Reel Murder (7 page)

Jeff peered at Adriana and bent down to touch her neck. He yanked his hand back as if he’d been tasered. “Hank! Get an ambulance. There’s something wrong. She’s unconscious. I’m not even sure she’s breathing.”

“What the devil—” Hank began, but Maisie leapt out of the chair before any of us could react and raced down to the water’s edge. By the time Hank and I reached her, Maisie had grabbed Adriana’s wrist and then placed two fingers on her throat. She kept her fingers there for a long time and then slowly looked up at us, her face pale in the harsh sunlight.

I noticed that a dark red patch was spreading from Adriana’s chest to her collarbone—a concealed packet of fake blood, I decided. They call them squibs in the movie business. The actor presses her hand to her chest and the thin plastic packet explodes, leaking blood everywhere. The blood looked frighteningly real as it trickled down her neck and then spilled onto the grayish sand around the pond.

“Hank—” Maisie said, as he knelt down next to Adriana in the sand. I noticed her eyes were blurring with tears and her voice was trembling. “She’s unconscious. I think . . . I think she’s dead.”

For a moment, no one moved.

All of us just stood there, frozen in place, like a freeze-frame from one of Hank’s movies. Then everything seemed to happen at once. Maisie yanked out her cell phone and dialed 911, the AD came rushing over with a beach towel, which he insisted on putting under Adriana’s head, and Hank Watson turned an unflattering shade of ash gray. He was still kneeling on the beach, and he covered his eyes with his hand for a moment.

“They’re on their way,” Maisie said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “We should probably put up a screen, or at least keep people from gawking.”

Hank looked up then, just as the extras and techies were edging forward, caught up in the real-life drama playing out on the shoreline. “You’re right, Maisie.” He stood up, suddenly back in control. “Jesse,” he yelled to the AD, “get some rope lines set up and keep everyone as far back as possible.” He turned to a pair of production assistants. “Take my Jeep,” he said, throwing them the keys. “Go to the north entrance to the pond, where we came in. Watch for the ambulance, so you can wave them over here.”

I was surprised at how cool he was under pressure.

“The blood,” I whispered to Maisie. “That’s fake blood, it comes in one of those little packets, right?” I realized that I hadn’t seen Adriana press her hand to her chest to break open the packet. Either she had done it surreptitiously, or the packet had exploded when she fell to the sand.

Maisie bit her lip and shook her head. “No,” she said in a strangled voice. “We didn’t bother using squibs in this scene because we were going to use a long shot. The audience would see Adriana’s face in a tight close-up and then a long shot of two figures from a distance, and then it would . . . fade to black.”

Fade to black
. How ironic.

Adriana already looked very dead, even though only a few minutes had passed. Her skin had taken on a telltale bluish-gray tinge and her jaw looked slack.

“So it’s real blood?” I was struggling to keep my voice on an even keel. I felt a lump the size of a walnut moving slowly up my throat and I swallowed hard. My nerves were jangled and my thoughts were scattering in a million directions. I’d run into a lot of unsettling things in my practice, but seeing death up close is always unnerving.

“I’m afraid so,” she said quietly. “Adriana was shot. But how?”

She stared up at Jeff, who looked shell-shocked, still holding the gun, his right arm hanging limply at his side.

“I think you should put the gun down,” I said quickly. Hank started to reach for it, and I stopped him. “Evidence,” I reminded him. “The fewer people who touch it, the better.”

“It can’t be loaded,” Jeff said slowly. “That’s impossible. It’s a prop gun.” He stared at the shiny barrel, bewildered. “I’ve used these a dozen times.” His voice was flat, robotic, like that of someone playing an android in a sci-fi flick.
Shock
, I decided.

He laid the gun carefully on the beach towel, just as an ambulance came tearing across the beach followed by two black-and-whites with lights flashing and sirens screaming. Half of Cypress Grove would know something had happened at Branscom Pond today. The other half would find out tonight on the six o’clock news. Cyrus would be over the moon; Adriana’s death would be a ratings bonanza.

I wondered if Nick Harrison had already left the set and headed back to the Gazette offices. He must have, I decided, or he’d be here with his notebook, angling for an exclusive. And where was Mom?

