by Terry Odell
Dawson appeared to be running through past events, trying to zero in on Tuesday. He frowned and hollered for his tablet. A production underling rushed over with the device, which Dawson grabbed.
Gordon automatically checked it against his mental image of the one he thought Marianna Spellman had carried, but it didn’t match. Dawson swiped and tapped, then muttered, “Tuesday. Aspen Lake. Ten a.m.” His memory apparently refreshed, he nodded. “Right. We were originally scheduled to start shooting at one, but I wanted to do more run-throughs, and I’d been toying with shooting at a different spot at the lake, and I needed to make sure they’d been brought up to date on the changes, so I stopped by the Richardsons’ place.”
“And you couldn’t simply phone them? This required an in-person visit?”
“It was on my way, and I didn’t trust they’d gotten my message. And I wanted to make sure everything was acceptable in the way of their lodgings.”
Neither Lyla nor Flo had mentioned that Dawson had discussed whether the lodgings were up to snuff, but he might have waited until they were out of earshot in case the actors had something negative to say.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Gordon said. “Why did you go upstairs? Everyone was in the dining room, so you could have delivered your message to all of them at once. Or were you doing your own surprise private inspection of their accommodations?”
Dawson switched back to indignant. “I did no such thing.”
“I’m not buying it, Mr. Dawson. If you were there to see your actors, why were you sitting around the living room waiting for—for what? For them to come downstairs? For one of the Richardson sisters to come find you? You didn’t go to the counter and ring the bell? Peek into the dining room? From the reception area, I’m sure you would have heard them talking. No, you park yourself on the couch and hope somebody senses your arrival?
“You want to know what I think? I think you came in, very quietly. Nobody was in the reception area, so you snuck upstairs and snooped around your actors’ rooms. Specifically, Cassidy Clarke’s. No matter what you’ve said, an actor who’s too strung out, or too mellowed out, to handle the job isn’t going to cut it, particularly on a picture where you’re working so close to the bone. You went upstairs, found his room and went searching for evidence he was using. And you found something, didn’t you? Then you came downstairs, plopped yourself onto the couch, and that’s where Lyla found you.”
Dawson flushed. “You’re making this up. I don’t know why you’re picking on me, or the movie, but so what if I went upstairs for a minute? Maybe I needed to pee and thought I’d find a restroom.”
Gordon visualized the layout of the Bed and Breakfast. “There’s a restroom, clearly marked, downstairs. Seems if you were looking for one, you’d have found it. Try again.”
Dawson slumped. “All right. I did go upstairs. There were rumblings Cassidy was off the wagon, and I gave his room a quick search. I didn’t find anything, so I came down. Halfway down the stairs, I heard someone in the kitchen talking about fetching a photo album. There wasn’t time for me to get to the front door and pretend to be arriving. If the hippie throwback said I was sitting on the couch, then that’s what she expected to see. I was standing in front of the couch. If she assumed I’d been sitting, that was her mistake.”
“Sitting or standing, makes no difference to me. You lied about not being upstairs. You do know it’s against the law to lie to cops, don’t you?”
“Since I didn’t find anything, I saw no need to mention it.”
Gordon let that slide. “You said you made a quick search. Define quick. How long were you in his room?”
“I don’t know. Five minutes, maybe. No more than ten.”
“That’s enough time to rifle through dresser drawers, nightstands, suitcases. Did you get as far as his bathroom?”
Dawson hung his head. “What I did wasn’t honorable—”
“Or legal,” Gordon said.
“Okay, or legal. But it was for the good of the picture. And for Cassidy’s own good, too, because if he was using, he’d need help.”
“Oh, so you were doing everyone a huge favor by searching Mr. Clarke’s room. Did you look in anyone else’s room? After all, he might have asked them to hide his stash. Offered them something in return for keeping his secret. That is, of course, if he even had a secret. And since you didn’t find anything, maybe he was clean after all. Seems to me, I’d be pretty pissed if I was assumed guilty until proven innocent.”
“What do you want from me?” Dawson glanced across the room, his gaze landing on the table where Cassidy sat. “If you tell him, the entire atmosphere of the filming will change. It could ruin the picture.”
