Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (25 page)

“But you thought enough of it to tell your sister,” Solomon said. “Again, we’re not accusing anyone of anything. We’re collecting information, and the more we have, the faster we’re able to piece things together. It works both ways. Getting the whole picture lets us eliminate people, too.”

“How about it?” Gordon said. “Let us know what might have been unusual, and we can get out of your hair.”

Lyla sighed. “The other day, when Flo and I were serving breakfast.” She paused. “That’s our busiest time. Between cooking, serving, and clearing, we don’t get beyond the kitchen and the dining room. Our guests had been discussing the fall colors.” Another pause. “I went to the living room for our photo album. A man was getting up from the sofa. I asked him if I could help him.” She paused again. “I got shifty vibes from him.”

“You never said that.” Flo furrowed her brow at her sister. “All of a sudden, the cops are here, and you’re getting shifty vibes?”

“To borrow an expression,” Gordon said, “just the facts.”

Lyla fingered her braid. “The facts.” She continued with her recitation, speaking in slow, direct sentences, pausing between each, as if reading from a list. “The man said he was here to speak with the actors. He didn’t say about what. I didn’t ask. I asked his name. He said it was Lionel Dawson. I asked him to wait a minute while I made sure our guests were willing to see him. I wasn’t gone more than thirty seconds. They said he was their director. I invited him to join the group for a cup of coffee.”

“And there was nobody else with him?” Gordon asked.

“No, he was alone. They talked about schedules. It was all very amicable,” Flo said.

“Then why did you think there was something off about his visit?” Solomon asked. “Seems basic enough to me.”

“It was later, after everyone left,” Lyla said. “When I was going upstairs to clean their rooms. I noticed aspen leaves on the stairs.”

“And why was that unusual?” Gordon asked.

“Our guests had come down from their rooms,” Flo said. “They hadn’t been outside yet, and I know the stairs were clean the night before. So, it appeared as though Mr. Dawson might have gone upstairs while we were involved with breakfast. Tracked in some leaves.”

“Which would explain why he gave off shifty vibes.” Lyla glared at her sister.

Flo waved it off. “Bottom line, we don’t know for sure whether he went upstairs, although it
is
the most logical explanation. However, since it hasn’t rained in a while, it’s not like he left muddy footprints where we could have followed his tracks. It’s possible—not that I’m saying it happened this way, mind you—but leaves
could
have blown in when he opened the door.”

“Slim to none,” Lyla muttered. “Not halfway up the staircase.”

Gordon considered the route a wind-blown leaf would have to take to get from the front door to the stairs, and had to agree with Lyla’s assessment. Tracked in on the soles of someone’s shoes made more sense. “And when you went upstairs, did you see any evidence of Mr. Dawson’s having been in any of the rooms?”

“No,” Lyla said. “But if he’d been searching for something, we wouldn’t have noticed. We don’t go through our guests’ suitcases, closets, or dresser drawers. Unless a guest told us they thought someone had been in their rooms, or the uninvited visitor had done a major trash job, we’d never know.”

“And what day was this?” Solomon asked.

Flo pursed her lips, then looked at Lyla. “Tuesday, I think.”

Lyla nodded. “Yes it was Tuesday. Their second day here.”

Gordon noted it, then stood. “Thank you, ladies. We appreciate your time.”

Lyla walked them to the door. “Flo can be a grouch. I’m sorry.”

“Trust me, we deal with a lot worse,” Solomon said. “You have a good evening.”

As Gordon and Solomon walked to their vehicles, Gordon told Solomon to call it a night. “Enjoy your weekend. I’ll get back to the shoot and talk to everyone.”

Solomon didn’t argue, although he did ask Gordon to call if they caught a break in the case. Gordon had a feeling he’d be using the time to play with his Deadbeat Dad Killer theory. He called Angie, let her know he’d be making his last stop at Daily Bread, and he'd deal with dinner afterward.

