“Lame?” I gaped at her. “Are you kidding me? That’s good advice, Heather. You’ve been so immersed in the Hollywood scene, you assume everything should be a big production.”
“What’s this about a big Hollywood production?”
We both turned and saw Jon standing beside us. I shot Heather a warning look which she countered with a confrontational glare. Suddenly, the anger faded. Her eyes lit up with excitement. I knew exactly what she was thinking. And I didn’t like it. I shook my head. “Heather, no. No way.”
“Why not?” she pressed. “You do this for a living, don’t you? Trip was murdered. Murdered! You said so yourself. Why not look into this?”
“No,” I shook my head again. “This is different. This is your job. I don’t want there to be a, I don’t know, conflict of interest or something. You need to call the cops—”
“Conflict of interest?” she exclaimed, flipping her hair back and throwing the ski at me. Putting her hands on her hips, she repeated, “Conflict of interest? Jordan, you solved the murder of your boyfriend’s father! And found his missing cousin! How are those not conflicts but this is?”
During Heather’s rant, a light snowfall began. I clutched my arms as white flakes began to accumulate on my face and shoulders. “That was different. Rick wasn’t my boyfriend when I took his dad’s case. He was just a client. And with Arthur,” I hesitated. “Okay, yes, technically that could be considered a conflict of interest. But, neither of those cases could have cost anyone their job. If I screw this up . . . I just don’t wanna be responsible for you losing a promotion you’ve worked so hard to earn.”
“Listen,” Heather whispered, nodding at Nancy. “I’m really, really grateful for this opportunity, but some things are more important than a promotion. Jordan, we’re talking about someone’s life. Trip was a friend of mine. He was a really nice guy. The thought that someone did this to him . . . I want you to investigate, okay? Please? For me?”
As I stared into my best friend’s eyes, I found myself relenting. Groaning, I said, “All right, fine. On one condition.”
“What?” she asked, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.
“I don’t know any of these people,” I began, glancing around, “but I think it would be better for you to keep this to yourself until we have some, you know, proof. If someone in the cast or crew is responsible . . . we don’t want to let them know something’s up.”
“Of course. I’ll just tell Nancy—”
“No!” Heather stared. Feeling my face flush, I added, “I don’t think you should tell anyone. Not even Nancy. Not yet. And, if it looks like there’s something to my theory, we call the cops right away. Deal?”
“Hmm,” Heather pursed her lips, staring at me. “Deal.”
I watched as she made her way down the steep incline and met Nancy at the base. I could see her whisper something to Nancy. Nancy followed Heather away from the group. While I stood there watching the interaction below, I had the distinct feeling that I, too, was being watched. Without turning, I knew it was Jon. After he took a deep breath, he touched the sleeve of my parka gently.
“How’re you doing?”
“Fine,” I replied, hastily, taking a step away from him. I continued to stare at Heather and Nancy as I added, “I mean, this is terrible, it’s awful, but—”
“But you don’t believe it was an accident.” His voice grew loud with excitement. “That’s why she sent Alson away and asked you to investigate, right? You think someone sabotaged that ski to kill Alson Andrews. This dead guy, whoever he was, he was just collateral damage. Am I right?”
“Yes,” I hissed, whipping around to face him, which caused my hair to cover my face. Brushing it back, I added, “That’s what it looks like, but I don’t have any proof. And, if I am right, the killer could be right here, right now. You’re not helping anything by broadcasting my theories.”
“Sorry,” Jon muttered as he stared down at the snow. Shoving his hands in his coat pockets, he glanced up, grinning. “It’s just . . . you gotta admit it’s wicked cool when we get cases like this. Totally makes up for all those boring divorces.”
“Are you insane or has the lack of oxygen here gone to your brain?” I exclaimed, staring at him in disbelief. “Jon, someone just died. Right here. This is not cool. This is horrible. It’s beyond horrible.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jon stammered, his face suddenly flushed. “You’re right. It sucks. I just . . . I love our work and – and cases like this one are wicked . . . uh . . . you know what I mean. Anyway, if this guy was murdered, we’ll find out. No one’s gonna get away with something like this while I’m around.”
I turned back toward the base, noticing Nancy was giving everyone orders while Heather trekked back up the mountain. Her face was bright red and she was taking short gasps of breath by the time she reached us. When I opened my mouth to speak, she held up her index finger before coughing.
“What’s all this?” I asked, nodding at the crewmembers breaking up into small groups. “What’d you tell her?”
“I told her what you told me,” Heather panted, brushing her hair back and leaning against a nearby tree.
“You did what?” I snapped. “Heather, I told you not to tell her!”
“I told her the truth, just not all of it.” I stared at her and she blushed. “I said you were an insurance investigator.”
“Come again?”
“I said you were an insurance investigator and you said it looks like the ski was tampered with. She agreed you should talk to the crew. She doesn’t want a lawsuit and definitely doesn’t want to involve the cops or the media.”
