Murder, She Wrote (2 page)

“I don't have more lines than you,” said Lois Brannigan, who was playing the mistress, and who sat three seats down from Vera. “But I'd be delighted to switch roles if you're not happy.”

“Don't think I wasn't informed that you coveted my part, dearie,” Vera said acidly. “But you don't have the box office value I do. And you never will. The role of the judge was written for me, and I'm keeping it. But I want Twomby and Fletcher to bulk it up.”

“We'll work on strengthening the part, Ms. Stockdale,” Twomby said, frantically scribbling notes to himself in the margin of the script.

“See that you do. I'll expect a better version by the end of the day.” She rose, taking her dog and her book with her, and left the script on the table.

Cabot Cove, Maine

M
ort Metzger stuck his head in the door and called to me. “Mrs. F., you've got to do something. This is a disaster!”

“I'll be right with you, Mort,” I shouted over the racket of pounding sledgehammers and splintering wood. I turned back to Loretta Spiegel, who clutched my hand tightly.

“I tell you, Jessica, it's very exciting, but I'm not sure about the changes they want,” she said. “What if I don't like it in the end?” Loretta looked around as a crew of carpenters dismantled the powder-pink room divider in her beauty salon and shouldered the pieces outside—nearly whacking Mort with a curlicue plank of lumber—then tossed them into a Dumpster. I heard our sheriff dressing down the offending parties in his best former New York City police officer language, which I will not repeat here.

“Didn't the set designer tell you they would put it back exactly the way it was if you didn't like their work?” I asked Loretta.

“Yes, but they're never going to be able to duplicate my fancy openwork panels.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“The man who carved them retired years ago. I'm not even certain he's still alive.”

“Now, Loretta, I'm sure you'll love the new design. You've been saying for years that you wanted to update the decor in the shop. Here's your opportunity. Not only won't it cost you anything, but they're
paying
you to let them use the shop as a set.”

“But it's costing me business, Jessica, not to mention wear and tear on my car. Since this place is being torn apart I've had to run all over town to do customers' hair in their homes. You try washing Ideal Malloy's hair in her kitchen sink. She dripped all over the floor. I nearly threw my back out getting her into a chair.”

“Mrs. F.! Please,” Mort said, stepping into the construction zone.

“Yes, Mort. Just give me a minute.”

“I don't have a minute. And there won't be a hair left on my head if you don't corral these movie people. They're causing more traffic jams than the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade and the president's visit to the UN combined.”

“Looking to get yourself a manicure and pedicure, Sheriff?” a carpenter quipped as he manhandled one of Loretta's hair dryers out the door.

“Oh, for the love of . . .” Mort said. “I'll be outside.”

“Loretta, try to be patient just a little longer,” I said. “I'm sure the shop will be spectacular when they're done.”

“But they're making everything black and white,” she said. “I was thinking of something more along the line of aqua, you know, to give the shop a spa vibe. All the elegant beauty salons on TV use this stunning color. It's somewhere between Seafoam and Tropical Paradise. Those are the paint colors I had picked out at the hardware store.”

“Why don't you talk to the set designer the next time she comes in and tell her how you'd like it to look when they're finished filming?”

Loretta contemplated that idea as her eyes scanned the interior of her shop. “All right,” she said. “I guess I can do that.”

I could practically hear the wheels turning as she pictured the changes she wanted made. “If they were going to put it back the way it was,” she murmured more to herself than to me, “I'll just have to convince them to put it back the way I want it.”

“Exactly! And I'm sure you'll succeed,” I said, patting her arm. “You're very persuasive. Now, I'd better go before Mort arrests the whole carpentry crew.”

I stepped outside Loretta's salon into the bright sunshine to find Mort nervously combing his hair with his fingers and fanning his face with his Stetson. “I'm sorry, Mort,” I said. “Loretta needed a bit of hand-holding. She and the set designer have different opinions on how a small-town beauty shop should look. I thought it looked fine just the way it was, but they have other ideas.”

“I'm not surprised,” he said, escorting me to his patrol car, where the passenger door stood open.

I climbed in.

Mort shut the door, circled around the back of the car, and took his seat behind the wheel, tamping down his hat so that it sat low over his eyes.

