Murder on Location

by Cathy Pegau

  Gasps and expletives sounded. Everyone rushed over to the fallen man as carefully as they could cross the ice to avoid the same fate. He sat up slowly, dazed, and rubbing at what was sure to be a heck of a goose egg.

  “Are you all right, Andy?” Roslyn asked.

  Andy seemed to be none the worse for wear, but the film they’d shot was lost.

  “Okay, everyone,” Cicely said, obviously disappointed as she rubbed the side of her hand across her forehead. “Let’s break for lunch. We’ll do another take later, if the light and weather cooperate.”

  Roger Markham picked up Andy’s camera. Andy collected the spoiled film, shaking his head as he and the others started to walk carefully down off the glacier. Despite the interruption of the day’s filming, the mood of the company seemed light and friendly from what Charlotte could tell as they passed her and Burrows.

  Roslyn stopped beside Cicely, the two had their heads bowed toward each other, speaking quietly. Roslyn laid her hand on Cicely’s arm, then hugged the newly minted director. Cicely closed her eyes, smiling.

  Their affection for each other was obvious. If her father had threatened them, threatened to expose their relationship, would one or both of them have killed the man? Strangulation was often a crime of immediacy, opportunity, and passion, not typically how one planned to kill another person.

  “Shall we head back, Miss Brody?” Burrows offered his arm.

  Charlotte looped her arm through his and together they followed the crew to the camp. “What would you have done if Mr. Welsh hadn’t died and refused to change the story?”

  “As I said, we would have filed a libel complaint.”

  “Which would have probably been ignored or dismissed.”

  Burrows nodded. “Probably, but it would have brought attention to the discriminations. Would we have won anything? Not likely. Would it have caused Meade and Welsh some problems? One would hope.”

  “Talking to either of them was getting you nowhere; there would have been no other course of action,” Charlotte said as they drew closer to the main tent and the group of film people ahead of them.

  “There’s always something that can be done, Miss Brody. Not necessarily pretty, but something to accomplish the job.”

  The question was, what would that “something” be for a man like Burrows?

  * * *

  As lunch finished and the wind continued to blow snow, Cicely Welsh and some members of the company lingered at a table, dirty dishes set aside and pages of the scenario spread before them. Cicely’s quiet manner was quite different from her father, Charlotte observed. Perhaps that’s why some, like Wallace Meade, didn’t think the scenarist would be capable of making the transition to director. They were used to a director who dictated. Cicely was more inclined to listen to her players and crew, taking in their expertise before making a decision.

  Charlotte refilled her coffee cup, then sat beside Meade, who watched the group across the tent with his arms folded and his brow furrowed. Every now and again, his gaze darted to the cooking area where Smitty and his men worked. The three bantered as they cleaned up and prepared the evening meal, paying little attention to those around them.

  “Cicely seems to be doing a fine job, don’t you think, Mr. Meade?” Knowing the man’s opposition to continuing the film with young Miss Welsh at the helm, Charlotte was sure the question would receive a significant response. She was not disappointed.

  “Directors direct, they don’t go about asking everyone down to the set painters what they think.” His scowl deepened.

  “I think she’s well aware of her inexperience,” Charlotte said, “and is seeking the advice of people who have been doing this for a while. Like Roger Markham. I heard him explaining what he could and couldn’t do with his cameras.”

  Meade gave Charlotte a sidelong glance. “Yes, I’m sure Markham is relieved to have Cicely to deal with rather than Stanley. She’s much more likely to give in to his recommendations.”

  Was Meade insinuating that the cameraman had something to do with Welsh’s death? Markham had been protesting practically from the day they arrived in Alaska that the director was asking too much, putting cast and crew in too much danger. Had his concern for the safety of the company led him to a rash action?

  “On the bright side,” Meade continued, “it saves me from footing the bill for a boat that Stanley wanted for that iceberg scene.”

  Ah, yes, the focus of a producer’s concerns: money.

