Murder, She Wrote (7 page)

“I doubt if one exists, but I can ask around.”

“Would appreciate it if you'd do just that.”

“What about prop guns?” I asked. “The judge in the movie is shot. Doesn't the props department have a gun?”

“More than one,” Chattergee said, returning his weapon to its holster, “but they use blanks, not real bullets.”

Errors can be made,
I thought, but said instead, “Who should we see there?”

“I'll get the first AD to take you around,” Chattergee said.

“AD?” Mort said. “You got to spell out these initials for me.”

“Assistant director,” Chattergee said. “That'll be Eric Barry. I'll call him and have him escort you where you want to go.”

Mort and I spent another two hours at the airport, visiting production departments and interviewing people. We were accompanied by the first assistant director, a tall man with sandy brown hair and fingernails bitten to the quick. The prop guns were all accounted for, with no telltale odor of recent firing—if there is any identifiable smell when you're using blanks. But of course that's a moot point; the gun that killed Vera hadn't been loaded with blanks.

Everyone we spoke with demonstrated the proper amount of shock at the news of Vera's murder, although I was pretty sure that for most of them, the news was secondhand by the time we got around to delivering it. Mort took names and told people that his department would follow up, and then he drove me home. It was almost time for supper.

“Isn't it amazing how everyone has an alibi for the last twenty-four hours?” I said when he pulled up in front of my house.

“Yeah. Especially since we don't even know her time of death.”

“We know it was sometime after nine, since Chattergee saw her when he arrived,” I said. “What I find hard to believe is that no one can remember overhearing Vera Stockdale having an argument. Her ex-husband implied that she fought with everyone.”

“Makes me think they must all be hard of hearing, or they're walking on eggshells for some reason.”

“Or they're afraid of offending someone. Perhaps the person who oversees their job,” I said. “Even Estelle Fancy danced away from the question when you asked her if the actress had any enemies. But one thing's for certain.”

“What's that?”

“Vera Stockdale had at least
one
enemy.”

S
unny Cee was sitting on the sofa in my living room when I walked in, her rolling suitcase on the floor by her feet. She looked up at me with a watery smile and I saw that she'd been crying.

“I guess you've heard,” I said.

She nodded, tears silently coursing down her cheeks.

I sat down next to her. “It's a tragedy when anyone dies unexpectedly,” I said, “but it's made much worse when it's in this manner.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher. It's so awful. How could anyone do this? I know she was difficult, but still . . .” She curled over and buried her face in her hands.

“I can see you're very upset,” I said, patting her back. “It's getting late. Are you hungry?”

She shook her head. “I couldn't eat.”

“Why don't I make us some tea, and we can talk. Would you like that?”

“Sure,” she said, pulling a tissue from her pocket. “Thank you.”

I left her to compose herself and went to the kitchen, filled my kettle with water, and set it on the stove.

Sunny had been living with me for two weeks. She hadn't come in with the principal production people from California, who had flown in earlier, but rather had arrived with the rest of the crew members, some of whom had been hired locally, though the majority were called up from Boston or New York. She was one of seven production assistants; most of them were film students and all of them were renting rooms from Cabot Cove residents. A van came around early each morning to pick them up, and delivered them back to their respective temporary homes after the workday, often late at night. In lieu of having to wait up for her on those evenings, I'd given Sunny her own key to my front door, although I confess to listening for her return like a worried parent.

Sunny was a charming houseguest, as I'd told Mort, cheerful, helpful, and full of enthusiasm for her new job. A graduate of a boarding school in Switzerland, she had been accepted by New York University into its film production program, and was in the last year of her studies there. Sunny's job as a PA on
A Deadly Decision
necessitated her taking off a semester from school
.
She'd told me it was “a no-brainer”—her words. Having the chance to work on another movie was an opportunity she couldn't possibly pass up. I only hoped the glamour of working in the movies didn't keep her from completing her studies and earning a degree.

Sunny trailed me into the kitchen. Her eyes were swollen, but dry. “Can I do anything to help?” she asked.

“You can take down the mugs for us from the cupboard,” I said. “I'm sure we have milk in the refrigerator, and you know where the sugar bowl is.”

