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“You’re going to have the media, the paparazzi, the goddamn cops—especially me—crawling up your asses for a little while longer. There’s been another murder.”
The fury on Roundtree’s face died off into sick dread, while others on the set reacted with gasps, mutters, and oaths.
“Who?” he demanded, looking around swiftly, like a father doing a head count of his brood. “Who’s been killed?”
“A. A. Asner, a private investigator.”
Something like relief chased with annoyance took over, face, voice, the sweeping gesture of his hand. “What the hell does that have to do with any of us?”
“Considerable. Now we can arrange for me and my partner to interview the individuals we feel pertain in a manner that causes the least amount of time and inconvenience to your production, or we can shut this production down until we’re satisfied.”
She wasn’t entirely sure she could pull that threat off, but it sounded ominous. Roundtree went the color of overcooked beets.
“Preston! Get legal on the line, that asshole Farnsworth the studio stuck us with. I’ve had enough of this shit. Enough.”
“Mason!” Before Eve could respond, Connie rushed onto the set. “What’s going on here? You take a breath.” She pointed a finger at him. “I mean it. You take a breath.”
He looked as though he might explode first, but he took the breath, then another when Connie wagged that extended finger at him. His color cooled a few degrees.
“She wants to shut us down because some private dick got killed. I’m not taking any more of this harassment.”
“A private investigator? Murdered?” Something in Connie’s tone had Eve focused on her.
“A. A. Asner. I don’t think that name’s unfamiliar to you. I’m not looking to shut anything down, if I get reasonable cooperation. I’ve got a job to do,” she said to Roundtree who’d gone back to tugging on his red goatee. “We can both do our jobs, but mine comes first. That’s not negotiable.”
“An hour,” he told her.
“We’ll start with that. I need to speak, individually, to everyone who attended the dinner party.”
“Steinburger and Valerie aren’t here. They’re off dealing with this fucking mess. Nadine’s probably off somewhere writing another book about this fucking mess. Matthew’s not on the call list today.”
“Let’s get them here. The sooner we can get this done, the sooner we can get out of your ass.”
His lips twitched in what might have been a reluctant smile quickly controlled. “Preston.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Take an hour!” Roundtree boomed it out. “I want everybody back here and ready to work in one hour.”
“Nobody leaves the premises,” Eve added. “We’ll speak to the cast members in their respective trailers. Go there,” she ordered. “Wait. I need a place to talk to non–cast members,” she told Roundtree.
“I’ve got an office here. You can use it.”
“That’ll work. I’ll take you first.” She turned to Connie.
“All right. I’ll take you to the office.”
“I’ll follow up with you,” she said to Roundtree. “Then Preston. I want to know when the others arrive on the premises.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Preston said again, then scurried off.
“Peabody, why don’t you go after Preston, make sure everybody goes where they’re supposed to go. And to save some time, contact Nadine yourself. Get her whereabouts and so on.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This way.” Connie, in sensible flats and casual trousers, led the way.
“Why are you here today?” Eve asked her as they exited the soundstage.
