Chapter Thirteen
Despite my interrupted sleep, I was up early and had slipped into my sweats and sneakers, intending to take a quick walk around the grounds.
I doubted I had enough time to even work off the pie I had consumed in our nighttime meeting, but every little bit helps.
I also wanted to get a better look at the backyard, the security lights that Marco had said were malfunctioning, and scout around for any recent signs of coyotes—tracks or scat or, if I was lucky, maybe a tuft of fur.
For Howard and Victoria’s sake, I desperately preferred that their “haunting” be a simple case of coyotes moving in what was really their normal habitat, and not some treasure-seeking intruder finding their way inside while the occupants slept.
The house was shaped like a large letter L, and the terrace where we’d had our barbecue the first night ran alongside one leg of it.
There’d be no tracks on the stone, and no cover to hide in along the walls, but the area right outside the other leg of the L was a different story.
Here, there was a patchy lawn bordered by a more densely wooded area where coyotes—or trespassers—might have free run.
The tall shrubs that grew up against the building might also have provided cover for either type of intruder.
I counted the windows on the second floor and found my room.
I’d left my curtains wide open to confirm the location.
A motion sensor floodlight was mounted on the exterior wall close to it, and it wouldn’t surprise me that the bright light turning on and off had been interpreted by my half-awake mind as lightning.
I checked the area closest to the house, near all that overgrown shrubbery, looking for footprints of either the animal or the human variety, but the ground was dry and hard, and my search came up blank.
The only thing I found was an old metal post left cemented into the ground and positioned right against the house, which I decided was part of an old fence, possibly a part of an outdoor run for Danielle’s pet.
Testing my theory, I traced a straight line from the house toward the woods, just looking at the ground, and found a few dips in the level of the lawn where other fence posts had been removed.
I placed my hands on my hips and stared into the dark woods that bordered the property. I didn’t have the time right now, nor honestly the foolhardiness, to explore them alone.
What—or who—was coming out from there at night?
* * *
Preparing for a day at the studio, slapping on all that heavy foundation, and facing even the traffic-filled commute there was becoming more routine.
Maureen spent less time staring out the window in a celebrity hunt and instead flipped through a pile of homemade study cards. My thoughts went to Ray’s murder.
I was barely cognizant of the time spent in hair and makeup. Instead, I kept watching for Sandi Flores, wondering if she was wearing a sweater today, and if she and Julie Clifford would attempt another transfer using the same clandestine method or modify it in some way to avoid detection.
It was Mort who finally shook me out of it, standing directly in front of me and saying, “Remind me never to take you on a stakeout.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“You’re going to spook them if you keep staring like that,” he said. “Just be nonchalant. Occasional glances. Use your peripheral vision. Better yet, just try to ignore it all.”
“Because I’m on vacation?” I asked.
He leaned in closer. “Because it’s not needed.
Don’t look, but I already spotted two new security cameras in this room.
Might even be more I haven’t seen. Besides, it could get you hurt.
Or worse. Think about it, Mrs. F. If they killed Ray because he found out, what makes you think you’d be safe? Or any of us? Let Caceras handle it.”
It was then that I realized that Mort’s apparent growing disinterest in the case more than likely stemmed from a desire to keep us—his friends and his wife—safe. I forced my attention back to our team.
Maureen was studying her flash cards, her lips mouthing questions and answers in what I suspected was an attempt to steady her nerves more than to bone up on more material.
Seth sat on the bench in his locker leaning forward, his eyes closed as if in meditation. Or sleep. With Seth, it was sometimes difficult to tell.
Howard was chatting with another alternate.
I glanced over at the other contestants.
The room was much less crowded, since it was just us, the Sagebrush Sages, and the Bakersfield Brainiacs remaining.
Curt and Bert and their wives were huddled together quietly.
The murder and the subsequent threats on Bobby Brandon had taken their toll, sucking much of the joviality and sense of adventure out of the room and leaving only the stresses of the competition and being on live television.
