Chapter Nine
Once the live feed finished and the stage lights cut off, Jenny Yager took to the microphone and introduced Lieutenant Caceras. “He’d like to have a word with the contestants.”
The lieutenant shyly took up a spot behind the microphone and tapped it. “By now, you all probably know that the soundman who collapsed yesterday, Ray Flores, passed away—and unfortunately any such sudden unexplained death requires an investigation.”
I kept a consistent expression. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked that he was downplaying the suspiciousness of Ray’s death, even though he’d admitted to us that police were already treating it as a homicide.
“I need to speak briefly with each team before you leave today.” He held up his hand. “I promise not to delay you any more than is necessary.” He looked at our table briefly, then gestured to the opposite end of the soundstage, saying, “Let’s start over here.” He was reserving our table for last.
I glanced over at Mort, who nodded briefly. “While we’re waiting,” he said, “I might go see if any of the technicians have loose lips.” He tapped his wife on the arm. “Want to come with me? Help me keep it casual?”
“Oh!” She jumped to her feet. “I never get to do this at home!”
“And don’t get used to it.” He took her arm and escorted her toward the row of consoles.
“I think I’ll check on Bert and Curt again,” Seth said.
Howard came over and sat down in the chair Seth had vacated. “Congrats, Aunt Jess!”
“Hmm?”
“On tying for first place,” he said.
“Oh.” I laughed. My brain had been so focused on the investigation that I hadn’t taken any time to process our win.
“I get it,” he said. “You’re still thinking about Ray.”
“Among other things,” I said. “Howard, you’ve had a chance to chat with the alternates, right?”
“A few of them. Why?”
“Something just struck me as odd about the Sagebrush Sages.”
“I know this much,” Howard said, scratching his head, “they’re going to be tough to beat.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But my concern was more about the manner in which they deliberate. Or rather, don’t deliberate.”
“You want me to see what I can find out?”
“Subtly,” I reminded him.
“I did learn something about the Morrisville Masterminds that you might find interesting.” He then stopped, leaving me hanging.
I laughed. “You should write thrillers that end with a cliffhanger like that.”
“I’d settle for getting a part in one. Not that I’m James Bond material or anything, but maybe the nerdy professor who gets dragged into international conflict or discovers an artifact that pits him against a mysterious ancient sect.”
“Howard,” I said, my hands tented at my lips, “I admire your imagination, and I think you’d be phenomenal in either of those roles, but I’m more curious right now to discover what you learned about the Morrisville Masterminds.”
“Oh! Of course. Just that their alternate seems to have an axe to grind, if you ask me.”
“How’s that?”
“She used to be a regular member of the team, but she got kicked off to make room for someone new just for the show. She called her replacement a ringer. Apparently, she has some kind of super brain that remembers everything she sees. She called it something…”
“Eidetic memory?” I asked.
“That was it,” Howard said. “It seems like an unfair advantage.”
“Nothing in the rules about it,” I said, “but I wouldn’t worry too much.
I researched eidetic memory for a character in one of my books, and the notion of perfect photographic memory has never really been proven.
Even the most remarkable examples tend to lose most of the information as the short-term memory fades.
The television trope of the spy who can flip through a phone book and memorize every number is far-fetched. ”
“Could help in a quiz show though.”
“Only if the person is extremely well-read in a variety of interests. They might do well in categories that could be taken from textbooks—like the Lakes and Rivers category we had today. But it’s not going to help them in reasoning categories, like the one with Snow White’s dwarfs—or in pop culture. ”
“I see what you mean,” he said.
“But”—I let my eyes sweep over the remaining tables—“it does raise the question of whether any of the other teams made last-minute substitutions.”
“You mean that someone could have joined a team to gain access to the studio?” Howard said. “Maybe someone with a motive to harm the show?”
I shrugged. “Too early to tell.”
Howard looked around the room at the other contestants waiting at their tables to speak with Lieutenant Caceras. “Wow. I think I’ll leave the thriller writing to you.”
* * *
“Congratulations, first place today!” Caceras pulled up a chair at our table.
All the other contestants had been dismissed and were presumably heading back to their hotels and rentals.
“I knew you were a smart cookie, Jessica, from the first day we met. Seems like you got a great team too. I knew I couldn’t go wrong asking for your help. ”
“I assume by keeping us for last, you’re hoping for an update,” I said.
