Murder, She Wrote (6 page)

“
D
ead! What do you mean she's dead? I saw her only . . . I saw her . . .” Terrence Chattergee sputtered to a stop. “When did this happen?”

“We just found her body,” Mort said, trying to keep his voice soothing.

“I don't believe it. I want to see her,” Chattergee said, reaching for his jacket, which he'd slung over a chair.

“Hold on,” Mort said, grabbing his arm. “We will want you to identify the body, but not right now. My team is bringing her to the hospital morgue.”

Chattergee collapsed onto a brown leather sofa, his tan face gone ashen. “This is awful,” he managed to say, his voice raspy. “She wouldn't talk to me for years. I finally found a role for her, and she was so excited about this film. What am I going to do? What am I going to tell my daughter?”

Mort and I were going down the list he'd gotten from Elovitz. Mort wanted to be able to inform certain individuals himself to control how the news of the murder was communicated. And also, I suspected, to gauge the reactions of those supposedly first learning of Vera Stockdale's death.

Terrence Chattergee had been on a conference call to the coast when we knocked at the door of his trailer. “Can't you see I'm busy?” he'd shouted, flinging open his door. “I'm talking to California, Mrs. Fletcher. Come back later.”

“I'm afraid not,” Mort had replied, slapping his hand on the door to keep it open. Perhaps the sheriff's uniform and grim expression tipped off the producer to the seriousness of our visit. He'd ended the call and invited us inside.

Chattergee's trailer was four times as large as the one Estelle Fancy occupied, and in addition to the sofa, had a curved red leather banquette and three matching side chairs—sufficient seating to accommodate a good-sized meeting. In the center was a round table with the speakerphone Chattergee had been using when we'd interrupted him.

“I can't believe it,” the producer said, shielding his eyes with his hand and moaning. “How did she die?” he asked. “She was as strong as an ox, exercised every day, ate carefully. Used to drive me crazy with her strict diets. Did she have a heart attack?”

Mort gave me a little nod.

“We're not certain yet,” I said, sitting down next to Chattergee and resting my hand on his arm, “but we don't believe she died of natural causes.”

Chattergee's head came up sharply. “What are you saying?”

“I know this is hard to hear,” I replied, “but someone killed her.”

“No!” Chattergee roared. He jumped up, then sat down again. “Who? Why? How? Why would anyone want to kill Vera?” He smacked his forehead with his hand and snorted. “What a question to ask! She was impossible. But still, who would take it this far?”

“That's what we're hoping you can help us with,” Mort said. “Ms. Stockdale was found sitting in the wing chair on the set in the hangar. Did she happen to tell you who she was planning to meet there?”

“No! I have no idea,” he said, clearly trying to get his emotions under control. He coughed and took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his lips. “On the set, did you say?” He cleared his throat. “That was a hot set. No one is supposed to go on that set until the call. When can I see her?”

“Probably later this afternoon,” Mort said. “There's going to be an autopsy to determine the cause of death.”

Chattergee's expression changed from dismay to anger. “But if you don't know how she died, how can you say someone killed her?”

“There was a bullet hole in her chest,” Mort said.

Chattergee suddenly sat back, his hand over his heart, as if he'd been the one who'd been shot. “Oh! Dear God! Poor Vera.”

“Are you all right?” I asked. “Would you like us to call a doctor for you?”

“No. No. I'll be okay. Just a glass of water, if you wouldn't mind.” He gestured at the maple kitchen built into the space across from the conference table.

I opened several cabinets before finding the glasses. The full-sized stainless-steel refrigerator held a dozen bottles of water. I poured some into a glass.

“Thank you,” he said when I handed him the tumbler. “This is such a shock.”

“May I ask when you saw Ms. Stockdale last?”

“I'm not supposed to be here,” Chattergee said, sipping the water. “I only came east to make sure everything was going well. When did I see her? Last night, when I got in.”

“And what kind of mood was she in?” Mort asked.

“She was a bit tense, but that's normal for her.”