“Have you spoken to the director yet?” I asked.

“These movie people don't have the slightest idea what goes on in a small town, and they don't care,” Mort said, ignoring my question. “They have me closing streets left and right so they can film and then they don't show up for hours, if at all. The merchants are screaming that their customers can't get into their shops. The mayor won't talk to the big shots at the film company because he says they're bringing lots of business to town. I'd like to see where. They have a caterer, so they don't much use the local restaurants. They brought their own woodworkers. They should've brought their own police. I had to hire on two more deputies just to direct traffic. Not to mention the fact that most of them aren't even staying in town. They're living in trailers out at the airport. How does
that
benefit Cabot Cove?”

“But, Mort, we don't really have any hotels apart from the Blueberry Hill Inn and a few bed-and-breakfast places. Lots of people in town are renting rooms to the crew, including me. I have a young lady staying in my spare bedroom.”

“That may be, but the shopkeepers keep dialing nine-one-one when they can't get their cars out at lunchtime, and your director is never available when I call to find out when they'll be finished for the day.”

“
My
director? I don't know what you expect me to do. I don't have any influence. I barely know these people.”

“You know them better than I do.” He reached into his pocket and popped an antacid into his mouth.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“My stomach has been doing somersaults ever since they rolled into town,” he replied, “and this time it isn't Maureen's cooking.”

Maureen was Mort's second wife, a bubbly redhead who was the love of his life. She was an enthusiastic chef and avid fan of the food channels, and loved nothing more than trying out exotic combinations in her cooking. The results were mixed, however. Sometimes the dish she came up with was a winner, but just as often her experiment was more suited to a laboratory than a kitchen. I'd been on the tasting end of both kinds of meals. Nevertheless, Mort, ever the gentleman, almost always praised his wife's efforts.

Mort made a U-turn and took the road leading out to the airport. It was the only place for miles around large enough to accommodate the film company's employees and equipment. If you've been in a movie theater in the past ten years, you know how fast the credits roll at the end of a picture in order to fit in the names of all the people who made a contribution, large or small, to the creation of the final product. That should give you an idea of how many people had arrived in Cabot Cove, swelling our population by a considerable number.

Mort was right about the trailers. The production company must have commandeered every recreational vehicle they could get their hands on in the state of Maine. With all the RVs, the land surrounding the airport resembled the campground at Acadia National Park on Memorial Day weekend.

In addition to separate vehicles for props and for wardrobe, hair, and makeup, the director and the cinematographer each had his own trailer, not to mention those shared by the location manager, assistant location manager, location scout, and assistant. Add another for the executive producer for his occasional visits to the set, and more for the line producer, unit manager, first assistant director, second assistant director, screenwriter, script supervisor, and the casting director, who'd been given the unenviable task of hiring extras for the crowd scenes. It seemed that half of Cabot Cove had sent in a résumé and a head shot. And of course there were mobile homes for the principal actors, Vera Stockdale and Walter Benson, and their respective entourages.

Mort pulled up in front of one of the hangars just as Jed Richardson strolled out, swinging the lanyard that held the key to his Cessna 310.

“Whoa, Jed, where are you off to?” Mort called out, turning off his engine.

Jed ambled over to the car. “Gotta take a run over to Bangor to pick up some electrical thingamajig for Zee over there.” He pointed behind him at a muscular, dark-haired man in his thirties wearing shorts and pushing a black case on wheels toward the twin-engine plane. He was followed by a young woman in a cowboy hat and jeans, trying to catch up to him.

“What did you say that guy's name was?” Mort asked.

“Never learned his first name; everyone calls him Zee. It's short for his last name, some hard to pronounce Spanish name. He's the key grip, the head of the technicians who rig lighting or camera mounts or some other equipment they use in making a movie. Don't ask me. All I know about is plane engines. Anyway, something is malfunctioning and we're going to Bangor to find a replacement part.” Jed leaned down to peer into the car. “Well, hello, Jessica,” he said. “Didn't see you behind this big guy. Are you planning to go up again?”

“Not today, Jed, but soon, I hope.”

He tapped Mort on the shoulder. “Anything I can do for you before I leave?”

