Free Murder, She Wrote by Jessica Fletcher

trailer?”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    â€œShe came to see you here?” Mort said.
    â€œYes. She was waiting for me.”
    â€œWhat time was that?”
    â€œI don’t know, nine o’clock maybe. She was upset about”—he waved his hand to the side—“who knows?”
    â€œYou don’t recall what upset her?” I asked.
    â€œSomething was always bugging her. That’s Vera.”
    â€œDid she ever complain that someone was stalking her?” Mort asked. “Like a deranged fan?”
    â€œNo, but she hadn’t been in a film in some years. We were hoping to develop a new fan base—not a crazy one, of course.”
    â€œIt would be helpful if you could remember something specific she may have said to you,” I said. “Did she have an argument with someone?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWas she annoyed with someone or something?”
    Chattergee raised one eyebrow as he looked at me. “She was
always
annoyed. She was a complainer, never satisfied. That’s hardly news.”
    â€œTry to remember what she said,” Mort urged.
    Chattergee raised a hand to stop the questions. “Give me a second.” He scratched his forehead and frowned. “I think it was the note she found in her trailer, something cryptic.”
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘cryptic’?” I asked.
    â€œYeah, what does ‘cryptic’ mean?” Mort echoed.
    â€œIt was a reference to something from the past. I didn’t read it, but it disturbed her.”
    â€œDid she have the note with her when she came to your trailer?” Mort asked.
    Chattergee shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know. I was getting ready to go out again. Now I wish I’d paid more attention. I dismissed it, told her she was always making mountains out of molehills, that some idiot probably wanted to spook her and that if she allowed that to happen, the idiot would probably do it again.”
    â€œYou say you were getting ready to go out. Where did you go?” Mort asked.
    â€œElovitz hosted a poker game,” Chattergee said.
    â€œThat’s easy enough to check,” Mort said. “I’ll ask him about that.”
    â€œAsk him?” He glared at Mort. “Go ahead, ask him. You think
I
had anything to do with Vera’s murder? That’s ridiculous! I’m the grieving husband.”
    Ex-husband,
I silently amended. But I could see Chattergee working himself into a froth and tried to distract him.
    â€œDo you play poker often?” I asked. “Is that something people routinely do on a movie lot?”
    â€œWell, not so often at the studio,” Chattergee replied, “although it’s not unheard of.” A small smile crossed his lips. “But we’re on location. In the boonies. No offense, but this isn’t exactly Hollywood and Vine. There’s not a lot of entertainment available. So, sure, we entertain ourselves playing poker.”
    â€œDid you win?” I asked.
    Chattergee chuckled. “Took home a bit of cash. They’re novices, those boys.”
    â€œWho else was with you at the poker game?” I asked. Off to my right, I could see Mort taking notes.
    â€œElovitz—he’s the director—Walt Benson, the actor, and Jason Griffin, the DP, the director of photography, a few others. I don’t know all their names.”
    â€œWhat time did you get back from the poker game?” Mort put in.
    â€œMust’ve been around two.” He looked at Mort.
    â€œAnd Ms. Stockdale wasn’t here?”
    â€œNo. She’d gone back to her trailer. At least I assume that’s where she went.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t see her after that?” Mort asked.
    Chattergee shook his head.
    â€œThe men you played cards with, were they with you the whole time?” I asked.
    â€œI guess. I mean, someone might’ve taken a break, gone out for a smoke or something, you know