by Terry Odell
“Agreed, it’s not likely. But stranger things have happened. Someone might have known about the pills and told her.” Solomon put a red X next to Suicide.
“How about this?” Gordon said. “Someone takes the pills—the who and how yet to be determined—and puts them in something both Yolanda and Marianna have access to.”
“Although we can’t rule out there were two separate methods. We’re assuming the drug was in Marianna’s coffee. What if it was in something else as well, something meant for Yolanda? Or something not meant for Yolanda, but she found it and got into it by mistake.”
Gordon gave it a moment's thought. “I think we need to start with who took the pills. And how. The way we’re going at it, we keep expanding the field instead of narrowing it down.”
“Makes sense,” Solomon said. “We can ask Cassidy to please not mention any of this—tell him it could compromise the investigation—and run him to the set. They’re on dinner break, and have one more scene to shoot.”
After assigning an officer to take Cassidy to the production site, Gordon and Solomon continued their discussion. Gordon stared at the whiteboard. “What do you think? Do we cross Cassidy Clarke off our list?”
“His story’s reasonable, but I’d move him down rather than remove him. We should talk to his three cohorts and see if they corroborate his story.”
“Since they’re working, and I’d rather not delay things again, I say we head to the Richardsons’ and start with Flo and Lyla.”
Solomon agreed. “I’ll let my wife know I’ll be late.”
Gordon would have to let Angie know his schedule was going to be disrupted as well. “Shouldn’t be too late,” he said when he called her. “Some new loose ends to tie up.”
“No problem. We’re going to be closed tomorrow, so I can sleep in. Would you mind getting take-out? I’m wiped.”
After Gordon promised to provide dinner, he and Solomon worked out the logistics for questioning the Richardsons.
“I’ll meet you there,” Solomon said. “Saves coming back here when we finish.”
Which made sense, since Solomon lived closer to the Bed and Breakfast than to the station. Gordon put away the paperwork, grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed out. Seconds later, Solomon’s headlights shone in Gordon’s rearview mirror. When they arrived at the Richardsons’, Gordon stopped on the street at the base of the long, winding driveway. Solomon pulled in behind him.
“Any particular way you want to play this?” Solomon asked as they ambled toward the house.
“By ear?” Gordon smiled. “Flo and Lyla are always wary of cops. Stems from their hippie days.”
“Are you saying I don’t get to play bad cop? Well, shit.”
Flo met them at the door, dressed in a long paisley skirt, a blue turtleneck sweater, and a rust-colored knit shawl. “Chief Hepler. Is there a problem?”
No matter how many times Gordon heard that as a greeting, no matter that he knew most people didn’t expect a cop to show up unless there was a problem, just once, he’d like to hear “How are you, Chief? Won’t you come in?”
And if he did, he’d probably look toward the sky to check for pigs soaring above. “I don’t think so. But we’re still filling in blanks in our investigation and have a few questions for three of your guests. And a few for you and your sister. May we come in?”
Flo stepped aside. “Of course.” No welcoming smile. If anything, her expression said she knew about Marianna Spellman’s death and how dare the cops show up accusing her of having something to do with it. She executed a quick pivot, then marched toward the living room.
Yep. Still no great love for cops.
“Should I call my sister?” Flo asked.
“Please,” Gordon said.
Lyla appeared without being summoned. Obviously, she’d seen their arrival. She wore denim overalls, clogs, and a bulky gray cardigan. Her salt-and-pepper braid was pinned to the top of her head today, not hanging down her back the way it usually did. Flo and Lyla had come of age during the Summer of Love, then made their substantial fortunes on Madison Avenue before retiring and resuming a semi-hippie lifestyle. Their Bed and Breakfast catered to the folks who wanted to commune with nature, and Gordon had to wonder how the sisters felt about having movie people as guests.
Lyla, who’d always been the friendlier of the two, flashed a brief smile. “I suppose this is about the woman who died at the movie set.”
