Madison Avenue Shoot (25 page)

“Yes, Daniel. I wondered where you were yesterday afternoon. I didn’t see you at my shoot.”

“You didn’t see me because I was looking for Betsy. We needed to clear an extra day for the location and I wanted her approval of the overage. Obviously, I never got to ask her.”

“Did anyone see you while you were looking for her?”

“Lots of people. As I told the detective, I was in the production office part of the time. You can check with the girls. I got the cost approval from Kevin Prendergast—just ask him. Then I was out in the lot when they were packing the trucks.”

“Ricky Pepper said he didn’t see you all afternoon.”

“Ricky can’t see the broad side of a barn even with his glasses. If he wasn’t in the union, he’d never get a job in production.”

 

“Returning to the scene of the crime, Mrs. Fletcher?”

Kevin Prendergast stood in the doorway of the carpentry room. The burned-out fluorescent bulb in the ceiling fixture had not been replaced and the single tube remaining cast a harsh light on his angular face.

“I could say the same to you,” I said.

I’d wanted to revisit the room where Betsy died to try to reconstruct what might have happened. Why had she come in here? Had someone lured her to this room? Was there an argument that culminated in an angry explosion and a vicious attack with the only weapon at hand? Or had the murder been premeditated, by someone with a grudge against her whose solution was to get rid of its source, and cover up the crime to delay discovery of the body until he—or she—could get away?

The carts had been moved out, most of the equipment in use or more readily accessed in areas closer to the sets. The room was empty except for a few stray light stands, and an outline in orange paint on the floor where Betsy’s body had lain.

“Why don’t you mind your own business and let the police do their job?” Kevin said.

“If I can help them uncover whoever killed Betsy, I intend to do it.”

Kevin moved into the room, closing the door behind him. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, Jessica. I’m interested in finding Betsy’s murderer as much as you are, maybe more, but you’ve been poking your nose into my business. I don’t like it.”

“What don’t you like, Kevin?”

“I don’t like that you sneaked into my office when I wasn’t there. You didn’t think you could get away with that without me finding out, did you?” He moved close to one of the light stands, his fingers curling around the pole. “I’m warning you, stay out of my business.”

“I wasn’t sneaking around,” I said. “I went to Mindbenders looking for you.”

“How convenient that I wasn’t there.”

“I didn’t know that in advance. When I didn’t find you there, I went to your home.”

“And neglected to mention that you’d been to the agency and questioned my staff. That particular art director will never talk to you again—or anyone else outside the office—if he wants to keep his job.”

“Is there something you’re trying to hide, Kevin? If so, it’s too late.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I already know that Betsy was planning to open her own agency.”

“So what? People do that every day. That’s how most agencies get started. The creative directors leave and establish their own shops.”

“How many of Mindbenders’ clients was she planning to take with her?”

“She wouldn’t have gotten any of them.”

“Are you sure? Antonio was considering it.”

“You’re guessing,” he said.

“You said at dinner that you wanted to send her to Italy. Wasn’t that because Antonio was smitten with her? You used his infatuation to gain his business. How difficult would it have been for her to use that same attraction to draw him away from Mindbenders and into her own firm, Archibald Advertising?” I moved toward the door, uneasy at being closed in with him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Kevin said.

“Did you kill her, Kevin? You and Anne Tripper?”

“Leave Anne out of this,” he growled, advancing toward me.

“Why should I leave her out of this?” I asked, backing up. “Her opal ring—the one she claims was lost or stolen—was found right here in this room.”

Even in the dim light, I could see the surprise in Kevin’s face. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me, knocking my head against the wall. “She was with me the whole afternoon, I tell you. She never left my side.”

The door flew open and light from the hallway illuminated the darkened space.

“What are you doing in here, Kevin?” Anne Tripper said in a high voice. “They want me on the set. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

I wrenched myself from Kevin’s grasp and strode to the door. “Well, I’m pleased to say, you’ve found him.” I pushed past her, drawing a deep breath as I walked swiftly down the corridor.