The barricades were still up at the street corners at either end of Daily Bread’s block, as well as at the Village entrances. He checked in with Dispatch, where Tessa informed him all was well. He did take a few minutes to pick up the champagne and a box of the assorted chocolates Angie liked. After that, he was about to order the super-deluxe wing platter from Finnegan’s, but that didn’t seem an appropriate pairing with champagne. Celebrating Angie’s debut as a movie star—star in his mind only, of course—deserved something better. He parked as close to the movie lot as he could, then called The Black Bear Chalet and ordered a steak dinner for himself, and lamb for Angie. When he started working through the timing, so he could do his interviews and then pick up the food, they asked him if he wanted it delivered. He thought about it, then accepted the offer. So what if the service wasn’t the norm for the restaurant. It wasn’t like he was accepting a free meal, and he
would
pay extra for the delivery. And a generous tip. Sometimes, it was good to be the Chief. He put everything on his credit card, then strolled over to the officer who’d parked his unit in front of the barricade and seemed to be working on reports from inside the car.

Gordon peered into the car. Immediately, the window buzzed down.

“Chief. What can I do for you?”

“I need to go inside, talk to some of the people. Are they about done?”

“Supposed to be finished in about twenty minutes.”

“Thanks. You stuck here for your entire shift?” Gordon asked.

“According to the studio guy, their own people are doing the night shift. I’ll be off here at eight.”

“Carry on.” Gordon strolled through the lot, noting the lack of crime scene tape. A few people, technical crew he assumed, were carrying equipment to one of the large trailers. Maybe they were going to be done early. He headed toward Daily Bread, where a studio security guard blocked the doorway. Mr. Lean and Lanky. A glance upstairs showed lights on in Angie’s apartment. Plan B if the guard gave him any guff.

Gordon approached with his game face on. “I need to speak with Mr. Dawson. Now.”

The guard stepped aside and opened the door without a word. Okay, so Gordon was known to him, and still in uniform. But as for security? No clipboard, no warning to be quiet, no
Let me see if he’s available
. Gordon hoped nothing went down at the Village tonight while these guys were on duty.

Gordon entered quietly, pausing to make sure he wasn’t going to barge into the middle of a take. Actors milled around, and the technical folks were packing up. Gordon did a quick visual of the space. Bart Bergsstrom sat alone in a booth, reading a paperback. Lily, Julie, Cassidy, and Damien chatted in another booth. Gordon strolled over and asked the four of them to stick around for a few minutes, and then he strode across the diner to confront Lionel Dawson.

The man shot Gordon a wary expression. “We’re about done. You’re not going to shut us down again, are you? A few retakes tomorrow, and we’ll be gone.”

Gordon ignored the question and jumped in with his own. “Why did you go upstairs at the Richardsons’ Bed and Breakfast on Tuesday morning?”

Gordon watched as Dawson’s expression ran the gamut of everything from surprise to confusion to indignation, and then escalated to anger. Gordon jerked his head toward an unoccupied booth away from the action. He motioned Dawson to have a seat.

“What are you talking about?” Dawson said, sliding into the booth.

Gordon set his phone to record, then pulled out his notebook and pen. “You were at the Bed and Breakfast on Tuesday, correct?”

Dawson appeared to be running through past events, trying to zero in on Tuesday. He frowned and hollered for his tablet. A production underling rushed over with the device, which Dawson grabbed.

Gordon automatically checked it against his mental image of the one he thought Marianna Spellman had carried, but it didn’t match. Dawson swiped and tapped, then muttered, “Tuesday. Aspen Lake. Ten a.m.” His memory apparently refreshed, he nodded. “Right. We were originally scheduled to start shooting at one, but I wanted to do more run-throughs, and I’d been toying with shooting at a different spot at the lake, and I needed to make sure they’d been brought up to date on the changes, so I stopped by the Richardsons’ place.”

“And you couldn’t simply phone them? This required an in-person visit?”

“It was on my way, and I didn’t trust they’d gotten my message. And I wanted to make sure everything was acceptable in the way of their lodgings.”

Neither Lyla nor Flo had mentioned that Dawson had discussed whether the lodgings were up to snuff, but he might have waited until they were out of earshot in case the actors had something negative to say.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Gordon said. “Why did you go upstairs? Everyone was in the dining room, so you could have delivered your message to all of them at once. Or were you doing your own surprise private inspection of their accommodations?”

Dawson switched back to indignant. “I did no such thing.”

