Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (8 page)

Gordon darted through the Village to the wardrobe RV. Solomon and Xander were standing at the base of the stairs.

“Good timing, Chief,” Solomon said. “We’re finishing up.”

“Grab your gear and come with me. Now.” He turned and jogged back the way he’d come, Solomon at his heels. The techs, who did this all the time, followed at a more sedate pace.

Gordon paused about five feet from Marianna Spellman’s RV. “It wasn’t like this when you and Dawson came by for Marianna’s schedule, was it?” Stupid question, but Gordon’s brain was spinning in neutral. “Don’t answer that.”

Xander started snapping pictures. Long shots of the trailer, then moving in closer until they were photographing close-ups of the jimmied door. “No finesse,” he said. “I’m guessing a pry bar.”

“On a positive note, we now have something to look for,” Gordon said.

Solomon was crouched down, peering under the RV. “And we’ve found it.” He put on a fresh pair of gloves and waited—drumming his fingers against his thighs—for Xander to finish taking pictures of the object
in situ
.

“Go for it,” the tech said, and Solomon pulled out the pry bar.

“What do you bet it’s wiped clean? Or the guy wore gloves,” Solomon said. “I mean,
nobody’s
stupid enough to leave that kind of evidence lying around. At least nobody who owns a television.”

“Wait a minute,” Gordon said. “Marianna had this huge black purse when I met with her. Did you find it in the wardrobe RV?”

“Nope,” Xander said.

“I saw it. Looked like it weighed a ton,” Solomon said. “Maybe she didn’t like schlepping it while she was wandering around the set.”

Gordon agreed, although he had a little trouble imagining Marianna not being able to put her hands on anything she might possibly need. Then again, maybe she spent most of her day in her office, venturing out only when personal contact was required. She might have had an errand that took her to wardrobe and didn’t bother with her purse.

Solomon snapped his fingers. “Wait. No keys with the body.”

Gordon couldn’t imagine the always-in-control woman not locking her RV when she left. Wardrobe was nearer the other end of the lot, so it wasn’t like popping next door, even for a short time.

He tried to process the scenario. “The RV was locked when you and Dawson got here to find her schedule, right?”

Another stupid question. He had to stop engaging his mouth before his brain kicked in. If it had been unlocked, then why jimmy the door? “Don’t answer that, either.”

Xander’s partner was examining the lock. “This has to be locked from the outside,” he said. “No way to lock yourself out, so if she locked the door, her keys should have been with her.”

“So we have a missing purse, which may or may not have had her keys in it,” Gordon said.

“And a cell phone,” Solomon said. “We didn’t find one in the wardrobe RV, either.”

Gordon shook his head. “Mai said no cell phones on the set, so Marianna might have left it in her office.”

Solomon rubbed his chin. “If that was the case, then she’d have been planning to go over to the shoot. If she was working on this side of things, she’d have had it with her.”

“Excuse me,” the second tech said. “Shouldn’t we be inside the RV rather than standing out here speculating? The purse might be inside, along with her keys and cell phone.”

Heat rose along the back of Gordon’s neck. “Yeah. Getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”

The tech opened the door. Standing in the doorway, he snapped more pictures. Gordon waited until both men had entered the RV before he joined them.

Now
this
was a crime scene.

This wasn’t the sort of RV one called a home away from home. No sleeping arrangements. A single room, with a tiny kitchenette. Coffeemaker on the counter, empty. Small microwave. A minimal assortment of plates, bowls, and glasses in a cabinet. A black coffee mug with two big red Vs, the same as the logo Gordon had seen on Marianna’s business card. Flatware in a drawer. And a brownish stain on the floor.

The main area was configured as an office, plain and simple. Desk and chair. A couple of small shelves attached to one wall probably once held the books and binders scattered on the floor. One easy chair with an end table beside it, although the end table was lying on its side. An open door, probably to a closet or storage area, but from his vantage point, the interior wasn’t visible.

Her desk was clear, but the papers strewn all over the floor indicated that wasn’t its normal state. “No computer?” Gordon asked.

“I’d assume she used a laptop, but I don’t see one,” Solomon said.

“Add it to our list,” Gordon pointed to the kitchenette. “Can you identify that stain?”

Xander stepped over, photographing as he moved. He stopped, took another picture, then crouched. “My guess is coffee.” Smarter than his television counterparts, though, he didn’t touch it. Or, heaven forbid, taste it. If whatever the stain was had anything to do with Marianna Spellman’s body lying on the floor, there was no way to be sure it wasn’t toxic enough to kill again. Instead, the tech carefully swabbed up samples and packaged them as evidence. “I’ll print the room, but if there are no prints on the pry bar, he—or she—probably wore gloves in here.”

“With so few leads, it’s better to over collect than under collect, wouldn’t you say?” Gordon said.

“Yeah, that's crime scene 101, but it’s going to be a hell of a job back at the lab. I suggest—strongly—that you do something very nice for Briana, our fingerprint analyst.”

“Nice as in flowers? Chocolate? Daily Bread’s cinnamon rolls?” Gordon said.

“All three would probably be a smart move.”

The second tech appeared from behind the closet door, white teeth gleaming in a smile. He held up a cell phone. “In her coat pocket. An
inside
coat pocket, so easy to see how our burglar missed it.”

At last. Something they could work with.

“That’s hers,” Gordon said. “There can’t be two people around here with monogrammed red cell phone cases.”

