Murder Take Two by Charlene Weir Read Free Book Online Page A

the color of slate. Or flint maybe, the state of his heart. He had a good line in scowls, one of which he was using on Yancy. Yancy ignored it. You wouldn’t pick him out of a crowd as the great Hollywood director. No jodhpurs, no beret, no long cigarette holder. Plain jeans—they did have somebody’s fancy name on them, but jeans nevertheless—and a plain white T-shirt. Not even a smart-ass message. His forehead was sunburned and so were his arms.
    Just as they reached the trailer, Nick Logan opened the door. Fifer barely waited for his male star to clear the doorway before he barreled in. Logan took a side jump off the trailer steps and raised a puff of dust and pollen from the dried grass. With a mock salute to Parkhurst, he strode off.
    â€œHow long are you going to hold me up?” Yancy heard Fifer say as the trailer door closed.
    â€œI’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Susan said. And she was, too.
    Hayden Fifer was tightly wrapped, either worry about his movie or maybe just plain irritation that someone else was calling the shots. “Please sit down, Mr. Fifer. We’ll try not to keep you long.” No longer than necessary and she intended to pour deferential regard all over him, soothe his ego, and anything else that needed doing so he wouldn’t get in her way while she did her job.
    â€œI can’t sit around wasting time.”
    â€œJust a few questions,” Susan said.
    Fifer slid onto one of the couches, sat with his hands on his knees, ready to get this nonsense over and get back to the important substance of life.
    â€œDisruption and waiting are inevitable after an unexplained death, I’m afraid.” Susan used her best cool voice, the one that stood her in good stead in numerous situations: with irate superiors, malcontent subordinates, drunks, belligerents, and just plain when she didn’t know what the hell was going on. A voice that allowed her to skate around on potential thin ice with the best of them.
    â€œIt was an accident.”
    â€œIf the pitchfork hadn’t been where it was, Ms. Bender would probably be alive. We’ll need to speak separately with everybody who was present, and we’ll try to do that without causing undue inconvenience.”
    The fingers on Fifer’s left hand danced against his knee. His eyes clicked left and then right, he nodded. “Sure, sure. How long?”
    â€œWe won’t be certain of the cause of death until after an autopsy.”
    Fifer’s eyes fixed on her face, the fingers became still. “She fell.”
    â€œYes, sir. There will also be some lab investigations and that will take time. We’ll try to take care of everything as quickly as possible.”
    The fingers resumed dancing. “It isn’t that I’m not affected by the girl’s death.”
    â€œI understand, sir. We will need a list of all the people employed by you, and it would be helpful if you could give us their room numbers at the hotel.”
    â€œClem can do that,” he said.
    *   *   *
    There was still no sign of Clem Jones as Yancy tromped around in search of Sheri Lloyd. These fields used to be pastureland. Way off in the northeast corner was a small stock pond, scrub pines grew here and there. Knee-high weeds and grasses had been mowed down in one section to accommodate the vehicles. Trailers for superstars and director. Trailers divided into cubicles called honey wagon rooms for lesser actors, photo doubles, stand-ins, and stunt people. Trailers for wardrobe, makeup, and props. Caterer’s truck—Better Than Home Cookin’—from Los Angeles. Ha. Probably afraid we didn’t have calamari and garlic ice cream out here on the prairie. A tent staked out for serving hot meals from behind a row of steam trays, long tables and folding chairs for eating. Semis and vans and town cars, flatbed trucks and an electrician’s truck and a grip’s truck.