Murder, She Wrote (3 page)

“I wish I could have gone with them,” Sunny said, as we watched Jed's plane lift into the air. “Zee said there wasn't enough room inside for both me
and
the camera-mount case, and the camera-mount case is more important.”

“Couldn't get
me
up in one of those,” Mort commented as he swung the squad car around and drove to the back of the hangar. “I like to have a lot of steel between me and the thin air up there, like in a big commercial jet, the bigger the better.”

“I don't know, Mort,” I said. “I imagine it's the difference between sitting behind the wheel of a truck and driving a motorcycle. You like motorcycles. I think you'd enjoy flying in a small plane.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I'll give it a whirl one of these days, but don't hold your breath.”

Sunny directed us to park next to a line of golf carts the movie company used for local transportation around the airfield.

“There's the production office,” she said, indicating a green trailer. She exited the car and donned her—or rather Elovitz's—hat. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff. See you later, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Cute kid,” Mort said as she sauntered off.

“She's been a delight,” I said. “I've never had a more cheerful houseguest.”

“Maybe that's why she's called Sunny.”

The production office was a windowless trailer the size of a moving van, with several narrow sets of metal steps leading up to doors. Mort knocked at the first one and turned the knob when a voice called, “Enter.”

The director, Mitchell Elovitz, was wearing a telephone headset and holding an unlit cigar. He was seated at a small square table across from two other members of the production team, Nicole Domash, the script supervisor, a lady with thick curly brown hair caught back with a headband, and the cameraman, Jason Griffin, whose official title was director of photography. They were huddled over a storyboard, a large placard on which Elovitz had outlined a scene to be filmed the next day. It looked like a page from a giant comic book with comments under each panel, and arrows indicating the camera angle and POV (“point of view” to us novices). In one panel, a photograph of the star, Vera Stockdale, replaced the black-and-white sketches that were typically shown elsewhere on the board.

“With you in a minute,” Elovitz said, glancing up briefly.

“That seems to be the song of the day,” Mort muttered as he leaned against a wall.

Beyond the small table was a television set on a rolling cart, with a black hood draped on three sides to block the glare. Behind the TV were two long desks with what looked like computer monitors arrayed in a row on top of elaborate consoles with as many buttons and toggles as the cockpit of a 747. The desk closest to us also held an open cooler of sodas and beer, and a large platter of food covered in pink cellophane.

“Help yourself to a snack,” Elovitz said, raising a can of Coke in our direction. “There are drinks, sandwiches—tuna wrap and roast beef, I think—and side salads.”

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I've had my lunch.”

“I might try something,” Mort said, using his index finger to nudge aside the cellophane. He lifted out a half sandwich and took a bite. “Definitely turkey,” he said around a mouthful.

Elovitz shrugged and turned back to his colleagues, pointing to a panel with his cigar and telling the cameraman, “Jase, I want the camera on the crane to start from a bird's-eye view of the scene and then close in on the dog on the floor, move up the judge's robes to her face, nice and slow so you don't know what you're going to see.”

“I hope the wrangler brings the right dog,” Jase replied, “not the yappy one. It can't hold a pose for more than five seconds.”

“Get Sunny to call him.”

“You may have to move the lamp on the judge's desk to get the right angle,” said Domash, the script supervisor, making a quick sketch on her pad in red marker to show the men where the lamp was located. “I'm afraid that wide shade will get in the way.”

Loud rock music sounded from Elovitz's pocket and he yelled into his headset, “Answer phone.” Conversation ceased while the director took his call. “Who? What? I don't care about that. Tell Sunny to call Butch. We need the white dog for tomorrow, the one that's laid-back. No, not the Chihuahua. That's Vera's dog. I don't care if it's back home already. Tell him to get it.”

“We've barely started the scene yet, Nic,” the cameraman said in a low voice. “Why can't we get props to put in a different lamp, one that's narrower?”

“The production designer said he wanted the set to be an exact duplicate of the judge's office, Jase. Besides, I'm not sure we can get a substitute lamp by tomorrow,” Domash whispered back.

“I think we can cheat on a lamp, if props can find the right one,” Elovitz said, stroking what looked like a three-day-old beard.

