Muffin to Fear, page 15
I found the cast and crew in the library. Todd was sitting with Arnie Ball and complaining. He had seemed affable enough whenever I spoke to him, but sounded bitter, from what I could overhear.
“I never wanted psychics. I never freakin’ agreed to psychics. That was all Hugh’s idea. I hope this ends that for good and we can move on without them.”
Arnie looked over Todd’s shoulder, causing the investigator to whirl around and glare at me. His gaze mellowed. He shrugged and looked across the room at Millicent, who sat with Rishelle and Chi in a huddle of misery.
“I didn’t mean Millie,” he said, half to me and half to Arnie. “She’s okay. But Dirk was an ass. I want to do serious paranormal research.” Arnie mumbled something to him, and Todd nodded.
I sat down with them. “If you felt so strongly, why didn’t you refuse to work with Dirk?”
“To quote Hugh, ‘No one wants to see a purely investigative approach to paranormal research,’” Todd said, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “If you don’t come up with fourteen hundred paranormal events in a location, people think it’s a dud. It doesn’t work that way! I wish I could get that through people’s thick skulls. Besides, Dirk was Hugh’s pet. Wouldn’t hear a thing against him.”
I looked across the room to the Eastlake desk. Hugh was sitting behind it, his head down in his hands. “Then this solves half your problem, doesn’t it?” I said, with a smile to soften the implication. “Now you just need to get rid of Millicent. Of course, that wouldn’t stop him from hiring another psychic or two, would it?”
Both men looked shocked. I got up, crossed the room, and put my hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “Hey, are you okay? Can I get you anything? Spot of tea? Snifter of brandy?”
He looked up, his face lined and ravaged-looking. “How about a shot of arsenic?”
I sat down on a low stool and looked up into his face. “I know your star is dead, but this wasn’t your fault!”
“Are you saying it wasn’t murder?”
I paused, then shook my head. “No, it has to have been murder. But it’s certainly not your fault.”
“But it is, in a sense.” He sighed and squared his shoulders. “I bear responsibility for this. Dirk was an instigator. He liked to stir the pot, and we kept rewarding him for it. Every time he got more outrageous, ratings went up, so we kept pushing him further and further.”
“Who is the ‘we’ you’re talking about?”
“The owner of HHN. We talked about it many times. Fans loved Dirk. He was a big hit at the paranormal conventions, outrageous, larger than life! Larger than . . . life.” He shook his head. “He liked to rile the others up, and it led to—”
“It led to this,” I finished for him.
He nodded.
“Todd figures you’ll continue the show now without Dirk. What do you think about that?”
“I haven’t thought about it. It’s too early to think about that. His colleague died, for heaven’s sake; what is Todd thinking about?”
“Something important to him, which is Haunt Hunt.”
Hugh shook his head. “I like Todd, but he’s totally unrealistic. The public doesn’t want two guys stumbling around in the dark with light-up instruments, not getting any hits. It wants drama, screaming investigators, fainting psychic mediums, ghosts! Apparitions. Goose-pimply haunting.”
“You make it sound like a Halloween haunted house event.”
“It has some characteristics in common. The public wants thrills and chills. If they want science they’ll watch Nova.”
I saw his point. The audience wanted results, and Todd apparently wanted to do serious paranormal research; the two aims might be mutually exclusive. “But there are other ghost hunt shows that don’t have psychics, right?”
“I don’t think we can go back to that. Once you’ve gone down a certain road . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “We need the viewers because viewers mean sponsors, and the viewers loved Dirk. Damn!” He pounded his fist on the desk. “Why did this have to happen now? We almost had a deal for syndication.”
I knew enough about syndication to know it was a gold mine, making it so the show was on TV in perpetuity. While profitable, if you were ashamed of the show, that would not be something you wanted. I glanced across the room at Todd. He wouldn’t need to worry about that now.
I turned back to the producer. “Cheer up, Hugh,” I said, intending to be gently humorous. “Maybe the network will cancel the show and you’ll get to produce a wine and travel program.”
He shook his head. “If Haunt Hunt is canceled I’ll retire. Write a book. Get genteelly drunk every evening on French brandy.”
A piano and violin piece started over the speaker system; it was one of classical composer Clara Schumann’s trio pieces for violin, cello, and piano, a favorite of Pish’s. Shortly thereafter, almost as if he were reading Hugh’s mind, my friend entered the library with a tray of liqueur and tiny glasses, and brought it over to Hugh. I left the two men alone. Pish would comfort him better than I, most likely. They could talk about opera and classical music and a Monet exhibit he’d like to see.
I joined Millicent, Chi, and Rishelle. I must admit I was examining Millicent with new eyes, knowing how substantially she had downplayed her past experience in TV and how she had put on a front of ditziness that was likely not legitimate. Stu sat slightly apart from them with a book on his lap, a biography of Ben Franklin. I can tell when someone is really reading or not, and he was lost in it.
I turned to look at my other guests. Rishelle seemed dazed, her pretty face pallid. Chi was impassive, but his hands were shaking. Millicent, on the other hand, appeared mulish, yet close to tears. The three weren’t talking or looking at one another, and I had the feeling my arrival had interrupted a disagreement.
