Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4)

by Terry Odell

Solomon clicked a few keys. “The first one is. It’s from Ian Patrick. Lasted eleven seconds. The second number’s not on the list.”

  “So probably not someone from the shoot.”

  While Solomon checked the database, Gordon mulled. Would a call from someone not at the production location have lured Marianna to the wardrobe RV? Probably not. Why had Ian called her? He verified the time of the call. Five fifty-three. Then he studied the timeline on the whiteboard.

  “Mai was in the wardrobe RV at approximately oh six-thirty. She said Ian had been there before her, but he wasn’t there when she was.”

  Solomon stopped clicking. “So, maybe Ian calls Marianna and they arrange to meet in the trailer later, after Mai is out of there.”

  “Or the call is totally unrelated. What do you have on the other numbers?”

  Solomon’s cell phone interrupted, and Vicky McDermott poked her head into the room. “Bart Bergsstrom and Kathy Newberg are in the breakroom.”

  “Good. Stay with them.”

  Solomon put his phone in its clip. “The ER called. Yolanda’s awake.”

  Chapter 14

  After wishing he could clone himself, Gordon sent Solomon to the ER to interview Yolanda, and headed for the breakroom. When Solomon had said the two stand-ins were alive and well—he hadn’t seen them. Alive, yes. Well was a relative term. Kathy sat in a chair, hands on her knees, head lowered. She sat up when Gordon entered. Her hair, not quite the vivid red of Lily Beckett’s, hung in a mass of tangles. A square bandage on her forehead didn’t cover all of a rising red and purple bruise, which stood out in stark relief against her pasty-white skin.

  “Do you need a doctor?” Gordon asked.

  She gave a shaky laugh. “I came from the clinic in Evergreen. They said I needed rest.”

  “She could probably use something to eat.” Bart had bruises forming beneath his eyes, but otherwise seemed in decent shape.

  Kathy clutched a hand to her belly and shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “I can fix a cup of chicken broth,” Vicky said. “It’s instant, but it might help.”

  “Please, do. Kath, it’ll be good for you.” The way Bart gazed at Kathy suggested a bit more personal involvement than mere coworkers.

  Good police work said you never interviewed people together, so Gordon waited until McDermott got back with the soup and Kathy was sipping it, color returning to her face, before he asked Bart to accompany him. “We’ll be in my office,” he said to Vicky. “Make sure Miss Newberg is comfortable.” He lowered his voice. “And don’t say anything about the case.”

  Vicky bobbed her head enough for Gordon to know she understood.

  Bart was reluctant to leave. “She’s in good hands,” Gordon assured him. “And this shouldn’t take long.” He escorted Bart to his office, motioned him to take a seat. “Before we start, can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water? Soft drink? Or would you like soup as well?”

  Bart touched his face, as if testing the pain level around his bruises. He shook his head. “I’m fine. Why are we here? Your officer didn’t say anything on the drive other than there would be some questions.” He tried for a laugh. “I know Mr. Dawson’s upset we missed our call, but he wouldn’t have called the cops on us.”

  “No, Mr. Dawson isn’t the reason you’re here.” Gordon took the pocket recorder from his desk drawer. “I’ll be recording this conversation. Merely a formality.” He recited the requisite information and set the recorder on the desk between them.

  Bart eyed the machine. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t see why. This is routine. We’ve talked to everyone involved in the filming.”

  “About what?” Bart fidgeted in his chair and craned his neck toward the door. “Mr. Dawson chewed us out for not being on the set, but I can explain.”

  “That’s great. Why don’t you start with why you weren’t on the bus this morning?”

  Bart hung his head. “We—me and Kath—weren’t at the hotel last night. We were at a place in Evergreen—belongs to a friend of mine, and we thought it would afford us a little private time. We flew in two days ago and were staying there. It’s not like the company does bed-checks, or cares about much other than you being where you need to be for calls. We were on time for all the Aspen Lake shots.”

  “But you weren’t here this morning.”