“Where did you see her?” I asked.

“Right here.”

“Here in this trailer?”

“Yes, of course.”

“She came to see you here?” Mort said.

“Yes. She was waiting for me.”

“What time was that?”

“I don't know, nine o'clock maybe. She was upset about”—he waved his hand to the side—“who knows?”

“You don't recall what upset her?” I asked.

“Something was always bugging her. That's Vera.”

“Did she ever complain that someone was stalking her?” Mort asked. “Like a deranged fan?”

“No, but she hadn't been in a film in some years. We were hoping to develop a new fan base—not a crazy one, of course.”

“It would be helpful if you could remember something specific she may have said to you,” I said. “Did she have an argument with someone?”

“No.”

“Was she annoyed with someone or something?”

Chattergee raised one eyebrow as he looked at me. “She was
always
annoyed. She was a complainer, never satisfied. That's hardly news.”

“Try to remember what she said,” Mort urged.

Chattergee raised a hand to stop the questions. “Give me a second.” He scratched his forehead and frowned. “I think it was the note she found in her trailer, something cryptic.”

“What do you mean ‘cryptic'?” I asked.

“Yeah, what does ‘cryptic' mean?” Mort echoed.

“It was a reference to something from the past. I didn't read it, but it disturbed her.”

“Did she have the note with her when she came to your trailer?” Mort asked.

Chattergee shook his head and sighed. “I don't know. I was getting ready to go out again. Now I wish I'd paid more attention. I dismissed it, told her she was always making mountains out of molehills, that some idiot probably wanted to spook her and that if she allowed that to happen, the idiot would probably do it again.”

“You say you were getting ready to go out. Where did you go?” Mort asked.

“Elovitz hosted a poker game,” Chattergee said.

“That's easy enough to check,” Mort said. “I'll ask him about that.”

“Ask him?” He glared at Mort. “Go ahead, ask him. You think
I
had anything to do with Vera's murder? That's ridiculous! I'm the grieving husband.”

Ex-husband,
I silently amended. But I could see Chattergee working himself into a froth and tried to distract him.

“Do you play poker often?” I asked. “Is that something people routinely do on a movie lot?”

“Well, not so often at the studio,” Chattergee replied, “although it's not unheard of.” A small smile crossed his lips. “But we're on location. In the boonies. No offense, but this isn't exactly Hollywood and Vine. There's not a lot of entertainment available. So, sure, we entertain ourselves playing poker.”

“Did you win?” I asked.

Chattergee chuckled. “Took home a bit of cash. They're novices, those boys.”

“Who else was with you at the poker game?” I asked. Off to my right, I could see Mort taking notes.

“Elovitz—he's the director—Walt Benson, the actor, and Jason Griffin, the DP, the director of photography, a few others. I don't know all their names.”

“What time did you get back from the poker game?” Mort put in.

“Must've been around two.” He looked at Mort.

“And Ms. Stockdale wasn't here?”

“No. She'd gone back to her trailer. At least I assume that's where she went.”

“And you didn't see her after that?” Mort asked.

Chattergee shook his head.

“The men you played cards with, were they with you the whole time?” I asked.

“I guess. I mean, someone might've taken a break, gone out for a smoke or something, you know what I mean. I was focusing on the cards, not on them.” He looked from me to Mort. “Anything else?”

Mort closed his notepad and put it back in his pocket. “Not for the moment. Mrs. F., you got any more questions?”

“Would you mind showing us her trailer?” I asked.

“Vera's trailer? Sure.”

He rose slowly from the sofa and stopped at the kitchen to place his glass in the sink. “Can't believe it,” he muttered.

Vera's trailer was next to the one her ex-husband used on his visits. It wasn't locked, and I wondered if that was typical. Certainly it's not unusual to find doors unlocked in Cabot Cove. People in small towns tend to be careless about their security. But for an actress from Los Angeles, it seemed strange.

“Did Vera always leave her trailer open?” I asked.

