Madison Avenue Shoot

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Wait a minute,” Kevin said. “I don’t understand something here.” He addressed Lena. “Why did you go through Betsy’s apartment? What were you looking for?”

  “Maybe Lance can tell you,” I said.

  “It’s private,” he barked. “Nothing to do with anyone here.” Lance stood and paced the room. “Betsy had some of my papers, that’s all. I wanted them back. I didn’t want some stranger cleaning up her apartment and finding them. So I sent Lena to get them. But I didn’t tell her to wreck the place. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “The old woman was calling the police,” Lena said. “I didn’t have time to be neat. And you got them back, didn’t you?”

  “Is this what you got back, Mr. Sevenson?” Detective Chesny said, holding up the papers that Detective Marshall had faxed me. He handed them to Sevenson, who quickly flipped through them.

  “Where did you get those?” Lance said.

  “What’s in it?” Cookie said, her attention finally drawn away from her diamonds.

  “That’s private information, not for public consumption,” Lance said, glaring at Chesny. “We can discuss this in private, can we not? I’d like a lawyer present.”

  “Betsy blackmailed you into doing the commercials, didn’t she?” I said to Lance. “She knew of your past and held it over your head.”

  “If you don’t mind, Jessica,” he responded, “I’d prefer not to discuss this in public.”

  “Did she also demand money from you with the promise that she wouldn’t tell the world your secrets?”

  “Oh, no, my Betsy would never do such a thing,” Antonio said, rushing to defend her.

  “Wouldn’t she?” Lance said acidly. “That witch would do anything to push her career. Yes, she pressured me to do the spots. And I agreed on one condition, that she kept what she knew about me to herself. My career depends on people believing in me. She threatened to sell a nasty story to the tabloids. I kept my part of the bargain, and I was going to make sure she kept hers.”

  “Blackmail is a good motive for murder,” Kevin said triumphantly. “Isn’t that so, Detective Chesny?”

  “So is revenge,” Lance shot back. “She was about to bolt from your agency and take your best clients with her. She bragged to me about that. If you didn’t want her to walk away with the prize pig”—he pointed to Antonio—“you could’ve decided to take her out of the picture, for good.”

  All eyes turned to Antonio. “Yes, yes,” he said hesitantly. “She did want me to go. I tell her I think about it.”

  “Tonio! How could you even consider it? We’ve known each other for such a long time,” Kevin said, obviously wounded.

  “Yes. Yes. Your father was my friend. But this was business, Kevin. She has the ideas, no? And so passionate, so beautiful. But I think that maybe I would not go. I didn’t tell her that.” He wiped his upper lip with his handkerchief. “Now, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Maybe not to you,” Kevin said.

  Anne pulled her red quilted purse into her lap, opened the flap, and checked its contents. Satisfied, she closed it again. “I assume I’m free to go,” she said, standing.

  “Not just yet,” I said.

  Chesny looked at me and raised his eyebrows at what I would say next.

  “Does Kevin know the subject of your new book?”

  Both Anne and Kevin looked quizzically at me.

  I said to Kevin, “I assume that because you and Ms. Tripper live together, you know the contents of the book she’s been writing.”

  “Of course I know,” he said. “It’s going to be a bestseller. Right, honey? It’s a departure from her usual style. It’s about how advertising and marketing fuel the engine of the economy, keep things humming.”

  “Care to disillusion him, Anne?” I asked.

  “What’s in my book is none of your business,” she snapped.

  “You’re right,” I said. “But it would be Kevin’s business. It’s about his industry after all, but it’s not such a flattering picture as you’ve led him to believe, is it?”

  “What are you talking about?” Kevin said, pulling at my elbow.

  I shook him off and focused on Anne. “I wondered whether he knew your true intentions,” I said, “because if Betsy had discovered them and threatened to tell Kevin—perhaps as a fitting revenge for your stealing him away from her—it might have been sufficient motive for you to kill her to ensure her silence.”

  “Wait a minute,” Kevin said, addressing Anne. “Is what Mrs. Fletcher is saying true? Is this just another of your exposés? You swore to me it wasn’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, a cruel smile on her face.

