Chapter Twelve
When we returned to the house, a man who I assumed must be Marco, the gardener, was clipping the dense shrubbery with a powered hedge trimmer.
He stopped when he saw us approach the staircase and turned off his tool.
He removed his hat, sopped up the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and greeted us at the base of the stairs.
“You must be Marco,” I said. “I hear you are a screenwriter.”
“Trying to be, Ms. Fletcher,” he said. “You look just like the picture on the back of your books.”
“And you are a flatterer, sir,” I said. “That headshot was taken far too long ago. Vanity hasn’t allowed me to replace it.”
He smiled, then looked down. “Uh, I know that you’re really busy with that game show and all. I streamed it last night, by the way. You and your team did very well.”
“Thank you,” I said, knowing full well what the next sentence out of his mouth would be.
“But I was wondering if you’d have a few moments to look over the screenplay I’m working on and maybe share a little free advice.”
At that, Seth took my to-go container from my hand, then he and the Metzgers climbed the stairs without me.
“I’ll have to warn you, Marco, screenwriting is an entirely different beast from novel writing. I may not be the best qualified—”
“Oh, but you’re a master plotter. I mean, I took a course on formatting and all that, so that’s not where I need help, and I wouldn’t expect you to read the whole thing.
Maybe just a note or two on what might get me to that next level?
Maybe get more than a form rejection from the next agent I submit to? ”
I found it hard to turn down aspiring writers, and he looked so hopeful and at the same time so desperate. “No guarantees, but if you get me a copy, I can try to give it a once-over.”
He turned and reached down into a canvas bag and pulled out a sheaf of paper that was held together with a large binder clip. The dirt on his hands left smudgy prints on the white paper as he handed it to me.
“Thank you, Ms. Fletcher. I live over the garage, if you want to talk about it.”
“You don’t live in the house?” I asked.
“No, there’s a really nice studio apartment over the garage,” he said.
“I like it. It’s quiet there. Plenty of privacy for writing.
” He looked up at the overgrown foliage.
“I do put in a full day here,” he said with an air of defensiveness.
“But it’s really too much for one person to handle.
And some of it is beyond my expertise. I mean, cutting the grass is one thing.
Trying to fix the automatic sensors on the floodlights is another. ”
“There’s something wrong with the sensors?” I asked, thinking of the other night when I’d been looking out the window and the lights suddenly cut off.
“Yeah, they keep turning on for no apparent reason. Unless it’s coyotes or something. Could be coyotes.”
“Yes, I suppose it could be.” I also wondered if Danielle might have mistaken the plaintive howl of a coyote for a child crying. “I look forward to reading your screenplay.” I smiled and climbed the steps.
I carried the manuscript up to my room, freshened up in the little en suite bathroom, and sat on the bed to rest a minute and gather my thoughts.
I’d left my cell phone in the nightstand drawer, and now I retrieved it to check for voicemails. There were several: one from Grady and a few from neighbors back in Cabot Cove, wishing us well on Pub Trivia Live. I had a text from Gabriel Caceras, confirming he’d be over around seven.
I replied, asking if he could get access to today’s security footage from the front gate.
My phone dinged a moment later with a promise that he’d try.
I stretched out on the bed, intending to rest for a moment, and grabbed Marco’s manuscript. I barely got past the setting for scene one when I fell asleep.
When I awakened, the room was cast in shadows.
I set the discarded manuscript on the nightstand for a later perusal, then checked the time, which was a few minutes after seven.
I stepped into the restroom barely long enough to run a brush through my hair and hurried down the stairs, thinking that Lieutenant Caceras might already be waiting.
I tried the theater room first, but the only occupants proved to be Danielle, her head bobbing in sleep, and her aide.
On the screen ran the closing credits of an old movie that I suspected was hers.
The aide lifted a finger to her lips, and I backed out of the room on tiptoes and quietly closed the door.
I followed the sound of animated voices back to the dining room, where the rest of my team, along with Howard and Victoria, were playing a popular trivia board game.
“Don’t you get enough during the show?” I asked.
Snacks and beverages were set up on the sideboard, and I found the teapot hot and helped myself to a cup before joining them at the table. “Who’s winning?”
“Your nephew,” Maureen said, “who has proven himself quite a capable alternate.”
“I never doubted.” I beamed a smile in Howard’s direction.
He rolled the dice and moved his token to the center spot on the game board.
