(31/40) Murder, She Wrote: Madison Avenue Shoot Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  OTHER BOOKS in THE Murder, She Wrote Series

  A Slaying in Savannah

  Murder on Parade

  Manhattans & Murder

  Rum & Razors

  Brandy & Bullets

  Martinis & Mayhem

  A Deadly Judgment

  A Palette for Murder

  The Highland Fling Murders

  Murder on the QE2

  Murder in Moscow

  A Little Yuletide Murder

  Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

  Knock ’Em Dead

  Gin & Daggers

  Trick or Treachery

  Blood on the Vine

  Murder in a Minor Key

  Provence—To Die For

  You Bet Your Life

  Majoring in Murder

  Destination Murder

  Dying to Retire

  A Vote for Murder

  The Maine Mutiny

  Margaritas & Murder

  A Question of Murder

  Coffee, Tea, or Murder?

  Three Strikes and You’re Dead

  Panning for Murder

  Obsidian

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, April 2009

  Copyright © 2009 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP.

  Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All rights reserved.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Bain, Donald, 1935-

  Madison Avenue shoot : a Murder, She Wrote Mystery by Jessica Fletcher and Donald Bain.

  p. cm.

  “Based on the Universal television series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson & William Link”

  eISBN : 978-1-101-02880-3

  1. Fletcher, Jessica (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2.

  Television commercials (Advertisements)—Production

  direction—Fiction. 3. Celebrities against—Fiction. 4. New

  York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Murder, She

  Wrote (Television program) II. Title.

  PS3552.A376M23 2009

  813’.54—dc22 2008047027

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To all our friends at the Association of

  Independent Producers (AICP):

  Matt, Anima, Farah, Denise, Ileana, Jane, David, Paul,

  Laurie, Maryann, Lena, David, and Kristin.

  And to the Southeast Consortium for Special Services, Inc.,

  helping Down Syndrome children—whose abilities

  and personalities are as varied as yours and ours—

  achieve the best they can be.

  Acknowledgments

  Many people helped us along the way to this book. The commercial production world is filled with wonderful, friendly, talented professionals, too nice to kill anyone. Here are a few of them.

  Many thanks to Jon Kamen and the crew [email protected] in New York City for letting us hang around their commercial shoot, in particular to director Steve Miller, DP Eric Schmidt, and Producers Matt O’Shea and Nancy Kagan. Thanks, too, to Derek Pletch and Bebe Baldwin of GSD&M in Austin, Texas.

  We’re grateful to crew members Michael Sibley, Anne Shratter, Kate Wilson, Peter Jackson, Geb Byers, Jennifer Koestler, Rick Nagle, Greg Addison, Kevin Smyth, Rick Liss, David Moshiak, Liz Maas, Julie Vogel, and Tina Murgas, who shared their knowledge and nomenclature with the authors. And a salute to all we didn’t name, the other crew members too numerous to mention here, but who do a fantastic job making make-believe believable. You know who you are.

  Special thanks to Jane Nunez of AICP, Sally Antonacchio of The Artists Company, and to Detectives Bruce K. Bertram and Roger Brooks of the Danbury Police Department, and North Salem Judge Ralph Mackin.

  All those named above are the experts; any errors you find are ours.

  Chapter One

  “A unt Jess!” “Grady! How good to see you.” I gave my nephew a hug, stepped back from his embrace, and looked down. “And who is this young man? It can’t be Frank. Frank was a little boy the last time I saw him, and that was only six months ago.”

  “I’m still a boy, Aunt Jessica, just not so little anymore.”

  “Indeed, you’re not,” I said, smiling. “You’re going to be taller than your father before we know it.”

  “I already come up to my mother’s shoulder.”

  “Well, I can see you’re very grown-up, but not too grown-up to give your aunt a h
ug, I hope.”

  Frank shrugged, but he allowed me to give him a quick cuddle, and even managed a slight squeeze back. “What year are you in school now?” I asked, holding him at arm’s length and examining his sweet face, a miniature version of Grady’s, but with his mother’s eyes.

  “Fourth grade.”

  “As much as that? My goodness, where does the time go?”

  “Excuse me, Aunt Jess. What does your bag look like?” Grady asked.