 

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pushed the answer button and asked the caller to hold while I walked outside to get a better signal, and where I wouldn’t be overheard.

“Hello, Detective Marshall,” I said to the man with whom I’d worked on a case in British Columbia, when I’d taken a trip with a group of model-train enthusiasts. “Thank you so much for getting back to me.”

“How are you, Mrs. Fletcher? It’s nice to hear your voice again.”

We chatted awhile, reminiscing about the Whistler Northwind, which, like so many of the old luxury passenger trains, was no longer in service. It was an elegant, leisurely way to travel, but people don’t seem to have time for leisure travel these days. We’re always rushing from one point to another.

“Interesting subject you brought up, by the way,” Detective Marshall said.

“Were you able to find out anything about Lance Sevenson, or Laurence Stevenson, as he was known in his youth?”

“Canada is a big country,” he said, “but the RCMP is a close family. I went through cadet training at Depot with some of the guys in the ‘O’ division, and they knew who worked the NES District in Ontario—that’s ‘North, East, Southwest’ to you.”

“You have something for me?”

“I do. Do you have a fax machine anywhere nearby?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let me find out and I’ll call you back.”

“You can reach me here for the next hour.”

I headed for the production office, the brains of the production, as their intern, Lily, had dubbed it. The ladies there seemed to be the official problem solvers.

“Have him use this number,” Susan said, writing it down for me on a slip of paper.

Minutes later, she handed over a sheaf of paper Detective Marshall had faxed me.

 

“I haven’t seen you all day, Aunt Jess. Is everything okay?”

“Grady, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course. Anything for you.”

“Is Frank home from school yet?”

Grady looked at his watch. “I think so.”

“Would you please call and ask him a question for me?”

 

I found a quiet place and called my agent, Matt Miller, at his office.

“Hi, Jessica. You caught me on my way out the door, heading for the Hamptons.”

“I won’t hold you up, Matt, but I need to know something.”

“What’s that?”

“I need to know the subject of Anne Tripper’s new book that’s about to come out.”

“Come on, Jess, you know I can’t divulge that. There’s a strict embargo on it from the publisher. I just learned about it myself.”

“I understand and respect that, Matt, but there’s a murder at stake.”

“Are you saying her book might have something to do with
that
?”

“What I’m saying, Matt, is that there’s the possibility that it could. I don’t need details, just the thrust of the book.”

I waited out the silence on his end.

“Okay,” he said, “but you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Fair enough.”

“I have to tell you, I’m not exactly happy about it. It’s going to cause me no end of headaches.”

“Why’s that, Matt?”

“It’s another exposé, which I assumed it would be. But this time it’s the advertising industry, how ad people, including the biggest names in the business, are cynically warping American values, especially when it comes to children. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. She’s been eavesdropping on the conversations of all my neighbors. They won’t be happy with me—or Kevin.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Thank you, Matt.”

“Only for you, Jessica, only for you. Got to run now.”

 

I caught up with Detective Chesny and gave him the papers Detective Marshall had faxed to me.

“So Sevenson served time for fraud, huh?” he said. “A series of frauds. But why do we care?”

“If Betsy Archibald knew that he’d been convicted of these crimes, and I’m confident that she did, she could have used that information to blackmail him,” I said.

Chesny took a moment to think about the news, tapping the papers against the palm of his hand. “Maybe it’s time to gather some of your friends together.”

“I was hoping you’d see it that way,” I said.

D
etective Chesny, a clipboard tucked under his arm, waited until Anne Tripper’s green-screen filming was completed. As soon as the director called, “Cut,” and then, “That’s a wrap,” Chesny passed the word that certain people were invited to join him in the library, the room that had been used as a set for my commercial. The grips had restored the furniture to its original arrangement; they’d removed the small desk that had been a stand-in for my home office, moved the large table back to the center of the room, and wheeled the chairs around it. I noticed that my novels had been taken from the shelf, replaced with several volumes on insurance law, an unabridged dictionary, and a thesaurus. There was still plenty of room for people to stand, and many of those filing in chose not to sit at the table. Instead, they clustered around a large plastic cooler filled with ice and cans of soda and bottled water, nervous laughter mixing with relief that the production was drawing to a close, and curiosity as to the purpose of the meeting, and what might be revealed.

