-on-the-food-chain people wouldn’t have informed you?” Gordon added a challenge to his tone. “You being the number one on this project, after all, or is someone else more important?”

  Dawson laid his palms on the table, as if to rise. Apparently, seeing a man in uniform made him think better of it, because he leaned back in his chair. “We all answer to the studio, Chief Hepler. They’re on my case, and I apologize if I stepped over any lines. Of course we care about the people working for us.”

  “Understood. Situations like this aren’t the norm for any of us, and we all respond differently.” Gordon lowered himself onto the chair. “I have a few questions.”

  “Of course.” Dawson’s cell rang, and he reached for it.

  “That can wait,” Gordon said. “The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can get back to your calls.”

  Dawson bristled, but shoved the phone aside. “Very well.”

  “Are you aware of any connections between your missing stand-ins and your missing wardrobe manager?”

  “What?” Dawson said. “Connections? As in personal relationships?”

  “That’ll do for a start.”

  “You don’t understand the way things work. This isn’t like the old days, when a studio was a big happy family and everyone worked together on picture after picture. Everything is different for every production. They hire me to direct, I direct. I’m contracted for this project, and I work for a number of different studios. I’ve never worked with these principals before. I’ve worked with some of the behind-the-scenes people, but not enough to get touchy-feely with them. What they do off-camera is not my concern as long as it stays off-camera.”

  “What about Yolanda? You work with her before?”

  “No, at least not that I’m aware of. Unless there’s a problem, I don’t notice all the little people running around. Vista Ventures is new. It’s tiny by industry standards, and this is my first project with them. I signed on—as did the principals—because the project’s goal is to raise social awareness about clinical depression. A percentage of the take is being donated to charity to help find causes and cures. Nobody’s making big bucks on this one. Lily, Julie, and Damien are working for scale. Bart and Kathy are taking cuts as well, and Cassidy is donating his time. Vista goes on record as being one of the good guys, maybe gets more investors. Good PR for everyone, and some money to a good cause.” He spun his phone on the table. “And without this picture in the can, there won’t be that money to donate. Are we finished?”

  “Almost. If I wanted to find out more about the personal relationships, the off-camera actions, who would I talk to?”

  Dawson smirked. “Ah, you’re talking gossip. Try Isabella in hair and makeup. In my experience, that’s where the secrets are exchanged.”

  “And where might I find her?” Gordon asked.

  “How the hell should I know? Everyone’s free to wander since they can’t penetrate the barriers your officers have set up around the Village.”

  Rather than ask Dawson for Isabella’s contact information, Gordon left the man to his work. As he turned away, he had a cross between a light bulb and a head-slap moment.

  He called Solomon. “It occurred to me. Because there were no cell phones permitted on the set doesn’t mean people don’t have them now.”

  “Duh,” Solomon said. “I didn’t think of that, either. I’ll try to call our three missing people.”

  “Add Isabella, the hair and makeup lady. According to Dawson, she’s the keeper of the gossip.”

  Angie called to him from the kitchen. “For here or to go?”

  Gordon stepped to the counter. “If I say here, can I eat in the kitchen? It’s too—movie—in the dining room.”

  “Sure.”

  As he ate, he filled Angie in on what he could tell her, which was just about everything, since by now the entire town knew there’d been a death on the movie site.

  “But you don’t have confirmation she was murdered, rig
ht?” she asked.

  His mouth full of pork sandwich, Gordon nodded. He swallowed. “But we do have breaking and entering and maybe a burglary in Marianna Spellman’s RV office, which is something we have to investigate no matter what the cause of her death was.”

  “Not as exciting, though,” Angie said.

  “A homicide is the kind of excitement I can do without. The mayor’s afraid it’ll kill Mapleton’s economy. Not to mention his repeated reminders that there are loopholes in my contract given it was set up by the former mayor, and he’s been honoring it as a courtesy.”

  “He can’t fire you, can he?” Concern filled Angie's blue eyes.

  Hearing her voice what had been a minor niggle sent a dark wave of foreboding crashing over him. He went for a smile. “I hope not. I think he’d have to get the Town Council to back him, and so far, they seem to think I’m doing okay. But I need to get this case wrapped up before he decides he wants to make a move on the idea.”

