Free Murder, She Wrote by Jessica Fletcher Page A

what I mean. I was focusing on the cards, not on them.” He looked from me to Mort. “Anything else?”
    Mort closed his notepad and put it back in his pocket. “Not for the moment. Mrs. F., you got any more questions?”
    â€œWould you mind showing us her trailer?” I asked.
    â€œVera’s trailer? Sure.”
    He rose slowly from the sofa and stopped at the kitchen to place his glass in the sink. “Can’t believe it,” he muttered.
    Vera’s trailer was next to the one her ex-husband used on his visits. It wasn’t locked, and I wondered if that was typical. Certainly it’s not unusual to find doors unlocked in Cabot Cove. People in small towns tend to be careless about their security. But for an actress from Los Angeles, it seemed strange.
    â€œDid Vera always leave her trailer open?” I asked.
    â€œShe did. She was careless, kept losing her keys, so she stopped carrying them. She said it wasn’t a problem. There are always a lot of the crew walking around. She tended to trust them.”
    Vera’s trailer was the same size as Chattergee’s and similarly kitted out, except for the fabrics. In his, the upholstery was leather; in Vera’s it was velvet with silk throw pillows. His quarters had been pristine; hers looked more lived-in. There was a bottle of dishwashing soap next to the empty sink and a tray of medicine bottles on the counter, mostly vitamin supplements. A saucer held a pair of earrings. On the floor were two bowls for the dog.
    Chattergee picked up a sweater that had been left on her sofa, held it to his nose, and closed his eyes. Then he folded it and replaced it on the seat. “As you can see, there isn’t much here,” he said, “but then, I don’t know what you’re looking for.”
    â€œThe note, if she left it here,” Mort said.
    â€œMay we see her bedroom?” I asked.
    Chattergee walked down the hall, opened the door to Vera’s bedroom, and stepped back to allow us to enter. It was a tight space but lavishly furnished, with a green silk coverlet on the bed over a pleated jacquard bed skirt in green and white. A stool upholstered in the same fabric stood in front of a dressing table, which held a pair of open boxes of makeup and creams, a woman’s wig on a stand, and a hair dryer, the cord plugged in. Above the dressing table was a mirror framed with lights. A chiffon robe with feathered collar and cuffs had been draped over a chair piled with throw pillows. Several photographs of Vera during different times in her career were taped to the sides of the mirror. I studied them. One showed a younger Vera holding a dog, either a young Cecil or his predecessor. A little girl with dark hair leaned into Vera’s leg, a shy expression on her face.
    Chattergee pointed to the photo. “I took that one,” he said. “Happier times.”
    â€œI’m so sorry,” I said. “This must be very difficult for you.”
    â€œDifficult on many levels, and sad.” He walked out of the room.
    Mort and I gave the room a fast once-over, but we didn’t find a note. “I’ll have the team come through and do a more thorough search,” he said.
    We found Chattergee sitting on Vera’s couch, holding her sweater. “Is there anything else you need from me? I have to call California again.”
    â€œWe’ll leave you alone in a few minutes,” I said.
    â€œWe need to know about the guns,” Mort said.
    â€œWhat guns?”
    â€œExactly,” Mort said. “Are there any people in the production who carry guns, whether they’re licensed or not?”
    Chattergee shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure, but there could be some people who are armed,” he said.
    Mort and I glanced at each other briefly. His expression was as surprised as I was sure mine was. “Why would people working on a movie carry guns?”