McConnell met her halfway up the gravel road. “Sorry about this,” he said, “but he wants to speak to you.” He pointed to the man who was yelling at him a moment ago. “I told him you were busy, but he was adamant that he see you.”
“Who is he?” she asked.
“He says he’s a movie producer.”
“Let him through,” she said.
She moved further away from the crowd as McConnell escorted the man through the yellow police tape and toward her.
“I’m Detective Dana Fisher,” she said.
“Sherman Grumbly,” he replied. He was of medium height, medium build, wore thick prescription glasses, and had dark, unruly hair.
“You’re the producer of Memories of a Killer?” she asked.
His eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“I saw a copy of the script in Mr. Scott’s bedroom.”
“I need to get that. It’s confidential material.”
“No one is allowed in the house until the investigation is over,” she said.
“You don’t understand,” he said with exasperation. “If that script gets leaked online, the entire production will be jeopardized.”
“I assure you, the script is safe. The property has been secured.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“How about this,” she said. “You answer my questions, and I’ll have an officer personally deliver the script to your office.”
He mulled this over.
She added, “Unfortunately, no items can be removed from the crime scene at this moment.”
He finally nodded in resignation. “Okay, what would you like to know?”
“Mr. Scott was in Milton to shoot a movie, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you or your production company rented the property for his use?”
“Yes, we did. Even though the studio is at the other end of the city, Dillon wanted a secluded area to rest and relax. I couldn’t blame him. He was constantly hounded by the paparazzi.”
“The property has a security alarm system. It was disabled when we arrived at the scene. Did you know the password?”
He paused to consider his response. “Of course I did,” he said. “I was provided this information when I signed the rental agreement. But I was nowhere near here yesterday.”
“Where were you?”
“In my office at the studio.”
“Can anyone confirm this?”
“Absolutely. I was in meetings all day. My secretary can vouch for me.”
Fisher made a mental note of this in case she needed to verify it later. “Do you know what Mr. Scott was doing last night?” she asked.
“I really don’t. We had a read-through of the script yesterday. I wasn’t there, but Barry was.”
“Who?”
“Barry Rowe. He’s the director of the film.”
“Okay, I’ll need to speak to him and whoever was with him at the reading.”
“I’ve already informed Barry. He knows there is going to be an investigation.” Grumbly pulled out his cell phone. “I have to call the insurance company and let them know our star actor is dead.”
Fisher could tell it was a call he did not want to make. As he walked away, she didn’t envy the position he was in.
SEVENTEEN
Callaway’s heart sank the moment he set eyes on the house. It was a semi-detached with a small garden in front, no driveway, and a tiny porch.
He double-checked the address and confirmed it was the right one. Back at his office, he had contacted the woman who left him the voicemail. She believed her husband was cheating on her, and she was eager to retain his services.
On the drive over, he was hoping the woman had money to spare. He needed a well-paying case, one that would fix the current predicament he was in. His landlady had been inquiring about the rent, and he didn’t want to resort to hiding from her.
He thought about turning the Impala around and going back to the office. In his experience, regular folks did not appreciate what he had to offer. They always tried to lowball him when it came to his fees.
The rich, on the other hand, were willing to pay to resolve their problems. They didn’t like to get their hands dirty. Most were downright lazy. Money afforded them the luxury to have others do their bidding. If they needed someone followed, they called him. If they needed information on a competitor, they called him. If they needed an alibi, they called him.
Callaway was not the only PI in town. His client’s spouses also hired their own private investigators. Sometimes Callaway would have to throw the other PI off his client’s tail. It was not an easy feat, but with some ingenuity, he was able to manage it.
A client once came to him and told him he was being followed. Callaway asked him whether he was being unfaithful to his wife. The client said he was. Callaway then began following his own client. One night, as the client went to meet his mistress, Callaway caught the other PI tailing him. Callaway quickly approached the mistress’s house and made it look like the client was in fact meeting a group of friends. Another time he spotted the other PI well in advance and warned the client not to proceed with his rendezvous. The other PI eventually lost interest when he could not catch the client alone with his mistress.
As Callaway debated whether to ring the doorbell, the front door opened. A woman came out on the porch. She was wearing a patterned dress, stockings, and she had short dark hair. The woman was on the heavier side, and she was wearing makeup.
She smiled and waved at him.
He reluctantly got out of the Impala and approached her.
“You’re the private investigator, right?” she said, still smiling.
“I am.”
“I saw you sitting in your car. I thought maybe you had forgotten my address.”
I hadn’t forgotten it, he thought. I was thinking of driving away from it.
“Please come inside,” she said.
They sat in a small living room filled with children’s toys. In the hall, he had almost slipped on a remote-control car.
