Madison Avenue Shoot (23 page)

On
Amazon.com
, information about the author of
Crystals in Your Life
was equally sketchy. I went back to Google and tried looking up Betsy Archibald, but other than articles on the ad campaigns she created that appeared in industry magazines like
Advertising Age
,
Adweek
, and
Shoot
, there was little data that I could find on Mindbenders’ creative director.

“What are you doing, Aunt Jessica?” Frank peered over my shoulder at the listing of links on Google.

“Just doing a little research, Frank. Have you finished your chapter?”

“Uh-huh. I read ten pages.”

“Ten pages, huh? That’s terrific. You must be a fast reader.”

“I am.”

“And now you’d like to look up songs for your iPod, I take it.”

“That’s okay. I can wait till you’re done. Can I look at this while I wait?”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s a book you brought home.”

I turned to see what Frank had in his hands. It was Betsy’s high school yearbook. I had left it in a corner of the room together with my shoulder bag and suitcase that Cookie had sent downtown from the Waldorf.

“It’s a yearbook,” I said, explaining to him that some schools publish books every year with pictures of the students, and that this one was from Betsy’s high school. “Do you still want to look at it?”

“Sure,” he said, opening to the middle of the book. “They had funny haircuts when she was in high school, didn’t they?”

I glanced down at the page he was examining. “It didn’t seem so at the time,” I said.

“I’ll see if I can find her,” he said enthusiastically.

“You do that. I shouldn’t be too much longer, and then you can have the computer back.”

I continued my search for anything I could find on Betsy and Lance, even linking both names to see if it brought up any reference to Toronto, but the only articles where their names appeared together were ones about the upcoming Permezzo campaign.

“I found her!” Frank said. “Look! Look at this, Aunt Jessica. Isn’t that her?”

“Let me see,” I said, taking the book from him and propping it up in front of us.

Frank pointed to a very young woman with a head full of curls. Beneath her picture was the name Elizabeth Archibald.

“Very good, Frank,” I said.

His face, which had been so full of excitement at recognizing the younger Betsy, suddenly became serious. He leaned into my shoulder. “It’s sad that she’s dead, isn’t it?”

“Very sad.”

“Now she won’t see how your commercial comes out, will she?”

“That’s true. She won’t be able to see it. But the ads for Permezzo were all her idea, so if they come out well, and if people respond to them, it will be a kind tribute to her and her success in her field. Do you understand?”

“Kind of. People will like her idea and remember her?”

I put my arm around Frank and he rested his head on my shoulder. “That’s right. And she probably had lots of friends who will remember her for other things.”

“Like what?”

“Like that she was fun to be with, or perhaps because she did nice things for them. And maybe she had family who loved her and will miss her.”

Frank nodded but didn’t say anything.

“You know, Frank, we saw her when she had a bad day, but I’ll bet she wasn’t always like that. I’m sorry we didn’t know her when she was being nice. Aren’t you?”

Frank was silent for a moment. Then he raised his head. “How come she changed her name?” he asked.

“She didn’t change her name,” I said. “ ‘Betsy’ is short for ‘Elizabeth.’ It’s a nickname. Do you know what a nickname is?”

“Sure. Like ‘Frank’ is for ‘Francis’ or ‘Franklin’?”

“Exactly.”

“Except my name isn’t ‘Francis’ or ‘Franklin.’ It’s just plain ‘Frank.’ ”

“Yours is a wonderful name,” I said. “You were named for someone your dad and I loved very much.”

“I know,” he said. “You want to see who else I found in the book?”

“Who else did you find?”

He took the book back from me and turned several pages. “I saw him. I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

“Who, Frank?”

“The guy on television. The one who was in the room with the stars.”

“Lance Sevenson?”

“But that’s not his real name. He has a different name here, but it doesn’t look like a nickname.” He turned another page and put his index finger on a picture.

I took the book and studied the face Frank had pointed out. The name under the picture was “Laurence Stevenson.” “I think you’re right,” I said. “Thank you, Frank.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

“I’ve been trying to find out where Lance Sevenson grew up, and now I know. He isn’t from California or Toronto. He’s from a little town in Ontario, the same home-town as Betsy Archibald.”