Domash looked up with surprise. “Sorry, Mitch,” she said. “I didn't realize you were off the phone.”

“Go see what you can do so I can talk to these people,” Elovitz said, cocking his head at Mort and me. He pushed up the sleeve of his bush jacket to check the time, glancing down at a heavy gold watch with a green dial and a black bezel. “Meet me back here after the dinner break and we'll finish up.”

His colleagues gathered up their notes and left. Elovitz set his storyboard on the floor in front of a stack of others, tucked his cigar into his breast pocket, and stood. He wore a pair of brown tooled cowboy boots that matched the hat Sunny had pinched, and tan cargo shorts, an unusual combination even for Hollywood, and certainly for Maine. Holding up a finger to keep us from talking, he pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his shorts, checked for messages, and returned a call. Eventually, he tucked the phone back into his pocket, then gave us a friendly smile.

“Mrs. Fletcher, Sheriff Metzger,” he said, lifting a booted foot onto his chair and resting his arm on his knee. “How can I help you?”

“I don't want you to think we're trying to put a Popsicle stick in your gears,” Mort began. He's fond of coming up with sayings like that; I hadn't heard that particular one before. “We want to cooperate. But my men had to close off three streets this morning.” He looked at Elovitz for a reaction.

“Good. That was good.”

“Good for you, maybe,” Mort continued, building up steam as he vented his irritation. “The traffic downtown was snarled for hours, the schools had to start an hour late because the bus routes had changed, the merchants are about to string me up on the nearest lamppost because their customers can't get to the stores, and then, to top it off, no one showed up to do any filming. It was all for nothing.”

Elovitz put his hands up as if warding off an attack. “I can understand your frustration, Sheriff, but I can promise you that everything we do is done for a reason.”

“Well, I'd like to know the reason the streets had to be closed for so many hours when you didn't even use them.”

“We used them the night before last. We were downtown shooting until one in the morning.”

“I'm talking about today,” Mort said.

“My crew has to sleep sometime,” Elovitz said. “Just kidding,” he added when Mort's expression said he was not amused. “Look, it's really simple.” Elovitz smiled sweetly, as if explaining his rationale to a child. “We were set up on Main Street this morning, but the sun was at the wrong angle, causing a glare in the camera. We had to delay filming. I can move jet planes and freight trains, and even mountains when necessary, but even I can't move the clouds and the sun.”

I wondered why the director didn't decide simply to change the position of the camera, but I kept quiet. It was pointless to debate “creative” decisions.

Elovitz continued. “When it comes to weather, we just have to wait for the right time.”

“And the right time never came?” Mort said, tossing his hat from one hand to the other, a clear sign of aggravation.

“We had some problems,” Elovitz conceded, taking his foot off the chair. “We try to be efficient with our crew, so we started filming a different scene. There were wardrobe malfunctions.”

“Wardrobe malfunctions?” Mort said, his brows rising to his hairline. “I thought those only happened on TV during football games.”

“Everything had to be put on hold while the wardrobe mistress found a pair of pants to match the ones that got stains on them when the actor spilled a bowl of cereal and milk all over himself.” Elovitz shrugged and held out his hands, palms up. “These things will happen. It's annoying but not tragic. You understand, I'm sure. We'll be back on Main Street tomorrow at two, providing it doesn't rain, of course.”

“Oh, that's not so bad,” Mort said, relaxing. “The weather report calls for another clear day. And at least I can have my men let the traffic through in the morning so the school buses can make their pickups.”

“I'm afraid not, Sheriff. Once the location has been roped off, we can't let anyone in. If we do, we'll have problems of continuity. And not only that—we had a devil of a time getting your citizens to vacate the property. That's why we had to work so late. My production assistants were forced to do a sweep of the area. They rousted some old nut trying to stop the shoot, ranting about how we were ruining everything. One lady stuck her head in the scene just as the clapper clapped the sticks. That costs us time and money. No, we have to have the area cleared well in advance.”

“There's nothing you can do to make this a little easier on the sheriff's department?” I asked. “He's been a model of cooperation with you. He just wants a little consideration.”