“After speaking to you,” she said, sitting across from him, “I sent the children to my neighbor’s house. I didn’t want them to listen in on our conversation. I don’t want them to know their father is…” She stopped, looking as if saying the words aloud would hurt.
“How old are your children?” he asked.
“Jackson is seven, David and Suzie are five, and Kim is two.”
His eyes shot up. “Four! Wow.”
She smiled. “My husband and I came from big families, so we wanted one ourselves.”
Right, he thought. “How long have you been married?” he asked.
“Our eight-year anniversary is coming up.”
Callaway noticed a wheelchair in the corner. “Does someone else live with you and your husband?”
“No, that was actually for me. It was during last winter, and I was unloading groceries from the car when I slipped on ice, broke my leg, and fractured my hip. I couldn’t stand or walk for months. My husband took care of me and the children.”
He nodded. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name on the phone.”
“Oh, how rude of me. It’s Betty Henderson. My husband’s name is Frank.”
“Okay, I’m Lee Callaway.”
“I know. I read about you in the newspapers when you worked for Paul Gardener.”
He had gained some notoriety from that case, but unfortunately, it had not resulted in many jobs like he expected.
“Can I offer you coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Thank you, I’m fine,” he replied. “Now, let’s get to why I’m here. On the phone you said you believed your husband was having an affair.”
Her eyes welled up. She bit her bottom lip and nodded.
“I know this is tough, but you will have to tell me all the details. That is the only way I will be able to help you.”
She inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly. “Frank does deliveries f
or a large department store. He works long hours, but the pay is good, and it comes with benefits. Anyway, Frank likes to laugh, and he likes to have fun. The children adore him. But he has been acting like a different man the past couple of months. He is withdrawn, and he looks unhappy. Even the children have noticed a difference. I asked him what’s wrong, and he said it was stuff at work. One day I decided to surprise him. I dropped the children at the neighbors’, and I bought tickets to a superhero movie he had been waiting to see, and I drove to his workplace. While I was waiting in the parking lot, I saw him and another woman coming out together. The way they were talking was like they knew each other really well.”
“Maybe they are co-workers,” Callaway suggested.
“They are,” she agreed. “I found out she works in the company’s shipping department. I was about to go up to him when they both got in his truck and drove away.”
She covered her face and broke down in tears.
Callaway wanted to console her, but he wasn’t sure how. He was never good at that stuff.
When Betty was done, she said, “I want him to leave this other woman, and I need your help.”
Callaway blinked. “That’s not how it works,” he said. “My job is to prove your suspicions that he is being unfaithful, not to convince him to do something he shouldn’t be doing.”
“I want my husband back, Mr. Callaway.”
“I understand, but sometimes it’s not as simple as that. If your husband is being unfaithful, then I can get you material evidence to convince a judge that you deserve more of the family assets at the time of the divorce. You are the devastated spouse in this relationship.”
“But I don’t want to divorce Frank. He is the only man I’ve ever loved. And he is the father of our children.”
Callaway stood up to leave. “Unfortunately, I don’t think you need a private investigator. You need a marriage counselor.”
She pulled an envelope from her purse and held it out for him. “It’s five hundred dollars. I’ve been saving it for a rainy day, but this is far more important. We need our old Frank back.”
Callaway stared at the envelope. Five hundred was not a lot of money, but he was desperate. Something was better than nothing.
“Please,” she pleaded. “Just talk to him. He needs to know how much he means to his family.”
“What if I can’t convince him?”
“Then I’ll focus my attention on my children and move on.”
Callaway reluctantly took the envelope.
EIGHTEEN
Barry Rowe, director of Memories of a Killer, was tall and lanky with a full head of gray hair and a heavy British accent. He was wearing a checkered shirt, blue jeans, and black boots.
Fisher was in Rowe’s makeshift office at the movie studio. The room was not spacious, and the amount of material scattered around made it look and feel even smaller. Fisher saw large storyboards on the walls, along with mock-up posters for the film. Pieces of fabric lay on a table, likely from the costume department. Camera equipment was stacked in the corner, and there were even props in the middle of the room.
Barry shook his head. “When Sherman called and told me what happened, I thought he was playing a movie joke on me,” he said.
“A movie joke?” Fisher asked.
“Sorry, that didn’t come out right. What I meant was that in our films, we come up with creative ways for a victim to die so that the hero can solve their murder. When Dillon died, I thought it was a cruel joke, because his character in the film was an investigator, you know?”
“I see,” she said. “And have you worked with Mr. Scott before?”
“No, this was the first time,” Rowe replied. “My background is in stage production, but I have directed TV series and films for the BBC. This was actually my first big picture, even though the budget is relatively small.”
“How so?” she asked, curious. Fisher loved movies, but she had never met a director before.
“It’s only ten million dollars. And the only reason we were able to get that was because of Dillon. We were certain with his name attached to the film, we could sell it to a distributor.”