  “No. We were on our way. Kath was driving, I was trying to text my friend we were out of the cabin. The road curved, and the sunrise coming through the windshield must have blinded Kath for a minute. She took the curve too fast, swerved, and we dinged an oncoming car.” Bart cursed under his breath. “He was on the wrong side of the double yellow. It wasn’t Kath’s fault. But she’s the one who ended up at the clinic.”

  “You weren’t injured?” Gordon said. “What about the other guy?”

  “They said he was all right. I had my seatbelt on, so for me, it’s mostly airbag aftermath. Shook up a little, and I’ll probably have a stiff neck in the morning, but overall, I’m fine.”

  “And you didn’t bother to call in when you realized you were going to miss the shoot time?”

  “The docs checked me out. No cell phone calls allowed in the ER, and to be honest, I was more worried about Kath than the movie. I’m a stand-in, for God’s sake. They could find someone else the right height, or have Cassidy Clarke himself see what it’s like to stand around while they set lights and camera positions. It’s even more boring than being an extra.”

  “So why do you do it?” Gordon asked.

  “It pays the bills. And someday, I’ll get my break and it’ll be my name on the opening credits.”

  “I wish you the best.” From everything Bart had said, he and Kathy Newberg weren’t around when Marianna had died. And, judging from the way Bart had seemed clueless as to why they were being interviewed, he probably hadn’t heard yet. But, to be thorough, Gordon had to pursue that line of questioning.

  “Did you speak with Marianna Spellman this morning?” he asked.

  Bart frowned. “No. What does she have to do with this?”

  “I’m sorry, but Miss Spellman was found dead in one of the trailers this morning.” He watched Bart’s reaction.

  The man’s mouth dropped, his eyes widened. His hands flew to his mouth. His fingers trembled. “Dead? How?”

  All in all, a believable display of shock.

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine. Are you aware of any health issues she had? Any medications she was taking?”

  Bart took a deep breath, then another. He met Gordon’s gaze. “No. I saw her a couple of times while we were at Aspen Lake, but we didn’t interact much. Hellos, nice weather, aren’t the leaves gorgeous type stuff.” He paused, like so many people Gordon had interviewed, as the possible implications sunk in. Indignation colored his tone. “You can’t think I had anything to do with her death. I told you, we weren’t even here. And there will be medical records to show where we were.”

  “We’ll confirm that. But no, Mr. Bergsstrom, I don’t think you were responsible for Miss Spellman’s death. Right now, we’re still trying to determine how she died, so any information we can gather helps us. Who her close friends were, who might be able to tell us about her lifestyle, where she’s been, what she’d been doing when she wasn’t on the set. The more pieces of the puzzle we have, the faster we can see the whole picture.”

  Bart narrowed his eyes. “Are you implying there’s a chance she was murdered?”

  “A chance, yes. But there’s also a chance it was an unfortunate accident. Or maybe suicide. That’s why knowing her health history, both physical and mental, can help.”

  “I’ve never worked with her before this picture, so I’m afraid I’m not much good to you there.” He turned his head toward the door again. “Can I go now?”

  Gordon completed the ritual of recording the end of the interview and handing Bart a business card. “You’re free to go. If you want to wait around, I�
��ll have an officer drive you and Miss Newberg to Daily Bread, or to your hotel if necessary.”

  “You’re going to question her, too? She should be resting.”

  “I’ll be brief, I promise.” Gordon smiled as he opened the door. He walked Bart to the breakroom and left him with Vicky. Kathy seemed steady on her feet as they walked to his office, but he stuck close in case she needed a supporting arm. She sank into the chair he pulled out for her.

  “Are you all right, Miss Newberg?” Gordon asked.

  “Not really. I’m so sorry.” She folded her arms onto the desk, dropped her head, and burst into tears.

  Damn. Gordon grabbed the phone on his desk and buzzed the breakroom. “Bring me some water,” he said when McDermott answered. “Oh, and a box of tissues.” He didn’t do weepy women well. At all. So he waited.

