by Terry Odell
Colfax came back on the line.
“You get anything good from the geeks?” Gordon asked.
“Only that they didn’t find anything they felt was worth holding the scene for. I told them about the citalopram and they’ll put a rush on testing the beverage samples for it.”
“In that case, unless you can think of another reason, I’ll let the movie folks know they can open the Village and have access to their units. I’d like to keep a couple of your deputies to help with the lookie-lous and monitor comings and goings of movie people, if you can spare them.”
“I’ll have our Dispatch coordinate with yours,” Colfax said. “And, no hard feelings, but right now, I’m hoping Asel says it’s a natural death. Cinnamon rolls and movie stars notwithstanding, I don’t need another homicide.”
“Understood. And, despite what you think, I’m hoping for a non-homicide verdict myself. Keep me in the loop.” Gordon ended the call, then checked in with Connie. Colfax might say he was going to coordinate officer assignments, but Connie took orders from him, not Colfax. “Let him know you’re already on top of it,” Gordon told her.
“Roger that, Chief,” Connie said. “What about the extra civilian patrol units?”
“Keep three of them rolling to cover the gaps since we still have officers on crowd control. And remind them to keep trying to get eyes on Yolanda Orozco.”
“Will do, Chief.”
“I’m going to give a quick pass through the production site, then I’ll be at the office.”
Gordon strolled around Finnegan’s to the Village. All quiet. A deputy stood by the barricade at the far entrance to the lot. Gordon headed his way. As he got there, two men approached from the street, and the deputy turned to intercept them, a clipboard in hand. Gordon recognized the men as Cassidy Clarke and Bart Bergsstrom.
Gordon said hello to the deputy, Eagleton, according to his nametag. “In case you didn’t get the word yet, everything’s been released. However, I’ll need you to continue to record everyone coming and leaving. Name, time in, time out.”
“And where they’re going. I have the lists of who’s supposed to be where and when.” Eagleton waved the clipboard.
Gordon could see the deputy’s recordkeeping was far more meticulous than the security guards. He wondered where they were, but didn’t care enough to pursue it.
Angie hadn’t mentioned Cassidy Clarke being in the diner scene, but it made sense. Why else would he still be around? No wonder she was so excited. Gordon waited until Eagleton had checked Cassidy and Bart in, then fell into step beside them. Bart gave him a cautious look, but Cassidy smiled. “Hello, Chief Hepler. We might get these scenes shot here after all. Any progress on what happened to Marianna Spellman?”
“Nothing confirmed yet,” Gordon said. “Would either of you have seen or heard from Yolanda Orozco today?”
The men exchanged a quick glance. “Yolanda. Wardrobe manager,” Bart said. “No, I’m a mere stand-in. I don’t need no stinkin’ wardrobe.” He elbowed Cassidy. “You, Mr. Leading Man, however, should probably get your ass over to wherever they’ve set up wardrobe until they move everything back here.”
“And you should get your own butt to the set so you can stand around and pretend to be me.”
Gordon’s cop radar was pinging. Were these two engaging in harmless banter? Or was there something deeper? He didn’t know whether the movie culture was anything like the way cops carried on amongst themselves. And, relative to cop-to-cop antics, this exchange had been mild.
“One more question,” Gordon said. “Any truth to the rumors Yolanda likes to party a bit too much?”
Both men registered shocked expressions which Gordon accepted as genuine. Cassidy spoke first. “I don’t know her that well, but I never heard any rumors like that.”
“From what little dealings I had with her, I never suspected it,” Bart said.
“Thanks, gentlemen. Probably idle gossip. I’ll let you get on with your work.” Gordon watched the two men saunter across the lot through the Village. Bart headed toward the passageway to the entrance to Daily Bread, while Cassidy peeled right, toward the rear entrance to Finnegan’s, where another deputy stood on clipboard duty. Gordon thanked Eagleton, then headed for Daily Bread. If the cast was still arriving, he ought to be able to check in with Dawson without interrupting the filming. For reasons Gordon couldn’t put his finger on, he got the feeling Dawson was holding back.
