Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4)

by Terry Odell

  “You were what?” Gordon asked. “Taking a break?”

  “Well, we do get them, you know. It’s the law.”

  Gordon could see Colfax and the tech trying hard not to burst into laughter. Where had Walt been when they were handing out IQ points? “So, Walt, let’s get this straight. You were here to make sure nobody got into the trailer in case there was evidence we needed for our job, which happens to be real police work. But it never occurred to you that you were one of those people who wasn’t supposed to enter the trailer, and you might have compromised evidence?”

  “Me? I didn’t touch nothing. Except to make a pot of coffee.”

  “And you washed the pot before you brewed it, didn’t you? Dumped whatever coffee was in it?”

  Walt nodded. “You’re saying the coffee might have been evidence?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. You watch television, Walt?”

  The man shook his head. Stood tall. “No. Don’t have one. Waste of time, you ask me.”

  What did he have here? Instead of a person who watched too many cop shows on television and assumed real life was like that, had Gordon run across the one man on the planet who didn’t watch T.V.?

  “Let me explain. Anything in here might be evidence. That’s why we have crime scene techs come examine everything.” Gordon gestured toward the men. “There might have been fingerprints on the coffee pot. Or poison in the coffee. Or shoe prints on the floor. All of which are compromised because you wanted a lousy cup of coffee.”

  “Lousy?” Walt bristled. “Hey. I make good coffee. You can try a cup, since you said it’s not evidence anymore.”

  Gordon gave up. “You can report to Mr. Dawson now.”

  The man scurried away. Colfax let out the laugh he’d obviously been stifling. “You going to call him back, tell him he forgot his coffee?”

  “How did a man that clueless ever land a job with a security company?” the tech asked. “Don’t they have to pass basic entry-level testing?”

  “Maybe he’s got a family connection,” Colfax said. “Nepotism trumps intelligence every time.”

  “Might as well move on to the other lounge,” Gordon said.

  Apparently Walt the security guard had been telling the truth about not entering. The trailer looked as if it had been abandoned when any occupants had been asked to leave. A scorched coffee odor permeated the air, and a half-empty pot sat on the cold burner of the coffee maker. Five cardboard cups lay on the tables. A quick inspection revealed three held coffee, two were leftover hot chocolate. Three had lipstick prints in varying shades on the rim, two on coffee cups, one on hot chocolate.

  “These appear to be partially drunk,” Colfax said. “Did anyone else display any symptoms of being drugged?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Gordon said. “But the doc at the clinic said if it was an antidepressant, it would take a lot to kill someone, assuming there weren’t other drugs being taken at the same time. Or alcohol.”

  “Between six and eight in the morning is early to be drinking unless you’ve got a problem,” Colfax said. “And from what I read, no alcohol showed up in the preliminary screening.” He turned to the tech. “Bag ’em all.”

  “We already know who was in here yesterday after the body was discovered,” Gordon said. “I put my officers on that detail.”

  Gordon’s radio squawked. “Go.”

  Connie’s voice came through. “Chief, we have the victim’s purse.”

  Chapter 20

  “Marianna’s purse? Great. Where?” Gordon asked. “I’ve got the crime scene tech here. I’ll send him over.”

  Colfax and Xander were listening in as Connie gave him the address. “It’s the vacant lot about two blocks from Mr. Johnson’s place.”

  Gordon cut her short. “You can fill me in on the details later. Have whoever found it meet me there.”

  “It’s Jost, sir, and he’s waiting at the scene.”

  “Good man.”

  Gordon hitched a ride with Colfax and within ten minutes, they and Xander pulled into the vacant lot. Jost waved them over to a pile of tree branches and garbage.

  “I noticed this on my route,” Jost said. “Figured someone was trying to avoid paying for garbage pickup and brush removal. I came over to see if I could determine who it was, and noticed something rooting around. It was a raccoon, sir. Biggest one I’ve ever seen.”

