Murder, She Wrote (16 page)

“You're a wonderful quilter and I'll bet you're an equally wonderful teacher,” I said.

“The nicest thing is we're making small quilts to donate to the hospital. It's a worthwhile project and the ladies don't get too competitive about their work when they know it's going to be given away.”

I laughed. “A laudable goal.”

“A necessary one,” she said, smiling. “I know Jacob must have entertained you with his legal stories, but he said you came to see me.”

I reached for my bag and withdrew the manila envelope Mort had given me. “I have some photographs I'd like you to look at.”

Lorraine's gaze flitted to Jacob and back to me. She shrugged. “Where were they taken?”

“That's what I need you to tell me,” I said, handing her the papers. “I know you're a fan of old movies. These are frames from a movie in which Vera Stockdale was featured. I'm hoping you'll recognize what the film is.”

“This is the strangest request you've ever made, Jessica,” Lorraine said, sifting through the images. “But I do love Vera Stockdale films, and if I'm not mistaken, that's Robert Manheim,” she said, pointing to the man holding Vera in his arms.

“How come I never heard of him?” Jacob said, coming around his desk to peer over his wife's shoulder.

“He died very young. He was killed in a jeep accident after the movie came out. It was in all the papers, lots of pictures of Vera mourning her costar. In a way, his death made her more famous. He was forgotten pretty quickly, but she went on to make a lot more films, as we all know.” Lorraine handed the photos back to me. “It's too bad she didn't have a chance to make her comeback. I was really looking forward to seeing her again. Was she still beautiful?”

“Very beautiful,” I said, slipping the photos back in the envelope. “Do you remember the name of this film?”

“I almost do. Give me a minute,” she said, scowling and looking from Jacob to me. She shook her head. “These senior moments make me think I'm losing it.”

“No danger there,” said her husband. “You're always sharp as a tack.”

“That's it! Thank you, Jacob.”

“What did I say?”

Lorraine smiled at me. “The name of the movie is
Danger Comes Calling
. I think it might even have been her first film, but you can look that up online. Is that a help?”

“A big help,” I said, standing. “Thank you. I'd better run. I want to stop at the library to see if they have a copy of this film.”

“You can borrow mine,” Lorraine said, walking me to the door. “I'm pretty sure I have it on DVD at home. I'll have Jacob drop if off tonight. Is that soon enough?”

“It's perfect.”

“You can probably play it on your computer if you don't have one of those fancy machines that take all the different formats.”

“I knew you were the right person to come to,” I said, giving her a hug. “I should have the production company put you on the credits as the consultant to the script consultant.”

“Oh, that would be fun, but only if they underline my name and put stars around it. Those credits roll so fast you never have time to read them.”

L
orraine was as good as her word, and that evening Jacob dropped off their copy of
Danger Comes Calling.
Thankfully Sunny was working late. I didn't want to have to explain to her why I was watching her mother's first big picture. She didn't know about the piece of film the killer had tied around Vera's neck and I hoped it would remain a secret.

I slipped the disc into my computer and opened a media program to run it. Since the computer was my video player, I took notes on a lined legal pad while I watched and tried to figure out why the film had been important to Vera's murderer. It was a three-handkerchief melodrama, a star-crossed romance in which the lovers parted tearfully at the end.

Apart from the camera work, which focused fondly on the beautiful faces of its stars, I could see nothing in the story to arouse the fury of a viewer, unless Vera had been stalked by a rabid fan who was jealous of her movie lover. Mort and I had asked Chattergee if Vera had ever complained about a stalker, but he had dismissed the idea, citing her many years away from the screen. Still, I couldn't rule it out entirely. People with a fixation on a movie star often are mentally ill. Such an illness might not resolve over time.

According to the Internet Movie Database Web site, the movie was Vera's first starring role. She'd had smaller parts in a few pictures before, but that changed when she met Terrence Chattergee. Not her husband at the time, he was the producer of
Danger Comes Calling
. I remembered that Estelle Fancy had taken credit for getting Vera the part. I wondered if her involvement was confined to a reading of the stars and the portents they implied, or if she had somehow played a more active role.

I made the mistake of taking the folder that Judge Borden had loaned me upstairs to read in bed after the movie. Consequently, I spent a sleepless night wrestling with the mystery of Vera's murder and the probable miscarriage of justice in the conviction of Judge Harris's alleged killer. Two murders, years apart, but a murderer—or two—still on the loose.

The next morning, I debated whether to take a trip out to Cross Acres and attempt to make contact with Tiffany Parker. I decided that more research was in order first, although it would be informal research and perhaps not the most reliable. I headed downtown to Mara's Luncheonette on the assumption that its proprietor has a finger on the pulse of pretty much everything and everybody in Cabot Cove.