“I helped you out?”

“You certainly did.” I closed the yearbook and placed it on the desk.

“Then, if you’re done, can I use the computer now?”

I laughed and gave him a hug. “It’s all yours,” I said. “I have to make a couple of phone calls.”

W
e had a nine o’clock call at the production location, but I convinced Grady to leave early so that we would get there before the other talent arrived.

There was a black-and-white cruiser in the parking lot of the office building when we pulled in at eight fifiteen, so I assumed the police were already inside. Whether Detective Chesny had preceded us remained to be seen. He would be more likely to use an unmarked car. While I could often spot unmarked cars on the road—they were usually compact sedans of an older vintage—all the cars parked at the location, presumably those of the crew, looked like vehicles that might be used by the police.

I had requested a private meeting with the detective in the hope that he would open his mind to the information I had gathered, and the theories I was developing, and not reject my help out of hand because I couldn’t produce a degree from the police academy. I try never to step on the toes of the police officers I encounter, but I admit there have been times when their refusal to take me seriously has led to some confrontations. It was my intent to try to strike a deal with Chesny to accept my input in exchange for disclosing some of the evidence his department had collected. I could point to many cases in which my contributions proved useful, even critical, and led to an arrest. Even so, experience told me the authorities are often reluctant to share anything with an amateur, especially information.

Grady parked his car near the entrance where catering was setting up the breakfast station. I left him negotiating for pancakes while I made my way inside to the production office.

Jennifer, cell phone headset in place, greeted me with a smile. “So glad to see you, Mrs. Fletcher. How’s the little guy?”

“He’s fine,” I said. “Back in school, which is where he belongs.”

“That’s great. We got the word not to take on Ricky again, but the police said he has to be here today, so I didn’t waste money hiring another grip. Hope I’m not going to get in trouble for that. At this point, we want to keep it in the family and finish the job. Next time it’ll be another story.”

“I’m sorry if Ricky loses work over this.”

“Hey, he broke the rules. That’s the breaks. But it’s not as if he’s being blacklisted or anything. He won’t work for Mindbenders again, but I’ll bet Dan Howerstein will include him in future crews for other agencies, knowing that there’ll be no way in the world that Ricky will break the rules again.”

“It’s a tough way to learn a lesson,” I said.

“Sure is,” she said, putting up a hand to indicate she was getting a call. She looked at her watch. “No,” she said to the caller. “Mrs. Fletcher is here, but the others haven’t arrived yet. Want to get some breakfast before they do?” She pulled off the headset and left it on the desk. “I’m going to dash for a bagel,” she said. “Can I get you anything?”

I shook my head. “Thanks anyway. I’ll get something later. Do you mind if I wait here for a bit?”

“Not at all. Susan should be back any minute.”

When Jennifer left, I went to the cubicle where several of us had left our personal items during the shoot. There was one handbag on the shelf, a blue leather pouch. I remembered it from the other day, and wondered if it had been there all this time. Was it Betsy’s? Would the police have thought to look for her bag? Would the ladies of the production office have bothered to check if anything was left on the shelf ? I doubted it. If the shoot was scheduled to continue for another day, the likelihood was that they’d lock up the production office for the night. There would be no need to check the cubicle before leaving.

I put my own shoulder bag on the shelf and pulled the blue one down. I don’t usually go through someone’s purse unasked, but if, as I suspected, this one was Betsy’s, then Detective Chesny should add it to her personal effects. Plus, if her keys were missing, it might give us a clue as to how the woman who posed as her “sister” may have gotten them.

I moved quickly. Even though my motives were pure, I didn’t want one of the producers to see me riffling through someone else’s property. I pulled out the wallet and opened it. Just as I had thought, the driver’s license was for Elizabeth Archibald. I studied the photograph for a moment. So many driver’s license and passport photos are terrible—I know mine are not flattering—but Betsy looked lovely, the red hair unmistakable. I felt a pang for the loss, the waste of a life, the potential unfulfilled. Who could have done such a thing? And why?

