Murder, She Wrote (18 page)

“Have you read them all?” Tiffany asked from where she sat.

“I wish I could say I have,” Jacob said. As he did, he reached up and pulled down one of the volumes,
The Nature of the Judicial Process.
“I often turn to this particular book, not so much for legal guidance but because it's so beautifully written and is filled with wisdom.” He smiled and pressed the book to his chest. “Thank goodness for Benjamin Cardozo,” he said.

I let out an involuntary gasp.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. I'm sorry,” I said. “I just thought of something.”

“
I
don't know, Mrs. F. There's gotta be a thousand books on that set.”

“Probably more like three or four hundred, but I agree it's a lot of books to look through.”

Tiffany had dropped me at the sheriff's office and I'd waited more than an hour for Mort to return. Jacob's law library had given me an idea, and I was eager to share it with him.

“My guys said they checked every one of them.”

“They probably checked the spines looking for bullet holes,” I said.

“Right! And there were none. So how could the bullet get in a book if it didn't go through the spine?”

“When Seth and I went to see Dr. Smith, the forensic pathologist, he said that Vera must have been pressed up against something for the exit wound to be shaped the way it was. I think she may have had her arms around a book. It could have been one of the law books from the shelves on the set. Or it could be that book on acting that she always carried around. I don't remember seeing it in her trailer. If that's the case, the bullet would have entered the front or back of the book, but not the spine, which is maybe why it wasn't found.”

“That's a pretty big
if
, Mrs. F. You want me drive all the way out to the airport on a hunch? I can't do it today. I just got back in the office. I have too much to do.”

“I understand, Mort, and I appreciate all the time you give me, but Estelle Fancy suggested that Vera liked to walk around a set to get a feeling for her role.”

“So you think she was absorbing the atmosphere by sitting in the judge's chair and looking through a law book?”

“It's possible, except, she must have been standing when she was shot through the back. The State Bureau of Identification didn't find a bullet or bullet hole in the chair.”

“It sounds pretty far-fetched to me.”

“But if I'm right—and if we find the book—you'll have an important piece of evidence.”

“And if you're wrong, I'll have wasted several hours I could have used tackling the mound of paperwork I have on my desk. Plus, Maureen is making one of her more reliable dishes tonight and I don't want to be late for dinner.”

“What is she cooking?”

“I'm not sure what it's called, but it's some kind of corkscrew-shaped noodle with eggplant and tomato sauce. The last time we had it, it was so good, I didn't believe she'd made it. Now that she knows I like it, she's been making it more often.”

“That's wonderful,” I said.

“Tomorrow,” Mort said. “We'll go tomorrow. Anything else on your mind?”

“One or two things, if you have the time.”

“Go ahead,” he said, sighing.

I knew Mort was losing patience, but I decided if I didn't fill him in on everything that was going on, he'd be annoyed when he eventually found out. “You know that fellow who attacked me out at the airport, the one you arrested?”

“Corday?”

“Yes, Neil Corday.”

“He had a lawyer at the station by the time I got back there, Mrs. F. He was still three sheets to the wind, but I had to release him. Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize. I didn't raise his name for that. But I had a long discussion with Jacob Borden yesterday, and I saw Jacob again today.”

“Are you in trouble, Mrs. F.?”

I laughed. “Not that I know of. I had stopped in to show Lorraine the photos from the strip of film to see if she recognized the movie.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. It was from
Danger Comes Calling
, Vera Stockdale's first starring role. Maureen would love it. But if the killer was leaving a message, for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it was.”

“Should I watch it, too?”

“I'm sure Lorraine and Jacob would lend you their copy if you want to see it.”

“Maybe another time. What else?”

“While I was waiting for Lorraine, Jacob shared a very interesting file with me.” I gave Mort details about Tiffany Parker's interview with the private detective, and told him about my efforts to have her come forward. “Parker's testimony could possibly exonerate the woman jailed for the killing of Judge Harris. At least, it could be reason enough to call for a new trial,” I said.

“You're dealing in a lot of long shots, Mrs. F.,” Mort said. “I don't think I'd want to go to the racetrack with you.”

“I know, but they're important bets, Mort. I'm hoping that Tiffany Parker can save Jenny Kipp from a lifetime behind bars.”

“But that would mean that you're pointing a finger at Corday as the killer. Do you think he's just going to stand by while you try to get him arrested? You'd better tread carefully around that character. I don't want to find you gunned down while walking that little dog you ended up with. If he got away with it once, he might try it again.”

“I'll be careful,” I assured him.