“They didn’t know the gun was loaded,” Mom said in a cheesy, movie-trailer voice, “until the star ended up dead!”

It was half an hour later, and all of us were on edge. Cops were swarming over the set, just like this was an episode of
CSI
; crime scene tape had been put up; and Adriana’s lifeless body had been whisked away by the medical examiner.

Mom waited a beat (perhaps expecting a smattering of applause) and then looked around the makeup trailer where the Cypress Grove PD had gathered us for interrogations. They had immediately divided us up into groups, and I was sitting with Maisie, Mom, and Jesse, the AD. I glanced at my watch. I had to leave the set in exactly forty-five minutes, or I’d be late for my afternoon radio show.

I knew that Hank Watson and Jeff were stashed away somewhere in another trailer. And no one was allowed to leave the set. All the grips, the principals, the extras, and the crew members had to be interviewed. The police would record their names and addresses along with their whereabouts at the time of Adriana’s death.

And of course the Big Question: who had a reason to kill her? This was the time for all the professional jealousies, petty feuds, and long-standing grudges to float to the surface, like the algae on the surface of Branscom Pond.

A monumental task, but I knew this was standard police procedure and I wondered which detective would be assigned to see us.

I caught myself wondering if it would be Detective Rafe Martino, and my heart did an annoying little flip-flop. Rafe and I have had an on-again, off-again relationship since I solved a murder case a couple of months ago. A New Age guru was poisoned after he appeared on my WYME talk show, and I had to step in to clear my roommate’s name.

Rafe and I have an ongoing argument whether forensic psychology (which he calls psychobabble) trumps good solid detective work. Our relationship is like a rubber band, sometimes stretching far apart, sometimes springing back together, always quivering with tension. Maybe that’s what keeps it so exciting.

“Lola, please,” Maisie said imploringly. “Maybe it would be better if we don’t talk at all.” She looked pale and shaken as she sat twisting her hands nervously in her lap.

“Accident . . . or murder?” Lola continued in a sepulchral tone. “You decide.” She paused. “I think I like that one better, actually. I can see that line scrolling across the screen before the opening credits, can’t you? As the great John Gielgud used to say, ‘less is more.’ ”

I sighed. Mom is incorrigible. She can never resist being the center of attention, even when she’s in the middle of a murder investigation. Less than an hour had passed since Adriana’s death and she was already caught up in the drama of it all.

“Maybe that nice young man will be assigned to us,” she said with an overly bright smile. As usual, her uncanny mental radar was kicking in, and she seemed to be reading my mind. “Detective Martino. Maggie solved a crime for him once before. He’s handsome enough to be a film star,” she said to no one in particular. “With the right agent and the right property, he could go far. Look at Dennis Farina. One day he’s a Chicago cop and the next day he’s a movie star.”

At that very moment, the nice young man appeared in person. All six feet of hunky detective, looking like a million bucks. He was wearing a crisp white shirt that showed off his Florida tan, and his dark hair was boyishly falling over one eye. He wears it a little long, at least compared with other cops I’ve known, but maybe detectives have more leeway.

He closed the trailer door behind him and scanned the room. A little smile played around the corners of his mouth when he saw me, softening his chiseled features and adding to his attractiveness.

“Dr. Walsh,” he said formally. “Ms. Walsh,” he added, spotting Lola.

“Detective,” Lola chirped, flashing a saucy smile.

Rafe had just finished introducing himself and explaining that he and his colleague were going to ask a few questions when there was a timid knock on the metal door. Opie walked in. He banged his head on the low door frame and instantly turned beet red. I glanced at Rafe’s exasperated face and stifled a laugh.

Opie is my nickname for Officer Duane Brown, a fresh-faced, gangly cop who looks about twelve years old in his blue serge uniform. He could have stepped straight off of Aunt Bea’s front porch in Mayberry.

“Officer Brown will interview”—Rafe paused to look at his notes—“Maisie Curtis. Along with Jesse Hamilton.” He turned to Opie. “Miss Curtis is the script supervisor. She saw the shooting. Mr. Hamilton is the assistant director. You can interview them both next door at the production office. Room B is available. Just get the background information. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Rafe waited until they were gone before he pulled up a chair and sat down facing us. “Okay, Maggie, what’s going on here?” He whipped out a notebook, pen poised, a cool look of appraisal on his face. For a moment, I was distracted by the golden flecks in his dark eyes and the sexy curve of his mouth.