“How was it working with Mr. Scott?” she asked.
“I only spent a few days with him, but I could tell he was excited about the role. He had so many ideas he wanted to explore, and we discussed all the different directions we could take the part in.”
“It’s my understanding he was at a script reading with you yesterday,” she said.
“Yes, he and our lead actress, Leslie.”
“Leslie?”
“Leslie Tillman.”
“Okay.”
“With a tight budget, you don’t get many days of rehearsal, so I wanted to squeeze in as much time with Dillon and Leslie as possible. Both of them have to carry the movie.”
“And how was Ms. Tillman and Mr. Scott’s relationship? I mean, did they get along?” Fisher asked.
“They got along fabulously. Dillon immediately took her under his wing. Her role is more intense than his, so he wanted her to feel comfortable around him.”
“Intense?” she asked.
Rowe paused, looking unsure.
“Don’t worry,” Fisher said. “Whatever you tell me won’t leave this room.”
He nodded and said, “Leslie plays a victim who survives a brutal attack in the film.”
Fisher squinted. “And why does she have to be comfortable around Mr. Scott?”
“He plays the attacker.”
She blinked. “He does what?”
Rowe smiled with glee. “That was the twist of the entire movie. Dillon’s character is an investigator who is harboring a secret. He is the killer who suffers from episodic amnesia.”
Fisher’s mouth dropped. “So the killer he is searching for is in fact him?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t remember committing the crimes, which makes the movie all the more intriguing.”
Fisher wished Scott was still alive. She would have loved to see his performance in such a complex part.
“How did you get Mr. Scott to take the role?” she wondered aloud. “I mean, the money was a pittance compared to what he got in previous roles.”
“Dillon waived his usual fees,” Rowe said. “It was a challenging role, and one against his type.”
“His type?”
“He was known for playing the clean-cut guys, the guys who may have made mistakes in their lives but who upheld good values. In this film, no one would have suspected him as the serial killer, you know?”
I wouldn’t have, Fisher thought. That’s for sure.
“Can you tell me where I can find Ms. Tillman?” she asked. “I need to speak to her.”
NINETEEN
Callaway drove to the address his client had provided him. Betty Henderson had become his client, even though he was hesitant to take her on as one. The money was nowhere near enough to compensate him for the job she wanted him to do.
How can I convince a guy to stop cheating on his wife? he thought.
Callaway had been with many women, but he was never unfaithful while he was married. He had, however, been intimate with women who were married. It was not something he was proud of, it was just something that happened.
The women were mostly clients whose husbands were cheating on them. While Callaway was trying to catch the husbands in the act, he was also comforting their wives. The wives saw their flings with Callaway as an act of revenge on their cheating husbands, and Callaway was more than happy to oblige their requests.
As he stared at the department store’s warehouse, he could not help but wonder how he was supposed to accomplish the task before him.
He sighed. I should have driven off the moment I saw the house, he thought. But the woman caught me before I could do that.
He did feel bad for her, though. She came across as a housewife whose entire world revolved around her husband and her children. The prospect of losing someone who was such an integral part of
her life was devastating to her.
Callaway was once central in his wife and daughter’s lives, but he much preferred the freedom to disappear whenever and wherever he wanted. His restlessness had spelled the end of his marriage.
He still harbored feelings for his ex-wife, even if he refused to admit it, and he was forever feeling guilty about not spending quality time with his little girl. He vowed to get his act together one day and make more of an impact in his daughter’s life, but somehow he always managed to mess that up.
Is Frank Henderson like me? he thought. He seems like he has a wife who loves him, and from what his wife says, his children adore him too. Is that why he is willing to throw it all away? Because he is not content with what he has?
Callaway was not content.
He wanted more out of life. The problem was that he just wasn’t sure what he wanted. If it was money, then being a private eye was the wrong profession. If it was fame, then so far he had not made enough of a name for himself so that people were knocking on his door to hire him.
Then what was it?
He knew the answer: He wanted excitement. He could not see himself spending the rest of his life in a small town like Spokem, where there was nothing to do but sit on the front porch with a cold beer in his hand and stare at the neighbor’s dog as it chased its tail around the front yard.
A man appeared through a set of doors at the store’s shipping center. Callaway recognized him from the photos he had seen at the Henderson residence.
Frank Henderson was a large man. He had big arms, a big belly, and even a big head. His beard was an unruly bush, covering his entire chin.
He kind of looks like Grizzly Adams, Callaway thought.
Callaway broke into a cold sweat at the mere thought of trying to convince a man Frank’s size to stop what he was doing.
I am a dead man, Callaway thought. This guy can have me for lunch.
Frank got behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler truck and drove away.
Callaway swallowed, put the Impala in gear, and followed Frank.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 50