  “If it’s about the economy, I don’t think you need to worry. More like the opposite.” Angie refilled his water glass. “Everyone will want to come see where a movie person died. Probably would be even better if it had been an actor, not the production manager—not that I want anyone to die, of course. But you know what I mean.”

  “Which is why that last statement didn’t put you on my suspect list,” he said.

  He was scraping the last of the coleslaw off his plate when he heard someone enter the diner. Angie rushed out to see who it was.

  When she didn’t return immediately, he pushed his plate aside and followed.

  Cassidy, Lily, and two others Gordon assumed were Damien Rivers and Julie Ames stood inside the doorway. Jost had moved to intercept, but Gordon motioned him back to his post.

  Cassidy flashed a grin. “Angela, right? No, Angie. The cinnamon roll maven.”

  Even from ten feet away, even with her back to him, Gordon could practically feel the heat radiating from the blush he knew would be spreading across Angie’s face.

  “Yes,” she said. “Can I get you one? Or would you like a late lunch? Coffee? No, tea. Masala chai.”

  Gordon figured the “coffee” had been a reflex, because he didn’t think Angie would have forgotten—or would ever forget—what Cassidy Clarke drank. Gordon moved closer. Before he spoke, all four actors glanced around the room, clearly puzzled.

  “What’s going on?” Lily asked. “Why are they breaking the set out front?”

  “There’s been a setback,” Gordon said.

  “A setback? Is that what you’re calling it?” Dawson stormed across the room. “Thanks to the good Chief Hepler here, we’ve had to shut down the entire production.”

  “Why?” Lily asked.

  “There were some incidents in the Village,” Gordon said, glaring at Dawson. Apparently the director understood the keep your mouth shut directive in Gordon’s eyes, because he backed off and returned to his table.

  “Until we’ve investigated, we’re keeping everyone out. I have questions for all of you, but one at a time.” Gordon made eye contact with the new guy. Five-ten, slender, curly pale-blond hair. “Mr. Rivers? Damien Rivers?”

  “That would be me,” the man said.

  “And I’m Julie Ames,” the woman said, flashing a pure Hollywood smile. A dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, she’d provide perfect contrast to the porcelain-skinned, red-headed Lily Beckett, as well as to Rivers.

  “Miss Ames.” He bobbed his head by way of greeting, then turned to Cassidy. “Mr. Clarke, would you come with me, please? If the rest of you’ll wait down here, I’m sure Miss Mead will take care of you.”

  Jost stood straighter, crossed his arms across his chest. A reasonable imitation of Titch's intimidation posture.

  Gordon led Cassidy upstairs into Angie’s apartment and directed the man to the couch. “Have a seat.”

  Cassidy looked around. “As interrogation rooms go, this has to be one of the nicest I’ve seen.”

  “Oh, you’ve been in a lot of them?”

  Cassidy laughed. “Just the movie kind. Where’s your partner? For the good-cop, bad-cop thing.”

  “No partner, so I guess I’ll have to play both roles. Any preferences who you talk to first?”

  “Surprise me.” Cassidy crossed an ankle over his knee and folded his hands behind his head.

  “You don’t mind if I record this?” Gordon asked.

  “Nah. I’m always being recorded, one way or another.”

  Gordon repeated the requisite information into his phone and set it on the coffee table.

  “When you arrived in Mapleton, you came into Daily Bread and attempted to confront Marianna Spellman. You seemed angry. Why?”

  “Seemed angry? I was angry. My agent called, said Marianna wanted to put a clause in the contract that I have to report for drug testing. Every effing day. I’ve been clean for a year, for God’s sake, and was only messed up for a short time. My mom had—” He stopped, took a breath. “I’m doing this picture as a favor to the head of Vista. For … personal … reasons. I’m not making an effing dime. And Marianna’s treating me like a kindergartener who has to be escorted to the potty, and expects me to pee in a cup. With some effing security guard making sure I’m not swapping specimens, for God’s sake. Yes, I was angry.”

