by Mollie Hunt
Chiding myself for picking it up in the first place, I hastily finished buttoning the blouse. I knew better than to remove items from a crime scene. Even though I’d had no doubt at the time I was merely taking something that belonged to me, something I’d dropped only minutes before, that was no excuse. I needed to rectify my mistake as soon as possible, though I wasn’t looking forward to the lecture I would no doubt receive from Detective Croft.
Clark Gable and Cary Grant, hobbits at heart, had decided that since I was up, it was time for second breakfast. Sure enough their little bowls were licked clean. The pair curled around my ankles, Cary serenading me with a rhapsody of Maine Coon mrows and Clark insinuating a chirp or two of his own. I guessed it wouldn’t hurt to delay the announcement of my blunder for a few more minutes while I filled their bowl with kibbles.
As I moved to the cupboard, there was a knock on the trailer door. It was soft and totally unthreatening but it made me jump anyway. My nerves were raw. I wanted this over. I had to get that phone to Croft as fast as I possibly could.
The knock came again. “Lynley?” said a male voice. “You in there? Wake up. It’s Roger.”
I froze, the kibble scoop clutched in my hand. Roger! The killer himself. Did he know I had the phone, the proof that could tie him to his crime? Was he coming to get me too?
“Hey, Lynley,” spoke a female voice—Roger’s wife, Victoria. “Gerrold wants everyone in the lobby ASAP.”
I relaxed a little. Even if Roger were the murderer, he wouldn’t dare pull anything with his wife on hand. And that if was getting iffier all the time. Maybe I’d been hasty. Without knowing his last name, there was no real reason to think the stray phone even belonged to him.
“What’s up?” I asked innocently as I opened the door.
Roger and Victoria stood side by side at the bottom of the steps, looking at me with grim faces.
“He’s going to make an announcement or something,” said Victoria.
“I can’t do it now. I need to go see someone first.”
“There’s no time,” Roger put in. “Gerrold’s twitchy as all get out. Do it after. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Uh, okay. I still have to finish dressing. Be right with you.”
Taking the phone to Croft would have to wait, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving it lying around the trailer in plain sight where someone might see it and recognize it. I closed the door on the young couple and slipped back into the bedroom. Grabbing one of the biodegradable waste disposal bags from the roll in the supply cupboard, I popped the phone inside, then scanned for a good hiding place. My eye lit on the cats’ oversized litter box.
Chapter 26
Contrary to popular belief, cats do not like being stared in the eye. When you have a stare down with a cat, chances are you’re just making him angry.
When I emerged from the trailer, Roger and Victoria were still waiting. For conversation’s sake, I’d asked them how it was going. They replied with the compulsory fine. Roger seemed preoccupied and Victoria, chatty, but neither mood was out of character for the young couple. Maybe I was completely wrong about the whole murder thing.
It amazed me how many people it took to make a television production. Just about every seat in the big lobby was occupied and several more folks stood in groups or leaned against the peeling wallpaper. Roger and Victoria headed straight for Gerrold who was perched on his director’s chair, long legs crossed, the bangs of his odd asymmetrical haircut flopped down over his face like a schoolboy. I scanned the room and saw Freddie and his great aunt Grace sitting in a pair of ancient armchairs. A few people were gathered against the wall behind them but the only one I recognized was Grace’s assistant, Dorn. He was slouched in his usual indifferent phone-tapping stance. I wondered how Grace put up with his chronic petulance, but decided he probably had redeeming merits that may not show to an outside eye.
Freddie caught my glance and beckoned me over.
“Miz C., here—sit here,” he said, gallantly vacating his place.
“Thanks, Freddie.” I took his offer and settled into the vintage plush while he balanced on the rounded arm beside his aunt. “Do you know what this is about?”
“I dinna know for sure,” said Grace, her lilt a little thicker than usual this morning, “but I’ll be guessin’ it has to do with the untimely death of Jason Prince at the hands of our honored writer, Ms. Moore.”
“Or should we say Mr. Morton?” Freddie put in with a snicker.
“Yes, that was quite a surprise,” I observed.
“Each to her—or his—own, I always say,” Grace remarked. “No harm in it. Mayhaps it’s his preference or mayhaps it’s because cozy mysteries are usually written by women—either way it’s none’s business but his own.”
“Yeah, Aunt Grace, but don’t most writers just use an alias? This guy went for the whole enchilada down to false eyelashes and designer pumps.”
“He did it very well,” I commented. “With scarves being all the fashion, he had no trouble hiding the telltale Adam’s apple. But it was more than that. His mannerisms were so completely feminine. I would guess he’d been doing it for a long time.”
“And now he’s gone and killed Mr. Prince,” said Freddie.
“We don’t know that for sure,” I replied.
“Could have been the hex,” Dorn muttered from behind us.
I glanced up at the boy, but his eyes never wavered from his game.
“He’ll be truly missed,” commented the man standing beside Dorn. “He tended to a lot of the details around here.”
“Pshaw,” Grace spat.
Both Freddie and I looked at the elderly costume supervisor. “You don’t agree?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I’m not wanting to speak ill of the dead, but truth be told, I never cared for the wee man.”