“Well, what else could it be?” Flo said. “Doesn’t matter that the person who died was staying somewhere else. We have movie people staying here, so of course we’re automatically suspects.”
“Ladies, please,” Solomon said. “Nobody’s a suspect. You’re not even persons of interest. We’re collecting information.”
Lyla reached up and unpinned her braid from the top of her head, letting it slither down like a snake seeking warmth. Giving her head a quick shake, she said, “What would you like to know?”
“What’s your privacy policy here?” Gordon asked. “Do you allow anyone who’s not a registered guest access to the upstairs?”
Flo bristled. “Of course not. And if you’re asking to search the rooms, I’ll have you know that while a guest is registered here, they’ve got the same expectation of privacy as they would in their own home. We don’t let anyone upstairs who isn’t a guest.”
Lyla flapped her hand. “Flo, take it easy. You don’t need to quote the law to these officers.”
“Do you have any guests other than the four actors?” Solomon asked.
“No,” Lyla said. “We have six rooms. The studio wanted to ensure the privacy of their stars, so they paid for the remaining two as well.”
“But if a guest escorts someone upstairs, that’s their business, correct?” Solomon said.
“They’ve paid to use the space, and as long as they’re not destructive or loud, of course they can have visitors,” Flo said.
“And one of you is always around to make sure these visitors are accompanied by your guests?” Gordon said.
Flo frowned, Lyla shrugged. “Always? No, we’re not on guard duty round the clock,” Lyla said.
Flo spoke up. “But if we’re both gone, the entry doors are locked. Our guests have keys to the rear entrance for after-hours, or if we’re not home.”
“What about cleaning the rooms?” Solomon asked. “You do it all yourselves, or do you have help?”
“It varies with the guest load,” Lyla said. “Summers, when we’re full and have back-to-back bookings, we’ll hire local kids—”
“Kids being a relative term,” Flo said. “College age. Locals. All very reliable.”
“But what about now?” Gordon said. “This is peak leaf season, so I imagine you’ve been full. You have someone helping?”
Flo nodded. “Mrs. Findlay, but that was before the movie people got here, when she gave everything a thorough cleaning. Since there are only four guests here, and since they’re gone almost all day, it’s no big deal for Lyla and myself to handle it.”
Gordon made notes. “Does Mrs. Findlay have a key? You know, so she can work if you’re not here.”
Solomon cut in. “I know Mrs. Findlay, and she’s utterly responsible. But heck, we don’t get famous people in Mapleton all that often. I can see her wanting to come in for a quick peek at a movie star’s room. Wishing she could clean their rooms while they were here, to see how they live. Maybe tell her kids. Very understandable.”
“She would not,” Flo retorted.
“But let’s say, hypothetically, if she did come by while you were gone, you’d never know, would you?” Solomon said.
Gordon tensed, as it was clear Flo was moving deep into defensive territory. “Nobody’s accusing anyone of anything.” He kept his tone in a people having a friendly discussion zone. “Cassidy Clarke said he kept some prescription medication in his bathroom, and it was missing. We’re trying to figure out who might have had taken it, and hoped you’d be able to tell us who might h
ave had access to his room.”
Gordon focused his attention on Lyla, simply because he didn’t want to set Flo off. “Any one of the guests would have free rein to come and go, and Mr. Clarke has already told us he was lax about locking his room, so nothing is going to tarnish the reputation of your establishment. We’re not making accusations.”
“Why don’t you ask his buddies?” Flo said. “Far as I could tell, it was like the four of them took over the upstairs, bouncing from room to room. Not that we do bed checks, of course. People are entitled to do whatever they want—”
“Within reason,” Lyla said. “We don’t condone anything illegal, of course.”
“Of course you don’t,” Gordon said, although he recalled the sisters being willing to look the other way before marijuana was legalized. Then again, as products of the sixties, he figured they didn’t mind if their guests engaged in a little free love.
“What about other people from the production company?” Solomon asked. “If one of them wanted to go upstairs, check on one of their actors, would you let them? I mean, the studio’s picking up the tab for the rooms, so it’s almost as if they’re guests, too, right?”