  Gordon wondered if the critter Animal Control had relocated from Mr. Johnson’s yard preferred living the good life in Mapleton where people left useful animal food and convenient bits and pieces of critter shelter lying around. Illegally, but what did a raccoon know?

  Xander was already snapping pictures. “You move the purse?” he asked.

  “I saw the strap behind the pile. I did pull it out, moved a little trash to get a better visual. It looked enough like the picture to call it in.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I took a picture first, of course.”

  “Good job,” Gordon said.

  Jost smiled. “Hey, I’m glad it didn’t turn out to be a body. Purses and raccoons, I can deal with.”

  Once Xander had finished taking his photos, he jogged to his van and returned with a large evidence bag. “I’ll go through the rest of this pile. The purse is open, so things might have fallen out.”

  “How can you tell what’s garbage and what was in the purse?” Gordon asked.

  “I can’t, although a lot of this is in plastic bags—trashcan liners. Anything loose that looks more purse-like than garbage-like, I’ll collect.” He pointed a gloved finger at a blackened banana peel. “I’d say anyone carrying an expensive bag like this one isn’t going to use it for trash.”

  “You can tell it’s expensive?” Colfax said.

  Xander pointed to the logo on the purse. “My sister’s a clothes horse. You should see her Christmas list. Always includes the brand names. I’m familiar with Coach.” He pursed his lips. “I wonder if she’d like this one. Might be a conversation piece, what with the tooth marks and all. None of her friends will have one like it.”

  “Can I take it to the station? Speed things along?” Gordon asked. “Inventory the contents there?”

  “Yes and no,” Xander said. “Leather’s tricky when it comes to getting prints, and you might end up having trouble getting the ID—assuming you get an ID—to stand up in court. If you’ll wait for me to finish up, I can do most of the printing at your station.”

  Gordon deemed that acceptable. The last thing he needed was to have evidence thrown out of court for any reason, particularly evidence associated with him. “Okay if I bring it with me and wait for you there?”

  Xander gave him a sidelong glance. Gordon held up his hands. “I’ll sign it into evidence. No peeking, no touching until you get there.” He made an X motion across his chest. “Cross my heart.”

  “If I can’t trust the Chief of Police, who can I trust?” Xander said. “I won’t be long.”

  Gordon helped Xander load the purse into the bag. “Jost, give me a lift to the station.”

  He followed the officer to his patrol car. Jost unlocked the vehicle and opened the passenger door. “Let me move this stuff,” he said, hastily dealing with a coffee cup, water bottle, and an assortment of food wrappers. He shoved everything into a plastic grocery bag and squished it down, then put it in the backseat. “I’ll dump it at the station. Guess I got behind in cleaning the vehicle.”

  “I’ve seen worse. My own included.”

  Jost dropped Gordon off at his office door and returned to his patrol duties. Gordon took the purse straight to their small evidence room and made sure everything was signed in properly. Tempted as he was to look through it, he wasn’t going to jeopardize the case—if it even turned out to be a case. Trouble was, if it was a case, it would be a big one, and he could already feel the eyes of the mayor burning down the back of his neck, wanting to know Mapleton’s reputation wasn’t going to be sullied. Or that Gordon hadn’t screwed anything up. Damn, he w
ished the mayor would stop hinting and come out and say it if Gordon’s job was in jeopardy.

  He locked the door and returned to his office. Might as well try to deal with a little Chief Stuff while he waited for Xander.

  He listened to his voice mail. All the messages revolved around the movie and the death of Marianna Spellman. He scanned the pink message slips Laurie had left, the few calls Laurie hadn’t been able to hand off. He had no answers, so he ignored them all for the time being.

  Since Solomon hadn’t called, Gordon assumed he was still involved with the autopsy. Ian Patrick hadn’t returned his call yet, either. He felt strangely connected to the movie industry. Hurry up and wait. Checking the time, he decided it was a decent enough hour to call Avis Fontenot.

  She seemed much as he’d expected after the chaplain’s description. When Avis had gone through the papers Marianna had left with her, she found the name of an attorney. “He might have a copy of a will, assuming she had one,” Avis said.