“I’m not buying it, Mr. Dawson. If you were there to see your actors, why were you sitting around the living room waiting for—for what? For them to come downstairs? For one of the Richardson sisters to come find you? You didn’t go to the counter and ring the bell? Peek into the dining room? From the reception area, I’m sure you would have heard them talking. No, you park yourself on the couch and hope somebody senses your arrival?

“You want to know what I think? I think you came in, very quietly. Nobody was in the reception area, so you snuck upstairs and snooped around your actors’ rooms. Specifically, Cassidy Clarke’s. No matter what you’ve said, an actor who’s too strung out, or too mellowed out, to handle the job isn’t going to cut it, particularly on a picture where you’re working so close to the bone. You went upstairs, found his room and went searching for evidence he was using. And you found something, didn’t you? Then you came downstairs, plopped yourself onto the couch, and that’s where Lyla found you.”

Dawson flushed. “You’re making this up. I don’t know why you’re picking on me, or the movie, but so what if I went upstairs for a minute? Maybe I needed to pee and thought I’d find a restroom.”

Gordon visualized the layout of the Bed and Breakfast. “There’s a restroom, clearly marked, downstairs. Seems if you were looking for one, you’d have found it. Try again.”

Dawson slumped. “All right. I did go upstairs. There were rumblings Cassidy was off the wagon, and I gave his room a quick search. I didn’t find anything, so I came down. Halfway down the stairs, I heard someone in the kitchen talking about fetching a photo album. There wasn’t time for me to get to the front door and pretend to be arriving. If the hippie throwback said I was sitting on the couch, then that’s what she expected to see. I was standing in front of the couch. If she assumed I’d been sitting, that was her mistake.”

“Sitting or standing, makes no difference to me. You lied about not being upstairs. You do know it’s against the law to lie to cops, don’t you?”

“Since I didn’t find anything, I saw no need to mention it.”

Gordon let that slide. “You said you made a quick search. Define quick. How long were you in his room?”

“I don’t know. Five minutes, maybe. No more than ten.”

“That’s enough time to rifle through dresser drawers, nightstands, suitcases. Did you get as far as his bathroom?”

Dawson hung his head. “What I did wasn’t honorable—”

“Or legal,” Gordon said.

“Okay, or legal. But it was for the good of the picture. And for Cassidy’s own good, too, because if he was using, he’d need help.”

“Oh, so you were doing everyone a huge favor by searching Mr. Clarke’s room. Did you look in anyone else’s room? After all, he might have asked them to hide his stash. Offered them something in return for keeping his secret. That is, of course, if he even had a secret. And since you didn’t find anything, maybe he was clean after all. Seems to me, I’d be pretty pissed if I was assumed guilty until proven innocent.”

“What do you want from me?” Dawson glanced across the room, his gaze landing on the table where Cassidy sat. “If you tell him, the entire atmosphere of the filming will change. It could ruin the picture.”

“Or, he could let the studio know you broke the law when you entered his room and have you replaced.”

From Dawson’s expression, the idea had never occurred to him. “He wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. Replacing me at this stage would likely mean the end of the movie, and the studio’s not going to do that. They’ve got too much invested.”

Gordon didn’t care if that was true or not. The movie wasn’t his concern. Finding a killer was. “Tell me one more thing, Mr. Dawson. Did you search Mr. Cassidy’s Dopp kit when you were in his bathroom?”

By now, Dawson’s answers were subdued, his head bowed. “I looked, yes. No drugs. Just aftershave, toothpaste, mouthwash, a shaver, the usual guy accoutrements.”

“You’re sure?” Gordon asked.

Dawson nodded.

If Dawson hadn’t found the pills, then it was back to Lily, Damien, or Julie. He glanced in their direction, saw them still chatting, turned his attention to Dawson. “And the rumors Mr. Clarke was using. Where did you hear them?”

“Nothing but mumblings,” Dawson said. “Nobody came up to me and stated it outright. Overheard conversations, but they were vague. I didn’t want to confront anyone, so I checked it out myself.”

“Did you discuss it with Marianna Spellman?” Gordon asked.

Dawson shook his head. “No. It was at the rumor and innuendo stage, and I didn’t want to throw a monkey wrench into the movie without having something concrete to go on.” He twisted, looking toward the production crew. “Are we done? I have to finish going over tomorrow’s schedule.”