  “Is North to Fortune over budget?” Charlotte had heard an original budget of thirty thousand dollars, a mind-boggling amount to begin with. Where was the money coming from? Meade mentioned studio budgets and private investors, but would never go into any more detail than that.

  The tight smile in his face told Charlotte much more than his words. “Incidentals and unexpected expenses happen on all projects, especially ones of this magnitude.”

  In her conversation with Billy, Charlotte had learned about a few of those added expenses. “You mean like Stanley Welsh ordering a set repainted or rebuilt numerous times.”

  Meade’s eyes hardened. “That’s what I’m here for, to remind these folks that their art costs money.”

  “Do you think Cicely will listen better than Stanley?”

  The producer looked at the table where the others worked over the scenario. Cicely and Roslyn, sitting side by side, were smiling, and Roger Markham actually laughed. “She sure as hell can’t be much worse.”

  A blast of icy wind rippled through the mess as one of the crew came in. Heads turned and shoulders hunched against the sudden cold. The pages on the table fluttered about.

  “Maybe we should hold off on that scene,” Markham said. “I’m all for realistic, but no cause to risk our necks.”

  Cicely’s lips pressed together. Clearly she wanted to continue, but cold and blowing snow would make it difficult. “Agreed, but go out and see if you can get some storm footage, Roger. We can edit it in as needed or save it for stock.”

  Roger headed out to do his director’s bidding.

  “In the meantime,” Cicely said, “why don’t we rehearse the fight scene here? The more comfortable you all are with the action, the easier and faster it will go when it comes time to film out on the ice.”

  Tables and chairs on one end of the mess tent were set aside. Cicely sat facing the “set” and placed the actors where she wanted them. Anyone not in the climactic scene stayed behind Cicely.

  It was similar to watching a stage production. There were lines of dialogue spoken with as much emotion and realism as in any play, despite the fact it would never be heard by the audience. The actors, Charlotte realized, were just as earnest as if they were in front of an audience. The words Cicely had written contributed to their characters, to the action. Even if the audience didn’t hear it, even with limited text on the title cards, the story would come through.

  Roslyn Sanford’s Dorothy was a delicate balance of innocence, bravery, and fear. Peter’s heroic determination to save his lady love came out in the flash of his dark eyes and the expressions on his face. Charlotte could see why the woman at the boat dock and many others found him attractive.

  After several run-throughs, at least three of which were stopped when someone started laughing, the scene played out smoothly. Ted held Roslyn at gunpoint, or rather finger point, then Peter and Lewis wrestled him for the weapon. A “Bang!” from Cicely and Ted was “dead.”

  “Well done,” Cicely said, standing. The broad smile on her face was reflected in the others. “We’ll do it for real tomorrow.”

  Ted held up his hand, forefinger out and thumb up. “And I’ll have a real gun, right? Bang!”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Of course,” Cicely said. “The prop and costume folks will have everyone taken care of.”

  Paige edged closer. “Can we go over my bit some more, Cicely? I want to make sure I’m as ready as the others.”

  Was Paige trying to play up to Cicely
as she had Stanley?

  The somewhat amused expression on Cicely’s face said she may have been thinking the same thing, but she gave the actress a friendly smile and said, “That sounds great. Let’s go over here.”

  Beside Charlotte, Meade drained the last of his coffee from his cup and rose. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Brody, I have some correspondence to attend to.”

  “Be careful,” Charlotte said. When he gave her a questioning look, she gestured toward his bandaged hand.

  Grumbling something she couldn’t catch, Meade strode to the dish deposit cart. The stout, dark-haired man on Smitty’s crew met him at the cart and took the cup. The man said something, smiling at Meade and showing a lot of teeth. Was he asking the producer about a part in the film? Though unable to see Meade’s face, Charlotte noted he shook his head and quickly exited the tent.

  Cicely, Paige, and Roslyn went off by themselves to a side table while the others put the mess tent back in order. Charlotte stood, ready to return to her tent, then spotted Caleb Burrows sitting quietly in a corner. She took a step toward him to ask how he felt about the revisions, but the lawyer rose and left the mess as if he had an appointment to keep. He hadn’t appeared agitated. What had triggered his abrupt departure?

