Murder, She Wrote (13 page)

“He's not strange,” I said.

“My car. My rules. You'll sit in the back, and hold on to him with both hands.”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Hazlitt,” I said with a mock salute.

Which is what we did. I had sat up front with Jed on the way home, and he'd given me some flying time. Seth snoozed through the flight and I didn't have the heart to tease him about my skilled piloting when he'd had such an eventful day.

By the time I unlocked my front door—not easily accomplished with Cecil in one arm—it was nearly dark. I'd invited Seth to stay for a light supper, but he'd declined.

“I want to study these photos while Carl's analysis is fresh in my mind,” he'd said.

We agreed instead to meet at Mara's Luncheonette for breakfast.

The message light on my telephone answering machine indicated I'd missed two calls while I was away. I pressed the button to listen. The first was from Mort:
Heard you'd gone to Bangor with Doc Hazlitt, Mrs. F. Any chance you can stop by the station house tomorrow? I have something I want to go over with you.

The second message was a man's voice, but not one I recognized.
You saw what I can do today, you old biddy. Your house is next if you don't mind your own business. And it won't only be equipment that gets broken. Stay out of it if you want to stay safe.
At the sound of the second voice, Cecil growled, his lips curling back in an aggressive expression. I placed him on the floor and he stood by my side, barking. I leaned down and patted his head. “You're a good protector, Cecil,” I said. “Good dog!”

I called Mort's house and left a message with his wife, Maureen, that I would meet him at his office in the morning. Then I removed the tiny tape from the answering machine and put it in a pocket of my shoulder bag. I wanted to play the message for Mort to see if he recognized the voice. I suspected that whoever it was may have used some device to alter the sound, but I couldn't be sure. Was this Neil Corday? Was he the killer? Who else would threaten me?

I wrapped up a book for Dr. Carlton Smith's wife and added the package to my bag. The post office was close by the police station, so I could run both errands after breakfast.

Before getting Cecil settled for the evening, I walked to the front door to ensure that I'd locked it. I double-checked the rear door as well, and all the ground-floor windows, too. I was more annoyed than frightened by the nasty message. I've been the target of threats before, and while most people who leave such messages get perverse satisfaction simply by recording an anonymous warning, there is always the possibility that a felon might be inclined to follow up a threat with action. At least I wouldn't make it easy for someone to break in.

That evening, when I sat in bed reading the new Jaden Terrell thriller, I heard the clicking of Cecil's nails on the stairs. He paused at the entrance to my bedroom, then calmly walked to the bed and looked up at me.

“What do you want?” I asked him.

He placed a paw on the side of my mattress and barked at me.

“C'mon,” I said, smiling. “You can do it.”

He made a tepid attempt to jump up, then sat on his haunches and barked again.

I leaned down and with one hand lifted him up.

He walked across the covers to the end of the bed and turned in a circle three times before settling down at my feet and closing his eyes. I was tempted to pick him up and march him back down to the kitchen, where I'd made a little dog bed for him. “Start as you mean to go on,” my mother used to say. But I had to admit to myself that the message on my answering machine had made me uneasy. I left Cecil where he was, deciding a tiny watchdog was better than no watchdog at all.

“
T
hey're flying in a big star next week to replace Vera Stockdale, but listen to this.” Evelyn Phillips, editor of the
Cabot Cove
Gazette
, leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “She's going to play the jilted girlfriend. They're giving the part of the judge to Lois Brannigan.”

“That should make Lois happy,” I said.

“I'm not so sure,” Evelyn replied. “I was told they're going to beef up the part of the girlfriend and make the judge into the supporting role.”

“Which is what it was to begin with,” I said as I smeared cream cheese on my bagel.

“Sounds like more work for you, Jessica,” Seth said.

“Maybe we can just use the original script we had before making all the changes that Vera Stockdale demanded,” I said.

Mara walked over with a coffeepot in each hand. “More coffee, ladies? Doc? I just made fresh decaf.”

“Not for me, Mara,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”

“You can top me off,” Seth said, before putting a forkful of blueberry pancakes in his mouth.

Evelyn shook her head. “I'm wired enough as it is.”

“Are you suggesting
my
coffee makes you jittery?” Mara said archly.

“Never,” Evelyn replied. “I had two cups at home before I ever got here.”

“Well, then, serves you right. I won't have you impugning my coffee.”

Evelyn looked up at Mara. “‘Impugning?' Where did you come up with that word?”

Mara laughed. “That nut job ambulance chaser Neil Corday—remember him?—comes in yesterday saying Jessica Fletcher was ‘impugning his reputation.' I told him he should shut up and drink his coffee, or take his insults out the door. I wouldn't hear anything bad said about our Jessica.”