Feelings? Great. Now you sound like Angie.
McDermott stood at the service entrance, looking bored. She brightened at Gordon’s approach. She, too, held a clipboard.
“Not the same as securing a crime scene,” he said.
“On the boredom scale, they’re pretty close. But I did get to meet Cassidy Clarke and Lily Beckett.”
“You can’t lock the door once everyone’s checked in?” he asked.
“Once they start shooting, it has to be quiet, and they don’t want anyone knocking on the door.”
“So they haven’t started yet?”
“No, sir. They’re rehearsing. You can go in if you want. But cell phones off.”
“Will silent work?”
She smiled. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”
Gordon returned her smile and made a show of turning the sound off on his phone. “I need to check with Lionel Dawson, so thanks. And the Village is open for business again, but I want everyone logged in.”
“Yes, sir. Have you gotten word on manner of death?”
“A couple of leads, but Asel was doing the autopsy this morning. Which reminds me, I need to check in with Solomon.”
And Edna Mae Withers, although he wasn’t optimistic about a little old lady in Riverside shedding light on possible reasons for Marianna’s death. But it was another “t” to cross. McDermott opened the door for him.
“Shut the damn door.” Dawson’s voice boomed across the space.
Gordon sidled inside and closed the door behind him. When Dawson didn't pursue the open door, Gordon hurried through the short hallway and paused outside Angie’s office. Dawson’s voice continued shouting directions, but since there was nothing about quiet or action, Gordon found a spot where he could watch what was happening without being visible.
Extras were seated at three perimeter booths. Water glasses and coffee mugs sat on the tables, along with plates and silverware. One also included menus. Dawson stopped at each booth, apparently giving instructions. He noticed Angie, sitting at a table by herself, her back to him.
Ian and Mai were seated at a center table, plates of food in front of them. Cassidy and Lily were hanging around the counter, talking to someone Gordon didn’t recognize, and Bart was standing near the entrance while the crew adjusted cameras and lights. Gordon noted Bart was wearing different clothes, almost identical to Cassidy’s, so he assumed even stand-ins needed stinkin’ wardrobes.
“Okay, listen up everyone,” Dawson said. “Extras, remember. No actual talking. In this scene, Cassidy and Lily are going to get their check, get up from their table, then go to the register and wait to pay. They’ll have some dialogue, then walk out the door. All you need to do is pretend you’re eating lunch or reading the menu, as we’ve discussed.” He turned toward the crew. “You ready?”
One by one, as if this were a familiar routine, crew people gave their affirmations. Bart left his position and sat at one of the tables in a corner, apparently out of camera range.
“Let’s try a walk-through,” Dawson said. “Places, everyone.”
Angie got up from her table and crossed to the counter. Her head was bowed, and she rotated her shoulders. Cassidy and Lily moved to one of the tables, sat, and held hands. They gazed into each other’s eyes as if sharing a secret. Gordon could see how fans might interpret that look, taken out of context, as the two of them having a relationship. Life in a fishbowl.
Dawson called action. Gordon’s heart bounced against his ribs as Angie walked across the diner, set a slip of paper a
t Cassidy’s side, then turned and walked away. Had she known she was going to be doing more than sitting in a booth pretending to eat when they’d spoken? Was this going to be a surprise? Or was it a last-minute change? Didn’t matter. He prepared himself for a round of serious celebrating later.
Once the walk-throughs were complete, Dawson gave a few more instructions, then said they were filming for real. Gordon ducked into the doorway to Angie’s office. The last thing he needed was to be visible on camera, and Angie would probably do better if she wasn’t aware of his presence. He made a mental note to pick up a bottle of wine—maybe champagne. And chocolate. She wasn’t the only one who could dish out surprises.
