Murder, She Wrote (4 page)

“I doubt that,” Elovitz said.

“She's very conscientious, you know.”

“I
don't
know.” He glared at the astrologer to stop her from talking. “You may look around. Just don't bother us again, and don't touch anything. It's a hot set. Understand?”

“Of course, Mr. Elovitz,” she replied, straightening her shoulders. “It isn't as if I haven't been on a movie lot before. I know the rules.”

“Then abide by them. You aren't supposed to be in here.”

I thought that Elovitz was being a little harsh with Estelle Fancy. After all, the astrologer was simply looking out for the director's leading lady. Movie stars often have personal assistants who travel with them. Perhaps Miss Fancy doubled as Vera's personal aide. Or if not, maybe her presence was part of the deal to secure Vera's cooperation in the first place. I wondered briefly if the actress was paying the way for her astrologer. Someone surely was.

“What's a ‘hot set'?” Mort asked Elovitz, who frowned as he watched Miss Fancy float ahead of us into the gloom.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You told Miss Fancy not to touch anything because it was a ‘hot set.'”

“That's the location we're already filming in or going to film in next,” Elovitz explained. “Come on. I'll show you.” He escorted us to the last part of the panels, where the red lights ended and a sign on a metal stand had been positioned. I could just make out the words
HOT SET
. Beyond it was the dark, cavernous space of the hangar.

“Let me get the lights and you'll see,” Elovitz said. He walked to an electrical panel and we heard the clicks as he flipped the breakers. One by one, the lights came on—first the overhead spotlights, then the klieg lights on stands, then smaller lights on metal beams above us—not only illuminating the interior of the set but also revealing the cameras, cranes, dollies, and other filmmaking equipment arrayed around the hangar. The lights reflected off the windows of several internal offices on the far side of the huge space. The last switch Elovitz hit turned on the double candlestick lamp with the wide shade that sat on the desk of a room that was eerily familiar.

“Wow!” said Mort, his eyes scanning the set. “That looks just like Judge Borden's office.”

“It certainly does,” I added, marveling that the production designer had been able to find an Oriental rug exactly like Jacob's—or was it?—and his tall leather wing chair. At least I thought it was a wing chair; I could only see the back of it—but wasn't his chair maroon, not red? And there was the little blue-patterned settee Lorraine had found at a tag sale—only the pattern on this one was not exactly the same. The overall impression was that this was Judge Jacob Borden's office, but I realized that while it had been duplicated in spirit, it was not identical to the original.

“The only part missing is the ceiling,” Mort commented.

“We have a small portion of the ceiling in case we need to include it in a shot,” Elovitz said, walking to Mort's side and pointing to where five feet of ceiling jutted out from above the bookcase on the back wall. “This is a hot set. All the furniture and props have been positioned. Nothing can be moved, even an inch, or it will break the continuity.”

“What is this continuity thing?” Mort asked. “I heard you talk about continuity in the trailer—I mean, your office.”

Elovitz smiled. “Continuity is simply keeping everything the same. Let's say the script calls for an actor to put a book on the desk in one scene, and then we break for lunch. That book must be in the exact same position when we come back to resume filming. Otherwise it might confuse the actor—or worse, if we don't catch it, it could distract the viewer.”

“Oh, I get it now,” Mort said.

“Continuity is what Nicole is responsible for. You saw her in my office.”

“Yeah. The lady with the curly hair.”

“Right. She's the script supervisor and I rely on her to make sure the continuity is maintained so . . .” He trailed off, scowling into the scene before him. “But I don't remember the desk chair being turned around.” Elovitz twisted his head from side to side. “Estelle,” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Where are you?”

“Over here, Mr. Elovitz,” the astrologer said, coming from the opposite side of the set.

“I thought I told you not to touch anything in this room.”

“But I haven't, Mr. Elovitz.”

“That chair did not have its back to the camera yesterday when I left this soundstage.”

“I didn't turn it,” the astrologer said. “Maybe someone else did.”

“No one else has been in this building except you.”

“But I only peeked into the set to see if Vera was here. I didn't touch anything.”

“You better be telling the truth, or I'll have you on the next plane out of here.”

“I am telling the truth. Besides, Ms. Stockdale would be very upset if you sent me home.”

“Vera will just have to manage without another reading of the stars. Now, go turn that chair back to the exact position it was in before you stepped into this set.”