“Thank you, Mara.”

“You're welcome, Jessica.”

“Did he leave?” I asked.

“I gave him a to-go cup and he was gone.”

“What time was that?”

“Somewhere around eight thirty. We were that busy, I didn't really notice the time.”

“Got any more syrup?” Seth asked.

“You still have half a pitcher there.”

“More like a quarter,” Seth said. “And I've got half a stack to go.”

Mara rolled her eyes. “Be right back,” she said. She wound her way around the tables toward the kitchen, stopping to fill a few coffee cups along the way.

“Why are you interested in what time he was here?” Evelyn asked.

“Someone left the production office in a mess yesterday,” I said. “I was just trying to figure out if Corday had an alibi.”

“Do you know when it happened?” Seth asked.

“I really don't,” I said. “I'm going to ask Mort about it when I see him later.”

“You don't have to,” Evelyn said. “We had it in the paper this morning. Nothing was taken, but a lot of stuff was smashed. The director thinks it happened overnight. He forgot to lock the door.”

“How did you learn about it?” I asked.

“Police scanner. One of the specials the sheriff brought in to work while the movie company is here took the call. I drove out as soon as I heard the details. Got a great interview with Walter Benson. That is one handsome man. We used his picture on the front page. Didn't you see it?”

“I didn't have time to read the paper before I left this morning,” I said. What I didn't say was that when I'd carelessly left the newspaper on a chair in the kitchen, Cecil had clamped his mouth around it and run from the room. By the time I retrieved the paper, after a game of tug-of-war, he'd managed to shred the front page.

Evelyn pulled a copy of the newspaper from her bag. “Here,” she said, pointing to Benson's photo. “How did you know about the mess in the production office if you didn't read my article? I thought you were in Bangor yesterday.”

“I was,” I said, taking the newspaper and biting into my bagel to stall for time. I didn't want to admit to Evelyn that I'd been the one to call the police to report the damage. Better that she wasn't aware of my involvement. If she knew about it, that would be certain to spur a follow-up piece in the next day's edition, and I didn't need my name in the newspaper. There were already too many people who knew I was associated with the movie company and interested in Vera's murder. And given the nasty message on my answering machine the night before, clearly I'd upset one of them.

Mara came to my rescue. “Don't let on I give you special treatment,” she told Seth, placing a full pitcher of syrup on the table in front of him.

“What's the matter, Mara?” Seth said. “You running low on maple syrup?” He poured a generous portion over the rest of his pancakes.

“You may think that's funny, Seth Hazlitt, what with all the forests we have inland,” Mara said, fists on her hips, “but the mild winter ruined the maple sugar season, cut way down on the sap. I'm almost out of Grade A medium.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” Seth said. “Next time I'll order eggs so I won't pose a threat to your syrup supply.”

Seth's use of the word “threat” brought my head up. If Evelyn's article hadn't mentioned my call to the police, how did my nasty caller know I'd seen the mayhem he'd created?

“I'll take my check, Mara,” I said, blotting my mouth with my napkin and gathering up my things.

“You want me to wrap that up?” she said, eyeing my half-eaten breakfast.

“No, thanks,” I said, looking at my watch. “I have an appointment I have to keep.” I smiled at everyone. “Please excuse me. Seth, I'll call you later. Bye, Evelyn. Bye, Mara.”

“Tell the sheriff I'll be by after breakfast,” Seth said.

Evelyn looked from me to Seth. “Is there something you're not telling me, Dr. Hazlitt?” she said, pulling out her pad and pen.

Seth took another forkful of pancakes, pointed to his full mouth, and shook his head. I couldn't chance looking back as I made a hasty exit from the luncheonette.

At the police station, I held the door for two new deputies carrying out orange traffic cones. The officer at the front desk was chewing the eraser of a pencil as he leaned over a paper.

I waved as I walked by.

“Morning, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Morning, Edgar.”

“What's a seven-letter word for ‘puzzle'?” Edgar asked.

“‘Mystery,'” I replied.

“Gorry! That fits.”

Mort was on the phone. “No, we don't have any new developments on the movie star's murder,” I heard him say. “Yes, I've got my entire staff working on it day and night.” He pointed to the chair in front of his desk and I took it. “I know, but these things take time. There are a couple of hundred people over at the airport. The killer could be any one of them.” He rolled his eyes and moved his fingers together and apart to mime the talky caller. “You'll have to ask the producer about that. They don't tell me their plans.”

“Do you want some coffee?” I mouthed, pointing to his empty mug.

He nodded.

I went to the coffeepot in the staff lounge and filled Mort's mug, adding two packets of sugar and a generous splash of milk. I made my way back to his desk and set the mug down.