Flo huffed. “Wrong. If the person they wanted to see was upstairs and approved them, yes, we’d let them upstairs. But if the guest wasn’t in, no, we do not let anyone into a guest room.”
“Understood. Do either of you recall anyone coming, saying they had a meeting, or any other reason to visit one of the guests? After all, if you let someone in to see Damien or Julie, or Lily, with their permission, of course, they conceivably could have visited any or all of the others.”
Did Gordon detect guilt in the glance the sisters exchanged?
Gordon poised his pen over his notebook. “What did you notice?”
Another guilty glance, then a nod from Flo before Lyla spoke. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I mean, during the mornings, things are busy, and guests often run up to their rooms for something they’ve forgotten, or to use their bathrooms—any number of reasons. We would never think to intrude by asking.”
“But you thought enough of it to tell your sister,” Solomon said. “Again, we’re not accusing anyone of anything. We’re collecting information, and the more we have, the faster we’re able to piece things together. It works both ways. Getting the whole picture lets us eliminate people, too.”
“How about it?” Gordon said. “Let us know what might have been unusual, and we can get out of your hair.”
Lyla sighed. “The other day, when Flo and I were serving breakfast.” She paused. “That’s our busiest time. Between cooking, serving, and clearing, we don’t get beyond the kitchen and the dining room. Our guests had been discussing the fall colors.” Another pause. “I went to the living room for our photo album. A man was getting up from the sofa. I asked him if I could help him.” She paused again. “I got shifty vibes from him.”
“You never said that.” Flo furrowed her brow at her sister. “All of a sudden, the cops are here, and you’re getting shifty vibes?”
“To borrow an expression,” Gordon said, “just the facts.”
Lyla fingered her braid. “The facts.” She continued with her recitation, speaking in slow, direct sentences, pausing between each, as if reading from a list. “The man said he was here to speak with the actors. He didn’t say about what. I didn’t ask. I asked his name. He said it was Lionel Dawson. I asked him to wait a minute while I made sure our guests were willing to see him. I wasn’t gone more than thirty seconds. They said he was their director. I invited him to join the group for a cup of coffee.”
“And there was nobody else with him?” Gordon asked.
“No, he was alone. They talked about schedules. It was all very amicable,” Flo said.
“Then why did you think there was something off about his visit?” Solomon asked. “Seems basic enough to me.”
“It was later, after everyone left,” Lyla said. “When I was going upstairs to clean their rooms. I noticed aspen leaves on the stairs.”
“And why was that unusual?” Gordon asked.
“Our guests had come down from their rooms,” Flo said. “They hadn’t been outside yet, and I know the stairs were clean the night before. So, it appeared as though Mr. Dawson might have gone upstairs while we were involved with breakfast. Tracked in some leaves.”
“Which would explain why he gave off shifty vibes.” Lyla glared at her sister.
Flo waved it off. “Bottom line, we don’t know for sure whether he went upstairs, although it is the most logical explanation. However, since it hasn’t rained in a while, it’s not like he left muddy footprints where we could have followed his tracks. It’s possible—not that I’m saying it happened this way, mind you—but leaves could have blown in when he opened the door.”
“Slim to none,” Lyla muttered. “Not halfway up the staircase.”
Gordon considered the route a wind-blown leaf would have to take to get from the front door to the stairs, and had to agree with Lyla’s assessment. Tracked in on the soles of someone’s shoes made more sense. “And when you went upstairs, did you see any evidence of Mr. Dawson’s having been in any of the rooms?”
“No,” Lyla said. “But if he’d been searching for something, we wouldn’t have noticed. We don’t go through our guests’ suitcases, closets, or dresser drawers. Unless a guest told us they thought someone had been in their rooms, or the uninvited visitor had done a major trash job, we’d never know.”
“And what day was this?” Solomon asked.
Flo pursed her lips, then looked at Lyla. “Tuesday, I think.”