It was late afternoon by the time I returned home. Cecil was scratching frantically at the back door when I walked in. I attached his leash and we took a stroll around the neighborhood, my mind occupied with the events of the past few days and with what Mort and I might find at the airport tomorrow. When we returned from our walk, I was surprised to see Sunny. She'd come home earlier than I'd expected, and she'd brought Eric Barry with her.

“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher,” Sunny said, her face pale. “You know Eric, don't you?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, shaking his hand. “Eric escorted Sheriff Metzger and me around to interview people the day we found your mother.” My gaze moved from one to the other. They were clearly worried, and I wondered what had upset them. I focused on Sunny. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“I'm not sick or anything,” she said. “We came to show you something.” She looked at her watch nervously. “We have to get back, but I told Eric that we had to show it to you. It's too important to wait until later.”

“What do you have to show me?”

“This.” She dug into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, and set it on the table. She ran her hand across it, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. Then she stepped back. “Eric found it,” she said.

“I thought she had a right to see it. I knew it would be upsetting, but I couldn't keep it to myself.”

“You did the right thing,” Sunny said to him. “I'm strong. I can take it.” She turned to me. “We think it's an important clue.”

“A clue?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes. To my mother's murder.”

The writing on the yellow sheet of paper was in black pencil, the letters straight up and down, the strokes strong and dark as if the author had dashed off the note in anger. It said:

You gave me up for money, you pathetic excuse for a mother.

You dumped me on a poor family in Mexico and walked away.

Did you think I wouldn't find out who you were?

You owe me. And you'll pay.

“Where did you find this?” I asked.

“Eric found it in the garbage,” Sunny said, shooting him a glance.

He coughed to clear his throat. “Actually, I was taking out the garbage from our trailer,” he said, “and I tripped. When I was putting the trash back in the pail, this fell out. It's on yellow paper, the same kind we use for interoffice memos. I thought maybe it was instructions or something that I'd missed, so I read it. As soon as I saw it, I thought it might have to do with Ms. Stockdale's murder.”

“And so you told Sunny about it,” I said.

“I thought she ought to know. I would want to know, if it was my mother.”

“Do you know who wrote this?”

“It looks like Zee's writing to me,” he said. “Besides, who else would put something in our garbage?”

“Do you know if he was adopted as an infant by a Mexican family?” I asked.

He looked uncomfortable. “I don't. He never talks about his personal life. But he has a Spanish name.”

Sunny had been hopping from one foot to the other. “Do you know what this means, Mrs. Fletcher?” she said.

“I wouldn't jump to conclusions,” I said. “But I do think it's something we should share with the sheriff.”

“No. You don't understand,” she said, tears starting. “If Zee killed Vera because she gave him up as a baby, then Zee is . . .”

“Zee is her brother,” Eric finished for her.

“First, we don't know that Zee wrote this note,” I said. “Second, even if he
is
its author, he threw it away. He may have regretted writing it. Third, even if he gave it to Vera, it doesn't prove that Zee is the one who killed her. All this note does is give Sheriff Metzger a reason to question him again.”

“I always thought he was an oddball,” Eric said to Sunny. “I told you not to hang around him.”

“He's not an oddball. He's just quiet, introspective, like my father. I knew we had something in common, but I don't believe he's violent. Zee wouldn't kill anybody.”

“Well, someone killed her,” Eric said. “And here's a motive.” He looked at me. “You don't know of any other motive, do you?”

“That still doesn't make your interpretation the correct one,” I said.

“Maybe we should take this to your father,” Eric said, sweeping the note off my kitchen table.

“Maybe we should take this to the sheriff,” I said, plucking it out of his hands. I opened the drawer where I kept aluminum foil and plastic bags, slipped the note into a baggie, and tucked it in my shoulder bag. “There are already far too many fingerprints on this,” I said. “I hope the sheriff's lab will be able to sort them out.”

“We have to get back,” Eric said, shooting Sunny a meaningful look. “I'll be missed.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks for taking time off to drive me.”

“You can stay here if you want,” he said. “I can make excuses for you.”

“You don't need to make excuses for me. I'm all right. I'll go back to work.” She turned and gave me a quick hug. “I know you'll do the right thing with the message. I'm only praying it doesn't mean what we think it does.”

But I was afraid it did.

When they left, I went to my office and looked up a number I hadn't used for a long time. Then I dialed it.

The operator answered in Spanish.

“I'd like to speak with Chief Javier Rivera,” I said, attempting to use the little Spanish I knew. It was only polite; I was calling Mexico after all. “Please tell him it's Jessica Fletcher calling.”

Moments later, he came on the line. “Señora Fletcher,” the police chief said. “This is a surprise. It has been a long time since you were in San Miguel de Allende.”

“Yes, it has. But I always remembered your kindness and cooperation when I was there last. I hope your family is well.”