Nerves seemed raw enough, even without the added triggers of a chemical stimulant in the coffee.
I fixed myself a cup of tea from the all but deserted craft services table, smiling at the new attendant, a tall African American woman with an ill-fitting apron, who seemed rather bored with the job, unlike the perky blonde who’d been stationed there on previous days. I returned to my locker and sat down.
I was relieved when Jenny called us to take our seats onstage. Leaving the greenroom, I allowed myself one more passing glance at the locker where Julie Clifford had retrieved the sweater the day before and saw there was a different one hanging there now.
Over at the console, Sandi Flores was seated at her station.
Lieutenant Caceras stood next to Marty Wardell.
Gaelan and Jake, the two dodgy men that I’d taken notice of in the corridor outside the ladies’ room the other day, were together once more, standing just behind the director, Evelyn Grider.
I wondered if the lieutenant had turned up anything on their background checks.
I looked back at Evelyn, her slender fingers with those impossibly long red fingernails curled around a Diet Coke can.
When she lifted it to her lips, I noticed the headset she was wearing.
I asked Seth to bring me a ginger ale from the onstage bar, hoping it would calm my stomach.
Mike came over with our lapel microphones. “Hey, my favorite team is still here.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the contestants,” I teased.
“No, not really,” he said. “I heard the Sagebrush Sages are favored, but if I were a betting man, I’d put my money on you.”
“Mike,” I said, “a quick question. I just noticed that the director is wearing a headset with a microphone. What happens to the audio from that headset? I know it doesn’t go into the broadcast.”
“No, but it could, actually. It’s fed and stored in the same software, but it’s set up to only be heard by the other headsets so the key people can communicate.”
“Who has these headsets? Just curious. It’s fascinating, all the details that go into making a show like this work.”
He thought for a moment. “The director and the associate director she stationed to work the console. Marty Wardell, the producer, has one, but he hardly ever puts it on. Jenny wears one in case they need her to liaison with a contestant. And it feeds into the sound guy’s headset, too, in case they have any instructions for him. ”
Which meant Ray would have heard everything spoken by all of these key people.
So far, our working theory—that Ray had been killed because of something he’d overheard—had led us to focus on the contestants when we reviewed all that audio and video.
But I’d been so concerned with what the other teams had been saying that I never thought to ask if there were any other audio tracks.
Maybe it was something said into one of these crew microphones that motivated his killer.
Perhaps those audio tracks also deserved a listen.
Then again, anything said into the crew microphones would presumably be heard by the entire crew, and unless they were all somehow involved, why target Ray?
If the soundman was killed because of something he alone overheard, it was more likely from one of the contestants’ microphones, something excluded from the broadcast.
Regardless, I didn’t have time to run the idea past Mort or Lieutenant Caceras, especially now that my lapel mic was live. Jenny dropped off paper and pencils at each table and ran through the mic check with Ray’s replacement. With only twelve contestants remaining, it went much quicker.
Bobby Brandon took the podium, the bright stage lights turned on, and then Day Four, the first of the two-day final, began with a proverbial bang.
When Bobby announced the first category, “Weather or Not,” I employed Mort’s suggestion of using my peripheral vision to take in any reaction by Julie Clifford.
I witnessed her shoulders visibly tense and a short intake of breath.
Clearly, this was not the category she was expecting, which meant that Lieutenant Caceras and Mateo were successful in substituting today’s questions with tomorrow’s, a plan inspired by Seth switching questions on Howard during their board game practice. I winked at Maureen, who smiled back.
The first question, “What natural phenomena is responsible for dumping large amounts of precipitation over New York cities like Buffalo, Rochester, and Syracuse?” was easy for anyone who, like me, was a fan of the Weather Channel.
I quickly wrote down Lake Effect, happy in the knowledge that, while someone on the Sages probably knew the correct response, too, that answer was not “Kermit the Frog,” as Julie Clifford had been expecting. The playing field had been leveled.