Elovitz stuck out his hand. “Sheriff, if I can do anything to help you, I promise I'll make my best effort.”

Mort took his hand and shook it. “I appreciate that, but I'm sorry to have to tell you, I think the mayor is going to have a conniption. This whole movie deal is interrupting the smooth running of the town. I really think he's going to have something to say about it.” He tipped his head to the side and smiled. “Just letting you know.”

“Mayor Shevlin?” Elovitz said, barely resisting a smirk. “Met with him this morning. He loves us. We promised to put him front and center in one of the crowd scenes.”

L
ike a Las Vegas gambler, Mort Metzger knew when to fold his cards. He thanked the young director for his time, asking only that Elovitz try to limit the inconveniences he was causing.

In response, the director turned on the charm, offering to give Mort and me a tour of the “soundstage” in the hangar that was the scene of the next day's shoot. “Give me a minute and I'll meet you there.”

We left him in the production office yelling into his headset, “Call Nicole.”

“Bet you a stack of pancakes at Mara's that that's a Rolex he's got up his sleeve,” Mort said as we walked toward the hangar.

“I won't take that bet,” I said, “but I'll treat you to pancakes anytime you like.”

“Yeah? How come?”

“I think you conducted yourself admirably back there,” I said. “You explained the situation, told him the problems he was causing, and you knew when it was futile to fight. There's no use in banging your head against the wall.”

“I know.”

“You retired from the arena gracefully.”

“Yeah, well, at least I got to state my case,” he said. “By the way, was that Judge Borden's office that they were talking about back there?”

“I believe so,” I replied.

Jacob Borden was a local jurist and an old friend. When the production designer had asked me if I knew of any judge's rooms in town where they might be able to film, I'd suggested they get in touch with Jacob. His downtown office occupied an old Victorian house, complete with egg-and-dart crown molding and beautiful wainscoted walls, visible where they weren't covered by floor-to-ceiling bookcases holding matched sets of leather-bound volumes on the law.

* * *

The production designer had fallen in love with Jacob's office. He'd marched around the room taking photographs from every angle, and gushed over Jacob's collection of comic figurines of lawyers displayed on his antique mahogany partner's desk. What he hadn't loved, however, were the creaky boards in the floors and the height of the ceilings, which would have restricted the movement of the camera and made it difficult to keep the suspended microphone out of the frame. Jacob had been both disappointed and relieved when his office had been ruled out as a location.

“Lorraine is so excited that they're in town. I think she's starstruck,” he said of his wife, when they stopped by my table at Mara's Luncheonette, where I was having breakfast with my good friend Seth Hazlitt, Cabot Cove's favorite physician.

“I love Vera Stockdale,” Lorraine said. “I think I've seen every movie she ever made. Aren't the old movies wonderful? I'm not as crazy about the ones they're putting out these days.”

“It was fun to contemplate having them shooting in my office, but can you imagine what a mess they would have made?” Jacob said. “It would have set me back three weeks' worth of work. I would've had to study my cases in the kitchen at home.”

“Not my kitchen!” Lorraine shot back. “You could have worked in the judge's chambers at the courthouse.”

“Only if there wasn't a trial going on,” her husband replied. “The trial judge gets first dibs on the chambers.”

“You folks want to sit down?” Seth asked, slicing into the blueberry pancakes Mara's was famous for.

“No, thanks. We just had our breakfast,” Jacob replied.

“They ruled out my house, too,” Seth said, pouring syrup over his neatly sliced stack. “Not that I would have put my practice on hold for them. Too much fuss and bother for a silly moving picture I'm never going to see. No offense, Jessica.”

“None taken,” I said. Seth hadn't been to the “moving pictures” in at least ten years. But even though he denied it, I knew he would make an exception and go see this one because of his fondness for me.

With his pancakes properly soaked in syrup, Seth shoveled a forkful into his mouth, closed his eyes, and hummed his pleasure.

“Actually, I kind of liked the idea of their using Jacob's office,” Lorraine told us. “I put a lot of time into making that space just so. It would have been nice to see it up on the big screen.”

“But your work is going to be on display anyway,” her husband reminded her.

“Well, sort of,” she said, smiling at him.