“Yes. Thanks for your time.” After jotting a few more notes, Gordon slid out of the booth and headed toward the four principal actors. Had Cassidy gone along with Gordon’s request to keep his mouth shut about the pills?

Gordon strolled over to the booth where the principals sat. “Thanks for waiting. I’ve got a few follow-up questions.” Since Lily was sitting at the outside of one of the banquettes, he figured he might as well start with her. “Miss Beckett, would you join me, please?”

She gave a quick shrug, lifted her brows, then smiled at her companions. “I guess someone tattled about me lifting those extra hot chocolate packets from the lounge.” She extended her arms, wrists together. “I cannot tell a lie, Chief Hepler. I did take three packets of cocoa mix. I’m afraid I’ve already disposed of the evidence.” She patted her belly.

Gordon smiled. “I don’t think cuffs will be necessary in this case.” He walked to a booth on the other side of the diner, and had her sit with her back to her friends. He slid in across from her, announced that he was going to record the conversation. She seemed at ease, curious, as if she were enjoying herself. Probably taking mental notes should she ever need to draw upon the experience in a future role. He plunged in.

“What do you know about things being taken from guest rooms at the Richardsons’ Bed and Breakfast?”

Her brow furrowed, her head jerked backward, chin tucked toward her neck. She snorted—very delicately and lady-like. “Me? Things missing? This is the first I’ve heard of it. I’d be shocked if it were true. Flo and Lyla are amazingly sweet hostesses. Are you saying you think they’re stealing from their guests?”

“No, I’m merely asking if you’ve heard anything about stuff disappearing. Nothing’s been taken from your room?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t done a total inventory, but I don’t have much stuff with me. Most of the time on a shoot, I’m wearing studio-provided clothes, makeup, and there’s not a lot of time for much else. I don’t even carry jewelry.”

Gordon dropped that trail. “At the Richardsons’, did you invite visitors to your rooms?”

“Other than each other? No. At least I didn’t. Can’t swear under oath the others hadn’t, but most of the time we were at the shoot. By the time we got to the B and B, all we wanted to do was unwind. We usually met in Cass’s room—it was bigger, had more seating.” She twisted one of her curls. “Don’t believe all the Hollywood hype. This is
not
a glamorous lifestyle most of the time. It’s a job. We go to work, go home when we’re done, like everyone else. It’s being noticed when we do normal, everyday stuff like grocery shopping that gets tiresome. But, our careers depend on our fans. A
damned if you do, damned if you don’t
situation. So, we appreciate those few moments when we can be ourselves.”

“You felt the security at the Richardsons’ was adequate?” Gordon said.

“Considering where it is—Mapleton’s nice, but it’s not what you’d call a major tourist stop—sure. I mean, I did lock my room when I left for the day, but Flo and Lyla must have keys, so they can clean. But I never gave a thought to them taking something, or letting anyone else in.”

Gordon summarized her statement in his notebook. “One more thing. When you arrived, you’d mentioned Mr. Clarke’s drug problem. Were you aware of any evidence of his backsliding?”

“Cass? No way. Totally on top of his game. The whole drug thing was short-lived, blown completely out of proportion by the media, and he’s over it.”

“So, you didn’t decide to see for yourself? Maybe check his bathroom or nightstand when he wasn’t around. Look for pills?”

“You’re kidding, right? No way. Of course not. As I said, we all know what it’s like to live without privacy. We’d never cross that line with each other.”

He thanked her, and asked her to send Damien over. Gordon got the same basic story from him, and from Julie Ames. All seemed to be honest and open. Which left Lionel Dawson as the only other person he could place in Cassidy Clarke’s room, and the man claimed he didn’t see any pills. That was Tuesday morning. Which meant whoever had taken the pills had done so on Monday, which was the day before they’d started shooting.

He flipped through his notes, trying to refresh his memory and consider the bigger picture. Cassidy and Lily had arrived on Monday, a day ahead of their shooting schedule. Marianna Spellman was in town as well. She and Dawson were the other members of the production company staying in Mapleton. The rest were at the hotel. However, as Ian Patrick had said, nobody did bed checks. Anyone could have gone anywhere on their own, and if so, the studio wouldn’t know about it. Apparently the only time anyone paid attention was when someone wasn’t where they were supposed to be at the time they were supposed to be there.