Death in the Movies, A Jake Curtis / Vanessa Malone Mystery

DEATH IN THE MOVIES

A Jake Curtis / Vanessa Malone Mystery

Copyright 2017 Tony Flye, LLC.

Published by Tony Flye at Smashwords

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Death in the Movies

About Tony Flye

Other books by Tony Flye

Connect with Tony Flye

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

DEDICATION

For my beautiful Susan, the love of my life.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Cover photo, ca 1921

Cover art by Rocky M.

DEATH IN THE MOVIES

Prologue

The set quieted. The actors stood on their spots. Everyone's breathing subdued waiting for the director about to shout, action. The second assistant camera stepped in front of the camera, his clapboard in hand, waiting. The director opened his mouth to shout. In the instant before he could get the word out of his mouth, the quiet set was filled with the sound ofglass breaking, metal crunching and a horrendous scream as the hundred pound Klieg light crashing to the floor thirty feet below. Under the shattered light fixture was the remains of the half crushed driver, Jerry Blackwell.

Chapter 1

I'm Jake Curtis, a licensed private investigator in the Washington, D.C. area. Business was slow like it had been all week, I sat behind my desk reading this morning's newspaper when an article on the front page, below the fold, attracted my attention. Actually my eyes shifted between the story in the newspaper to the hot redheaded lawyer in the office across the hall. I'm the inquisitive sort which makes this inactive U.S. Marine, a good private investigator. The hot redhead's name is Vanessa Malone. She happens to be my wife my redheaded Irish colleen of a wife. She is also my PI partner as well as an attorney at law in her own right.

She had a case in court this morning litigating nothing more than a nuisance case for which she had worked out a settlement before court, but her client wanted to go to trial and couldn't be talked out of it. The trial was scheduled for this morning.

The article printed in the paper reported on the death of a local man working for a Hollywood motion picture studio filming a movie in D.C. The man, Jerry Blackwell, worked as a local driver chauffeuring, some of the actors and executives around D.C. When not driving, or tending to his limo, he hung around the fringes of the set waiting. He hurried up to wait around to be called to drive someone somewhere.

Blackwell was a tall and slender man, but had the beginnings of a middle aged paunch around the middle of his six foot two, two hundred pound frame. His dark hair cut in the Roman style began to show gray at the temples. He was in his mid-forties, wore dark framed glasses all the time. His teeth were uneven and had a ruddy nose too large for his face. Blood veins ran across his nose like streets on a Rand McNally contoured road map.

The story went on to report Blackwell died as the result of a heavy light fixture intended, in part, to light the stage up as if it were noon on a sunny, cloudless day, fell from an overhead light bar thirty feet above the floor. Temporary scaffolding at each end of the light light bar held it in proper position. The hundred pound light crushed the left side of Blackwell's skull as it fell, then glancing off his head forcing it to the right, breaking his neck killing him instantly. He was dead before he hit the floor. The weight of the falling light continued down crushing his left shoulder knocking him to the floor.

Barton Willis, one of the many executive producers on the picture, called the paramedics. After the paramedics determined there was nothing they could do for Blackwell, they called for the coroner and police.

Police investigators found nothing amiss with the clamping mechanism which was made an integral part of the light fixture itself, as the clamp was still securely clamped to the bar, but the fixture was no longer attached to the clamp. The security cable, which looped around the clamping mechanism and the light bar designed to keep the light fixture attached to the bar should the clamp fail was still in place holding the clamp. Pending the official autopsy report, the police are calling the death an unfortunate accident.

Vanessa came back from court and threw her brief case on the floor and dropped the F-bomb in disgust.

What's the matter? I asked, taking my life in my hands getting in the way of this lovely red headed woman's hot Irish temper. Vanessa stood five feet, five, a hundred ten pounds with a cute upturned nose, deep green eyes the color of a grassy meadow in sunlight after a summer rain, soft lips I never get tired of kissing and a pleasing figure. At least her figure pleases me.

My effing client. She wanted to take this damn case to court. We won.

So what's the problem? I asked cautiously, expecting an explosion.