He watched one more take, which to him looked no different from the first, but when Dawson asked for another, Gordon slipped out the back door before the director called action. Watching filming might be less boring if you had a friend in the cast, but not by much, and he had a job to do.
After telling Vicky he’d try to rotate her off door duty, and to notify him when the production took a break, Gordon strode to the station, checking his phone for any missed calls. One from Solomon. Gordon checked his texts. A message from Solomon said he was on his way. It also said Want to talk about the DDK. Think there’s another one.
Chapter 23
Right now, Gordon wanted to talk about the Marianna Spellman case, not Solomon’s pet project. He radioed Solomon. Good cops didn’t text and drive.
“Be at the station in half an hour,” Solomon said. “Heading into a dead zone. Can it wait?”
The signal was breaking up. “I’ll be in my office,” Gordon said. “Stop in when you get back.”
More waiting. After telling Connie to rotate the production duty officers, Gordon found the number for Edna Mae Withers and dialed.
“This is Edna Mae. To whom am I speaking?”
Taken aback by the unusual greeting, Gordon paused for a second or two longer than normal before responding. “Ms. Withers, this is Gordon Hepler. I’m the Chief of Police in Mapleton, Colorado.”
Apparently she was taken aback as well, because there was a pause before she came back on the line. “I’ll tell you up front, sir, I don’t make any donations of any kind based on unsolicited phone calls, so if you’re asking for money, you can hang up right now.”
“No, ma’am, it’s not that. I’ve got a few questions about Marianna Spellman, and according to her phone records you called her on Thursday.”
“Of course I did. I call her every Thursday.”
Gordon waggled his pen with his fingers. “You called her before six a.m., which would have been five your time. That’s early for a routine call, isn’t it?”
“Early is relative, Chief Hepler. A carryover from my teaching days, when I had to be at work before seven. After all those years, I’ve never been able to switch my circadian rhythms.”
“Do you mind telling me what you talked about? Why you call her every week?” Gordon asked.
“She’s my favorite success story, and we’ve stayed in contact. We don’t talk about much. I tell her everything’s the same here. She tells me what she’s working on, or at least what she says she’s allowed to tell me.”
“Did she mention anything about her current project?”
“The one in Colorado?” A pause. “Where you’re calling from. Something bad has happened, or the Chief of Police wouldn’t be calling me. I must be slow today.”
Gordon dreaded what he had to say next. Edna Mae Withers seemed like a very nice, very sharp woman. He took a breath.
“I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am, Marianna was found dead yesterday morning.”
Edna Mae gasped. “Dead? That can’t be. She was a healthy woman. How did it happen? Was she in an accident?”
Gordon, as gently as he could, explained what had happened, and why they were investigating. “We’re doing everything we can to find out how, and why. Anything you can tell me about her—her personality, how she got along with others, anyone she might have mentioned, complained about—could help a great deal. Was she depressed?”
“Marianna? Depressed? Never. You think she killed herself?”
“We don’t know. But we found antidepressants in her purse.”
“I can’t believe she’d take any kind of drugs. All vitamins, all supplements. She never liked taking so much as an aspirin.” A pause, as if Edna Mae were running through the possibilities. “If she didn’t kill herself, and I refuse to believe she would have, then you’re thinking someone killed her. A murder? Marianna? That’s—” Her voice cracked.
Gordon waited out the silence.
When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, but controlled. “She came from a broken home. Mother did drugs, her father was an alcoholic, and they were both dead before Marianna was eight. She survived being shuttled through the foster care program. Smart as a whip, that one. Determined to make something of herself. She could be stubborn, single-minded when she wanted something, but I think those traits serve—served—her well in her business. She was going to move up to executive producer, she said. Have a blockbuster hit. Maybe open her own independent studio, or move to the top of one of the big ones. She’d have made it, too.”
“Did she ever mention any rivals? Anyone who’d see her as an obstacle to their own goals?”
