Free Murder, She Wrote by Jessica Fletcher Page B

Mort asked.
    â€œThe studio doesn’t provide us with security. It’s a matter of cost, extra personnel, extra expenses. I don’t work it into the budget, either. But occasionally there are incidents. There are a lot of nuts in the world.” He shook his head. “I told Vera she should carry one, too.”
    â€œMaybe you should have told her to lock her door instead,” Mort said.
    â€œDo you have a gun?” I asked.
    â€œI do.” Chattergee leaned over and tugged up the cuff of his pants to reveal an ankle holster.
    â€œCan I see that?” Mort said. There was only one answer to his question.
    Chattergee unsnapped the holster and handed Mort his silver-and-black palm-sized gun. “It’s a Beretta Bobcat,” he said. “Small, lightweight. I’m licensed to carry.”
    Mort sniffed the barrel. “Did you fire it recently?”
    â€œOnly at the range.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œProbably the day before I left California.”
    â€œHow do you load it?” Mort asked, holding the barrel and giving him back the pistol, butt end first.
    â€œIt’s a little tricky,” Chattergee said, demonstrating as he spoke. “It has this tip-up feature on the barrel so you can load the chamber without having to move the slide. But the thing is, instead of ejecting the casing to the side like most semiautomatics, the spent casing shoots up over your head. It’s a bit awkward.” He slipped out a bullet and showed it to Mort.
    â€œMay I have that?” Mort asked, taking out a handkerchief.
    â€œSure. Figured you’d want one. I didn’t shoot my wife, Sheriff. But you go ahead and compare bullets.”
    â€œIs there any way we can get a list of everyone who has a gun?” Mort asked, tucking the handkerchief with the bullet into his breast pocket.
    â€œI doubt if one exists, but I can ask around.”
    â€œWould appreciate it if you’d do just that.”
    â€œWhat about prop guns?” I asked. “The judge in the movie is shot. Doesn’t the props department have a gun?”
    â€œMore than one,” Chattergee said, returning his weapon to its holster, “but they use blanks, not real bullets.”
    Errors can be made,
I thought, but said instead, “Who should we see there?”
    â€œI’ll get the first AD to take you around,” Chattergee said.
    â€œAD?” Mort said. “You got to spell out these initials for me.”
    â€œAssistant director,” Chattergee said. “That’ll be Eric Barry. I’ll call him and have him escort you where you want to go.”
    Mort and I spent another two hours at the airport, visiting production departments and interviewing people. We were accompanied by the first assistant director, a tall man with sandy brown hair and fingernails bitten to the quick. The prop guns were all accounted for, with no telltale odor of recent firing—if there is any identifiable smell when you’re using blanks. But of course that’s a moot point; the gun that killed Vera hadn’t been loaded with blanks.
    Everyone we spoke with demonstrated the proper amount of shock at the news of Vera’s murder, although I was pretty sure that for most of them, the news was secondhand by the time we got around to delivering it. Mort took names and told people that his department would follow up, and then he drove me home. It was almost time for supper.
    â€œIsn’t it amazing how everyone has an alibi for the last twenty-four hours?” I said when he pulled up in front of my house.
    â€œYeah. Especially since we don’t even know her time of death.”
    â€œWe know it was sometime after nine, since Chattergee saw her when he arrived,” I said. “What I find hard to believe is that no one can remember overhearing Vera Stockdale having an argument. Her ex-husband implied that she fought with everyone.”
    â€œMakes me think