“Absolutely! Learn anything? Are we ready to gather all the suspects together for a dinner party, or whatever you mystery writers do?”
I laughed. “Not quite yet. I doubt I learned anything more than you did in your interviews.”
“Try me,” he said.
“Well,” I said, “we did learn that Marty Wardell is married to Bobby Brandon’s sister, but all has not been hunky-dory, as they say, between the two men.”
Caceras nodded. “That’s impressive. It took me a while to get that out of Bobby. He asked me to call him Bobby, by the way.”
I refrained from telling him that he’d invited everyone to call him Bobby. Instead, I said, “I imagine the warning note has you focusing on the crew rather than the contestants.”
He nodded. “If you recall, I was already leaning in that direction. The note was just more evidence pointing that way. You don’t agree?”
“Not that I disagree,” I said, “but there is something odd going on with a few of the teams that I’d like to check out.”
“For instance?”
“Bert and Curt’s altercation, for one,” I said. “I’d really like to see what led up to that. And I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about the Sagebrush Sages that I just don’t like.”
“Maybe that they’re your biggest competitors?” Caceras asked.
“I assure you, it’s not that.” I recalled our earlier discussion in Barney’s Beanery and wondered if it was my intuition—that Columbo-like feeling—sending me a message.
“I’ve got people running background on all the crew and contestants,” he said.
“So you haven’t totally eliminated the possibility that it’s a contestant,” Mort said.
“No, not totally,” the lieutenant said, “but the crew is prioritized. It will be a while before I learn much about the contestants. I could have them bump the Sage…”
“Sagebrush Sages,” I supplied.
He took out his notebook and scribbled something down. “I could move them up the list.”
“Maybe also the Morrisville Masterminds,” I said. “Howard discovered they made a last-minute substitution and demoted one of their regulars to alternate.”
Caceras scratched his ear. “You think the new person could have a reason to tank the show?”
“Oh, I imagine the new team member is probably just somebody they think will give them a better chance of winning, but it does illustrate that it’s possible someone could have infiltrated one of the teams for their own purposes.”
“That’s a chilling thought.” Caceras jotted something in his notebook.
“I also wanted to ask a favor,” I said. “I learned today from one of the crew that the studio stores the audio and video from all the cameras and microphones, not just what is shown on air. I wondered if I could get copies of yesterday’s recordings.”
“That’s quite a big ask.” Caceras bit his lower lip. “What, you think they might have caught the killer in action?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “The cameras would be focused on the contestants. If your resources are centered on the crew, maybe we”—I gestured to my friends at the table—“can lend a hand by taking a closer look at what’s going on with the teams.”
He cocked his head. “And it wouldn’t give you any unfair advantage in the competition, right?”
“I don’t see how,” I said. “The questions are new every day. There’s no strategy to spy out or copy.”
“Lemme see what I can do,” he said. “I can ask nicely, and if they hand it over to me, maybe. But if they say no, I doubt I have cause enough to get a judge to subpoena it.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“Anything else?” Caceras asked.
Seth leaned forward. “About the coffee…”
“Yeah,” Mort said. “We drained the rest of it during the break, but I don’t think we can do that every day.”
Caceras nodded. “Thanks for that. I called in a few favors to rush the analysis on that cup I collected earlier, but I have no idea how long that’s going to take.
I’ll put an officer in the kitchen to observe, but I already had them confiscate all that fancy-schmancy special blend, just in case, and bought them a can of the generic grocery store brand. ”
“Oh, they’re going to love that,” Mort said. “Better stick to tea, Jess.” He held up his hand in a mock whisper to Caceras. “She’s a coffee snob.”
“Really, Jess? You?” Caceras put a hand to his chest in exaggerated horror, and we all laughed.
“Anyway,” he went on, “I really should ask you the same questions I asked all the other teams, just to be fair.”
“Shoot,” Mort said.
“Did you notice anything unusual about the victim on the day of his death—anyone bringing him food or drink, an altercation with anyone?”
We all shook our heads.
“When the stage lights come on,” I said, “you can’t see much except what’s right in front of you.”
Caceras pointed to Howard. “What about you? You would have been just behind the victim.”
Howard gulped. “I wish I had seen what happened. I was focused on watching the teams compete onstage. I may have been the first to notice him all slumped over the console though.”