  “The hell it doesn’t,” he exploded.“It matters a lot to me. Is that why you moved in with me, to learn what I know about the ad business, tell you the inside secrets, introduce you to my friends, just so you could betray them? Betray me? You went off to that studio every day to write. To keep me from seeing your work. Oh, no, I was never to look at it before publication. Bad luck, you said. And I bought it. All the while you were tearing apart a business I love. You’re despicable!”

  She laughed. “Oh, Kevin, you are such a jerk. How I could put up with your ego for so many months is a tribute to my dedication to my project. Yes, the book uncovers the real motives behind advertising, and its truth twisters, including you.”

  “You’ve said enough, Anne,” Kevin said, fists clenched, his mouth a slash across his face. “We’ll discuss this at home later.”

  Anne blew a little puff of air through her lips. “You’ll find I’m already gone from the apartment when you get home tonight. Ciao, baby. I’d like to say it’s been good to know you, but that would be a lie.” She plopped back down in her chair, long legs crossed, one foot moving up and down.

  Kevin’s eyes were wide with fury. For a moment, it appeared that he was about to physically attack her. But he backed away, mumbled curses under his breath, and stalked to a corner of the room.

  Chesny looked at me. “Mrs. Fletcher, our next move?”

  “I think you might have a few questions for Mr. Howerstein, our producer.”

  “Right,” Chesney said. He consulted the notes on his clipboard. “Mr. Howerstein,” he said, “you had quite an argument with the deceased. Care to enlighten us as to what it was about?”

  Daniel moved forward from a shelf against which he’d been leaning. “Happened right down this hall,” he said. “Did you tell him what you heard, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I did, Daniel.”

  “Well, you were there, Mrs. Fletcher. So was Fitzpatrick. Betsy and I got into a fight. Big deal. Disagreements happen all the time. This is a pressure business. Tempers flare. You saw it yourself. I’m used to Betsy going off on my crew. She had a short fuse. I don’t see where our argument could be a motive for murder. If you do, why don’t you tell the detective about it?”

  “You weren’t fighting about Betsy’s temper. You were fighting about money. You accused her of holding out on you. And she was. She said you’d get paid when the agency got paid.”

  “So? That’s standard practice in the business.”

  “Perhaps it is, but I was there and so were you when Antonio said he’d already paid for the campaign and wasn’t going to give any more money. You’d already paid Adam, and you had to put the money up for the crew salaries. You’re desperate for money and Betsy lied to you, Daniel. The agency already had the money and they were sitting on it.”

  “Is that sufficient motive for murder?” Chesny asked.

  “If it is, there would be a lot of dead agency creative directors,” Howerstein answered bitterly. “They do that to us all the time.” He looked up at me. “I didn’t kill her, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?” Anne exploded. “Then why are we wasting our time here?”

  “Do you know who killed Betsy, Aunt Jess?” Grady asked. He’d sat silently, obviously fascinated as the confrontations took place.
>
  “I believe I do,” I said.

  “Well, Ah sure would like to know. Wouldn’t you, Jimbo?” Cookie said.

  “Quiet, Cookie,” Jimbo said.

  Chesny sighed. “Let’s get on with it,” he said. “I’m eager to hear your conclusion, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m long on suspects and getting short on patience.”

  “Many people had a motive to kill Betsy. That’s true, Detective,” I said.

  “Some people could say you had a motive, too, Mrs. Fletcher,” Howerstein offered.

  “Some people already have,” I replied.

  “Can it, Daniel,” Kevin said. “I want to hear this.”

  “Betsy had a fiery temper,” I said. “She was easily incensed and slow to cool. She lashed out, and unfortunately for her, someone lashed back. We needed to account for your whereabouts that afternoon, and we needed to examine your motives, because as Detective Chesny points out, many people could have had a reason to kill Betsy. But there were two important clues left at the scene, maybe three if we count Anne’s ring.”

  Anne shot to her feet. “I’m telling you, I didn’t kill her. I might have wanted to, but I didn’t.”