I didn't have to wait long. The judge awarded us half the amount of the settlement I negotiated with the defendants. Now she's pissed off at me.

What you should do is sue her for your fee based on the original settlement offer she rejected, I said.

I won the damned case. It was the judge who screwed us. I did my job, I got her a good settlement offer, all she had to do was accept it, but no she wanted to go to court and try to get more. Now get this. She has another case she wants me to handle for her. I told her to go find another lawyer.

Good for you. Win some, lose some, but in this case, both at the same time, I said. We laughed, we kissed and the world was suddenly sunnier.

Three weeks later, I watched as a young woman who appeared to be in her late twenties, a little taller than five feet, but not much taller, with auburn hair tied at the nape of her neck. Even though she wore a baggy dress, I detected an attractive figure beneath. I'm a detective, I detect things. She walked towards Vanessa's office which was across the hall from mine.

Her office became vacant about a year or so ago when a bad guy came into my office, a gun in his right hand pointing at me. He intended to kill me, but first he made a fatal mistake. He shouted curse at me before shooting. His shout gave me time to take my .45 automatic from my top right desk drawer and duck for cover. He got off two shots. The first hit my mahogany desk and the second stuck in the wall behind my desk. I shot twice as the Marine Corps and the D.C. police taught me during my two years on the force. I hit his center of mass. He bled out on my new rug.

The two lady tenants of the office Vanessa now occupies decided gunfire across the hall wasn't conducive to their interior design business catering to the city's high class clientèle. They vacated the premises without waiting for their lease to expire. Vanessa moved her law office into the vacated space. She negotiated a greatly reduced rental due to the recent shooting. She neglected to tell the landlord her husband was the one who finished the shooting.

The woman smiled at me as she looked into my office when she walked past. I smiled back at her before she turned into Vanessa's office. I went back to reading the sports page.

Ten minutes later Vanessa rang the intercom on my phone. Yessss, I said suggestively.

Are you free to join us? Vanessa asked.

No, but I'm reasonable, I said.

Later, Vanessa said suggestively. We have a new client. Are you free to join us? Vanessa asked again.

Should I bring coffee?

That would be good. Vanessa turned to the woman. Do you take cream or sugar?

What?

Do you take cream or sugar, or both, in your coffee?

Oh. Cream would be nice. Vanessa relayed the information to me.

Not being able to find my sterling silver tray, I carried in three mugs of coffee, the pint carton of half and half and the shaker jar of sugar on a clipboard across the hall and into Vanessa's office.

Jake, this is Pam Blackwell , Vanessa said. Looking at Pam, she added. Jake's my PI partner and my life partner. Pam looked at Vanessa with questioningly. He's my husband. Vanessa added with a smile. Pam's look of uncertainty disappeared. Introductions were made and hands shaken.

On closer look Pam Blackwell looked more like she was in her mid to late thirties rather than the mid twenties I thought as she walked past my office door. There must be something to living the simple life.

Pam had an oval face, with hazel eyes, a narrow mouth with perfect teeth. Her face was devoid of makeup and her fingernails while neatly manicured, were polished with a clear lacquer coating. She wore a plain gray dress with sleeves down to her wrists, buttoned to the high collar and the skirt came down halfway between her knees and her ankles. She had plain black leather walking shoes on her feet. Pam Blackwell dressed like a Mennonite woman.

Pam's husband, Jerry was killed a little over three weeks ago when a movie light fell on him, Vanessa said.

I remember reading about his death in the paper. I'm sorry for your loss, I said.

Thank you, Pam said.

Pam was left with the care of their three year old daughter, Frannie, Vanessa said.

I haven't read anything further about the accident in the papers, I said.

There hasn't been much in the paper except for a two inch blurb about Jerry's funeral. I've had a hard time getting any information from the movie company. I talked with one of the producers, Pam said. She looked at the slip of paper from her pocket and held tightly in both hands. "A David Leamon. He wouldn't tell me anything further about the accident. He asked me if Jerry drank a lot while he worked. I told them no. It sounded to me like they were fishing for an excuse to blame Jerry for the light falling on him.

