Read Online Murder, She Wrote by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online Page B

suspected, to gauge the reactions of those supposedly first learning of Vera Stockdale’s death.
    Terrence Chattergee had been on a conference call to the coast when we knocked at the door of his trailer. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” he’d shouted, flinging open his door. “I’m talking to California, Mrs. Fletcher. Come back later.”
    â€œI’m afraid not,” Mort had replied, slapping his hand on the door to keep it open. Perhaps the sheriff’s uniform and grim expression tipped off the producer to the seriousness of our visit. He’d ended the call and invited us inside.
    Chattergee’s trailer was four times as large as the one Estelle Fancy occupied, and in addition to the sofa, had a curved red leather banquette and three matching side chairs—sufficient seating to accommodate a good-sized meeting. In the center was a round table with the speakerphone Chattergee had been using when we’d interrupted him.
    â€œI can’t believe it,” the producer said, shielding his eyes with his hand and moaning. “How did she die?” he asked. “She was as strong as an ox, exercised every day, ate carefully. Used to drive me crazy with her strict diets. Did she have a heart attack?”
    Mort gave me a little nod.
    â€œWe’re not certain yet,” I said, sitting down next to Chattergee and resting my hand on his arm, “but we don’t believe she died of natural causes.”
    Chattergee’s head came up sharply. “What are you saying?”
    â€œI know this is hard to hear,” I replied, “but someone killed her.”
    â€œNo!” Chattergee roared. He jumped up, then sat down again. “Who? Why? How? Why would anyone want to kill Vera?” He smacked his forehead with his hand and snorted. “What a question to ask! She was impossible. But still, who would take it this far?”
    â€œThat’s what we’re hoping you can help us with,” Mort said. “Ms. Stockdale was found sitting in the wing chair on the set in the hangar. Did she happen to tell you who she was planning to meet there?”
    â€œNo! I have no idea,” he said, clearly trying to get his emotions under control. He coughed and took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his lips. “On the set, did you say?” He cleared his throat. “That was a hot set. No one is supposed to go on that set until the call. When can I see her?”
    â€œProbably later this afternoon,” Mort said. “There’s going to be an autopsy to determine the cause of death.”
    Chattergee’s expression changed from dismay to anger. “But if you don’t know how she died, how can you say someone killed her?”
    â€œThere was a bullet hole in her chest,” Mort said.
    Chattergee suddenly sat back, his hand over his heart, as if he’d been the one who’d been shot. “Oh! Dear God! Poor Vera.”
    â€œAre you all right?” I asked. “Would you like us to call a doctor for you?”
    â€œNo. No. I’ll be okay. Just a glass of water, if you wouldn’t mind.” He gestured at the maple kitchen built into the space across from the conference table.
    I opened several cabinets before finding the glasses. The full-sized stainless-steel refrigerator held a dozen bottles of water. I poured some into a glass.
    â€œThank you,” he said when I handed him the tumbler. “This is such a shock.”
    â€œMay I ask when you saw Ms. Stockdale last?”
    â€œI’m not supposed to be here,” Chattergee said, sipping the water. “I only came east to make sure everything was going well. When did I see her? Last night, when I got in.”
    â€œAnd what kind of mood was she in?” Mort asked.
    â€œShe was a bit tense, but that’s normal for her.”
    â€œWhere did you see her?” I asked.
    â€œRight here.”
    â€œHere in this