Lyla nodded. “Yes it was Tuesday. Their second day here.”
Gordon noted it, then stood. “Thank you, ladies. We appreciate your time.”
Lyla walked them to the door. “Flo can be a grouch. I’m sorry.”
“Trust me, we deal with a lot worse,” Solomon said. “You have a good evening.”
As Gordon and Solomon walked to their vehicles, Gordon told Solomon to call it a night. “Enjoy your weekend. I’ll get back to the shoot and talk to everyone.”
Solomon didn’t argue, although he did ask Gordon to call if they caught a break in the case. Gordon had a feeling he’d be using the time to play with his Deadbeat Dad Killer theory. He called Angie, let her know he’d be making his last stop at Daily Bread, and he'd deal with dinner afterward.
The barricades were still up at the street corners at either end of Daily Bread’s block, as well as at the Village entrances. He checked in with Dispatch, where Tessa informed him all was well. He did take a few minutes to pick up the champagne and a box of the assorted chocolates Angie liked. After that, he was about to order the super-deluxe wing platter from Finnegan’s, but that didn’t seem an appropriate pairing with champagne. Celebrating Angie’s debut as a movie star—star in his mind only, of course—deserved something better. He parked as close to the movie lot as he could, then called The Black Bear Chalet and ordered a steak dinner for himself, and lamb for Angie. When he started working through the timing, so he could do his interviews and then pick up the food, they asked him if he wanted it delivered. He thought about it, then accepted the offer. So what if the service wasn’t the norm for the restaurant. It wasn’t like he was accepting a free meal, and he would pay extra for the delivery. And a generous tip. Sometimes, it was good to be the Chief. He put everything on his credit card, then strolled over to the officer who’d parked his unit in front of the barricade and seemed to be working on reports from inside the car.
Gordon peered into the car. Immediately, the window buzzed down.
“Chief. What can I do for you?”
“I need to go inside, talk to some of the people. Are they about done?”
“Supposed to be finished in about twenty minutes.”
“Thanks. You stuck here for your entire shift?” Gordon asked.
“According to the studio guy, their own people are doing the night shift. I’ll be off
here at eight.”
“Carry on.” Gordon strolled through the lot, noting the lack of crime scene tape. A few people, technical crew he assumed, were carrying equipment to one of the large trailers. Maybe they were going to be done early. He headed toward Daily Bread, where a studio security guard blocked the doorway. Mr. Lean and Lanky. A glance upstairs showed lights on in Angie’s apartment. Plan B if the guard gave him any guff.
Gordon approached with his game face on. “I need to speak with Mr. Dawson. Now.”
The guard stepped aside and opened the door without a word. Okay, so Gordon was known to him, and still in uniform. But as for security? No clipboard, no warning to be quiet, no Let me see if he’s available. Gordon hoped nothing went down at the Village tonight while these guys were on duty.
Gordon entered quietly, pausing to make sure he wasn’t going to barge into the middle of a take. Actors milled around, and the technical folks were packing up. Gordon did a quick visual of the space. Bart Bergsstrom sat alone in a booth, reading a paperback. Lily, Julie, Cassidy, and Damien chatted in another booth. Gordon strolled over and asked the four of them to stick around for a few minutes, and then he strode across the diner to confront Lionel Dawson.
The man shot Gordon a wary expression. “We’re about done. You’re not going to shut us down again, are you? A few retakes tomorrow, and we’ll be gone.”
Gordon ignored the question and jumped in with his own. “Why did you go upstairs at the Richardsons’ Bed and Breakfast on Tuesday morning?”
Chapter 27
Gordon watched as Dawson’s expression ran the gamut of everything from surprise to confusion to indignation, and then escalated to anger. Gordon jerked his head toward an unoccupied booth away from the action. He motioned Dawson to have a seat.
“What are you talking about?” Dawson said, sliding into the booth.
Gordon set his phone to record, then pulled out his notebook and pen. “You were at the Bed and Breakfast on Tuesday, correct?”