I stared at her in silence. This entire situation was beginning to smell as fishy as week-old cod. The first thing any rational person would do in a situation like this would be to call the police. They were the most qualified to handle things like this and the most likely to be able to deal with the perpetrators if there were any. I couldn’t help the bad feeling increasing as the seconds wore on. I glanced over at the crew warily.
“Okay, but what are they doing?”
“That was Nancy’s idea,” Heather replied. “She’s going to hold a meeting this afternoon to tell everyone what happened. She wants to talk to Dr. Rosie before she tells them, though. Right now, she’s telling them who you are and for insurance purposes, you need to know everything each one of them did last night and this morning.”
“What about me looks like an insurance investigator? Besides, I thought you told these people I’m a private investigator. You really think they’ll buy that?”
“Totally.” Heather nodded. “If Nancy says you’re an insurance investigator, you are. No one questions Nancy.”
“I don’t know.” I sighed, shaking my head. “It doesn’t seem like the most ethical way to approach this, but . . . whatever. It’s your case.”
Choosing to ignore my comment, Heather explained that Nancy was separating the crew into groups based on their jobs: the lighting guys, the grips, the cameramen, and so on. When she finished, she took a deep breath. “Where do you want to start?”
“Uh,” I paused, staring down at the ill-fated ski. Adjusting my cap, I shrugged. “I guess I should start with the prop guys.”
Heather nodded and taking another deep breath, began the steep walk down the hill again. As soon as we were alone, Jon muttered, “You know, she may have a point. I mean, approaching it as an insurance claim. You’re more likely to get honest answers that way than if people thought they were murder suspects.”
“We’ll see, I guess.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “To tell the truth, I’m really nervous about this. I don’t know anything about this business and trying to find the one person who hated Alson Andrews enough to tamper with that ski,” I hesitated. “This is gonna be a tough case.”
“You shouldn’t be nervous,” Jon insisted, squeezing my shoulder affectionately. “You’re a wicked awesome investigator. Just last month, you found that rare artifact . . . you know, the rasha – raska . . . whatever it was, that thing stolen from Harvard, because of a single shoe print. There’s gotta be more to this case than that one. Someone saw something. All you gotta do is ask the right questions. You can do this.”
“What exactly are the right questions?”
“You’ll have figure that one out.” He winked at me, giving my shoulders one last squeeze.
As the true weight of the task I was about to undertake hit me, I found myself wishing that I went home for Thanksgiving to deal with my family instead of this mess. I realized Heather was walking towards me, taking each step with slow, painful deliberation. When she drew near, she doubled over and wheezed.
“Okay,” she panted, her teeth chattering, “just checked with props and they’re ready for you. If I may make a suggestion, talk to them down there. There’s no way I’m hiking up this stupid mountain again. I feel like my legs are gonna explode. It’s not even twenty degrees out here and I’m sweating!”
Taking a deep breath, she slowly made her way down the steep incline again. When we were halfway there, her legs gave out and she fell into the thick powder. Slamming her fists into the snow, she groaned and stared up at the cobalt-blue sky that was now breaking through the cloudbanks.
I reached down and offered her my hand, but she slapped it away. Stifling a laugh, I asked, “Are you okay?”
“What do you think?” she snapped. Groaning again, she dusted the powder off her hair and jacket. “Sorry. It’s just . . . never mind. They’re right down there. I’ll meet up with you in a few.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“My pride isn’t doing too well, but, hey, nothing an Emmy won’t fix,” she quipped. “Go on, Nancy Drew. Solve this. I’m counting on you.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. As I made my way to the base, I realized Jon was still beside me. “Listen, Jon, it might be best if I interview these people alone.”
Jon crossed his arms, then groaned, “Great! So what am I supposed to do?”
“You could go skiing,” I suggested.
A deep frown was the only response he offered.
“Hey, why don’t you take a few pics of the set? You know, how the equipment is set up and the location of the actual accident,” I said. “That could really help us later. Then try to blend in with the crowd. Maybe there’s some inside gossip or something.”
Still frowning, he put on his Gucci sunglasses before storming off. When he was a few yards away I watched him pull his cell phone out and began to take pictures. Despite his obvious irritation, I was grateful that he didn’t throw a full-fledged fit. I followed Heather’s directions over to an area near the camera equipment where a group of four guys and one girl were seated in plastic chairs.
As with almost everyone else I met on the set, they appeared to be in their mid to late twenties. One of the guys, a short man with red hair and blue eyes sporting Star Wars hoodie, introduced himself as Seth Jones, the props master. He smelled like a bad mixture of sweat and for some reason, Fruity Pebbles.
“Props master?” I repeated, trying not to smile. “I didn’t know props needed mastering.”
“I worked very hard to get where I am,” he snapped, his pudgy face turning a brighter shade of red. “There’s a lot more to props than you know. A whole lot more.”
“Um . . . sorry.” We stood there in awkward silence. Finally, when I became bored with waiting for him to talk, I turned to his crew. “So you guys work with the props, too, huh?”
