Murder, She Wrote

Manhattans & Murder

Rum & Razors

Brandy & Bullets

Martinis & Mayhem

A Deadly Judgment

A Palette for Murder

The Highland Fling Murders

Murder on the
QE2

Murder in Moscow

A Little Yuletide Murder

Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

Knock 'Em Dead

Gin & Daggers

Trick or Treachery

Blood on the Vine

Murder in a Minor Key

Provence—To Die For

You Bet Your Life

Majoring in Murder

Destination Murder

Dying to Retire

A Vote for Murder

The Maine Mutiny

Margaritas & Murder

A Question of Murder

Coffee, Tea, or Murder?

Three Strikes and You're Dead

Panning for Murder

Murder on Parade

A Slaying in Savannah

Madison Avenue Shoot

A Fatal Feast

Nashville Noir

The Queen's Jewels

Skating on Thin Ice

The Fine Art of Murder

Trouble at High Tide

Domestic Malice

Prescription for Murder

Close-up on Murder

A
Murder, She Wrote
Mystery

A Novel by

Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain

Based on the Universal Television series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson & William Link

AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY

OBSIDIAN

Published by the Penguin Group

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A Penguin Random House Company

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © 2013 Universal City Studios Productions LLLP.
Murder, She Wrote
is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Licensed by NBCUniversal Television Consumer Products Group 2013.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
:

Fletcher, Jessica.

Murder, she wrote: close-up on murder: a novel/by Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain.

pages cm

“Based on the Universal Television series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson & William Link.”

ISBN 978-1-101-62687-0

1. Fletcher, Jessica (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women novelists—Fiction. I. Bain, Donald, 1935– II. Murder, she wrote (Television program) III. Title. IV. Title: Close-up on murder.

PS3552.A376M88 2013

813'.54—dc23 2013016844

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental..

With gratitude and appreciation to literary agent Bob Diforio. We look forward to a long and fruitful relationship.

No book exists in a vacuum, and there are always those to thank. Since we are avid Internet researchers, we are grateful to all those who have so generously posted information online on practically any topic in the world. Credit also goes to the
New York Times
, our daily accompaniment to coffee and breakfast, and within the pages of which we always find ideas. We are indebted to a dear friend, who shall remain nameless, who shared his astrological charts with us. And often unstated but never forgotten, we are grateful to the crack editorial team at Obsidian, Sandra Harding, Talia Platz, and Kerry Donovan. Thank you all.

Hollywood, California

“
Y
ou should be flattered that she chose to play the character from your book,” the executive producer, Terrence Chattergee, told me. “Vera Stockdale has been offered many plum parts over the years.” His eyes roamed the room even as he addressed his comments to me. “But none of them were up to her standards.” Chattergee was a handsome man with a dusky complexion and thick black hair going gray at the temples. He had made a name for himself as a producer in what was then Bombay, and had brought his Bollywood sensibility to California with great success.

“For some reason she took a liking to your story,” Chattergee continued, sending a smile and raised eyebrows to the director, who'd just entered the room. “Vera is very particular.”

I was in Hollywood to attend a read-through of a screenplay Chattergee was producing. It was based upon one of my mystery novels,
A Deadly Decision
. I had developed the story using a real-life incident that had taken place in Cabot Cove about half a dozen years ago. A local judge, Ruth Harris, had ruled against a husband in a custody case. The husband, a man with a hair-trigger temper, had denounced Judge Harris in the courtroom and warned of retribution. A week later, while the judge was out walking her dog, she was shot in the back by an assailant. There were no apparent witnesses other than the dog, but the spotlight of investigation shone brightly on the angry husband and his threats against the judge's life. When it was determined that the man had a solid alibi, the focus shifted to the judge's husband, Neil Corday, a shady attorney with a string of lawsuits against him. He had been playing footsie with a waitress at a local café, among other women. Although I'd been skeptical, evidence piled up against the waitress, Jenny Kipp, who'd reacted with fury when the marriage proposal she'd expected from the judge's husband never materialized. She confronted Corday—and his new lover, Tiffany Parker—with a gun, the very weapon, it turned out, that had been used to shoot his wife, the judge. Jenny Kipp was convicted and sent away for life.

Vera Stockdale, who was playing the judge, had been a big star decades earlier and had come out of retirement to take this role.

“She wouldn't accept just any part,” Chattergee said. “She wanted one with gravitas and a chance to show her dramatic range.”