I returned the wallet to the bag and swiftly checked the internal pockets, feeling around the bottom for a set of keys with no success. Perhaps she’d had them on her person. That was one of the questions I had for Detective Chesny. Where were Betsy’s keys? It would have been easy for those of us who left our purses in the production office—or who worked there—to have access to Betsy’s bag, or anyone else’s for that matter. Since the cubicle was usually unoccupied and used only for storage, no one would have noticed had one of us slipped in and removed her keys. But if it happened that way, was it before or after she was killed?

Back in the main office, I wondered,
Was the office as secure as Jennifer and Susan assumed?
Anne Tripper intimated that someone had stolen her opal ring from her handbag. Of course, that was a convenient excuse if she didn’t know where she’d lost it. Had she been in the carpentry room with Betsy? Had they continued whatever argument they’d been having at the meeting in the agency? Had she been jealous of Betsy? Jealous of her prior relationship with Kevin?

The woman who had turned Betsy’s apartment upside down, the one I’d seen exiting the building wearing a pink hooded sweatshirt, could be someone other than Anne Tripper. Might she be someone from the production? If so, would that person know that Betsy’s bag was still here? And would she try to return the keys sometime today?

I perused the talent board where my photo had been pinned along with the Polaroids of the others scheduled to be in the commercials. My picture had been removed—my shoot was completed—but the photos of the other three were still there. Were any of my “costars,” as Betsy had called them, implicated in her murder? Or had this been someone she knew for a long time, perhaps someone she’d had a closer connection with? Kevin Prendergast fit that category. Did Antonio Tedeschi? And what about Daniel Howerstein? What had they fought over if it wasn’t just Betsy’s bad behavior? Again, so many questions. And where were the answers?

The door opened and Susan came in, juggling a large cup from Starbucks, with her backpack slung over one arm and a shopping bag on the other. “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m surprised to see you here. Didn’t you finish up the other day?”

“I did,” I said, “but I was asked to return with all the others.”

“Oh, right. Wasn’t that awful about Betsy? Everyone is freaking out. Wondering if there’s a serial killer loose. Jen and I had a hard time convincing everyone to come back. There are going to be cops all over the place today. Not exactly a conducive atmosphere in which to make an effective sales pitch.”

“Sales pitch? Oh, you mean the commercials.”

“Yeah. I call a spade a spade. We like to think we’re in the film business, making little movies of persuasion. But we’re really in the sales business.”

She pulled out her desk chair, dropped into it, and stashed her shopping bag and backpack in a large file drawer.

“Don’t you put your bags in the back, in the cubicle?” I asked.

“Don’t need to. This desk has a nice big drawer and I can even lock it if I want. That”—she flipped her thumb toward the cubicle—“is just for the talent and a few other muckety-mucks.”

I laughed. “Who are the muckety-mucks?”

“Let’s see. Who used it the other day? You, Sevenson’s assistant, Lena—I think Betsy was the only one from the agency who did—also the chef, Mrs. Bedford.”

“Anyone else?” I asked.

“Our intern, Lily, might have. She doesn’t have a desk. Oh, and let’s not forget Mr. Prendergast’s girlfriend, the lovely Anne Tripper.” This was said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

“Not a fan of hers, are you?”

She grunted. “What a witch. Accused us of stealing her ring. Like I would wear anything of hers. She dresses like a sixties go-go girl. She probably lost her ring, and wants to claim it on our insurance. The talent always trusts us with their valuables. We’re very vigilant and we don’t let anyone else back there. Mrs. Bedford actually gave us a diamond ring and a bracelet to mind for her. She’s so cool. She even said we could try them on. Naturally, we told her we would never do something like that.” Susan’s eyes lit up. “But of course, we did. She knew we would. After all, she told us we could.” She laughed. “Boy, it would be nice to be able to afford things like that one day. Then again, if I had the money, I’d probably spend it on something else.”