Estelle wrung her hands and looked to me and Mort. “I didn't move anything, I swear,” she whispered to us.

“Go!” Elovitz roared, and she tiptoed onto the set, looking back at us nervously.

Elovitz paced. “Nicole is going to have a fit. She'd better have photos of the set as we left it. I'm going to have to look at the rushes to make certain everything is exactly the same.”

“Yeah, your continuity is important,” Mort said.

“I'm sure you'll be able to put it back the way it was,” I said to Elovitz, just as a scream cut through the air.

“What the h—” Elovitz stopped pacing.

Mort and I whirled around.

Estelle Fancy was standing with her hands over her mouth, eyes wide, staring at the chair.

Mort and I rushed to see what had frightened her.

“Don't touch anything!” Elovitz bellowed, racing after us.

Estelle reached out with trembling fingers and pushed the corner of the chair. It slowly swiveled around to reveal Vera Stockdale, dressed in a brocade caftan, her platinum hair concealed under a floral turban, slumped in the seat. Her head leaned crookedly against the wing of the chair, a length of thirty-five-millimeter film tightly wrapped around her neck. Her face was gray.

“Is she—?” Elovitz asked.

Mort put two fingers on Vera's wrist and shook his head.

Estelle wailed.

Elovitz cursed.

But I'd known the moment she'd come into view.

The movie star was dead.

“
W
hat happened to her?” Elovitz asked.

“Looks like she's been strangled,” Mort said. He gently touched Vera's eyes, checking for a response. A low growl and then a sharp bark startled him. “What the heck is that?”

“Ooh, it's Cecil, Vera's dog,” Estelle Fancy said, switching her attention from her employer's body to the sound. She squatted down to peer under the desk. “Come here, Cecil, sweetheart. You poor thing.” She extended a hand toward the dog, but he growled and snapped at her. “Oh, he's never done that before,” she said, pulling her hand away and standing. “You'll have to get him, Sheriff.”

“He's not my first priority,” Mort said, taking a cell phone from his pocket.

“I can't believe it,” Elovitz said, fists on his hips. “We were all set to shoot her big scene. How could this have happened to me?”

“Everyone out,” Mort instructed, waving us away. “This hot set is now a crime scene.”

The three of us retreated to the edge of the set and listened as Mort made his call. “We have an apparent homicide,” he said. “White female, approximate age mid-fifties, about five foot seven. No idea of the weight. She's wearing one of those flowy robes. Possible strangulation. Body discovered at”—he looked at his watch—“fourteen hundred hours at Cabot Cove airfield, hangar one. Send an ambulance to the rear door of the hangar—I'll meet you there. We'll ship her to the hospital morgue. I want a crime scene squad and photographer. Alert the medical examiner. We'll need an autopsy. He's away? Again? Then get Doc Hazlitt. I'll call you later.”

Tears streaming down her face, the astrologer knelt on the floor and called softly, “Here, Cecil. Come here, boy. Sweetie pie, Cecil. Poor puppy.” She sniffled and crept forward on her knees, tapping the floor with her palm, and using a baby voice to entice Vera's dog from his hiding place.

Elovitz took out his phone and pushed his finger up the screen, scanning for a number.

“Who do you think you're calling?” Mort asked.

“Rhonda Chen, my casting director. I've got to get her going on a replacement. If we don't stick to the shooting schedule, our backers will fade away and this film will never get made.”

“Put your phone away,” Mort said sternly. “You can't make any calls now.”

“Don't be silly, Metzger. Didn't you ever hear that the show must go on?”

Mort spaced out his words. “Put . . . the . . . phone . . . away.”

“This is not the time to play Dirty Harry, Sheriff. I've got a movie to make and this . . . um”—he cast around before finding the right words—“unfortunate development isn't going to stop me.”

“Put it away or I'll take it away, and toss you in jail to boot. You're not in charge here anymore.”

“Please listen to the sheriff,” I said. “You can make your call later. Waiting a few hours won't make a difference.”

“A few hours? I can't believe it,” Elovitz said with disgust, but he put the phone in his pocket.

Mort's phone rang and he turned his back on us.

“I knew she was going to be trouble,” Elovitz said, pacing back and forth in front of the set. “Zee was completely freaked out that we were going to work with her—he was psyched—but I told Chattergee she was all wrong for the part, past her prime, too difficult.” He stopped and looked at me. “You know this picture is important to me. It's my chance to go mainstream. The last thing we needed was a prima donna and a condensed shooting schedule. It's a disastrous combination.”