The lady under discussion sat halfway down a long rectangular table. Her platinum mane was styled in a smooth pageboy, not a hair out of place, and she wore a pink cashmere sweater set and rhinestone-adorned black-framed eyeglasses attached to a gold chain, which rattled against the table as she leaned over to peer at her lines in the open script in front of her. In one arm she held her Chihuahua; the other rested on a book,
Famous Actors' Famous Monologues
, that she'd been hugging to her chest when she arrived. It should have warned me of what was to come.

“So, here we are, Jessica Fletcher,” Chattergee said, “about to make a movie of your book.”

“I'm delighted to be here,” I said. “Thank you for inviting me. I look forward to seeing Ms. Stockdale in the role.”

Without bothering to respond to me beyond a grunt, he turned abruptly, walked along the table, and placed himself in a chair opposite the star and next to the director.

Frankly, I didn't see how the role of the judge served as an especially good opportunity for the actress's triumphant return to the silver screen—after all, she gets murdered in the first half of the story—but I knew enough from past experience with movie productions not to question the opinion of the executive producer, at least not to his face.

The case had been prosecuted in Cabot Cove, and the state of Maine offered production companies financial incentives to film there, so the Hollywood types were going to shoot “on location” and make our town a giant set. But before the production moved to the East Coast, the cast and principal production executives had gathered in Hollywood for a preliminary review of the script, and I was among them.

“Not exactly the hail-fellow-well-met type, is he?” said Hamilton Twomby, the screenwriter, who had introduced me to Chattergee. “But as an executive producer, he's done okay. We should be in good hands.”

Twomby and I had worked on the script long-distance, mostly by e-mail, occasionally by phone. More precisely, he'd written the script based upon my book, and I, as “script consultant,” was permitted to review it and to make suggestions. Not that many of my suggestions had found their way onto the page. It would be easy to chalk it up to difficult communications. “Ham,” as Twomby was called, didn't have a landline telephone, so our conversations often began with “Can you hear me now?”

Twomby smoothed a hand over his mouth and left it there. “Vera, on the other hand, is a diva,” he said in a low voice. “At least she was before she retired. Should be interesting to see if the leopardess has changed her spots. If she's really itching to get back in the game, maybe she'll be more accommodating than she was when she had top billing.” He waved at a tall woman with a mass of curly hair. “I have to say hello to someone,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

Vera hadn't spoken to me herself—she'd merely nodded when we were introduced—but her personal astrologer was eager to assure me that the movie was the “perfect property” to relaunch the career of the former star. “I have studied her chart,” Estelle Fancy confided as the rest of the cast and production company officials filed into the room and took seats at the table. “She has a close alignment of intellect and self-expression. Her high ability to transmute ideas, inspiration, and artistic potentials into actualities will carry her through.”

“That sounds impressive,” I said. “Have you told Ms. Stockdale?”

“Oh, yes. She knows I endorse this venture. Venus is approaching retrograde and is slowing down. It's an auspicious time for her to advance her goals, also an incredible chance for major healing and forgiveness. I advised her to go forward, and I'm to accompany her on location. I doubt she would have done it without my approval or, for that matter, at another time in the universe.” Before I could come up with an appropriate response, she drifted away like some ghostly apparition and took one of the chairs lined up along the wall for those not invited to sit at the table.

“Don't you just love that baloney?” a deep voice murmured in my ear.

I turned sharply to face the smile of actor Walter Benson, the male lead in the film, who was playing the judge's husband.

“Vera's astrologer has been trying to get her a part for years,” he said, winking at me. “No one was interested.”

“I wasn't aware that finding roles for clients was the responsibility of an astrologer,” I said.

“It is if you want to get paid. Ms. Fancy, Vera's resident stargazer, finally hit the jackpot with Chattergee. Rumor has it that our esteemed producer owes Vera a fortune in back child support, and paid Ms. Fancy a handsome sum to persuade our star to accept the role and drop her claim against him as a deadbeat dad. Not that he doesn't have the money. But he knew Vera would be willing to let him off easy for a starring role.”

“They've been divorced for years, if I remember correctly,” I said. “Aren't their children adults?”

“Child. Yes, she must be by now. Awkward little thing—at least she was before they shipped her off to boarding school. But while the battle is over, the war rages on.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Oh, my darling girl,” he said, holding out a chair and bowing toward me, “inside knowledge is the coin of the realm in Hollywood.”

“I'll keep that in mind in case I'm ever in the market for some ready cash,” I said, acknowledging his gesture by sitting down.

Benson took a seat next to Vera, picked up her book on monologues, and began leafing through it. I mulled over what I knew about him. He was a virile leading man who'd spent most of his time on-screen with his shirt off. At least that was my impression from having seen a few of his early films. The screenwriter had made a snide comment about Benson's being typecast as the philandering husband of the judge—“His most bankable asset is a strong jaw and a sculptured set of pectoral muscles, although he's getting rather long in the tooth for bare-chested roles,” Twomby had said. The Hollywood business magazine
Variety
had reported that it had taken numerous auditions and screen tests for Benson before he'd won the role. I'd shown the article to Twomby when I arrived.

