I cracked the door and stuck my head in.
“Sorry, Sam. I thought you were somebody else.” She stood behind a desk that was covered in four inches of paperwork. “What’s up?”
“I’ll just take a minute. I couldn’t help but hear you and Roland. Were you talking about Nicole Madison?”
She shook her head. “I never discuss personnel matters.”
I stepped into her office and closed the door. “I only ask because I know Nicole and Roland were supposed to be at dinner the night Harlan Beale died.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m working with the police since Harlan was helping me with my case, and in light of what I heard, I wonder if that dinner was as amiable as Roland described.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think Roland had something to do with Harlan’s death?”
“No. But if Nicole’s not the friend Roland claims her to be, then it actually makes his involvement less likely. Why would Nicole lie about a dinner date for someone she doesn’t like?”
Pellegatti walked around the desk. “This is not to leave my office, but Nicole felt sorry for him. She went to dinner only to show an interest in his writing. Roland had been hanging around her like a love-struck sixth grader. Since then, he’s been insufferable, practically stalking her. She’s my star. I can’t have her upset, and if it takes a restraining order, then so be it.”
I decided I’d leave Cassidy off my inquiry list for the day and hope the pain of his spurned affection would ease before I confronted him about the connection between his novel and Paul Weaver.
“Anything else?” Nancy Pellegatti asked.
“Yes. Harlan had called me the evening before he died. I think he was still here. Would he have clocked out that night?”
“The police already asked that. Harlan kind of kept his own schedule. Half the time he wasn’t officially working. He just liked to be part of the team. Why?”
“He left me a message saying he had something to show me the next day.” There was nothing to be gained by telling her about the phone in the dog food bag, so I kept my lie consistent with what I’d told Ritchie. “He did send me a couple of pictures. We’d been talking about his work on the film. I’m told these are for continuity.”
“Possibly. I’ll take a look.”
I handed her the photographs one at a time. She studied each. Only two held her attention for a longer period: the cast in front of the construction materials and the stack of lumber.
“And he wanted to show you something?”
“That’s what he said. Anything there seem odd?”
“We don’t usually take photos of supplies, but they were also props for a scene. The others can be explained as continuity and nothing seems out of the ordinary. Let me see them one more time.”
She examined the prints, again stopping on the photos with the lumber. Then she shrugged. “Sorry. Wish I could be more helpful.”
“Thanks anyway. And I’ll keep our conversation confidential.”
Marty wrapped my scenes a little after two and I drove back to the office through a steady downpour. I checked in with Nakayla by phone and she told me she’d gotten Cory to help her search the property records for the Weavers. The farm had been sold in December of 1948 to Violet Baker’s uncle. Tax stamps confirmed the price had been five thousand dollars, which seemed low for one hundred acres and a house. Nakayla also reported Eleanor Johnson and Leah Rosen had championed liberal causes in the nineteen-fifties and nineteen-sixties, but neither had ever been accused of Communist activities or even leanings. They were not subjects of Senator Joseph McCarthy’s zealous anti-Communist actions or the House of Representative’s infamous Committee on Un-American Activities. Neither woman was ever blacklisted.
I told Nakayla I’d managed to reach my buddy at Fort Bragg between scenes and he’d agreed to check records for Paul Weaver. I expected to hear from him in a day or two.
“How’s Blue?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He’s been next door most of the day. When Hewitt came in this morning, Shirley told him he had to meet the new employee at Blackman and Robertson. She didn’t tell Hewitt that employee was a dog. We were invited down for coffee. I took his bed so Blue would have a place to lie down. Hewitt laughed but didn’t seem particularly impressed. He went back to his office, and then Blue pulled his bed next to Hewitt’s desk. That was all it took. Blue made Hewitt the center of attention. He got Hewitt’s number pretty damn quick. How’d your shoot go?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
“You had the early call. If you want to go straight to your apartment, I’ll wrap up here and bring Blue. Any ideas on what you and I can do on a rainy afternoon?”
“We could discuss boxers and briefs,” I said.
“Or neither.”
“I think you got my number pretty damn quick.”
***
My cell phone rang on the nightstand. I heard it only a split-second before Nakayla punched me in the ribs.
“This can’t be good,” she said.
I sat up in bed and hesitated only long enough to check the time. Twelve-forty.
“Sam Blackman,” I answered, my voice husky with sleep.
“Did you see Nancy Pellegatti yesterday?” The caller was Newly.
Nakayla had been right. This couldn’t be good.
“I did.”
“Figures. She’s dead. Throw on some clothes. Here’s the address.”
Chapter Eighteen
Police tape had been strung across the driveway and angled to the edge of the main house on the left and a small guesthouse on the right. Three patrol cars, one unmarked cruiser, and an EMT vehicle were pulled up perpendicular to the tape. A group of curious neighbors in coats and pajamas stood in the middle of Rosewood Avenue in the Montford section of Asheville. They spoke in subdued murmurs.
Nakayla and I approached the perimeter and caught the eye of a uniformed officer. He was either Ted or Al Newland, the twin nephews of Detective Newland.