We settled at my kitchen table with two mugs of English breakfast tea and a plate of butter cookies from Charlene Sassi's bakery. Sunny had poured milk into a small pitcher and had smoothed the sugar in my bowl with the back of a spoon before placing those items on the table. She'd also carefully folded two napkins for us.

“When I was in boarding school, afternoon tea was practically a course in itself,” she said with a soft smile. “We were divided into small groups and took turns at serving each other. Woe to the girl who even thought about taking a shortcut. Everything had to be just so.”

“We're not quite so formal here,” I said. “I hope you don't miss the silver service.”

“Not a bit,” she said. “My first act of defiance when I moved into the dormitory at NYU was to serve myself a ‘cuppa' tea with the milk carton on the table.” She chuckled. “Some rebel, huh?”

“I think you're a lovely young lady,” I said. “Whatever they taught you in boarding school has stood you in good stead.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.” She took a sip from her mug and put it down. “And thank you for not grilling me as to why my parents sent me off to boarding school instead of educating me at home.”

“It's not my business why decisions are made in anyone's family,” I said.

“But you'd be amazed at how many people here in the States just come right up to you and ask the most personal questions. I have to admit it took me aback when I first got home.”

“Just because people ask doesn't mean you have to answer,” I said. “I'm always curious about people; I hope I haven't intruded on your privacy in the time you've spent here.”

“Oh, not at all,” she said, looking at me earnestly. “Just the opposite. You've been so welcoming and accepting. It's because you've never asked that I'd like to tell you why I went to boarding school. I don't want you to think badly of my parents.”

“It would certainly be presumptuous of me to criticize your parents for any decision they made,” I said. “I can hardly be called an expert in child rearing since I've never had children of my own—although my nephew, Grady, did live with us for a long while.” I smiled at the memory. Grady was now a grown man with a family of his own, and I was delighted to play “Grandma” with his son, Frank. “You don't need to explain anything to me,” I told Sunny, “but I'm happy to listen if you want to talk.”

“It's not such a big secret,” she said. “Both my parents were professionals and they felt I would be better taken care of in a boarding school than having a series of nannies coming and going.”

“Are you an only child?” I asked.

“Yes, and before you ask if I ever wanted siblings, I'll tell you that when I was five I told my mother I wanted an older brother, but if she couldn't arrange that, I didn't want them to give me anyone younger.” She smiled at the memory. “She practically spit her coffee across the room.”

“So where did you go to school?”

“Geneva. My father attended a British boarding school, but he thought the best finishing schools for girls were in Switzerland. I was upset at first, but I managed to fit in well, and I really enjoyed it after a time. Living abroad allowed me to travel around Europe on my school breaks, and that was an education in itself.”

We talked for a while about the differences between American schools and those overseas—Sunny was fluent in French and Italian, a legacy of her boarding school education—before circling back to the death of Vera Stockdale and the reason Sunny had packed her bags.

“Do you know a lot about how she died?” Sunny asked.

I hesitated. “I know more than I'm free to talk about with you,” I said. I'd decided it was better not to discuss Vera's death beyond the simple fact that she had been killed. I was conscious that Mort's investigation was only in its early stages and that he wanted to hold back information that might affect the case. Sunny was young and impressionable. I didn't want to fuel her nightmares. In addition, it seemed to me that whoever killed Vera had achieved his or her goal. Unless the perpetrator turned out to have more victims in mind, it was better to err on the side of discretion than to raise fears about a killer still at liberty.

“I have great confidence in our sheriff,” I told her. “He's a dedicated lawman and I'm sure he's working hard to solve this case as quickly as possible.”

“This case,” she echoed, nodding slowly.

“I have a question for
you
now.”

Sunny took in a deep breath and met my gaze.

“I saw your suitcase,” I said. “Why are you leaving? Are you frightened for your safety here? I don't think you need to be. Are you planning to go home?”

She shook her head. “No, not home. Well, maybe I am going home, in a way. You've been wonderful, Mrs. Fletcher. I appreciate all you've done for me. But . . .” She stopped, gathering her thoughts. “Please don't be offended,” she said. “I'm not running away. I just feel . . . I just need to be out at the airport. We're a community, all of us on the crew. I need my friends, my family, around me at this time.”

“I understand,” I said. “Is there room for you in someone's trailer?”