  Chapter 15

  Well after dinner, most of the company had remained in the mess tent to rehearse and visit over pie and coffee. A few, including Roger Markham and Elaine the costumer, had left right after eating, Markham citing the need to prepare for the following day’s shoot.

  Some joined the actors while others played cards, chess, or checkers. All were chatty and lighthearted, discussing the changes in the story and the new fight scene. Peter and Ted were particularly animated as they went over a few finer points of the choreography. They gestured and “fought” while still seated, knocking into cherry-smeared plates and empty cups, which led to a great amount of laugher.

  Charlotte laughed along with them. It was difficult to achieve the full impact of a deadly scene when your lower half was trapped beneath a table and china went skittering.

  Whoever had brought the Victrola out to the site had moved it into the mess tent, and the latest Irving Berlin tune filled the air.

  While the cast and crew appeared to enjoy the camaraderie she had seen when they first arrived, Charlotte noticed Wallace Meade was sitting alone, papers strewn in front of him, coffee cup at his elbow. He frowned down at whatever he was reading. He absentmindedly fiddled with his silver letter opener, tapping it on the table or stabbing it into the wood.

  With his left hand.

  A thrill of realization shimmered through Charlotte.

  Now wait a minute. His right hand is injured, so he’s favoring it. Avoiding the use of the wounded hand makes sense.

  Yes, but how had his right hand become injured? Meade claimed it was from that same letter opener. Which meant he’d been holding it in his left hand—his dominant hand—when it slipped and jabbed his right.

  Michael and James had suggested the killer was left-handed, but that wasn’t proof. And recalling her visit to the Smiths’ home, Charlotte remembered Caleb Burrows was a leftie as well.

  Charlotte noted the bloodstained bandage around Meade’s right hand. Even if his letter opener story were true, how had he been wounded on both sides of his hand?

  The assistant cook approached Meade while Charlotte tried not to make her observation of the producer too blatant. He filled the producer’s cup, bending low enough to say something in the older man’s ear. Meade stilled, his hand tightening around the pen he held. He didn’t make eye contact with the cook, and his lips barely moved as he spoke, but Charlotte would hazard a guess that whatever he said was not appreciation for refreshing his drink.

  The cook poked Meade in the shoulder. The music on the Victrola wound down as the surrounding conversation hit a lull, allowing Charlotte to hear a snippet of the man’s words to Meade. “. . . later, or there’ll be trouble.”

  He then turned away, whistling as he sauntered back to the kitchen area as if nothing had happened.

  Meade’s gaze darted around the tent and fell on Charlotte. When their eyes met, he quickly gathered his papers and left.

  What was going on there?

  What kind of trouble was a cook’s assistant making for Meade?

  Meade had looked worried, but was he scared of something?

  Charlotte brought her cup and dessert plate to the dish cart. The assistant cook smiled at her and asked if she enjoyed the pie. He was just one of Smitty’s men, wasn’t he? The sinister look about him was purely her imagination.

  You’re being silly.

  Maybe. But maybe not.

  Charlotte relayed her thanks for a fine meal, gathered her coat, hat, and scarf, and followed Wallace Meade outside. Head bowed against the wind and blowing snow, she started toward Meade’s tent, but a flicker of light from the right caught her eye. She looked in that direction to the row of sheds on the opposite sides of the mess tent.

  The prop man, Elaine the costumer, and even the players themselves were in and out of the sheds all the time. There was nothing terribly unusual about a light being on in one, even at this hour. Except this time there was, as most everyone else in the company was in the mess enjoying the evening of music and laughter. The thin bar of light leaking between the gaps in the shed wall might have been missed or ignored by most passersby who wanted to make it from tent to tent without a face full of snow.

  Charlotte carefully made her way over. She put her ear to the crack between the frame and the door. The wind coming off the glacier chilled her exposed skin and made it difficult to hear what was going on within.

  Probably just the property master or Elaine. Or perhaps Markham. Though with the afternoon’s filming having been canceled, they probably took advantage of the unexpected free time in order to have a relaxing evening.