  “Sit down, Miss Tripper,” Chesny said. “What are these clues, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “First of all, someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to move the equipment into the room where Betsy was killed. They didn’t want the body to be discovered too quickly.”

  “And the other clue.”

  “There were footprints in the sawdust around the body.”

  “That’s right,” Chesny said. “Unfortunately, there were a lot of them.”

  “You have my apologies about how those footprints were disturbed by my nephew and me, Detective Chesny. Grady and I didn’t know that Betsy had been killed in that room until we found her body.”

  “I hope you’re not referring to my footprints,” Ricky said, looking down at his work boots. “I was in and out of that room all morning.”

  “I’m not, Ricky, unless you wore shoes with a poined toe that day,” I said.

  “Men don’t wear shoes with pointy toes. That’s for women,” Ricky said.

  “And that’s why I concentrated on the women here. Anne, you wear pointy-toed shoes.” I turned in a half circle. “And so do you, Lena.” I looked behind me. “And you do, too, Cookie.”

  “And didn’t Betsy?” Cookie replied. “She wore them fancy high heels at the agency meeting.”

  “Yes, she did,” I said. “I’m not surprised you noticed. They were very expensive shoes with a pointed toe and very high heel. But Betsy wasn’t wearing heels when she was killed; she was wearing sneakers.”

  “Well, I did wear my favorite shoes the other day,” Cookie said, “but they don’t have a real pointy toe, just a little, maybe. Anyway, when Betsy was killed, we were on your set watching your commercial. Weren’t we, Jimbo?”

  “I wish that was true, Cookie,” I said, “but it isn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t question it when you said you’d watched my commercial being made. I remember you saying that you didn’t take your eyes off me.”

  “Because you were so very good. You looked like you’d been on TV your whole entire life.”

  “This morning, when Maya was doing your makeup, Cookie, you worried about it melting under the lights.”

  “You have to admit they’re very hot. Maybe you don’t perspire gallons under TV lights, but I surely do.” Her eyes roamed the room. “Y’all pardon me for raising an indelicate subject.”

  “Cookie, you didn’t know that Maya stays on the set, ready to fix your makeup and your hair between takes. If you had been on my set all afternoon as you claimed, you would have seen her powdering me and spraying my hair.”

  “Well, I could’ve missed something once or twice.”

  “True. But this was many more times, too many for it to have escaped your attention. No, I think it far more likely that you came to where my commercial was being shot just before the end of the day. And I don’t think Jimbo was there at all.”

  “What are you sayin’, Jessica?” Cookie asked, a hint of defiance in her voice.

  I turned to her manager. “Jimbo,” I said, “I don’t believe the ladies here would have been strong enough to move all that equipment to block Betsy’s body. But you are. Strong enough, that is. And you were very angry with Betsy. Cookie told me that you have a hard time reining in your temper once it’s raised. Those footprints in the sawdust, the ones with pointed toes, were from your cowboy boots.”

  Jimbo pulled out his red kerchief and dabbed at his brow. “Now, Jessica,” he began, “I think some explanation is in order.” He slipped the cloth back into his pocket. “You see—”

  “I’m going to ask you to give Detective Chesny that kerchief, Jimbo,” I said. “You had it out in the bathroom across the hall from the carpentry room. You used it to clean the sawdust off your boots. My grandnephew, Frank, saw you cleaning your boots with it. The police crime lab should be able to detect the sawdust residue still clinging to the fabric.”

  “It was a’ accident,” Cookie blurted. “He didn’t mean it. Please, you have to believe me that Jimbo didn’t mean to hurt her. He wouldn’t hurt anybody on purpose.”

  Jimbo placed his hand on Cookie’s. “It’s all right, Cookie. I can speak for myself.”