“Oh, yes. I'll be fine,” she said, dabbing at tears that had started again. “Movie people are happy to help you out when there's a . . .” She swallowed. “When you're feeling down or alone.”

“Do you have a ride out to the airport?” I asked. “I can call a cab for you if you need one.”

“That's okay. I'm being picked up.” She checked her watch. “He should be here any minute.” She took her mug to the sink, washed it out, and had picked up the kitchen towel to dry it when my doorbell rang.

“Don't bother with the mug,” I said. “I'll finish up.”

“I don't want to leave you with a mess.”

“You aren't leaving me with a mess.”

“At least let me take care of the milk and sugar,” she said, replacing the top on the sugar bowl. “I'll put them away.”

“All right,” I said. I left her in the kitchen and went to open the front door.

Terrence Chattergee stood on my front step. His black hair was mussed and he had deep circles under his eyes. Behind him, a car waited at the curb with one of Sunny's fellow PAs behind the wheel.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I've come for Sunita.”

Before I could wonder at why the executive producer of the movie had arrived to pick up a lowly production assistant, Sunny came up behind me, and he reached for her suitcase. She gave me a fast hug and whispered, “Thank you.” Then she turned to look at Chattergee, who was studying her face.

“Hello, Daddy,” she said.

S
unny had told everyone her last name was Cee. It wasn't exactly a lie; that was the first initial of her last name, after all. I suspected she hadn't divulged that she was the daughter of people involved with the production because nepotism, while common in Hollywood, as it is in many businesses, is not something that's usually greeted warmly. If everyone had known that Sunny was the child not only of the star but also of the executive producer, it would have made it difficult, if not impossible, for her to fit in.

I alerted Mort about their relationship right after Chattergee and Sunny left my house, and I confided in Seth, too, when I spoke with him the next day.

Mort was too busy to follow up with father and child right away. He had instructed everyone we'd interviewed at the airport not to discuss the crime until he'd had the opportunity to inform people and question them first, but word got out anyway, to no one's surprise. I later learned that only a short time after we'd left, he was deluged with calls from the production staff, from studio people in Hollywood, and, naturally, from the press. Cabot Cove had experienced other odd deaths over the years, and the town was abuzz with the news of Vera's dramatic demise. Reporters were on their way from the movie industry's trade papers, the
Hollywood Reporter
and
Variety
among others, as were correspondents from the major news outlets. TV crews from New York and Boston, as well as local ones from Bangor and Portland, descended on our village the next day, keeping Mort busy making official comments about the murder and hindering his investigation.

Evelyn Phillips, editor of the
Cabot Cove
Gazette
, had been one of the first local experts consulted by the press, and enjoyed advising big-name journalists on the best places to eat lobster and where to find a late-night cocktail. But she fumed to me about their being able to obtain exclusive interviews with the celebrities whom she'd been denied.

Before the press packed up their equipment and took off to cover more-urgent stories (leaving only a few persistent reporters behind), Mort mounted a hastily called press conference in the high school's combination auditorium-gym to handle the reporters in one large batch.

“Vera would have been delighted with all this attention,” Lois Brannigan told me as she regarded the press corps. “Too bad she's not here to see the lineup of cameras and microphones.”

Lois wasn't as strikingly beautiful a woman as Vera had been, but she had the kind of soft, pretty features that could be made up to appear appropriate for a variety of characters. Never an ingenue—she was too buxom for those roles—she'd lasted in Hollywood as an adaptable actress, taking the parts of best friend, older sister, wife, faithful secretary, schoolteacher, storekeeper, whatever secondary woman a movie required.

“Will the film still get made?” I asked her.

“Well, I, for one, certainly hope so,” she said. “Just between us girls, I already put in my bid with the casting director for Vera's part. Not that the role of the mistress isn't a juicy one; I was looking forward to playing a floozy for a change.” She struck a playful pose, thrusting out her hip and cupping the back of her head with a hand. “I'd get to express my inner party girl.” She glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then dropped her hand. “Truth to tell, it's actually a better part than the judge. There's more meat for an actress to work with.”

“Then why would you want to play the judge?” I asked, amused.