It turned out that the production designer had been so charmed by Jacob's workplace that he stated his intention to reproduce it on the soundstage. According to an article in the
Cabot Cove
Gazette
, our local newspaper, the result was an exact replica of Jacob's office down to the framed Honoré Daumier caricature on the wall and the double candlestick lamp with the wide shade that the script supervisor and cameraman had been discussing today. I hadn't had a chance to see it yet and was eager to view the final result to decide for myself if it really did look like the original.

* * *

Mort and I were lingering outside the back door of the hangar waiting for the director when I heard my name being called.

“Jessica, thank goodness you're here.” Hamilton Twomby waved as he lumbered toward me. “We have work to do, milady.”

“Hello, Ham,” I said. “Have you met Mort Metzger, our sheriff? Mort, this is Hamilton Twomby, the screenwriter.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Sheriff,” Twomby said, his hand engulfing Mort's.

“Same here.”

“How soon can you come to my trailer?” Twomby asked me.

“Actually, I didn't come out to the airport to work with you,” I replied. “I'm afraid I'm busy this afternoon.”

“You really must make some time for me, Jessica. These people are driving me crazy.”

“They're good at that, aren't they?” Mort said.

Twomby looked at Mort. “You, too, huh?”

“What's the problem, Ham?” I asked. “I understood that our most recent changes to the script were supposed to be the last ones.”

“So did I. So did I. In fact, I even made arrangements to fly back to L.A. the day after tomorrow. But that plan has been scrapped.”

“What happened now?” I asked.

“Can't you guess? Vera, that paragon of stage and screen, who hasn't set eyes on a screenplay in umpteen years, has been counting lines again. We have to cut Lois Brannigan's part so her on-screen time is three minutes less than Ms. Stockdale's.”

“That's a lot of dialogue,” I said. “It will change the whole second half of the story.”

“It's either that or give Vera her own version of Hamlet's soliloquy. ‘I want the audience to feel the conflict in my soul,'” he said, imitating Vera's throaty voice. “I'll bet she's been comparing her lines to the monologues in that stupid book she's always carrying around. She's the
star
, you know,” Twomby said. “She wants a star's piece of the cake.”

“That's ridiculous! The judge is a pivotal role of course, but it isn't the largest one. She knew that the judge would be murdered early on.”

“You mean she would have known had she read the entire script,” Twomby said, rolling his eyes. “Chattergee told her it was a starring vehicle; that's what she expected, and now we've got to make it one. What Vera wants, Vera gets.”

“Oh, dear.”

“‘Oh, dear' is right,” he said. He turned to Mort. “I've worked with some of the finest actresses in Hollywood and they never argued over my scripts.”

“No kidding,” said Mort, clearly at a loss as to how to respond.

Twomby poked Mort in the shoulder with his index finger. “These people have large egos, but small minds. They don't recognize talent when it's all but dancing in front of them.”

“Gee, that's too bad.”

“But, Ham, can't you get the director to talk to Vera?” I asked.

“Elovitz?” Twomby roared. “That rookie is too wimpy to challenge her.” He took a calming breath, raised the back of his hand to his brow, then said dramatically, “I could kill that woman, but I won't. I'll make the changes and go collect my check. But”—he dropped his hand and looked me in the eye—“I'm going to think seriously of having my name removed from the credits. I don't want anyone to think I actually wrote this mess. You might consider doing the same.”

I was pretty certain Twomby wouldn't do that. Ham had his own sizable ego. Besides, he tended to exaggerate. The script was far from a mess, even if, in my opinion, it was no longer as compelling a story as when it had started out. We agreed to meet the next day to see how we could juggle the dialogue to give Vera more screen time and Lois less.

“Your colleague is not a happy camper,” Mort commented as Twomby trudged away.

“I don't blame him,” I said. “I'm not thrilled myself. This movie is making a lot more work for me than I anticipated.”

“I know the feeling,” Mort said. “But it's no use banging your head against the wall.” He winked.

I laughed. “Good advice,” I said.

As soon as Twomby disappeared, the director emerged from the production office trailer wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and a Red Sox baseball cap set backward on his head. I wondered if he'd been hiding inside to avoid having to face the screenwriter's wrath. But that was silly of me. There were no windows in the production trailer. How could he have known Twomby was outside?