The screenwriter squeezed himself into the chair next to mine. He was a hefty man with a thin mustache and a narrow beard that ran along his jawline, leaving his cheeks clean-shaven. “Benson should be grateful he's here,” Twomby said, continuing his catty comments about the actor. “His acting abilities were never in question, but his penchant for pursuing every would-be starlet here in La-La-Land almost scuttled his chances for the role.”

“I wouldn't think that was so unusual in Hollywood,” I said.

“Oh, it isn't at all, if you're subtle about it, or even if you're not. However, on Benson's last film, several production assistants charged him with sexual harassment.”

“Oh, dear, that's certainly not good.”

“There's nothing quite like a lawsuit to cast an actor in a poor light with producers who want to keep a tight fist on the budget—and that's all of them.”

“How did Benson get into their better graces?”

“That's the good part,” Twomby said, lowering his voice again, although it was doubtful anyone could overhear us above the buzz of conversation filling the room. “His agent maneuvered two glitzy magazines into putting him on their covers. Even bad publicity has a positive effect on an actor, especially when his prowess in private matters translates to profits at the box office.”

Chattergee tapped his coffee mug to attract the group's attention and to start the meeting. I decided on the spot that the gossip shared by Benson and Twomby, while grist for the tabloids, was not an area in which I was especially interested or even comfortable, and I resolved to do everything in my power not to contribute to the movie business rumor mill.

Not an easy resolution to stick to when “surrounded” by Hollywood.

“I have a complaint,” Vera said, once the room had quieted.

“Yes, Ms. Stockdale,” the producer said, addressing his ex-wife.

“I don't like this scene on page fifteen.”

There was a rustle of papers as everyone turned to that page.

“What's wrong with the scene?” The question came from Mitchell Elovitz, the director.

Vera shifted her dog from her right hand to her left so she could point at the page. “Frankly, this dialogue feels insipid and unfinished. You're talking about a sitting judge. Wouldn't someone in her position have more to say when the district attorney is making his case?”

“Want to give us an example of what you mean, Vera?” Elovitz said.

“I know this is only your second—is it?—film, Mr. Elovitz,” she replied, “but even you should be able to see that the judge should be expressing her dismay at the husband's behavior, lecturing him on what it means to be a good father and how he should conduct himself.” The actress pulled her glasses down her nose and sent a withering glance in Chattergee's direction. “In addition, we need an internal monologue here to fill out her character,” she said, her right hand now resting on her book. “Something meaty and with meaning. I will not portray someone who is wishy-washy, and that's what I see on the page.”

“I think the scene is fine as it is,” Chattergee said. He looked around the room for confirmation, but avoided Vera's gaze.

“Let's let the screenwriter comment,” Elovitz said. “Ham? What do you have to say?”

Twomby shifted in his seat. “I . . . I don't know,” he replied. “That's not what the scene calls for.” He frowned as he ran his index finger down the page, scanning the lines. “Ah,” I heard him say and his face brightened. “Actually this dialogue came straight from the book. I didn't change a word here.” He sat back with a smile.

All eyes in the room focused on me.
Oh, boy!
I thought, mentally calculating how the scene had played out in real life and whether I had missed something in my dramatization of it.

“Mrs. Fletcher, would you like to add anything?” Elovitz asked.

“I would,” I said. “Some of the dialogue in my novel, as in this case, was lifted from the actual trial transcript. But in general, a judge doesn't make a lot of comments while a trial is ongoing. She rules on objections and may clarify a point of law, but she is supposed to be
listening
to both parties so she can make a fair judgment at the appropriate time.”

“I have to do more than just
listen
,” Vera said. “I'm not coming out of retirement just to listen.” A low growl came from her dog, as if echoing her annoyance.

“I understand,” I said, “but the judge usually reserves her comments until she delivers her decision. I think you'll find she shares her opinions quite eloquently later on in the script.”

“I don't care what she
usually
does. I want her to be eloquent right from the beginning,” Vera said, glaring at me. “I don't see her personality coming through here.” She closed the script. “If I'm to play this role, I need to have more background on this woman, her likes, dislikes, the way she thinks about her position and its importance in the courtroom. I expect that to be added here.” She thumped her palm on the script, and switched her gaze to Chattergee. “It's ridiculous to expect me to play this part as it's written. Brannigan has more lines in this movie than I do, for crying out loud. And she's just the tart who's cheating with the judge's husband.”