“I have to look out for my career, don't I? Vera got top billing and whoever replaces her will, too. That's what I want. I haven't said anything yet to Chattergee and Elovitz. I don't want to appear too eager. They make the final decision. I only hope they don't do something drastic like canceling the production. I'd hate it if this whole exercise was a waste of time. Besides, I need the work.”

“Do you think a decision will be made soon?” I asked.

“Not too soon. It wouldn't be seemly,” she replied. “But since they've spent a large fortune on trekking the cast and key crew members across the country, I think the powers that be will give it a few days' grace before they announce that”—Lois raised her hands in mock prayer and gazed upward—“‘Vera would want us to go on without her.'”

“Would she?” I asked, egging her on.

“Never! She'd want us in mourning for at least a year. But we may as well make a movie. We can't leave yet anyway. Your sheriff has ordered all of us to stay put.”

Our sheriff approached the podium, a music stand that had been commandeered from the band room, and made a statement to the press as close to “no comment” as he could get away with. He gave the date, time, and location of the discovery of Vera Stockdale's body, and revealed, “She was killed with one shot. However, we do not have information on the ballistics for you at this time.” He left out the telling detail of the film looped around the deceased's neck and insisted that he wasn't at liberty to disclose more information while the investigation was ongoing. Wisely, however, he'd arranged a lineup of people from the movie company to provide comments to the bottomless pit that was the news-gathering machine.

Terrence Chattergee, Vera's former husband and the current producer of the film, stepped up to the makeshift podium and took the microphone after Mort. He held his notes in a hand that trembled. “My family and I are very grateful for the outpouring of love and affection from Vera's fans around the world,” he said. “Even though Vera and I were separated for many years, we were still valued colleagues. I held her in great esteem, as she did me. We never let our personal disagreements spill over into work. Vera was the consummate professional, always prepared. She demanded the best from others as she gave her best to them. I was fortunate to have had her in my life and my films. She was a great lady and a great actress.”

“Just not a great wife and mother,” Lois muttered under her breath. “They only had one child and even she was too much for Vera to handle.”

“Is that so?” I said, wondering if Lois knew that Vera's child had been working on the film.

“They waited until she was old enough for school, then shipped her off to some academy overseas, about as far away from Hollywood as you can get,” she offered. “The marriage didn't last much longer after that. I always wondered if Chattergee had wanted Vera to stay home and become the happy housewife. That's one role she never wanted to play.”

I looked around the auditorium for Vera Stockdale and Terrence Chattergee's daughter, but if she was there, she was staying out of sight.

“No, funeral arrangements have not been made yet,” Chattergee said in answer to a reporter's question. “We will be taking Vera back to Hollywood as soon as we possibly can.” He shot a glance at Mort, who was keeping Vera's body in the hospital morgue until all the tests could be completed. “Interment is expected to be at Forest Lawn,” Chattergee continued. “There's nothing more I can add at this point. However, on behalf of the company, cast, and crew, we ask that you allow our family, both relatives and professional associates, to grieve in private. I'd like to introduce our director, Mitchell Elovitz, who has asked to say a word.”

“More likely he was ordered to say something,” Lois confided to me. “Talk about a command performance.”

Chattergee cocked his head to indicate it was the director's turn to speak.

Several reporters called out their questions as Elovitz replaced Chattergee at the microphone.

“First, I'd like to extend my most heartfelt condolences to Mr. Chattergee and his family. It was my very great honor and privilege to have had the opportunity to work with the celebrated Vera Stockdale, a monster of an actress whom I had admired my whole life.” In deference to the occasion, Elovitz was wearing jeans instead of cargo shorts, and a clean white T-shirt under a navy blue linen jacket. He held a Boston Celtics cap in his hand.

“I'm up after Benson,” Lois said, giving me a grim smile. She shouldered her way through the crowd and moved into the on-deck position near the music stand where the actor Walter Benson was smiling into the eyes of a young woman with a microphone. Over her shoulder, a man in a wrinkled suit was taking a picture of Benson with his cell phone. His face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place him. His gray hair was in need of trimming and it looked as if he hadn't shaved for a few days. That's not so unusual among young men trying to look macho, but is less common with those from an older generation.

Benson stepped to the microphone and tried not to look pleased at the whir of camera shutters set off by his presence. I looked for the man who had been photographing him, but he'd disappeared into the crowd. Where had I seen him before?

