by Donald Bain
Even in the dim light, I could see the surprise in Kevin’s face. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me, knocking my head against the wall. “She was with me the whole afternoon, I tell you. She never left my side.”
The door flew open and light from the hallway illuminated the darkened space.
“What are you doing in here, Kevin?” Anne Tripper said in a high voice. “They want me on the set. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
I wrenched myself from Kevin’s grasp and strode to the door. “Well, I’m pleased to say, you’ve found him.” I pushed past her, drawing a deep breath as I walked swiftly down the corridor.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pushed the answer button and asked the caller to hold while I walked outside to get a better signal, and where I wouldn’t be overheard.
“Hello, Detective Marshall,” I said to the man with whom I’d worked on a case in British Columbia, when I’d taken a trip with a group of model-train enthusiasts. “Thank you so much for getting back to me.”
“How are you, Mrs. Fletcher? It’s nice to hear your voice again.”
We chatted awhile, reminiscing about the Whistler Northwind, which, like so many of the old luxury passenger trains, was no longer in service. It was an elegant, leisurely way to travel, but people don’t seem to have time for leisure travel these days. We’re always rushing from one point to another.
“Interesting subject you brought up, by the way,” Detective Marshall said.
“Were you able to find out anything about Lance Sevenson, or Laurence Stevenson, as he was known in his youth?”
“Canada is a big country,” he said, “but the RCMP is a close family. I went through cadet training at Depot with some of the guys in the ‘O’ division, and they knew who worked the NES District in Ontario—that’s ‘North, East, Southwest’ to you.”
“You have something for me?”
“I do. Do you have a fax machine anywhere nearby?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let me find out and I’ll call you back.”
“You can reach me here for the next hour.”
I headed for the production office, the brains of the production, as their intern, Lily, had dubbed it. The ladies there seemed to be the official problem solvers.
“Have him use this number,” Susan said, writing it down for me on a slip of paper.
Minutes later, she handed over a sheaf of paper Detective Marshall had faxed me.
“I haven’t seen you all day, Aunt Jess. Is everything okay?”
“Grady, can you do me a favor?”
“Of course. Anything for you.”
“Is Frank home from school yet?”
Grady looked at his watch. “I think so.”
“Would you please call and ask him a question for me?”
I found a quiet place and called my agent, Matt Miller, at his office.
“Hi, Jessica. You caught me on my way out the door, heading for the Hamptons.”
“I won’t hold you up, Matt, but I need to know something.”
“What’s that?”
“I need to know the subject of Anne Tripper’s new book that’s about to come out.”
“Come on, Jess, you know I can’t divulge that. There’s a strict embargo on it from the publisher. I just learned about it myself.”
“I understand and respect that, Matt, but there’s a murder at stake.”
“Are you saying her book might have something to do with that?”
“What I’m saying, Matt, is that there’s the possibility that it could. I don’t need details, just the thrust of the book.”
I waited out the silence on his end.
“Okay,” he said, “but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Fair enough.”
“I have to tell you, I’m not exactly happy about it. It’s going to cause me no end of headaches.”
“Why’s that, Matt?”
“It’s another exposé, which I assumed it would be. But this time it’s the advertising industry, how ad people, including the biggest names in the business, are cynically warping American values, especially when it comes to children. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. She’s been eavesdropping on the conversations of all my neighbors. They won’t be happy with me—or Kevin.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Thank you, Matt.”
“Only for you, Jessica, only for you. Got to run now.”
I caught up with Detective Chesny and gave him the papers Detective Marshall had faxed to me.
“So Sevenson served time for fraud, huh?” he said. “A series of frauds. But why do we care?”
“If Betsy Archibald knew that he’d been convicted of these crimes, and I’m confident that she did, she could have used that information to blackmail him,” I said.
Chesny took a moment to think about the news, tapping the papers against the palm of his hand. “Maybe it’s time to gather some of your friends together.”
“I was hoping you’d see it that way,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-one
Detective Chesny, a clipboard tucked under his arm, waited until Anne Tripper’s green-screen filming was completed. As soon as the director called, “Cut,” and then, “That’s a wrap,” Chesny passed the word that certain people were invited to join him in the library, the room that had been used as a set for my commercial. The grips had restored the furniture to its original arrangement; they’d removed the small desk that had been a stand-in for my home office, moved the large table back to the center of the room, and wheeled the chairs around it. I noticed that my novels had been taken from the shelf, replaced with several volumes on insurance law, an unabridged dictionary, and a thesaurus. There was still plenty of room for people to stand, and many of those filing in chose not to sit at the table. Instead, they clustered around a large plastic cooler filled with ice and cans of soda and bottled water, nervous laughter mixing with relief that the production was drawing to a close, and curiosity as to the purpose of the meeting, and what might be revealed.
I took a seat next to Grady and watched as people arrived, among them all but one of us who had attended the preproduction meeting at the agency, Betsy. The talent—myself, Cookie, Lance, and Anne—and those accompanying us—Grady, Jimbo, Lena, and, this time, Kevin—were joined by Antonio Tedeschi and Daniel Howerstein. Jason and Lucy, the production assistants, who had delivered the cooler, as well as a fishbowl of candy bars, took their leave before Chesny closed the door.