Edna Mae choked out a laugh. “Everyone in the business, according to her. But that was part of what she loved about it, I think. Having people think she was important. As far as somebody wanting her out of the way enough to kill her? I find that hard to believe. Otherwise, the entire movie industry would be defunct.”
Gordon gave her his number, asking her to call if she thought of anything else. Before he hung up, she said, “Wait. You asked about depression. The movie they’re making—they’re donating money to finding a cure, or helping people, or public awareness. I remember Marianna mentioning it. And the star—the good-looking one who makes me wish I were forty—no, make that sixty—years younger. Cassidy Clarke. Marianna said something about depression and drugs when she was talking about him. Not that she said much, mind you, but I recall some kind of connection.”
Gordon wished he hadn’t made the assumption this little old lady would have nothing to offer, or that he’d be waking her if he’d called earlier this morning. She’d provided a lead worth tracing.
“Thank you, Ms. Withers. You’ve been a help.”
“You’ll let me know if you find out anything, please. I’m sure the news will be all over this, but I doubt what they’ll report will be factual. All they want is to garner ratings.”
Even as Gordon assured her he would let her know if he found out anything, he pulled up a search engine and started digging into Cassidy Clarke.
Although he discounted at least half of what he read as media hype or creative editing, given the contradictions in the articles, Gordon pieced together enough to learn Cassidy Clarke had been Hollywood’s darling until about three years ago, when he’d stopped getting parts. Reasons ranged from alien abductions to amnesia to entering a monastery, and everything in between. He found a couple of articles confirming what Cassidy had said, that he’d had a substance abuse problem and had gone into rehab, resurfacing a year ago. He wasn’t welcomed into the fold with open arms, and had taken small roles in second-rate productions to prove he was responsible. Gordon could understand why thinking he was going to have to be tested for drug use while working here would have set Cassidy off.
While Cassidy’s adult life was more or less on public display, Gordon found his childhood and family history were the opposite. It was almost as though Cassidy had sprung forth, fully formed without benefit of the usual conventions, such as being born.
Gordon gazed up as footfalls approached. Solomon strode through the door. Seconds later, Laurie buzzed him. “Ed Solomon’s in your office. Someday he’ll wait three seconds for me to announce him.”
“I heard that,” Solomon said, his voice raised enough to carry through the intercom. “An
d someday I will. Won’t that be a surprise?”
Gordon smiled. Solomon and Laurie had their rituals, just as she and Gordon did. Gordon thanked Laurie and told her to alert him if any calls came through from the lab. Colfax would call him directly. Solomon plunked himself down in his usual seat across the desk from Gordon.
“How was the autopsy?” Gordon asked.
“Fresh body, no mutilations or other gross stuff. An easy one.”
“But no explanation of how or why she died.”
Solomon shrugged. “Well, yeah, there is that wrinkle.”
“Let’s hope the lab results will iron it out.”
Laurie buzzed through again. “Chief, Vicky McDermott said the movie is on break.”
Gordon thanked her and turned to Solomon. “Want to rub elbows with Seesaw people again? I’d like to pin Dawson down for answers. Something tells me he knows more than he’s been telling us.”
Solomon begged off, saying he’d rather use the time to catch up because he’d been gone most of the day.
“Here’s a job for you, then.” Gordon explained what he’d learned from Edna Mae Withers. “I’ve barely had a chance to scrape at the surface, given how much of what’s out there is tabloid-type hype. Find out where Cassidy Clarke came from. Who his parents are, how his mother died, how it connects to his drug problems. Not the movie star fluff, his real history. Reports say he was arrested. See if you can find out when and where.”
Although Solomon had probably hoped to be working on his latest Deadbeat Dad Killer theory, he agreed to put his computer skills to work on the new puzzle, and Gordon left for Daily Bread. Since the shooting had moved inside, Gordon decided to drive over instead of walk. He couldn’t get closer than half a block away, but he found a spot on the street without having to play the Police Chief card.