“It was awful!” Mom interjected. “To think of such a young life being cut short like that. It’s a tragedy, that’s what it is. Poor Adriana. She had her whole career ahead of her.” She paused theatrically. “Do you think I should offer to write her eulogy for
Access Hollywood
? Nancy O’Dell can’t possibly know all the inside details I do about Adriana’s life and career. I need to get Edgar on this right away. Edgar is my new agent.” She shot another flirty smile at Rafe.

“Did you happen to see the shooting, Ms. Walsh?” Rafe cut in smoothly. If he let Mom trip down memory lane, talking about the glory days in Hollywood, we’d be here all day.

Mom hedged, crossing and uncrossing her legs, just like Sharon Stone in
Basic Instinct
. At age fifty-eight, she has remarkably good legs and knows it. “Well, not exactly. Not up close, I mean.”

“How close were you to the shooting?” Rafe asked. “A few feet away? A few yards away?”

“Well, I’m not very good at judging distances,” she began but I jumped in.

“Mom, for heaven’s sake, you were back in Wardrobe; you said so yourself.” I looked at Rafe. “She didn’t see the shooting, but I did,” I said quickly. “I saw the whole thing. I was sitting right next to Maisie and Hank Watson when it happened. It took place while they were filming, you know. So at least there’s a record of it.”

Rafe nodded. “We’ve already requisitioned all the dailies to be turned in to us.” The dailies are the raw footage that’s shot every day, before any editing is done. “Okay, let’s start over.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and locked eyes with me. “From the top.”

There was a coiled readiness in his posture and a watchful, alert look in his dark eyes. You could practically feel the tension rippling off him. He reminded me of a panther, ready to spring. I never could decide if that was because he was a cop or it was just part of his personality style.

“You said you were watching the filming, Maggie. Were you expecting the actor who was the shooter—” He paused, riffling through his notes.

“Jeff Walker,” Mom volunteered.

Rafe blinked at the interruption. “Jeff Walker. Were you expecting him to discharge a firearm?”

“Well, I suppose I was. It was written right in the stage directions. Jeff pulls out a gun. You can see it in Maisie’s copy of the script.” Rafe leaned back to make a note.

“Had you seen the gun prior to the actor drawing it and firing it?”

“No, never. I think he had it tucked into the waistband of his slacks.”

He glanced at Mom. “Did you see the gun? Anywhere on the set before the shooting?”

She shook her head. “I never go near the props. They keep them locked up, you know; they don’t want anyone tampering with them.” She put her hand to her mouth, her blue eyes wide with shock. “Ohmigod, is that what happened? Someone tampered with the prop gun? But how could that be? They don’t even shoot bullets.”

“That’s what we’re investigating,” Rafe said. “We’re sending it to ballistics for analysis.”

“Lola, I need to know something. What was your relationship with the deceased?”

“My relationship with her was complicated,” she said primly. I nearly giggled.
Complicated? Think of a mongoose and a snake
. “We go back a long way,” she admitted. “But I suppose that’s true of everyone on the set. Hank tends to use the same actors over and over, so most of us had worked with Adriana in the past.”

“Interesting.” Rafe made a note. I tried to lean over to read it, but he was too fast for me, and quickly moved the notebook out of my line of vision.

“Maggie? How about you?”

“I just met her for the first time today. No, wait,” I corrected myself. “That’s not quite true. Adriana said she remembered meeting me in Hollywood. Years ago.”

“But you had no real relationship with her? No reason to dislike her?”

I hesitated. Everyone disliked Adriana. “I didn’t have any feelings toward her, one way or the other.”

We answered all the standard questions for the next few minutes, and when Rafe realized we really didn’t have anything valuable to contribute, he let us go. I bounded out of the trailer, eager to get back to WYME, and nearly collided with a dead ringer for Silvio Dante, the character Steven Van Zandt plays on
The Sopranos
. He was wearing a pinstripe suit, his hair was styled in a heavily lacquered pompadour, and he sported a pinkie ring. I almost hit him with the trailer door, but he brushed aside my apology.