Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (14 page)

Curious, he went to his computer and searched for Coach bags and found the one he’d seen Marianna carrying. Pricey was right. He hoped Angie wouldn’t want one for Christmas. He printed out the picture of Marianna’s purse and brought it to Titch. “Next shift, or anyone coming in, have them on the lookout for a bag like this. Could be in a Dumpster, or ditched at the side of the road. Or, someone decided to keep it. It’s an expensive bag, so if it doesn’t match the person carrying it, it’s worth a second look.”

“We can’t stop a citizen for a mismatched wardrobe,” Titch said.

“I didn’t say stop them, just watch them. It’s a long shot, but finding that purse might give us more leads.”

Titch gave Gordon a quick twitch of the lips, which for him was a full-blown grin, and Gordon realized he’d been privy to a rare joke from his no-nonsense officer. He laughed. “Good one, Titch.”

He wandered to the war room via the breakroom where he bought a candy bar from the vending machine. As the bar clunked into the tray, Gordon suffered a flash of guilt, since he’d already had a candy bar today. What the hell. He figured he’d had a full meal at lunch, which should have covered all the vital food groups, and dinner might be a long way off. Besides, this one was full of peanuts, and peanuts were food, not candy, right?

Rationalizing again, aren’t you. You want a damn candy bar, so eat it
.

Munching, he added his notes about Marianna’s purse, and contemplated the word
Laptop
written next to it. Had anyone ever seen Marianna’s laptop? She hadn’t had one with her when she’d met him at Daily Bread. He remembered her using her tablet and phone to look things up. Was that enough for her when she was on location? If her tablet had Internet access, it was almost as good as a laptop. And smart phones were miniature computers, after all.

Time to have another look.

Solomon hadn’t finished cross-referencing all the calls in Marianna’s phone yet, so Gordon sent the spreadsheet to his office computer. Laptops were better than tablets and smart phones, but he still preferred his monitor, full-sized keyboard, and a mouse instead of a touchpad. Technological advances were great, but why did they have to make everything smaller?

Settled in at his desk, he grabbed his readers so he could decipher the numbers on the cell phone. He plugged the last number—the one Solomon had been working on before they’d been interrupted—into the database. It came back to an Edna Mae Withers, who lived in Riverside, California. Friend? Coworker? Telemarketer? The call had lasted under two minutes. Gordon poked around more databases. Edna Mae was an eighty-two year old woman, retired. Nothing in the criminal databases. Was she a relative, but not the
in case of emergency
kind? He set that one aside.

Marianna’s voicemail history said no recent messages. Did she delete those the way she apparently wiped out texts? You’d think, in her business, she’d want records of everything. Or was it the other way around? No records of any conversations, so nothing could come back and bite her. Of course, the people she messaged and texted might have records on their phones, but unless Gordon knew who they were, those records wouldn’t be easy to find.

Then again, nothing on a cell phone was really deleted. The geeks would be able to ferret it out if it came to that.

His call to Ian Patrick went straight to voicemail. Gordon left a
Please call
message, and jotted a note to follow up if he hadn’t heard from the man.

He was about to tackle the smart side of Marianna’s cell phone when his direct line rang. Caller ID said it was Solomon, and Gordon snatched up the receiver. “What do you have, Ed?”

“Maybe a lead.”

Lead. One of the best words he’d heard all day, even with the
maybe
in front of it. Gordon’s heart thumped as he reached for a pen. “Shoot. What did she say?”

“It’s not
what
she said, which wasn’t much. It’s what the docs said.”

“Didn’t we have this chat about getting to the point once already? I know you love adding that touch of drama, but I’m that much closer to having my last thread of patience for the day snapped.”

“All right, be a spoilsport. The doc said when she was admitted, her heart rate was wonky. That wasn’t the term he used—he said something about elongated intervals on the QT. At least that’s what I thought he said. Only way to spot it is with an EKG. Bottom line, it’s not normal, although some people have it from birth. Yolanda denied having any history of those QT things. Otherwise, it’s often connected to drug overdoses.”

“Did Yolanda have a history of taking drugs? Was she on any medications that would have caused that?”

“She said absolutely not. Of course, if she was taking illegal drugs, and was talking to a cop, that’s what she would have said. But the doc said she wasn’t showing any signs of prolonged drug use, and I had my BS meter tuned high, and she didn’t move the needle. I believe her.”