“Let me print it before we poke around.”

Gordon tried not to fidget as the tech completed his task.

“No usable prints.” The tech extended the phone to Gordon. “Given you’re looking for emergency contact information, and it belongs to the victim, there’s no expectation of privacy. You should be good to go. If you need more than what you see, our computer forensics team can dig it out.”

“Does it have an
in case of emergency
contact number?” Solomon asked. “A lot of people use ICE as the name. And if they’re smart, they add a period in front so it’s at the top of the list.”

“Let’s find out if it’s password protected first,” Gordon said. He pressed the start button and was relieved to find that, for whatever reason, the anal Marianna Spellman hadn’t locked her phone. Probably assumed she’d never leave it lying around. Or she got tired of entering her code all the time. Didn’t matter. Bottom line—they were in.

He scrolled through her contacts, but there was nothing as obvious as “Mom” or “Dad” or another Spellman. The mayor had introduced her as “Miss” so Gordon assumed she was single. They could cross reference the numbers on her list via the phone company, though, and see who she’d been calling. According to her call log, she’d had seventeen exchanges with the same three people over the last two days. Gordon wrote those numbers in his notepad.

“Paper shredder is empty,” Solomon said.

“Check with whoever’s in charge of cleaning these trailers. Find out when they clean. Could be she hadn’t used it.”

Solomon wrote in his notepad. “Got it.”

“Have you found the papers with everyone’s information yet?” Gordon asked. “Dawson said everyone had to sign releases, so they’d be hard copies, not electronic files.”

Solomon stared at the piles of paper on the floor. With gloved hands, he started going through them. “Mind if I take pictures?”

“Be my guest,” the tech said. “If all you need is what’s written on them, taking pictures is fine, and it will help cut down on us having to print all of them.”

After a few minutes, Solomon shouted, “Eureka.” He held up a sheet of paper. “Marianna Spellman’s emergency contact information lists an Avis Fontenot as the person to notify.”

“Thank goodness for that. Any address?”

“Nope. Just a phone number. Area code is in Los Angeles.”

Gordon checked Marianna's phone, hoping for more detailed contact information, but the phone number was the only information listed.

“I’ll get with the officials there.” Gordon's spirits lifted as he now had something to follow up on. They dropped just as quickly as he stared at the scattered papers.

Solomon seemed to be on the same wavelength.”We have no way of knowing if anything’s missing, or if this was malicious mischief. I vote we start sorting through all this.”

“I’ll second that,” Gordon said. “Meet you at the station. I need to check with Dawson first. And make sure you get this RV taped.”

“Roger, Chief.” Solomon gave him a grin and a quick salute.

Leaving the techs and Solomon to finish processing the scene, Gordon headed for Daily Bread. Dawson and a man dressed all in black were conferring, heads together, at a table by the window. Dawson lifted his gaze as Gordon approached.

“You find what you were looking for?”

Gordon snorted. “And more.” He gave a rundown of what they’d found. “Any ideas who might do that? And why your security people didn’t notice?”

Dawson called the men over. “We had a break-in at Marianna Spellman’s RV this morning. You’re paid to prevent things like that, or at least notice. What the hell happened?”

The controlled anger in Dawson’s tone had Gordon on the defensive, and he wasn’t even the offender.

“I was assigned to the set,” one guard said. “I wasn’t in the Village once they started prep for shooting.”

The other two exchanged uneasy glances. “Nobody was on the lot who didn’t have a reason to be there,” another guard said. About five-ten, balding, thick glasses, and carrying enough weight for half another person, Gordon wondered if he could have caught a vandal even if he’d noticed. Absolutely not, if it involved running.

The last guard, about as lean as the other was porky, simply shrugged. “I was on the far perimeter, not close to where her trailer was. After all the extras did their paperwork, there was no reason to be there.”

“And none of you saw Marianna Spellman go to the wardrobe RV?” Gordon asked.

All three shook their heads. “Nope,” the porky guard said. “We already told the cop. We saw her arrive, go to her office, and that was it.”

“You’re dismissed. Probably permanently,” Dawson said. They shuffled away, heads hanging. Dawson turned his attention to Gordon. “Was anything taken? Wouldn’t that give you a clue?”

“We have no way of knowing. The Crime Scene Response techs are processing the scene. Have you ever heard Marianna speak of an Avis Fontenot? All we have is a number.”

“No, I told you we weren’t close.”

“Did either Yolanda or Ian show up?”

Dawson exchanged a quick, questioning glance with his tablemate, who shook his head. “No. If it was only Ian, I’d say he was out killing time until he was needed on the set, but that would have been an hour ago. However, he’s the sort who might take it upon himself to decide there’s no need to hang around, since shooting has been postponed. Yolanda, on the other hand—she’s always where she belongs. Once she had everyone dressed, she’d have come to the set to handle any adjustments, repairs, and the like.”

“I’ll put out a BOLO,” Gordon said. “Can you describe them, or better yet, do you have pictures?”

“Ian is in his late-twenties, black hair, blue eyes, six-one, about one-eighty. Google him and you’ll have plenty of pictures. Yolanda’s mid-fifties, maybe five-three, about a hundred and forty pounds. Latina, wears her hair in a braid most of the time. Oh, and she has a mole on her right cheek, near her ear.”

“Thanks.” Gordon was surprised at the detail, but then, the man was in a visual industry and would notice stuff like that.