black.”
Fade to black . How ironic.
Adriana already looked very dead, even though only a few minutes had passed. Her skin had taken on a telltale bluish-gray tinge and her jaw looked slack.
“So it’s real blood?” I was struggling to keep my voice on an even keel. I felt a lump the size of a walnut moving slowly up my throat and I swallowed hard. My nerves were jangled and my thoughts were scattering in a million directions. I’d run into a lot of unsettling things in my practice, but seeing death up close is always unnerving.
“I’m afraid so,” she said quietly. “Adriana was shot. But how?”
She stared up at Jeff, who looked shell-shocked, still holding the gun, his right arm hanging limply at his side.
“I think you should put the gun down,” I said quickly. Hank started to reach for it, and I stopped him. “Evidence,” I reminded him. “The fewer people who touch it, the better.”
“It can’t be loaded,” Jeff said slowly. “That’s impossible. It’s a prop gun.” He stared at the shiny barrel, bewildered. “I’ve used these a dozen times.” His voice was flat, robotic, like that of someone playing an android in a sci-fi flick. Shock , I decided.
He laid the gun carefully on the beach towel, just as an ambulance came tearing across the beach followed by two black-and-whites with lights flashing and sirens screaming. Half of Cypress Grove would know something had happened at Branscom Pond today. The other half would find out tonight on the six o’clock news. Cyrus would be over the moon; Adriana’s death would be a ratings bonanza.
I wondered if Nick Harrison had already left the set and headed back to the Gazette offices. He must have, I decided, or he’d be here with his notebook, angling for an exclusive. And where was Mom?
“They didn’t know the gun was loaded,” Mom said in a cheesy, movie-trailer voice, “until the star ended up dead!”
It was half an hour later, and all of us were on edge. Cops were swarming over the set, just like this was an episode of CSI ; crime scene tape had been put up; and Adriana’s lifeless body had been whisked away by the medical examiner.
Mom waited a beat (perhaps expecting a smattering of applause) and then looked around the makeup trailer where the Cypress Grove PD had gathered us for interrogations. They had immediately divided us up into groups, and I was sitting with Maisie, Mom, and Jesse, the AD. I glanced at my watch. I had to leave the set in exactly forty-five minutes, or I’d be late for my afternoon radio show.
I knew that Hank Watson and Jeff were stashed away somewhere in another trailer. And no one was allowed to leave the set. All the grips, the principals, the extras, and the crew members had to be interviewed. The police would record their names and addresses along with their whereabouts at the time of Adriana’s death.
And of course the Big Question: who had a reason to kill her? This was the time for all the professional jealousies, petty feuds, and long-standing grudges to float to the surface, like the algae on the surface of Branscom Pond.
A monumental task, but I knew this was standard police procedure and I wondered which detective would be assigned to see us.
I caught myself wondering if it would be Detective Rafe Martino, and my heart did an annoying little flip-flop. Rafe and I have had an on-again, off-again relationship since I solved a murder case a couple of months ago. A New Age guru was poisoned after he appeared on my WYME talk show, and I had to step in to clear my roommate’s name.
Rafe and I have an ongoing argument whether forensic psychology (which he calls psychobabble) trumps good solid detective work. Our relationship is like a rubber band, sometimes stretching far apart, sometimes springing back together, always quivering with tension. Maybe that’s what keeps it so exciting.
“Lola, please,” Maisie said imploringly. “Maybe it would be better if we don’t talk at all.” She
Fade to black . How ironic.
Adriana already looked very dead, even though only a few minutes had passed. Her skin had taken on a telltale bluish-gray tinge and her jaw looked slack.
“So it’s real blood?” I was struggling to keep my voice on an even keel. I felt a lump the size of a walnut moving slowly up my throat and I swallowed hard. My nerves were jangled and my thoughts were scattering in a million directions. I’d run into a lot of unsettling things in my practice, but seeing death up close is always unnerving.
“I’m afraid so,” she said quietly. “Adriana was shot. But how?”
She stared up at Jeff, who looked shell-shocked, still holding the gun, his right arm hanging limply at his side.
“I think you should put the gun down,” I said quickly. Hank started to reach for it, and I stopped him. “Evidence,” I reminded him. “The fewer people who touch it, the better.”
“It can’t be loaded,” Jeff said slowly. “That’s impossible. It’s a prop gun.” He stared at the shiny barrel, bewildered. “I’ve used these a dozen times.” His voice was flat, robotic, like that of someone playing an android in a sci-fi flick. Shock , I decided.
He laid the gun carefully on the beach towel, just as an ambulance came tearing across the beach followed by two black-and-whites with lights flashing and sirens screaming. Half of Cypress Grove would know something had happened at Branscom Pond today. The other half would find out tonight on the six o’clock news. Cyrus would be over the moon; Adriana’s death would be a ratings bonanza.
I wondered if Nick Harrison had already left the set and headed back to the Gazette offices. He must have, I decided, or he’d be here with his notebook, angling for an exclusive. And where was Mom?
“They didn’t know the gun was loaded,” Mom said in a cheesy, movie-trailer voice, “until the star ended up dead!”
It was half an hour later, and all of us were on edge. Cops were swarming over the set, just like this was an episode of CSI ; crime scene tape had been put up; and Adriana’s lifeless body had been whisked away by the medical examiner.
Mom waited a beat (perhaps expecting a smattering of applause) and then looked around the makeup trailer where the Cypress Grove PD had gathered us for interrogations. They had immediately divided us up into groups, and I was sitting with Maisie, Mom, and Jesse, the AD. I glanced at my watch. I had to leave the set in exactly forty-five minutes, or I’d be late for my afternoon radio show.
I knew that Hank Watson and Jeff were stashed away somewhere in another trailer. And no one was allowed to leave the set. All the grips, the principals, the extras, and the crew members had to be interviewed. The police would record their names and addresses along with their whereabouts at the time of Adriana’s death.
And of course the Big Question: who had a reason to kill her? This was the time for all the professional jealousies, petty feuds, and long-standing grudges to float to the surface, like the algae on the surface of Branscom Pond.
A monumental task, but I knew this was standard police procedure and I wondered which detective would be assigned to see us.
I caught myself wondering if it would be Detective Rafe Martino, and my heart did an annoying little flip-flop. Rafe and I have had an on-again, off-again relationship since I solved a murder case a couple of months ago. A New Age guru was poisoned after he appeared on my WYME talk show, and I had to step in to clear my roommate’s name.
Rafe and I have an ongoing argument whether forensic psychology (which he calls psychobabble) trumps good solid detective work. Our relationship is like a rubber band, sometimes stretching far apart, sometimes springing back together, always quivering with tension. Maybe that’s what keeps it so exciting.
“Lola, please,” Maisie said imploringly. “Maybe it would be better if we don’t talk at all.” She
Similar Books