“Or, he could let the studio know you broke the law when you entered his room and have you replaced.”
From Dawson’s expression, the idea had never occurred to him. “He wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. Replacing me at this stage would likely mean the end of the movie, and the studio’s not going to do that. They’ve got too much invested.”
Gordon didn’t care if that was true or not. The movie wasn’t his concern. Finding a killer was. “Tell me one more thing, Mr. Dawson. Did you search Mr. Cassidy’s Dopp kit when you were in his bathroom?”
By now, Dawson’s answers were subdued, his head bowed. “I looked, yes. No drugs. Just aftershave, toothpaste, mouthwash, a shaver, the usual guy accoutrements.”
“You’re sure?” Gordon asked.
Dawson nodded.
If Dawson hadn’t found the pills, then it was back to Lily, Damien, or Julie. He glanced in their direction, saw them still chatting, turned his attention to Dawson. “And the rumors Mr. Clarke was using. Where did you hear them?”
“Nothing but mumblings,” Dawson said. “Nobody came up to me and stated it outright. Overheard conversations, but they were vague. I didn’t want to confront anyone, so I checked it out myself.”
“Did you discuss it with Marianna Spellman?” Gordon asked.
Dawson shook his head. “No. It was at the rumor and innuendo stage, and I didn’t want to throw a monkey wrench into the movie without having something concrete to go on.” He twisted, looking toward the production crew. “Are we done? I have to finish going over tomorrow’s schedule.”
“Yes. Thanks for your time.” After jotting a few more notes, Gordon slid out of the booth and headed toward the four principal actors. Had Cassidy gone along with Gordon’s request to keep his mouth shut about the pills?
Gordon strolled over to the booth where the principals sat. “Thanks for waiting. I’ve got a few follow-up questions.” Since Lily was sitting at the outside of one of the banquettes, he figured he might as well start with her. “Miss Beckett, would you join me, please?”
She gave a quick shrug, lifted her brows, then smiled at her companions. “I guess someone tattled about me lifting those extra hot chocolate packets from the lounge.” She extended her arms, wrists together. “I cannot tell a lie, Chief Hepler. I did take three packets of cocoa mix. I’m afraid I’ve already disposed of the evidence.” She patted her belly.
Gordon smiled. “I don’t think cuffs will be necessary in this case.” He walked to a booth on the other side of the diner, and had her sit with her back to her friends. He slid in across from her, announced that he was going to record the conversation. She seemed at ease, curious, as if she were enjoying herself. Probably taking mental notes should she ever need to draw upon the experience in a future role. He plunged in.
“What do you know about things being taken from guest rooms at the Richardsons’ Bed and Breakfast?”
Her brow furrowed, her head jerked backward, chin tucked toward her neck. She snorted—very delicately and lady-like. “Me? Things missing? This is the first I’ve heard of it. I’d be shocked if it were true. Flo and Lyla are amazingly sweet hostesses. Are you saying you think they’re stealing from their guests?”
“No, I’m merely asking if you’ve heard anything about stuff disapp
earing. Nothing’s been taken from your room?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t done a total inventory, but I don’t have much stuff with me. Most of the time on a shoot, I’m wearing studio-provided clothes, makeup, and there’s not a lot of time for much else. I don’t even carry jewelry.”
Gordon dropped that trail. “At the Richardsons’, did you invite visitors to your rooms?”
“Other than each other? No. At least I didn’t. Can’t swear under oath the others hadn’t, but most of the time we were at the shoot. By the time we got to the B and B, all we wanted to do was unwind. We usually met in Cass’s room—it was bigger, had more seating.” She twisted one of her curls. “Don’t believe all the Hollywood hype. This is not a glamorous lifestyle most of the time. It’s a job. We go to work, go home when we’re done, like everyone else. It’s being noticed when we do normal, everyday stuff like grocery shopping that gets tiresome. But, our careers depend on our fans. A damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation. So, we appreciate those few moments when we can be ourselves.”
“You felt the security at the Richardsons’ was adequate?” Gordon said.