  Gordon took down the name and phone number. “Do you know of a woman named Edna Mae Withers?”

  A pause. Gordon wished he could see Avis’s expression. Was she thinking or formulating a lie? Too bad his phone didn’t have a voice stress analysis option. But when she came back on the line, it was with an apology for taking so long. “I was going through Marianna’s funeral notes, to see if she named the woman, but no, I didn’t find it. And the name is unfamiliar to me.”

  “She’s from Riverside, if that jogs your memory.”

  “Riverside? I can’t say I’ve ever been there. I’m sorry. I do wish I could be of more help.”

  “The lawyer’s name is a big help,” Gordon said. At a tap on his door jamb, he saw Xander waiting. He motioned the tech inside, thanked Avis, and disconnected.

  “You ready?” Xander said.

  Gordon shoved away from his desk and stood. “More than.” He grabbed his camera and escorted Xander to their evidence lockup and went through the formalities of signing out the bag he’d put in there. By the book all the way. He carried it, along with an evidence box, a batch of evidence envelopes, and his camera, to the war room. Both men snapped on gloves.

  Xander opened his kit, revealing an assortment of brushes and containers of powder. He selected a container. “Metallic powders work best on leather. But you do realize you’re not going to get any answers here, even if we have usable prints. We have to run them through AFIS to see if we get any hits.”

  Gordon stopped him before the tech went on to explain what AFIS was. “I’m well aware of how things work. What I want to see is what’s inside the purse. And, in case there are clues in there, I want to make sure you’re collecting prints.”

  Xander used his own camera to photograph the purse before he did anything else. Then he set to work, twirling his brush, humming what sounded like the theme from James Bond under his breath. After a few minutes, he set the brush down, held up the purse and frowned. “A couple of partials, but nothing usable. Mostly smudges. Sorry.”

  The way things had been going, Gordon had expected that. “If you need to get back, I can inventory what’s inside, bag it all, and send it to the lab for printing. If you’re concerned, I’ll wait for Ed Solomon. He’s the one who does most of our evidence collection.”

  Xander looked skeptical, but packed his powders and brushes. “I guess so. I’ve got plenty of other work waiting for me.”

  Gordon held up his gloved hands, pointed to the collection envelopes, tape and the box. He raised his camera. “Don’t worry. I do know how to handle evidence.”

  “Sorry. I get tunnel vision sometimes.” Xander headed for the door.

  “I’d walk you out, but I can’t leave this unattended. Call if you get anything from the rest of the evidence.”

  “You got it.”

  Gordon stared at the purse. “All right, Marianna. Let’s see what you carried around with you.”

  Chapter 21

  His heart thumping faster than usual, Gordon photographed the purse, first the way they’d found it, then took pictures of the insides before removing items, one at a time, and photographing them as well. On top was a floral-print pouch which contained nothing unusual. Lipstick, a mirrored compact, a small hairbrush. A sealed tiny container of mouthwash, probably from a hotel. A small tube of hand lotion. Elastic bands and a plastic clip—hair accessories. A travel-sized packet of tissues. Three pens. One from the Bed and Breakfast, another from a major hotel chain, and one with the Vista Ventures logo on it.

  Nothing looked unusual, but he bagged everything, just in case. Could someone have tampered with the hand lotion, added a drug or poison that would have been absorbed through her skin?

  Digging deeper, he found a red-and-white striped scarf. A pair of black leather gloves. A brass keychain with MS in bright red, holding a variety of keys. A separate key to her room at the Bed and Breakfast. Sunglasses in a black leather case. A small white envelope containing a handful of receipts.

  He stopped to examine the receipts more closely. Airport restaurants, cab rides, and a handwritten sheet labeled “Tips” with notations of amounts, dates, and locations. Travel records, he assumed. He’d bet her expense reports were meticulous and covered every penny.

  No receipts from Mapleton, though. She hadn’t checked out of her room, so no charges from the Bed and Breakfast. He recalled their breakfast at Daily Bread the day they’d met, and looked again. Nope. Had Angie comped the meal? He’d have to ask her. Or had the studio run a tab?