“So, we’re going with someone gave her a drug that led to a wonky heart rate?” Gordon said.

“We? I don’t know about you, but I sure am. I sat with her, talked to her. Listened to her. She’s been married to the same man for over twenty-five years. Three kids, and a brand new granddaughter. Her eyes could illuminate the seventeenth level of a silver mine, the way they light up when she talks about them. She’s no user, and definitely not suicidal.”

“The doc give you any suggestions or ideas as to what would have caused it?”

“He gave me a list of possibilities. They’re going to run screens to see if they can find any of them, and then once they know for sure there won’t be any other complications, they’ll let her go home.”

“I want that list. I’ll send it to Asel. Maybe they’ll find the same thing in Marianna.”

“I’ll get the doc to write them down, and I’ll send it to you. Having to spell or pronounce things like that is above my pay grade. And, speaking of Marianna, you still want me to go to the autopsy?”

Gordon heard the eagerness in Solomon’s voice. “Yep. What did Yolanda say about meeting Marianna? Who called who?”

Solomon’s voice lowered, his tone dead serious. “She said she was totally unaware that Marianna had been in the wardrobe RV. She never called her.”

“Wait. You’re saying Yolanda left the RV
before
Marianna got there? You have a time?” Gordon felt the window narrowing.

“She left a little after seven-thirty. She’d dressed everyone who needed dressing, and was heading to the set to be ready for any wardrobe malfunctions—that’s my term, not hers, by the way. She said she felt a little dizzy, disoriented, and decided to take the long way around to clear her head. That’s the last thing she remembers until she woke up in the clinic.”

“So, we have her testimony that Marianna hadn’t been in the trailer before seven-thirty, and Mai found her at seven fifty-two.”

“The wrinkle I see,” Solomon said, “is that if this was a case of poisoning, and they were both given the same drug, it probably isn’t the sort where death—or, noticeable symptoms—are immediate. So, it could have been administered somewhere else, and well outside the window we’ve been looking at.”

“Which means we’re going to have to find out if they were together at all, and when. Or if they ate or drank the same thing. Did the doc give you any idea how long it might have taken between ingesting the drug and feeling the effects?”

“We don’t even know for sure whether it was ingested. What if it was injected?”

“Did the docs find any needle marks on Yolanda?”

“I’ll ask.”

“You do that, and at the autopsy tomorrow, maybe Asel will get answers from Marianna.”

“You think one got the drug in food or drink, and the other was injected with it? That sounds like two different MOs, and aren’t you the one who’s always shooting down my theory of a deadbeat dad serial killer because there have been too many methods of killing?”

“You’re right. Ask the doc to check, get back to me if he finds needle marks, or if Yolanda remembers anything like a pinprick—maybe she thought it was an insect bite—and then you can call it a night. We’ll meet here at oh six-hundred, go over any new developments.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Consider yourself off the clock.”

Gordon couldn’t say the same for himself. The beginning of a case was vital, and he needed to get his ducks in parade formation. He stared at the monitor, at his legal tablet, and his phone. He dialed a number he knew by heart, and wished he didn’t. And that Caller ID wouldn’t identify him. After two rings, Tyler Colfax picked up.

“Ready for real help from the big guys, Hepler? Not just increased manpower?”

Gordon ignored the jibe. “Manner of death hasn’t been determined, so this is still unofficial. Thought I’d pick your brain—that is, if there’s anything left to pick.”

“I can always spare a few brain cells for Mapleton’s finest. Things okay with your vision?”

Although Gordon had never mentioned it to him, Colfax had heard about Gordon’s issues with Central Serous Retinopathy last winter. But the man was a detective, a good one, and Gordon wasn’t surprised that he’d found out. “Yeah. Surgery took care of it. Good as new.”

“Glad to hear it. Would hate to have to be leading you around at crime scenes—not that I don’t do it already.”

“Are you done?” Gordon asked.

“Never, but go ahead. What do you need?”

Assuming Colfax had been following the news, Gordon gave him a sketchy outline of the case, knowing the detective would ask questions if he needed more information. “So, things are leaning toward someone administering a drug that affected the heart rhythms of two people that we’re aware of. One died, one’s in the clinic.”

“Which would mean you’ve got one homicide, one attempted.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ve been wanting an excuse to get to Mapleton. Brain picking works for me. You still seeing that cute blonde? The one who makes the best damn cinnamon rolls in the county.”