“Would you happen to know where we can find Elovitz, the director?” Mort asked.

Jed shook his head. “Maybe Zee knows.” He trotted over to where the young couple waited and returned a moment later. “He says try the production office. It's parked near the back door.”

“Great! That's a help.” Mort caught the young man's attention and called out his thanks. The young woman turned to look our way.

“I think it's Sunny,” I said.

“Yeah, the weather's pretty nice,” Mort replied.

“No. I mean she's Sunny, Sunny Cee, who's staying in my guest bedroom.”

“Cee, Zee,” Mort said. “Are all these people named after the alphabet?”

“Sunny!” I called from the car, and waved. She squinted at me from under the brim of her hat. Recognition blossomed on her face. She returned my wave, said something to Zee, and loped over to Mort's car.

“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher. I didn't recognize you at first.”

“And I almost didn't recognize you wearing that cowboy hat.”

“Oh, this,” she said, grinning and taking it off. She ran a hand through her dark shoulder-length hair, fluffing it out. “I stole it from the director. Mitch was wearing it this morning and I took off with it.”

“Perhaps you shouldn't admit to that in front of our sheriff,” I teased, introducing Mort to Sunny. “Sunny is a production assistant on the film, a PA for short.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mort said, tipping his own Stetson at her. “What's a PA do?”

“All the things that no one else wants to do,” she said, laughing.

“And that includes stealing hats?” he said lightly.

“I didn't really steal it,” she said. “I just borrowed it for a while. Mitch and I are friends, at least as much as you can be friends with your boss. I worked on his last film. He was just a nervous newbie then, not the big shot he is now.” She giggled.

“Then I take it the film was a big success,” Mort said. “Was it his first?”

“Not really—just his first winner. I think his very first film was a bomb, but don't tell him I told you.”

“My lips are sealed,” Mort said. “So what was his big hit? Would I have seen it?” He turned to me. “Did you see it, Mrs. F.?”

“I'm sure I didn't,” I said, shaking my head and laughing.

“You two are not exactly the target audience,” Sunny said, winking at me.

“What? I go to the movies,” Mort said, affronted. “I'm sure I've seen it, or at least I've heard of it. What was the name of it?”

“I may be wrong, but I can't imagine you would have seen
Vampire Zombies from Jupiter.
”

Mort shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

“It did very well,” Sunny said.

“Really?” Mort said, his face reflecting his skepticism.

“Enough to get him this picture, although I hear he's getting paid scale. Still, it's a step up.”

“Anything would be a step up from vampires and zombies,” Mort said.

“You'd be surprised,” Sunny told him. “The audience for vampires and zombies and monsters and aliens is very loyal. They'll see a movie they like over and over again. That's why those movies get made. The audience makes up in multiple visits what they lack in numbers.”

“Speaking of your boss,” I said, “Zee said we could find him in the production office. Do you happen to know which trailer that is?”

“Sure. I can point it out to you.”

“Hop in,” Mort said.

Sunny climbed into the backseat of the patrol car and Mort started the engine.

We waited while Jed taxied in front of us to the end of the runway.

“I didn't think he was going to be able to fit that big box in that small plane,” Mort said, “but it looks like he did.”

“The weight may make it unbalanced on takeoff,” I said, “but Jed can handle it.”

I'd spent a lot of time with Jed Richardson learning how to fly. Some people think it's funny that I can fly a plane when I can't drive a car, but I've never felt comfortable at the wheel of an automobile the few times I've had that experience. Sitting at the controls of a single-engine airplane, however, is the most natural feeling in the world for me. I love the sense of freedom when the wheels leave the ground and the nose of the plane points up toward the sky. I love to see the countryside spread out below with its beautiful patchwork quilt of farms and towns, rivers and roads. Best of all, I love flying high in the air with nothing nearby that I can possibly crash into.

Jed had been an excellent instructor. A former airline pilot, he'd escaped the pressure-cooker bureaucracy of a major airline and taken early retirement, settling back in Cabot Cove to establish Jed's Flying Service, giving flying lessons and ferrying townspeople to larger cities in his “fleet” of three planes, two single-engine and one twin-engine craft.