  Only one way to find out.

  Slowly, Charlotte eased the door open, peering in as she did so in preparation of closing it again if need be.

  At first, all she saw was stacks of boxes and a rack of hanging furs and costumes with a narrow aisle between them. She opened the door just enough to slip in and closed it gently behind her, watching and listening for any indication she’d been heard. When no one came into view or called out, she crept up the aisle, careful not to jostle the costumes or crates, and peeked around the rack of furs.

  Standing in profile to her, Wallace Meade fumbled with something in front of him on a waist-high crate. A lantern on a taller crate illuminated the area. Haphazardly stacked boxes partially obscured what he was up to, but Charlotte heard the tink of small bits of metal on metal. Meade wore a grim expression of concentration.

  Charlotte stood on her tiptoes to try to see what he was doing. Before she could discern what he had in hand, Meade turned his head. Her heart jumped as their eyes met. She started backward, bumping into the stack of crates. He raised his left hand.

  “Stop,” Meade commanded.

  The gun he pointed at her seemed to fill her vision. It looked a lot like the gun Ted was to use to hold Roslyn captive, the gun that would go off during his struggle with Peter and Lewis. If the trigger was accidentally pulled in the course of the faux fight, someone could be hurt or killed. Even if the bullets were discovered in the chamber before anything terrible occurred, word of yet another potential “accident” could see the company abandoning the production.

  “Killing Stanley wasn’t enough? You want the film to be shelved so badly that you’re willing to hurt or kill someone else?”

  “Reasoning didn’t work, Miss Brody, nor did begging.” Meade drew back the hammer with his thumb. “If it takes another body for them to finally walk away, so be it.”

  He didn’t care if that body was Ted’s or Peter’s or Lewis’s. Charlotte swallowed hard. Or hers. Her heart pounded in her ears, almost drowning out the howl of the wind and the rattle of the shed roof. Would anyone hear a shot fired over the wind and the music and the
laughter? If she could keep him talking, perhaps she could manage to get away.

  “What did Stanley do that was so terrible, Mr. Meade?”

  “Tried to ruin me, is all.” His face darkened with anger.

  “He spent money like it grew on trees,” she added, guessing that was reason enough to anger the entrepreneur, hoping to get him to elaborate.

  “I expected to go over budget some,” Meade said. “I was caught up in the excitement of Fortune as much as Stanley. Maybe more so. I sold off some stock. A lot of stock. Stanley kept spending, promising we’d make it back. Because he knew the film business, knew that this was something people were hungry for. When I ran out of things to sell, I borrowed from some very impatient men.”

  “You had to stop Stanley from spending so much.”

  Meade shook the gun at her and Charlotte jumped. “He was bleeding me like a stuck pig. If I didn’t stop him, sooner or later I’d be found in a river or an alley somewhere. They put one of their goons on me so I wouldn’t bolt.”

  Goon? The assistant cook? He was the only support staff employee Meade seemed to ever pay any sort of attention to, and not happily.

  “You went to Stanley that night, to tell him to stop being so damn irresponsible.” Sounding like she sympathized with him might get the story out of him. And perhaps buy her a few more minutes.

  “No, he came to me, to tell me that he’d taken another five thousand dollars from the account. Insurance, he called it. Five grand! I couldn’t believe it. We had just talked about keeping costs down. I had the damn cook water the soup and coffee. Where did Stanley think that money came from?”

  “So pigheaded,” Charlotte said, but Meade kept talking, as if he needed to get the incident off his chest. The more he spoke, however, the less likely he was to let her go. Yet she didn’t dare interrupt.

  “I just got so damn mad and before I knew it, my hands were around his throat and he was on the floor. Dead.” Meade shook his head slowly. He looked more perturbed than remorseful, as if Stanley dying on him had been just one more way the director had managed to make his life difficult. “I hadn’t meant it, but he was just so . . . There was no way anyone would see that as an accident. I had to get rid of him, make it look like he’d fallen in.”