“Oh? Why is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Jason Prince was a womanizer, couldn’t keep his hands off and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I can think of at least one girl who won’t be sad to see him gone.”
“Really? Who...”
“Okay, folks,” Gerrold’s official bellow interrupted. “Let’s quiet down now.”
Conversations halted mid-sentence and all turned to the director, including Grace. My eyes lingered on the elderly woman, hoping she would say more, but her concentration had shifted to her job.
Gerrold stood. “I want to make this brief. We have other things to do, and what with the overwhelming lunacy of late, we’re terribly behind schedule as it is.”
In spite of his seeming rush, he faltered. He paced a few steps and stared at the floor with an uncharacteristic reticence. Then he took a deep breath. “You may or may not know that last night, right here on the premises, our associate producer and technical advisor Jason Prince was shot. He’s dead.”
A buzz of shocked chatter rippled through the crowd. Gerrold ignored it.
“I don’t know who is going to replace his positions yet, but for now, I see everyone pitching in to cover the gaps.”
“That’s quite the eulogy,” Grace muttered.
“Now to answer the big question—yes, filming will continue.”
“I would have thought the big question was who killed Jason Prince?” came a resonant voice from the back of the room. Ray Anderson, leaning nonchalantly against a pillar, hands in the pocket of his tweed jacket, looking very much his McCaffrey part.
For a moment, Gerrold glared at Ray, then uttered something that sounded a lot like a sob. “This is too much, all too much!” he wailed, turning to Bear who hunkered nearby. The two exchanged words and without a glance back, Gerrold rushed out of the room like an actor booed off stage.
Bear stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Okay, um, yeah. Let’s take a moment of silence for Jason, our friend and colleague. The McCaffrey & Jack pilot will for sure be dedicated in his honor.”
He clasped his fists, closed his eyes, and hung his bee
fy head. A few people stood and did the same. The chatter fizzled in respect for the dead.
After a handful of seconds, the director’s assistant looked up again, his expression dour. “So, Gerrold has gone to powder his nose or something. This is what’s going to happen. The cops are here, or they were—I think they’re gone now, but they’ll be back, that’s a given. And they already know who killed Prince, Mr. Ray,” he said directly to Anderson, “so don’t worry your pretty head about that. It was that female impersonator, Angela Moore, whose real name turns out to be Davit Morton. For those of you who haven’t heard the story, just ask around.”
I thought it doubtful anyone in the room had not yet heard some version of Jason Prince’s murder, Angela Moore’s true identity as Davit Morton, and Morton’s blame for the killing. That sort of news travels faster than a viral cat video in a workplace such as this one.
“For obvious reasons,” Bear went on, “we won’t be shooting in the penthouse just yet. We don’t know when we’ll be able to get into that set, but we’ll keep you posted. I’ve printed up new call sheets—Roger, can you pass them out?”
Roger came forward as Bear retrieved a stack of blue half-pages from his tactical briefcase.
“Thanks buddy,” he muttered. “These are trying times.”
As Roger moved through the crowd handing out the new info, everyone began talking at once. I overheard lots of Can you believe it? and Who’d have thought? I had no desire to rehash the murder. Been there, done that, I’d be happy never to discuss it again.
But that wasn’t entirely true. I still had questions, questions I feared wouldn’t be answered any time soon.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Roger grinning down at me.
“What do you want?” I snapped apprehensively.
He held out a blue slip of paper. “Here’s your call sheet, Lynley.”
“But I’m not working today. My replacement is coming at noon.”
“Would you pass it on when she gets here then?”
For a moment, I stared at him, then I took the page and mumbled a muddled thank you. He turned and continued his rounds.
“Hey, Roger,” I impulsively called after him.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
“What’s your last name?”
He gave me a curious look, then said, “Logan. Why?”
“No reason. Just wondered.”
He seemed to accept that and moved on.
Strangely, I felt nothing. No thrill of apprehension, no shiver of dread. I suppose I’d already known, already pegged him as Jason Prince’s real killer. There was nothing more to say.
Except there was. Everyone, including the police, assumed Davit Morton was their man because he had been caught somewhat red-handed at the scene. I alone considered the possibility of his innocence.
But I wasn’t alone, I suddenly realized. Ray Anderson had been there too. Ray had heard Morton’s side. Ray knew the whole sad story. His comment to Gerrold about finding the killer—why would he have said that if he didn’t think they had the wrong man?
Looking around, I spotted the big actor studying his call sheet with a few of the cast. Without thinking, I started over to him, then faltered once I got to his side. I felt like a kid interrupting the adults, something my mother had drummed into my head was the epitome of rudeness. But I wasn’t a kid anymore—in fact I was older than most of the people in the room—so I bucked up, made a little ahem sound, and lightly touched his arm.
“Ray, can I talk to you? It’ll just take a moment.”
He looked around at me and smiled. “Sure, Cat Lady. What do you need?”
“Can we go over there?” I gestured to a vacant bench near the front entrance a little way out of the general congregation.
He excused himself and we moved to the bench in silence. Once seated, he looked at me with concern.
