Murder, She Wrote (5 page)

“Was it better when you thought she was strangled?” I asked.

“I was hoping that she might've died of a heart attack.”

“With a piece of film tied around her neck?” I said, incredulous.

He shrugged. “Who knows? She was a real drama queen. It wouldn't have surprised me if she'd flung a piece of film around her neck to remind the rest of us how important she was—you know, to make the point that she was part of Hollywood royalty. I wouldn't put it past her.”

“Was she prone to such bizarre behavior?” I asked.

“Chattergee would know better than me,” he said. “I only met her a few weeks ago, but these old actresses are strange. You saw Gloria Swanson in
Sunset Boulevard
, didn't you? Delusional. Nutty as a fruitcake.”

“That was a role she was playing, not the way Swanson herself behaved,” I said, becoming exasperated with this young director.

“Yeah, well, you know old people sometimes, um, present company excepted, of course . . .”

“Of course,” I said, and waited for him to shove his foot even further into his mouth. But he had realized his error and was backpedaling.

“I didn't mean any offense,” he said. “She was a little screwy, that's all. You know, a card short of a deck, as they say, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Look at her carrying around that dumb dog like a twenty-year-old starlet. I mean, she's not exactly Paris Hilton. And she insisted on quoting from that dumb book like it was a sacred tome. And then she had to have her astrologer . . .”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes.

“Before you bury yourself even further, young man,” Seth said, “I'll have you know Mrs. Fletcher here
is
the sharpest knife in the drawer, so you'd best be careful what you say to her.”

“Apologies! Apologies all around,” Elovitz said, holding up his hands as if we were pointing a gun in his direction. “I'm just shooting off my mouth because I'm nervous. I've never seen a dead body before. I . . . I've never even known anyone who died.”

“Well, you're a lucky fellow,” Seth said.

And I silently agreed.

M
ort's fir
st order of business after Vera's body had been removed, accompanied by Seth, was to find Estelle Fancy to get her official statement for the record. Leaving the investigative team in place to finish its work, Mort posted a deputy at the entrance to the hangar with instructions not to allow anyone inside. He got Elovitz to give him a list of people who needed to be alerted to Vera's death, and made arrangements for the director to stop by the sheriff's office for an in-depth interview. He also cautioned Elovitz not to discuss the discovery of Vera's body with anyone.

Then he asked for my assistance in tracking down the astrologer.

“Mrs. F., I could use your help,” he said to me.

“Are you sure, Mort? I don't want to get in the way of police business.”

“This is kind of a delicate situation. You know these people. I don't. Besides, she'll probably be more comfortable talking to another woman. Maybe you can get some answers here.”

“I'll do my best,” I said.

We found Estelle Fancy at her trailer, a modified van with a bed and two chairs. She was trying to coax the growling Chihuahua to eat.

“Didn't you realize you were not supposed to leave the scene of a crime?” Mort asked.

“I'm sorry, Sheriff, but I had to get Cecil out of there,” Estelle said, her eyes red from crying. “He's just a little guy, but he's so sensitive. I couldn't let him stay with Vera in that condition. His heart must be broken.”

Cecil, who was crouched on a gold velvet pillow, barked and growled as Estelle approached him and set the bowl of food on the bed.

“What are you giving him?” I asked.

“Leftover hamburger. He usually loves that.”

“Can he chew it?” I asked. “It doesn't look as if he has many teeth.”

“I cut it up into tiny little pieces.” She pushed the small bowl closer to Cecil, who bared his gums and looked as intimidating as a miniature dog possibly could.

“Can we get down to the reason for our visit, Miss Fancy?” Mort said, pad out and pen poised. “I'd like to know your whereabouts for the past twenty-four hours, when you last saw Ms. Stockdale alive, and what her mood was.”

Estelle looked at me. “You were there when I told Mr. Elovitz why I was looking for her,” she said, sprinkling salt on the crumbled hamburger, and peering expectantly at the dog. “She had an appointment for a wardrobe fitting today and she missed it.”

“And what time was the appointment?”

“Twelve thirty.”

“When did you last see her alive?” Mort asked.

“Yesterday. I brought her fruit and half a plain bagel from craft services, as usual.”

Mort frowned. “What is craft services?”

“It's the buffet table that's available all day for the crew,” I told him.

“Why don't they just call it catering?”

“I don't know the answer to that,” I said.

Mort turned back to Estelle. “So, okay, you brought her breakfast. What kind of mood was Ms. Stockdale in? Was she angry?”

“About the breakfast?”

“No! With someone,” Mort said. “Was she angry at anyone or was anyone angry with her?”

“She was always very kind to me.”

“Had she argued with anyone recently?” he asked. “Someone who might have held a grudge?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Aren't you her personal assistant?”

“Well . . .”

“Wouldn't you know if someone in the production company was angry with her?”

“I'm not with her twenty-four hours a day.”

“Let's put this simply,” Mort said. “Did Ms. Stockdale have any enemies?”

The question inspired a fresh spate of tears. “Enemies?” Estelle wailed. “Why would she have enemies? She was a movie star.”

“It's just a turn of phrase,” I said, shooting Mort a look that said he should slow down. “Sheriff Metzger is just trying to determine who might have been angry enough with Ms. Stockdale to kill her.”

“I don't know,” she said, sniffling and shaking her head, causing her earrings to jingle like tiny wind chimes. “I just can't believe that she's gone.”

I pulled a packet of tissues from my shoulder bag and handed it to her. “Here. Sit down for a moment and rest. You've had a terrible blow. We understand. But you probably knew her better than anyone else here, don't you think?”

She nodded as she blew her nose, and sank down on the edge of the bed that took up half her living quarters. Cecil growled.

