Santa Fe Dead

48

JACK CATO STAYED up late packing most of his belongings and stuffing others into trash bags. He unloaded the trash bags into a Dumpster at a construction site a few blocks away, then he went home and loaded everything else into his truck.

He got a couple of hours sleep and was on the set at Centurion at seven A.M. Don Wells walked past him, stopped and consulted a clipboard. “I’m going to shoot your stuff first, Jack; you’ll be out of here by noon. Are you ready to move?”

“Yep, everything’s in my truck.”

THEY HAD BEEN working for a little over an hour when the director called for a change of setup. “Where are my guns?” he yelled at an assistant director.

“They’re late,” he said. “I’ll call the armory.” The young man pressed a button on his cell phone, talked, listened, then came back to the director, who was talking with Don Wells. “You know that stunt guy, Grif Edwards?”

Both men nodded.

“Well, he’s dead. Shot himself over at the armory. That’s why the guns aren’t here; the cops are crawling all over the place.”

“We can’t shoot this scene without guns,” the director said.

“Come on,” Wells replied, “let’s go over there and see what we can do.” The two men got into a golf cart and drove over to the armory.

There was yellow tape over the door, and as they looked in, a detective approached them. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“We heard there was a shooting over here,” the director said. “We’re shooting the final scenes of a film, and we need our guns.”

“Do you gentlemen know a man named Griffin Edwards?”

“Sure,” the director said, “he’s worked on our films as a stuntman. Did he kill himself?”

“Do you know any reason why he would?”

“Not me,” the director said.

“Me, either,” Wells chimed in. “Is the guy who runs the armory here?”

“Yeah, just a minute.”

They waited until the armory manager came outside. “You heard?”

“Yes,” the director said, “and we’re sorry, but we need half a dozen Winchesters and six-guns. I ordered this stuff last week.”

Another detective came outside and introduced himself as the officer in charge of the investigation. The manager explained the situation.

“Well,” the detective said, “Edwards didn’t use a Winchester or a six-gun, so I guess you can give them to these people.”

“We’ll have them back this afternoon,” Wells said. They loaded the guns and blank ammunition into the golf cart and returned to the set.

Wells waved Cato over. “Seems Grif Edwards has shot himself over at the armory.”

“Jesus!” Cato said. “Why would he do that?”

“Who knows?” Wells said. “Let’s get back to work.”

ED EAGLE AND Susannah Wilde took off from Santa Fe and headed for Los Angeles. They were halfway there before Eagle put it all together in his mind. “I’ve got it,” he said.

“Got what?”

“Wells had nothing to do with the attempt on your life; that was Barbara, as we’ve always thought. But she used the same hit man that Wells used.”

“How would Barbara and Wells be using the same hit man?”

“The connection is the movie business. Barbara’s pal, Jimmy Long, is a producer, too, and he works out of Centurion. I’d be willing to bet that Jack Cato worked in at least one of his pictures.”

“That makes sense as a connection, I guess. What are you going to do about all this?”

“First, I’m going to talk to two P.I.s who work for me sometime, then I’m going to talk to Don Wells, then I’m going to talk to the chief of police.”

THEY WERE MET at Santa Monica Airport by Cupie Dalton and Vittorio. Eagle made the introductions, then he talked with the two men while Susannah went inside to freshen up.

“How are you progressing?” Eagle asked.

“We can get it done,” Cupie said, “but first, we’ve got to solve a problem.”

“What problem?”

“The LAPD has got surveillance on Barbara; we can’t get to her as long as that’s the case.”

“Well, shit,” Eagle said. “That’s my fault; I asked Joe Sams to have her watched.”

“Can’t you ask him to call off his men?” Cupie asked.

Vittorio spoke up. “That’s not very smart,” he said. “If you do that, and then we do our job, Sams will make the connection.”

“You’re right, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “Let me think about how to do this. You two just keep an eye on her and let me know if she starts looking like she’s leaving L.A.”

“Whatever you say, Ed,” Cupie said. The two men got into their car and drove away.

Eagle went inside the FBO, found an empty conference room and called Don Wells.

“Hello, Ed,” Wells said.

“Don, there have been developments.”

“Tell me.”

“The Santa Fe police have been able to place your two stuntmen, Cato and Edwards, in Santa Fe at the time your wife and son were killed.”

“I don’t think those guys would do something like that.”

“Well, the police do, so you’d better expect to hear from them.”

“Ed, there’s nothing connecting me to those two, except work and a few poker games.”

“Don, here’s how the police think: They’re looking for motive, means and opportunity. As far as you’re concerned the motive is your wife’s money, the means is those two stuntmen and the opportunity is their presence in Santa Fe at the time of the murders. Do you see where this is heading?”

“Ed, I’ve got nothing to fear in this, unless somebody’s planning to frame me.”

“Good, I’m glad you feel that way. Just be sure that you don’t leave town or give them any other reason to believe that you’re involved.”

“Oh, there’s something you should know, Ed: One of the stuntmen, Grif Edwards, committed suicide at the studio armory last night.”

“Swell,” Eagle said. “Don’t look at this as good for you; it sounds like Cato killed him to keep him from talking.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Wells said.

“There’s something else, Don: Do you know who Susannah Wilde is?”

“The actress? Sure.”

“She also lives with me, most of the time. It looks as though Cato tried to kill her, too.”

“Christ, Cato is a busy guy, isn’t he?”

“In the circumstances, Don, what with my connection to Susannah, I think you should get yourself another lawyer.”

“You think I had something to do with an attempt on Ms. Wilde’s life?”

“No, Don, but I’d feel uncomfortable continuing. Please get yourself another lawyer. I’ll recommend somebody, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary, Ed; I know lawyers in L.A.”

“Well, then I wish you well, Don. Goodbye.” Eagle hung up.

Susannah came looking for him and found him in the conference room. “Ready to go?”

“Yes,” Eagle said, “and I’ve just washed my hands of Don Wells.”