They were probably trying for some C-Y-A, Vanessa said.

C-Y-A?

Cover your...., well you know, I said.

Yeah, I know, Pam said.

Probably. You know these Hollywood types, the movie is everything. It makes no difference who has to die to get the movie on the silver screen. Pam paused, as if to gather her thoughts. All this David Leamon would tell me was Jerry's death was a tragic accident and they were very sorry for my loss. Her tone changed. Bullshit. They're hiding something. The expletive coming from such a demure woman made us sit up and look at her in a new and different perspective.

How can you tell? I asked.

I feel it deep down in my bones.

I can't take your bones into court, Vanessa said. I need more than your feelings to go before a judge.

I know, but it seems to me something ought-a be done.

Out of curiosity, has the movie studio offered you any kind of settlement? Vanessa asked.

This David Leamon offered me fifty thousand dollars with a non-disclosure provision.

It seems like an extraordinarily high settlement, I said. Vanessa looked at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head. It seems to me, if the producers wanted a non-disclosure as a part of their settlement offer, they have something they don't want to be made public.

You think they're hiding something? Pam asked.

Maybe, I said.

Or maybe, they think the accident would be bad publicity for the picture, Vanessa said. Either way, we may have an opening.

Did Jerry have life insurance? I asked.

His policy was enough to payoff our mortgage. Our – my house now is paid off, but it didn't leave much left over to live on.

I know this may sound kinda ghoulish, but have you seen a copy of Jerry's autopsy report? I asked.

No. I talked with the coroners office about getting a copy of the report. They gave me a runaround. Maybe the producers somehow got to the coroner, I thought.

Vanessa picked up her phone with her left hand and flipped through the cards in her Rolodex with her right. Finding the number she wanted, she punched it into the phone.

Dr. Gordon, please, Vanessa said as she pressed the speaker key. Suzanne, Vanessa Malone. My client's, Jerry Blackwell's widow. She would like a copy of her husband's autopsy report. She asked your office before and felt she got a runaround.

I'm sorry that's how she feels. As the widow, she's entitled to a copy if she asks. I'll look into the matter from this end, Suzanne Gordon said. Give me the deceased's name again and his DOD and I will email a copy of the report to your office later this afternoon. Are we on speaker?

Yes.

Please take us off.

We're off.

A pause while Vanessa listened. No, I don't think they'll be necessary, Vanessa said. Thanks Suzanne, I'll look for it." Vanessa disconnected the call.

You don't think what'll be necessary? Pam asked.

Autopsy photos, Vanessa said, quietly.

No, I don't think they'll be necessary, Pam said, as a tear rolled down her cheek. After Pam left our offices, Vanessa called Suzanne Groton back and had her email the autopsy photos with the report.

Chapter 2

Jerry Blackwell's autopsy report came as an attachment to an e-mail from Suzanne Gordon's office. It arrived just as Vanessa reached to turn off her computer for the day. The You've got Mail ping on her computer sounded as the email landed in her in box. Vanessa opened the attachment and quickly scanned the information on her screen.

She pushed a link on the screen and her printer sprang to life spitting out Jerry Blackwell's autopsy report at the amazing speed of 200 pages per minute complete with the photographs Vanessa had Suzanne Gordon enclose. When her printer stopped, she gathered the pages and placed them in a new file folder. Timothy's – dinner – starving, she said. My stomach growled in response.

Timothy's is actually Timothy's Pub, the local watering hole and steak house in our neighborhood, a block from our apartment. It's where Vanessa and I first met. Although Vanessa refuses to remember that night, I remember it fondly. She prefers to remember the following night when we only talked the night away.

Timothy's is supposed to be an Irish pub like you'd find on any street in downtown Dublin, or anywhere else in Ireland for that matter. The interior was designed by an Irish architect who never set foot in Ireland, let alone ever being in a authentic Irish pub. However, if you've never been in an Irish pub in Ireland, Timothy's would pass muster.