“What’s up, Lynley?”
Where to start? I sighed and dove in. “Do you think Davit Morton is guilty?”
Ray’s dark eyebrows knit. “What makes you ask?”
“What you said to Gerrold, about the big question being who killed Jason Prince. You knew the police have Morton, so why would you say that unless you thought there was more to the story?”
Ray gave a short laugh. “You don’t miss a beat, do you, Cat Lady? But you’re right, I’m darned sure there’s more to it. Something about how Angela—I mean Morton—proclaimed his innocence. It sounded pretty genuine to me. I may not be a real detective, but I’ve heard my share of lies. I can usually catch when someone’s telling the truth, and I would bet my reputation that when Davit Morton said he didn’t kill Jason Prince, it was truth, at least as he knows it.”
“As he knows it?”
“Well, I can’t vouch that the man isn’t crazy. After all, his whole life is built on fiction, living as Angela T. Moore. Who knows what that can do to a person, always having to pretend to be someone you’re not? It’s one thing to be an actor playing a part, but to take that on as a lifestyle is a whole new deal. Or he may have multiple personalities, some psychological issue. If that’s the case, the police will figure it out—eventually.
“Thing is, if he is innocent,” Ray went on, “then there’s a killer still running around free, and I don’t know about you but that makes me nervous as a cat in a corner.”
I laughed at his metaphor which I assumed was for my benefit, then sobered. “I believed him too. And there’s something else. Last night when I left the penthouse, I picked up my phone—I’d dropped it during the struggle. Except the phone I picked up wasn’t mine at all—it was someone else’s. It could have belonged to the killer.”
“You don’t say?”
“There was a name on a Gmail account. R. Logan. It has to be Roger. His last name is Logan—I asked him.”
“Roger Logan, sure. But Roger, our murderer?” Ray laughed. “Why would Roger want to shoot Jason Prince? He’s a nice kid. They barely knew each other.”
“I don’t know. That’s where the whole thing falls apart.” I sighed. “I guess Roger could have dropped the phone earlier in the day, or someone else could have been using it.” I pictured the youthful Southern man who worked his butt off to keep the show on its mark. Ray was right, he didn’t really seem the killer type.
“Have you told the police?”
“Not yet. I’d only just figured it out when I got summoned for this meeting. By Roger and Victoria, coincidently.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I hid it someplace safe.”
“Well, no matter what you and I think, it could be evidence. You should give it to the police as soon as you can. Want me to go with you to get it? Make sure Roger doesn’t waylay you again?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll call Detective Croft and ask her to come here. I don’t want to handle it any more than I already have in case there are fingerprints.”
“Okay. I gotta get to the set anyway. Though they can’t really start shooting without me.” He gave a wink, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out yet another of the generic studio phones. “Take this.” He handed me the instrument. “You’ll need it to call your detective.”
“I didn’t know you had one of these.”
“Sure, but I never use it. Don’t spread it around but I’m what they call technologically challenged. Learning how to work my own phone was enough of a trial for me.”
I took the phone and put it in my jacket pocket. “Thanks, Ray. Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Let me know what happens. And Lynley?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful?”
I smiled and nodded, thinking how be careful was fast overtaking the more customary expressions of goodbye or see you later.
Chapter 27
You may have heard of the Russian Blue breed of cat, known for their luxurious gray-blue coat and gentle temperament, but did you know there are also Russian Whites, Russian
Blacks, and Russian Tabbies? All three breeds were originally derived from the Russian Blue.
In the two minutes it took me to limp down the stairs to the trailer, I had come up with a plan. I was going to call Croft and while I waited for her to arrive, I’d get Clark Gable and Cary Grant ready for their change of handlers. Vera was set to arrive around noon; according to the blue sheet, her call time of one o’clock hadn’t changed. I was sad to say goodbye to the beautiful actor cats but I promised myself I’d see them again when I visited Rhonda, and this time I wouldn’t let another year go by.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw Victoria coming down the steps of the trailer.
“Oh, Lynley,” she stuttered when she saw me. “I was just looking for you. Plans have changed... again!” She rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Oh? I thought the cats weren’t on until this afternoon. My replacement will have taken over by then.”
“Yeah, that’s great. But Gerrold needs you to check out the set. It’s outside and he wants to know if the cats are up for it or if we need to make modifications.”
“Outside? Outside where?” I envisioned trying to corral the cats on the busy, noisy streets of the Pearl and was almost thankful I would be gone by then.
“In the courtyard.”
I looked at her with surprise. “This building has a courtyard?”
“Yeah, out the back. It’s really quiet.”
“Oh, well, that should probably be okay then.”
“Can you come look, just to make sure? We wouldn’t want anything to happen to those wonderful kitties of yours.”
I didn’t see the point but I agreed. “Let me just check on the boys, then I’ll be right with you.”
I began up the steps but she caught my arm.
“Gerrold needs you to do it now. Can’t that wait?”
“Not really...”
“Come on, Lynley, this won’t take long,” she wheedled, “and I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get back to Gerrold ASAP. It’ll hold everything up and you know how he hates that.”