“Then why did you cast her?” I asked.

“She was a name. Besides, he wouldn't make the film without her.”

“Who?”

“Chattergee. He owed her. I don't know what their deal was. He can't stand her, but still he insisted she was the only one to play the role.” Elovitz threw up his hands. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Mort disconnected his call and turned toward us. “They should be here any minute,” he said. “They got tied up directing traffic around the streets that are blocked off.” He scowled at the director. “You realize when my men get here, your continuity is going to be shot to hell,” he said.

“It doesn't matter,” Elovitz said, flapping his arms. “We'll have to reshoot her scenes anyway when we get a new actress for her role. What a mess!”

Mort pulled a pad from his hip pocket. “While we're waiting, let's get some of the facts down for my report.” He looked around. “Where's the other one?”

“Estelle Fancy?” I said.

“Yeah, the lady astrologer. Where is she?”

“She was here a moment ago, trying to coax the dog out from under the desk,” I said.

Mort strode onto the set and ducked his head under the desk. “Gone,” he said. “The dog and the lady.”

“Estelle?” Elovitz shouted. We waited a few seconds, but there was no answer.

“She can't have gone far,” I said, embarrassed that I hadn't noticed the astrologer leave with the dog. “Would you like me to go look for her?”

“No! You two wait here.” Mort pointed at Elovitz. “No phone calls. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Mrs. F., I'm holding you responsible.”

“He won't make any calls, Mort.” I looked at Elovitz. “Please don't make me a liar.”

Mort jogged around to the back of the scenery and we heard the hangar door open and close.

Elovitz walked behind a camera and sank into his director's chair with a big sigh. He pulled out his phone. “I'm not making any calls,” he assured me. “I'm just checking my schedule.”

“No text messages either, please,” I said.

“You have my word.”

I stood at the edge of the set and examined the scene from a distance, a million questions swarming in my mind. There was a slight tang in the air that I found familiar, but I couldn't place it. “How recently was this set painted?” I called out to Elovitz.

“Last week,” he replied, strolling over to stand next to me. “But they probably did touch-ups a few days ago. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Vera's head leaned against the wing of the chair, the film cutting into her neck, but I didn't see any blood. Odd. I would expect the edges of a strip of film to be sharp enough to cut. But her chin angled down toward her chest. Perhaps there was blood but it was hidden by her clothing. The caftan she wore was made of a heavy material in a riot of colors. It was difficult to see if there were stains on it.

I looked at her hands. I didn't see any defensive marks on them. That was odd, too. If someone had sneaked up on her from behind and thrown the film around her neck, surely she would have put her hands up to fight against the pressure of the celluloid on her throat. And was film strong enough to cut off her air supply without tearing? I didn't know. Could someone have approached her from behind without her being aware of it? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps she'd been sleeping in the chair and was caught unawares by the killer. If not, if she'd meant to meet this person, why would she have chosen the set for an assignation? As always in these situations, the mysteries piled up, one upon the other.

The real question was why would someone want to kill Vera Stockdale to begin with? To be sure, she was an unpleasant woman. She was selfish and rude and egotistical. I'd felt the brunt of her temper myself. But there are many disagreeable people in the world and most of them are still walking this earth. A person's being nasty is not usually enough of a reason to inspire someone to do away with her, although it is not unknown for a killer to have a flimsy motivation. How people respond to insults or humiliations varies widely. Vera had likely cut a wide swath with her venomous tongue. How many enemies had she made? Had someone been so incensed by her spiteful remarks that he or she determined to silence her forever?

I'd been so focused on the murder scene in front of me, I was surprised when Elovitz spoke. “You know what's really strange?” he said, as if he'd been weighing all the same questions that had been occupying my thoughts.

“What?”

“Where did that thirty-five-millimeter film come from?”

“Do you mean what's on it?” I asked.

“Yeah, that, too.” He took a step toward the body and I put out an arm to restrain him. “I can't tell from here if it's something that was left on the cutting room floor or if it's just undeveloped film,” he said.

“It's not worth putting your fingerprints on it to find out,” I said. “The detectives should be able to determine its origin.”