We were augmented by the director, Akmanian; the second AD, Dave Fitzpatrick; the grips, Ricky and Bob; and two of the three ladies from the production office, Jennifer and Susan.
Cookie plucked a candy bar from the bowl and dropped it into her purse. She took the chair next to Grady and motioned to her manager to join her by jerking her head at him and patting the seat of the empty chair beside her. Jimbo, who was talking with Akmanian, ignored her gestures. Frowning, she leaned across Grady and tapped my arm. “I did good today, Jessica. If Jimbo would just sit down, he would tell you. You would have been proud of me. I knew all my lines and everything went real smooth.”
“I’m sure you were terrific,” I replied.
“I was.” She smiled up at Grady. “Too bad you didn’t see me.”
“I was there for part of the time,” Grady said. “You were great.”
“This spot is gonna help with my new restaurant, I bet. I hope this thing with Betsy won’t keep it off the air. Do you think it will?”
I looked sharply at Cookie, but she had pulled out her candy bar and was delicately tearing off the wrapper.
“Well, this seems to be a convivial crowd,” Lance said, nudging Lena, who slipped into a seat at the table and pulled out her steno pad and pen. Lance looped an arm around Antonio’s shoulder. “Do you have any more gifts to distribute?” he asked.
Antonio’s face reddened. He shook his head and glanced around, embarrassed.
“No little red packets to end the production th
e way it began, huh?” Lance teased.
“This is perhaps not a time to make fun,” Antonio said. Then, feeling other eyes on him, he assumed he was expected to make a speech. He cleared his throat. “I thank you all for your wonderful work on behalf of Permezzo. I think . . . I hope . . . this campaign will make our company a big success in your great country. It is all due to your hard work, and to . . . and to . . .” He coughed and blinked several times, but a tear escaped and ran down his cheek. “And to our beautiful Betsy, who cannot be with us. I am so sorry for the death of my beautiful Betsy.”
The room became very still.
“Is he sayin’ he killed her?” Cookie asked in a stage whisper.
Antonio heard her. “No, no, please do not even suggest such a terrible thing. I would never harm Betsy. Never. I am just . . . I am just so sad.” He pulled out a handkerchief and loudly blew his nose.
“Then who did kill her?” Lance asked, taking in all the faces around the table. “That’s what we all want to know, isn’t it? Isn’t that why we’re here, Detective?”
“We have some questions,” Chesny said, ignoring him. “We think it makes it easier for us if all of you are here at the same time to answer them.” He pulled a pair of reading glasses out of the breast pocket of his jacket and put them on.
“Oh, I get it,” Lance said. “If we lie, there’ll be someone who can point it out right away. Is that it?” Lance raised his reading glasses and peered at the detective through the lenses.
“Something like that,” Chesny said, consulting his clipboard. “And as long as you’re so eager to speak, Mr. Sevenson, would you like to tell us where you were on the afternoon Miss Archibald was killed?”
“I’ve already told you this,” Sevenson snarled, “but I’ll go over it again for the benefit of our colleagues. My assistant, Lena, and I were in ‘video village,’ as you call it. Well, maybe not as you call it, Detective, but as these production folks call it. Am I right, Prendergast? We were in video village with you.”
Kevin had been leaning against the wall sipping diet soda from a can. “Not the entire time,” he said, pushing himself upright and setting the can on a nearby table. He walked to where Anne Tripper sat and put his hands on her shoulders, lightly massaging them. “I seem to remember several times when you and Lena left the room, separately and together. Isn’t that right, Anne?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. People do need to use the facilities every now and then,” Sevenson said. “We spent most of the afternoon with you two.”
“Most of it, but not all,” Kevin said.
Lance narrowed his eyes at him. “Of course, by your own calculation, that leaves some of your time unaccounted for as well.”
“Anne can vouch for my presence,” Kevin said.
“As Lena can vouch for mine.”
Lena looked up from her pad. “Uh, yes, that’s right.”
“This posturing is ridiculous,” Anne said, shrugging Kevin’s hands off her shoulders. “If you have questions, Detective Chesny, please ask them so we can get out of here.”
Chesny looked down at his clipboard. “All right,” he said. “Did you kill Miss Archibald, Miss Tripper?”
Startled, Anne lifted a hand to her neck, her rings catching the light with the movement of her fingers. “I did not, as I have already told your assistants, or whatever you call them.” She waved her hand toward the door, where two uniformed officers had taken up their posts. “And I was with Kevin all afternoon.”
“I understand this is yours,” Chesny said, holding up the opal ring.
“What? Where did you get that?”
“It was found on the floor near the body.”
“Near the body?”
“That’s correct. Would you care to explain?”
“I told you buying an opal for yourself was bad luck,” Lance said, leering at her.
