Madison Avenue Shoot

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Frank, are you in here?” Grady yelled.

  No answer.

  He looked at me uncertainly. “He’s not here, is he?”

  “I hope not,” I replied, “but let’s look around anyway.”

  The room was crammed with light stands, dollies used to move the cameras, giant clamps, reflectors, ladders, and at the rear lines of rolling carts, piled high with lumber and other building supplies. The floor was littered with wood chips and sawdust. I skirted the standing pieces, moving some and inching sideways around others to reach the first carts. I was afraid to look and afraid not to. There were rolls of screening and black fabric. I pushed them aside in case there was a small person inside. Grady tried to peer behind the carts for his son, but there were too many and not enough room to maneuver them.

  “Let’s roll some of this into the hall,” I said. “We can get help putting it all back if he’s not here.”

  Grady had to drag several stands into the hallway before he had room to move out one of the carts. He backed up, pulling it toward the door, stopped, and ran around the other side. “Oh God,” he said, stooping down.

  “What? What is it?”

  He held up a pair of red earphones, dusted with flakes of wood. I could see a sticker on one of the earpieces. It was the number one. “These are his, Aunt Jess. He must be here,” Grady said, his voice cracking.

  Frantically, we began pulling all the stands and carts out into the hall. One by one, we moved them, pausing only briefly to check inside each cart. The farther back in the room we went, the dimmer the light. It was getting difficult to see. I thrust my hand into my shoulder bag to search for my flashlight. Kneeling on the floor, I leaned down to look under the carts, aiming the light in a wide arc.

  “Do you see anything?”

  “I think I do,” I said. What I didn’t say was that I thought I saw the soles of a pair of sneakers, and a loose lace. “Let’s get these moved quickly.”

  The carts in the back row had been wedged in together. We pulled one, our arms straining against the weight. “Look at this, Aunt Jess,” Grady said, tears coursing down his cheeks. He pointed inside the cart to where someone had stowed a nail gun. “You don’t think—?”

  Together we pulled on the cart, but it wouldn’t budge. The weight of its contents, plus the pressure from carts on either side, made it too difficult for us. Pieces of metal and wood were packed standing up. A coil of orange electric cable had been stuffed in the side, along with a nail gun and its compressor. Grady began emptying the cart, taking out the nail gun, the compressor, and the heavy cable and flinging them to the side of the room. He tried to lift a metal pole, but it was stuck.

  “We need help, Grady,” I said. “Maybe the sawdust is keeping the wheels from moving freely.”

  “No!” he yelled. “I’m not giving up.” He yanked on the side of the cart, pulling so hard his face turned scarlet and the veins in his temples stood out. “Move!” The wheels squealed. Grady struggled to catch his breath, then gasped. A small arm had fallen to the carpet from behind the cart. From our position, we couldn’t see the body to which it was attached.

  “Please, God,” Grady whispered.

  I squeezed around the cart and knelt beside the arm, placing my trembling fingers on the delicate skin of the wrist, feeling for a pulse. Steeling myself, I pointed my flashlight behind the cart, the beam bouncing before I could steady my hand. The light landed on a face. A moan escaped my lips.

  “Oh no,” Grady whimpered. He fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands, his body racked with tremors. “My baby, my boy.”

  “No, Grady, no,” I managed to say, my voice breaking with emotion. “It’s not Frank.”

  “What? What do you mean? Who is it?”

  “It’s Betsy Archibald.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dan Howerstein paced back and forth in front of two uniformed officers guarding the door of the conference room. “We have to finish tonight,” he said. “We had the opportunity to come in under budget. I don’t understand why you had to shut down our entire operation. You’ve got guards at every door. We’re all trapped here. The least you could do is let us complete the one spot.”

  One of the officers coughed into his palm and wiped his hand on the side of his pants. “I told you, Mr. Howerstein,” he said, sniffling, “I have no jurisdiction over this. I just do what I’m told. The detective in charge said no one is to leave this room.” He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and honked into it. “Stupid cold,” he said to his fellow officer.

  “Just don’t breathe in my direction, Sam,” his colleague said. “I don’t want to get sick again. My six-year-old catches everything.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Howerstein said, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Why do you have to close down the whole building?”

  “It’s a crime scene, sir,” Sam said, wiping his nose. “A murder took place. Statements have to be taken.”

  “Well, I was on the set. There have to be thirty people who’ll vouch for my whereabouts. And I have a meeting to get to tonight. I can’t keep wasting time like this.”

  “We understand that, sir,” said the other officer, “but we have procedures that have to be followed. Just take a seat and we’ll get to you as soon as we can.”

  “Unbelievable,” Howerstein grumbled, flinging himself into a chair against the wall, legs splayed and fists shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

  The police had responded swiftly to my 911 call. They immediately rounded up all the remaining production crew and agency personnel—those who hadn’t already left for the day—and confined us in several rooms while they launched their on-site investigation.