  I turned to peruse the baggage moving toward us on the conveyor belt. “Brown tweed with a red ribbon on the handle. I think I see it now. Yes, there it is.”

  We were at a crowded luggage carousel in La Guardia Airport in New York. My flight had originated in Dallas. I’d joined it in Chicago, where I’d been attending a conference. Before I returned to Cabot Cove, I was stopping off in the city for some business meetings and, more important, to visit with my nephew; his wife, Donna; and my pride and joy, my nine-year-old grandnephew, Frank, named for my husband, who had died many years before this child was born.

  “I can get it, Dad,” Frank said, pushing his way in front of others waiting for their bags.

  “Wait, Frank, it’s heavy,” I said.

  “Hold on, sport,” Grady said, following his son.

  “I got it. I got it.” Frank grabbed on to the handle of the suitcase, but the weight of it threatened to pull him into a crowd of my fellow passengers. Grady reached over his son and wrestled my bag off the carousel, nearly knocking over a large gentleman in a ten-gallon hat and intricately inlaid turquoise and black cowboy boots.

  “What the heck do you think you’re doing, man?” the cowboy said. “You nearly ran over my foot. Do you have any idea what these boots cost?” He pulled a red kerchief from his pocket and bent to wipe off his pointed leather toe.

  Apologizing profusely, Grady lugged my bag to where I stood.

  “Aw, I could have got it, Dad,” Frank said, shuffling along behind his father.

  “Not without mowing down half the people over there,” Grady replied. He turned to me. “What kind of rocks do you have in here, Aunt Jess?”

  “Oh, the usual kind,” I said. “I brought you and Donna some books.” I eyed Frank. “And I might have a little something in there for a boy in the fourth grade.”

  Frank’s eyes shone. “You brought a present for me?”

  “We’ll see if you like it when we get to my hotel.”

  “You know you could have stayed with us, Aunt Jess. Frank was happy to give you his room.”

  “You said I could sleep on the couch. Right, Dad?”

  “Now, we’ll have no more talk of that,” I said. “I put you out enough picking me up from the airport. My agent tells me this is officially a business trip, since I no longer live in New York City. Besides, we’ll all be more comfortable this way, and the hotel is only a few blocks from your building.” What I didn’t say was that from what they’d told me, Grady and Donna’s new apartment in Manhattan was small enough without an out-of-town relative crowding in and taking up precious space. And selfishly, I’d reached a time in my life when I treasured my privacy and found a hotel room more relaxing than someone’s guest room, especially when it meant rousting the room’s rightful owner. The magazine ads for the hotel that my literary agent, Matt Miller, had booked for me bragged about their luxurious feather beds and European linens. I looked forward to testing their claims for a great night’s rest, even though it could never be the same as sleeping in my own bed.

  We exited the terminal and walked across to the garage where Grady had parked. Frank had insisted on wheeling my suitcase himself, and I was happy to let him, but Grady and I kept a sharp eye on his progress in case the bag became too unwieldy to handle. He managed it well—only one tip over—and the look of pride on his face when Grady opened the trunk was worth any bumps and scrapes the suitcase might have endured.

  “I’m learning Italian, Aunt Jessica,” Frank informed me from the backseat as Grady negotiated airport traffic, looking for the entrance to the highway.

  “You are?” I said. “That’s wonderful. I’m all for teaching languages in the elementary grades.”

  “I’m learning Spanish in school,” he said, “but my friend Michele is teaching me Italian. His name is spelled like a girl’s name, but if you say it, it’s like three names in one, Mick-Kay-Lee. That’s how they say it in Italy. He lived in Italy for a lot of years. I can count up to twenty already. Want to hear?”

  “Of course,” I said, winking at Grady while Frank recited the numbers in Italian.

  “Michele lives upstairs in our building,” Frank said after reaching venti. “He’s cool. You’ll have to meet him.”

  “I’ll be happy to,” I said.

  Grady glanced at his watch. “Donna has dinner planned for six thirty. Would you like to stop at the hotel first?”

  “Is there time? I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “It’s rush hour, so it may be tight. But if nothing else, we can drop off your suitcase and have them hold it for you.”

  “Let’s do that,” I said.

  A little voice from the rear piped up. “But what about my . . . um . . . present? If you leave your bag at the hotel . . . ,” he trailed off.