“You're still here?” Elovitz said. “You didn't need to wait. I could've caught up to you.”

“That's okay,” Mort said. “You're our official tour guide.”

Mort pulled open the door to the hangar and held it for me. I stepped inside and was immediately confronted by a wall of fabric. Heavy black curtains were suspended from the ceiling, shielding the soundstage from daylight and making it difficult for me to find the way in. I poked my hand into the material, feeling around for a break in the drapery.

“To the left,” Elovitz said, coming through the door after Mort. He grabbed a handful of curtain and tugged it aside.

We ducked under the cloth and found ourselves “backstage,” facing a long row of wooden flats and scaffolding. Inside it was cool and dark and quiet. Dull red lights, the only illumination, glowed from the walls every ten feet.

“This is creepy,” Mort said, squinting to accustom himself to the dim light. “Reminds me of the fun house we used to go to every Halloween when I was a kid. I half expect to see one of those mirrors that make you look wavy with a big head.”

“This is the back of the scenery,” Elovitz explained, leading us along the wooden panels. “We'll circle around so you can see the full set from the camera's POV.”

We heard footsteps behind us and a woman's voice called out, “Mr. Elovitz? Mr. Elovitz? Are you here?”

The director stopped in his tracks and turned toward the voice. “What now?” he muttered. He excused himself to us and backtracked toward the gap in the curtains.

“Oh, Mr. Elovitz, thank goodness I've found you. I've been looking all over.”

“Until five minutes ago I was in the production office, Estelle. Surely you know where that is.”

“Yes, of course, but that's not what I meant.”

“Who's that?” Mort whispered as the pair came into view.

“Vera Stockdale's astrologer,” I whispered back.

Estelle Fancy was dressed in a diaphanous skirt that fell to her ankles and a blouse, belted at the waist. She wore several strings of beads around her neck, at least three rings on each hand, and a pair of dangling earrings that tinkled when she moved her head. A long scarf, close to the color of her gray hair, was wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl.

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Elovitz,” she said, shaking her head and setting the earrings to jangling. “I meant I was looking all over for Ms. Stockdale. I'm almost certain Vera was supposed to have a costume fitting at twelve thirty. I was to meet her there, but she didn't show up. I must say, the wardrobe mistress was very rude to me, but I told her I am not Ms. Stockdale's keeper. Even so, I went to Vera's trailer to wake her. I assumed she was taking her afternoon nap and just hadn't set the alarm clock, but she wasn't there. And then I . . .”

“Get to the point, Miss Fancy,” Elovitz said. “I don't have all day.”

“The point is I can't find her, and you know she's a Gemini and they have a duality of personality. It's not a propitious time for her; I checked her chart this morning and—”

“Vera Stockdale is an independent woman who doesn't need to report to you,” Elovitz said, interrupting her. “She's not scheduled to be on set until tomorrow's eight o'clock call. Maybe she went into town.”

Fancy shook her head. “She would have told me. Anyway, she doesn't have a car here.”

“So, maybe she got a ride, or decided to take a walk.”

“There's really nowhere to walk out here. I've tried. We're in the middle of the woods, except for the runways. And those are dangerous. A man yelled at me yesterday when I was making a circuit of the airport.”

I could imagine the fit Jed Richardson must have had upon seeing someone taking a stroll around his airfield while his students were practicing takeoffs and landings.

“Besides,” Fancy continued, “Vera has been complaining about an ingrown toenail lately and it hurts her to walk.”

“Too much information, Estelle,” Elovitz said, his patience wearing thin. “I don't know or care where Vera is at the moment, as long as you make sure she shows up tomorrow morning. Now, if you'll please excuse me, I'm in the middle of giving these people a tour.”

“But—are you certain she isn't here?”

“Would you like to join us, Miss Fancy, and see for yourself?” I asked.

“Oh, no. I don't think so. I'll just look around a little bit more if you don't mind.”

“No one is in the building but us,” Elovitz said.

“She might have come here to soak up the atmosphere before her scene tomorrow.”