“You're right, but maybe what they don't know is that we don't shoot on film anymore, at least most of us don't. That's the peculiar thing. I don't have any film here. Everything is digital. I haven't seen a film camera on a set since my student days. Where did that piece of film come from?”

“Good question,” I said. “Make sure you tell Sheriff Metzger about that.”

“How long do you think he's going to keep my set off-limits?” he asked. “I've got work to do.”

“I couldn't say,” I replied. “This is a crime scene, and he'll need to examine it pretty carefully in case there's evidence here that's not immediately visible. Once you start shooting again, that evidence could be compromised, fingerprints added that weren't there before, items moved. In that case,
his
continuity would be broken.”

“Okay, I get it. Maybe we can make a deal,” Elovitz said. “I'll help him out with the production stuff, and in exchange he speeds up his investigation and lets me get back to shooting on this set.”

We heard a commotion at the hangar's back door and looked up to see two of Mort's deputies entering, pushing a body bag on top of a gurney. They were followed by an evidence technician, who set his case on the floor and proceeded to remove items he would need, snapping on a pair of latex gloves and placing a bundle of cellophane bags to the side. A tray he set on the floor contained, among other items, several pairs of tweezers, scissors, a tape measure, and a magnifying glass. He looked up at the spotlights overhead. “Guess we don't need the high-intensity lights today,” he said, as he pulled out a separate camera bag and a handful of rulers, directing the deputies to place the rulers next to items and within areas he intended to photograph.

While the deputies strung yellow tape across the front of the set, Elovitz and I watched as the crime scene was examined and photographed. Elements from it were preserved in clear bags, each bag and its contents logged on a sheet in the technician's binder.

Mort returned with Seth Hazlitt, who gave me a quick nod before approaching the victim, still sitting in the wing chair. Despite the fact that she was clearly dead, he listened for a heartbeat, checked her eyes with a small flashlight, felt for a pulse, tested the movement of her jaw and hands, and peered down the front of her robe.

“How many hours do you figure, Doc?” Mort asked him.

“Hard to say, but from her condition, at least twelve, probably more. I'll have a better idea once I examine the body.” He waved the evidence technician over. “Did you get photos of her?”

“Yes, sir. From every angle.”

“We can remove the body, then?”

“Just need to bag her hands and she's yours. I'll shoot the chair again when she's off it.”

“Shoot? That's what it is,” I whispered.

“What did you say?” Elovitz asked.

“I remembered what that lingering odor is. It's not paint. It's a little like fireworks, the smell of a gun being fired.”

“I don't smell anything,” Elovitz said.

“That's probably because you smoke cigars.”

“How do you know I smoke cigars?”

“You have one sticking out of your pocket,” I said, pointing. “But even if you didn't, I would know. The smell of smoke clings to your clothing.”

“You've got some nose.”

“So I've been told,” I said.

Seth, who'd been eavesdropping, called out, “And it often goes where it doesn't belong.” He smiled and winked at me.

The tech slipped plastic bags over Vera's hands and secured them with tape. Mort's deputies positioned the gurney next to the wing chair and attempted to lift Vera up and into the body bag. It was not an easy task. The chair kept swinging as they maneuvered her body, prompting Mort to lean against the side of it, trying to keep it motionless.

“I'll want to look at her again when she's lying prone,” Seth said.

Vera was a tall woman, and the voluminous folds of her caftan blocked the deputies' view of the body bag, causing them to place her off-center on the gurney. She almost slipped off the side of it, but they caught her in time and adjusted her position.

“Well, look at this,” Seth said, eyeing the chair.

“What is it?” Mort said.

“Your official report will probably say it's ‘a liquid substance, brownish red in color,' but it looks like blood to me,” Seth said.

“What? Why? Wasn't she strangled?”

“Don't believe so,” Seth said. He leaned over the body and found the zipper of Vera's robe. A moment later, he looked up at Mort and shook his head. “Thought film was a strange item to use to strangle someone, but most likely it's not the murder weapon at all,” he said, tucking the tail end of the film into the body bag. “The lady has been shot,” he announced.

I knew that scent in the air was familiar,
I told myself.
It was gunpowder. So she hadn't been strangled at all. I might have guessed, but I couldn't see the blood on the chair until the body was moved.

Seth straightened and stripped off the gloves he'd worn to examine Vera's body. “Should be able to tell if that's what killed her after I conduct the autopsy.”

“Oh, wow!” Elovitz whispered to me. “This is not good.”