  “Frank Fletcher,” Grady said sternly. “I don’t want to hear selfish thoughts like that. I think you should apologize to Aunt Jessica.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Jessica.”

  “I did promise him a present,” I said. “How about this? You let me off at the hotel while you park the car, and I’ll meet you at the apartment.”

  “You don’t have to indulge him, Aunt Jess. Frank’s a big boy. He can wait.”

  “I know he can, but I can’t. I want to see if he likes what I brought him.”

  There was a whoop from the backseat. I turned to see Frank cover his mouth with both hands, but his eyes were gleeful.

  The hotel overlooked Union Square, a large plaza and park downtown in an area that was both commercial and residential. It was Wednesday; a colorful farmers’ market was winding down in the square across from the hotel. Shoppers were snapping up end-of-the-day bargains from vendors who were reluctant to haul their unsold products back home. Gaily striped awnings announced booths selling apples, vegetables, breads, cheeses, and other goodies. Grady turned off Broadway and pulled up in front of the hotel entrance, maneuvering around the trucks double-parked on the busy street.

  “Checking in?” asked a handsome young man dressed head to toe in black as he opened the passenger door. “You go right in. I’ll bring your luggage.”

  “We made good time, so there’s no need to rush,” Grady said, climbing out of the car to open the trunk. “You have the address and our phone number?”

  “Of course.”

  “You really can’t get lost.”

  I laughed. “You’d think I’ve never been here before,” I said. “I used to live here. Remember?” I gave him a peck on the cheek, waved to Frank, and walked into the hotel’s granite reception area, passing a concrete trough of grass trimmed to five inches high, the only touch of color in the steel-gray lobby. The bellman followed with my suitcase, which he parked next to a massive column.

  “Thank you,” I said, handing him a tip.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  The front desk was busy, so I took my place on line and looked around. The decor was decidedly modern, all hard edges and walls soaring up to tiny pinpoint lights like stars in the ceiling thirty feet above. The people working behind the desk were young and fashionable in their black garb, the women perfectly made-up, the men with spiky, shiny hair, thanks to a generous application of gel. The atmosphere was more my agent’s style than mine. Matt knew all the “hip” places in the city. But I was always up for something new, and staying in a trendy New York hotel might be fun.

  Ten minutes later, I was standing in the smallest hotel room I’d ever seen.

  A queen-sized bed covered in pristine white sheets and comforter do
minated the space. On one side was a square table, which appeared barely large enough to hold my laptop computer and perhaps a piece of paper. On the opposite side, stuffed between the bed and the window, was an upholstered chair. The lamps flanking the headboard were hung on the wall, as was the telephone. At the foot of the bed, also mounted on a wall, was a small flat-screen TV. If I wanted to sit in the chair to watch television, I’d have to climb over the bed or risk knocking my shoulder into the TV as I squeezed by. There was no bureau, not even a nightstand with drawers. Instead, hanging in the closet was a canvas organizer with four shelves.

  The bellman had spread a cloth on the bed to protect the linens, and heaved my suitcase onto it. Where I was to put its contents, and even the bag itself, was going to take some arranging. After he left with tip in hand, I scouted the rest of the room—what there was of it. The tiny bathroom had a glass shelf under the mirror on which I could put at least some of my toiletries. The rest I’d have to leave in their black nylon travel pouch hanging from a hook on the back of the bathroom door.

  The narrow closet held only five hangers, all it could accommodate since it already contained the canvas shelves as well as an ironing board and iron—an exercise in optimism if ever there was one. Where an ironing board could be set up in this miniature room was anyone’s guess.

  I unpacked what I thought I would need in the next day or two, slid my suitcase under the bed—the only place available where I wouldn’t trip on it—tucked the books I’d brought for my nephew and his wife in my shoulder bag along with the gift for Frank, and exited the room.

  Grady and Donna’s apartment building was only a block and a half away, and I had plenty of time to get there. I crossed Broadway and wandered among the remaining booths of the farmers’ market, stopping to sample a tiny cup of cider offered by a vendor. Before he finished packing up, I purchased a half-dozen Honey-crisp apples to bring to my hosts. At an adjacent stall, I bought a jar of wildflower honey made in Maine from a beekeeper who, I discovered, lived only ten miles from Cabot Cove.