Mara was sitting alone in a booth when I entered, shoes off, hair damp from having handled the breakfast crowd, sipping a Coke, and finally getting around to reading that day's
Cabot Cove Gazette
.

“Mind if I interrupt your much-needed rest?” I asked.

She laughed. “If you were a few other characters in this town, Jessica, I'd tell you to get lost. But it's always good to see you. Something to eat, drink?”

“Nothing, thank you,” I said, sliding onto the bench opposite hers. “I have a question about a
character
from the town.”

Her eyes widened. “Is there a scandal brewing?” she asked, obviously hoping that there was. “I bet it has to do with the murder of that actress out at the airport.”

“Actually, it doesn't, Mara. Do you remember a woman named Tiffany Parker? She—”

“Of course I remember her. She was one of Neil Corday's hotties. Didn't I tell you he was in here the other day, looking and acting like the swine he is?”

“Yes, you did.”

“If you ask me, Corday was the one who knocked off his wife. It would be just like him. Judge Harris was a sweetheart. How she ever ended up married to that man is beyond me. He used to parade his girlfriends around in public. Was in here once with Parker. Jenny Kipp, too. It's too bad about
her
; she got a life sentence. But I suppose it's better than how his wife ended up.”

I let Mara vent her feelings about Corday and his women before saying, “I've been told that Tiffany Parker moved out of town and is now living in Cross Acres. Do you ever see her?”

“Me? No. She was never a regular customer. Besides, I don't get much business from folks over there.” Mara looked around to make sure no one was listening, but her only customer was Barnaby Longshoot and he was across the room, hunched over a cup of coffee, paging through an issue of
Maine Boats, Homes & Harbors
that someone had left behind. Nevertheless, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You know, when she was living in town and chasing anyone who wore pants, she picked up quite a reputation.”

“I never really knew her,” I said. “How did she earn a living?”

Mara snorted. “Earn? Well, I don't know if that's how you'd term it. She had a liking for men with money, especially married ones. Corday was only one of her sugar daddies. There were plenty more. She left town a few times to hook up with men from other places, sort of a traveling ‘companion,' but she always ended up back here with a closet full of expensive clothes and enough money to pay her rent. I understand she bought a house in Cross Acres—they're cheaper out there—probably with money she got from her sugar daddies.” She leaned closer. “Rumor has it she's lost her looks and has a bad prescription drug habit.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” I said.

“We reap what we sow. What's your interest in her?”

“I've been thinking a lot about the questions raised by my book and whether they should also be in the movie. So far, the script has remained faithful to the book; in the book I left the reader with the possibility that the character based upon Jenny Kipp was innocent.”

“So you think Tiffany Parker killed Judge Harris?”

“No! Not at all.”

“Then you agree with me that Corday did it. I knew it!”

“Mara, please don't jump to conclusions. I'm not pointing a finger at anyone. All I'm saying is that I wasn't convinced Jenny Kipp was guilty. But a jury of twelve good men and women listened carefully, weighed the evidence, and came to a different verdict.”

“Yeah, but did they hear
all
the evidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, don't you, that the prosecutor, Oscar Whittle, and Corday were drinking buddies? I always thought Whittle went after Jenny to help his friend out.”

“You aren't suggesting that—”

Mara held up her hands in defense. “I'm not suggesting anything, Jessica. All I know is that when Whittle left town to join that la-di-da law firm in Boston, Corday followed. Now he's back, as obnoxious as ever.”

“Hey, Mara, can I get some more coffee?” Barnaby called from across the room.

“Help yourself, Barnaby,” Mara replied. “You know where the pot is.” She sat back in her seat. “So, what's the latest scuttlebutt on the murder of the diva?”

“I don't have any,” I replied.

“Come on, Jessica. I gave you good stuff on Tiffany Parker. Can't you give me a tidbit on Vera Stockdale?”

“I only know that they've started filming again.”

Mara waved her hand. “Old news,” she said, a disgusted look on her face.

“Hey, Mara, you're out of milk,” Barnaby called, shaking an empty carton at her.

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” Mara said, slipping out of the booth to go take care of Barnaby, giving me my opportunity for escape.

“Thanks, Mara,” I called as I headed for the door. “I have to go.”

“Don't think you're off the hook, Jessica Fletcher. You owe me some gossip.”

“Maybe next time,” I said. “Bye.”

I have to admit that I listen in at the Cabot Cove gossip mills—Mara's Luncheonette, Sassi's Bakery, and the post office—when I'm looking for information—not that I always believe what I hear. Gossip is often based on a kernel of truth, but that kernel can be stretched out, embellished, and turned into something completely untrue as it moves from mouth to ear. It's the game of Telephone all over again. I take what I hear with the proverbial grain of salt. And I try not to pass it along. It's really not fair to gossip. I'd rather let those involved tell their own story. But sometimes it's helpful to know what people are saying about someone to figure out how to approach them. Or perhaps I'm just making excuses for my nosiness.

