Murder, She Wrote by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online

eyes wide, staring at the chair.
    Mort and I rushed to see what had frightened her.
    â€œDon’t touch anything!” Elovitz bellowed, racing after us.
    Estelle reached out with trembling fingers and pushed the corner of the chair. It slowly swiveled around to reveal Vera Stockdale, dressed in a brocade caftan, her platinum hair concealed under a floral turban, slumped in the seat. Her head leaned crookedly against the wing of the chair, a length of thirty-five-millimeter film tightly wrapped around her neck. Her face was gray.
    â€œIs she—?” Elovitz asked.
    Mort put two fingers on Vera’s wrist and shook his head.
    Estelle wailed.
    Elovitz cursed.
    But I’d known the moment she’d come into view.
    The movie star was dead.

Chapter Four
    â€œ W hat happened to her?” Elovitz asked.
    â€œLooks like she’s been strangled,” Mort said. He gently touched Vera’s eyes, checking for a response. A low growl and then a sharp bark startled him. “What the heck is that?”
    â€œOoh, it’s Cecil, Vera’s dog,” Estelle Fancy said, switching her attention from her employer’s body to the sound. She squatted down to peer under the desk. “Come here, Cecil, sweetheart. You poor thing.” She extended a hand toward the dog, but he growled and snapped at her. “Oh, he’s never done that before,” she said, pulling her hand away and standing. “You’ll have to get him, Sheriff.”
    â€œHe’s not my first priority,” Mort said, taking a cell phone from his pocket.
    â€œI can’t believe it,” Elovitz said, fists on his hips. “We were all set to shoot her big scene. How could this have happened to me?”
    â€œEveryone out,” Mort instructed, waving us away. “This hot set is now a crime scene.”
    The three of us retreated to the edge of the set and listened as Mort made his call. “We have an apparent homicide,” he said. “White female, approximate age mid-fifties, about five foot seven. No idea of the weight. She’s wearing one of those flowy robes. Possible strangulation. Body discovered at”—he looked at his watch—“fourteen hundred hours at Cabot Cove airfield, hangar one. Send an ambulance to the rear door of the hangar—I’ll meet you there. We’ll ship her to the hospital morgue. I want a crime scene squad and photographer. Alert the medical examiner. We’ll need an autopsy. He’s away? Again? Then get Doc Hazlitt. I’ll call you later.”
    Tears streaming down her face, the astrologer knelt on the floor and called softly, “Here, Cecil. Come here, boy. Sweetie pie, Cecil. Poor puppy.” She sniffled and crept forward on her knees, tapping the floor with her palm, and using a baby voice to entice Vera’s dog from his hiding place.
    Elovitz took out his phone and pushed his finger up the screen, scanning for a number.
    â€œWho do you think you’re calling?” Mort asked.
    â€œRhonda Chen, my casting director. I’ve got to get her going on a replacement. If we don’t stick to the shooting schedule, our backers will fade away and this film will never get made.”
    â€œPut your phone away,” Mort said sternly. “You can’t make any calls now.”
    â€œDon’t be silly, Metzger. Didn’t you ever hear that the show must go on?”
    Mort spaced out his words. “Put . . . the . . . phone . . . away.”
    â€œThis is not the time to play Dirty Harry, Sheriff. I’ve got a movie to make and this . . . um”—he cast around before finding the right words—“unfortunate development isn’t going to stop me.”
    â€œPut it away or I’ll take it away, and toss you in jail to boot. You’re not in charge here anymore.”
    â€œPlease listen to the sheriff,” I said. “You can make your call later.