“Uncle Newly wants to see you.”
I read “Al” on his name badge. “Can we cross?”
“No. Crime lab’s on its way. Uncle Newly will be over shortly.”
I looked beyond him to where a cluster of people stood outside the door to the guesthouse. The police were only letting in essential personnel.
“Have you been inside?” I asked Al.
“No. But my brother has. He was the first responder. The Farmers called it in.”
“Farmers?”
“That’s their name. Woody and Mickey Farmer. They live in the big house and were renting the guesthouse to the movie.”
“They found the body?”
Al shrugged. “This isn’t official. Ted said Mickey Farmer, she’s the wife, heard an argument around ten when she took some garbage from her kitchen out to the bin. Then, about an hour later, she thought she heard a shot. I guess they went inside to check.”
“Sam!”
I heard my name and turned back to the street. A silver Mercedes stopped in the middle. Marty Kolsrud jumped from the passenger’s side and ran to us. In the flashing police lights, I could see tears streaked down his face.
“Tell me it’s not true.” He started to duck under the yellow tape, but Al stepped up and blocked his path.
“I’m sorry, sir. You need to stay here.”
Marty clutched my arm. “What happened?”
“We don’t know. Nakayla and I just got here. Detective Newland called me. The home owners heard an argument and then a shot. That’s all the information I’ve got and that might not be accurate.”
He released my arm and balled his hands into fists. “That goddamned Roland Cassidy.”
“Was he here?” Nakayla asked.
“Probably. He and Nancy had a fight today. Sh
e told me he was pretty upset and that he’d go whining to Osteen.”
I looked back at the Mercedes. Osteen was sliding out from behind the wheel.
“How did you hear?” I asked.
“The guy who owns the place phoned Arnold.”
“You were with him?”
“Yes. Arnold called me earlier this evening and wanted to talk. He sent a car and I’ve been at his house since eight-thirty. We were going over some shooting options that could save some money.”
“When did you last speak with Nancy?”
“Right after Arnold called. Usually we have a next-day planning session every evening, but when your executive producer summons, you go.”
“And that’s when she told you about Roland?”
“No. That had come up earlier.” He wiped the tears off his face. “Actually, she was more pissed at Raymond Braxton.”
“Who?”
“The state-approved CPA we have to work with. He has to examine all of our expenditures as to whether they qualify for the state’s incentive program. The twenty-five percent return that Osteen’s counting on to help fund the production.”
“This isn’t the time to worry about money.” Osteen made the statement as he joined us. He looked at the guesthouse and sighed. “I can’t believe it. Poor Nancy. And we’ll finish this movie come hell or high water.”
“We’re not shooting tomorrow,” Marty said.
“Of course not. Delay the rest of the week if you need to.” He turned back to the house. “First Harlan and now Nancy. I wish I had more confidence in the police.”
We stood in silence for a few minutes. Then Osteen said, “Would Blackman and Robertson be interested in working for me if the police aren’t making progress?”
“Detective Newland’s a good man,” Nakayla said.
“But I’m sure he’s got lots of cases.”
“Let’s give it forty-eight hours,” I said. “Then we’ll see where they are.”
A few minutes later, Newly came down the driveway, stopped about ten feet away, and beckoned Nakayla and me to join him. Al lifted the crime scene tape and we ducked under. Newly slowly walked toward the main house, allowing us time to catch up.
“Did Osteen have anything to say?” Newly asked.
“No. Marty said Roland Cassidy and Nancy Pellegatti had a heated argument this afternoon. He doesn’t know I overheard it. Cassidy has the hots for Nicole Madison. She considers him a stalker.”
“Cassidy’s the writer, right?”
“Yeah. Osteen’s nephew.”
Newly nodded as if that explained everything. “Writers. I’ve never met one yet who was in touch with reality. We’ll pick him up for questioning.”
We came to the back door of the main house.
“The Farmers have given us a room to use.” Newly opened the door and we followed him to a spacious den. Newly’s partner, Tuck Efird, was sitting on a sofa, flipping through his notepad. A couple I took to be the Farmers were seated in armchairs. Everyone rose to greet us.
“Woody Farmer,” the man said. He was around six feet tall and wore jeans and a blue flannel shirt. His hair was salt and pepper, heavy on the salt. I pegged him for late sixties.
“This is my wife, Mickey.”
She appeared to be several years younger. Her black jogging suit looked more comfortable for relaxing than running, and I assumed they had been spending a quiet evening at home until…
“Sorry to meet under these circumstances,” Nakayla said. Then she introduced us.
“Nakayla and Sam are working an overlapping case,” Newly explained. “Normally, this would be an exclusive police matter but at this point we’re looking for any connections.” He glanced at Efird to make sure his partner was on board.
Efird flipped open his notepad. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to repeat what you told me about tonight’s events.”
“All right,” Woody said, “but would anyone like some coffee? Or something stronger?”
I must confess I could have used a stiff drink, but I said, “Coffee will be fine.”