They remained seated, their eyes downward. I suddenly realized that no one would acknowledge me because of their boss, the irate props master, who still appeared so enraged by my stupid joke I thought he might burst a blood vessel. Shifting my weight, I pinched the bridge of my nose. This is gonna be a long day.
“You people don’t like me,” I began. “Fine. But, regardless of how you feel, I’m here for a reason. Nancy asked me to look around for . . . insurance purposes . . . because, unfortunately, someone was . . . seriously hurt today. Now, I have questions and you have answers. Let’s see if we can match them up and get out of each other’s hair, okay? Unless you’d rather I call Nancy over.”
Seth grumbled, his left eye beginning to twitch. With his jaw clenched, he pointed to the others and growled, “John, Tyler, Matt, Robin.”
Nodding, I turned my attention back to the crew, but got little response from them despite Seth’s curt introduction. I found the entire situation frustrating and, having already wasted too much time, I decided to ask my questions to the group as a whole. For some reason, thankfully, they were more willing to talk that way.
“The skis Trip wore for that last scene, where did they come from? The studio?” I asked no one in particular, zipping my parka up all the way to my neck.
“No, the resort’s rental shop,” scoffed Tyler, a large man wearing faded black sweatpants and a thick, red sweater. Tearing the wrapper off a non-fat, soy protein bar, he took a bite. “It would’ve been an absurd waste of both our time and resources to cart all the equipment needed eight hundred miles for five scenes. We may have the highest rated comedy on primetime, but we do have a budget.”
“Why exactly would the props department handle the actor’s skis?” I asked, trying to ignore his overt hostility. “Shouldn’t, I don’t know, wardrobe handle those?”
“Why exactly are you handling this case?” Tyler retorted, taking another bite of his protein bar. “Shouldn’t, I don’t know, someone qualified handle this?”
“Were the skis in good condition when you rented them?” I pressed, ignoring his snarky remarks. After a long pause, Robin, the only girl in the group, nodded and adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses.
“Yeah,” she replied, ignoring the scowls of her coworkers. “I double checked ‘em. There was nothing wrong with those skis when we picked them up yesterday afternoon.”
“Those skis . . . they weren’t for beginners. Did you mean to get Alson advanced skis? Was that a mistake?”
“I don’t make mistakes,” Seth seethed. “Alson’s an amazing skier. You might want to do a little research before you start throwing around ignorant accusations.”
Another light snowfall began and I found it very difficult to formulate relevant questions as my fingers and toes became so cold they started to throb with pain. Rubbing my gloved hands together, I asked, “How many people had access to those skis between the time you rented them yesterday and the time Trip secured them to his ski boots this morning?”
Silence was the answer I initially received. I glanced at each of them, my gaze resting on Robin last. She was looking over at Seth. It didn’t take me long to realize they were all looking at Seth. While his minions turned to their props master for direction, the little dictator glared at me with obvious disdain. Crossing his legs, he let out a dramatic sigh before snapping, “No one has access to any props other than myself and my crew. Everyone knows that I have a very specific system in place preproduction to ensure everything goes flawlessly during both production and postproduction.”
“Okay,” I countered, crossing my arms, “then what you’re telling me is that you are solely responsible for Trip’s accident. No one else could have possibly been involved because no one ever touches your props. Is that what you meant?”
The little man’s Adam’s apple quivered and his eyes widened as he considered the implications of his haughty statement. Shaking, he uncrossed his legs and stammered, “Not – not necessarily. Sometimes, uh, sometimes people fool with the props . . . you know, play with them or move them, but – but I’ve never given anyone permission to! Everything we have is property of Ultimate Studios or rented under studio orders.”
&
nbsp; I frowned, staring at him with suspicion. I hoped my silence would lead him to remain more cooperative and less confrontational. A sudden gust changed the direction of the snow flurries. “All right, fine. Let’s say I believe you. Who else had access to the skis?”
“Uh,” Seth hesitated, shoving his pudgy hands back into the pouch of his hoodie. His unexpected submissiveness caught the attention of his crew, and soon, we were all awaiting his response. Scratching his neck, he admitted, “I, uh, I don’t know.”
My heart sank as he uttered those words. My first lead had dried up. Refusing to succumb to my disappointment, I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. You claimed to have some amazing system of organization for your precious props. Now you’re telling me you have no idea who could have tampered with them? I don’t buy that. There are five of you. Five! You expect me to believe that, when your only job is to handle the props, none of you noticed anyone messing with them?”
They all stared at the ground with embarrassment. As I stared at them, I noticed Robin’s hands shaking in her lap. I called her name, but she refused to answer. Sighing, I walked over to her chair. When she refused to make eye contact, I knew I was onto something.
“Robin?” She turned her head away. “Robin, did you see something? If you did, please tell me. You may not think it matters, but it could be a really big clue. Robin?”
When she finally met my gaze, I noticed a single tear had run down her cheek, leaving a thin, frosty trail in its wake. With her hands still shaking, she lifted up her glasses and wiped it away. Sniffing, she whispered, “He – he said he only wanted to borrow them for a minute.”
Bitter Retribution (Jordan James, PI Series) Page 13