“Have you heard anything?” Rishelle asked, her voice trembling.
“No. I don’t know any more now than I did this morning.”
“Poor Dirk! I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“Are you guys okay? Can I get you anything? I’ll be bringing out tea and coffee and some food shortly.”
Rishelle shook her head and crossed her arms over her stomach, hunching on the stool she perched on. “I couldn’t eat. I need a bottle of merlot and a Xanax.” She laughed, but it was shaky and ended on a sob.
She was much more affected than the others. Was there something between her and Dirk? I didn’t think so. The two seemed to actively dislike each other, and certainly that was supported by her suggesting and planning the prank to make him look foolish, if she was the leader. Rishelle stared at her husband with an expression of naked yearning. It was sweet if a little sad, and I wondered how much his obvious suspicions about her relationship with Stu had affected their marriage.
“Do you and Todd have kids?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’m not ready for that.”
“Mmm, I understand. It’s a big commitment.” I paused a beat, then said to the group, “I know about the prank you intended to pull on Dirk. I get it; he was a pain and you wanted to scare him.”
Chi shook his head in puzzlement. “I don’t know what happened. It was just a leather tool belt. It weighed maybe twelve ounces. How did that get changed out for a toolbox that weighed twenty pounds?”
“That’s a good question. Chi, you rigged up the prank. Was the setup strong enough to dislodge a tool chest weighing twenty pounds or more?”
“No way! I had a spring-loaded mechanism with a sensor pad in just the right spot below the shelf so that when Dirk got close enough, it would trigger the spring and the tool belt would tumble down. But it wouldn’t have budged anything heavier.” He took a deep breath. “And they’ll be able to prove that. The video will show everything.” He looked calmer, happier.
Little did he know, if he was relying on the video to get him off the hook, he was out of luck. “Who among you hated Dirk enough to kill him?”
They exchanged glances.
“We were just talking about that,” Millicent said.
“And?”
“Serina,” they chorused. And explained why.
• • •
My head swimming with questions, I went in search of the sound technician. She was nowhere to be found in the castle, so I pulled on a heavy cardigan and headed outside. I found her in the technical truck, sitting at an editing bay with headphones on, staring at a monitor where gray images of the Haunt Hunt cast moved about. I rapped on the door, but she didn’t hear me, so I climbed in and touched her shoulder.
“Yah!” she shrieked, and her chair tilted.
I caught her, and she pulled the headphones off and glared at me.
“You scared the crap out of me! I thought I was next.”
“Next?”
“Next to die,” she said dryly, hanging the headphones on a hook on the sound board.
“So if you’re so worried about it, why are you out here alone?”
“Because I can’t stand the smell of hypocrisy in the morning,” she said, her narrow face twisted in a cynical expression of disdain. “All those people with sad faces, when every single one of them despised Dirk and aren’t sorry he’s dead.”
“Except for Hugh,” I amended.
She just smiled, and I wondered why.
“Dirk was good for ratings, a producer’s dream, making money for the sponsors and the network. Hugh had to like that.”
“Some of that is true,” she said, and smiled again.
“But you had a particular reason for disliking Dirk,” I said, refusing to be distracted by wondering what she was implying about Hugh with that smile, or if I was reading into things.
“You seem to want to tell me why I disliked him so deeply. Go ahead.”
I couldn’t read her face. She stared directly into my eyes with a challenging glare, and her smile had died, her expression now unfriendly. What had I done to deserve that? “I’ve been told that you and Todd are having an affair, and that Dirk threatened to tell Hugh and get you fired.”
She blinked. “I suppose Rishelle told you that.”
“Among others.” Rishelle and Millicent both had been eager to fill me in on Todd and Serina’s affair. She looked down and fiddled with a slide control on the sound board. “We were having a bit of a fling, but it’s over. Todd wants to work it out with Rishelle.”
“Who he suspects of having an affair with Stu.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You have been a busy gossipy little bee, haven’t you?”
“Your point is, you had no reason to fear Dirk, because Rishelle knew and the affair was over. Why doesn’t Rishelle believe that?”
“Rishelle can go kick rocks,” Serina said, angrily. “I got sick and tired of being Todd’s therapist and a placeholder for a wife who isn’t into her wifely duties anymore.”
Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and something else, perhaps pain. Maybe she didn’t realize how much Rishelle still appeared to love her husband, given the look of longing I had witnessed on her face as she gazed at him. “So who ended it, you or Todd?”
“What does it matter? It’s over, period, end of discussion.” She turned away. “I have to get back to work.”
“Work? On what? You don’t think they’ll air this episode, do you?”
“Are you kidding? If Todd has his way, it’ll air. ‘The Ghost of Murder Castle,’” she said, with a mocking arch to her sculpted brow.
“That’s not funny,” I said, sidling out of the van and stepping down to the drive. Her words stung. “I don’t need my problems aired on TV.”
She shrugged. “Not up to me. Ask the boss man.”