We all took seats and Efird walked the Farmers through their story. Mickey Farmer had carried out some garbage around ten and heard Nancy Pellegatti in a loud argument. The producer must have been close to the front door. She was telling someone to “stay the hell away from her.” Mickey heard those words distinctly but not anyone else. She couldn’t be sure if someone was there, or if Pellegatti was shouting into her phone. Mickey felt like she was eavesdropping so she went back into the house without listening further.
Newly and I exchanged a quick glance. The scenario fit a continuation of the argument she’d had with Cassidy in the afternoon.
“I mentioned it to Woody, but he was engrossed in one of his history books.”
“You weren’t concerned, Mr. Farmer?” Efird asked.
“Well, obviously I should have been. But, everybody knows these Hollywood people are high-strung. I thought someone had probably delivered the wrong brand of bottled water. Then about an hour later, we heard a shot. I told Mickey to stay here. I put down my book and slipped out the back door.”
“Were you armed?” Efird asked.
“No. And as I was walking toward the guesthouse, I wished I had been. The lights both inside and out were off.”
“Was that unusual?”
Woody nodded. “There’s an exterior light by the front door that Ms. Pellegatti usually left on till eleven or later. And a small interior light burned all night. The sitting room is on ground level and the other rooms are up a short flight of six steps. I told her it was fine to leave it burning in case she got up in the middle of the night.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Efird asked.
“I didn’t want to look like a damn fool. What if it was some prop gun that fired blanks? So, I listened at the door for a few minutes and when I heard nothing, I knocked. When I got no response, I tried the door and found it unlocked. I called out again, flipped on the main lights, and saw her body crumpled on the floor. Her eyes were open, unblinking. Blood pooled beneath her. I knew she was dead. I closed the door, ran to our house, and phoned 911. Then I waited in the driveway where I could both watch the guesthouse and meet the first responders.”
Efird looked at Newly to see if his partner had any follow-up questions.
Newly said, “Have either of you heard similar arguments in the past?”
“No,” Woody said. “I mean the lights are on late, like I said, and she’d have people in for meetings, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“So, you got along with her,” Newly said.
I knew as a good investigator Newly had to rule out the Farmers as potential suspects. Too many times the perp turned out to be the person who claimed to have discovered the body.
“We rarely saw her,” Woody said. “She worked fourteen- and sixteen-hour days.”
“And as you waited for the first responders, did you see anything else?”
“No. I heard a car engine start down the block, but the vehicle didn’t go speeding off.”
“That’s helpful,” Newly said. “We’ll canvas the neighbors to see if anyone heard or saw something unusual. My feeling is the killer turned off the lights in the guesthouse to make sure he wasn’t seen leaving. He could have parked a block or two away and someone might have noticed him passing under a streetlamp.” He turned to Nakayla and me. “Anything either of you would like to ask?”
I leaned forward in my chair. “Mr. Farmer, when did you call Arnold Osteen? Was it while you were waiting for the police?”
“No. I focused on the guesthouse. It was awful standing there knowing a body was inside. I called Arnold after Detectives Newland and Efird instructed us to wait in the house.”
“Is Mr. Osteen a friend?”
“Not really.
We know each other socially. No more than that. He approached me when looking for a place to house some of the movie people. He offered a fair rental rate and Mickey and I decided it would be fun to have a little Hollywood in our backyard.”
“We have a daughter and son-in-law in the business in L.A.,” Mickey said. “They produce documentaries for television. We know how stressful film production can be. Woody’s even done historical research for some of their projects.”
“Were you doing research for this film?” I asked Woody.
“No. I’m strictly on the sidelines.”
“How much do you know about Black Mountain College?”
“I’ve read a few articles and visited the museum. I’m no expert.”
I made a final attempt to find a link. “Do you happen to be an investor in Osteen’s film?”
“No. Arnold only asked me about housing. That was the beginning and end of my involvement.”
That was also the end of our questions. Newly and Efird thanked the Farmers for their cooperation.
Newly walked Nakayla and me to my car. “If you get any bright ideas, you’ve got my number.”
“Tomorrow share what you can about the crime scene,” I said. “There’s got to be some connection to Harlan Beale’s death.”
“The only connection we know is your hot-tempered writer, Roland Cassidy, and we’ll be grilling him soon enough.”
I remembered Cassidy’s desire to be kept close to Beale’s murder investigation. He was certainly getting his wish.
Chapter Nineteen
At eight the next morning, Nakayla, Blue, and I arrived at the office. The day promised to be pivotal as we sought to re-interview Nadine Oates and Roland Cassidy. And Newly could have information regarding Nancy Pellegatti’s death that might shed light on the killing of Harlan Beale.
“What would you think about taking Violet Baker with us when we see Nadine Oates?” Nakayla asked me.
We were enjoying a second cup of coffee, waiting for Shirley to arrive so we could hand off Blue.
“Why?”
“To encourage Nadine to be more truthful. When I updated Violet yesterday, she said she remembered Nadine well. There was talk among the families that Paul and Nadine might marry.”
Hidden Scars Page 16