  The news of Betsy’s murder had swept through the building. Grady and I couldn’t be positive, but we surmised that she’d been killed by the nail gun, which we’d found in the cart that was pressed against her body. We had made a mess of the crime scene by moving the equipment and carts. It couldn’t be helped, of course. We’d had no idea the room had been the scene of a murder until we found the body. Waiting for the police to arrive, I tried to reconstruct what little I could. There were footprints in the sawdust on the side of the room and near the body. Someone wearing a shoe with a pointed toe. They weren’t mine or Grady’s. They weren’t Betsy’s either; she was wearing sneakers.

  Whoever had killed her had tried to delay discovery of the body by piling up equipment in front of it. The shoot was scheduled to go several more hours, and pick up again the next day if necessary. If we hadn’t been looking for Frank, Betsy’s body might have remained hidden the whole time.

  I stayed with the body until the ambulance and first police officers arrived. While the emergency medical technicians ascertained that Betsy was indeed dead, I explained the situation to the officer in charge, stressing that while the murder was certainly important, my grandnephew was still missing. I requested that they issue an Amber Alert.

  Meanwhile, Grady had gone in search of Frank again, enlisting the help of crew members to comb every cubicle and room that had been used by the production. But that search ended when the police arrived and ushered Grady into another room. I tried to follow but was stopped.

  I sat back in the upholstered chair and closed my tired eyes. The realization that it was Betsy’s wrist I had held—when I had feared the pulse I was seeking was Frank’s—had overwhelmed me. As sorry as I was that Betsy was dead, I had sobbed in relief that it wasn’t Frank behind the rolling cart.

  Despite Frank’s disappearance, I tried to force myself not to panic, to think positively, but my mind was spinning out of control. Surely he’s all right, I reassured myself. But those optimistic thoughts were assailed by the reality that my precious grandnephew was out there somewhere, away from the love and protection of his family. He was an intelligent little boy. Still, he was only nine, certainly not old enough to think and reason like an adult. Perhaps he’d been afraid that Grady would be angry with him fo
r dawdling, and had decided to hide to avoid being punished. A youngster might do something like that, mightn’t he?

  Had he witnessed the murder and run away? That possibility was frightening. We knew that he’d been in that room at some point; we’d found his earphones at the scene. Could he be somewhere in the building right now, in a secret hiding place, too petrified to disclose his location in case the murderer was looking for him? I closed my eyes and shuddered at the notion. No child should ever be made to experience such intense fear.

  I desperately hoped that he was still nearby. Should we suggest to the police that they bring in a dog to help find him? Frank loved dogs. I pictured a proud German shepherd or Doberman sniffing around until it discovered him in his sanctuary, and his whoop of joy and relief as he ran into the protective and welcoming arms of his father.

  I took comfort from that happy-ending scenario, but knew it was purely an invention of my overactive mind. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate. Yet I did. Had Frank come upon the murder as it happened, and been kidnapped by the killer? If so—and I prayed it wasn’t—it meant that Frank was in mortal danger.

  Where was Grady? I wondered. They’d spirited him away to another room in the building. He should be out here coordinating the search for Frank. The situation was becoming nightmarish. I hoped Donna had been notified. Maybe Grady was speaking with her on a phone, trying to come up with ideas between them as to where Frank might have gone.

  I was in the midst of these jumbled thoughts, my eyes pressed shut, when the crew’s second assistant director, Dave Fitzpatrick, snapped me back to reality. “Are you the one who found her, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.

  I opened my eyes and looked around. I’d blotted out everything, including the fact that there were others in the room with me. Fitzpatrick and I were two of approximately a dozen people, some of whom I recognized as being members of the crew, but whose names I didn’t know. Several people were standing by the window talking in low tones. Others were sitting at the table, some napping, some not. Two were playing hangman on a pad of paper. None of them had seen Frank. Under other circumstances, I would have been making the rounds of the room, talking to all potential witnesses who might be able to tell me something about Betsy and who might want to kill her. But consumed with Frank’s disappearance, I’d pushed Betsy’s murder to the back of my mind.

  What was it Dave had asked? Oh, yes, was I the one who found her? “I was,” I said, turning to face him.

  He smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “I heard she was killed with a nail gun,” he said. “That so?”

  “That’s what we think it might have been,” I said. “There was a nail gun in the cart that was pushed up against her.”

  “How did you happen to, um, discover where she was?” he asked.

  “Grady and I were searching for Frank when we found her.”

  “I can’t say I really liked her, but I hate to see something like . . . well, you know.” He stopped.

  “Of course,” I said, surprised that it even occurred to him to say that. “No one deserves to be murdered.”

  “She sure ripped into him, though, didn’t she?”

  I straightened in my seat and frowned at him.

  “He must’ve been pretty scared of her,” he said.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not saying he might have done it on purpose or anything like that, but if she pounced on him again the way she did this morning, I could see him, you know, trying to defend himself.”

  “Are you saying that you think my nine-year-old grandnephew might have killed her?” I was working hard to control my voice, not terribly successfully.

  “Whoa,” he said, raising his hands. “I didn’t say that. But he is missing, isn’t he? You asked all of us if we’d seen him. Maybe he got scared by what he did and ran away.”