Now that I'd found myself immersed in
two
murders—the slaying of Judge Ruth Harris and the killing of Vera Stockdale—it was enough to muddle my brain and make me wonder whether I should have taken a long vacation while the film was being shot in Cabot Cove. Too late for that now.

I looked up Tiffany Parker's number and called her on my cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Parker?”

“Yes.”

“This is Jessica Fletcher. I don't believe we've ever met, but I was speaking with someone recently who mentioned you.”

“What is this about?” she asked in a heavy voice.

I knew that to mention Neil Corday and his wife's murder early in the conversation might prompt her to hang up on me, but there was no way around it.

“I'm not sure if you're aware that a Hollywood production company is here in Cabot Cove filming a motion picture. It's based upon a book I wrote,
A Deadly Decision
, a fictionalized account of the murder of Judge Ruth Harris. Did you ever hear of it?”

“Oh, sure, Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer. I read your book. You called me to ask me
that
?”

“No. Actually, I'm calling because I had the opportunity to review some of the transcript from Jenny Kipp's court case, as well as a report written by a private investigator who interviewed you before the trial.”

In the silence that ensued I heard her light a cigarette and draw deeply on it. I also heard what sounded like a child's voice in the background.

“Ms. Parker?”

“Yeah, I'm here. Look, I really don't want to talk about that.”

“I can understand, but—well, a woman who may be innocent is languishing in prison for a crime I don't think she committed. I probably wouldn't have even thought of contacting you except that Neil Corday, the murder victim's husband, is back in Cabot Cove and—”

“He is?”

“Yes. He arrived a few days ago and has been causing trouble with the film crew. He also attacked me.”

“He's back?” she said, her voice taking on an angry tone. “Where did he come from?”

“I don't know, Ms. Parker. I was hoping you could tell me more.”

“He went to Boston with that crud Oscar Whittle.”

“Yes, I've been told that Corday and Whittle were friends, and that Corday followed Whittle to Boston.”

“He didn't stay there long. I don't know where he went after that.”

“No?”

“That's where he was the last time I talked to him, the last time I saw a cent in child support. And he owes me big-time.”

It was my turn to fall silent while gathering my thoughts. “I wasn't aware that you had a child with him,” I said. Apparently Mara wasn't aware of it either or she'd certainly have mentioned it.

Her laugh had the edge of a knife. “Oh, yes, the kid is his. I don't care what he says.”

“And he was paying you child support?”

“For about a minute and a half. He said he wasn't the father, and I knew I'd never be able to fight him about it in court. He's a lawyer. All those guys stick together. He sent me money for the hospital and the doctors, and a few bucks after that. Then poof, he disappeared. Not a red cent more. Neil Corday is one slimy guy, Mrs. Fletcher. The lowest of the low.” Another cigarette was lit.

“Ms. Parker,” I said, “would you allow me to visit you?”

“What for?”

“I'd just like to talk to you about the interview that you gave a private detective, and why you recanted what'd you'd told him.”

“What, and plop myself in legal trouble? I've got a young daughter who doesn't need her mommy behind bars. Corday may have given me the down payment for this house we live in, but I work two jobs to pay the mortgage and put food on the table.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “It's just that there's a woman already behind bars, Jenny Kipp, who I don't believe belongs there. If what you told the private investigator is true, Neil Corday might well be the one who put her there. Look, all I ask is that we sit down and discuss this further. I'm not a lawyer, but it seems to me that someone who comes forward to right a wrong should be praised, not punished. If you'd like, I'll confer with someone with knowledge of the law before we get together.”

“So Mr. Neil Corday is back in town, huh?” she said.

“As I was saying, Ms. Parker, I can—”

“Yeah, you do that, Mrs. Fletcher. And then I'll decide if I want to talk to you.” She lit another cigarette, started laughing, coughed, and said, “Thanks for calling.”

The line went dead.

I called Jacob Borden and caught him just as he was about to leave his office for a speaking engagement. I told him of my conversation with Tiffany Parker. “Would she be in legal jeopardy if she came forward and swore that what she'd originally told the investigator was the truth, that Corday had told her on more than one occasion that he wanted to get rid of his wife, that on another occasion he said his wife would be dead soon?”

“I'd like to give it some more thought, Jessica,” Borden said, “but my initial reaction is that if she did that, the new DA would be more than willing to grant her immunity. Besides, the statements she made weren't in court and under oath. I'll get back to you with my definitive answer tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Jacob.”

“No, thank
you
, Jessica. There's nothing more that this judge wants to see than justice being done.”