  When McDermott came in carrying the requested items, she took one look at the sobbing Kathy Newberg and stepped to her side, placing the water and tissues on the desk and laying a hand on the woman’s back. “It’s all right.” She opened the water bottle and nudged it closer to Kathy.

  After what seemed an eternity to Gordon, Kathy’s sobs subsided to mere sniffles. She grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes.

  “It’s an after effect of the accident,” McDermott said, handing her another tissue.

  Kathy blew her nose—gently and ladylike—and balled the tissues in her hand.

  “I’ll take care of those,” McDermott said. She took the tissues carefully between two fingers. When she left the office with it instead of using the wastebasket under Gordon’s desk, he knew she was going to save it, in case it came down to DNA. Which it likely wouldn’t, but at least they’d have a sample to test in case it did. When Kathy picked up the water bottle and drank, he knew they’d have her fingerprints, too.

  But why bother? It was obvious they hadn’t been anywhere near the studio lot today.

  Because the damn jurors will ask why we didn’t collect it if anything goes to trial.

  If only the law enforcement budgets could be stretched far enough to hire more lab techs.

  Kathy wiped her eyes once again. “I apologize for that breakdown.” She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. “What do you need to ask me?”

  Gordon had her run through the accident. Her version matched Bart’s, although she conveyed more emotion when describing what it had felt like to be blinded and then feel the crunch of impact. “I never saw the car. Honest.”

  “I believe you,” Gordon said. And the accident reconstruction team would verify it. “On these mountain roads, it’s a wonder we don’t have more accidents. But I do have a few other questions for you.”

  He studied her face when he asked her what her dealings had been with Marianna. Curiosity, but no indications of guilt. He waited for her to ask the inevitable question, which she did.

  “Then this is about Marianna? Not me and Bart? Did something happen?”

  When he dropped the news, he was afraid she was going to burst into tears again. Her eyes brimmed, but she blinked them away. “I’m sorry. It’s just that … my sister died recently, and when I hear anyone is taken suddenly, it hurts all over again.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Gordon said.

  She dabbed her eyes again. “Thank you. I mean, I hardly knew Marianna, only met her in conjunction with this picture, but hearing that she was dead brought the pain of my sister's death back.”

  “It’s understandable.” He opted to cut this interview short rather than deal with Kathy’s emotional state. But first, he remembered a question he hadn’t asked Bart. As a woman, Kathy might have noticed.

  “When you saw Marianna at Aspen Lake, did she have a purse with her?”

  Kathy gave a knowing smile. “Did she ever. Always. A black Coach. It was like her office away from the office.”

  “Coach?” Gordon said.

  “It’s a brand of bag. Very pricey. I can’t see dropping that kind of money on a purse, but things like that matter to some people.”

  “Thanks. That’s helpful.” He handed her a card and brought her to the breakroom, where Bart jumped from his chair and wrapped her in a tight embrace.

  Gordon checked in with Dawson, who said he’d arrange transportation to the hotel for Kathy and Bart. “I’ll have a driver pick them up right away.”

  If Dawson was willing, it would save Gordon tying up one of his men. “Thanks.” He left the two actors under Vicky McDermott’s watchful eye and went to the war room, where he drew lines through Bart and Kathy’s names. Next to Ian Patrick’s name, he drew a big question mark and wrote called MS.

  Curious, he went to his computer and searched for Coach bags and found the one he’d seen Marianna carrying. Pricey was right. He hoped Angie wouldn’t want one for Christmas. He printed out the picture of Marianna’s purse and brought it to Titch. “Next shift, or anyone coming in, have them on the lookout for a bag like this. Could be in a Dumpster, or ditched at the side of the road. Or, someone decided to keep it. It’s an expensive bag, so if it doesn’t match the person carrying it, it’s worth a second look.”

  “We can’t stop a citizen for a mismatched wardrobe,” Titch said.

  “I didn’t say stop them, just watch them. It’s a long shot, but finding that purse might give us more leads.”

  Titch gave Gordon a quick twitch of the lips, which for him was a full-blown grin, and Gordon realized he’d been privy to a rare joke from his no-nonsense officer. He laughed. “Good one, Titch.”