“Yes, and it’s probably the best damn cinnamon rolls in the state, not just the county.”

“Well, if she’s taken, I understand you’ve got hot movie people there, too.”

Gordon realized he’d have to find a way to keep the production in Mapleton long enough to pursue this new line of questioning. Damn.

“Autopsy is tomorrow, but I’m getting a list of possible drugs that might have caused the symptoms in our living victim, to see if they’ll find traces in our dead woman.”

“You have any suspects?” Colfax asked.

“If I did, why would I be calling you?”

Gordon let Colfax know that he and Solomon were going to go over things the next morning, and the detective—after requesting that cinnamon rolls be included—agreed to join them. Figuring that was as good an excuse as any to call Angie, Gordon picked up the phone.

“Of course,” she said to his request. “Want me to send over enough for the morning shift at the station? Mr. Dawson’s going to be holding a meeting of everyone here at eight, so I’ll be cooking for them, too.” She paused. “He’s paying me extra—a
lot
extra—for catering. And that’s on top of what he’s paying to use the diner.”

“Did he change his mind about filming those scenes?” Gordon asked.

“He’s left everything according to what he’d previously set up for using the dining room, so I assume everything will move ahead as planned. I get rent, so to speak, plus more to cover the loss of business because I’m closed. We don’t make as much money in a day as he’s paying, but then, he’s ordering a lot more food than we serve in a day, so I guess it’s reasonable. I’ll have to run numbers to be sure, but I can’t see how we’re not going to come out ahead—way ahead.” Another pause. “Will I see you tonight?”

Staying over at Angie’s would cut out a lot of driving time.

You’re rationalizing again, Hepler
.

“If it’s all right with you. I know you have to get up early.”

Angie giggled. “Which I would do whether or not you’re here.”

“I don’t want to keep you up late tonight, though. I might not get done here for a while yet.”

“You have a key. If it gets late, I won’t wait up.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll try not to wake you.”

“Don’t try too hard. Gotta go. See you later.”

You are one lucky man, Gordon Hepler
.

Gordon’s email dinged an incoming. Solomon’s list of possible drugs. Would Asel get results faster than the clinic? Or should Gordon wait until they found out which, if any, had been given to Yolanda?

Let Asel decide which was more efficient. Gordon had no clue how those tests worked, and if one test would search for all the drugs, or if they’d each have to be run separately. He forwarded the list to Asel, and left a message on his voicemail alerting him they were coming. “Ed Solomon will be attending the autopsy, so give him a heads-up as to the time.” He left Solomon’s number, then added “and given this new information, if you can move her up the line, it’ll make things easier for all, since our likeliest suspects are the Seesaw people, and they’ll be leaving soon.”

He went back to searching through Marianna’s cell phone. This was way out of his comfort zone. He hardly used his for more than phone calls, texts, although if he was away from the office too long, he
might
check his email. He had an admin—and a damn good one—to keep him up to speed.

Did Marianna have an assistant? Dawson hadn’t mentioned one, and with Marianna out of the picture, you’d think an assistant would have filled the void. Dawson had said they were working with the equivalent of a skeleton crew for the Mapleton location. But what about back at the studio? Would there be backups of whatever it was Marianna did? And, they still hadn’t confirmed whether or not Marianna had a laptop with her. Surely, if she had one with her, Dawson would know.

He called the director. “Who’s going to take over Marianna’s role? Does she have an assistant?”

“Assistant?” Dawson said. “Yeah, I’m sure she had at least one. Let me think for a minute.” After a prolonged silence, Dawson came back on the line. “At a time like this, I think you need to go above her, not beneath her. Ultimately, the studio’s in control, and you should go through channels.”

Gordon wondered whether Dawson had been in touch with the studio while Gordon had effectively been put on hold. “Can you give me the name and number I need, please? And a direct line. I don’t want to play the telephone tree game.”

“I’m not sure he’ll like—”

“Let’s remember, I’m the police, and this is an active investigation into the death of one of his employees. He’ll have to talk to me, so give me the number.”

Another pause. Did Dawson have the studio on a separate line? Was he conferring? Or looking up the number? Dawson returned. “Ethan Lang is who you want,” and he rattled off a phone number, as if he were daring Gordon to ask him to repeat it.