I listened to a few more statements by members of the cast and crew before I slipped out the side door and rode my trusty bicycle downtown to Peppino's Restaurant, where I joined Seth Hazlitt for lunch.

“I'm guessin' you're not going to want to discuss the autopsy over steamed mussels in red sauce,” he'd said earlier that morning when we'd arranged to meet.

“Don't be so sure,” I'd replied. “But if it offends your delicate sensibilities, I can put off my questions until dessert.”

Peppino's was down to half its usual lunchtime crowd. Clearly the bigger attraction was in the gymnasium, and in front of the high school, where rented limousines waited to drive the VIPs back to the airport campground.

“Did they ask for me?” Seth said, holding the back of my chair as I took a seat at the linen-covered table.

“Not by name,” I replied. “Mort said the autopsy was pending and reminded them that it may be several weeks before he gets the results of toxicological tests. There was a groan at that. Are those test results important?”

“Just standard procedure,” he replied. “We already know the contents of her stomach, blood was negative for alcohol, and I don't expect the tox tests to hold any great surprises, but you never know.”

“True. So what is your conclusion, Dr. Hazlitt? Care to spill the beans?” I asked just as Marie, our waitress, came over to take our order.

“Actually, I didn't plan on having the cannellini beans,” Seth said, opening the menu. He looked up at Marie. “How are the mussels today?”

“We have them in white sauce with wine and garlic, or you can have red sauce,” she said.

“Better make it red sauce. I have to see patients this afternoon. Don't want to offend them with garlic breath,” he said, handing her his menu.

“For you, Jessica?”

“I'll have the same.”

“Spaghetti on the side, folks?”

Seth glanced over at me before saying, “Just a smidge, Marie.”

“Not for me, Marie, but I'd like some garlic bread, and some water when you have a moment.”

“You're going to wave that garlic bread under my nose just for spite, aren't you?” Seth said, picking up the corner of his folded napkin, shaking it loose, and draping it across his lap.

“You could have had bread, too,” I said, “if you hadn't already ordered spaghetti.”

Marie brought us two glasses of water and a basket of garlic bread before she left to place our order.

“Let's get back to the guest in the hospital morgue,” I said. “What was your verdict?”

Seth picked up a large piece of garlic bread and took a thoughtful bite. “By my best estimate, whoever killed her did it more than twelve hours before you found the body. Rigor mortis had already set in.”

“We found her at two in the afternoon, so that would mean she was killed earlier than two in the morning, and after nine, the last time she was seen alive.”

“And I'm figuring that she died from the gunshot wound, if that's what it was. The hole went clear through her heart.”

‘What do you mean ‘if that's what it was'?”

“The damage was consistent with a bullet, but no bullet was found in the body. There was an entrance wound and an exit wound, and they appear very similar. I sent photos of them off to a colleague for his expert opinion. Unless we know for certain what made those holes, it's still conjecture.”

“Mort's team didn't find the bullet in the chair?”

“I wouldn't know,” Seth said stiffly. “But I'm not a detective. I'm just the doctor doing the postmortem. I'm not deserving of having all the facts.”

“Didn't you ask?”

“I did. I left a message at the sheriff's office, and he never called me back.” He sounded irritated that Mort had withheld information from him.

“He's been so busy with the press,” I said. “I'm sure he'll get back to you soon.”

It didn't add up that Mort would deny Seth information about the case, but I decided to drop the subject for the moment.

“Is that why there wasn't a lot of blood?” I said. “With a bullet through the heart, wouldn't it have stopped pumping right away?”

“That's the theory,” he replied.

“Do you think the body was moved?” I asked.

“Not unless someone had a wheelbarrow handy or was an Olympic weight lifter,” Seth said. “You saw how difficult it was just to place her body on the gurney. There's a reason they say it's hard to lift ‘deadweight.' It is.”

“It would've been possible, of course, if the killer had an accomplice,” I said.

“Ayuh. Any evidence of that?”

“Not that I know of. But someone went to a lot of trouble to create a dramatic picture with the body.”

“True.”

“What did you do with the piece of film?” I asked.

“Believe the sheriff took it for the evidence locker.”

“Did you look at it at all?” I asked. “The director said he couldn't tell from a distance if it was a clip from a motion picture or simply undeveloped film.”