  And, thinking about it, there wasn’t much need for money while they were shooting. At Aspen Lake, transportation was provided, meals were catered. Likewise during the aborted street shots. If Marianna had eaten breakfast at her B and B, she wouldn’t have had a need to spend any money. He set that envelope aside to have printed. If someone had taken recent receipts, they might have left prints. But why not take the whole envelope?

  Enough speculation. Get it all catalogued first.

  Gordon continued going through everything, photographing, bagging, and labeling, still wondering whether anything he was seeing could possibly have something to do with Marianna Spellman’s death. He found two business card cases. One held Marianna’s cards, the second, cards from others. He went through those. Most of them appeared to be industry contacts. No recognizable order. New? People she’d just met, accepted cards from? To be filed, or entered into her address book later? He noticed his card was among them, along with one from Daily Bread, which supported his hypothesis.

  Her wallet held her driver’s license, the usual credit cards, as well as valued customer cards from a handful of grocery and a myriad specialty shops. No pictures, but most everyone used their phones for that. A library card, which surprised him, but then why should it? Books would give her movie ideas, wouldn’t they? Or maybe she liked to read.

  He was speculating again, and shifted his attention to the remaining items in the purse. Digging in an inner pocket, he felt something small, round, and hard. As he slipped it out, it rattled. A round, screw-top container. Plastic, translucent red. A little over an inch in diameter. His heart slammed against his ribs. Gordon set it on the table beside the purse. He grabbed his camera.

  Slowly, carefully, Gordon unscrewed the cap of the container. Pills. He remembered they’d found a multi-day pill organizer in her room. Was this container hers, or had somebody planted it? Were the pills part of her daily dose, or something she kept with her for privacy?

  He took pictures of the contents of the container. Five pills. A pink oval, a small round white tablet, a large purple capsule, and a smaller yellow one.

  Solomon had said the compartmentalized container in her room was a jumbo-sized one. If she was going to be away from her room for most of the day, it made sense she’d take that day’s meds, or supplements, or whatever they were, with her rather than schlep the whole thing.

  He’d have to check to see if these were the same kinds of pills she had in her room, but not until he finished goin
g through the rest of her purse. He checked the other interior pockets and compartments and found a half-empty roll of breath mints in one, along with six crumpled candy bar wrappers.

  Secret chocoholic, Marianna?

  He bagged those as well, although they appeared to be standard.

  The last inner compartment was the right size for a cell phone. It was empty, which made sense, since her phone had been in her coat in her office. And where was her tablet? Surely a raccoon hadn’t taken that. Come to think of it, nothing proved the raccoon had been the one to drag Marianna’s purse to the vacant lot. A more plausible explanation was whoever took it might have hidden it under the garbage, and the raccoon discovered it there.

  Gordon rummaged around one more time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Tucked into the bottom of a zippered section, he felt something cylindrical stuck in the lining. He tipped the purse, shook it, and an orange prescription pill vial tumbled onto the table, rattling softly as it rolled. Bingo! Gordon snagged it before it fell to the floor.

  The label was faded and scraped, almost nonexistent. He put on his readers. What he could make out of the name was not Marianna Spellman. Someone else’s prescription? Hers, but under a false identity? Or was she using it as a second container for all her vitamins and supplements? One for lunch time, one for dinner. He opened the vial. Unlike the other container, this one contained all the same kind of pills. White ovals, with a dent which Gordon assumed meant they could be split in half easily.

  He made sure he got good photos, then transferred all the pictures to his computer. Zeroing in on the pill vial, he zoomed in, trying to make out the name. Staring at the blurred image, he had a brief, stomach-clenching flashback to his Central Serous Retinopathy, but he shook it off and concentrated on the letters.

  What looked like a capital K, then a gap, then r. Another gap, then an l. The last name was missing all but a few letters. He deciphered an r, an sc, and it seemed to end in l.