“Considering where it is—Mapleton’s nice, but it’s not what you’d call a major tourist stop—sure. I mean, I did lock my room when I left for the day, but Flo and Lyla must have keys, so they can clean. But I never gave a thought to them taking something, or letting anyone else in.”
Gordon summarized her statement in his notebook. “One more thing. When you arrived, you’d mentioned Mr. Clarke’s drug problem. Were you aware of any evidence of his backsliding?”
“Cass? No way. Totally on top of his game. The whole drug thing was short-lived, blown completely out of proportion by the media, and he’s over it.”
“So, you didn’t decide to see for yourself? Maybe check his bathroom or nightstand when he wasn’t around. Look for pills?”
“You’re kidding, right? No way. Of course not. As I said, we all know what it’s like to live without privacy. We’d never cross that line with each other.”
He thanked her, and asked her to send Damien over. Gordon got the same basic story from him, and from Julie Ames. All seemed to be honest and open. Which left Lionel Dawson as the only other person he could place in Cassidy Clarke’s room, and the man claimed he didn’t see any pills. That was Tuesday morning. Which meant whoever had taken the pills had done so on Monday, which was the day before they’d started shooting.
He flipped through his notes, trying to refresh his memory and consider the bigger picture. Cassidy and Lily had arrived on Monday, a day ahead of their shooting schedule. Marianna Spellman was in town as well. She and Dawson were the other members of the production company staying in Mapleton. The rest were at the hotel. However, as Ian Patrick had said, nobody did bed checks. Anyone could have gone anywhere on their own, and if so, the studio wouldn’t know about it. Apparently the only time anyone paid attention was when someone wasn’t where they were supposed to be at the time they were supposed to be there.
Gordon checked the time. After seven. He made an executive decision to wrap things up for the evening. His dinner was scheduled for a seven-thirty delivery, and there wasn’t anything else he could do tonight. Gordon glanced around the diner. The technical folks had left. Damien and Julie had put on their jackets and were standing near the door, chatting with a man in dark jeans, a white shirt and a leather jacket. He kept glancing toward Cassidy and Lily’s booth. Their driver?
Dawson was talking with Cassidy and Lily, poking at his tablet. Finalizing tomorrow’s schedule, Gordon assumed, because the actors kept nodding, glancing toward the door, and seemed eager to get away.
For that matter, so was he. He nodded to Cassidy and Lily as he passed, eavesdropping enough to confirm he was right about what Dawson was telling them. Gordon patted his pocket to make sure he had his personal keys, and started up the interior staircase to Angie’s apartment before realizing he’d left her gifts in his SUV.
He reversed direction, and when he went through the diner again, Lily had joined Julie and the others by the door. Dawson was seated across from Cassidy in the booth. Dawson’s expression was contrite. Was he coming clean, apologizing for searching Cassidy’s room? Cassidy’s expression said he wasn’t thrilled about what Dawson was saying, but there was no apparent anger.
At this point, it was none of Gordon’s business—unless Dawson showed up dead tomorrow, and Gordon chastised himself for even allowing a glimmer of that thought into his head. Dawson rose, shook Cassidy’s hand, and the actor shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled across the room to join his companions.
Bart Bergsstrom, still at his booth, closed his paperback and walked toward the group. “Thought I’d grab a beer at Finnegan’s, want to join me?”
The four actors exchanged glances, shrugged, and spoke to their driver, who shoved the sleeve of his jacket up and checked his watch. Gordon assumed they’d made their arrangements for the rest of the evening, and he was ready to get on with his.
Gordon half-jogged the two blocks to his SUV and drove to the Village. His officer jumped out of his unit when Gordon stopped, and moved the barricade aside. Gordon rolled down his window. “All quiet?”
“Yes, Sir. Everyone’s packed up for the night.”
Gordon told him to expect a delivery from The Black Bear Chalet, which earned him a knowing smile, a quick salute, and a big, “Yes, Sir,” then drove through the lot and parked in his usual spot beneath the back stairs to Angie’s. Would anyone think he was doing surveillance on the Village? Not hardly. But he no longer worried about what people thought. He was entitled to a life. He grabbed the champagne and chocolates and trotted up the stairs, a smile spreading across his face, wondering how Angie would greet him this time.