  “He could have gotten scared for a number of reasons,” I said angrily. “I can’t believe you would even think such a thing. He’s only a boy. I hope you’re not starting any rumors.”

  “It wasn’t me. I didn’t start anything.”

  “Oh? Then who is saying it?”

  “You know, some of the guys who were on the set this morning.”

  I glanced around, but while they couldn’t help overhearing our conversation, the people in the room were studiously looking in another direction. “And they’re accusing Frank of killing Betsy?”

  “No. No. They just said if she’d yelled at them like she did at him, they could see themselves . . .” He trailed off.

  “This is outrageous.” I pushed back my seat and stormed to the door. “Officer?” I said, squinting at his name badge: M. lasker. “Officer Lasker, I’m Jessica Fletcher. I insist on speaking with the detective in charge. It’s urgent.”

  “Take it easy, lady,” the other officer said. “The detective’s going as fast as he can.”

  I turned to look at the speaker’s nameplate. “You’re Officer Rubins?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but we can’t get the detective for you. Everybody has to wait their turn. These things take time. Now . . . now . . . ah . . . ah . . .” He sneezed.

  “Bless you.”

  “Thank you,” he said from behind his handkerchief. “Please take your seat again, and wait until you’re called.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “There’s a dreadful rumor going around that we absolutely must put a halt to immediately.”

  “Yeah, there’s always rumors,” Officer Rubins said, punctuating his comment with a cough.

  “Please listen to me,” I said. “This is very important. My grandnephew is missing. He’s only nine years old. And now, people—” I shook my head. I couldn’t bear it that anyone would think Frank capable of murder. “People are suggesting he ran away because he . . . they’re saying that he might have inadvertently hurt Miss Archibald. It’s completely ridiculous, of course. Frank would never do any such thing. And the sooner we find him, the faster we can clear this whole thing up.”

  I was met with blank stares.

  “Who is the detective in charge?” I asked.

  “His name’s Chesny, Detective Chesny. But we can’t interrupt him. He’s questioning witnesses. Sorry.”

  I could see I wasn’t going to get anywhere with these two. I craned my neck trying to see into the hall beyond them. The door to the next room opened and a tall, African-American man in a brown pin-striped suit emerged.

  “Hey, Detective, this lady says—”

  I stepped in front of the officer. “Detective Chesny?” I called out. “Detective Chesny, I need to see you now.”

  “Come on, lady, don’t make trouble,” Officer Lasker said as he took my right arm and tried to push me back toward my chair.

  “I’m sorry, but I must speak with Detective Chesny!”

  “What’s going on here?” the black man asked in a deep voice. “Let go of her, Officer.”

  “We’re sorry, Al, but she started making a scene.”

  “I can hear that.”

  “Thank you, Detective Chesny,” I said, shaking off the two officers and rushing to the door. “I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said softly, trying not to be overheard. “My nephew, Grady, and I were the ones who discovered Betsy Archibald. I really need to speak with you right now. It can’t wait.”

  “All right,” he said. “Come with me, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  He returned to the door through which he’d just come, and I quickly followed. I didn’t dare glance behind me because I knew there must be consternation on the faces of the two officers, who would now be concerned that others in the room might make a similar fuss. Sure enough, I heard Dan Howerstein speak up. “Do I have to do that to get any attention around here?”

  Chesny motioned for me to take a chair across a small table from another empty chair. He was a middle-aged man with a touch of gray at the temples and deep pouches under eyes that were, at once, keenly perceptive but not unkind.

  “You
’re the mystery writer,” he said flatly.

  “That’s right.”

  “They told me you were involved.”

  “I’m not sure I’d use that word.”

  “Suit yourself. You know who did it?”

  “Well, no, not yet. I mean, I haven’t even thought about that. You see, my grandnephew—”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I know.”

  “It’s not as if I wouldn’t be glad to help you. It’s just that—”

  “I hate to disabuse you, Mrs. Fletcher, but our police are perfectly capable of solving crimes without your help. However, as long as you’re here, I might as well get your statement.”

  “All right,” I said, “but first I have something to ask of you.”

  He sighed and said, “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m beat, and I don’t have a lot of patience. I’ve had a long day, been in court since early this morning, and now I catch this case, so I’d appreciate it if—”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You know what?”

  “That you were in court today.”

  Quizzical creases dominated his face.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to forgive me. My mind is going in a dozen different directions at once. I noticed the wrinkles on the back of your jacket, and I know that officers spend a lot of time in courtrooms testifying, sitting around, and if you’d been in your office, you’d probably have hung up your suit jacket before sitting—but in court you don’t have that luxury, so I assumed the wrinkles came from—” I shook my head. “I am sorry, Detective. As I said, my mind is a roller coaster since this terrible thing happened. Yes, of course, take my statement. But before you do, there’s the matter of a missing nine-year-old boy, Frank Fletcher—he’s my grandnephew—and he’s gone and I think finding him should take precedence over anything else you and your officers do. Please! His father and I are worried sick about him.”

  “His father is Grady Fletcher. Right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Where is he?”

  He ignored my question and took the chair opposite mine.