“Todd?”
“Hugh. Todd’s listed as an executive producer but Hugh is the one with brass connections. He’s the one who makes all the final decisions.”
I wrapped my heavy cardigan closer around me and headed across the drive to the castle, but decided against going in. I found it interesting that Serina was working on some of the first-night footage. Was that even her job? She was a sound engineer, not a video editor; shouldn’t she be working with someone else?
Instead of going in I dipped around the terrace side of the castle out of the wind and got my cell out of my pocket. I checked in with Hannah, but she said she’d have to call me back because she was in the middle of something. I snuck a look around the front corner of the castle. I was thinking of calling Urquhart when I saw Todd Halsey bolt from the castle, run to the sound truck, and climb in.
Why was he cozying up with Serina in the sound truck if they had really broken up? There was so much off about this whole thing that my nerves were twitching. But I would bet that was why Serina was in the editing van; she was expecting his visit.
Chapter Sixteen
I WAS TEMPTED to sneak up on the van and peep in on Todd and Serina. I’d bet she was lying through her teeth about their affair being over. But what would I discover if they were messing around? I already assumed their affair was not over at all, and that Serina was trying to save face. Confirmation wouldn’t make a bit of difference.
I headed back in. Where, in all of this, was Felice? She had been interviewed by the police, I knew that, but I hadn’t seen her since. Maybe she was back in her shared room tidying up the mess the police probably made when they searched. For some reason they can’t leave things neat. They have to toss everything until it looks like a teenager’s room after a sleepover. Or she was outside somewhere smoking, her one passion in life other than being on Haunt Hunt, it seemed.
The great hall was empty. I should join my “guests,” I thought, forced to stay for the time being because of the investigation into their colleague’s murder. How long would I have to play innkeeper to this bag of assorted nuts? Lizzie ducked her head out of the kitchen and motioned for me to join her. I followed, figuring I had promised people food and coffee anyway, so I may as well do that now. But I was not prepared for what I saw.
At the far end of my kitchen is a sitting area with wing chairs, a fireplace, and a low table. Lizzie had retreated there and laid out multiple small digital cameras. I gasped in horror. “Lizzie, what have you done?”
She was hovering over her hoard like an expectant chicken over a nest. “What do you mean?” she asked, her expression puzzled.
“What are you doing with all these?” I strode across the room and stared at the variety of cameras. “Where did they come from?”
“Let’s see . . . these two were from tripods in the great hall,” she said, about two that sat on one of the wing chairs. “These three were in cases in the dining room,” she said, pointing to the ones on the low table. Her finger swung around to some lined up on the brick hearth, each on a piece of paper with writing on it. “These four were in cases in one of the vans.”
Hand over my mouth, my mind—and heart—raced. I should have known better. And I couldn’t even yell at her because I had set her on a task . . . not this task, but a task. She’s like a ferret; give them something to do and they do it endlessly and obsessively until it is overdone, and then they find new ways to do it. That’s Lizzie in a nutshell, a teenage ferret. All I had said was I’d like to know if the cameras in the great hall were on motion detection mode. I may have mumbled that I’d love to see what footage they got, but didn’t think I’d ever know.
And now this . . . this pilfering of their equipment from the van and technical cases! My mind kept racing; what should I do?
She was still watching me warily, her expression revealing that she knew I was pissed about something, but she wasn’t sure what. I don’t have a lot of experience with kids, but I remember being a teenager. The things that anger adults are so often a mystery at that age.
I sighed and sat down on the free chair. “I’m afraid to ask. Have you looked at any of the video on the memory cards?”
“No.”
“Good. Then we can put these cameras back where they belong.”
“But you wanted me to find out if the cameras in the great hall were working last night. Don’t you want to know?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“Too bad,” she said, mulishly, arms crossed over her stomach. “I’ve taken out all the memory cards and replaced them with blank ones, so I’ve got them all. We don’t have to guess; we’ll know by the video. It’ll all be time-stamped.”
“You what?” I screeched, then covered my mouth again, pressing my fingers to my lips. I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh, scream, or throw up.
She blinked and said it again, then added, “They’re all labeled, if that’s what you’re worried about. I know which is which. Plus, you can tell by the—”
“That’s not the point!”
“Gawd, what is wrong? You wanted to know, and now we can find out! I told you, the video will be time-stamped, and we can see what went on.”
I took a deep breath and counted to . . . well, probably three. “Lizzie, I said I wanted to know if the cameras in the great hall were on motion detectors. What part of that was unclear? And what’s with the rest of these?”
“I figured it would be good to know what was on the other cameras, too, and I know that doofus Urquhart won’t get them.”
“That’s because he legally can’t! HHN lawyers are balking. Lizzie, you’ve jeopardized the whole damn investigation.”
For the first time I saw doubt in her eyes. Her lip trembled and she blinked. Darn! I jumped up and wrapped my arms around her, giving her a hug. “Honey, this is my fault. It is all my fault. I should never have set you on this task.”
“But now that I’ve done it,” she said, her voice muffled, “we may as well watch the videos, right?”