She gave him an icy stare. “It was stolen from my purse,” she said, enunciating each word. “Just ask those two.” She twirled around in her chair and pointed to Jennifer and Susan. “They should have been making sure that no one had access to where our personal items were stored. But they obviously fell down on their job. Or else they stole my ring themselves.”
“We did not,” Jennifer replied angrily. “We were there the whole time. We just make a handy excuse for you, don’t we? You’re always ready to blame someone else for your problems.”
Chesny looked over at me. “Mrs. Fletcher, I believe you have a question for Miss Tripper.”
I rose from my seat and walked to the other side of the table. “You went on an errand yesterday afternoon. I just wondered where you went.”
Anne bristled. “As if it’s any of your business.” Chesny raised his brows and peered at her over his half-glasses. “Answer the question, please.”
“I . . . I keep a studio I use for writing,” she said, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle out of her skirt. “I went there yesterday afternoon to make some notes for my book.”
“You told me you were going for a walk to get some exercise,” Kevin said, frowning at her.
“I did go for a walk, but I also went to my studio.”
“You went all the way up to the Upper West Side and back in an hour and a half ?”
“I don’t like the way you’re questioning me, Kevin. I don’t have to answer to you.”
“No, but I’d like you to answer me,” Chesny said. “Did anyone see you on your walk or at your studio?”
“I have no idea,” Anne said hotly. “Why should I have to account for my private time? What does this have to do with Betsy’s murder?”
“Someone ransacked Betsy’s apartment yesterday,” I put in.
“Well, it wasn’t me.”
“But you knew where she lived.”
“Of course I knew where she lived. I made sure to know. She’d been Kevin’s lover before he met me.”
“You don’t strike me as the jealous type,” Lance said, grinning.
“Shut up, Sevenson. No one’s interested in your opinion.”
“People pay for my opinion all the time.”
“So you deny being at Miss Archibald’s apartment yesterday?” Chesny said.
“I do, and you can give me a lie detector test if you want.”
“There’s no need for that,” he said quietly. “So, if it wasn’t you, who was it?” He looked at me. “Mrs. Fletcher, any ideas?”
I scanned the room, looking at the women. Susan and Jennifer huddled close to each other, watching the exchange. Lena’s eyes were focused on the pad in front of her, but she hadn’t written anything down. Cookie had her bag in her lap and was pawing through it in search of something. She located a little velvet pouch, pulled it open, and slipped on her new diamond ring and bracelet, and sat back, admiring her jewelry.
“Mrs. Fletcher?” he repeated.
“Lena, can you tell us where you were yesterday afternoon?” I asked.
“Why do you need to know, Jessica? She was with me,” Lance said, moving to stand near his assistant.
“No, she wasn’t, Lance. But she was on an assignment for you. Isn’t that right, Lena?”
“I . . . I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Fletcher.” She tried to look me in the eye but immediately looked away.
“I understand you returned a wig to the Vanity Department this morning.”
Her cheeks flooded with color. “I . . . I found it on one of the sets.”
“Which set?” I asked.
“It was . . . let me see. . . . It must have been on Mr. Sevenson’s set.”
“I was setting up lights on his set this morning,” Ricky said. “It’s a bare room with a stool. I never saw any wig there.”
“What’s the big deal?” Lance said harshly. “She found a wig and returned it. She’s an honest person. What are you beating up on her for?”
“Where did you find the wig, Lena?” I asked.
“Well, maybe it wasn’t on your set,”
she said, gazing up at Lance with pleading eyes. “Maybe it was in one of the rooms I passed on my way downstairs.” She took a breath and looked directly at me. “Anyway, I found it and I returned it to Maya,” she added, ending strongly.
“Maybe it was in your shoulder bag all the time,” I said, “and you returned it to Maya.”
“Why would she borrow a wig?” Jennifer asked.
“Because the wig was the same color as Betsy’s hair and she wanted to masquerade as her sister. That’s what you told Betsy’s neighbor when you were up there ransacking Betsy’s apartment. Isn’t that right, Lena? You told her neighbor that you were Betsy’s sister. I must say that you did a good job going through her apartment. You left it in quite a mess.”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not true.”
I reached into my pocket for the tissue I’d used to remove the bobby pins from the wig. “There were strands of hair left on the pins in the wig. If we analyze them, will we discover that they’re yours? They’re certainly the same color as your hair.”
“That means nothing. She could’ve tried on the wig before she returned it,” Lance said. “You need something better than that, Fletcher.”
“Lena, if Betsy’s neighbor is waiting outside,” I said, pointing to the door, “she could identify you, couldn’t she?”
Lena’s eyes flew to the door and her faced drained of color. “No, I don’t think so. She might say she saw me, but she doesn’t see so well.” She looked to Lance for confirmation, but he turned away from her, a disgusted look on his face.
“And how do you know that the neighbor doesn’t see very well?” I asked.
Lena’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Perhaps,” I continued, “you noticed that she wore thick glasses when she stopped you outside Betsy’s door.”
“I don’t see that good either,” Ricky said, pressing a finger against his glasses, “but I’d recognize you if I saw you again.”
