Chapter Eight
I could only watch as Lieutenant Caceras bagged the warning note and envelope and followed Bobby Brandon to his dressing room for a lengthier conversation. He stopped just long enough to call over one of the detectives, whisper something in her ear, then hand over the bagged note and the coffee.
“What do you think that’s all about?” Seth asked.
“I hate being shut out.” Mort stared at the closed door. “Can’t learn anything from out here.”
“Welcome to my world,” I said. “Although…”
“Although?” Mort repeated.
“I couldn’t help seeing the note—”
“Probably because you marched right over there and looked over the lieutenant’s shoulder,” Mort teased.
“Yes, well, um…the note said that Bobby Brandon was next, presumably the next victim. We may be able to make a few deductions from that.”
Mort squinted. “Like, whoever killed Ray probably wasn’t after him personally.”
“Do you think it was someone who wanted to hurt the show?” Maureen asked.
“Maybe,” I said, “unless there’s some other connection between Ray and Bobby that we don’t know about, something they were both involved in that might have angered the same person.”
“But then, why poison Ray but only warn Bobby?” Mort asked. “I’m not sure that makes sense. You’d think a warning would come first.”
“It’s like putting the cart before the horse,” Seth said.
“Do killers always makes sense?” Maureen asked.
“Their logic usually make sense to them,” Mort said. “I think we need to take a look at who would benefit if the show were shut down.”
“First”—Seth touched my arm and nodded toward craft services—“maybe we could do something about the coffee? I’m not comfortable with it sitting there if there’s a remote chance something might be wrong with it.”
“Maybe we all get a big cup so nobody else drinks it?” Maureen suggested.
Mort put his arm around her. “Good thinking.”
We made our way to the table, each filling a small plate and pouring coffee into the largest cups we could find. Seth was the last one in the line and he drained the pot.
We carried our plates back to our lockers.
“Okay.” Mort swallowed a bite of sandwich, then instinctively reached for the coffee cup at his feet, but Maureen put a hand on his arm. “Oh, right.” He looked up sheepishly. “Who would benefit from shutting this production down?”
Silence followed.
Eventually, I said, “I’m not sure we know enough about the business to generate a suspect list from that. Maybe if we try to learn a little bit more about each of the principal players…”
“I wish I had my cell phone,” Maureen said.
“I might have something,” Howard said. “I overheard a few of the technicians talking. We’re kind of invisible in the alternates’ row.
I think the crew tends to forget we’re there.
This is only gossip, but for what it’s worth, none of them seem to like Bobby Brandon much, and apparently even Marty Wardell blames him for tanking their last show. ”
“Then why hire him for this one?” I asked.
“The other guy asked the same question,” Howard said. “Wardell actually held open auditions for the job, but Bobby got it in the end, anyway. The guys I overheard think it might have something to do with the fact that Wardell is married to Call Me Bobby’s sister.”
“Good old-fashioned nepotism,” Seth said.
“Could be something there.” Mort stretched his neck. “Wardell gets him hired, but if things go south with the little woman, for instance, he might resent having her dear brother around, maybe want to give him a little incentive to leave.”
“But it provides no motive for Wardell to go after the soundman, does it?” I turned to Mort. “Did you catch anything in the conversation between Bobby, Wardell, and the director—what was her name?”
“Evelyn Grider,” Howard said.
“Not really,” Mort said. “I heard the word ‘contract’ a few times, and some discussion about the police being there. Come to think of it, it sounded more like Bobby wanted out and Grider was trying to placate him. Meanwhile, Wardell was enforcing the contract. Maybe a little good cop, bad cop.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“That doesn’t jibe with the idea that Wardell wanted him gone though. ”
“It almost sounds like Bobby was afraid for his safety,” I said, “even before he got the note.”
“That’s a lot of conjecture,” Seth said. “And it still doesn’t get any nearer to answering the question of who killed Ray.”
At that point, we were called back to the soundstage.
We picked up our still-full coffees and carried them to the restrooms, where we dumped their contents down the sink and disposed of the empty cups.
Then we took our places at our table while the crew buzzed around the stage, readying for the beginning of the broadcast. Soon the large screen lit up with Bobby Brandon’s recorded welcome, followed by the quiz questions.
I found myself much less interested in rewatching the questions than I was in checking out the crew.
With the studio lights still dimmed, I could see them working at their consoles.
I suspected that news of the cause of Ray’s death had been spreading among them.
Instead of coffee cups propped by each station, I noted a lot more soda cans and water bottles.
Or maybe we had just taken all the coffee.
My attention was drawn back to the screen when they played our team deliberations.
Our little debate about Happy Gilmore made the cut, which I noticed seemed to make both Mort and Seth tense up a little, but it was short and well-mannered, and I suspected their concern was more about whether we had gotten the question right as opposed to a fear of embarrassment.
Bert and Curt’s altercation came next, followed by Bert’s collapse and Seth and the set medic rushing over to intervene. I glanced over at the twins now, who weren’t watching their onscreen selves. Instead, both seemed to examine the tabletops in front of them.
A clip of the Sagebrush Sages’ table drew my attention again, not for the presence of any heated moments but again for the complete lack of any discussion.
When a team member suggested “Grumpy” for the Happy Gilmore question as Mort had, the scribe responded by saying, “I think we’ll just go with the more obvious answer,” and no objections followed.
I wondered if their entire deliberation went the same way.
Bobby Brandon didn’t return to the soundstage until just before the commercial break, right before he was due to go live.
Lieutenant Caceras returned to his former observational position behind the alternates.
I could read nothing from his expression before the stage lights came on, obliterating him and the crew in darkness.
Jenny put the answer sheet in front of me, and soon the commercial countdown appeared on the screen. A second after it reached zero, Bobby started talking, saying what a great game we were having today, and he hoped everyone submitted their answers through the app.
As it turned out, our team aced the Colorful Lakes and Rivers category, but apparently “Happy” was the dwarf that correctly represented the ice hockey player turned professional golfer.
I could see Mort’s complexion color, even under his stage makeup.
But he soon redeemed himself in the Sitcom category, as all the answers that he and Maureen had proposed were correct, meaning we’d only missed one in the entire quiz.
Surely, that would be enough to advance.
Then, before reading out the scores, Bobby announced that there was a change to the scoring, that one of the teams had made a valid point in their deliberations, and the judges had determined that “Grumpy” would also be accepted as a correct answer to the golfer question.
Bright smiles erupted on the faces of both of the Metzgers.
Bobby had the scribes raise our hands again as he counted up the number of correct responses. The first scribe to lower his hand, and thus the team eliminated, was Shunned and Dangerous.
And then there were four.
The Bakersfield Brainiacs were the next group to lower their hands, taking fourth place. Perhaps the altercation—or Bert’s medical emergency—had affected their performance.
The Morrisville Masterminds took third, leaving us and the Sagebrush Sages competing for first and second place.
As Bobby counted up, my hand stayed up, as did the domineering scribe of the Sagebrush Sages. She didn’t lower it when Bobby got to number twenty-nine either. When Bobby said, “Thirty,” both our hands remained raised.
“Which means today in first place, we have a tie between the Sagebrush Sages and Mainely Brilliant!” said Bobby, and Maureen hugged Mort.
I was happy that Maureen’s vision of our team performing well on the quiz show was becoming a reality.
If we survived tomorrow’s elimination, we’d be staying for the final two days of competition.
But with a killer on the loose, apparently intent on claiming more victims, I wondered if that was something to be excited about.