  He wandered to the war room via the breakroom where he bought a candy bar from the vending machine. As the bar clunked into the tray, Gordon suffered a flash of guilt, since he’d already had a candy bar today. What the hell. He figured he’d had a full meal at lunch, which should have covered all the vital food groups, and dinner might be a long way off. Besides, this one was full of peanuts, and peanuts were food, not candy, right?

  Rationalizing again, aren’t you. You want a damn candy bar, so eat it.

  Munching, he added his notes about Marianna’s purse, and contemplated the word Laptop written next to it. Had anyone ever seen Marianna’s laptop? She hadn’t had one with her when she’d met him at Daily Bread. He remembered her using her tablet and phone to look things up. Was that enough for her when she was on location? If her tablet had Internet access, it was almost as good as a laptop. And smart phones were miniature computers, after all.

  Time to have another look.

  Solomon hadn’t finished cross-referencing all the calls in Marianna’s phone yet, so Gordon sent the spreadsheet to his office computer. Laptops were better than tablets and smart phones, but he still preferred his monitor, full-sized keyboard, and a mouse instead of a touchpad. Technological advances were great, but why did they have to make everything smaller?

  Settled in at his desk, he grabbed his readers so he could decipher the numbers on the cell phone. He plugged the last number—the one Solomon had been working on before they’d been interrupted—into the database. It came back to an Edna Mae Withers, who lived in Riverside, California. Friend? Coworker? Telemarketer? The call had lasted under two minutes. Gordon poked around more databases. Edna Mae was an eighty-two year old woman, retired. Nothing in the criminal databases. Was she a relative, but not the in case of emergency kind? He set that one aside.

  Marianna’s voicemail history said no recent messages. Did she delete those the way she apparently wiped out texts? You’d think, in her business, she’d want records of everything. Or was it the other way around? No records of any conversations, so nothing could come back and bite her. Of course, the people she messaged and texted might have records on their phones, but unless Gordon knew who they were, those records wouldn’t be easy to find.

  Then again, nothing on a cell phone was really deleted. The geeks would be able to ferret it out if it came to that.

  His call to Ian Patrick went straight to voicemail. Gordon left a Please call message, and jotted a note to follow up if
he hadn’t heard from the man.

  He was about to tackle the smart side of Marianna’s cell phone when his direct line rang. Caller ID said it was Solomon, and Gordon snatched up the receiver. “What do you have, Ed?”

  “Maybe a lead.”

  Chapter 15

  Lead. One of the best words he’d heard all day, even with the maybe in front of it. Gordon’s heart thumped as he reached for a pen. “Shoot. What did she say?”

  “It’s not what she said, which wasn’t much. It’s what the docs said.”

  “Didn’t we have this chat about getting to the point once already? I know you love adding that touch of drama, but I’m that much closer to having my last thread of patience for the day snapped.”

  “All right, be a spoilsport. The doc said when she was admitted, her heart rate was wonky. That wasn’t the term he used—he said something about elongated intervals on the QT. At least that’s what I thought he said. Only way to spot it is with an EKG. Bottom line, it’s not normal, although some people have it from birth. Yolanda denied having any history of those QT things. Otherwise, it’s often connected to drug overdoses.”

  “Did Yolanda have a history of taking drugs? Was she on any medications that would have caused that?”

  “She said absolutely not. Of course, if she was taking illegal drugs, and was talking to a cop, that’s what she would have said. But the doc said she wasn’t showing any signs of prolonged drug use, and I had my BS meter tuned high, and she didn’t move the needle. I believe her.”

  “So, we’re going with someone gave her a drug that led to a wonky heart rate?” Gordon said.

  “We? I don’t know about you, but I sure am. I sat with her, talked to her. Listened to her. She’s been married to the same man for over twenty-five years. Three kids, and a brand new granddaughter. Her eyes could illuminate the seventeenth level of a silver mine, the way they light up when she talks about them. She’s no user, and definitely not suicidal.”

  “The doc give you any suggestions or ideas as to what would have caused it?”