“I'd love a cup, too,” Edgar called out.

I laughed. “You're not on the phone.”

He picked up the receiver and pretended to take a call. “Now I am.”

“Get your own,” Mort said, hanging up his phone. “We've got business here. Come on, Mrs. F. Let's find somewhere we can talk.” He picked up his mug and a manila envelope and led me outside to a picnic table by the side of the building.

“I need the fresh air,” he said apologetically. “Besides, I think someone has bugged the station house.”

“You're kidding,” I said.

“Yeah. I don't how, but information gets out. It's like there are spies everywhere. Do you see anyone up that tree?” he said, squinting at a red maple.

I looked into the branches of the tree. “Not unless you count that squirrel,” I said. “Who were those officers I saw leaving the station?”

“I called on the state's incident management unit. They sent us some special police. Between the movie and the murder, there was just too much for me and my small staff to handle. I could spend the day on the phone with the press alone.” He took a gulp of his coffee.

“I thought there seemed to be more police around lately,” I said.

“Thanks for the call about the vandalism in the production trailer, by the way. I couldn't get out there until the afternoon, but one of the specials investigated.”

“So Evelyn informed me. Thank
you
for not telling her I called it in.”

He smiled.

“By the way, Walter Benson told me yesterday that he carries a gun. And I forgot to mention that the makeup lady has misplaced hers. I told her to call you. Did she?”

Mort shook his head, disgusted. “Can you believe them?” he said. “It's like the Wild West out there. How the heck am I supposed to conduct an investigation when everyone's armed and there's no bullet for comparison?”

“Have you heard back from the bureau?” I asked.

“They returned the chair. Said they were able to pull up multiple fingerprints on the top and sides and found type O blood on the back of the seat, but no bullets.”

“That's too bad,” I said. “What are you going to do with it?”

“We cleaned it off and sent it back to the movie company. I have no other use for it. Can't believe the bullet wasn't in the chair.”

“We'll find it,” I said. “It's got to be somewhere.”

Mort pressed his lips together and gave a soft snort. “I hope you're right,” he said. “So tell me, how was Bangor? The doc called me with the news. Can you give me any details?”

“Seth said he'd stop by this morning. I'd rather he give you the report directly. I may not get everything technically correct.”

“Makes you think, doesn't it?”

“It does. I keep wondering what she might have done to make someone shoot her in the back.”

“She may not have done anything,” he said. “Her murderer may just have wanted the satisfaction of shooting someone famous.”

“You mean like the young man who killed John Lennon?”

“Yeah. Or the ones who take potshots at presidents. There isn't always a logical explanation.”

“But those people
want
to get caught,” I said. “They won't get famous otherwise. Our killer is staying in the dark, hiding in the bushes.”

“Well, we'd better flush the perp out soon,” Mort said. “I want these people to finish filming here and go home. I've had enough of Hollywood fame to last me a lifetime. Oh, speaking of movies—I almost forgot; I've got something for you,” he said, handing me the manila envelope.

“And I've got something for you, too,” I said, digging in my bag for the answering machine tape.

“What's this?” he asked when I handed it to him.

“Someone isn't happy with me. I'm hoping you may recognize the voice. I'll need the tape back. It's the only one I have.”

He put it in his breast pocket. “We'll listen to it together before you leave.”

“What's in here?” I asked, shaking the envelope.

“Look inside.”

I opened the flap and pulled out a sheaf of papers with blurry color images.

“It's from the film we found around Stockdale's neck,” he said. “My neighbor, the science teacher, used his overhead projector to enlarge the film. He took those pictures of the images with his cell phone and e-mailed them to me.”

I sifted through the pages. It was a love scene showing Vera in the arms of an actor. They were on a beach. I could make out palm trees in the background, but not much else.

“Recognize what movie it's from?” Mort asked.

“No. I have no idea.”

“Think Elovitz might know?”

“It's possible, but there's not a lot here to go on,” I said. “I don't even know who the actor is.”

“Me either. I showed them to Maureen, too. She loves old romantic movies. Makes me watch
Sleepless in Seattle
every time it's on cable TV.”

I smiled. “I like that one, too.”

“I liked it the first time I saw it, but after the fifth, it began to drag a bit.”

“You're a good husband, Mort.”

He turned red. “Yeah. That's what Maureen says.”

“Can I keep these?” I asked, holding up the papers.

“Those are your copies. I have a set in the file. If you can help me identify the film, I'd appreciate it.”

“I'll certainly try. Of course, once we know what movie it's from, we still have to figure out why the killer tied it around Vera's neck.”

Mort held up his hand. “One mystery at a time, please.”