Timothy's had an abundance of dark stained woodwork, with an intricately carved oak bar running the length of one wall. A highly polished brass brass foot rail and dark stained wood stools with padded black leather seat completed the bar. Booths filled the opposite wall with two and four top tables in the center of the floor. The kitchen was in the back accessed by a pair of swinging doors one door marked in and the other marked out.

Vanessa and I walked in and headed for our favorite booth which happened to be available. As popular as Timothy's is, our favorite booth is, always seemed to be available. It seems the other regulars keep it available for us.

Erin O'Connor, our favorite waitress only because she's Timothy's only waitress, seated us. She also happens to be Timothy's second cousin on his mother's side. She's dark Irish. Short, five foot three, a few ounces over a hundred pounds. Her short black hair surrounded her pretty face, deep green eyes, full deep red lips, a bright smile full of straight, white teeth, a touch of blush on he cheekbones, small nose, a diamond stud in each small earlobe with a well proportioned figure. Erin's fingers were long and elegant with nails polished to match the red of her lips.

She wore the usual form fitting Kelly green collared golf shirt with an Irish harp silk screened above her left breast and the words Timothy's Pub embroidered in Gaelic script over the harp, She wore tight fitting black mid thigh shorts, with a short two pocket black apron tied around her slim waist and black walking shoes. Around her neck hanging on a delicate gold chain over her golf shirt was a small, delicate, gold crucifix.

The usual drinks? Erin asked. Either she knows us too well, or we come in here too often. Probably both, but the steaks are good here so we keep coming back.

Yes, I said answering for both of us.

You ready to order now, or you want me to bring your usual? Erin asked, but it didn't sound so much like a question, but rather more like a command. It seems like we do come in here too often and Erin takes my over tipping for granted. We won't stop coming in and I won't stop over tipping. Erin's a sweet, young woman. Besides neither of us feels like cooking after a long, hard day of detecting and lawyering. Ribeyes, medium rare, steak fries and house salads, Erin said.

That sounds right, I said.

Make my steak medium, please, Vanessa said.

Erin carried our dinner order to the kitchen then gave our drink order to Fred, the Bartender. He was in the middle of wiping his way down the bar. He stopped and waived to Vanessa and I then continued towards the last barstool towards the back of the restaurant where Amanda Scott sat. Rumor has it, Fred, the Bartender, once in a past life had been a Catholic priest. His girlfriend, Amanda Scott, who used to go by the name of Sister Mary Anthony, a Catholic nun, who also happened to be a registered nurse. Now she worked at the local Doc in the Box clinic in our neighborhood.

Fred, the Bartender is in his mid-forties, almost six feet tall. He had the physique of a college linebacker, that is, if his seminary had a football team. His athletic physique slipped away from the lack of more strenuous physical exercise the walking back and forth behind Timothy's bar. His close cropped dark hair turning gray at the temples. His eyes were steel gray and looked hard, but Fred, the Bartender was a gentle man always with a kind word for anybody or sage advise for anyone who asks. He listens to his customers like he was still in his confessional hearing confessions.

Amanda Scott stood five foot eight, a little thick around the middle with a sight muffin top and , around a hundred thirty pounds. Amanda was in her late thirties or early forties. It was hard to tell. Her short dark hair had a few strands of gray surrounding her round face, blue eyes, a bright smile. Her lips were a brilliant fire engine red, the same shade as Erin's. Perhaps Erin gave Amanda some fashion tips. A pair of dainty gold famed glasses perched on her pug nose. Amanda Scott and Fred, the Bartender had been in the middle of an torrid, but discrete affair for months now. Good for them. She never told us why she gave up her vows and left the nunnery.

Erin brought our Glenfiddichs on the rocks and Vanessa took a sip then opened the file containing the Blackwell autopsy report and started reading the first page while I studied the photographs. The dissection photos, while interesting from the standpoint of anatomy, didn't tell me anything I wanted to know.

I want to look at the photographs of the bloody light fixture, the light bar and the scaffolding holding the light bar in place. There was one picture of the light fixture, but it didn't show enough detail of the place where the clamp attached to the fixture, I said, picking up the picture and handing it to Vanessa. She