Chapter 28
Sleeping in to Angie, Gordon discovered, meant six instead of four-thirty. She stretched, then leaned over him to open the curtains on the window above the bed. “We may be closed,” she said, “but I’m way behind in prep work. I’d like to get a head start before the movie people come back.”
“Are you saying it’s time to rise and shine?” he asked, shifting the covers. “Because I’m ready.”
She grinned. “I can see that.”
It was almost eight before he’d showered, had a home-cooked breakfast, and arrived at the station.
He started a pot of decaf brewing and went to the workroom for the night reports. Solomon sat at his desk, phone to his ear. Listening. Making notes. The occasional. “Okay, got it.” So much for the man taking the weekend off.
Gordon crossed to the duty officer’s desk and picked up the folder with his paperwork. Solomon stretched an arm out, blocking Gordon’s path to the door. The officer held up a wait a minute finger. Gordon hiked a hip onto the corner of Solomon’s desk, then leafed through the night reports to see whether anything urgent had gone down. No mention of Dawson being found dead.
Solomon said, “Thanks,” and hung up the phone. “Chief, you’re not going to believe this. We’ve got a possible Deadbeat Dad killing here.”
“What?” Gordon skimmed the reports again. No mention of a dead body.
“Not here here as in Mapleton, but in the county. I’ve been talking to Colfax, and it’s one of those new cases he was hit with the other day. We’ve been exchanging notes. But it fits the profile.”
“My office,” Gordon said. “Bring your notes.” If Colfax was willing to listen, then Gordon could, too. He set the folder of night reports into his inbox, poured a mug of coffee, and settled behind his desk. After pulling a legal tablet from his drawer and a pen from the holder, he leaned back in his chair. “Shoot.”
Solomon recapped the crime. A man, one Franklin F. Fitzgerald found dead in his car in the parking lot of Red Rocks Amphitheater, engine running, a hose feeding the exhaust into the car. “At first glance, it looked like a suicide, but we’re cops, and we never judge based on a first glance.”
Gordon grimaced. “Ed
. Get on with it.”
“Okay, okay. Now, Colfax had kind of put this on the back burner, waiting for autopsy results, since one of his other new dead bodies was obviously a homicide. Woman found with her organs cut out. Not a neat, surgical job, either. Her innards were tossed down the laundry chute at her apartment complex.
“The third, a guy’s shot by a doped up gangbanger, then his homeys drag the body into the woods and tie him to a tree and take turns shooting him. Everyone’s pointing fingers at the rival gang, as usual. County’s got a gang squad to help with that one.”
“Back to Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“Right. Well, the guy fits the pattern. Divorced three times, five kids between the wives, and he hasn’t paid alimony or child support in three years. The moms are squeaking by, but barely.”
“Inheritance? Life insurance?” Gordon asked. “If so, that would give any or all of them a motive.”
“Can’t get our hands on that information yet. But all three wives, according to Colfax, have ironclad alibis. All were elsewhere when he was killed. Way, way elsewhere. However, after what I’ve told Colfax, he’s going to see if he can ascertain the whereabouts of Paula from Paula’s Places. If we can put her anywhere in the vicinity, that would be a major step forward.”
“A step forward into your personal theory,” Gordon said.
Solomon shuffled his paperwork. “If Colfax hasn’t solved it by then, my money’s on a blog post about Morrison, or featuring Red Rocks, in three weeks.” He grew serious, pulled out some printouts. “A couple months ago, there’s a comment on the blog asking about Morrison. Fits with the blog’s focus on out-of-the-way venues, but has Red Rocks nearby, which is a draw. And now, there’s a death of a deadbeat dad. They’re starting to fit the pattern, wouldn’t you say?”
Gordon admitted there was a possibility.
“Something else,” Solomon said. “I got my first newsletter from Paula’s Places yesterday. It was straightforward, probably the one she sends to anyone who signs up via her website. But I got a second message thanking me for signing up, acknowledging I asked about Manitou Springs, and then it goes on to ask questions.”
