A Murder, Well-Scripted
By Tony Piazza, Coastal Dunes Branch
An excerpt from his mystery novel A Murder, Well Scripted…
I didn’t return to my car directly but chatted with some crew members — actually, a couple of carpenters and a grip, who were beginning to assemble near the catering truck. It was close to noon, and crew not required on the set were already lining up for lunch. I kept the conversations casual, slipping a discrete question here and there regarding yesterday’s incident. If I learned anything, it was that they saw little but what went on around the fire. It was disappointing, to say the least, but not unexpected. Eventually, lunch was called, and I took that as a sign to make my departure.
Approaching my car, I noticed something different. There were blood-red marks on the driver-side window. On closer examination, I saw that it was lipstick. Someone had used it to scribble a message: ‘Meet me at The Garden of the Gods.’ I had been near this location that morning. It was just a few steps up from the cliff where they had filmed the gorge. A 45-degree climb, combined with a blistering sun, left me sweating bullets as I reached the top. ‘The Garden of the Gods’ was remarkable; its distinctive sandstone rock formations, surrounded by gold-colored weeds, sagebrush, and delicate wildflowers, dominated the scenery. Numerous boulders could be seen standing on end or balanced one upon another, and if you used your imagination, some could even resemble the shapes of animals or persons. Movies seeking unusual landscapes have used this location since the silent era, not only for Westerns but as such exotic locales as Africa, Asia, and the South Seas.
Whoever had left the message wasn’t anywhere to be seen on my arrival. Of course, there were many places this person could hide, so it wouldn’t be a surprise if, at any moment, this individual might appear from behind a rock. However, after several minutes had passed and no contact made, it left me wondering. There were two tall rock formations at one side of a clearing. Standing side-by-side about thirty feet apart, these towering boulders fashioned by nature resembled pillars of a portal. I chose the shade of one of them— the one with a lengthy crack— to get out of the sun and wait to see what would happen. But, as it turned out, nothing did. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed, yet all was silent aside from the buzz of insects, a hummingbird’s whir, and a crow’s caw. I had a feeling once or twice that I was being watched. However, over time, I chalked it up to my imagination. I waited another five minutes before concluding it was a waste of time and headed to the path that would lead me back down the hill. Thirty minutes was enough. Either this was a prank, or whoever it was was detained, and if so, would contact me later if it was important.
I was just starting down the trail when I heard a female voice call out. It was coming from a location below to the right of the path. Near the same cliff’s edge where the camera had been mounted. The voice had said, “Over here!” So, I followed. However, on reaching the cliff, its source was not evident. This should have warned me, but I was slow and lost precious seconds before sensing a trap. I immediately went for my .45, but before it cleared its holster, someone rushed me from behind, and shoving hard caused me to lose my footing and roll over the edge.
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