  Chesny held out his hand and Jimbo laid the red kerchief in his palm. “That woman was just plain mean,” he said, “takin’ it out on Cookie, makin’ fun of her accent, humiliating her in front of ever’body. It just wasn’t right. I kept thinking about what she said to Cookie, and what she did. I got myself so burned up after lunch that I tracked her down, looked all over the building till I found her walking down that hall. I started in to yell, and she says if I want to yell, to take it in here, meaning that room. I’m giving her a piece of my mind and she picks up the nail gun, says I’m not to threaten her, and aims it at me. I wasn’t threatening her. I’m a big guy, I know it. So maybe she was scared. But then she’s accusing me and callin’ me names, four-letter names, and I got so steamed, I wrestled her for it. And the damn thing goes off. Them things are supposed to have a safety latch on ’em. I know. I use one all the time around the house. It should never have gone off. I swear, I didn’t mean to kill her. I swear it.” Sweat poured down Jimbo’s forehead and cheeks. He reached into his pocket, but came up empty and used the back of his hand to wipe his face.

  “He didn’t do it on purpose,” Cookie said, her cheeks as wet as his, but from tears. “He wouldn’t ever hurt anyone. He’s just a big teddy bear. It was a’ accident like he said.”

  “But then you tried to cover up what you did,” I said to Jimbo.

  “I just . . . I just went into a panic. I knew she was dead. She had no pulse. Just died instantly. All I wanted was not to see the body. I moved everything I could in there. Took it all out from the rooms next door and piled it up against her. I thought if I didn’t see her dead, then maybe it didn’t really happen.” He collapsed into a chair and dropped his head into his arms on the table, sobbing.

  “When did he tell you what had happened, Cookie?” I asked.

  “He didn’t tell me right away, but I went lookin’ for him and found him moving all this equipment into one room. I made him stop and tell me what he was doing.”

  “And then you helped him.”

  “I did. I helped him move the light stands and a few other things that were not so heavy.”

  “I meant you helped him in another way. You took Anne’s ring from her purse in the production office and threw it into the carpentry room.”

  Cookie hung her head. “I did do that, Jessica.” She lifted her eyes to Anne. “And Ah am truly sorry.”

  “Why did you do that?” Anne demanded, her voice cold. “What did I ever do to you?”

  Cookie sniffed. “You’re just not a nice person,” she said. “And Jimbo is such a good man. I thought it would be easy for everyone to believe
you killed Betsy. I would’ve believed it if I didn’t know different.”

  “Well, that’s just lovely,” Anne said. She looked at Chesny. “I assume you’re going to arrest them both.”

  “I know my business, Miss Tripper.”

  “I’d like my ring back,” she said, holding her hand out to the detective.

  “Sorry. It has to go in the evidence locker till the trial.”

  “Very well.” Anne slipped the gold chain of her bag over her shoulder. “I assume I may leave now,” she said over her shoulder as she walked to the door. She stopped in front of the two officers. At Chesny’s nod, they opened the door and she disappeared through it.

  Lance approached the detective. “About my papers,” he said in a low voice. “You know, I paid my debt to society. I served my time. This doesn’t have to be made public. I have a reputation to uphold. This gets out, my show could be canceled. Can we . . . ?”

  Chesny gave him a hard look.

  “I know,” Lance said, “evidence, right?”

  “We’ll talk another time,” Chesny said.

  “Well, at least you know I’m not the guilty one. If the shoe doesn’t fit, you must acquit.” He laughed. “Lena, write that down.”

  One by one the others left the room until the only ones remaining were Detective Chesny and his two officers, myself, Grady, Cookie, and Jimbo.

  Cookie went over to Jimbo and put her hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Jimbo. It’s over now.”

  Jimbo raised his head. “Oh, Cookie. Ah made such a mess of things.”

  “Yes, you did. And so did I. But we still love you, and me and Homer will do ever’thing we can to help you. Ah can’t forget that it was ’cause of me that you got into that fight with her.” Cookie’s eyes sought mine. “You’re just too smart for me, Jessica. But you did right. We couldn’t have held it much longer anyways.” Her small smile was sad. “Ah hope we can still be friends. Ah’m still gonna hang your picture on my Wall of Fame.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “How much time before your flight, Aunt Jess?” We were at La Guardia Airport again, this time for my flight to Boston, and then I’d have a short hop home to Cabot Cove in a small plane with my good friend and flying instructor Jed Richardson at the controls.