“They are. My son is pitching for our local baseball team. And how are your friends Señor Buckley and his lovely wife?” he asked, referring to my publisher Vaughan Buckley and his wife, Olga.

I had met Chief Rivera when visiting the Buckleys' vacation home in Mexico. During my time there, Vaughan had been the victim of a kidnapping.

“Do you have a new mystery for me to solve?” he asked.

I could hear the smile in his voice. “Actually, I do,” I replied. “I'm hoping you can find out information about the birth of an American child in Mexico.”

“I will need a little more detail than that,” he said.

I gave him the year of the birth and the possible names of the mother and father. “Whatever details you can add would be very helpful,” I said.

“I'll see what I can find out,
mi amiga
.”

S
unny got back around midnight. I heard her tiptoe to her room, trying not to wake me. But she needn't have gone to the trouble. I was in bed, but I was wide-awake, and that wasn't going to change. I spent a sleepless night throwing off and pulling up the covers, rolling from side to side, and punching my pillow.

Now the slice of film from
Danger Comes Calling
began to make sense. Was the note in my bag downstairs the one that Chattergee said had upset the star? If Zee thought Vera had given him up for adoption in order to star in the movie, any resentment he harbored would be understandable.
Danger Comes Calling
was Vera's first starring role, the part she'd almost lost forever when Chattergee's wife insisted that he fire her, and the role she'd been reinstated in several months later when the producer's wife filed for divorce. Audrey, the makeup lady, had said Vera had hidden out in Mexico during that time. Perhaps Vera hadn't been getting over her heartbreak, as the movie magazines of the time had speculated. Perhaps she'd gone to Mexico to have a baby away from prying eyes. Had Zee been born in Mexico? The time frame fit. I was hoping the chief of police in San Miguel de Allende could use his influence to confirm the details.

Eric seemed eager to pin the crime on Zee.
His
motive was clear: jealousy. Eric had left the poker game at eleven, but he hadn't met Sunny until midnight. Where had he been during that hour? Jealousy was not unknown to Lois Brannigan either. How convenient that she'd taken over the role Vera had held, the one she'd wanted all along. And look at Estelle Fancy. She'd spoken of Vera's Gemini personality—fickle and impulsive—but was she Vera's friend, enemy, or a bit of both? And our executive producer, Terrence Chattergee, was in the middle of it all. His relationship with his former wife was volatile. All these years later, they'd still been battling.

The particulars of Vera's murder melded with thoughts of the late judge Ruth Harris and her wayward husband, the women with whom he'd cheated on her, especially the one currently behind bars, a possible case of justice perverted. The characters I'd written about, and those I'd recently met, invaded my dreams and occupied my waking thoughts. I was so restless that Cecil jumped down from the bed and curled up on the easy chair where I'd abandoned the book I was trying to read before bed.

I slept later than I usually do, and in the morning, groggy and irritable, I came downstairs to find a note on the kitchen table from Sunny, telling me that she was off to work, that Cecil was walked and fed, and thanking me for passing along the new evidence to Sheriff Metzger.

I spent an hour sipping a cup of tea and paging through my Spanish-English dictionary, trying to make sense of the issues that had interrupted my sleep. Finally I gave up and called Mort's office.

“Sheriff Metzger is at a meeting with the special police detail, Mrs. Fletcher,” the desk officer told me. “He should be back after lunch.”

“Thanks, Edgar,” I said. “Would you please ask him to call me when he's free?”

“Will do.”

I debated climbing back into bed for a much-needed nap, but decided a wake-up shower would probably be as effective. I had just returned downstairs, dressed and refreshed, when the bell rang. I opened the door to Eve Simpson.

“
Bonjour
, Jessica. I hope you don't mind my barging in like this,” she said. She looked down and squealed when she saw Cecil looking up at her, his head cocked at an angle. “When did you get this adorable little dog?” she said, swooping down and lifting the Chihuahua into her arms.

He rewarded her with a lick on her chin.

“Come in, Eve. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, isn't he the sweetest thing!” she exclaimed, carrying Cecil into my kitchen. “A cup of coffee would be divine, and a snack if you have anything on hand. I'm famished.”

“I'm sure I can come up with something,” I said, trying not to let my earlier grumpiness creep back into my demeanor.

While I put on a pot of coffee and looked to see if I had any leftover powdered doughnuts from my meeting with Tiffany Parker, Eve played with Cecil, cooing at him and laughing when he danced at her feet.

“So, where did this cutie-pie come from?” she asked.

“Cecil was Vera Stockdale's dog,” I said.

“The movie star?”

I nodded. “There was no one to care for him, so I'm filling in as a temporary parent until her family decides what should be done with him.”