“She did. She was careless, kept losing her keys, so she stopped carrying them. She said it wasn't a problem. There are always a lot of the crew walking around. She tended to trust them.”

Vera's trailer was the same size as Chattergee's and similarly kitted out, except for the fabrics. In his, the upholstery was leather; in Vera's it was velvet with silk throw pillows. His quarters had been pristine; hers looked more lived-in. There was a bottle of dishwashing soap next to the empty sink and a tray of medicine bottles on the counter, mostly vitamin supplements. A saucer held a pair of earrings. On the floor were two bowls for the dog.

Chattergee picked up a sweater that had been left on her sofa, held it to his nose, and closed his eyes. Then he folded it and replaced it on the seat. “As you can see, there isn't much here,” he said, “but then, I don't know what you're looking for.”

“The note, if she left it here,” Mort said.

“May we see her bedroom?” I asked.

Chattergee walked down the hall, opened the door to Vera's bedroom, and stepped back to allow us to enter. It was a tight space but lavishly furnished, with a green silk coverlet on the bed over a pleated jacquard bed skirt in green and white. A stool upholstered in the same fabric stood in front of a dressing table, which held a pair of open boxes of makeup and creams, a woman's wig on a stand, and a hair dryer, the cord plugged in. Above the dressing table was a mirror framed with lights. A chiffon robe with feathered collar and cuffs had been draped over a chair piled with throw pillows. Several photographs of Vera during different times in her career were taped to the sides of the mirror. I studied them. One showed a younger Vera holding a dog, either a young Cecil or his predecessor. A little girl with dark hair leaned into Vera's leg, a shy expression on her face.

Chattergee pointed to the photo. “I took that one,” he said. “Happier times.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “This must be very difficult for you.”

“Difficult on many levels, and sad.” He walked out of the room.

Mort and I gave the room a fast once-over, but we didn't find a note. “I'll have the team come through and do a more thorough search,” he said.

We found Chattergee sitting on Vera's couch, holding her sweater. “Is there anything else you need from me? I have to call California again.”

“We'll leave you alone in a few minutes,” I said.

“We need to know about the guns,” Mort said.

“What guns?”

“Exactly,” Mort said. “Are there any people in the production who carry guns, whether they're licensed or not?”

Chattergee shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable. “I'm not sure, but there could be some people who are armed,” he said.

Mort and I glanced at each other briefly. His expression was as surprised as I was sure mine was. “Why would people working on a movie carry guns?” Mort asked.

“The studio doesn't provide us with security. It's a matter of cost, extra personnel, extra expenses. I don't work it into the budget, either. But occasionally there are incidents. There are a lot of nuts in the world.” He shook his head. “I told Vera she should carry one, too.”

“Maybe you should have told her to lock her door instead,” Mort said.

“Do you have a gun?” I asked.

“I do.” Chattergee leaned over and tugged up the cuff of his pants to reveal an ankle holster.

“Can I see that?” Mort said. There was only one answer to his question.

Chattergee unsnapped the holster and handed Mort his silver-and-black palm-sized gun. “It's a Beretta Bobcat,” he said. “Small, lightweight. I'm licensed to carry.”

Mort sniffed the barrel. “Did you fire it recently?”

“Only at the range.”

“When was that?”

“Probably the day before I left California.”

“How do you load it?” Mort asked, holding the barrel and giving him back the pistol, butt end first.

“It's a little tricky,” Chattergee said, demonstrating as he spoke. “It has this tip-up feature on the barrel so you can load the chamber without having to move the slide. But the thing is, instead of ejecting the casing to the side like most semiautomatics, the spent casing shoots up over your head. It's a bit awkward.” He slipped out a bullet and showed it to Mort.

“May I have that?” Mort asked, taking out a handkerchief.

“Sure. Figured you'd want one. I didn't shoot my wife, Sheriff. But you go ahead and compare bullets.”

“Is there any way we can get a list of everyone who has a gun?” Mort asked, tucking the handkerchief with the bullet into his breast pocket.