  “And—”

  Cassidy shrugged, leaned forward, clasped his ankle. “And then she said it was all a mix-up, and my agent must have misinterpreted what she’d said. Claimed she’d been asking if I’d be willing to undergo voluntary testing if there was any indication I might be using. Still pissed me off, but the show must go on, and once we were underway, I wouldn’t have to deal with her, so I let it slide.” He cocked his head. “Okay, I answered your question. You going to tell me what this incident was, the one that halted production?”

  “I’m afraid Marianna Spellman was found dead in the wardrobe RV this morning.”

  The shock on Cassidy’s face was genuine, even for an accomplished actor. Gordon would bet on that. Wide eyes and open mouth were one thing, but going parchment white couldn’t be faked.

  “How?” Cassidy’s voice was a croak.

  “We don’t know yet. Are you aware of any health problems she had?”

  “No. We had a few meetings about the picture, because of the unconventional circumstances, but my agent handled almost everything. You don’t think I killed her, do you? I’d never do that.” He huffed. “Maybe ask my agent to—” He glanced at the phone on the table and lifted a hand. “Joke. Bad joke. Sorry.”

  Gordon accepted it. “Are you aware of anyone else with objectionable clauses Miss Spellman might have wanted in their contracts? Or anyone with a reason to want her dead?”

  He shook his head. “No to your first question. But then, I never asked, and no one volunteered. We—people in the business—might have reputations as being difficult, or temperamental. A lot is simply the press’s doing. Happy doesn’t sell papers or build news ratings. You never hear them saying, ‘Everything went smoothly on the set today.’ But killing someone—that’s way too far out there.”

  “I understand. Moving on. Lily Beckett didn’t seem too happy when she got to town, either. Do you know what that was about?”

  “You mean, do I think she’d want to kill Marianna? No way.”

  “We haven’t confirmed someone’s killed her yet. We’re covering all the possibilities.”

  Cassidy continued, reiterating what Dawson had said. That this picture was a one-off for most of the cast and crew, and aside from Cassidy and Lily, any previous connections were more or less random.

  “What about Bart Bergsstrom?” Gordon asked.

  “He’s my stand-in. Which means, ninety per cent of the time, he’s on the set so I don’t have to be. He’s worked on a couple other projects with me, but not for a while. I chatted with him a little when we were doing the Aspen Lake scenes, but Marianna’s name never came up.”

  Gordon picked up the phone, noted the intervie
w was over, and turned off the app. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Clarke.” He asked for Cassidy’s cell phone number and handed the man one of his cards. “If you think of anything, or see anything, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Will do. Murder on a movie set.” Cassidy gave a wry grin. “Might make a decent movie. If you solve it, give me a call. I’ll pass it along to my contacts.”

  “We haven’t confirmed it’s a murder, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

  As if.

  “Hey, the movie doesn’t have to be true. They rarely are. Based on fact is about as close as they ever get, and when it’s done, there are probably only one or two actual pieces of reality in the script.”

  Gordon accompanied Cassidy downstairs and asked Jost to send Lily over. Not that Gordon couldn’t walk across the dining room, but he wanted to add a touch of formality to the proceedings.

  He heard a strange rattling from upstairs. Leaving Jost to have Lily wait—a task he was pretty sure Jost wouldn’t mind—he took the stairs two at a time.

  Chapter 12

  Gordon paused at the open door, trying to pinpoint the sound. It came from the living room, a buzz and a rattle. Once he identified it, he shook his head in disgust.

  You are one spooked cop.

  He crossed the room and grabbed his cell phone which was dancing along the coffee table as it vibrated an incoming message. A missed call from Asel. Gordon’s heart did a quick trip to his throat and back. He didn’t wait to see whether the coroner had left a message before returning the call. “You have something for me?”

  “I do.”

  Damn the man’s sense of drama. He had enough of that dealing with all these Seesaw people.

  “And—”

  “She dropped dead. Heart stopped. Can’t tell why without the autopsy and more tests.”

  “A heart attack?” Maybe Solomon had been right. A current of relief moved through his chest.

  “A coroner’s joke. Everyone dies because their heart stops beating. But—” Asel continued.