Seth winced. “This is for the win.” He pulled out a trivia card. “Science and Nature. This Scottish parasitologist is often called the father of tropical medicine due to his groundbreaking research on the subject of malaria.” He smirked at Howard.
Howard put both hands over his mouth and closed his eyes. “Father of tropical medicine,” he mumbled through his fingers. “Scottish?” He shook his head, then opened his eyes and stared at Seth for a few moments. Then he grinned. “It doesn’t really say that, does it?”
Mort tore the card from Seth’s hand and rolled his eyes. “Here’s the real question: Name the process that plants use to convert sunlight to energy.”
“Photosynthesis!” Howard shouted. “For the win!”
“Cheating, Doc?” Mort asked Seth.
“Just testing a little hypothesis.” Seth scratched his ear.
“I, for one, am glad you did, Seth,” I said. “If I’m right that your hypothesis is that my nephew’s success stems in part from the fact that he plays this game often, you’ve just given me an idea.” I turned to Howard. “You reuse the same clues?”
“Yes, well…” Howard used a finger to loosen a suddenly overtight collar. He broke eye contact and took his token from the board, then started to return the rest of the game pieces to the box.
“Humph,” Seth said. “The answer to the first question was Sir Patrick Manson, by the way.”
The doorbell rang and Victoria rose. “I’ll get it.” She kissed Howard on the cheek. “I’m still proud of you.”
Victoria led Lieutenant Caceras and Mateo into the dining room and offered them snacks and beverages from the sideboard. “Danielle’s aide just took her up to bed, so the theater room is free, if you’d like to go there.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Lieutenant Caceras said. He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a bite of a cookie before piling three more on top of his cup to take with him.
The projector was still on, the DVD player having returned to the start-up screen, which showed a glamorous picture of a much younger Danielle while the film’s suspenseful theme music played on a loop.
“Oh, an old Danielle Gray movie.” Lieutenant Caceras whistled. “When I was a boy, I wanted to grow up and marry her.”
“You know that little old woman in the wheelchair you passed on the way in?” Victoria said. “That was her.”
“No fooling,” Caceras said.
Victoria raised a playful eyebrow. “Should I let her know you’ll be calling?” she teased.
“Go ahead, Pop,” Mateo said. “I’m sure Mom won’t mind.”
“You know,” Caceras said, wagging his finger at his son, “I don’t care what you say. She was a great actress, and yes, I’d love to meet her. But first, there’s a murder to solve.”
We all took our seats while Mateo hooked his laptop up to the projector. “You want me to run through the whole thing again, Pop?” he asked.
“Just give me the highlight reel.” The lights dimmed and we all watched the game progress. We pointed out the whispered conversation that Sandi Flores had with her ex-husband and the odd gameplay of the Sagebrush Sages.
“So if somebody’s feeding what’s-her-name all the answers,” Caceras said, pulling out his notebook, “that could certainly explain why she brushed off her whole team and pretty much answered all the questions herself.”
“Julie Clifford,” I said. “Which reminds me, were you able to get the gate security footage from today?”
He pulled a flash drive from his pocket. “Marty Wardell is so worried that we’re going to shut him down that he’s pretty much given me carte blanche at the studio.”
“And it’s all on there?” I held the tiny drive in my hand.
“Isn’t technology wonderful?” he said.
I carried the drive over to Mateo. “Can you play this?”
“Easy,” he said, and the video was already going by the time I returned to my seat.
“You can speed it up,” I said.
As I watched the images of people coming and going through the gate, Maureen said, “Lieutenant? May I ask a question?”
“Sure. Ask away. I may not always answer.”
“Why…” she began, then swallowed. “Why did you put the answers back in the sweater pocket? It hardly seems right to let them cheat.”
Caceras sighed. “I could see why that might bother you. Here’s the deal.
Policing game shows isn’t my thing.” He put a hand on his chest. “I’m a homicide detective.
And I don’t know whether this cheating angle figures into the victim’s death at all, but I do know that it’s a lot easier to investigate when a suspect doesn’t realize you’re on to them.
And even if I did figure out a charge to hold her on, who else is involved? Who gave her those answers?”
“Mateo, stop!” I called out. “Can you go back a little bit?” A second later, I said, “Freeze.”
“What am I looking at?” Caceras said.
“Does that sweater look familiar?” I asked.
On the screen was an image of Sandi Flores arriving at the studio wearing a sweater.
“Could be,” he said.