“Ooh, you poor thing,” Eve said, addressing Cecil. She looked at me. “You really should keep him yourself. Just think! He's famous! A movie star's dog. He would be a wonderful comfort for you.”

“Perhaps,” I said, wondering why Eve thought I needed comforting. “But I travel too much to keep a pet. I told Vera's daughter that. I'm hoping she'll make some arrangement for him.” I realized as soon as it was out of my mouth that Eve didn't know that Sunny was Vera's daughter. My tired brain had betrayed me. I wished I could take back the words, but it was too late now. If Eve picked up on my slip, Sunny's secret wouldn't be a secret for long. Eve loved nothing more than passing along a delicious morsel of gossip. I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping Eve wouldn't ask who Vera's daughter was. Quickly, I set a plate with two doughnuts in front of her, went back to the stove to pour our coffee, and brought the mugs to the table.

Eve had already eaten a doughnut. “These are from Charlene Sassi's bakery, aren't they?” she said, breaking the second doughnut in half and feeding a crumb to Cecil. “I can always tell.”

“They are,” I said. I took a sip of coffee and sighed into the cup. “May I ask what brought you here this morning, Eve?”

“Well, I'm a bit embarrassed to tell you,” she replied.

I waited, knowing the story would come out anyway.

“I know you won't believe this after all the trouble I went to, Jessica, but I'm afraid I have to bow out of your movie.”

My brows rose almost of their own accord. Eve had spent weeks plotting how to get into the movie and now she was backing out?

“What happened?” I asked.

“I'm just too busy,” she said. “I spent an entire day at Loretta's Beauty Shop—it looks terrific, by the way—while the movie people shot a scene. I just can't waste my time like that. I have clients who need me, I have houses to sell, and business to conduct. You wouldn't believe how many calls I got from the people whose names I took at the post office. Anyway, the first AD said the scene would have to be reshot, something about skewed continuity, and I told him to find another girl.”

“And he was all right with that?”

“Well, he nearly pitched a fit, but the director said it was okay; it was just fodder for the editor or something like that.
C'est la guerre.
My fifteen minutes of fame will have to come another time.”

The telephone rang. I excused myself to answer it, crossing my fingers that it was Mort to tell me when he would pick me up to go to the airport. But I couldn't hear the voice on the other end of the line. “Who is this, please?”

“Can you hear me now?”

It was Hamilton Twomby. I'd been expecting to receive a call from him.

“Jessica, we have some screenwriting to do.”

“When would you like to get together?”

“I have to be on the set this afternoon. They're filming the scene with Brannigan as the judge. What a headache. Now that Lois is the new Vera, she's picking up Vera's old habits and making demands about the script.”

“Oh, that's too bad.”

“Can you meet me at the set? We can work during the breaks.”

“I was hoping to come out to the airport today,” I said. “I'll look for you when I get there.”

“I'd better be off, Jessica. You don't mind, do you?” Eve said when I hung up the phone. She lifted Cecil and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. “
You
are just adorable. I wish you were mine,” she said, putting him down.

So do I,
I thought.

“Sorry to eat and run,” she said to me. “I found a great place for Rhonda Chen away from the airport. I'm helping her move in.”

I waited impatiently to hear from Mort, occupying myself by reading the e-mail I'd neglected for the past few days, looking up Vera Stockdale's career online, and dawdling over lunch. At last the phone rang, and I thought it might be Sheriff Metzger. Instead, it was Chief Rivera calling from Mexico.

“A good time?” he said.

“A very good time,” I replied.

“Well,” he said, “I was able to come up with the information that you were seeking. It was almost exactly as you told me.”

“Almost?” I said, ready to write on a yellow legal pad on my desk. “I'm listening.”

A few minutes later we ended the call. “I can't thank you enough,” I said to Chief Rivera as I glanced out the window to see Mort in his patrol car pulling up in front of my house.

“It was my pleasure, señora,” Chief Rivera said. “You will have to let me know the results of your investigation. I hope I have solved your mystery.”

“You've made an important contribution,” I said. “I'll let you know how it turns out. My regards to your wife and son.”

I didn't even get a chance to think about what I'd just learned before the phone rang again.

Tiffany Parker's voice was breathless. “Mrs. Fletcher, he's here.”

“Who's there?”

“Neil. Neil Corday. He's pounding on the door and trying to break in.”

“Don't open the door,” I said. “Did you call the police?”

“No. I'm afraid they won't believe me. I'm scared. He's drunk and he said he's gonna get even.”

“I'll be there as soon as I can.”

I opened the door just as Mort raised his fist to knock. “Come on,” I said, rushing outside. “We have to hurry.”

“What's up now?”

“We have to get out to Tiffany Parker's house in Cross Acres. Neil Corday is threatening her life.”