“How long had you known her?” I asked.

“At least thirty years, maybe more. That's us,” she said, pointing to a cluster of photographs that had been taped to the wall.

I leaned over to see the pictures. In one, a young Estelle Fancy and Vera Stockdale playfully posed for the camera. In another, Terrence Chattergee stood between them, his arms around their shoulders. They were both striking young women, Estelle as dark as Vera was blond, a Rose Red to the actress's Snow White, as in the old fairy tale. Vera had retained her beauty—with professional help, I was sure. Estelle's face showed the signs of a harder life, lacking the pampering and perhaps surgical assistance that the movie star had access to.

“How did you meet?” I asked.

Mort sighed and clicked his ballpoint pen closed.

Estelle straightened her back and lifted her chin. “I was working for another actress, one who was very successful, but of course I can't tell you her name.”

“That's okay,” I said. “Did this other actress introduce you to Ms. Stockdale?”

“Oh, no. They were in competition for the same role. She wouldn't have wanted Vera to get an advantage over her.”

“And if Vera knew you, how would that have given her an advantage?”

“Not just knowing me,” Estelle said, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “But if I had been consulting for her, she might have learned something she could use that would have helped her get the part.” She looked up at me pertly. “And that's just what happened.”

“What happened?” Mort asked.

“Ms. Stockdale called me up and asked me to do her chart.”

“And that's how you met?” Mort said.

“Yes.” Estelle Fancy's lips tipped up in a small smile. “I read her chart, told her she'd have to put the producer off for a few days. Mercury was in retrograde, a bad time to make life-altering decisions, certainly not favorable for signing contracts. But if she met with him on the following Friday, everything would be in the proper alignment. It would be the best time to talk with him, and she would be able to negotiate the best deal for herself, and . . . and . . .”

“And?” Mort said.

“She got the part. There were some complications, but I helped her overcome them. After that, she wanted an exclusive contract with me. I've been with her ever since.”

“As her personal astrologer?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Are there a lot of actresses with a personal astrologer?” Mort asked.

“Many in the acting profession—and a lot of other professions, for that matter—will consult with an astrologer from time to time,” Estelle replied. “But those who have a personal astrologer are special. You'll find them at the top of their fields.”

“But hasn't it been quite a few years since Ms. Stockdale acted in films?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. But until she retired we had quite a run together.”

“What prompted her to retire?”

“She was going to have a baby. When she found out about it, she decided to call it a day.” Estelle gazed down at the balled-up tissue in her hand. “The roles were drying up anyway,” she said softly.

“They were?” I said. “Why do you think that was so?”

“Far be it for me to speak ill of the dead,” she said, looking up at me from under her brows. “I don't know if you're aware of this, but Vera could be difficult.”

I resisted making a comment, and Estelle continued. “Some of the studio executives had complained to Mr. Chattergee. He knew she was very high-strung, of course. Theirs was a tempestuous marriage. I was surprised when he said he was thrilled about the baby and more surprised that Vera wanted to be there for her child.”

“Why were you surprised?” I asked.

Her expression was pensive. “He was never the fatherly type. And she was focused on her career.”

“So, when you say you've been with her ever since,” I said, “do you mean that even when she was retired she still required your services?”

“I wasn't on salary, if that's what you're asking. I worked for her for a while—she was willing to go back to business if the right role came along—but then they divorced, and after that . . . well, I had to support myself.”

“Then you only started working for Vera again recently?” I said.

“When she decided to make a comeback, she called me right away, of course. It's just taken a little time.”

“I see,” I said.

“I don't,” Mort said. “Can we get back to my questions? I don't even remember what we were talking about anymore.”

Estelle smiled. “You were asking about the last time I saw Ms. Stockdale. And I told you I'd brought her breakfast yesterday.”

“Did you see her again after that?” Mort asked.

Estelle shook her head. “She sent me into town to get a charger for her iPad. There was a film she wanted to watch and she'd forgotten to bring her charger from home.”

“Do you know the name of the film?”

“What a strange question,” Estelle said. “No. I've no idea what film she wanted to watch.”

“Did you find a charger for her?” I asked.

“Yes, at a place called Charles Department Store. You know it?”

“Go on. What happened after that?” Mort said.

“I came back. She wasn't in her trailer, so I left the charger on the counter. But she wasn't there later when I knocked after dinner.”

“What time was that?”

“Around nine. I didn't think anything of it. But when she missed her fitting today, I began to fear something was wrong and started to look for her. And you know the rest.”

I looked at Mort as he tucked his pad into his breast pocket. “We'd like to talk to you again, Ms. Fancy, so I'll ask you not to leave town.”

“We're supposed to be here for the duration of the movie.”

“If they don't cancel it,” I said. “They've just lost your employer, the leading lady.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I hope they don't cancel. I have a contract.”

“I hope so, too,” I said.

“Miss Fancy, I'm sorry to ask you this, but it's vitally important that you don't talk about Ms. Stockdale's death with anyone,” Mort said. “We want to keep details of the circumstances confidential so we don't tip off the killer about what we know. Understand?”

“Of course.”

Estelle rose when Mort put his hand on the doorknob. She glanced over her shoulder at Cecil. “Oh, look, he's eaten all the hamburger,” she said.

Cecil barked at her.

“I think he's asking for more.”

When we left, Estelle was cooing to Cecil, who was growling again despite having been fed.

“Seems to me,” Mort said when we were outside, “that if she was really able to predict the future, she would have seen this coming.”

“From what I understand, astrologers don't exactly predict the future,” I said. “They simply determine when the alignment of the moon, planets, and stars create a receptive environment for decisions or actions.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means,” I said, “that if the stars were in proper alignment, someone had a receptive environment for murder.”