I took a seat next to Grady and watched as people arrived, among them all but one of us who had attended the preproduction meeting at the agency, Betsy. The talent—myself, Cookie, Lance, and Anne—and those accompanying us—Grady, Jimbo, Lena, and, this time, Kevin—were joined by Antonio Tedeschi and Daniel Howerstein. Jason and Lucy, the production assistants, who had delivered the cooler, as well as a fishbowl of candy bars, took their leave before Chesny closed the door.

We were augmented by the director, Akmanian; the second AD, Dave Fitzpatrick; the grips, Ricky and Bob; and two of the three ladies from the production office, Jennifer and Susan.

Cookie plucked a candy bar from the bowl and dropped it into her purse. She took the chair next to Grady and motioned to her manager to join her by jerking her head at him and patting the seat of the empty chair beside her. Jimbo, who was talking with Akmanian, ignored her gestures. Frowning, she leaned across Grady and tapped my arm. “I did good today, Jessica. If Jimbo would just sit down, he would tell you. You would have been proud of me. I knew all my lines and everything went real smooth.”

“I’m sure you were terrific,” I replied.

“I was.” She smiled up at Grady. “Too bad you didn’t see me.”

“I was there for part of the time,” Grady said. “You were great.”

“This spot is gonna help with my new restaurant, I bet. I hope this thing with Betsy won’t keep it off the air. Do you think it will?”

I looked sharply at Cookie, but she had pulled out her candy bar and was delicately tearing off the wrapper.

“Well, this seems to be a convivial crowd,” Lance said, nudging Lena, who slipped into a seat at the table and pulled out her steno pad and pen. Lance looped an arm around Antonio’s shoulder. “Do you have any more gifts to distribute?” he asked.

Antonio’s face reddened. He shook his head and glanced around, embarrassed.

“No little red packets to end the production the way it began, huh?” Lance teased.

“This is perhaps not a time to make fun,” Antonio said. Then, feeling other eyes on him, he assumed he was expected to make a speech. He cleared his throat. “I thank you all for your wonderful work on behalf of Permezzo. I think . . . I hope . . . this campaign will make our company a big success in your great country. It is all due to your hard work, and to . . . and to . . .” He coughed and blinked several times, but a tear escaped and ran down his cheek. “And to our beautiful Betsy, who cannot be with us. I am so sorry for the death of my beautiful Betsy.”

The room became very still.

“Is he sayin’ he killed her?” Cookie asked in a stage whisper.

Antonio heard her. “No, no, please do not even suggest such a terrible thing. I would never harm Betsy. Never. I am just . . . I am just so sad.” He pulled out a handkerchief and loudly blew his nose.

“Then who
did
kill her?” Lance asked, taking in all the faces around the table. “That’s what we all want to know, isn’t it? Isn’t that why we’re here, Detective?”

“We have some questions,” Chesny said, ignoring him. “We think it makes it easier for us if all of you are here at the same time to answer them.” He pulled a pair of reading glasses out of the breast pocket of his jacket and put them on.

“Oh, I get it,” Lance said. “If we lie, there’ll be someone who can point it out right away. Is that it?” Lance raised his reading glasses and peered at the detective through the lenses.

“Something like that,” Chesny said, consulting his clipboard. “And as long as you’re so eager to speak, Mr. Sevenson, would you like to tell us where you were on the afternoon Miss Archibald was killed?”

“I’ve already told you this,” Sevenson snarled, “but I’ll go over it again for the benefit of our colleagues. My assistant, Lena, and I were in ‘video village,’ as you call it. Well, maybe not as
you
call it, Detective, but as these production folks call it. Am I right, Prendergast? We were in video village with you.”